Page 27 of The Wedding Run
“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.
