Page 82 of The Wedding Run
“You’re saying Derek lied to me?”
“Look at it this way—now you can get a puppy.”
I move toward a vendor selling handmade Taylor Swift bracelets. “My job demands a lot of time away from home. So I’ll probably have to wait longer for a dog.”
“Who’s your boss?” Luke asks as he moves me past the tweens examining the beaded bracelets.
“Luke,” I argue, “not all of us can afford to close our doors for a weekend.”
“Remember,” he says, “you decide your hours and how many events you schedule.”
“Or my rent does.” But that’s only partially true. “I’ve always felt desperate to secure the next gig. But you’re right. I’m in charge of my choices.”
“Exactly!” He focuses on another vendor. “Look over here.”
We wander from vendor to vendor, admiring ‘art’ that rivals the bedpan planters.
“This seems impossible,” I finally say, looking at the long row of vendors. “How will we ever find one that might have sold a teabag twenty-something years ago?”
“Try to think of it more as an expedition,” Luke suggests. “Maybe you’ll jar loose some faded memory. But look here.”
He leads me toward a shady tent with a banner:Turn Back Thyme. Dried herbs are bundled and tied with twine. The potent scents mingle in harmony. Sage, mint, and oregano bunches hang from metal poles. Beeswax candles and soaps of all shapes and sizes line the shelves. Jars of loose-leaf teas with fruit tinctures catch my eye.
The vendor, a young woman, lights a white sage bundle and places it in a pottery bowl, and a ribbon of smoke curls upward. When she sees us, she asks, “Can I help you?”
“Did you package these teas yourself?” I ask.
“My granny has been doing this for a long time. I’m Sara.”
“Hey, Sara. I’m Libby, and this is Luke.”
Sara smiles broadly. She has bright yellow hair tied in old-fashioned pigtails and wears faded overalls. “Granny grows her own herbs and dries them, but I make the candles, soaps, and run the business.”
“Do you always come to the Dogwood Festival?” Luke asks.
“Every year since before I was born. We go to other festivals too. Here’s our card. You can order online.” She hands me a card.
I dig into my purse for the teabag. “Do you think your grandmother could have packaged this one?” I hold it out. “Twenty plus years ago?”
Sara leans over the display case, studying the teabag and its label.
“Maybe, but… I don’t think so. Granny always wrote the labels by hand. What she called her personal touch.”
“Right. Well, thank you. I appreciate the information.”
“You know,” Sara adds, “Granny used to sell empty teabags and labels for customers to package their own homegrown herbs. We haven’t done that in years, but…”
“Maybe your mother packaged this one,” Luke suggests.
“Momma did grow peppermint,” I say. “But what did she mean by leaving me this?”
“Maybe it’s the type of tea that holds the meaning. Can I?” Sara asks.
I hand her the teabag, and she sniffs.
“Fish,” I say apologetically. “My father kept it in his tackle box.”
“Sounds like something my Gramps would do.” She sniffs again. “Peppermint… chamomile… and echinacea…”
