“Just take me to the cruiser,” I said. “It’s down near the river.”
~~~
I did not drive home. Instead, I stopped off at the store and bought a box of tissues, extra soft with Aloe, vitamin E and lotion. Then I made my way slowly through the tourist-crowded roads to the library.
The afternoon had been forecasted to be sunny, and for once, the weather guessers got it right. Blue sky arced from the edge of the ocean’s horizon to the ragged tops of the trees and hills to the east. The air smelled of salt and that honey-sweet pine scent lifting from the warmed forest floor.
Birds sang. Ocean rolled, wind blew, people went about their happy lives.
I couldn’t wait to get away from it all.
I stepped into the library, and Harold was right there, the only spirit in the room.
“I’ve set out the tea,” he said kindly.
I shut the door behind me, walked forward, and kept walking until I reached him. I wrapped my arms around him, pressed my face against his tenuously solid form, and cried.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, how long ghostly hands gently patted my back, ghostly voice gently crooned and hushed and hummed. But finally, I drew myself away, standing fully on my own and wiped my sleeves over my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ll have none of that. Apologies.” He tutted, then put his arm behind my back, and guided me up and up to the little tea room.
I went quietly, still trying to get my breathing under control as I sniffed. New tears were falling, but I couldn’t even feel them anymore.
“There now,” he said. “Comfortable?”
I nodded, then burrowed into the comfy couch, pulling the quilt my grandmother had made up over me, adjusting pillows so I could turn my face into the back of the couch.
I wanted the world to go away, just for a minute. Just for an hour.
Light footsteps climbed the stairs. The soft clink of china chimed. Then there was athunkand the shuffle of a tea tray being settled on the oversized ottoman.
“Myra, dearest. I’ve brought you tea,” Harold said.
“I don’t want tea.” My words were muffled and stuttered between my sniffing and choppy breathing.
“Now, now. You’ll feel better.”
He was probably right. I needed to blow my nose anyway. So I sat up, drawing the quilt with me.
“Tissue?” Harold offered the extra large, extra soft box I’d brought with me. He was putting a lot of energy into being solid, but I knew he, of all the tome spirits, was the most experienced at it. The library supplied the magic, he supplied the intent.
He wiggled the tissue box making the plume of paper wave like a pink feather in a fancy hat.
I plucked out three tissues, blew, plucked out some more, wiped my face, more tissues, wiped my eyes, and finally settled back.
“Thanks.” I pulled a few more tissues, and settled the box in my lap. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” I mopped at the new tears tracking over my cheeks.
“I do.” He handed me the tea. My favorite cup, a delicate soft green with honeysuckle blooms painted across it. I took a sip. Oolong. My favorite.
Harold lifted his own cup—he preferred a strong English Breakfast—and blew across the top.
We sat there, each enjoying tea and silence. It was how we always started these visits, allowing the quiet and tea to soothe and settle. I needed it more than ever today.
“Shall I tell you now?” he asked.
“Tell me what?”
