Chapter 12
@TeaThymeNC: When in doubt, choose elegance. Your wedding day deserves something special. #RefinedTaste #TeaThyme
Comments:
@TGDpub: Or, you know, food you’ll actually remember eating. #NotJustForPhotos #EatLikeYouMeanIt
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: Confession: @TravisLangfordConnects and I love both. How are we supposed to decide? #Help #FoodieDilemma #CantChoose
@WisteriaGeneralStore: You know we’re taking bets, right? #TeamTea #TeamPub #WinnerGetsBraggingRights #ItsAllOverTown #GrubWars
@PastorNateNHC: I feel like this requires divine intervention. Or, at least, a very thorough taste test. #ToughJobButSomeonesGottaDoIt
@TeaThymeNC: There’s still time to convert to the superior side. Just saying. #LeafOverBean #StyleOverSteak
@TGDpub: Funny, I was about to say the same thing. #LeaveTheLeaf #EatLikeYouMeanIt
Something was definitely wrong.
After Lindsay and Travis’s joint taste testing of her brand-new wedding items (which she’d secretly named her “punch-throwing
menu”) of mini steak-and-ale pasties with thyme mustard, smoked salmon tea sandwiches, three-cheese gougères, and the new
beer bread with cheddar-chive butter, she thought she’d won Travis over. All right, not completely, because Finn hit all of
Travis’s nostalgia notes, but enough to impress the guy.
And that should have made her feel excited.
But then, near the end of the testing, Travis mentioned wanting “the best of both worlds” and jested about how this could
“only be decided by a cook-off.”
The atmosphere in the room instantly changed.
Travis had looked at Lindsay.
Lindsay had looked at Rosemary.
They all had exchanged a look.
A slow, knowing, scheming look.
Daphne’s stomach dropped like someone had just canceled her access to the whole season of The Great British Bake Off.
Which Rosemary only made worse by smiling, waving, and floating out the front door with an ominously chipper, “I feel really good about this, Daph.”
Daphne groaned.
Why couldn’t the choice between caterers just be plain and simple? Her lips twitched. Her.
With a sigh and a glance heavenward—inviting an answer from Gran or God, whoever was quicker—she grabbed her watering can
and stepped outside. Across the street, bright banners for Wisteria’s Harvest Festival fluttered on the breeze: Wednesday
through Sunday! The kickoff dinner and dance were less than a week away.
The festival was one of the busiest times of year in Wisteria, great for business and a delightful way to showcase the culture, the mountains, and how much the people of this town loved one another.
With a deep breath of the afternoon air, Daphne watered the happy yellow mums she’d placed in her window box in time for the weekend.
She loved fall in the Blue Ridge. The mountains wore a quilt of color, and the cooler weather gave her every excuse to pull out her favorite sweaters and fuzzy socks.
Mums, crisp breezes, pumpkin spice, corduroy skirts with knee-high socks.
Daphne breathed in the scent of leaves and fresh bread—Finn’s, no doubt.
Tomorrow was his grand opening.
She wasn’t sure if she was going.
But Jack worked there. And she did believe in supporting local businesses.
And, well . . . her gaze flicked toward Finn’s restaurant.
It didn’t hurt to keep an eye on the competition.
Warmth skirted up her neck and into her cheeks. It didn’t have anything to do with actually being interested in Finn. She
was only interested in how her dishes compared to his.
The roar of an engine pulled Daphne’s attention away from her mums just as the screech of the school bus’s brakes slowed the
yellow mass to a stop in front of the shop.
Oh, right. It was Lucy’s first day of school!
Daphne took a few steps toward the bus as a dark head emerged from the doors, her little body almost too small for those gigantic
steps as she exited.
But instead of the bright smile Daphne expected, the girl’s green eyes were wide and tearful.
And then she ran.
Full tilt into Daphne’s stomach.
“Oh, honey.” Daphne dropped to her knees and wrapped her in a hug. “What happened?”
Sniffles erupted in response, along with something mumbled into Daphne’s cardigan.
Daphne looked instinctively toward Finn’s shop—no sign of him. He was probably slammed with prep.
“Hey, sugarplum. Let’s head inside and text your daddy, okay? Then we’ll make the biggest strawberry milkshake this town’s
ever seen and figure out what’s made you so sad. Sound good?”
Lucy sniffled again and nodded, leaning against Daphne as she guided her through the shop door. Daphne had already turned
the shop sign to Closed, but she flipped the lock into place to ensure no visitors and then sent Finn a quick text for direction.
After she’d distracted Lucy by asking her for help to make the milkshakes, and after Lucy’s sniffles died down a little bit,
Daphne directed the little girl up the back stairs to her apartment and into a cozy chair in her living room.
One with pink pillows.
Very important.
Winston seemed to help a little too, his vigorous welcome ushering forth a little giggle. Winston was no stranger to crying
princesses.
“It looks like this conversation requires a lot of pink, Lucy.” Daphne patted the fluffy shag pillow to her right. “And this
is probably the best place for it.”
Lucy nodded, her large eyes still rounded and watery. She clutched the milkshake close and nestled in beside Daphne as they
both snuggled up into the oversized chair. In pink from head to toe, even her hair bows, Lucy showcased her preference. Daphne
sighed. She and Lucy were definitely soulmates.
“Okay, what happened today?”
Lucy’s bottom lip quivered, resulting in Daphne kissing her head. “It’s okay. We will figure it out, sugarplum. And when your
daddy comes, he can help us too.”
Another quiver of the lip. A sip of milkshake.
“Was it something that happened at school?”
Lucy shook her head and took a long sip of the milkshake before answering. “On the bus.”
Ah, the school bus was a tricky place. Daphne had unhappy memories of some of the antics kids got away with on the school
bus.
“Mavis was a second grader.”
Hmm . . . big girl picking on little girl scenario? Daphne’s internal radar spiked.
“And she said I talk funny.” Lucy sniffled. “I said I was from England, and den she said England people talk funny.”
“That wasn’t very nice at all. Or accurate.” Daphne had gotten used to some of Lucy’s distorted speech sounds, and they didn’t
really impact comprehension all that much, except when Lucy spoke fast. “Did you tell her anything else?”
“I said I see a speech teacher for some of my hard sounds.”
Kudos to Finn for keeping his little girl informed, but oh my goodness, what a tough introduction to kindergarten. “Great
job. I bet there are other kids in your class who see the speech teacher.”
Lucy nodded and took another drink of the milkshake. “Den Mavis asked if all English people looked like me.”
Looked? Daphne stiffened a little, a cool splash of caution seeping into her skin. “Well, that’s a funny question. Of course
not all English people look like you, just like all Americans don’t look like me.”
“She . . .” Lucy’s bottom lip trembled anew, those emerald eyes searching Daphne’s face. “She asked if we all have broken
faces. And . . . and a bigger boy on the school bus . . .” Her little voice increased in urgency. “He said my broken face
was ugly.”
Oh.
Daphne blinked hard, her vision blurring for a moment.
She pulled Lucy into a hug, fierce and fast. “Oh, Lucy.”
If she’d been gifted with heat vision, the side of that school bus would be smoldering right now.
“It hurt my feelings.” Lucy’s bottom lip trembled again.
“I know it did.” Daphne kissed the top of her head. “It hurts because it’s not true, and your heart knows it.”
What on earth could she possibly offer to a little girl whose heart ached? Who needed some reassurances about truths and lies
and all sorts of things in between?
And then—maybe from Gran, maybe from God—a quiet knowing settled in.
Maybe she did have something to offer this little girl who was starting to steal her heart.
Finn took the porch entrance up to Daphne’s door, wiping damp palms on his apron. He’d been nearly elbow deep in a batch of
beef Wellington, trying to coax the pastry into that golden, flaky perfection that earned Michelin stars—or at least a raised
brow from Granny D—and hadn’t seen Daphne’s text until nearly a half hour after she’d sent it.
Father of the Year, right here.
On Lucy’s first day of school too.
He hadn’t fully counted the cost of launching his own business and trying to keep tabs on his little girl’s every milestone.
Nursery school had wiggle room in its pickup time. But a school bus?
He hadn’t thought to watch for her.
His shoulders slumped as he crested the stairs and paused in front of Daphne’s door, left open just a bit. Like she’d been
expecting him.
The wood hung slightly crooked, similar to the back door to her restaurant’s kitchen. More was in need of repair than her
plumbing. He filed the thought away, his hand brushing the weathered frame as he stepped closer.
Then he heard her voice.
“Well, that’s a funny question,” she continued, saying something about how English people and Americans didn’t all look the
same.
Finn tilted his head, squinting through the opening. What was going on?
Then Lucy’s soft, shaking voice answered, and heat exploded in his chest. Some boy on the bus had said something cruel.
A growl itched at the back of his throat. He’d had enough practice swatting away people’s assumptions about Lucy—her speech,
her crooked smile, her absent mother—but those had always come in sideways glances and whispered questions meant for him.
Never for her ears. She didn’t have the words yet to fight back. She shouldn’t have to.
Maybe school had been a mistake. Perhaps he should wait another year.