Page 34 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls (Kissing At Work #2)

L uce lapsed, and Skye had no one to blame but herself.

Before her grandmother returned home after an evening card game with the girls, Skye stood at the gate blocking off Walter’s old study. Something seemed off.

Closing her eyes, she imagined the room as it always appeared: her granddad’s chair with the maroon upholstery, his wooden desk holding a globe and a world map, and his beloved record player, shiny and polished. Luce routinely dusted to keep everything spotless, frozen in time.

Dust represented passing weeks, months, and years. It meant they couldn’t act like he’d just stepped out of his study to change into checkered pajamas with his name embroidered on the breast pocket.

The grandfather clock. Skye had fluttered her eyes open, confirming that its pendulum had stopped swinging. Sheesh, nothing subtle about that symbolism.

Skye would’ve loved to say she hadn’t been thinking that the distress of the clock malfunction tempted her to high-step over the gate. Honestly, she just missed Granddad Walter.

She’d peeked around, gratified by the time machine-like effect and—she couldn’t lie—pleasure in going against her grandmother’s nonstop harping.

Luce wasn’t the only one who deserved to experience a piece of him.

She’d been hoping to catch hints of the pomade he used to massage into his dense hair. No such luck.

Everything on the clock was spotless, nothing out of place, from her limited google searches. So, she took a chance and tapped at the round part of the gold pendulum and cheered when it swung into its usual rhythm. Luce must’ve bumped it during her cleaning session.

Only that had been the wrong move. Her grandmother knew the clock stopped and postponed fixing it until later.

And Luce melted down.

“I don’t give you many rules,” Luce bellowed, looking half her size as she hugged herself in anguish. Eyes grooved shut, neck veins prominent. “Why can’t I have this?”

Most people don’t get to see their respected elders this exposed. Skye wouldn’t recommend it. It stirred something unsettling, each beat of her heart ticking like a bomb.

An outsider, an overstayed guest. She was an intruder in her grandmother’s life, in her house. Skye apologized, hating this disproportionate blowup for altering an heirloom.

She should’ve fled to her bedroom, searching for an apartment suitable for a granddaughter her age. Except when Luce toppled onto the wall, spent from her outburst, Skye swept her into a fierce hug.

Fuck, she couldn’t leave Luce. Not like that. Skye lost a grandfather; Luce lost the love of her life.

Once they found a good rhythm to walk together, Skye ushered her grandmother to her table.

Not to get to work, but to stream a two-hour special of Vengeance: Retired .

Encouraging comfort through the familiar.

Skye sat beside her, taking in her grandmother watching with watery eyes.

It’d been risky to fit their hands together, but Luce permitted it.

They passed the last two hours like that. Skye got up a few times—to heat up dinner, to feed Phish and Swindle, to make sure Luce used the bathroom.

Confusion about her future as a Florentine clouded her head as the show’s main characters stumbled upon a dead body. Sick of thinking about death, Skye welcomed the text message blipping onto her phone.

Celene – 10:02 pm

Hey.

Are you home?

Skye excused herself from the table. Or she assumed she had.

She’d materialized in her bathroom, where she refreshed her curls and shed her work clothes.

Herbal mouthwash swished in her cheeks—not that she anticipated anything.

Anyone would respect fresh breath. Then, Skye nearly choked on the liquid, remembering she hadn’t answered the fucking message.

Her damp fingertips slipped over the screen to respond.

Skye – 10:13 pm

I am

Home.

Why? Is everything okay?

Three dots of Celene answering danced immediately; Skye blew air from her nose, relieved. All to spit the mouthwash halfway into the sink, the rest on her counter at the reply. She patted the frothy solution with a towel, thinking of a good response for:

Celene – 10:15 pm

Could you use some company?

Just us.

Skye – 10:17 pm

Yeah, alright.

Take my entrance on the side of the house. The door’s mahogany.

Bolting to her bedroom to hop into waffle knit shorts, she came up with excuses for why Celene would drop by without spending time with Luce. The last thing she wanted was a bad impression after weeks of Celene gaining Luce’s favor.

That progression of thought didn’t last long. Because two knocks sounded at Skye’s private door.

Already? She didn’t hear a car.

Regardless, Skye wiggled into a sleeveless top, hoping she came off calm and homey. And attractive. Not that it mattered.

When she opened her door, Skye realized she should’ve done more preparation. A blast from the past stood on the concrete doorstep: Celene, classy in sleeves she’d pushed mid-arm, her elegant watch, a skirt that stopped above the knee. And heels.

Post-work clothes. Like the night outside the blueberry patch.

She stammered to apologize until she noticed Celene was similarly rapt. Hugging herself, Skye explained, “I...wasn’t expecting guests.”

“I don’t see your arms often,” Celene said, meeting Skye’s eyes with a hint of that mischief that weirdly comforted her. “I’m not complaining.”

“Come in.” She waved a hand to her room, glad she’d tidied it. It’d been bound to happen when she’d been avoiding Luce in the worst of her moods. “Shoes on or off. I don’t mind.”

Celene kicked off her heels, mostly leveling their eye lines. More intense than before. She circled Skye in soundless footsteps, sly smile unwavering. “I didn’t catch you at a bad time?”

“No. We should keep our voices down, though.” Skye cringed; it sounded so juvenile.

“This used to be your parents’ suite, right?” Celene changed to the topic in a softer tone. Her lovely fingers splayed towards the loft bed built over a couch, lamp, and desk. Mosaic tile experiments littered the desk’s top, but it otherwise looked clean enough.

“Yep. We played in here sometimes.”

“I remember. Love what you’ve done with it. Great use of space.”

Skye would listen more attentively, yet Celene smelled amazing—almost excessively sharp. It pulled her in with little resistance. She coasted her fingertips over her rectangular table, also topped with mosaic paraphernalia. “Thanks. June built the loft bed.”

Celene’s swift head turn made her breath catch. Skye swore some disdain flashed through her eyes. “She’s getting married, you told me?”

“She is. To Zini. You met her.”

Snapping that thread of conversation, Celene carefully slid her handbag to the table. It looked as fancy as its wearer. Sleek and imposing. Celene tapped indigo nails on the bag, then side-eyed Skye. “Did you miss me?”

Skye fought her inclination to swoon. Celene’s posture read assured; her voice betrayed a tremor of guardedness, hesitation.

It was a real question. So, Skye nodded, searching eyes tastefully made up, boldened in competent black swathes.

“How couldn’t I?” Playing with a tile, she asked, “Did you miss me ?”

Celene opened her bag with a quick, tuneful zip, voluminous hair blocking her profile.

Overt elusiveness, or so Skye suspected until Celene extracted four objects wrapped in tissue paper.

She situated them in a row, about an inch apart, before rubbing her palms over her fitted skirt.

With a rasp, she said, “Your grandfather meant so much to you; I’m sorry he’s gone.

I never met any of my grandparents before they died. ”

“Thanks.” Skye glanced at the tissue-papered items, then held Celene’s gaze. “Is that why you’re fascinated by seniors? I couldn’t help noticing.”

“I’m interested in older people because they’ve done it.

They’ve survived. Built their histories and, regardless of their choices, have stories to tell.

I envy their openness, even when they’re wrong.

” She sighed restlessly through lips touched with a subtle color, and Skye held her breath.

“I know they still have life ahead of them, but I’m jealous they can look back and say they tried. ”

Living with her grandmother, encased in the world her grandparents created tile by tile, deprived Skye of this perspective.

A touch of idealism tinted Celene’s admiration; she couldn’t fault her for that.

Luce and her friends amazed her, too. Skye hadn’t noticed she’d reached for Celene’s hand until her smooth fingers squeezed back.

“Open them,” Celene offered, touching the leftmost bundle.

Skye couldn’t imagine what they’d be. Her hands trembled as she peeled tissue paper off a clear handcrafted bowl, almost as shallow as a dish.

Its elegance suggested an expert hand, but she’d ask about that later because embedded in the shiny material itself were dried Virginia bluebells, lilacs, and cherry blossom petals, swept into some powdered pigment.

The edges had been painted gold, and Skye examined it as gingerly as she could, needing to view it at all angles.

“It’s part of a theme. One per season,” Celene explained, her voice soft. “I attended a floral resin art workshop with Nadine and Dante. The instructors helped with the molds, but I arranged my flower choices and everything decorative. With a small bit of painting when they fully cured.”

Eager, Skye ripped into the other three bowls. Goldenrod blossoms and small orange leaves exemplified fall. Winterberry and mountain laurel contrasted nicely for winter. And in the bright summer bowl, Skye identified pressed depford pink, hydrangea petals, and?—

“Smooth aster,” Skye breathed. She allowed herself to gape, then asked, “The flower tattoo on your arm. Is that aster, too?”

On cue, Celene had already been skimming fingertips on the back of her upper arm. “It is. How could you tell?”