Page 11 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls (Kissing At Work #2)

Balance restored. Now that she’d appraised Celene’s allure with a clear mind and a touch of the supernatural, she could put this cloudiness to rest.

The aroma of skillet cornbread and tomato stew stopped Skye at her private doorway.

She melted a little—at knowing those would meet her mouth soon, as well as Luce’s concerted efforts to whip up vegetarian meals.

Her grandmother didn’t believe in not learning new tricks, and she never appreciated the idiom of comparing herself to a dog, either.

Skye reached into the collar of her top, spinning the labradorite between her pointer and thumb.

Stay on task.

Rid herself of the cloudiness.

As she divested herself of her clothes for fresh jeans and a pleated blouse that didn’t scream, “I’ve been hauling dirty boxes and dusting behind shelves all day,” her phone buzzed for a social notification.

Planting Love with Aisha and Gael, a web series starring Skye’s parents, had a new video out.

Not too long after Skye’s twenty-sixth birthday, Aisha and Gael Florentine hit the road in their fancy yet eco-friendly RV to spread the knowledge of local and urban farming to the rest of the states.

It earned them quite a following. Taking that and Luce’s artistic accomplishments into account, following one’s destiny ran through her veins.

What that destiny was for Skye, however, was yet to be determined.

She paused, dark eyes roving to the secret trap door of her bedroom, before she shook her head and remembered her current course.

Stop being passive. Go talk to Celene.

“I’m heading out,” she said as casually as possible, kissing Luce on the temple. “Won’t be long.”

Luce’s eyebrows had thinned to nothing at this age. It didn’t reduce her expressiveness, the contortion of a face overlayed with bemusement. “Out? Seeing your friends?”

“Friend, kinda.” And Skye attempted something that would put others in the hospital from their elders: she closed the door on their talk, trimming it short.

Heart thundering, she dashed for her bike. It’d been propped on the side of the house, collecting a film of pollen. She used the sleeve of her blouse to pat off the handles. Luce cracked the front door open just in time for Skye to flee.

“Celene, what’s up? Remember me?” Skye rehearsed, slowing her cycle.

Once upon a time, she’d pump her legs full speed all the way there, but she worked full shifts, and her thirty-sixth year humbled her as far as energy consumption.

She pasted on a customer service smile, trying again.

“It’s been years. I still live eight streets away with.

..with my grandma. Yes, I have a job, I swear.

” Skye dropped the smile. “What? Oh yeah, that was me who almost hit your mailbox. A wasp attacked me; I wasn’t staring at you downward dogging. ”

She’d gone over enough feasible exchanges just as the double boulder formation edged into view.

Wind sifting through her curls, gagging through someone’s old ride-on lawnmower exhaust—Skye could do this.

Her head might drift in the blue of her namesake, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t fit in with the rest of the population for a mature, easygoing visit.

A basic sequence: ring the doorbell, say hello, explain her identity, maybe reminisce, rid herself of the negative energy, and ride home for cornbread.

Impressing herself, Skye arced her narrow wheels nimbly onto the Vale driveway, past the parked car. She breathed relief, spotting the ordinary doorbell. Circular, push button, easy. She’d push that button, all right. Push the hell out of?—

“Um, hi?”

Skye skidded her bike to a stop. Instantly, she forgot fucking everything when Celene peered at her from a hammock hanging between an oak and a birch.

She slipped a paperback to her side, smoothly tucking her bare feet into chic, tri-color flats on the ground, and Skye met her eyes again so she wouldn’t look like a weirdo staring at a near-stranger’s feet.

“You did mean to come here, right?” Celene asked, still seated. “If not, I can get back to my book.”

“I meant to.” Skye started strong, then she chewed her lip, throwing a glance at the doorbell that lured her into a false sense of security. “Then...”

“Then?” Her highly arched brows ticked upward.

“In your hammock like that,” she explained, letting her mouth take flight, “you were blocked by Boob Mountain. You surprised me, that’s all.”

“Boob...” Celene peeked over her shoulder, and when she looked back, her smirk caught Skye off guard enough to tip in a backwards sway. Skye’s butt thumped her bike and an angel must’ve saved it from falling, lest it’d hit Celene’s nice car. “Does anyone still call it that?”

“Rarely, I’d guess.” She searched the clouds, drawing from her memory bank and not Celene’s gaze. “I don’t hang out with children. Maybe they came up with something new.”

After observing two robins rustling in the oak, Skye let her eyes fall back in place. Only to see Celene staring at the sky, too. The wind rocked her as she stretched her legs out, less fearsome than Skye anticipated.

“I’ll miss the wildness of your land.” Skye swept an arm to the mowed grass, devoid of bark shreds and clumps of wet leaves. “It was an interesting study, watching nature take it back.”

“I don’t care who takes it back once it’s sold.” Not a trace of fondness touched Celene’s lips. “This is a project. I’m here to make it less of a deathtrap eyesore, then it’s out of my hands.”

“Ah.” The ache of a definite timeline rippled through her.

Maybe it was hunger. “After I graduated from college, I lived in New York for six years, then Philly for a few more, and by the time my granddad had his first stroke, Yielding was calling me.” Skye worked her throat, momentarily hoarse. “He’s gone now.”

“Sorry about your grandfather.”

“Thank you.”

“The lead in this novel is obsessed with cremation—she keeps a shrine of urns for all her dead pets. It’s macabre.” Celene tapped at her book’s spine, asking, “Do you think you’ll die here?”

In the earthly realm or something more spiritual? Skye kind of liked candid, unorthodox questions over the standard condolences. Assuming ‘here’ meant Yielding, she shrugged, thumbs hooking into the front of her jeans pockets. “Probably.”

Celene roamed from the hammock, plucking at splints protruding from the faded planks of the deck. If they could agree on one thing, that needed replacing.

And again, the conversation flatlined.

Luce would hate this behavior, taking how she’d taught the value of making someone feel welcome despite Skye’s quiet disposition. For a guest, Celene could try . “There—” Skye swallowed when she squeaked that out. “There are worse places. To die.”

“Like where?” Celene asked without facing Skye. She wore tighter yoga shorts today, and that was none of Skye’s business.

Meandering off the driveway, Skye rubbed her fingertips along the curled bark on a birch tree. “Out in the ocean. Trapped underground?—”

“On the side of the road at night?”

Skye couldn’t wrap her mind around Celene’s supposed humor. Or commentary. It ached a tad, for the words didn’t accompany a smile or softer tone. Clasping the labradorite marquise hot from her skin, she asked, “Do you even remember me?”

It wasn’t effortlessly conversational like her rehearsals.

Still, it sufficed when Celene turned around, black hair fighting against the wind.

She leaned onto the side of the deck and, in her precise, surprisingly supple voice, replied, “I know who you are, Skye. You were my favorite part of the summer.”

Suddenly, Skye wished they were discussing death again. Less heavy. “Oh. Nice.”

Oh? Nice? Thalia wouldn’t be satisfied with that segment of this story’s recap.

Though how could Skye declare, ‘you were my favorite, too’ without sounding...she had no idea. Celene could be straight. Or worse, be some flavor of not-straight and take that response as a come-on.

Skye needn’t stress too much longer since a phone woke up in a muffled buzz, stuck within the thick hammock material. Celene moved like she was annoyed already, digging it out of its hiding place and answering, “I saw your text. How do you think you’d possibly help?”

Hovering in the nebulous space between wanting to stay and finding a break to announce her leave, Skye stood around.

A ladybug flew onto the tree near her, trekking up the trunk as a little spot of red.

Seven dots decorated her rounded back. So interesting, Skye pondered, how their aposematic coloration warded off predators and in turn, attracted her as a human, mother earth’s biggest opp.

“You’re more than welcome to leave.”

Shit.

Who knew how many minutes Skye watched the ladybug, trying to imagine the world from her eyes, before Celene chose to mute her phone, holding it to her chest. “Sorry, sure.”

“My sister doesn’t know the meaning of a brief chat. Did you need anything, or were you just being neighborly?” Celene threw a hasty hand toward one of her windows, mostly blinded shut. “The fuchsia’s alive.”

“I didn’t doubt that, but thanks.” Skye retreated to her bike.

Tightness constricted her chest, and somehow, she knew it’d dissipate once she left.

A shame—she’d shown up to clear the air.

To walk down memory lane. Now, she tucked her proverbial tail between her legs, feeling like a child and reacting like one, too.

As Skye spun her bike in an unsteady pivot, Celene paced the bare patches of the grass, as impassive in skintight Nylon as she’d been in her skirt and heels.

Lovely to gaze upon; inscrutable otherwise. Like a river, streaming and constant, its depth unknown until one false move sweeps a woman into its rapids: deluged, adrenaline spiking, gasping for her life.

No, not Skye’s type at all .

And there Skye went, like an unfortunate soul fated to test the waters, calling out, “I—uh...” She only continued when Celene put her sister back on mute, mid-sentence.

“I have a store—well, my grandma’s shop.

At Yield for Art, the collective in the Creative Square off Main Street.

Home stagers stop by regularly, and you may want some décor, so. ..yeah.”

All business, no bull, Celene thumbed at her phone. “Hours?”

Skye coughed once; she’d expended so much to even speak up. “Ten to four. Come by and I’ll give you a family discount.”

“The theme inside this house is ‘eagle.’ I’m replacing it.” Celene flashed a faint, stingy smile. “Thank you, Skye.”

Finding more opportunities to speak too daunting, Skye rode away to her and Luce’s house with a terracotta exterior as warm as its history of residents. Where she felt accepted and at home. Because Celene certainly didn’t feel like it.