Jane of Austin Read online

  Phoebe considered this information.

  I knew why she wanted it. Even if she wanted to turn the row house’s interior to something minimalist and Scandinavian, the bar was something special. A solid wood base, with scrolling and flowers carved into the richly finished wood, and a thick marble top.

  “Are you sure?” Phoebe asked, her head tilted with considered condescension.

  “Our accountant has a copy of the receipt,” Celia replied sweetly.

  Sweetly, but with a hint of steel. My sister was nobody’s dummy.

  “It will be very heavy to take with you,” Phoebe pointed out.

  “I’ve been working out,” I deadpanned. “And my baby sister, Margot, is a ballerina. Calves of steel, that one.”

  Celia snorted, but being refined and ladylike, she covered it with the gentlest of coughs.

  Phoebe sighed. “It’s just as well. You’ll be out on the twenty-ninth as we discussed, yes? I have workmen coming to replace the windows.”

  “The windows?” I repeated, dumbly.

  “Your energy bills must be sky high with these things,” she said, reaching out and tapping the paned glass.

  “We boil a lot of water here,” I said. “It helps.”

  “I suppose.” Phoebe looked the place over and sniffed. “It’ll be a lot of work,” she said, “but so rewarding it in the end.”

  One of the customers asked something of Celia, and she stepped over to assist.

  I reached for a rag to wipe down the bar top and changed the subject. “We’ve enjoyed getting to know Teddy over the years,” I said to Phoebe as I cleaned the crumbs and tea spills from its surface. “I never had a brother, so it’s been fun having him around.”

  Phoebe’s expression turned smug. “Both of my brothers are special: Rob with his app start-up and Teddy with his success at the firm. He’s up for partner, you know.”

  I nodded. “I do.”

  “He has a bright future ahead of him. Our parents have high hopes for his career, you know.”

  My mouth quirked into a wry smile. “How Camelot of them.”

  “With his skills, his family connections, Teddy—Theodore, I should say—could go far.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s too bad he’s not doing anything with his life.”

  I was being sarcastic, but Phoebe didn’t catch it. “He should have been made partner last year,” she said, and as much as I disliked her, I could read the sisterly anxiety on her face. “Everyone said he would be.”

  That I hadn’t heard. “Oh?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “This year should be the year. As long as the firm can overlook…you know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You know,” she said, searching for words. “The…association.”

  I squinted. “The mob, you mean?”

  “No!” She huffed out a sigh. “The association. With your father. Where is he?”

  “We don’t speak much,” I said. “He travels. I’m not sure where he is.” I tried to be casual, but something cold lodged within my chest. Dad had enjoyed his extended vacation in a variety of nonextradition nations over the years.

  “At any rate,” I said, “I don’t see why my father should be a factor. We have very little contact with him, and he’s never met Teddy.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The name, you know.”

  I wished she’d stop saying that I knew. I didn’t. At least, I hadn’t, but this time I was getting a very bad feeling that perhaps I did.

  “You’re saying that Teddy’s been passed up for partner because he’s dating my sister.”

  Phoebe released a breath, looking grateful that she didn’t have to be the one to say it out loud. “Yes, exactly. It’s not her fault. But the association…”

  I was beginning to hate that word.

  But what did it matter? Teddy? Being manipulated by his work, his family? Giving up Celia?

  He would never.

  I met Phoebe’s gaze. “Yes, well, shame that Teddy’s never given a dry tea leaf about our father.”

  Celia returned, a cautious smile on her face as she took in both of our expressions. “Could I offer you a cup of tea while you’re here, Phoebe?” Celia asked.

  On days eleven through thirteen, we met with banks. We applied for loans and looked for anything that would give us the liquid cash to see us into a space within the city.

  The experience reminded us why we’d opened the tea shop through a shell corporation in the first place.

  After Dad left the country eight years ago, the name Woodward was splashed across every Bay Area newspaper as investigators and journalists worked to figure out if our father was corrupt or merely inept. To this day, nobody could be sure. The Valencia Street Tea gamble had, until now, provided a fairly stable living. Dad had offered to send us money now and again, but we’d declined. Sure, we’d had our lean years, but we were together, the three of us, and that was all that mattered.

  But memories in this town ran long, and no bank wanted to give Walter Woodward’s daughters a loan.

  2

  A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwards.

  —A. A. MILNE

  On day fourteen, I spent the day baking. Margot tried to join me after school, but I shooed her out of the kitchen after she dropped a bag of flour and set a dish towel on fire.

  I baked extra scones, croissants, and Danishes, and they flew out the door. It seemed that our customers, knowing about our impending uncertainty, decided to do what I would do under threat of a favorite shop closing; they stocked up. Our books were in the black, but nowhere near the numbers we would have to hit to stay.

  So I kept at it, consoling myself that at least we’d have extra moving money.

  Celia left early for a date with Teddy that night, and Margot wouldn’t be dropped off by her best friend’s mom until the late hours. I closed up, turning up the music—La Bohème—as I wiped down the tables, mopped the floors, washed the dishes, and got everything ready for the following day.

  Being alone, I startled when I heard the back door open and slam shut. I turned down the music to investigate, and my shoulders relaxed when I saw Celia.

  “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, her tone strained.

  My eyes widened once she stepped into the light. “You’ve been crying! Celia, what’s wrong? What happened?” I threw my arms around her. “Don’t be sad about moving away from Teddy. I’m sure he’ll find a way to see you.”

  “No he won’t,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

  “Of course he will,” I assured her. “He’d go to the moon and back for you.”

  She placed her hands on my shoulders and stepped back to meet my gaze. “We broke up, Jane. Teddy and I broke up.”

  My eyes flew open in shock. “You broke up? How?”

  She shook her head and wiped her nose with the back of her hand—a very un-Celia-like gesture. “I…I’m sorry, I…”

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I assured her.

  Except…it just didn’t make sense. Because I knew Celia and I knew Teddy, and I’d seen them just a few days before, looking as happy and relaxed and cohesive as ever.

  I hadn’t experienced it myself, the kind of togetherness I witnessed between the two of them. My own relationships—though few and far between—tended to be short and fiery and marked with plenty of bickering. But Celia and Teddy shared the same sense of calm and warmth. While they weren’t at all the same person, they complemented each other.

  So the fact that they broke up? My brain tried and failed to comprehend the news.

  “Did something happen?” I asked, my eyebrows furrowing as I tried to wrap my head around it. “Is he joining the Peace Corps? Taking a job in”—I racked my brain—“Antarctica?”

  Even as I said it, I thought, No, that’s not true. They’d still be
together if he left for Antarctica.

  And then it hit me. “Phoebe. Was Phoebe a part of it?”

  “I’m sorry,” Celia said, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I really can’t talk about it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s fine.”

  It wasn’t. It wasn’t fine, not in the slightest. Had Phoebe really managed to work her will? Was Teddy—our Teddy—really willing to let his family dictate his dating life?

  But Celia was my sister, and she was hurting. I put my hands on my hips. “What do you need? I can put the kettle on. There are a couple pumpkin scones left. I can order a pizza. Tell me what to do.”

  “I just want to go to bed.”

  “Bed. That’s good. Bed. Okay. You head upstairs; I’ll bring you a cup of chamomile.”

  She looked as though she thought to argue but decided against it. “Fine. Bring me a cup.”

  I brought her a scone for good measure.

  The morning of Christmas Eve, I awoke to find Celia holding her phone in my face.

  “It’s a phone. I see that,” I said, rolling over to the opposite side.

  Celia tugged on my shoulder. “It’s not the phone. It’s what’s on the phone. Look!”

  I took it and held the screen close enough for my tired eyes to focus on the text. “It looks like an e-mail.”

  “It is! Read it!”

  “You’re strident first thing in the morning.” But I did as she said, sitting up to read aloud. “ ‘Dear Celia.’ ”

  “Shh! Don’t wake Margot.”

  I raised an eyebrow and returned to the e-mail in a softer voice. “ ‘Glad you wrote. Of course I remember you—you’re the spitting image of your mother.’ ” I looked up at my sister. “That’s true. You are.”

  “Keep reading.”

  “ ‘You asked about what the market looked like for small-business owners and tea in the Austin area. I’ve got good news for you. The Austin business scene is eclectic, and the tea salon you described might fit right in. And I can do you one better: you and Jane and Margot are welcome to come stay in our guesthouse for as long as you like. Bring your plants with you. We have three acres in Barton Creek, so pick the one that you like best and put it to good use.’ ”

  I shot a look at Celia. She grinned and nodded for me to continue. “ ‘There are some nice spaces for a tea salon not far from us, and you may find the prices more reasonable than the Bay Area. Yours sincerely, Ian Vandermeide.’ ” I looked up. “Wait, Austin? And who is Ian Vandermeide?”

  “Mom’s cousin Ian. You’ve met him.”

  “I don’t have your talent for remembering faces. Or names.” I pulled my tangled hair from my face. “So you wrote? To ask him about us moving to Austin?”

  “Look, we need somewhere to go, Jane. I started writing friends and family around the country, just asking if they thought their city might be a good fit for our sort of tea salon.”

  “But…Austin?”

  “Yes!”

  “Austin, Texas.”

  “Yes, Jane.”

  “Celia. Darling.” I placed my sister’s phone in her hand and wrapped her fingers around it. “We are California girls. We are not Texas girls. Texas is…it’s essentially a whole other country. It actually was a whole other country.”

  “Yes, but Texas also has a guesthouse and a place for Margot and a place for your tea. And”—she paused—“people are less likely to know who we are.”

  I lifted a cynical eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. And anyway, Margot’s halfway through the school year. I don’t think she’d be thrilled about moving.”

  “She was probably going to have to transfer anyway or have an hour-long commute to classes. That’s two hours every day that doesn’t go to homework or ballet.”

  “Fair enough. I just don’t know. Does tea even grow in that part of Texas?”

  “Austin is still zone 8. Zone 8b, to be precise.”

  “You looked it up.”

  She sat back on the bed. “I know you worry about your plants.”

  “And Margot? How are the schools?”

  “Westlake High is well rated. At least, according to the Internet.”

  I chewed my lip. “Texas.”

  Celia nodded. “Texas.”

  “But…” I shook my head. “There has to be something closer. I know the real estate around here is sky high and the cost of living is higher than New York, but Texas? Surely there has to be some kind of middle ground. Like, Oregon or something.” I sat up straighter and shoved my hair from my face. “Vandermeide…isn’t that the weird, oil-money side of the family?” My eyes widened with recollection. “Ian’s the ex–naval officer who retired to breed hunting dogs or something.”

  “I think they’re pointers? Or some kind of spaniel? I don’t remember.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “What about you and Teddy?”

  Celia looked down at her lap. “I told you. We broke up.”

  “Yes, you told me,” I said, squinting.

  “You don’t believe me,” Celia stated in disbelief.

  “I thought you were going to get married!” My brow furrowed low. “Seriously, Celia, what happened with you guys? Phoebe was talking about you two and his job, and I thought it was crazy talk, that you guys were solid, but—”

  “Please. Don’t make me talk about it. I just…I can’t.”

  “So if he wasn’t pressured by his sister or his job, what? He joined a cult? The CIA?”

  “No. He’s…he’s fine. He’s still Teddy.”

  “He didn’t get accepted onto The Bachelor or anything like that? Because he’s too even tempered to make good ratings. No offense.”

  “Jane, I love you. And I get it. Teddy and I have been together for a long time, and I thought…” She stopped herself from continuing. “Relationships are hard, and they have to be right for both people on a lot of different levels.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I just…I don’t want to talk about Teddy. I want to talk about Austin, and how we might want to move to a place where Dad’s reputation doesn’t follow us everywhere we go.”

  “Did Teddy break up with you because of Dad?”

  “No,” Celia said in an exhale. “He did not break up with me because of Dad. Jane”—she sighed—“please.”

  That last please did me in.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, reaching out for her hand. “I’m sorry about you and Teddy, and…I’m sorry I pushed.”

  I didn’t like a lot of people, but Celia?

  She knew as well as I that if we wanted to stay on the West Coast, we’d find something. It wouldn’t be in San Francisco, it wouldn’t necessarily be glamorous, but we had options.

  For Austin to suddenly be the only recourse—it wasn’t about our finances as much as a need to get away. Far away.

  But I loved her. If my sister needed a change of scenery, I knew my answer wasn’t yes or no. It was how far and when. I leaned forward. “So Austin, then?”

  Celia’s face relaxed into a smile. “Austin. It’s a fresh start.”

  Cranberry Vanilla Scones

  7 tablespoons cold unsalted butter

  ¼ cup milk, plus more until the dough just holds together

  1 tablespoon vanilla extract

  1 ¾ cups frozen cranberries, roughly chopped

  ¼ cup white sugar

  1 ½ cups whole-wheat pastry flour, divided

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ⅓ cup brown sugar

  3 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon sea salt

  Zest of two oranges

  2 tablespoons turbinado sugar

  Position the oven rack in the center, and preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Prepare a large baking sheet by lining it with parchment paper.

  Cut the butter into small pieces; refrigerate. Stir together the ¼ cup milk and vanilla extract in a measuring cup. Set aside.

  Toss the cranberries together w
ith the ¼ cup white sugar and ¼ cup of the whole-wheat pastry flour and set aside.

  In a large mixing bowl, stir together the remaining 1 ¼ cups of whole-wheat pastry flour, along with the all-purpose flour, brown sugar, baking powder, sea salt, and orange zest.

  With your hands, work the chopped butter into the flour mixture, pressing the butter pieces into dime and oatmeal-sized flakes. Add the dried cranberries, and toss to mix. Pour the milk in a spiral around the mixture. Use a fork and then your hands to mix and press the ingredients together, turning them within the bowl and adding more milk by the tablespoon until a dough just forms.

  On a lightly floured surface, press the dough into a circle about ¾ to 1 inch thick. Use a biscuit cutter or drinking glass to cut circles from the dough. It’s okay to press scraps together gently for the last scone or two. Place the scones onto the baking sheet, and sprinkle liberally with the turbinado sugar.

  Bake for 15–20 minutes, until the scones are lightly golden on top. Allow to cool 5 minutes before serving. The scones are delicious warm or at room temperature.

  Makes 6 scones.

  3

  If a man’s from Texas, he’ll tell you. If he’s not, why embarrass him by asking?

  —JOHN GUNTHER

  Callum

  When the plane landed, I unbuckled my seat belt and tried to stretch, using all of the two inches between myself and my fellow passengers. My left leg ached, but that was nothing new.

  In the midst of a plane full of people, the flight attendant wove her way to me, then leaned over solicitously. “Do you need any assistance deplaning today, sir?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “But thank you.”

  Deep, deep down, I knew that carrying my rucksack would be an exercise in persistence and balance. But the day I asked a tiny thing like her to carry my bag for me—well, that would mean I was probably dead.

  I had the window seat, and while my row mates offered to let me out first, I waved them on. While the crowd thinned, I turned my phone back on to check for messages.

  There were ten. Every one from Ian.

  I got here early—less traffic than expected. Parked in the waiting lot.