The Colour of Tea by Hannah Tunnicliffe Page B

a bit of work but …” I shrug shyly.
    “Yeah. And the sign looks good too.”
    Pete cocks his head and looks at me.
    “Oh,” I breathe softly. “They must have hung it when we were out the back. That’s what the racket was.”
    The three of us walk outside and stand on the pavement. Paul crosses his arms over his broad chest and rocks back on his heels. Pete has his hands on his hips, chin to the sky. It hangs from a brass-colored pole. My sign. Without a breeze it is static, as if poised for our inspection. I can’t breathe for a few seconds while I look at it. Pete lifts his head higher and squints to read it, and Paul grunts approvingly.
    “You didn’t tell me,” Pete says softly, turning to look at me with a crease between his eyes.
    They’ve done a good job; it is securely fastened, brass screws twisted firmly in place. The paint is fresh and bright. It matches our squeaky-clean tiles—sharp, contrasting black against white. Dark cerise poppies punctuate the i ’s in the curling, black script. It is exactly as I wanted it.
    LILLIAN’S.
    “Perfect,” I sigh, just loud enough for my ears alone. My voice is as high and light as a girl’s.
    Dearest Mama,
    Tomorrow I open Lillian’s.
    Pete says I probably should have made a bigger deal of marketing it if I was really serious, but I am so nervous about the whole thing I feel ill. I put an ad in the International Ladies’ Club newsletter,but I was late so it probably won’t come out till next week. Thank goodness. Sometimes I think I don’t want anyone to even notice the café. I just want to get through this first day and not be sick all over my shoes.
    I have stocked up the coffee. There are grinds all ready to go in the machine. Oh, maybe they should be fresh; I can change them tomorrow. I have made three types of macarons, and they’re all good except the Chocolat Amer, which is such a shame ’cause it tastes so divine, but they all came out looking like hats that had been sat on. I have some cakes. And some muffins. The muffins will just need warming in the oven and they’ll be as good as new. I have to make cream-cheese icing for the carrot ones, but I can do that in the morning. I’ll get up in time. Well, if I ever get to sleep.
    Mama, what if no one comes? It’s a possibility. I haven’t said that to Pete because he’d just say, “Well, you should have thought about that earlier, Grace,” all frown between the eyes. He looked at me last night over steak and veggies, and I could see right through to his thoughts, I swear. He was thinking, Does she really want to make a go of this? I know I’ve been spending money like crazy, and he wonders if this is just a money pit. He probably doubts if it will make any profit at all. I don’t like to talk about it because I wonder too.
    Linda was at the supermarket today. She let out this laugh when she saw me. “Oh goodness, I didn’t recognize you!” Well, Mama, that was not really a surprise because I was wearing tatty old overalls with my hair pulled back, and I was dusty and greasy and smelling like old towels. I’ve stopped wearing makeup these last few weeks, and the wrinkles and freckles are popping out on my face, scaring me each time I look in the mirror. It is not worth looking pretty when you are setting up a café, let me tell you. I sometimes wish Macau wasn’t the size of a bloody Post-it note so you wouldn’t wind up bumping into someone you know every time you go to the supermarket.
    Okay, Mama. You need to wish me luck. I feel like there are kangaroos in my stomach. I have to lie down now and go to sleep, and when I wake up it will be the day I open Lillian’s …
    Your loving daughter,
Grace

L’Espoir—Hope
    Provençal Lavender with a Sweet Fig Buttercream
    T he sun slides down into the horizon, orange and sticky, like a lozenge. The chairs are stacked on the tables, the benches cleaned. Food is in the refrigerator, lists left out for tomorrow, tiles mopped. I take a