Chapter 5
They say coffee gives you energy, but have you ever sipped a perfectly steeped Earl Grey and felt your soul realign? No burnt
bitterness, no jittery regrets—just warmth, flavor, and the quiet promise that everything will be okay.
No shade to coffee drinkers . . . okay, maybe a little. ?? But let’s be honest—tea doesn’t need sugar to be sweet. #TeaWins #SipSipHooray #DaphneApproved
Comments:
@PastorNateNHC: You’re going too far, Daph. Let’s not pit God’s beans against God’s leaves, okay? #GraceForCoffeeToo #BlessedAndHighlyCaffeinated
@TGDPub: Look, not everyone needs a tea séance to feel whole in the morning. Some of us just want strong coffee, loud music, and a
biscuit that bites back. #BeanWaterIsLife #CaffeineAndChaos #AustenStartedIt
@GrannyDOfficial: Back in my day, folks drank what was hot and didn’t write love letters to their beverages. Still . . . that Earl Grey is
mighty nice with shortbread. #GrannyKnowsBest #CoffeeShmoffee
@WisteriaGeneralStore: Why choose? Have both! COMING SOON: “Tea Séance” candles and “Bean Water Is Life” tote bags. We are here to fuel your small-town
drama. #MerchWar #ShopWisteria
“Okay, what’s wrong?” Rosemary’s question bristled Daphne’s spine as her friend slid behind the counter to palm the strawberry-banana
smoothie Daphne left for her to take to a table of vacationers from New England.
The nearby Blue Ridge Parkway had a wonderful way of introducing folks to their little town. And tourists left the best tips.
Some of the locals did too, but there were too many, especially the older men, who’d grin and leave “verbal tips” behind like,
“Don’t walk in the rain or you’ll get wet” or “Watch your step when treadin’ through a cow field.”
Very helpful.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” Daphne refused to turn from her place by her precious teapot shelves. Her collection
stood on the back-corner wall of her shop, carefully positioned in perfect order of when her grandmother had purchased them.
Daphne adjusted another handle by a quarter of an inch and then stepped back to examine the results.
“This is the third time in two hours that you’ve straightened your perfectly straight teapots.” Rosemary leaned against the
counter, refusing to budge from the topic, so Daphne did what any adult should do.
She shot a grimace over her shoulder and proceeded to ignore Rosemary by moving to the adjoining wall where her most prized teapots stood on a shelf all their own.
Her grandmother’s very first teapot—a Victorian John Bevington in white, encrusted all over with porcelain flowers, even on the handle.
Next to it stood a Victorian sterling silver classic teapot her grandfather bought her grandmother for their tenth wedding anniversary.
Beside it stood Daphne’s favorite, though of lesser value than the previous two—Johnson Brothers Old Britain Castles series, decorated with ancient castles from around England.
A few empty spots waited to be filled with her future purchases . . . someday.
When she had more money than worry.
“Karen Johnson is coming in to talk to me about catering her daughter’s bridal shower, and Lisa Jacobson is stopping by in”—she
looked down at her dainty watch—“an hour to discuss hosting a rehearsal dinner in the spring. Both thought of me when they
saw some of my new posts on social media.” She grinned, then shrugged at Rosemary’s raised brows. “Okay, so Jack shared the
posts, but still, it’s visibility.” She lifted a finger as if proving her point. “I love weddings, and if I can make this
one shine as well as Morgan Dean’s this summer, I know I’ll get more requests, and those pay well.” She nodded, hands on her
hips. “So everything needs to be perfect to showcase the atmosphere and skills I can offer.”
“No, it needs to be nice.” Rosemary’s raised brow needled higher. “They already know you’re professional. But something else is wrong. You’re doing
your whole”—Rosemary waved her hand toward the teapots—“nesting thing, where you straighten everything like one of those obsessive
people.”
“I already told you about Mr. Lawson’s estimate for the plumbing repairs,” Daphne whispered, sending a glance around the room
as if the whole shop could hear. “Isn’t that enough to cause me to be a little . . . distracted?”
Rosemary’s frown crinkled as she slowly shook her head. “I feel like it’s something else.”
As if her brain had no control of her body, Daphne’s gaze flipped to the wall she shared with Finn, hoping he could feel her annoyance through the brick. He’d done nothing to make up for his grumpiness this morning.
Well, nothing but make a lot of noise next door.
One construction worker or appliance delivery man after another, banging, scraping, and yelling so much she had to turn up
the volume of her classical music to drown them out. Thankfully, none of her patrons had seemed to mind, but she really needed
to talk to him about it.
Which meant she’d have to see him again.
And seeing him was the problem.
God really shouldn’t make men that handsome if they weren’t going to be nice. It violated some unspoken cosmic rule, like
serving lukewarm tea or shelving a Dickens novel in the romance section.
“Ah, I see how it is.” Rosemary released a long sigh, her lips quirking into that knowing smile that had annoyed Daphne since
third grade. “This guy really must be a piece of work to have rattled you so thoroughly.” Her lips tipped farther. “I can’t
wait to meet him.”
Traitor!
“He has not rattled me.” Daphne sent Rosemary another glare as she moved to the back counter, lowering her voice so that the
few patrons sitting nearest her spot wouldn’t be disturbed by her little diatribe on the great disappointment that was Finn
Dashwood.
A sudden craving for chocolate pushed her into creative mode. “I just don’t want to have much to do with—” She paused and
leaned toward the wall. From the other side came a deep, rhythmic rumble of bass notes followed by a sudden scream of an electric
guitar. What on earth? She gestured toward Finn’s shop. “Do you hear that?”
Rosemary rounded the counter and stood beside her by the brick wall. “Sounds like . . . Is that Def Leppard? No, wait.” Her
palm came up to still Daphne’s gasp. “Nope, it’s AC/DC.”
And the gasp released. Why did he continue to smash all of her ideals about an English gentleman? It was like he was doing
it on purpose.
And he’d be the type who would.
She grimaced at the wall as if he could see her. “He is so . . . so . . .”
“Jack says he’s a great guy.”
“Jack still blows bubbles in his chocolate milk,” Daphne shot back.
Rosemary shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”
She was surrounded by children!
Daphne’s fingers paused on the ingredients in hand, her shoulders deflating at the way her brother could sneak into conversations
without even being present. “Besides, Jack would say that about everybody.”
“Ooh, this guy has really gotten under your skin.” The laugh in Rosemary’s voice forced Daphne to get a larger scoop of dark
chocolate ice cream from the freezer. “I’ve got to meet him.”
“No, you don’t.” Daphne turned her attention back to the silver malt cup she was holding and poured a touch of salted caramel
flavoring into the blend. Too much, probably, but it was salted caramel. She could live with it.
Then she picked up the ice cream scoop again. “What I mean is that we can’t always trust Jack. And from what I saw, Mr. Finn
Dashwood is not the good sort of neighbor.” She pointed the scoop toward the brick wall. “The music? The . . . attitude? He
doesn’t even like tea.”
Rosemary’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh dear, the unforgivable sin.”
“And he’s a flirt.”
The glimmer in Rosemary’s eyes failed to match the seriousness in Daphne’s warning. “An Englishman who is single, handsome,
a business owner, and a flirt?” She stepped back with the latte in hand. “How can you resist, Daphne?”
Before Daphne could respond with a very thorough answer, Rosemary snatched up the milkshake and turned toward the tables to
deliver the smoothie. Daphne fought the urge to stick out her tongue at the back of Rosemary’s retreating form.
Resist Finn Dashwood’s charm?
She stiffened her resolve. Quite easily.
Wickhams were Wickhams, and she knew the end result of liking one. She’d experienced it before. Sure, it had been in high
school, but those first loves should count double.
Maybe triple.
Daphne eyed the French vanilla on the shelf. With a shrug, she added some of it to the malt cup before placing the cup in
the mixing machine.
It was bad enough she’d let herself indulge in that little bit of petty revenge with the chalkboard. But it had felt so satisfying
to see her handiwork this morning—especially when she’d spotted him through the window, reading it with that reluctant almost-smile
tugging at his lips.
Not that she’d been watching for him or anything.
She reached for the whipped cream canister, pausing as AC/DC gave way to “Welcome to the Jungle.” Good heavens, the man’s
musical taste was as subtle as a wrecking ball. And as welcome.
Fit his personality.
“Daphne dear.”
The familiar sound of Granny D rose from the woman’s regular table by the front window. Every day she came. Every day she
talked about how much she’d loved her dearest friend, Daphne’s grandmother. And every day Granny D tried to convince Daphne
that “romance was very close” for her. She’d been saying it for two years. Evidently, Granny D’s definition of close was different from Daphne’s. Two years of “very close” seemed more like “wildly distant” in Daphne’s dictionary. But there
was no one like Granny D to fill in the gap of a missing grandmother. She’d been Granny’s best friend, after all. As opposite
as chalk and cheese, as Granny would say, but a great match. Granny D probably knew Daphne and Jack better than anyone in
town. And even though Granny’s class clashed with Granny D’s . . . uniqueness, no one spread love around, in her own quirky
way, like Granny D.