In the Land of Tea and Ravens Page 12

  Everyone in the room stood. “I’m with you,” Bridget Smith called out, “and I don’t think there’s a single soul in here who’d disagree.”

  There were a lot of yeahs, somber pats on the back, and Sunday afternoon dinner talk before people sauntered toward the door. The humid night met them in all of her dark-cloaked glory, the heat lightning racing across the sky.

  ~23~

  There is history in tea. Imbibed by many cultures for many different reasons, tea has witnessed poignant moments, tragic moments, and pivotal moments. There are a bevy of tea-soaked records that have passed away with the men and women who drank it. There have been battles fought over it, memories made with it, and long nights comforted by it. There is history in tea.

  ~The Tea Girl~

  Lyric was gone when Grayson woke the next morning, his night dreamless. For the first time in years, his sleep had restored him rather than draining him dry. He owed it all to the tea girl, to the woman who’d snuck her way into his life with a sip of tea.

  Standing in the camper’s open doorway, Grayson peered through the overhanging tree limbs to the open fields beyond the old Miller house. Sun-touched dew sparkled, lighting up the world, the air cooler than normal for summer but no less warm and humid.

  Ravens cawed.

  “I won’t bother you if you promise not to bother me,” Grayson mumbled. The birds screeched, and he rubbed at his neck. He’d slept well, but his back hated him, the small couch cramped and uncomfortable.

  A flash of color caught Grayson’s attention, and he shaded his eyes, a smile spreading across his face.

  “I’ll be damned,” he mumbled, his gaze tracking Lyric as she ran across overgrown fields full of wildflowers, her skirt whipping around her, the fabric leaving a trail of colors like those crazy kaleidoscopes Grayson had once squinted into as a child. She was alive. Lyric was alive.

  The ravens cawed, but there was something different about their calls today, something wistful.

  Grayson stepped free of the camper, his gaze rising to the birds. “It’s her turn,” he said.

  He walked away then, his eyes on the woman in the distance. This had turned into a surreal summer, full of tea and stories so outlandish it seemed like a dream, but if Grayson was dreaming, he was counting on not waking up. He was counting on drowning in tea. For the first time since he was nineteen, he wasn’t engulfed by shame and guilt. It was still there, the regret, but he’d realized something: life was about taking your burdens and standing with them, about climbing off of your knees and running with them.

  He ran, his blue jean-clad legs tearing through wildflowers and open sky, the wind pushing against him. His lungs were on fire, but he kept going. Lyric was right. Running was about getting angry with life, about burning away all of the fury and leaving it behind. It was about dusting yourself off and starting over.

  He’d almost caught up with her when she glanced back and caught sight of him. Her sudden grin caught him off guard. There was no guile in her expression, nothing flirtatious or suggestive. There was only a wide-open smile and laughter.

  This was what life was. Hurting for the things you can’t change, but holding on to what you have left. Grayson had no intention of letting go.

  Truth was, he was falling for the tea girl.

  “Think you could run any faster?” he panted.

  Lyric threw him another sunny smile, her hair whipping in front of her face. It was hopeless now—her hair—full of intricate knots that would take forever to brush free.

  Grayson finally caught up with her, his jeans damp from dew, his stride barely keeping him next to her. For a small woman, she was fast.

  “Damn, woman,” he choked.

  She laughed, her gaze on the sky, on the black ravens that had followed them. Wildflowers below, ravens above. Sun and clouds, and dew and flowers … and ravens. It was a surreal world.

  Then, as quickly as she began, Lyric suddenly stopped. She simply quit moving, her chest heaving, her strange hazel eyes almost turquoise in the dawn-lit world, her arms rising above her head.

  This was it, Grayson thought. This was the “new”. This was the moment when the storm blew itself out and enjoyed the fury it left behind.

  Leaning over, Grayson gulped in air, his hands going to his knees. “I’m trying to enjoy the new,” he gasped.

  She peered down at him, her eyes bright. “I’m supposed to run. You’re supposed to smile.”

  He grinned at the wildflowers. It was a start. “The weeds are getting quite the show down here.”

  She chuckled. “I said smile, not scare them to death.”

  His head lifted, his gaze meeting hers. “You’re beautiful when you look like a disaster.”

  She grew still, her gasps growing less erratic and more even. “I think that’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

  “Oh,” Grayson puffed, “you definitely need to get out more.”

  She grinned. “Let me try my hand at this compliment thing.” She perused him critically, her dark brows lifted, her eyes trailing his hunched figure. “You look decent when you’re wheezing.”

  Rising to full height, he shook his head. “I think your pick-up line needs work.” He stalked her, his figure drawing nearer to hers.

  Remote sirens interrupted them, the sound growing in volume. Their heads lifted, their eyes going to the road, to the cloud of dust rising in the distance.

  “Really,” Grayson murmured.

  The ravens flying overhead suddenly vanished, their wings beating furiously, their cawing overwhelmed by the patrol car coming down the lane. It came to a halting stop at the edge of the field. Grayson wedged himself between Lyric and the car, his chin lifting.

  Richard Newton stepped free of his vehicle, a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. The lenses reflected the field, a dark mirror into a beautiful morning. There was something uneasy about the way he stood, his fingers falling to his belt loops.

  Richard cleared his throat. “I’ve warned you, Grayson.” His gaze fell to the dark head just beyond Grayson’s shoulder. “You’re trespassing. Both of you. Legally, I have every right to escort you from this property.”

  Grayson stiffened. “There’s been no harm done here, Sheriff.”

  Richard ignored him. “Ms. Mason, we’ve been very generous in letting you go through your Ma’am’s things, but this property doesn’t belong to your family anymore. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  Grayson started to step forward, but Lyric stopped him.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Sheriff,” she said suddenly. Both men gawked at her.

  Stepping around Grayson, she nodded at Richard. “I apologize for the imposition I’ve caused. If I could burden you for a day or two longer, I’ll leave.”

  For a moment, Richard stared—disconcerted—before his lips melted into a frown. “I don’t think—”

  “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” she asked.

  Richard froze, his gaze going from his car to the field to the decaying house beyond. The morning felt darker somehow now, the clouds greyer, the sound of ravens in the distance eerie and disturbing. Manners bade him to accept her offer. Fear made him reluctant.

  “I need both of you off of this land. Today,” Richard insisted, his face hard.

  Lyric lifted her damp skirt. “How about that tea?” she asked.

  Richard stared, his hands gripping his belt. Clearing his throat, he muttered, “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Lyric stepped toward him. “Excuses, Sheriff, are like dandelions. Pick one up, blow, and you can watch the seeds spread with no sense of direction. Eventually, they land, but it can be in the middle of a field, a puddle somewhere, or even a heap of cow dung. Quite frankly, excuses are dangerous. I’d rather know where mine will land.”

  The sheriff’s hand found the door of his car. “I’ll give you a little time,” he said finally. “No more than three days. Understand? What happens after that I have no control over.”


  Grayson frowned, his gaze trailing Richard Newton as he climbed into his car.

  The older man rolled down his window, his gaze finding Grayson’s. “You should go home, boy. Your family’s worried.” His eyes slid to Lyric. “Family is important.”

  With that, he drove away, the tires throwing gravel and dirt. Lyric and Grayson watched him leave, the joy they’d felt from the run forgotten.

  Lyric glanced at Grayson. “It follows me, you know,” she said.

  He looked at her. “What’s that?”

  “My family’s story. It’s a dark one, and it often drags down anyone who gets involved.”

  She started to walk past him, but his arm snaked forward, his grip catching her by surprise. “A wise woman once said excuses are like dandelions. Don’t make them, Lyric. You are not your family. You may be a product of your family, but they don’t define who you are.”

  She stared at him. “Make me a promise,” she whispered.

  He peered down at her. “Anything.”

  Her hand found his on her arm. “Don’t go insane.”

  He smiled, because he was good at keeping promises. “I promise.”

  ~24~

  Even the color of tea is healing, each color representing something different. Black teas, green teas, yellow teas … all of them represent something strong and powerful. Tea gives back to the drinker. It revitalizes him. It makes him new.

  ~The Tea Girl~

  In retrospect, Grayson should have returned home. It would have saved all of them the pain and fear … it would have saved Lyric. But love, especially new love, is often blinding. Even when undeclared, love holds something special. It’s often when love isn’t spoken that it’s felt the most. Words hold power, but actions hold emotions that can’t be verbalized.

  For the rest of the day, Grayson remained with Lyric. They strolled through the property, through the empty fields, the gardens, and the forest. Their gazes skirted the wilted corn field and the old oak tree where they’d come close to making love. Mostly, they talked.

  “She was technically crazy, you know,” Lyric said. They were in the old hay field just beyond the Kramer property, the one Grayson’s great uncle had shot himself in. “My Aunt Violet,” Lyric clarified. “Our tie to the tea cup doesn’t keep the women in my family from living normal lives and having normal sicknesses. We just never truly die. From life to death to raven.” She glanced at the sky, at the circling birds. “Violet had mental problems. I don’t know a lot about her issues, but I do know that she wasn’t complete somehow.”

  Grayson walked next to her, his hand falling to his side, his fingers reaching for hers. Their palms touched, their fingers locking. There’s a lot that can be said about holding hands. Such a simple gesture, and yet it yells things. This person is mine, it says. It anchors two people together and keeps them rooted. Hands tell complicated stories, and by holding hands, the stories are combined. Lifeline to lifeline.

  “From what I hear, my uncle wasn’t always quite right either,” Grayson said. He glanced at her. Her hair was still a mess, a nest of tangles and frizz. “He had an obsessive tendency, a control issue.”

  Tethered by their hands, they walked. From field to garden to woods. They talked about childhood and memories, about life and death. They talked about love and laughter and pain, about colors, music, and books. Lyric sang for him, and Grayson took a pocket knife he kept tucked inside of his jeans and whittled at a limb, transforming it into the beginning of a raven. Songs and sky and conversation. It was the most Grayson had ever talked and the most he’d ever revealed. They talked about nightmares, fears, and insecurities. Grayson had suffered, not only because of his brother’s death, but in prison. Prisons held secrets that could destroy men.

  Lyric never blanched or walked away. She simply listened, sharing his silence and pain. They walked and talked until their voices were hoarse, the sun throwing golden glares across the pastures.

  It was the home that made them stop. The decaying Miller house was both disconcerting and tempting. It was forbidding and welcoming. It stared at the land, its lopsided doors almost like crooked fingers beckoning to too curious children.

  Lyric climbed the steps of the porch, her hand falling away from Grayson’s. He followed, his gaze skirting the dim interior, the ghost-like furniture, broken glass, and climbing ivy.

  Lyric noted his gaze and smiled. “There’s this lore about ivy, about its abundance, its strength, and its perseverance. Brides often wore it to bring luck to a marriage. It encourages fidelity.” She fingered one of the vines climbing the wall. “It’s tough, ivy. It has a resilience that makes it hard to get rid of.” She glanced at Grayson. “It has a fighting spirit, a plant that both refuses to die and one that bites back. Poison ivy, for example.”

  Talk of the plant made Grayson forget about the eeriness of the house, the empty, heavy feeling that promised to choke him. Something cracked beneath his boot, and he leaned down, his fingers brushing the glass from an old photograph before lifting it. It was a vintage photo. A woman sat at a piano, her face turned up and her eyes crinkling with laughter. It was the only picture he’d seen in the house where the woman wasn’t frowning, where she was caught in an unguarded moment, and he never would have noticed it if he hadn’t stepped on it.

  Lyric bent next to him. “Old Ma’am,” she said. “She was a beautiful woman and kind. She had a gentle spirit despite everything.”

  “She frowned a lot,” Grayson murmured.

  Reaching out, Lyric slid a finger down the side of her grandmother’s face. “Because smiling seemed too hard, I think. It’s easier to frown. She carried a world of burdens on her shoulders. She kept this family alive, even when most of us cared less if it failed.”

  Grayson lifted the photo, his gaze sliding from Gretchen Miller’s face to Lyric’s. “You look like her.”

  She smiled. “I take back what I said earlier. I think that’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”

  Grayson set the photo back on the floor before standing, his hand lowering to assist her. Lyric accepted his help and rose, her gaze darting to the kitchen. The sun was beginning to set beyond the house, throwing shadows everywhere.

  “You should go home, Grayson,” Lyric murmured.

  He glanced at her, his fingers tightening on hers. Tugging on her hand, he pulled her through the house, to the kitchen, and out into the yard beyond the back of the house. The camper sat waiting on them.

  “Go,” he said. “Take a shower, change, make tea, or whatever else you think you need to do, but I’m not leaving. Not today.” She glanced up at him, and he smiled. “I have promises to keep,” Grayson said.

  ~25~

  Tea is about variety, about tasting the different blends and the different grades. Tea is about the way each one feels and tastes on the tongue. There’s a diversity to tea that never lets it become boring. There’s always something different you can do with it. There’s always something beautiful you can try.

  ~The Tea Girl~

  The night fell like a comfortable blanket over the world, leaving a trail of stars, wispy black clouds, and a moon hidden by trees. Ravens cawed and bugs trilled, but mostly it was silent, a deep silence that left two freshly showered people standing in the middle of a cramped camper on the edge of a forest staring at each other.

  It should have been an awkward moment, but it wasn’t.

  Shirtless and barefoot, Grayson peered down at Lyric, at her damp, curling hair and T-shirt clad body. No skirt. Nothing but skin and the smell of freshly brewed tea.

  They’d shared a cup of black tea before they’d each showered, and the fragrance drifted through the space, comfortable somehow.

  Grayson’s fingers trailed down the side of Lyric’s face. “You do own legs,” he murmured, his gaze sliding down.

  Lyric’s brows lifted. “Two of them last I counted.”

  His lips twitched, his gaze meeting hers.

  Her face was solemn, her hazel eyes as brown a
s the day he’d met her, her gaze full of trust. It took his breath away.

  “Smile,” she whispered.

  His hands cradled her face. “Run,” he replied, his mouth meeting hers.

  There were tongues and lips, mingled breaths and whimpering gasps.

  Grayson’s arms fell to Lyric’s waist, his hands cupping her bottom, lifting her. Her hands found his neck, her fingers inching into his hair. Sensation and silence.

  There was barely any light at the back of the camper when he lowered her on to the bed’s old mattress. There were only dim streaks of gold reaching from the front of the RV, its fingers touching parts of their skin.

  Grayson’s hand found Lyric’s waist, his fingers lifting the T-shirt she wore, the fabric inching up her stomach.

  “Because I feel like it needs to be said,” Grayson murmured, his lips brushing Lyric’s rib cage, “making love is a lot like making tea.”

  Lyric laughed, the sound cut short by a gasp as her shirt was tugged over her head, leaving her clad in nothing but darkness and dim light.

  “Like tea?” she breathed, her voice shaking.

  Grayson pulled her palm to his chest and left it there, his hand finding her skin once more, his fingers trailing from her thighs to her rib cage to her breasts, cupping them.

  “It’s about heating the body,” he whispered, his mouth joining his hands, leaving wet trails across her flesh. She arched into his touch, into the warm feel of his lips against her stomach, her ribs, and her breasts.

  Her hand had slid from his chest to his back while he kissed her, her palm clutching him.

  “From heating to measuring to drinking,” he mumbled against her neck. His chest met hers, skin to skin, the feeling overwhelming, warm, and unguarded.

  Her fingers slid to his waist, to his coarse jeans and the button that held them closed. His fingers met hers, his calm touch easing her shaking one.