Page 15 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls

She’d chosen a family-owned market for her last stop, since Nadine had requested “authentic homemade, no-BS pie” baked by “a Poconos local” crafted with “real fruit and latticework.” Celene grabbed this specific souvenir from the frozen section, then stocked up on some groceries for herself. The perennials outside interested her until the van ambush.

Pushing her sunglasses further up her nose, Celene peered at the driver, a grinning woman in a baseball cap.

And her counterpart, the passenger.

In the light of day, Celene narrowed her eyes, grateful they were hidden behind black lenses. She recognized this person.

“Well?” the driver asked, cheeks red from a hellish-looking sunburn.

Celene searched the exterior of the van for any rainbow paraphernalia because this woman set off all the bells and whistles of the gay department. Evenly, she answered, “No, I don’t live here.”

The bill of her cap shadowed a frown. “Why’re you visiting, then?”

Tourism? Traveling through? None of her damn business? Skirting all those valid responses, Celene raised the paper bag holding Nadine’s blackberry pie and enough fixings to survive on for the next few days. “Personal reasons.”

“Personal. Neat.”

Someone yammering through the van’s speaker took the driver’s attention. Celene should’ve escaped during this downtime. Instead, she gave the speechless passenger another inspection.

Yes, she’d identify that long, windblown bob and those naturally pouty lips anywhere. The forager from the side of the road. Her brown skin had a lustre, as if hours spent gathering berries in the wild had left her glowing.

She didn’t move. Maybe so she wouldn’t be noticed.

But Celene could anddid.

“You lookin’ at flowers?” the sunburnt woman yelled. Forager friend jolted in her seat. A comedy duo. “I have flowers in this van. My great aunt’s business does it all—painting and staining, repairs, renovations, landscaping, gardening, maintenance.”

Gertrude’s Home Improvement, Celene read off the side of the van in swooping text. That lettering was too professional to be a human trafficking ploy. “Do you have a card?”

The driver patted her pocketless shirt while the Bluetooth lady got louder. Eventually, she grappled with the glove compartment and retrieved a business card as green as their van. She elbowed the forager twice to pass it along.

More intrigued by this silent woman than the fix-it-all great-niece with the toothy grin and excitable friend on call, Celene took the card. But she didn’t read it yet. She waited until the passenger’s large, deep-set brown eyes reached her, asking, “Are the blueberries any good?”

Forager turned to the driver as if she’d have the answers, then to her lap, then back to Celene, who wouldn’t budge. Summer sun breathed hard on Celene’s scalp, and yet, she tarried, needing a reply.

Softly, she murmured, “Mhm. I’m baking muffins with them.”

Celene tamped her smirk into a firm line. Fuck, why were shy women so cute? Disappointed she had yet to learn her lesson, she relayed no emotion into her flat, “Yum.”

This imposition resulted in something constructive; Gertrude’s Home Improvement could tackle the Vale house’s biggest demands. Celene told her father where she’d woken up that morning, to get the info on two of his credit cards.

A grave mistake. Only a matter of hours until the entire family expected perfection from a Manhattanite whose extent of home repair acumen was negotiating with her apartment’s lackadaisical management.

Gertrude’s great-niece—June Christensen, according to the card—had the decency to accept the finished conversation when Celene stuck the card into her bag with a light tap of her pointer.Starting the engine, June waved despite the wattage in her smile reducing. “See you around, newcomer. Or not.”

Celene couldn’t be arsed to return a wave or facetious barb. June would probably be on payroll for her soon, so a terse nod sufficed.

In a cloud of dirt, they peeled off. Then, stopped short of the main road. And, most unexpectedly, the van zoomed in reverse as fast as it’d left, halting in front of Celene again.

June appeared as perplexed as Celene, shrugging and pointing at her passenger. Flowers rose into view like they’d sprouted themselves all over again—a plant studded with fair pink, hanging buds.

“This is a fuchsia. She requires partial shade, regular water, and feeding every couple of weeks,” the forager pronounced in a timbre far more confident than the last ten minutes, and certainly when she’d been bumbling through the grass for her keys. “If you treat her well, she’ll bloom brilliant, pendulous flowers.” Her arm, slim and sure, extended from the window, presenting the fuchsia in a small burgundy container. “Welcome to Yielding.”

Celene rearranged the bag on her shoulder to receive it. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Happy you’re back, Celene.”

Didn’t everyone know not to gift anything living? The idea of another thing to take care of should’ve frustrated her. Instead, Celene Vale stared after the van that departed for real.