Chapter Four
Evangeline
Steam curls from the mug as I balance it carefully while I walk to Silas’ office, the rich scent of Irish cream mingling with dark roast. His coffee preference dates back to when I was tall enough to reach the counter and make them for both my father and Uncle Silas.
I knock twice against the old wooden office door, just as I do every morning.
“Uncle Silas? I’ve got your coffee.”
He’s hunched over his computer screen, papers fanned across the desk as normal. When the door hinges creak, his shoulders jerk upward, and his hand slides over whatever document he’d been studying.
I go to set the steaming cup on his coaster reserved for his mug of coffee when it dawns on me how much he has aged lately.
He seemed young when my father passed, but now, in his late fifties, he’s showing his age.
His blond hair is thinning and has more grey than blond.
His skin looks pale and sallow, as if he’s sick.
That, along with the stooped shoulders and slight belly, makes him look much older than his actual age.
Feeling like a terrible niece, I realize I’ve been caught up in my own world, not noticing or paying attention to things like Uncle Silas’ health. Well, his health or anything else lately, just my lab.
When did the wrinkles around his eyes deepen into crevices?
Dante insinuated bad things were happening, and I didn’t know what was going on under my very nose. Was he right?
“Thanks,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. He swigs the coffee as if it’s his lifeline, his Adam’s apple bobbing rapidly, and I wonder if he’s getting any sleep or just surviving on caffeine alone.
He doesn’t give his usual wink. He doesn’t say, “Your aunt would have our heads for this morning sin,” as he does most mornings, referring to his shot of Irish cream.
Deciding I needed to dig for information, more for myself at this point than for Dante, I shift my weight from foot to foot and ask nonchalantly, “Any shipments coming in today?”
“Always shipments coming in and going out.” His fingers drum against the desk. He’s obviously agitated. “The front counter needs restocking. The elderberry syrup is running low again, and it’s almost flu season.”
The dismissal hangs between us.
His hand trembles as he sets the mug down, coffee sloshing over the rim onto what looks like an invoice. “Damn it.” He shoves the paper aside, coffee spreading onto the old wooden desk, and I stare at the spreading stain, my thoughts a mess.
“Eve!” he says loudly, startling me out of my daze. His eyes meet mine. “Anything else?”
“No, no. I just wanted to bring your coffee and check on you.” I back out the door. “Have a good day, Uncle Silas.”
No response. The door clicks shut behind me. My palm presses flat against my chest where my heart hammers against my ribs, and I squeeze my eyes shut, not allowing myself to cry.
Dante’s voice whispers in my head. “… your uncle has made promises to people who don’t like to be disappointed.”
I fear he might have been telling the truth. What has Silas gotten himself into?