Page 11 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

B ehind the counter, Luke fiddles with knobs and contraptions and who knows what.

The industrial-sized machine looks like it could do most anything, including flying an astronaut to the moon.

All I have at my apartment in Atlanta is a tea kettle, a jar of instant coffee, and a spoon.

I can make a mean cuppa joe. And I’m talking m-e-a-n, as in grumpy.

But Luke seems to take his coffee way too seriously. And so, I will have my work cut out for me for our coffee challenge or bet or whatever it is.

“I’ve got a showing,” Andrea says. “But I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t worry,” I add, “we’ll organize and prepare all your wedding plans.”

She offers me a grateful hug and leaves.

Roxie disappears into the back. And I am left alone. With Luke.

He shrugs out of his jacket, and his muscles bunch beneath the faded T-shirt.

He grabs jars and syrups, in a choreographed dance of sorts, as if he’s done this thousands of times, which I’m guessing he has.

Yet, he seems careful in his design of this particular cup of coffee, especially for little ol’ me.

“You like almond milk?” he asks.

“If we’re in a contest, I shouldn’t say.” I look up at the chalkboard at the names of coffee drinks: Midsummer’s Night Dream with lavender, the Tell-Tale Heart with heart-stopping five shots of espresso, Fahrenheit 451 with a dash of chili pepper, and Pride and Peppermint.

Luke leans on the counter, his broad shoulders slanted, his gaze steady. “How adventurous are you?”

“You mean, do I read Edgar Allan Poe? Ride bulls for fun? Or drive like Tom Cruise in a Mission Impossible flick?”

He chuckles. “You have quite the imagination with what you think I can do with a cup of coffee. Do you like spices?”

“Like the Carolina Reaper?”

He rubs his neck. “Any allergies I should be aware of?”

“No, but you’re not going to put something like octopus ink in my coffee, are you?”

“I want to win, not hand over the contest to you.”

“What exactly are we betting?” I ask.

“That’s up to you.” He opens a pint-sized refrigerator below the counter. “I could supply you with a lifetime supply of coffee.”

“Too far for me to drive every morning from Atlanta. Unless you deliver.” I peek around to see what he’s shaving into my cup.

He nudges the cup and shifts his shoulders so I can’t see what he’s doing. “You’re going to have to be brave.”

“How brave are you?” I counter. That puts starch in his spine. “Remember, I get to make you coffee too.”

“I’m not brave enough for instant.”

Roxie backs through the door carrying a tray. Luke helps her set it down. She starts loading muffins, scones, and sliced coffee cake into the display. Everything looks delicious and smells heavenly.

Luke slides a wide-mouthed, polka-dotted cup across the counter toward me. “You’re going to have to beat this.” He turns the cup to reveal a foamy bear atop my latte. “Give it a try.”

“How’d you create a polar bear?”

“Do I win?”

“Latte art is nice,” I say, lifting the cup, “but the taste is what matters.”

“This from someone who drinks instant.” He wipes down the machinery with a rag.

I take a sip. He’s studying me, and I feel my insides flutter. Then that thick, smooth taste awakens my senses. “Oh, it’s nice.”

He frowns. “That’s all you have to say? Nice?”

“Did you want me to say, ‘you win’?”

“Not with a ‘that’s nice.’ If I win, I want to win.”

“Competitive, are we?” I look down at the polar bear and lick foam off my lip. “White chocolate?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looks so proud of himself that it makes me smile.

Obviously, I will have to study to win this contest.

“Any time you want to practice,” he waves toward his equipment, “you’re welcome. But since you only know how to boil water, you’ll need supervision.”

“I can do more than boil water.”

His look says, show me .

“How are you going to determine the winner?” Roxie interrupts our standoff.

Luke wipes the counter. “We haven’t worked out the logistics yet.”

“Hmm.” Roxie looks dubious. “What are you going to get if you do win? Is the prize monetary? Or something more like a kiss?”

Roxie’s gaze ping-pongs between us, but I don’t dare look at Luke. I glue my gaze to the foamy bear.

Thankfully, the bell over the door jangles, interrupting the awkward moment, and my father walks in.

“Dad!” He holds the door for a black woman dressed in a long flowing skirt and flats. I go to hug my father. He rolls in my suitcase. And more importantly, he holds my iPad and phone. “Thanks for bringing all of this! How’d you know I’d be here?”

“Luke called Delia to schedule a time to pick up your things. I wanted to see you and said I’d bring them by. Elle and Charlie will take the rest of your things to Atlanta.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Let’s not find out,” he says with another hug. “You holding up?”

“I am. I’m staying a few extra days to help organize a wedding.”

His brows knit together with concern. “Hopping on the Ferris Wheel again?”

“Not my wedding,” I explain. “It’s easier to organize a wedding than be in one. I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon, so I have time before returning to Atlanta. Besides, it will keep my mind off everything. And Luke has promised to help me hunt down where that teabag came from.”

He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “Sugarbug, that may not be possible.”

“Momma was trying to tell me something. I need to know what. I have to at least try.”

“Libby,” Luke calls, “come meet Jasmine.”

I take my father’s arm and drag my suitcase to the counter where the tall woman in floral attire leans against it. She has beautiful, smooth skin the color of dark caramel, and her eyes are a deep brown.

She smiles as we approach. “Hi. I’m Jasmine. Or Jazz.”

Luke shakes my father’s hand. “Good to see you, Mr. Peterson.”

“Call me Mike. Thanks for all you’ve done for Libby.”

“It’s nothing. Jazz, this is Mike and Libby Peterson. They have a teabag that must be close to twenty-five years old. And we wanted your opinion on it.”

I reach for the letter that goes with me everywhere now and pull out the teabag. “We’d like to find out where it came from. If that’s possible. Or maybe what kind of tea it is, if it might have some meaning.”

Jazz nods thoughtfully. “Teas have much to say to us, from reading tea leaves to what some call the four virtues: reverence, purity, tranquility, and harmony.”

“See, Dad! I told you Mom was trying to say something.”

Very carefully, I hand the teabag to Jazz.

I like her right away. She takes great care as she examines the teabag, tilting it one way and then another to observe and study it.

“It belonged to my mother.”

“She loved her tea,” Dad says. “Never coffee. Sorry, Luke. It was a ritual for her. Almost a religion in the preparation.”

“Yes,” Jazz agrees. “Some say tea is the reverence for the ordinary, the way light slants through the window there, the curve of an ankle, a glance between lovers. The stillness in those moments awakens us and opens us to the possibility of peace.”

“Jazz is a poet,” Luke adds.

She demurs. “My family runs an organic farm. Mostly herbs. Lemongrass, peppermint, sage, lavender… A few years ago, we started packaging teas. It was a natural progression.”

Luke gestures toward a display of jars tipped sideways, the lids magnetized to a metal stand. Each container, smaller than baby food jars, is labeled with breakfast tea, Jane Grey, lemongrass, peppermint, peach, and hibiscus.

I reach for the pale purple lid, twist it open, and breathe in the delicate aroma of lavender. I catch Luke watching me, taking note of my reaction. For the contest, of course.

“What’s your favorite tea, Luke?” I ask.

“I’m a coffee man.”

“Only way to go,” Dad agrees.

Jazz glances at him and says, “I thought you liked the rose hibiscus tea I made for you a few months ago.”

Luke appears chagrined. “You’re right. I did like it. But my go-to is coffee.”

I cheerfully take note. For the contest, of course. But I also wonder why Jazz was making Luke tea.

Jazz studies the teabag’s tag. “This isn’t a brand. Or at least one that I’m familiar with. Looks almost homemade.” She raises the teabag to her nose and breathes in the scent. Her nose crinkles. “Fish?”

Dad and I chuckle, and then I explain. “Dad kept it in his fishing tackle box.”

“That was a mistake,” he confesses. “But I didn’t want my girls to find it, and then I forgot where I hid it.”

“That’s why,” I say, “ I’m going to hold onto the letter until one of my sisters is ready to read it.”

“Good idea,” Dad agrees. “Watch out for Elle. She already hit me up for it.”

Jazz nods as if all of this is an everyday occurrence.

Then she bravely takes a deeper whiff, not pulling back or screwing up her face.

She’s calm, serene, and thoughtful, breathing in the scent for a third time.

“Possibly peppermint. But that’s all I can detect.

Tea leaves are empaths in a way, taking on scents and flavors stronger than themselves.

Of course, if we opened the bag, I could examine the tea leaves better. But it would ruin it.”

She hands it to me, and I tuck it safely into the envelope. Then Jazz takes hold of my hand. “Maybe your mother simply wanted you to take in each moment and allow peace to enter your heart. Especially on your wedding day.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice caught on emotions I can’t begin to describe. Disappointment settles in. I had hoped to learn more about Momma. The teabag meant something to her, but I may never find the answer.

“Thanks, Jazz,” Luke says, “for coming all this way.”

“I’d drive across the Mason-Dixon Line for one of these.” She waggles the to-go cup. "Folks come from miles around just for Luke's coffee. Thanks again."

Luke grins, and I know I have my work cut out for me.