20 Birdie #2
Is she talking about the excavation project? Before I can ask, the copper kettle starts to whistle. Hortie bustles over to the stove to fetch it. “Ahh.” She sinks onto the chair at the end of the table. “Nothing better than a hot cup of tea to calm frayed nerves.”
At that moment, Pickles slinks into the kitchen and hops up onto the empty chair next to me with a soft mew. Reaching over, I scratch behind his ears. “You’ll have to tell me what to do. I’ve never had my tea leaves read before.”
“Nothing easier, dear. Just drink the tea. And try not to swallow too many of the leaves.” She pours the hot water from the kettle into the pot, setting the kettle aside on a trivet. “Let’s leave that to steep for a moment.”
I sit back, waiting. “So, you’ve lived on Burr Island all your life then?”
“Of course. I was born on this old pile of rocks.” She raps the table with her knuckles. “And I’ll die here too, make no mistake. Oh—would you like some tea cake? I think I still have a few slices of lemon from yesterday.”
“Please,” I say with a smile.
Her chair squeaks against the wooden floor as she pushes it back and hurries off.
“You must be something of an island historian yourself,” I call over my shoulder. “I bet you know where all the bodies are buried.”
Appearing right behind me, she sets down a plate of sliced poppyseed cake drizzled with lemon glaze. “Who’s to say I didn’t bury them?”
I stiffen, holding a smile on my face. Next to me, Pickles starts to purr. “I can see why Jasper likes having you around.”
She chuckles. “Please, I practically raised that boy. If he thinks he can get rid of me, I’ll box his ears and take away all his favorite toys.”
“Toys?”
“The woodshop.” She gestures with a wave to the backyard.
“His furniture reclamation business. I was the first one to hand Jasper Prescott a hammer and nails. He owes me everything, and I’ll not soon let him forget it.
This should be ready now.” Reclaiming her seat, she reaches for the teapot, pouring a measure of steaming green tea into my cup.
The liquid swirls with bits of loose leaves.
She pours herself a cup too before setting the pot aside.
Lifting her cup by the saucer, she leans back in her chair with a contented sigh. “Now, you have questions for me.”
I’m distracted watching the leaves softly swirl. “I do?”
“Of course, you do. You want to know about Jasper. How could you not? The man is a locked vault, and you think I have a key.” Her lips quirk with a knowing smile. “You’re right, of course. I have all kinds of keys to unlock all manner of vaults.”
I turn my attention to my tea. I’m more used to coffee in travel mugs. Feeling a little foolish, I pick up the saucer. Carefully balancing the cup, I pinch the dainty handle. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about Ezra Howe. Do you have a key to his vault?”
She blinks twice behind those extra-large, round-framed glasses. “The Howe boy? Pah. My Jasper is worth ten of any Howe.”
I keep my lips pursed on the edge of the cup as I take a sip of the piping hot tea, trying not drink any of the leaves. The flavor profile is fresh and grassy.
Hortie leans closer. “Why do you want to know about Ezra Howe?”
“Because I’ll be working with him too this summer. He’s my research adviser over at the historical society. But I got the feeling from some people around town that they’re not too happy about his new project.”
She hums, sipping her tea. “Ezra Howe never learned to appreciate that all the pretty things he digs up were once put there by people . . . people with stories, hopes, and dreams. But he doesn’t care about their stories or dreams. He only cares about the things they left behind.”
I fight the chill prickling down my arms. Did I not take the measure of him almost exactly the same for myself? Slowly, I set my tea aside. “What is he looking for up there?”
She arches a brow. “At Homewood?”
I nod.
She huffs. “What else? Fame. Fortune. A cracking great story!”
“Fame?” I repeat. “Fortune? How?”
“Our young Dr. Howe thinks his little Homewood project will be the making of his fabulous career. Fancies himself running the Smithsonian one day, I’ll bet.
He’s always going on about the prestige it will bring to the island.
” She puffs out her chest, making a good show of talking in his deeper voice.
“Expanded tourism, increased revenues for the downtown shops, national acclaim, a place of honor in the history books! Come, gather closer! Come see the place where the island’s first great crime of gross intolerance took place! Line up now, line up!”
“I take it most people on the island don’t share his grand vision of the future?”
She just sighs. “We Burr Islanders are a private set of people, Birdie. Ask most of the residents here and they’ll say they want expanded tourism about as much as they want an impacted wisdom tooth.”
I consider holding this next question back. “And . . . the families? What is their position?”
“The families?”
“Yes, the families of the women who were targeted for such senseless violence. Mathilde Blake, Be-Good Prescott . . . Sybil Hastings.”
Her eyes narrow behind her thick glasses, even as her lips purse with a smile. “My, you have been busy.”
“I take my work seriously,” I reply with a shrug. “I tend to be thorough.”
“Yes, I can see that.” She sets her tea aside too, quiet for a moment as she considers her answer.
“Speaking only for myself, I think the past is better left buried. Whatever secrets those women held, whatever truths, they belong in the ground. I don’t want ferry-loads of strangers coming to gawk at how my dear Sybil died.
And that’s all that will happen with Howe’s dreams of fame, fortune, and national acclaim.
I want those with a heart for this island to remember how sweet Sybil lived. ”
Reaching over, I take her frail hand in mine. “Would it ease your mind at all to hear me say I agree with you?”
Her fair brows arch behind the frames of her thick glasses. “You do? A bit odd for a historian, isn’t it?”
“It shouldn’t be.” Giving her hand a little squeeze, I let it go.
“I agree with you, Hortie. Too often, we sensationalize the manner of how people died. We forget to focus on how they lived. If I’m tasked with helping Howe in this project, it matters to me that you know where my heart is . . . and where my focus will be.”
She smiles. “You’re a good girl, Birdie. Keep young Howe on the right path. People are what matters. Our lives, not our deaths. And certainly not our moldy old stuff that is better left buried.”
Before I can reply, she scoots her chair forward. “Nearly finished? Wait too long and the leaves tend to go a bit droopy.”
I glance down at the mix of tea leaves swirling in my cup. “Should I drink it all?”
“Leave a bit in the bottom. Just enough to give the leaves a good swirl.”
“Who taught you to read tea leaves?” I ask between sips.
Smiling, she presses her hand lightly over her chest, fingers brushing the lavender faux fur collar of her house coat. “My mother. And her mother before her. And hers before her, likely on back to Sybil herself. We Hastings have always loved a good cup of tea.”
I smile too, feeling only the slightest pang of jealousy.
There’s something so beautiful about the smallness of such a tender moment; a mother sitting at a table with her daughter, teaching her to read portents in soggy tea leaves.
This tradition stretches back through the generations of Hastings women.
I feel honored to be part of it. “Do you have a daughter?”
“No, I never married. No children either. At least, none I can claim from my own womb. But there are plenty of people on this island who know the mothering ways of Hortense Hastings, your Jasper included.”
“He’s not my Jasper,” I’m quick to correct. “And Phoebe and Jasper both warned me about your love of matchmaking. I’ve been told you’re quite the prolific schemer.”
She feigns a gasp. “Why, Miss Birdie, I’m as innocent as a lamb. I don’t know why they would go spreading such lies.”
“Uh-huh.” I give her a teasing roll of my eyes. “You just keep your plans for Jasper to yourself, okay? I don’t need you putting any ideas into his head that’ll make him fire me any faster. I need this job.”
“Fair enough.” She glances down at my cup. “Ready?”
I give the cup a final swirl, watching as the loose leaves stick to the sides. “I think so.”
“Then take the cup in your non-dominant hand with the handle facing towards you. Close your eyes and inhale through your nose, exhaling through lightly pursed lips.”
I do as she says, holding the cup in my right hand. I flutter my eyes closed and breathe deep, letting out each breath. On my second exhale, Pickles tenses and hops from my lap to the floor, giving me a kiss with his claws. I wince but don’t open my eyes.
“That’s good,” Hortie hums. “Now, with eyes still closed, focus on your future. Think about the questions left unanswered, the guidance you seek. When you’re ready, turn the cup in your hand three times counterclockwise. Then flip the cup over onto the saucer.”