Ava’s stomach churned. Did my tea do that? She wanted to argue but didn’t know where to start. Her gift had come with precious little instruction. Momma used to tell Ava and her sisters, “Trial and error will tell you what you need to know. Just be sure there’s more trial and less error, and never, ever hurt anyone.”
Ava rubbed her temples and wished for the hundredth time that she wasn’t so tired. “This is—geez.” She dropped her hands back to her sides. “Erma, I don’t know what happened to your tea, but I’ll figure it out and make you another batch.”
“No!” Erma’s frightened gaze locked on the canister. “I don’t need more tea.” As she spoke, she backed toward the door. “But I appreciate the offer. I really do.”
“No, wait!” Ava followed her. “Erma, let me fix this. I’ll figure out what went wrong and make sure it never, ever happens again.”
Erma paused at the door. “Never?”
“Never. Maybe I got the wrong amount of something by mistake or—or maybe the canister wasn’t prepared right, or…” Ava gave a helpless shrug. “It could have been a number of things.”
Erma eyed the tea with an uneasy expression. “Maybe it got too hot in your truck.”
Ava managed a wan smile. “It’s possible. Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out. And I’ll make you another, free of charge, of course.”
“Well… I would miss having my nightly cup of tea,” Erma admitted. “I never sleep well without it. Plus, it’s not like Uncle Jeb hurt me or anything. He just yelled.”
“And told you about the treasure,” Ava added, hoping that made things better.
Erma brightened. “That’s true. To be honest, I was more surprised than scared. I guess I’ll take a fresh batch of tea, but only after you figure out what went wrong.” Her expression softened. “I’m sorry if I ruined your morning. I was just weirded out by the whole thing. But you’ll fix it. I know you will.”
Ava could only hope that was true.
Erma glanced at the clock that hung over the kitchen door. “I’d better get back to my store. Thanks, Ava.” With an encouraging smile, she left.
Ava stared at the door, her head throbbing even more. She’d faced delay after delay with her tearoom opening, she’d lost her new friend and was deeply worried about Kristen’s issues with her grandmother, and now this—one of her teas had misfired, something that had never happened before.
But even worse, hovering over her like an ominous cloud only she could see, was a growing sense of panic that the secret she had locked away in a frayed shoebox under her bed would soon escape. Life could get no worse.
CHAPTER 3 Kristen
Kristen dropped her backpack onto the long green bench by the front door and tugged off her coat. She listened for the familiar tap-tap-tap of dog nails on the wood floor but was met with silence. The dogs must be in the backyard. Figures.
Grandma Ellen didn’t like dogs. From what Kristen could tell, her grandmother didn’t like much of anything she’d seen in this house. Which is stupid. This house is the best. I love it here. The thought of leaving it behind made Kristen’s stomach ache like she’d eaten a bad burrito. I don’t want to move. Ever.
A door opened somewhere in the house, and she could hear Grandma Ellen talking on the phone about deadlines and permits. From the number of phone calls she got, it was obvious she was pretty important to her office.
I wish she’d go back to Raleigh. They can have her. Kristen sunk onto the bench and slouched against the wall as she shoved her hands inside the front pocket of her hoodie. Her fingers curled around her kazoo, the metal growing warm under her fingers. She used to like coming home, especially on Fridays, like today, when the freedom of a weekend was within reach. I used to like a lot of things, but that was before Mom—
Her throat tightened. She couldn’t even think it. Kristen released the kazoo and swiped at her burning eyes. In the distance, her grandmother’s voice grew sharper and more annoying.
Kristen hated everything about her life right now. The way her teachers and friends talked to her as if afraid she might break, the pity on people’s faces, the way the smallest thing made her so angry she wanted to scream. But more than anything else, she hated that Grandma Ellen was here, in the house that used to feel like home, pretending everything was fine when they both knew it wasn’t.
Kristen took a deep breath, fighting the urge to burst into tears. She and Mom had been closer than most mothers and daughters, handling their world the best way they could. For years Kristen had watched her mother travel between what she called light and dark days. On light days, no one was more fun. No one. Mom was creative and bright, and she laughed at everything. She’d sometimes wake Kristen up in the middle of the night, talking a mile a minute, elated about a breakthrough she’d had with a painting. Chatting loudly, she’d make ice cream sundaes for them both while they talked about life and love and, well, everything—or rather, Mom would talk and Kristen would listen and laugh, because no one was as fascinating as Mom when she was feeling light.
But the dark days always followed the light. Mom, listless and silent, would go to bed and stay there, sometimes for days, curled up in a ball, staring out the window, unable to care for herself or Kristen.
Over the years, Kristen found ways to deal with the dark days. She and Mom were a team, so when Mom couldn’t do things, Kristen did. She did the laundry, fixed meals, and got herself to school. Even before she could drive, she’d do the shopping, riding her bike three blocks to the Piggly Wiggly and returning home with her backpack full of ravioli and ramen noodles. Kristen was proud of her independence, and she liked helping Mom too. They were a team, she and Mom.
Around the time Kristen turned fourteen, Mom finally found a good mix of meds that eased her dark days so they were at least bearable, but by then, their pattern was set. When Mom didn’t feel her best, Kristen stepped in. It wasn’t the way other families did things, but that was fine because, as Mom always said, everyone danced to the beat of their own drum.
Well, except Grandma Ellen. Kristen couldn’t imagine her probably-ironed-her-jeans grandmother dancing, not even a little.
Impatiently shoving a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Kristen looked down the hallway to the mural Mom had painted for her. Years ago, when the new Wonder Woman movie had come out, Mom had bought them opening-night tickets. Oh, how they’d loved that movie. It was wild to see a woman—a whole island of women!—who were total badasses. After the movie, they’d started reading all the Wonder Woman comic books, watched the older movies, and even sat through the corny but fun TV series. Kristen had wanted to be Wonder Woman so badly that she’d started staging pretend fights with the couch cushions, using a pool noodle as a sword. If Mom was having a good day and had the energy for it, sometimes she would join in.
One day, after an epic pool noodle/sword fight, Mom had had the idea of painting a mural of Wonder Woman kicking a brown-shirted bad guy in the face. To Kristen’s delight, Mom had replaced Wonder Woman’s face with Kristen’s and had called the mural Wonder Kristen Saves the World (Again).