Page 52 of The Magical Tea Shop

“She looked busy.”

Lydia raised a brow. Her gaze swept over the cuttings scattered in front of her.

Point taken. “I’ll just let myself out.”

*

Brantley Mitchell hoveredoutside Ivy’s shop door for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Ivy found his ballet of indecision baffling. Brantley would start to enter her shop, then step away, then again turn as if to enter before spinning away in the opposite direction. This go-round, he loped across the street and sat on the bench by the statue of Eddie, hands clasped on knees. Suddenly electrified, he jumped up, crossed back to the tea shop with purpose, only to again hover outside her door, vibrating like a dragonfly. It was hypnotic. She wasn’t a scary person. She had cultivated a warm, convivial demeanor. She loved welcoming customers. Why didn’t he just come in?

When Ivy could no longer stand it, she grabbed the glass cleaner and a rag. She waited until he was nearly to the door and jerked it open. “Oh, Brantley.” She feigned surprise and graced him with a bright smile. “Come in.” She preceded him and hoped he would follow. When he trotted after her, she motioned him to a table. “What brings you in today?”

“Priscilla said I should.”

That stopped Ivy for a moment. Hard to fathom Pricilla Whitaker sending business her way. Ivy gave herself a mental head shake. “Oh, well, can I get you something?”

“Yes, please.” He nodded and sat, hands clasped on the table like a good boy. Ivy almost laughed. He was her last customer of the day. But a customer, even a socially awkward one, was still a customer.

When she waited, he said, “Can I have a cup of tea and one of those?” He pointed to the scones under the glass dome.

“Of course.” Ivy fixed him a soothing blend of chamomile and peppermint tea along with a warmed raspberry scone on a sturdy stoneware plate, and brought it out as his left foot bounced under the table.

Brantley was always so solemn. People considered him offish, but Ivy suspected he was just shy. A local silversmith, specializing in eighteenth century reproductions, he had a studio workshop two blocks off the square. She’d seen him play on the Rebels baseball team—well, mostly sit on the bench. They never put him up to bat that she could recall, although she remembered him playing shortstop. Brantley was strong, his art required it of him, but a bit gangly.

He took a sip of tea and a bite of scone. He chewed and swallowed, hard. “Will you go out with me?”

The question caught Ivy off guard. “Oh, I…”

“Are you into history? We could tour a mansion? Here, I mean, not in Newport. I wouldn’t expect you to go to Newport with me.”

“My family owns one of the mansions.”

“Sorry, never mind, you’ve probably seen them already.”

“No, actually. I haven’t toured any. They’ve been under renovation as long as I can remember and only recently opened for tours. My aunt’s part of the Hazard Historical Society, and she’s been after me to see the mansion she manages. Are you familiar with Oleander House?”

“I restored a set of goblets for the historical society and made some re-creation candlesticks for the mantel.”

“Did you? That’s fabulous. Oleander House is completely refurbished. How wonderful that you were part of that. I’ve only seen a couple rooms, but they have a new docent. Sorry, I’m babbling.”

“No,” he said, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’d love to take you to tour your family’s ancestral home. Oh, that sounded odd. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It sounds lovely. Thank you.”

“How about Thursday? Do they do tours late enough?”

“I’ll check. I’m sure it can be arranged. Thank you for thinking of me.”

Aunt Lydia would be ecstatic, although Ivy wasn’t sure if Malory would. As much as Ivy admired her, Malory remained a formidable enigma, even after their milkshake excursion. But she probably knew Brantley if he’d done silverwork for Oleander House.

What Ivy refused to do was ask Holly’s permission to go on a date. What possible danger could an afternoon house tour represent? She had successfully fended off unwanted advances by the Rebels first, second, and third basemen. Surely she had nothing to worry about with Brantley Mitchell, Rebels’s shortstop.

After Brantley finished up his snack and she closed the door behind him, she called her aunt about touring the mansion Thursday.

“Let me schedule a private tour for you.”

“I don’t like to be a bother. I’d rather join an existing tour if there’s an opening.”

“I’ll check online. Yes, we have a tour with two spots left Thursday at four. If it’s not late enough…”

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