Chapter 1
@WisteriaWeekly:Summer beans are in, y’all. Stop by Bea’s for your side dish starters and gossip updates. #ShopLocal #SnapBeansAndSnaps
@OldManRutherforton:If your potatoes don’t fight back when you mash ’em, they ain’t fresh. Get to Bea’s. #RutherfortonReviews
@WisteriaGeneralStore:Picked up my beans and potatoes. Forgot milk. Again. See y’all tomorrow. #SecondTripClub
@PastorNateNHC:Saw Bea singing hymns to her beans again. Not saying it’s why they taste better, but I’m not saying it’s not. #BlessTheBeans #SmallTownJoy
@RosemaryatThyme:Don’t forget to pop by Tea Thyme for the benefit! Daphne’s promised free samples of a brand-new scone creation.
Comments:
@JackAustenPhotography:Don’t hold your breath @RosemaryatThyme. I’ve been trying to convince her of some creative baking for months and she’s been stubborn.
@RosemaryatThyme:Don’t worry. I’ve used the children as emotional leverage. New tastes bring new people.
@JackAustenPhotography:I think brothers should bring emotional leverage too.
@RosemaryatThyme:They usually bring the wrong kind of leverage.
Ladies did not drool over cars.
A freshly baked chocolate croissant with vanilla cream? Yes. A semolina and rosemary loaf with fresh creamery butter? Most certainly. But an electric-blue Volkswagen convertible Beetle Cabriolet with—Daphne Austen gasped—a British flag front plate?
How could she help the unbridled fascination?
Especially since her dearly departed grandmother used to own something so quintessentially British. In fact, Daphne could almost hear her granny’s voice nudging her to indulge in the visual appreciation for just a smidge longer.
Sure, Daphne was only one-quarter English, but it was a very loud fraction. Practicallyopera-singingloud.
She sighed and glanced back through the doorway of her tea shop, breathing in the comforting aroma of freshly steeped Earl Grey.
Today was no day for dillydallying—also mentally stated in her granny’s voice. Daphne had a job to do. Getting carried away with some automotive miracle on Main Street didn’t fit into the schedule.
She forced her body back inside the shop, drinking in the pastel and floral loveliness all around. She’d spent the last two hours making certain every cup, saucer, serviette, and centerpiece in her Austen-inspired tea shop displayed a sense of elegance her upcoming guests deserved and adored. Hues of lavender and pink waved over café-style tables displaying girlish refinement. Dark wooden beams framed the rosebud-print wallpaper, and the shelves—lined with her glorious collection of vintage teapots—offered exactly the right amount of old-fashioned whimsy.
Tea Thyme hosted one of its largest events of the year—the late-summer benefit for the Wisteria Children’s Home. It had been Daphne’s idea and, for three years, had grown into one of the town’s most celebrated opportunities.
And this was the first year she’d hosted it without Granny.
The idea nestled deep in Daphne’s chest, tightening with the familiar sting of grief. But not only grief. A little bit of pride and... gratitude. That she’d made it almost an entire year on her own with this little shop.
Granny’s pride and joy.
She sighed.
Speaking of pride and joy?
Daphne’s gaze flew back to the Cabriolet.
Whose car could that be? Nobody in the whole of Wisteria loved England like she did! Was it some sort of practical joke set up by her friends—she narrowed her eyes—or her brother?
Main Street offered no answers. A few people strolled along the sidewalks lined with a quirky collection of rectangular buildings, but nothing seemed out of place.
Except the car. It beckoned to her like antiques in Bryson’s Treasures down the street.
Her breaths pulsed in conflict with her plans. In half an hour fifty people (or more) would descend upon Tea Thyme and spiral business from the red to the black for this month. A necessary boost for her fledgling little anomaly-of-a-shop among the small businesses in Wisteria, North Carolina.
