Miss Erma lifts her violet lined cup and draws in a breath of steam. “I love tea.”
I nod and take a sip of the hot tea. It burns my tongue. I think about how it’s almost, but not quite, as hot as the air coming off the furnace at Jamie’s studio.
I set the cup down, and it rattles against the saucer. A cheer breaks out at the bridge table, and Miss Erma calls, “No cheating, Frank!”
An older man waves her off and Miss Erma’s eyes twinkle. “He’s a cheat,” she whispers to me.
I shift in my chair and it squeaks again. “I’m sorry. I know you said you can’t just tell me if Jamie’s my soul mate, but can’t you”—I wave my hands in the air—“look into the beyond or something?”
Miss Erma considers this, then nods. “Hold on. The tea leaves.”
She peers down into her cup, concentrating deeply.
There are a few leaves floating in the bottom. I lean forward and look too. She must be reading the tea, I saw this in a movie once. You can tell the future by how the leaves fall to the bottom of the cup.
“What do you see?”
She frowns at me, the lines on her forehead wrinkling. “You won’t believe this.”
“What?” My chest tightens. What does she see?
“There are fannings, stems, and dust. I ordered Orange Pekoe, the finest grade. This is unacceptable. Who do they think they are, foisting subpar tea grades on consumers? Don’t they think we’ll notice? Well, I notice. I notice my tea. That’s it. From now on, I’m only getting tea from Boden’s.” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at the steaming golden tea in her cup.
I frown. “You weren’t reading the leaves?”
“Reading the what?”
I’m an idiot. She has no clue what I’m talking about. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to waste your time. I thought you could see soul mates if you met a person.”
She purses her lips. “Do you know what I think?”
I shake my head.
She levels me with dark brown eyes. Ones that see too much. “I’ve been predicting soul mates for nearly eight decades. But what I see, or what I say, doesn’t actually matter.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.” She reaches up and touches her heart. “This will tell you as well as I can. Ask yourself what it’s saying.”
I struggle to draw in a breath. “But what if I go back and realize I haven’t forgiven her? That I can’t?”
Miss Erma peers down at her tea leaves, her shoulders fall, and the shawl she’s wearing suddenly seems like it isn’t enough to keep out the chill of the room.
Finally she looks back up, a regretful look on her face. “Take it from someone who lost the only man I ever loved because of betrayal. Forgiveness isn’t for the person who wronged you, forgiveness is for you. You’ll never be free to love fully until you let the past go.”
I search Miss Erma’s face, taking in the meaning of what she’s saying, the regret on her face, and the depth of sorrow. Then the group at the table next to us breaks into a loud cheer at the bridge game, and Miss Erma wipes the regret from her face. She smiles at me and claps her hands together once.
“Well, it was nice seeing you. Tell your brother hello. I hope everything works out.”
I’ve been dismissed.
I shake her hand, tell her thank you, and leave her to join the game of bridge.
When I make it outside, the brisk air tugs at my coat, and a flock of Canada geese flies overhead in V-formation, heading south. Which is exactly what I’d like to be doing.
Forgiveness isn’t for others, it’s for yourself.
You can never love fully…
I have a few things to do.
Before I leave town, I stop by the bank and send an overnight check to Jamie for nine thousand dollars. The memo says, paid in full.