In the Land of Tea and Ravens (16 page)

~24~

Even the color of tea is healing, each color representing something different. Black teas, green teas, yellow teas … all of them represent something strong and powerful. Tea gives back to the drinker. It revitalizes him. It makes him new.

~The Tea Girl~

In retrospect, Grayson should have returned home. It would have saved all of them the pain and fear … it would have saved Lyric. But love, especially new love, is often blinding. Even when undeclared, love holds something special. It’s often when love isn’t spoken that it’s felt the most. Words hold power, but actions hold emotions that can’t be verbalized.

For the rest of the day, Grayson remained with Lyric. They strolled through the property, through the empty fields, the gardens, and the forest. Their gazes skirted the wilted corn field and the old oak tree where they’d come close to making love. Mostly, they talked.

“She was technically crazy, you know,” Lyric said. They were in the old hay field just beyond the Kramer property, the one Grayson’s great uncle had shot himself in. “My Aunt Violet,” Lyric clarified. “Our tie to the tea cup doesn’t keep the women in my family from living normal lives and having normal sicknesses. We just never truly die.
From life to death to raven.”
She glanced at the sky, at the circling birds. “Violet had mental problems. I don’t know a lot about her issues, but I do know that she wasn’t complete somehow.”

Grayson walked next to her, his hand falling to his side, his fingers reaching for hers. Their palms touched, their fingers locking. There’s a lot that can be said about holding hands. Such a simple gesture, and yet it yells things. This person is mine, it says. It anchors two people together and keeps them rooted. Hands tell complicated stories, and by holding hands, the stories are combined.
Lifeline to lifeline.

“From what I hear, my uncle wasn’t always quite right either,” Grayson said. He glanced at her. Her hair was still a mess, a nest of tangles and frizz. “He had an obsessive tendency, a control issue.”

Tethered by their hands, they walked.
From field to garden to woods.
They talked about childhood and memories, about life and death. They talked about love and laughter and pain, about colors, music, and books. Lyric sang for him, and Grayson took a pocket knife he kept tucked inside of his jeans and whittled at a limb, transforming it into the beginning of a raven.
Songs and sky and conversation.
It was the most Grayson had ever talked and the most he’d ever revealed. They talked about nightmares, fears, and insecurities. Grayson had suffered, not only because of his brother’s death, but in prison. Prisons held secrets that could destroy men.

Lyric never blanched or walked away. She simply listened, sharing his silence and pain. They walked and talked until their voices were hoarse, the sun throwing golden glares across the pastures.

It was the home that made them stop. The decaying Miller house was both disconcerting and tempting. It was forbidding and welcoming. It stared at the land, its lopsided doors almost like crooked fingers beckoning to too curious children.

Lyric climbed the steps of the porch, her hand falling away from Grayson’s. He followed, his gaze skirting the dim interior, the ghost-like furniture, broken glass, and climbing ivy.

Lyric noted his gaze and smiled. “There’s this lore about ivy, about its abundance, its strength, and its perseverance. Brides often wore it to bring luck to a marriage. It encourages fidelity.” She fingered one of the vines climbing the wall. “It’s tough, ivy. It has a resilience that makes it hard to get rid of.” She glanced at Grayson. “It has a fighting spirit, a plant that both refuses to die and one that bites back. Poison ivy, for example.”

Talk of the plant made Grayson forget about the eeriness of the house, the empty, heavy feeling that promised to choke him. Something cracked beneath his boot, and he leaned down, his fingers brushing the glass from an old photograph before lifting it. It was a vintage photo. A woman sat at a piano, her face turned up and her eyes crinkling with laughter. It was the only picture he’d seen in the house where the woman wasn’t frowning, where she was caught in an unguarded moment, and he never would have noticed it if he hadn’t stepped on it.

Lyric bent next to him. “Old Ma’am,” she said. “She was a beautiful woman and kind. She had a gentle spirit despite everything.”

“She frowned a lot,” Grayson murmured.

Reaching out, Lyric slid a finger down the side of her grandmother’s face. “Because smiling seemed too hard, I think. It’s easier to frown. She carried a world of burdens on her shoulders. She kept this family alive, even when most of us cared less if it failed.”

Grayson lifted the photo, his gaze sliding from Gretchen Miller’s face to Lyric’s. “You look like her.”

She smiled. “I take back what I said earlier. I think that’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”

Grayson set the photo back on the floor before standing, his hand lowering to assist her. Lyric accepted his help and rose, her gaze darting to the kitchen. The sun was beginning to set beyond the house, throwing shadows everywhere.

“You should go home, Grayson,” Lyric murmured.

He glanced at her, his fingers tightening on hers. Tugging on her hand, he pulled her through the house, to the kitchen, and out into the yard beyond the back of the house. The camper sat waiting on them.

“Go,” he said. “Take a shower, change, make tea, or whatever else you think you need to do, but I’m not leaving. Not today.” She glanced up at him, and he smiled. “I have promises to keep,” Grayson said.

~25~

Tea is about variety, about tasting the different blends and the different grades. Tea is about the way each one feels and tastes on the tongue. There’s
a diversity
to tea that never lets it become boring. There’s always something different you can do with it. There’s always something beautiful you can try.

~The Tea Girl~

The night fell like a comfortable blanket over the world, leaving a trail of stars, wispy black clouds, and a moon hidden by trees. Ravens cawed and bugs trilled, but mostly it was silent, a deep silence that left two freshly showered people standing in the middle of a cramped camper on the edge of a forest staring at each other.

It should have been an awkward moment, but it wasn’t.

Shirtless and barefoot, Grayson peered down at Lyric, at her damp, curling hair and T-shirt clad body. No skirt.
Nothing but skin and the smell of freshly brewed tea.

They’d shared a cup of black tea before they’d each showered, and the fragrance drifted through the space, comfortable somehow.

Grayson’s fingers trailed down the side of Lyric’s face. “You do own legs,” he murmured, his gaze sliding down.

Lyric’s brows lifted. “Two of them last I counted.”

His lips twitched, his gaze meeting hers.

Her face was solemn, her hazel eyes as brown as the day he’d met her, her gaze full of trust. It took his breath away.

“Smile,” she whispered.

His hands cradled her face. “Run,” he replied, his mouth meeting hers.

There were tongues and lips, mingled breaths and whimpering gasps.

Grayson’s arms fell to Lyric’s waist, his hands cupping her bottom, lifting her. Her hands found his neck, her fingers inching into his hair.
Sensation and silence.

There was barely any light at the back of the camper when he lowered her on to the bed’s old mattress. There were only dim streaks of gold reaching from the front of the RV, its fingers touching parts of their skin.

Grayson’s hand found Lyric’s waist, his fingers lifting the T-shirt she wore, the fabric inching up her stomach.

“Because I feel like it needs to be said,” Grayson murmured, his lips brushing Lyric’s rib cage, “making love is a lot like making tea.”

Lyric laughed, the sound cut short by a gasp as her shirt was tugged over her head, leaving her clad in nothing but darkness and dim light.

“Like tea?” she breathed, her voice shaking.

Grayson pulled her palm to his chest and left it there, his hand finding her skin once more, his fingers trailing from her thighs to her rib cage to her breasts, cupping them.

“It’s about heating the body,” he whispered, his mouth joining his hands, leaving wet trails across her flesh. She
arched
into his touch, into the warm feel of his lips against her stomach, her ribs, and her breasts.

Her hand had slid from his chest to his back while he kissed her, her palm clutching him.

“From heating to measuring to drinking,” he mumbled against her neck. His chest met hers, skin to skin, the feeling overwhelming, warm, and unguarded.

Her fingers slid to his waist, to his coarse jeans and the button that held them closed. His fingers met hers, his calm touch easing her shaking one.

Patience was a virtue, and Grayson had it in spades.

“Easy,” he whispered, his gaze finding hers. Together, they
rid
him of his clothes.

Skin against skin.
There was nothing between them now.
Nothing but quick pain, heat, and furrowed brows.

“Like tea,” he whispered against her ear.
“Slow and easy.
The art is in the doing, not how well it’s done the first time.”

She swallowed past the pain, the feel of his body entering and invading hers. It was different, but it was also a relief—not because she was one of those women that needed a man to feel complete, but because she was sharing the pain with someone who cared that it hurt, someone who was willing to acknowledge the awkwardness and share in it.

Pulling her arms above her head, Grayson entwined his fingers with hers, his gaze finding her face.

“Run,” he told her.

There was no more gentleness. There was only passion and fire, heated skin and mingled breaths. Lyric’s fingers fisted with his, her heart racing, the pain in her body replaced by something more pleasant, a slow burning flame that lit her from the bottom of her toes to their joined hands.

She was running, straining, and pushing.
When it finally stopped, when the power of it slammed into her, she felt … new.

Grayson stilled, his gasps joining hers. Releasing her hands, his head fell to her neck, his heated palm coming to rest on her chest just below her breastbone. Her heart pounded against his hand.

People often take beating hearts for granted, the sound and feel of it. Grayson had taken so much for granted as a boy. He wasn’t much older now, but life had handed him years he hadn’t earned yet. He didn’t take hearts for granted. He liked the pounding feel of it.

Lyric’s hand found his scar, her fingers tracing it to his chest before her palm splayed against his skin. Two hearts, two pounding beats.

Their gazes met.

“Run,” he told her.

Lyric grinned. “Smile, Grayson.”

And he did.

~26~

Once upon a time, in a land much like our own, there lived a young woman who was afraid of life, a young woman who was afraid of getting close to people. This woman had a right to be afraid. She had a right to keep her distance. It was her duty to protect her family, to keep them safe and unharmed. Yet duty, like anything else in life, is often misunderstood. She had as much a duty to herself as she did to those she loved.

~The Tea Girl~

Lyric had a habit of disappearing in the mornings, as if the sun called to her, as if the dawn couldn’t rise if she wasn’t there to meet it. It was the vintage world she loved so much, that black and white moment right before the sun captured the world.

For two days, they were left alone. For two days, Grayson spent his days and his nights with Lyric. There was nothing else, only them and the decaying house, the cawing ravens, quick sandwiches, and cup after cup of tea. There was conversation and heated skin, laughter and love.

They were two broken people—two jagged sides of an incomplete piece—who had somehow learned to accept what made them broken. There were no regrets, no shame, and no embarrassment.

For a moment, they’d both forgotten who Lyric was. They’d forgotten how fragile her life was. They’d forgotten about the cup.

It was on the third morning after Lyric had left the camper that a knock startled Grayson awake. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he pulled on a pair of blue jeans, his bare feet stumbling to the door.

“What the—”

“You need to come home,” Daniel Stevens insisted, his face crowding the door. His eyes were hard when they met Grayson’s, the disapproval in them stark. “There’s way too much work to be done for you to be wallowing here with that woman.”

Grayson stared. “That woman?” he asked. He shook his head, his hand pushing against the door.

Daniel’s fist stopped him, his palm pressing against the frame. “I don’t really give a shit what’s going on here, man, but I do care about that farm you hired me to help take care of.”

Grayson paused, his duty to his grandparents a guilt he couldn’t ignore. He might be angry with Mildred, but they’d taken him in when he needed it. “I’ll be there to work tomorrow,” he said finally, “but I’m not coming home. Not yet.”

Daniel glared. “You’re going to let her do this to you? You’re going to let her tear you away from your family?” He shook his head. “You do realize you’re trespassing. You’re on probation. If Richard Newton decides to take the two of you in, you face a lot more legal trouble than that woman.”

His jaw tensing, Grayson slammed the door against Daniel’s fist before opening it again. The man’s yelp echoed inside of the camper, his free hand cradling the injured one. “Shit!”

Grayson stared. “That woman’s name is Lyric. Do me a favor and never threaten a man who’s learned enough in prison to scare you into an early grave.” There was
a darkness
to his gaze that made Daniel stumble backward, his eyes narrowing.

“It’s started, hasn’t it?” Daniel asked.
“The insanity?”

Grayson laughed. “That’s a load of bullshit.” He pointed at the woods. “Go back. I’ll be there to work, but I’m not coming home.”

Daniel retreated, his gaze going from the camper to the decaying house and back again. There was something savage about the way he moved, and Grayson watched as he disappeared into the tree line.

Daniel’s visit was the beginning of the end.

Stories shouldn’t work that way. There should be a beginning followed by a period of divine happiness and no drama, but Juliet Johnson had been right. It’s easy for people to condemn other people. The forgiving was harder. The forgiving often never happened.