Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

Bleu slid the packet from my fingers. “I’ll make the tea.”

I bit my tongue. Would be a true waste if he did not do this properly.

He dumped three mounded teaspoons of shriveled tea leaves into Aunt’s blue willow pot. Instead of sugar, he drizzled honey, long and slow. He helped himself to my sacred lemon I’d stashed on a small shelf by the back kitchen door. Two thinly sliced rounds were added to the pot. When would he speak? Is the information so touchy that I must wait for his version of a perfect brew?

I sat down and spread my hand against the coarse homespun cloth that covered a rather fine table. What truth have they covered? What needs protecting? What is the true character of this situation?

He snatched the nicer china cups from the cupboard rather than the everyday stoneware mugs and placed them on matching saucers. He set one in front of me with no clatter at all. I wished he would answer my nagging question. Instead, he set the pot down between us and watched the tea leach amber into the hot water, stirring the honey as if coaxing it to sweeten. After a moment, he lifted the infuser, gave the pot an extra stir and poured my cup.

“I wouldn’t think any man able to properly serve tea, but here you are.”

The compliment was ignored. “Your question.”

I slid my hands around my cup, oblivious that I had been thirsting for such a brew for many days now. “Yes. When did you meet my father?”

“I met him first when I traveled to Cincinnati, three years ago.”

“What business did you have with him?”

His scarred eye twitched. “Just business.”

“What kind of business? And what has happened between you that sparked such distrust? I am not fickle as you feared.” Doubts crept in. “Father had nothing to apologize for, I am certain.”

“Your Father’s done nothing wrong. Did you think he might have?” Confusion knit his brows as he carefully held his teacup. “I borrowed from him and paid him back. Paid him back in full. And on time.”

“Him and not the bank? But why?”

Mr. Bleu gazed into his tea. Father had lent money to both Uncle and Mr. Bleu. Uncle had not been able to pay back Father. Mr. Bleu had, and in a very short amount of time.

I sipped my tea, hot and fragrant. Delicious. I looked into the liquid, waiting for his answer. A few years ago, several months had been difficult for Mother and me. We boiled bones for broth, and patched my frocks. And then, there had been plenty again and we went on as always. Why in the world did Father give what we needed to him? Clearly, we survived the sparse months, but this made no sense.

“Was the money for your farm?” I knew this was the obvious answer.

“No.”

“What was it for then, if not for purchasing horses and cattle and whatever else you need to run a place like this...” I rambled on.

“I can’t tell you that.”

I stiffened.

“Why I needed that money is none of your business.” He propped his elbows on the table and sported his confident smirk. It fit him well. Almost as if he defied the world and their thoughts about his scars. He could face anyone and be better than they.

While this likely works often in his favor, at the moment it did not work in mine. I don’t like being defied for any reason. “But you were supposed to answer my question!”

He opened his mouth, surprised. “I did.”

I shook my head. “No. You didn’t.”

“Maybe you didn’t ask the right question.” His voice softened. Disconcertingly.

Perhaps I had not been bold enough. Certainly polite. I leaned over to whisper. “Why have you and Uncle been afraid of me? Or maybe you are afraid I will find something out about my Father...” I pointed my finger at him without thinking. “Do I own all of your property too? Is that it?”

He laughed. The man actually laughed in my face!

He lifted the teapot and poured me another cup of tea. “Relax, Miss.”

“I was trying to relax until you showed up and tread upon me like dirt.”

“I apologized for that.” With a sweep of his hand, he motioned at the pot. “The tea to prove it.”

Another small, meaningless gesture. “You and Uncle aren’t hiding anything?”

“I’m not. Don’t know about him, though.” He raised his good eyebrow dramatically.

“Do not toy with me.”

“Perhaps you read too many dime novels.”

“Not at all.”

“There is no mystery. My business is my business. Talk to your Uncle if you have any questions for him.”

“I...”

“Why ask me about him? I thought you despise a go-between.”

“Is that all you were?” I dared show my suspicions yet again.

“No. For a while I was Quasimodo spooking those around Notre Dame de Paris.”

If not for the twinkle in his eye, I would have taken him more seriously. “And who is  this Quasimodo?”

“A devil or a saint. You decide.”

“I believe we are far from my question.”

“Miss Trafton, perhaps it is you who are far from the truth.”

“Me? You will not directly answer my questions.”

“I have. You are not pleased with my answer.”

Me...far from the truth. The truth is what I wish to know. Have I built this suspicion on a shaky foundation? Must I begin afresh and toss out every frustration I’ve had since coming? The idea sounds tempting, but forgetting is hard. I thought back to the first night Mr. Bleu had come. “Why do they call you David?”

He seemed taken aback by my question.

“Now that—I give you permission to ask your Uncle about. It’s the name he gave me.” He shrugged his shoulders but raised his brow yet again. “I must warn you, though, the story’s ugly.”

I gazed into my tea. Did he speak of his scars?

He stood and tucked his chair under the table. “Was the brew to your liking?”

“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure why I apologized just at that moment. The word sorry can cover so many feelings.

He cocked his head to