In the Land of Tea and Ravens (13 page)

~19~

Tea can be taken sweet or bitter. It depends on the taste of the drinker.
Tea’s
success is in the company, the people we choose to drink it with. One person may like it sweet, the other bitter. However, when a person lifts the cup to take a swallow, it’s the company across from him that matters rather than the taste.

~The Tea Girl~

Lyric Mason had no intention of staying in town. At twenty, she’d left college and a job at a coffee house to come to Hiccup. She’d taken leave from work and pushed several of her classes back a semester simply because she needed the time to think, to evaluate where her life was going. She wasn’t merely
Lyric
anymore. With the death of her grandmother, she’d become the tea girl.

She hadn’t counted on Grayson Kramer. She hadn’t counted on finding solace in someone else’s company, in sharing secrets she was never supposed to tell. She hadn’t counted on letting go.

The moment the rain and wind chased her into Delilah’s, Lyric knew he was there. She felt him in the dimness, felt his eyes and his burdened thoughts.

“Twice in one week,” Juliet called as she approached. “I feel honored.” She nodded at the counter.
“Tea?”

Lyric smiled.
“Iced and sweet.”
She glanced at the jukebox. “No theme music today?”

Juliet slapped the bar before plunking down a thick glass mug. She filled it with ice and sugared tea. Sweet tea wasn’t just sweet in Hiccup. It was syrup in a cup.

“You want me to play you a song, child?” Juliet asked.

Sitting at the bar, Lyric shuddered. “No.”

The old woman grinned, her gaze going over Lyric’s shoulder. “Mayhap you won’t need any music today.” With a final glance at the young woman, Juliet retreated.

Lyric stared at the tea-filled mug. “You smell like whiskey.”

Grayson Kramer settled on the bar stool next to her, his hands coming to rest on the scarred wooden surface. “You smell like rain.” He glanced at her askance. “
You following
me?”

Lyric clutched the mug Juliet had given her, the wet chill seeping into her palms. “Do you want me to?” Lifting the mug, she drank deeply, her gaze peering at him over the rim.

Grayson watched her, the heat from the night before hanging heavy between them. He swallowed. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

She glanced at the door.
“As soon as the rain lets up.”

He faced the bar, his brows furrowed. There was a lot about Lyric he knew that most people didn’t: who her family was, the burden of living with guilt, and her philosophical way with words. They were big things.
Huge things, really, considering the short amount of time they’d known each other.
They weren’t even in a relationship, and he knew things about her most men wouldn’t learn until after months of involvement. He knew the big things, but he didn’t know the small ones. They’d started their strange involvement at the end rather than at the beginning.

He glanced at her skirt. “Is there a reason you never wear jeans?”

Startled, her gaze fell to her lap. “Not really,” she murmured. “Skirts are less constrictive, I guess. They’re more colorful and full of life.”

Staring at the tiered fabric, Grayson murmured, “What do you do? Back where you live?”

He felt the heaviness of her gaze on his head, but he didn’t look up.

Lyric cleared her throat. “I go to school and I work. Ironically, I mostly make coffee for a living.” She set her glass on the bar. “I’m studying
herbalism
, herbal medicine.”

Grayson’s head rose, his gaze meeting hers.
“Makes sense.”

She watched him.
“Why the curiosity?”

His gaze moved forward, his jaw tensing. “Maybe I’m interested.”

Lyric froze, her eyes widening. Words failed her. She drank her tea instead, her gaze following his to the row of shelves behind the bar. Liquor, old tin signs, and neon lights stared at them. There were lots of
you might be a redneck if
stickers and country slogans along with old black and white images of Elvis Presley and shots of the town.

Someone shoved a quarter into the jukebox across the room, laughter rising as the person stumbled against it.

“Make it
somethin
’ old, Harry!” a man shouted.

Groans followed.

“Something fast!” another voice called.

“Just drink your beer and leave me to it!” the drunken Harry slurred.

An old Kenny Rogers song filtered through the space met by raucous calls of approval. Juliet reappeared, her head shaking. She took an empty glass, filled it with Jack Daniels, and slid it in front of Grayson.

“
Ol
’ rednecks turn into sentimental fools when
they been
drinkin
’,” she groused. “It’ll be George Strait and Hank Williams before you know it.”

Grayson accepted the glass, but he didn’t drink. The rain outside was slowing, the thunder getting more distant, the rumbling less ominous.

“Don’t leave yet,” he said suddenly.

Grayson’s words surprised them all. Juliet glanced between the young couple before retreating once more, a bottle and empty glasses in her hand as she faded into the dim room beyond.

For a long moment, there was nothing except silence and country music, the kind that made a person proud to be country and yet somehow sad, nostalgic.

“I can’t stay,” Lyric murmured finally, her voice cracking.

Grayson’s gaze swung to hers. “Why?”

She frowned. “I can’t keep sleeping in my car, Grayson. I need to go back to work. My apartment back home is only paid up through the end of the month.”

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t give a damn, but for some wild, crazy reason he did. “Then stay until the end of the month. Let me worry about where you sleep.”

Lyric stood, her tea forgotten. The move put her closer to Grayson, their faces inches apart.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

Sweet tea, cinnamon, and some kind of subtle sweet spice tickled Grayson’s nose. Their breaths mingled.
Whiskey and sugar.
Somehow it worked.

“It seems wrong,” he mumbled, his gaze going to the room beyond before returning to her face. “It seems wrong, you leaving now.”

Lyric’s hand fell to the bar stool, her fingers gripping the edge. “You know what I am—”

“And I don’t care,” he interrupted. He stood, his gaze peering down into hers. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.” He started to touch her, but his hand fell back to his side, his gaze traveling the bar. “You can’t tell me—”

“And if I do?” she hissed. “What does it matter?”

His jaw tensed. “Stay or go, Lyric, but if you go, it’d be a damned shame not to see where this goes.”

Her chest
heaved,
her eyes wide and haunted. “They blame me …” Her gaze fell to her feet before rising again. “Who would be taking the risks here?”

His head lowered.
“You?
Afraid of risks?”
His hand came to rest near hers on the bar stool. Their fingers didn’t have to touch. There was electricity there without it. “Victory is a ladder born of risks.”

Her lips twitched. “You want me to climb ladders now?”

He leaned closer. “I want you to trust me.”

Lyric swallowed, her gaze falling to their hands on the stool. She could hear the caw of the ravens in her head, the screams of disapproval she’d hear from her family. The cup … it wasn’t safe here. There was too much anger in this community.

Risks.

Thoughts of the night before washed over her, warming her blood.

She exhaled. “My head is telling me to go …”

Grayson laughed softly.
“And the rest of you?”

Her eyes found his. “My heart is telling me to climb ladders.”

Grayson’s gaze searched hers, his fingers moving so that they trapped hers on the bar stool, the town be damned. “Mountains look good from the bottom, but the view from the top is breathtaking.”

She peered up at him. “Now you’re suddenly poetic.”

He gave her a half smile. “It’s all that damned tea.”

She glanced down at their hands before glancing at the room beyond. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

Grayson lifted her hand, his gaze barely sweeping the room before pulling her toward the door. “There’s something you need to know about me. I’m a little too good at taking risks.”

The waning storm blew in, the humid air slamming their faces as the door burst open. Lyric let him lead her. She let him lead, because for the first time, she felt free. She felt young, unwise, and wild. There was something respectable about being dependable—something honest and real—but there was also something incredibly innocent about rebelliousness. Rebellion was a way to take back a youth she lost from having to be too responsible.

She wanted to be a rebel.

So, she became one.

~20~

Making tea is a ritual, a beautiful slow moment when it’s just the tea and the tea maker. Measuring, heating, steeping … it’s often as much about the making as it is the drinking. Tea can be an art. It isn’t just about conversation and company. It’s about taking the time to do something.

~The Tea Girl~

Mildred Kramer stared at her grandson in horror, her gaze falling to the fingers he had entwined with
hers
before rising to meet his determined face.

“You’re not serious,” she whispered.

She was angry, the kind of anger so strong it makes it impossible to yell.

Grayson started to step forward. “
Mamaw
—”

Mildred’s hand rose, stopping him. “You know what they did to my family …”

Lyric fidgeted, her fingers pulling at Grayson’s. “I really think it would be better if I left.”

Mildred’s eyes grew hard. “I really think it would.”

Grayson stared at his grandmother, his gaze startling her. The darkness she’d been seeing in him for months was growing darker, shadowing his features. “Because you believe her family killed your brother?” he asked. “Or because you believe she killed her mother?”

Mildred stared, the deep wrinkles in her face becoming even deeper. Her face flushed, her aged hands clutching at an apron she had tied around her waist. “You don’t know these women, Grayson. Not really.” She glanced at Lyric. “What? You want her, is that it? Is this you
speakin
’? Or other parts of you?”

Grayson released Lyric, his fists clenching. “Open your eyes,” he declared. “Do
you
really know these women, or are you just speaking out of pain and rumor?”

Taking a step backward, Mildred glared at her grandson. “They’ll destroy you,” she whispered. “They’ll steal your soul and leave you stumbling through this world insensible.”

Shaking his head, Grayson murmured, “I’m already doing that.” He backed away, his body hiding Lyric from his grandmother’s view. “Her name is Lyric. This town believes she’s a killer. It’s nothing compared to what they should think of me.” He turned, his hand finding Lyric’s shoulder. Gently, he urged her toward the door. “The camper is mine. I’ll do with it what I please.”

With that, he stepped through the door, his back to Mildred. “You realize no one’s bothered to talk to me about Ben?” he asked his grandmother, his gaze going over his shoulder. “A family divided, half of you shunning me, the rest pretending it never happened. Ben’s dead,
Mamaw
. He’s dead, and I’m the reason he is.”

Mildred’s face drained of color, the mention of her younger grandson causing her heart to clench. There was pain in Grayson’s eyes, a pain no one could ever have hope of touching.

“We can talk …” she began, her shaking voice trailing off.

Grayson shook his head.
“About how I need to quit hiding?”
He glanced at Lyric. “I’m not hiding right now. It’s this town that’s hiding.”

The sound of the door closing caused Mildred to jump, her squinted eyes on the white washed wood. For long moments, she simply stood there, her gaze on the wood grain, the revving sound of a truck loud beyond the house. She could hear Grayson hooking up the old camper he’d brought with him when he’d shown up at their door months ago. She could hear him pulling it away. She could hear him leaving.

Ben’s dead,
Mamaw
.
He’s dead, and I’m the reason he is.

The tears fell slowly, one single drop at a time.
Her grandsons.

Fisting her hand around the apron, she pushed at her stomach. Grayson was leaving and there was nothing she could do about it. Blame is a strange thing. Even when someone doesn’t deserve it, our mind tells us differently. Our minds need something to hold responsible. It needs something to condemn rather than faulting the ones we love.

Mildred blamed Lyric. She blamed her for her family’s involvement in
Polie’s
death, and she blamed her for taking Grayson.

Swallowing hard, the old woman sauntered carefully to the kitchen, her gaze going to the rotary dial telephone hanging on the wall near the back door. Even with the use of cell phones nearly obliterating the need for land lines, Mildred had never gotten one.

For another long moment, she simply stared at the phone. Hiccup was a small town. It was a beautiful town full of neighbors who loved and helped each other. Small towns were living entities full of beauty and light. Yet, where there was light, there was also darkness.

Mildred reached for the phone, her hand shaking.

She blamed Lyric.