I’m trying to think of something more substantial to say when a middle-aged white man barrels into the room. He’s clad in a black suit, a panicked expression on his face.
“Where’s Iain?” the man asks, his gaze swinging around the room. “Iain?” he calls, his voice louder.
“He was in the kitchen earlier,” I say, and the man’s attention snaps to me.
“Thank you,” he says, hurrying in that direction, wrenching open the door and disappearing inside.
Jacob and I look at each other, bemused.
“I wonder what that was about,” he says.
“No idea.” I lift my teacup, intending to refill it with the pot from the side table, but hesitate a moment. “Do you want more tea?”
“I…yes,” he says. “Please.”
I carry both of our cups over, filling them and then balancing them carefully as I bring them back.
“Cream and sugar’s over there, but I don’t know how you take it,” I say.
He peers at mine, then gestures for me to pass him my cup. “I’ll do it. I can do yours too. How much do you take?”
“Oh,” I say. “No, I drink mine black.”
His hand retracts. “You drink your tea black?”
“Uh, yes?” I take a sip of it, and his face contorts with amusement and horror in equal measure.
“That is appalling,” he says. “Drinking chaya black?”
“Okay, hold on a second. This isn’t real chai. It’s just English Breakfast tea. I wouldn’t drink chai without milk and sugar.”
“Hmm,” he says, a grin playing around his mouth.
It makes something leap within me, seeing that relaxed, cheeky expression on his face again.
“That’s a little more acceptable, then.” He gets up, adds a bit of milk and sugar to his tea, and returns, stirring it. He takes a long sip with a proper slurping sound, and I laugh.
“I don’t see how you’re the one to judge on what’s acceptable.”
His grin grows then, as if this was the response he’d been hoping for, as if he exaggerated that slurp just for me.
“When are you leaving for the garage?” I ask.
“Soon,” he says. “We’re in no rush now, since we’re not trying to leave today, so maybe after we finish our tea?”
“I’ll come with you,” I say, and he stills. “Is that okay?”
“Yes,” he says. “That would be nice, actually. Thank you.” His foot bounces under the table, and I can feel it, the vibrations traveling through the wood. “I was going to stop and pick up some takeaway after we visit the garage. Elsie said the restaurant here would be closed for lunch and dinner today, so it’d be helpful to have an extra pair of hands to bring everything back.”
“Elsie?”
“The owner? She and her husband run this place. They weren’t at the front desk last night, but they were down here this morning.” His foot’s still moving, but he stops when he catches me staring at it.
“I don’t know if I’ll be hungry after this,” I say.
“Me either, but…your dad didn’t want to come down this morning, and I figure he’ll be hungry later.” His foot bounces again. “I noticed an Indian place near the garage yesterday. I thought he might like that. It’s been a while since we’ve had some.”
“There’s an Indian restaurant? Here?” This village is tiny. I didn’t expect them to have many options.
