Paradise Falling (ONC 2024)

2 -- A Little Tea Shop in a Sleepy Town

This chapter is dedicated to empiresofwater. For many years, I gobbled up everything Sci-Fi and her ONC entry Chimera made me rediscover my love for the genre. Stunning descriptions, a chilling atmosphere a la Alien,  a strong narrator, and a creepy AI. Check it out; you won't be disappointed.

Drogheda, Ireland

February 2024

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"Chelsea, dear, this scone is wonderful." Adele McKenna, our next-door neighbor for as long as I can remember, offers me a toothy smile around a mouthful of buttered pastry. "Is that your mam's recipe?"

"Yes, ma'am."

For the thousandth time.

I'm glad for her patronage; she is one of my regulars, visiting the small tea shop three times a week like clockwork, but her memory is failing her more and more these days.

"And how is your mam?"

"Much better, thanks."

"Oh, was she sick?"

I internally groan. We had this conversation at least once every week for the last month. "She had to go to the hospital for a few days, but the doctors put her on a new blood thinner and she is doing fine."

"Oh, dear. I hope that will help her."

"Yes, me too." I brush a strand of my fringe out of my eyes and smile.

Respect your elders.

Mam's words that follow me whenever I leave the house.

Mrs. McKenna focuses back on her scone and slurps her tea. The rain hits hard against the window and provides a backdrop to the silence. As usual, I have the heater going on at its highest level; in miserable weather, patrons tend to buy more when it's toasty in the shop. Mrs. McKenna finishes her snack and slips into her arctic raincoat. Bidding me good-bye, she leaves the money for the tea and scone in stacked coin piles on the table. I count out the cash; she is seventy-five cents short. Still hasn't caught on that I had to raise my prices in the New Year to fight inflation.

With a sigh, I load the dirty cup and plate in the dishwasher. About to pour me a mint tea to quiet the unrest that still haunts me every day even after six years, I look up when the old-fashioned bell over the door chimes. The new customer is some guy in his late twenties who is too well dressed to be a local. Stone gray cashmere suit under a short black wool coat, a crisp white shirt with a blue silk tie that displays a perfect knot, and fancy, shiny leather loafers. The whole outfit costs more than what I make in a month and is totally unsuitable for Irish weather in the middle of February.

"What a miserable day." He shakes the wetness out of his thick brown curls and holds up a busted umbrella. "Do you have a bin where I can toss this?"

"Sure, just pass it to me."

Handing me the umbrella, the back of his hand brushes over the bump of my crooked finger. His skin is warm and sends a tingle up my arm. As he stares at the menu above the counter, I study him from under my eyelashes. In another lifetime, I would have considered him cute. The naturally darker skin and five o'clock shadow give him this renegade vibe that matches the energetic spark in his dark brown eyes. If I had to guess, I'd say he has Italian ancestry, or maybe Greek.

He pursues his full lips. "I'd like a chai tea, with coconut milk, if you have it."

Unusual choice.

"No problem. For here or to go."

"For here. And one of the blueberry muffins, too." Looking around, his gaze lands on the framed photo of Sean on the wall by the cash register with the black ribbon and the rosary around one of the corners. "Cute boy. Was he your son?"

"He was." A hitch in my throat warns of impending tears, but I manage to keep it together.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Curious eyes drill into me. "How long ago did he die?"

Nosy much?

"Six years. He was only three."

"I'm truly very sorry."

I set the glass with the tea onto a tray so hard that a little spills on the saucer and grab the tongs for the muffin.

He has zero tact, asking me about Sean.

"Sorry, but I think I'll get this to go after all."

"Of course." Trying to steer the conversation as far from my son as possible, I go on to the offensive. "First time in Ireland?"

"What makes you think I don't live here?"

"You have an American accent." Plus no dude in Drogheda will waste their money on that suit.

"Well, you are right, I am from the States. New York, actually. Have you ever been?"

The Big Apple is the city where I met Marcel. "No, I've never been to America."

"That's a shame. I think you would like it there."

And why is that?

An assumption because I sell international tea brands?

You don't know me at all, asshole, so stop prying into my business.

Placing the bag with the muffin and the paper teacup on the counter, I twist the golden band on my finger. "That would be seven euros fifty cents, please."

With a startle, he raises his gaze from my hand and pulls a wad of money from his pocket. "Keep the change."

Before I have a chance to ask whether he would like a receipt, he picks up his purchases and ambles out of the shop right back into the pouring sheets of rain.

What an odd character.

I unroll the euro bills and a piece of paper drops to the floor. Bending down, I pick it up. The carefully crafted note has me gasping.

Total WP word count: 1641

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