“The cedar waxwings are here, but the marsh wrens have not yet arrived.” Libby Revelle, Theodosia’s aunt, scanned the distant marsh as she stood on the side piazza, a black cashmere shawl wrapped around her thin but firmly squared shoulders.
Tiny but elegant in her carriage, the silver haired Libby Revelle was a bird-watcher of the first magnitude. With her binoculars and Peterson’s
Theodosia hadn’t intended on stopping at Aunt Libby’s and staying for lunch. She had driven out to the low- country with every intention of visiting the Charleston Tea Plantation. Owners Mack Fleming and Bill Hall were good friends, and she was anxious to inspect the tea from their final harvest of the season.
But driving out the Maybank Highway in her Jeep Cherokee, Theodosia had felt a sudden longing for the old plantation, a desire to return to a place where she had always felt not only welcome, but also comfortably at home. And so, when she neared the turnoff for Rutledge Road, she pointed her red Jeep down the bumpy, gravel road that led to Cane Ridge and Aunt Libby.
Jouncing along, Theodosia had felt a certain peacefulness steal over her. The live oaks, dogwoods, and enormous hedges of azaleas closed in on the road in a comforting way. Through the forest’s dense curtain were distant vine-covered humps, tell tale remnants of old rice dikes. And as she bumped across a rickety bridge, black water flowed silently beneath, conjuring images of youths in flat-bottomed bateaus.
Theodosia downshifted on her final approach, thankful for four-wheel drive. She’d purchased her Jeep just a year ago, against Drayton’s advice, and was totally in love with it.
Drayton, ever mindful of image, had argued that the Jeep was “not particularly ladylike.”
Theodosia had countered by pointing out that the Jeep was practical. “Perfect,” she’d told him, “for transporting boxes and gift baskets. And if I want to go into the woods and pick wild dandelion or wild raspberries for flavoring teas, the Jeep’s ideal. I can jounce down trails and even creek beds and not worry about getting stuck.”
Drayton had dramatically put a hand to his forehead and sighed. “You had to buy red?”
Haley, on the other hand, had jumped in the passenger side and pleaded that they go “four-wheeling.”
“Help me put out my buffet, will you?” asked Libby. “We’ve eaten our soup and sandwiches, and now it’s our winged friends’ turn.”
“You stay here and enjoy the sun while I take the seed down,” said Theodosia, glad to be of help.
Aunt Libby plied her winged visitors with a mixture of thistle, cracked corn, and black oil seed. Over the coming winter, Libby would go through at least eight hundred pounds of seeds.
Theodosia carried two pails overflowing with Libby’s seed mixture to a fallen log on the edge of the marsh. A fifteen-foot length of gnarled oak, the tree trunk was peppered with hollow bowls and clefts, making perfect natural basins for birdseed.
Back on the piazza, Libby’s heart expanded with pride as she watched this beautiful, accomplished woman, her niece. She loved Theodosia as a mother would a child. When Theodosia’s mother died when Theo was only eight, she was only too happy to fill in wherever she could. She’d enjoyed attending Theodosia’s various music recitals and class plays, sewing labels on Theodosia’s clothes when she went off to camp, and teaching her how to whistle with two fingers in her mouth.
Then, when Theodosia’s father passed away when she was twenty, she’d become her only real family. Even though Theodosia was living in a dorm at school, she’d gladly opened her house to her on holidays, hosted parties for Theodosia’s friends, and gave her advice when she graduated and began job hunting.
And when Theodosia had decided to drop out of advertising and test her entrepreneurial spirit by buying the little tea shop, Libby had backed her one hundred percent.
“I was on my way to see Mack and Bill,” Theodosia said as she came up the short flight of steps. The pails clanked down on the wooden porch.
“So you said,” answered Libby. She sat in a wicker chair, gazing out at a horizon of blue pond, waving golden grasses, and hazy sun.
Theodosia stared out at the old log she’d just replenished with seed, watched a striped chipmunk scamper out from a clump of dried weeds, snatch up a handful of fallen seeds, then sit back on its haunches to dine.
“We had some trouble in town last night,” said Theodosia.
“I heard,” said Aunt Libby.
Theodosia spun about. “What?” Libby, the sly fox, had sat through lunch with her, watched her fidget, and never said a word. Theodosia smiled wryly. Yes, that was Libby Revelle’s style, the Aunt Libby she knew and loved. Don’t push, let people talk in their own good time.
“What did you hear?” asked Theodosia. “And from who?”
“Oh, Bill Wexler came by, and we had ourselves a nice chat.”
Bill Wexler had delivered mail in the low-country for almost twenty-five years. He also seemed to have a direct pipeline to everything that went on in Charleston, the low-country, and as far out as West Ashley.
“If people out here know, it’s going to be all over town by the time I get back this afternoon,” said Theodosia.
Libby nodded. “Probably.”
Theodosia squinted into the sun, looking perplexed.
“Nothing you can do, dear,” said Libby. “The only part you played in last night’s little drama was a walk-on role. If folks are silly enough to think you’re involved, that’s their problem.”
“You’re right,” agreed Theodosia. She eased herself down into the chair next to Libby, already deciding to stay the afternoon.
“But then, you’re not worried about yourself, are you?” asked Libby.
“Not really,” said Theodosia.
Libby reached a hand out and gently stroked Theodosia’s hair. “You’re my cat, always have been. Land on your feet, nine lives to spare.”
“Oh, Libby.” Theodosia caught her aunt’s hand in hers and squeezed it gratefully. As she did, she was suddenly aware of Libby’s thin, parchmentlike skin, the frailness of her tiny bones. And Aunt Libby’s mortality.
Chapter 8
Teapots chirped and whistled and teacups clinked against saucers as Drayton bustled about the shop. Four tables were occupied, customers eager for morning tea and treats. Afterward, they would be picked up by one of the bright yellow jitneys that would whisk them away on their morning tour through Charleston’s historic district, the open air market, or the King Street antiques district.
“Where’s Haley?” Theodosia swooped through the doorway just as Drayton measured a final tablespoon of Irish breakfast tea into a Victorian teapot.
“Hasn’t shown up yet,” Drayton said as he arranged teapots, pitchers of milk, bowls of sugar cubes, and small plates of lemon slices on a silver tray, then deftly hoisted it to his shoulder.
“That’s not like her,” said Theodosia, pitching in. She was instantly concerned about Haley’s absence since she was ordinarily quite prompt, usually showing up at the Indigo Tea Shop by 7:00 A.M. That’s when Haley would heat up the oven and pour out batter she’d mixed up and refrigerated the day before. It was Haley’s shortcut to fresh-baked scones, croissants, and benne wafers without having to get up at four in the morning.
While Drayton poured tea, Theodosia mustered up a pan of scones from the freezer and warmed them quickly in the oven.
“It won’t matter that they’ve been frozen,” Drayton murmured under his breath. “Scones are so amazingly heavy anyway, I don’t think anyone will know the difference.”
And Drayton was right. Served piping hot to their guests along with plenty of Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, the scones were actually ooed and ahed over.
“Have you noticed anything odd?” asked Theodosia. She stood behind the counter surveying the collection of customers who lingered at the tables.
