The Tea Shop Page 3

  “So, Abigail, when did you open this cute little shop?” Patricia asked.

  “We’ve only been open less than a year. This has been a perfect location though.”

  “It’s so quaint.” She lifted her eyes to Carson. “You brought Mrs. Winters here?”

  He nodded, easing back in his chair and crossing his leg over the other. “I did. I’m bringing her back for her birthday, which happens to be Abigail’s birthday too.”

  Abigail chewed slower, afraid that she just might choke on the sandwich.

  “You don’t say,” Patricia pressed her hands together as if she might applaud. “You and Ellie Winters share a birthday. What a special day. She’s taken with my Carson.”

  Abigail took the napkin from the table and wiped her mouth. “I thought maybe she was your grandmother.”

  Carson shook his head and that same smile that graced his mother’s lips formed on his. “She’s the grandmother of a dear friend. He passed years ago, and his grandmother and I remained close.”

  Abigail could almost hear Clare swooning in the kitchen. Okay, so he wasn’t the dark and sinister man they’d decided he was, but she supposed he still intended to tear down the church on Ford.

  Why had her premonition come when Mrs. Winters had touched her, but not when Carson had? And when she realized the woman was his mother, why had her knees gone weak and her brain turned to mush.

  Was it a fluke?

  The only way to know for sure was to touch him again.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, she stood, and so did he. “I’m feeling fine now. Let me get the rest of your tea service. Will you be having sandwiches and scones? Or would you like the dessert platter?”

  Carson exchanged a glance with his mother. “I’d like that one you brought for me and Mrs. Winters. With the few desserts. And I’ll tell you now, I’ll need some of that lemon cake to go for my father.”

  Patricia did applaud now. “Oh, he will love that, Carson.”

  When his eyes shifted back to Abigail, the thought of rising on her toes and kissing the handsome man in front of her crossed her mind. That would certainly tell her if he were the man she would marry. Of course, that might make him stalk out of the store because she was crazy. Instead, she eased a hand on his arm as if to pass.

  Nothing.

  No spark. No vision. Not even a hitch in her breath.

  It had to be a fluke. If this were the man she was destined to marry, she’d have felt something. As it was, he was an investor in her town, who had his sights on tearing down one of the most beautiful buildings around. Well, she still planned on putting a stop to that.

  Chapter 5

  There were no more dizzy spells or insights into the man who now dined with his mother.

  Abigail watched from the kitchen with Clare right behind her.

  “You didn’t feel anything?” Clare asked for the third time.

  “No. Nothing. I don’t think my premonition was correct. I might be slipping some since I’ve come here.” And she thanked God for that. It wasn’t a gift she truly wanted. “Maybe I was seeing something else when I touched Mrs. Winters’ hand.”

  “Maybe she’s the one who is going to marry him.”

  That caused Abigail to chuckle, and she moved away from the door. “Now that would be a story wouldn’t it?” She sat on the stool at the prep table as Clare worked on the pastries for the next morning. “He said Mrs. Winters was the grandmother of a friend who died. What kind of man keeps a relationship with a friend’s grandmother?”

  “Doesn’t seem like the tyrant we’ve made him out to be would do such a thing.”

  Abigail fidgeted with the hem on her apron. “No, but he still is going to tear down that church.”

  “I say you make a move on him, see him for a bit, then when he’s head over heels in love with you, tell him not to hurt the church.”

  “Your mind is in the clouds,” she joked, but honestly she’d thought of that herself. “When the church is safe, I break his heart?”

  “Why not? He’s just a man.”

  Just a man, she thought about it. Just a man who had taken a phone call in the middle of having tea with his mother. He’d just excused himself outside. What kind of man did that kind of thing?

  Abigail hopped down from the stool and made her way to the table where Patricia Stone spread clotted cream on her scone.

  “How is everything?” Abigail asked as Patricia looked up at her.

  “Oh, darling, this is the most lovely place I’ve ever seen. Before I leave, you remind me to make a reservation to bring my mother here, and then I want to reserve a few tables for my book club. They are going to eat this place up,” she said on air filled with delight. “He’s going to be a moment, and you’re not busy. Sit, will you?”

  “I don’t—I shouldn’t—okay, just for a moment.”

  Abigail sat down in the seat Carson had vacated.

  When the bell above the front door jingled, Abigail looked up and saw Carson walk in from outside. He looked at her and his mother sitting together at the table and quickly pulled up another chair.

  Abigail started to rise, but his hand quickly came to her arm to stop her. "There's no need to go anywhere. You're welcome to join us for a few more minutes," he said.

  Abigail looked down to where his hand touched her skin, and there was no spark. How had she seen the premonition she had. It was so vivid. She thought back to the moment when Mrs. Winters had touched her. She had clearly seen them, and they were getting married. Perhaps she was wrong. It had never happened before, but anything was possible. However, as his fingers lingered on her skin it forced her to look up into those eyes. Those dark brown eyes. Abigail felt her breath hitch, and she had to force herself to breathe in. There was no longer a reason to believe that this was the man she was going to marry. After all, if she were to peg the man she was supposed to marry, as the premonition had shown her, there should have been some kind of spark. But then again, wasn't she angry with him? It was almost as if she couldn't remember why she was angry, but then she remembered. He was going to tear down that church on Ford Street, and she wasn't going to have any part of that. In fact, it became much clearer now as she looked into the dark brown eyes of chocolate, that this was supposed to be something she used to her benefit. She was going to stop him.

  Abigail gave him a sweet smile. "I might join you for just a few more moments," she said softly. As she sat back in her seat, his hand released her arm as he grabbed a scone and slathered it with the clotted cream, just as his mother had. She noticed their hands, and how distinctly the same they were. Though his were much more rugged, there was no mistaking that they were related, even from their hands. Without looking as if she were trying too hard, Abigail looked at his mother and studied the structure of her face. Perhaps he looked like his father, she thought.

  "While the two of you finish up your tea, why don't I go box of some of that lemon cake," she offered, noticing that Clare was standing in the kitchen watching them.

  Carson looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “It seems you don't have any other customers right now, why doesn't she join us too?” he said.

  The horror in that very sentence struck her. Abigail was absolutely sure she did not want Clare to come talk to him. Wasn't she as mad as Abigail was about the church on Ford Street? Of course she was. But then again, it was Clare who had decided he wasn't the tyrant they’d thought he was.

  "We have a large group coming in tomorrow. A sewing guild," she said. "It will be the first Wednesday of the month, and that means they will be here to have early tea. She's busy making all their scones."

  Patricia had moved in closer to the table, and her hands had come together almost as if in prayer. "A sewing guild? That sounds absolutely delightful. Where do they meet to sew?"

  Abigail looked at her with a blank stare. "To tell you the truth, I never thought to ask. I guess I should do that. That would be good customer service."

  Carson chu
ckled, and that had her turning to look at him.

  "You have good customer service," he said admiringly. "Do you sew yourself?"

  She shook her head. "No. I haven't sewn since I was in Girl Scouts." Then she thought about that experience. It hadn't gone very well. Juliet Harper, the leader's daughter, had touched her in a game of Hey Rover, and it was then that she knew immediately that this girl had been the one stealing everybody's lunch money. When she told the teacher the next day, everyone assumed that Abigail was a snitch, and perhaps the one that was stealing it to begin with. Abigail was able to acknowledge a universal gift. Because after that day, she spent the rest of her recesses in the library, reading books. She found a lot more fun in that.

  Carson picked up his teacup, and held it towards his lips. "My mother loves to quilt." He smiled widely. "Perhaps you could find out who their leader is."

  Patricia put a hand over her son's. "He would do anything to get me out of his office."

  Whatever the inside joke was, it had Carson laughing. "It's time you retire," he argued. "She just doesn't seem to like the word."

  "Oh, I like the word just fine. I just think you need me in your office."

  Abigail looked at Carson. "What do you do for a living?"

  The smile curled up the side of his mouth, and he looked at his mother. "Would you like to tell her?"

  "I'm so proud of him, I like to brag," she said with her own matching smile. "Carson is a real estate developer. He buys buildings and invests in businesses. It's wonderful for the economy, but not everyone thinks that's a good thing."

  Abigail pushed her shoulders back. "Why is that a bad thing?"

  Carson took a bite of his scone. "Not everyone likes innovation. Many people want decrepit buildings to stand when they are hazardous, and hard to heat and fix." He waved his hand in the air as if to erase the conversation. "It's what I do, and she likes to babysit me."

  His eyes met Abigail's as he said it, and it was then she felt that spark.

  She pushed herself back from the table and stood. "I'll be back with that lemon cake," she said hurriedly as she went to the kitchen as quickly as possible.

  As expected, Clare was waiting just around the wall. "What did they say to you? You sat down with them. You never sit down with customers. You don't even sit down with the sewing guild."

  "Keep your voice down," she scolded. "I felt a spark," she whispered.

  Abigail moved around the prep table, and over to where the new loaves of lemon bread cooled on a rack. She took down a cardboard box with its cellophane top and laid a decorative paper doily in the bottom of the box. Carefully, she took the nicest loaf of lemon bread, which Clare had recently iced, and placed it in the box.

  When she turned back from the counter, Clare was standing right in front of her. "You're not gonna say anything more about the spark?"

  Abigail thought she hadn’t meant to say that much about the spark. "He has nice eyes. But that's all I'm going to say. It wasn't like the premonition. He's not who I think he is. He still the man who’s going to destroy this town by tearing down all the buildings."

  "Did he tell you that?"

  She thought for a moment. "No, he didn't tell me that. But his mother did say that he wants to renovate the area and invest in the businesses."

  "Perhaps he'd like to invest in ours and pay the gas bill," Clare joked.

  Abigail moved around her cousin toward the station where they kept tissue paper and ribbons. "I'd rather leave this alone," she said as she pulled a long, red ribbon from the spindle and cut it with a pair of scissors. "To tell you the truth, this is all very silly. I haven't had a premonition since I moved here. Well, not one of any significance. Not until I met Mrs. Winters that is. I'm guessing I've gotten my wires crossed," she said as she tied a ribbon around the box. "I do think he's a nice enough man. I don't think he's my future husband. And I'd really like to think that maybe Mrs. Winters won't get sick." That one didn't feel right in her heart. That premonition seemed to be as real as any she'd ever had. "I'm going to take this out to them for his father. His mother seems to think he will like the lemon cake just as much as Mrs. Winters did."

  Clare crossed her arms in front of her and cocked her head to the side. "If he weren't a tyrant who tore down old buildings, you'd be head over heels in love with him already, wouldn't you?"

  Abigail wasn't even going to consider an answer to that, let alone give it any thought. Because unfortunately, she was sure her cousin was correct.

  Chapter 6

  When Carson's mother had called that night, to tell him that his father loved the lemon cake, his mind went directly to Abigail.

  He’d spent some time on the internet when he couldn’t work because she was on his mind. The website for her tea store was as quaint as the store itself.

  Abigail Weston, he’d learned from the bio, the name rang in his ears like a song, he thought. She didn't seem to like him much. That much he caught. But the big question was why? He hadn't said anything horrible to her. He hadn't tried to tear down her building. In fact, he hadn't even heard of her little business until Mrs. Winters had wanted to go there. Why was it he hadn't heard of her little business, he wondered as he set up his coffee pot for the next morning’s brewing. Carson always knew when new restaurants or gift shops were opening in his town. Golden wasn't small. But he had his hand in everything.

  Carson set the coffee pot to brew tomorrow morning at 5 AM, that was usually when he returned home from the gym. Of course, now, he wondered if Abigail had coffee or tea in the mornings when she woke up. He let out a long breath. Why was he even bothering?

  Oh, she was cordial enough. And he knew that his mother and Mrs. Winters were well-liked by Abigail, that much he could tell. But there was something about the way she looked at him. It didn't give him a good vibe.

  Carson Stone wasn't somebody who didn't get what he wanted. No, he thought as he walked to the bedroom, since his living room was currently under construction, and turned on his TV. Carson Stone always got what he wanted, and right now he wanted to know more about Abigail Weston. The woman intrigued him. Her business sense intrigued him—even her choice in footwear.

  He smiled to himself as he turned on the news. Sometimes getting to know people became a game. It was how he got to be invested in their businesses, their city, and eventually buy their land. Well, when he thought of it that way, it did make him sound like a horrible man, and that wasn't who he was.

  Carson enjoyed seeing new things grow. Just like he enjoyed Mrs. Winters’ rose garden. Tearing down the old, and building it with new. It was an adventure. How come everybody didn't see it that way?

  Thinking about that, only made him realize that next week he'd have another one of those community meetings where everybody came to yell at him. Sure, like his mother said, perhaps if that many people were against you, you should rethink your actions. But honestly, the buildings were falling down. When the homeless moved into them, it would be dreadful. And not because they were homeless, but because somebody was going to get hurt. After all, how many old buildings had he and his brother gone through when they were younger? Maybe it was that one day in that decrepit old mansion that people thought was haunted, when he fell through the floor, that made him want to take down old buildings. He would never forget, he sat there with his leg dangling down from the second floor into the dining room because the floor had given out when he jumped from one beam to another. Had the other beam given out, he might have died. He and his brother kept that secret. Oh, wouldn't their mother have been angry? If she were a violent woman, he thought, she might've spanked them until they couldn’t have sat down. But as it was, Patricia Stone never lifted a finger against her children.

  His mother might not always agree with his career preference, but she supported him one hundred percent, and so did his father. It wasn't so much that they didn't agree with the career itself, but like many others, didn't agree with the methods.

  There was no way around
it he thought as he pressed the button on the remote control. If he didn't argue to take down the old buildings, they would still be up. No progress would be made in the city. No new businesses would come to the area. And again, another old building would be left there to rot, and somebody would get hurt.

  But in the middle of a community meeting, perhaps he lost his temper a few too many times. He tried not to, but it was hard. People were there to attack him, attack his character. Often they came out yelling first, so it wasn't his fault.

  Carson closed his eyes for a minute and listened to the infomercial that played on the TV. Then, as if something had zipped into his brain, he sat straight up.

  The day he had met Abigail in her store when he had taken Mrs. Winters for tea, he had thought, only briefly, that he had seen Abigail somewhere before. As he had been sitting there wallowing in what was to come with that community meeting, he realized that was where he had seen Abigail Weston. Yes, she had been there when they announced plans to tear down the church on Ford Street and build a new outdoor shopping center.

  Now that he thought about it, her cousin Clare had been with her. He hadn’t remembered Abigail speaking, but Clare had. They hadn't caused a scene or anything. Perhaps they didn't get a chance. There were others who had a greater opinion on his new project.

  Well, it did explain a lot. No wonder she looked at him with such distaste. She, like everyone else, thought he was the bad guy.

  What would it take to make her change her mind?

  One thing about Carson Stone, he was charming when he wanted to be. Hadn’t Mrs. Winters told him that at least a million times?

  Carson turned off the TV. Tomorrow, he thought, he would go to The Tea Shop while that sewing group was there. He would get more information, for his mother, he would tell them. But in all honesty, he wanted just a few more minutes to be around Abigail.