Chapter 4 Afternoon teas and stolen glances

The kettle sang just as the clock chimed two. Adeline moved with quiet grace in the kitchen, pouring boiling water into two delicate porcelain cups - mismatched, but beloved. Her grandmother had collected them one by one, always saying, "No two hearts are the same, so why should teacups be?" Today, Adeline felt the spirit of that wisdom more than ever.

She had invited Nathaniel for tea.

Well-not invited, exactly. She had mentioned, somewhat nervously, that she baked lemon biscuits the night before. He had said he liked lemon. Then she, awkwardly but bravely, said, "You could join me for tea tomorrow, if you'd like." To which he had replied, "I would."

And now, her hands were trembling over saucers.

She heard the gate open before she saw him. His footsteps were always calm, deliberate, as if he measured the earth with every step. When he appeared at the door, he removed his cap, revealing thick black curls flecked with grey at the temples. The sun painted his face gold.

"Afternoon," he said.

"Come in."

He hesitated for a breath before crossing the threshold. The last man to walk willingly into this house had left his ring on the table and never looked back. That thought crossed her mind like a shadow, but she pushed it away.

Nathaniel noticed the cups. "You have your grandmother's china," he said. "She used to make ginger tea in the mornings. Said it was good for the blood."

"She said that," Adeline replied, "while sweetening hers with three spoons of sugar."

He chuckled - a low, rich sound that stirred something unnameable in her.

They sat on the veranda, where sunlight filtered through the vines and the breeze carried the scent of cut grass. The tea cooled between them as conversation warmed. They spoke of small things at first - gardening tools, village politics, the stubbornness of marigolds.

But then, slowly, the words began to deepen.

"I left Accra three weeks before the wedding," Adeline confessed, surprising herself. "I called it off. Or maybe he did. We both did, in our own way."

Nathaniel looked at her, but did not interrupt.

"He said I loved books more than him. That I had a way of retreating even while standing beside him."

"Did you?" he asked gently.

"I don't know," she said. "I just know I wanted to feel like home to someone. Not a thesis."

He nodded, as if he understood something unspoken in that.

"I loved Naana," he said after a pause. "I still do, in some way. But when she was sick, I started grieving long before she passed. Some days, it felt like I was burying her inch by inch."

Adeline's throat tightened. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "No need. It's strange. You think grief ends when they're gone, but it lingers-in tea cups, and flower beds, and favourite songs."

She looked at him then - really looked. The man who tended lavender with careful hands was not just a quiet recluse. He was a keeper of memory. A witness to slow sorrow. And yet, here he was, sipping tea in her grandmother's house, letting the afternoon soften him.

At some point, the sunlight shifted. He stood.

"Thank you for the tea," he said, brushing his palm against his trousers. "And the lemon biscuits. They reminded me of something good."

She followed him to the gate.

He opened it, then paused, turning toward her. The lavender swayed behind him like an audience waiting for a line in a poem.

"I think," he said slowly, "you do feel like home."

He didn't wait for a response. Just a nod, and then he was gone.

---

That night, Adeline lit a single candle beside her bed and read an old poem aloud - one her grandmother had written long ago.

Some loves do not arrive with fire,

But with tea and silence.

And they last.

She smiled to herself.

Nathaniel Boadi did not bring fire.

He brought warmth.

And perhaps, in time, that would be enough.