Stupid, foolish woman.
I pushed all thoughts of Anson away and looked around the tea room. Round tables with white linens and glass tops dotted the space. Rustic white chairs mixed in with vintage sitting chairs I had found while on shopping trips with Ida, Pearl, and my mother. They were stunning. Even though Anson and I were no longer together, I was extremely close to his parents and grandparents. Of course, it helped that my mother and Pearl were best friends.
Strolling through the tea room, I smiled as the memory of those shopping trips replayed in my mind.
I walked up to one of the tables and straightened one of the pink folded napkins. Each table was set with a dessert plate, a tea cup and saucer, a pink fancy-folded napkin, as well as a small vase with fresh flowers that my mother picked from her garden a few times a week. Some tables had vintage benches to one side in place of chairs, and the back corner that we called ‘the nook’ had a vintage Victorian sofa flanked by two vintage chairs. It was a cozy spot, and I loved seeing people settled in with their laptops or books and a cup of tea.
When you walked into the tea room, a large vintage cabinet greeted you. It was filled with antiques Ida had found or had given me, and it was aptly named ‘Ida’s cabinet.’ The reception desk was my favorite part of the tea room. It was a piece that Irwin had made with Anson, when he was in high school, for a school project. I had painted it a light pink then given a vintage feel to it by sanding and then staining it. The cabinets behind that were another antique find that I had painted a very pale green and antiqued to match the large piece of furniture Irwin and Anson had made. That piece had been an important addition to the tea room. In some strange way, it made me feel like Anson was here. Or, at the very least, had a small hand in helping with the tea room. Although I’d never admit that little tidbit to anyone.
A small vintage chandelier hung over the reception area. The entire tea room was filled with vintage pieces and paintings that had been picked up over the years. My poor father had let me store them in his shop on our farm, which actually had helped me out when it came time to opening the tea room. I had almost every piece of furniture ready to go and already paid for.
Some of the local favorites were the framed pictures of families from around Comfort. A few were photos of some of the founding families, including my mother’s family. My father’s family had helped found Fredericksburg, which was short drive away. Every single day at noon, the horn would go off in Comfort, alerting everyone it was time for lunch. As Ida would always say, “The Germans need reminding it’s time to eat.”
“Bristol?”
My mother’s voice had me turning to look at her.
“I was just outside watering the plants, and I swear if I hadn’t known better, I would say Anson drove by.”
The way my heart dropped nearly left me breathless. “What?”
“I mean, I’m sure it wasn’t him, but it sure looked like him. The guy driving the truck, though, had on a baseball cap, and when he drove by, he looked the other way, so I couldn’t tell for sure. But he had been parked across the street and down some. I thought he was watching me at first.”
With a laugh, I brushed it off. “I highly doubt Anson Meyer was sittin’ down the road checking out Farmhouse Tea, Mama.”
She looked back out the front window and shook her head slowly. “I swear, for a moment I thought it was him.”
A familiar voice from out of nowhere started talking. Terry, of course. “Doubt it was. He’s on tour right now. He finished a show last night in Atlanta and is doing three shows in Nashville to wrap up his U.S. tour.”
I stared at Terry, a beacon of information when it came to Anson.
“How do you know all of that?” I asked.
She winked. “Don’t tell anyone in town, but I’m a member of his fan club.”
My jaw fell open. “His…fan club? That’s an actual thing?” I asked, in a disbelieving voice.
Terry gave me a half-shrug. “I can’t help it if half the town dislikes Anson and the other half are proud as hell of him. I like his music. It’s good. It’s all about you, though. The guy really does need to move on, maybe find some more inspiration for his songs or something.”
I shook my head and then surveyed the room once more, trying to push away Terry’s words. After nearly six years, any mention of Anson made me equally sad and angry, mixed with a slight bit of joy.