Chapter 2
@WisteriaWeekly: This just in! Former Wisteria native turned international influencer and podcaster was spotted up at @WisteriaManor with
her business tycoon fiancé, Travis Langford. What’s the scoop? #InquiringMinds #SmallTownGossip
@GrannyDOfficial: Was he that fella with the real purdy eyelashes? Saw ’em from clean across the restaurant. #NotThatIWasLooking #AppreciationIsAgeless
@TheRidgesFineDining: They ate here last night and Maude overheard wedding talk. #SupportSmallBusinesses #LocalFlavorOverCatered
@PastorNateNHC: Let’s extend a warm Wisteria welcome, friends—because Hebrews 13:2 says we might be entertaining angels (or influencers)
unawares. ?? Also, the fiancé’s car nearly inspired next Sunday’s sermon: “Where Your Treasure Is . . . Please Park It in Front of the
Church.” Btw, Daphne @TeaThymeNC, I nearly laid hands on that car. Something you’d completely understand. #LoveThyNeighbor
#AndTheirHorsepower #WisteriaHospitality
Comments:
@TeaThymeNC: I refuse to acknowledge anything related to what you’re talking about. #HowDidYouKnowAnyway? #Busybody
@WisteriaGeneralStore: Should we start printing “Lindsay + Travis 4ever” mugs or is it too soon? Asking for a friend. #WisteriaWeddings #TeamTrindsay
#TooSoon
@SheriffGrady: As long as they don’t double park outside the courthouse, I don’t care if Beyoncé shows up.
The fundraiser had been a relative success. Four thousand dollars raised in only two hours of afternoon tea. Young ladies
donned their best dresses, and a few dapper gentlemen brought their smiles and generosity.
And she desperately needed all the generosity she could muster, especially after plumber extraordinaire Jacob Lawson’s last
visit. Old piping. A long-standing leak with water damage behind the kitchen wall.
All much more costly than she’d make in three fundraisers, let alone one.
She needed more events. Try to get another wedding or graduation party or bridal shower? Or all three.
She sighed and swept beneath the chairs, the bristles catching on the worn spots in the hardwood that told stories of thousands
of tea sippers who’d come before. She straightened a picture on one wall—an oil painting of a forget-me-not that Granny had
haggled for at an estate sale—before moving to the other wall to ensure all the teapots were aligned in perfect formation,
like ceramic soldiers guarding the legacy of Tea Thyme.
Daphne had kept everything the same as Granny left it before she died . . . almost a year ago now. The floral wallpaper on
one accent wall. The faded tablecloths. The recipes.
All the same.
A year ago, Daphne had done a lot of things differently.
Made occasional baking videos for social media.
Created adorable graphics pairing certain types of tea with beloved books or movies.
Even invented recipes and her own tea blends to match moods or personalities of the dearly loved (or less loved) folks in town.
And her creativity had always made Granny smile.
But change felt different now—like betrayal, like erasing fingerprints from a treasured keepsake.
Like . . . losing something else she couldn’t get back.
Her gaze trailed over the tea shop space. Golden afternoon light streamed through the large front windows, casting honeyed
shadows across the room and highlighting some of the dents in the wide-planked floor.
She released a long breath, stirring a wisp of hair that had escaped her practical bun hours ago. It seemed that she lived
from month to month and really needed a way to move forward enough financially to breathe a little easier.
Her heart squeezed in her chest.
And perhaps change was the one thing she needed to save this shop.
New ideas? Brave chances into bigger, bolder things?
With a drop of her shoulders, she propped the broom against the wall and moved to the nearest kettle, warming up some water
for a last cup of the day.
Even a year ago, the shop hadn’t brought in massive amounts of revenue—unless you counted the amounts of elderly gossip exchanged
over Earl Grey, which sadly couldn’t be deposited into a bank account. But with increased repairs for the aging building and
the rising costs of supplies, Daphne was feeling the crunch of growing Tea Thyme on her own.
She swore she could hear Granny muttering about “highway robbery” every time she placed an order for loose tea that cost twice
what it had just three years ago.
Daphne’s lips tipped. Granny’s memory breathed in every corner of this place, all the way down to the scuff marks on the hardwoods from her size 6 Mary Janes. And, perhaps, as the one-year anniversary of her death neared, the buffer of time dug the reality deeper:
Tea Thyme was Daphne’s alone.
And it was up to her to save it.
Maintaining the fundraiser this first year on her own had boosted Daphne’s confidence a little.
Catering a few parties and bridal showers, even two small weddings, had given additional funds and helped Daphne build up
a little of the courage grief snatched away . . . again.
Being brave was always easier with a sidekick. Or a friend. And maybe a mentor.
And Granny had been all three at some point or other, especially after Mom’s death.
But tiptoeing back into being brave had paid off a little.
She just needed to figure out more ways to increase revenue and expand income.
And be braver.
Maybe . . . get back into creative baking . . . even without Granny along to brainstorm? Advertise more? After all, Daphne
had started experimenting with new tea blends last month, even selling a few bags of them. That was something.
“Finished cleaning up for the night already?”
She looked up to find her brother, Jack, sauntering in through the front door, looking, per usual, as if he didn’t have a
care in the world.
He faked it well.
The open button-down over a T-shirt and khaki shorts probably helped. No one could look stressed in khaki shorts. It was scientifically
impossible. Jack had tried to explain this to her once, complete with diagrams drawn on Tea Thyme napkins, until she’d threatened
him with decaf.
And he’d finally grown comfortable enough showing off his prosthetics by wearing shorts. Of course once he’d moved from mechanical to bionic prosthetic legs, he started bragging about being a “bionic man,” so maybe that helped.
Daphne stood and took two cups from the holder nearby. Jack’s afternoon visits had become a pattern since Granny’s death . . .
maybe even before. He said he just wanted free tea and snacks, but Daphne knew he stopped in to make sure she was safe. To
make sure she was still standing, still putting one foot in front of the other when grief tried to anchor her in place.
Moving forward was a little easier on some days than others.
And, although her faithful retriever, Winston, offered good company, Jack understood.
In ways no one else could.
Wearing his big-brother concern with a smile. He’d been doing that for much longer than since Granny’s passing. He’d had to
grow up even faster than Daphne when, first, their dad left . . . and then Mom.
But for very different reasons. One had wanted to leave.
The other hadn’t.
“Rosemary stayed behind to help before rushing off to her night class.”
He walked over to the counter and took a seat on the stool, sliding his hand into the ever-full cookie jar and pulling out
a gingersnap with the practiced ease of someone who’d been pilfering cookies since he was tall enough to reach the counter.
Daphne eyed the jar. What would people think if she sneaked in a few of her ginger-pecan snaps? Typical gingersnaps with a
bit . . . more. Or some other creation she devised in the secrecy of her kitchen?
She’d started dabbling with Granny’s gingersnap recipe last week and her scones last night. Just a little. For some reason,
even if only for herself, she needed to prove she’d captured some of that creativity Granny always seemed to have.
She used to have it too.
Death had a strange way of redirecting lots of “used tos.”
But what would her patrons think if she started serving some of her own creations?
That she was a culinary rebel? A biscuit bandit? A cookie criminal conspiring to overthrow the monarchy of Granny’s recipes
one subversive pastry at a time?
She almost grinned. Maybe Granny would actually like it.
“How’d the fundraiser go?” He nodded his thanks as she slid a cup of Irish Breakfast to him. His evening routine.
“Good.” She nodded, allowing the feeling of success to return her smile as she removed her apron. “Of course Mrs. Jennings
and Mr. Thompson were incredibly grateful and the girls were great. One of them—Lily, I think—asked for Granny’s cinnamon
shortbread recipe. Called it ‘revolutionary.’ It was one of those rare moments where I actually felt cool.”
He chuckled as he took a bite of the cookie. “So it helped?” His blond brow rose, crinkling the scar above his left eyebrow—souvenir
from the time he’d tried to teach seven-year-old Daphne to ride a bike and ended up being the one needing stitches.
It had been the week before Mom’s cancer diagnosis.
“Enough to put some money back after the repairs last month.” She took a sip of her own tea and looked out over her beloved
tea shop. “But I’ve got to think of some more things to increase revenue. Mr. Lawson’s news about the plumbing was depressing.”
He looked up from his tea. “How depressing?”
“To the tune of more-money-than-I’ll-have-in-six-months depressing.”
He winced, and then with a deep sigh he set his half-eaten cookie on the little doily she’d provided for him and held her
gaze. “I have a few ideas about that, if you want.”
“Find a pot of gold? Rob a bank?” She waved a hand in the air. “Marry rich?”
His grin crooked. “You can aim for those, but in the meantime, there are less life-altering, criminal, or leprechaun-finding opportunities for building visibility and revenue, Daph. And you know it.”