The Colour of Tea (14 page)

“Well, now we are a nonsmoking café.”

“Oh really, ma’am?” she says, sounding surprised. Almost all restaurants and cafés here and certainly all casinos allow smoking. Most places are clogged thick with it.

“Yup. No smoking around here. Only
macarons.
And coffee, of course. Sometimes screaming babies and kids too, I have to warn you.”

“That is no problem,” she says easily. She takes a sip of her tea and leans back into her seat. She is now looking around the café with interest. She seems to be taking in every light fixture and every table with wonder. She looks comfortable in this place. Happy.

“You’ve made it look pretty. And it feels safe,” she says quietly, as if to herself. She pulls down her sleeve over the thumb of her left hand absentmindedly.

“Yeah, it’s a safe neighborhood. I like it here.”

I look down at my notepad and list of questions. There are eight questions, written neatly under the title “Interview Questions,”
with a space at the bottom for comments and a score. When I lift my head toward Rilla, she has two hands around her cup and is staring into the bottom of it, a gentle smile across her face. It is not a cold day, but she looks warmed by the tea. Tea has that effect on people; I love watching it bring comfort. She is so small, the cup seems almost to dwarf her, her soft, full cheeks and round, dark eyes childlike behind it. Taking a breath, I ask her only one question on my list. Number eight.
Trust my instincts, right, Mama?

“Rilla, when could you start?”

Her eyes flick up toward me eagerly, and her face lifts. “As soon as you like, ma’am. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I repeat firmly. I lean over to shake her hand as if to seal the deal, her tiny hand in my big one. Then we both smile together.

*   *   *

By the time Rilla has worked three days at Lillian’s, I’ve finally started sleeping at night, rather than lying awake, eyes wide and dry, mind churning over the chores to be done. I have told her that she is a godsend, but I’m not sure she understands what I mean. She smiles, as she always does, and carries on cleaning dishes, humming and scrubbing away. She works so quickly I don’t have time to give her instructions. Before I ask for the storeroom to be swept out, it is mopped sparkling clean; before I ask her to wipe down the milk frother, she has all the machine’s moving parts soaking in a bucket. She doesn’t say much, but when she does it is normally “No problem, ma’am,” her standard reply to any request. I try to encourage her to call me Grace, like everyone else, but this results in being called Ma’am Grace or Miss Grace. The address feels so foreign. Sometimes I don’t realize she’s talking to me. Earlier, I was staring off into the distance, hands plunged deep
into the lukewarm, sudsy water, wondering whether to clean the tiny slice of window above the sink. The view outside is distorted by thick splatterings of grease and sticky dust.

“Ma’am? Miss Grace?”

“Oh, sorry. I was off in my own little world.” I try to brush the hair out of my face with the back of my arm but instead succeed in dragging dishwater across my forehead.

Rilla laughs and dabs me with a clean tea towel. She pushes back the stray hair, tucking it behind my ear. Her touch is casual, almost sisterly.

“There is a man to see you. Out front.”

“Pete?”

I pluck off my gloves and wipe the dampness from my hands on the front of my apron. He has come in a few times but doesn’t stay long, always neck-deep in work and phone calls. I don’t tell him, but I almost prefer it that way, to have Lillian’s all to myself, my place.

“No. Another man. Ummm …” Rilla puts her head to one side, searching for the right words. “Tall with black shirt. Ummm, gray hair?”

“Oh, okay.”

Finally someone has come to help fix the dripping air conditioner in the toilet.

The man has his back to me as I walk out of the kitchen. He leans on the counter, one elbow behind him, propping him up.

“Hello, can I help you?”

As he turns around, I see it is Léon, his face lit up in a smile. He is holding a bottle, its neck tied with a fat yellow bow.

“Grace!” he exclaims. The way he says my name always unravels me a little, the rolling
r,
the softness in his voice. He takes hold of one of my hands while I frantically consider my wilted appearance. Wet hair, flushed face, apron wrapped around my
middle. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner. Aurora has been so busy. People are talking about this place, you know. Now I can see it for myself. Well, it is”—he shakes his head—“marvelous.”

I feel myself blush. I’m tongue-tied.

“Oh well … thank you. It’s all thanks to you, Léon. Your teaching, the
macarons.
” I nod to the counter fridge. “And of course, now Rilla.”

“Oh no, no. It’s
your
hard work. This”—he makes a gesture to encircle the room—“it is not an easy undertaking. You should take credit. It looks superb.”

“Well, it’s not perfect. But thank you. We’re getting there.” I’m proud of Lillian’s, whether I admit it out loud or not. “And now you’re here, you need to try the
macarons.
As we say, ‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating.’”

“Ah, you are right. What do you recommend?” He gives me a blue-eyed wink, like a partner in crime. A fellow baker.

“I recommend them all, of course,” I reply with a grin. “Take a seat and I’ll bring one of each.”

“Perfect. Shall we have coffee and you can give me the guided tour?”

I look up at Rilla. She is drying a cup and nods to me.

“Sure.”

He leaves the champagne, with its showy bow, on the counter and takes a seat at one of the tables. I notice the other customers lifting their eyes in his direction, women glancing at him over their coffee cups. That magnetism, like the type that first drew me to Pete. I take off my apron and try to smooth my hair while crouched down by the counter fridge. I choose a selection of
macarons
and wonder if the odd feeling in my stomach is hunger. Or a twinge of desire, perhaps unease. Probably both.

*   *   *

Marjory has become my regular morning institution. Rilla seems to like her. She says things like “Bloody glorious day outside,” which make Rilla laugh. Marjory has one of those white, winning grins paired with a salt-of-the-earth quality—exactly the opposite of what you would expect from her polished appearance. I often find myself staring at her careful beauty and bubbling confidence, wishing I could be bolder, more put together. When I am in the kitchen putting on a batch of
macaron
shells, I can hear her voice from the front of the café, telling some joke or lovingly complaining about her husband, Don. I always come out to personally make her coffee just the way she likes it. A cappuccino with low-fat milk and “no faff.” That means no cinnamon, no chocolate; just the steamed milk swirled into a leaf pattern. She allows herself to have one
macaron
with her coffee, daily, and gives me her frank opinion on some of my trials and new flavors.

“No good, Grace” or “Yup, awesome” seem to be the two standard responses. I tend to agree with her; my ideas do seem to be hit-or-miss. But I’m getting better with practice. I’ve been spending my evenings online, studying Parisian patisserie menus—Mulot, Hermé, Ladurée, Lenôtre—while Pete dozes in front of the television.

Today Marjory sits in her usual place as I wipe down the tables. A three-year-old boy has showered floors and tables and windowsills with sugar. It is crunchy underfoot. Fortunately, both mother and boy have left, his howls and whoops fading into the distance. I had watched while she let him slurp down half of her latte and he’d become tightly wound with the caffeine hit. Wiping the table next to Marjory, I offer an apology.

“So sorry about that. Wasn’t sure whether I should ask them to leave or not. But in retrospect …” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling.

Marjory just nods, unusually quiet. She seems strangely rigid
in her chair. I come in closer to brush a few crystal grains from her tabletop and notice that tears are making wet tracks through her bronzer and dripping off the edge of her jaw. She is still wearing her sunglasses, and her features are frozen in smooth composure. Then she pats at her cheek, smudging her blush, bronzer, and foundation. The white napkin becomes muddy and soggy, and she twists it in her fist.

“Do you …” I start, and then pause. I look around furtively, noticing that all the other customers have left, a little break in the morning tide. I pull out the chair opposite hers at the table. The legs clatter across the tiles. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Her chin is tilted toward her lap, and she pats at her cheeks again with the napkin. “There’s nothing to say,” she says and sighs.

I stay seated opposite her.

Then her breathing gets ragged, her mouth squeezed shut and turned down at the edges. She gasps for breath through her nose before a low cry escapes her. “It’s Bianca.”

“Bianca?”

“My dog,” she explains. Her sunglasses make it impossible to see her eyes. I let go of my dishcloth, placing it on top of the table, lean toward her a little.

“She died. We had to … you see … we had to put her down.” She brushes absently at the dark pools her tears are making against her skirt, then shakes her head. “Shit. Sorry. This isn’t your problem.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t be crying in here. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay …” I put my hand on her shoulder, and she lifts her head.

“It’s not that simple,” she stammers.

I press my hand against her shoulder, trying to reassure her. I don’t know what to say.

She lets out a deep breath and finally takes off her glasses. Mascara is smeared under her eyes like war paint. When she catches me looking at her face, she twists her napkin into a point, rolling it slowly under each of her eyes. It doesn’t make any difference. Her painted face is undone.

“Why am I crying about this? I didn’t even like her. God, that sounds awful. I sound like an awful person.”

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” I say gently, feeling unhelpful. It has been so long since I have had a friend, I don’t quite know how to comfort her.

“I mean, really, she was a nightmare from the beginning, and now … it turns out she had a brain tumor. That’s probably why she was always so aggressive. Nothing they could do, nothing.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

She gives me a watery smile. “It’s okay. I’m surprised I’m so upset. You know, last week I was secretly hoping there would be some reason we would have to give her back. Or … something. She was an absolute monster at times. It sounds so horrible to say out loud.” She gives a wry kind of laugh.

I let go of her shoulder and put my hands in my lap. “Well, she did seem like a bit of a handful. I mean, you shouldn’t feel bad, you know. It wasn’t—”

“My fault? Yeah, I know. I know that logically. Rationally.” She shakes her head. “It’s just that I got up this morning, still sleepy, and put food in her bowl and then remembered … and then … I didn’t think I would feel like this.”

“I think it’s normal to feel sad,” I say.

“No. I mean, yes, I do feel sad. But I didn’t think I would feel so … lost?” She seems to look through me for a moment. “I used to be a dancer, you know. Oh hell, don’t tell any of the ladies that, they already look at me like I’m some kind of hooker.” She lowers her voice, picks at her napkin with her nail. “It wasn’t like that.
Sure, we were a bit Moulin Rouge, you know, but classy, not strippers or anything. It was the best time, Grace. Seeing the world, getting drunk, suitcases full of gorgeous dresses. I had the best life I knew of, better than the other girls from school, ending up with quiet lives and boring husbands. Yuck. But I was getting too old for it in the end. That’s when I met Don. Then being a wife was really nice for a while, but now, I don’t know, I just feel …”

Part of me wants to offer her words. Descriptions that come to me so easily.
Empty. Confused. Directionless.

As her voice trails off, she stares out at nothing. Then she sits up and looks a little embarrassed. “Hey, thank you. For listening. I guess I’m a bit stunned. Now I see Bianca was kind of … filling my days …”

We sit in silence for a few minutes. Marjory sniffles and I wish I had something helpful or useful to say. I know what it is to feel lost. To have your dreams dissolve in seconds. Things that were supposed to be a certain way suddenly turning out completely different. Why can’t I think of anything to say? I glance around Lillian’s. Rilla is in the kitchen washing up; I can hear her, the sloshes and knocks of plates hitting one another in the soapy water. I love that sound, the stillness of the front of the café, the busyness in the kitchen. I realize with a jolt that I am thanking God for this place. That I no longer feel quite so lost.

“It’s going to be okay. It
will
be okay,” I say again with conviction. I want to say more, but I can’t think how to say it. I hope Marjory feels some reassurance from me. She gives me a weak smile.

“Do you want a cup of tea? Chamomile? Or maybe a cappuccino?”

She nods. “A cup of tea would be great.”

We smile at each other, our eyes meeting across the table. She reaches out and pats my hand, and we both look down together—
her golden, manicured hand lying on top of my pale, damp one with the short nails lined with almond flour.

“Thanks, Grace.”

“No problem,” I reply softly.

I get up and take out a cup and saucer.

*   *   *

We seem to have won over several customers who now always choose Lillian’s for their morning coffee or afternoon sugar buzz. Each has quirky habits I try to memorize. Some I learn the hard way, making mistakes, getting things wrong. Occasionally, just after I’ve mastered the customer’s order, she will change her mind. Other customers let me know their preferences from the first time they come, cutting straight to the quick, not mincing words. Gigi falls into this category, ordering her coffee as if she’s made the request every morning of her life.

She wears black trousers and a white shirt, the unmistakable uniform of a table games dealer, sans waistcoat, which the casinos don’t allow to be taken home. She can’t be much older than nineteen or twenty, although I find it difficult to tell with Chinese women. Their skin is always so taut and creamy; it’s hard not to be envious. The ponytail on her head is high and tight, and a dark fringe brushes her forehead. I imagine her on the other side of the green felt, sullen and bored. She pushes her fringe to one side to give me a strangely curious and angry look. She seems familiar.