She picks up the spoon and digs in. No argument. No tears.
We all wait together as Mason transfers the water into the tiny cups, then back into the teapot. Finally he pours a cup of gyokuro and slides it toward me, then pours a second for himself. The tea is pale green, and smells a little like grass, a little like the ocean.
“Can I have some?” Maisie says, reaching for his cup.
Before I can remind her that she should wait to be offered a drink, Mason says, “You can, but remember that even though it’s warm, it’s not sweet like cocoa. You might not like it.”
Maisie takes the tiniest of sips and her nose crinkles with distaste. “Mm. It’s good.”
Mason fights a grin. “You sure?”
She nods. “But maybe I’ll save some for later.”
“Gyokuro is an acquired taste,” he says.
“What does that mean?” Maisie asks.
“It means sometimes you have to try it a few times before you like it.”
She attempts another sip, then hands the cup to Mason. “I think I’ll like it better next time.”
I pick up my cup and drink. Even though I know better, I’m expecting the ginseng and honey sweetness of Arizona iced tea, but gyokuro is savory and briny and almost mushroomy. Nothing like any tea I’ve ever tasted.
“Is this what they mean by umami?” I ask.
Mason nods. “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t want to drink a lot—”
“No,” he says. “Small cups, small servings.”
“But I think I might like it better the next time too.”
“You will.” His gaze meets mine, then skitters away, and I wonder if those two words are a promise that we’ll meet in the kitchen and drink tea again. Hoping for a next time is a bad idea, but I can’t help myself.
“I’m sorry we interrupted,” I say.
“You didn’t.”
“I was planning to check out the thrift stores and antique shops in Port Clinton today,” I say, changing the subject, as Mason gathers the cups and yuzamashi bowl and carries them to the sink. “If I find anything that won’t fit in my car, I’ll see if I can have it shipped over on the ferry.”
He digs into the front pocket of his jeans, pulls out his keys, and tosses them from across the room. “Take the truck.”
“Are you sure?” I ask as the keys narrowly miss my fingertips and land on the floor.
“Hope you’re better at driving than you are at catching.”
When I stick out my tongue, he laughs. And I feel it all the way to the tips of my toes.
CHAPTER 9
Arbejdsglæde
Danish
“the heightened sense of happiness, fulfillment, and satisfaction you get from having a great job”
After a soft-boiled egg and toast soldiers—not to mention being mesmerized into a better mood by Mason and his tea ritual—Maisie goes willingly into school and I head for the ferry dock in the pickup.
There’s a weird intimacy to driving someone else’s car. The seat is adjusted for their legs. Mirrors positioned the way they like them. The radio buttons preset to their favorite stations. Or not, if the radio has been broken for decades. The truck—an International Harvester—smells old and dusty, and Lord knows what vintage sins are concealed by the colorful Mexican blanket draped over the bench seat, but it’s not unpleasant. I kind of like driving a vehicle with a deep history. And I feel my skin grow warm as I think about sitting where Mason’s butt—his incredibly nice butt—has been.
As the ferry churns across the lake to Marblehead, I stretch out in the seat and listen to a beer podcast called Brewing 101. The process is simpler than I imagined, but there’s a whole science behind the types of malt and hops used to make specific kinds of beers, and an alchemy in combining them to achieve the desired flavor. As it turns out, brewing podcasts are not boring, and I wonder if Mason would consider adding a hotel package that would let guests take part in the process. I laugh, imagining him sharing his workspace with strangers. Maybe he wouldn’t object to tours. I make a note to ask.
* * *
If someone had asked me to close my eyes and describe a small midwestern town, Port Clinton is what I’d have envisioned. Old-fashioned brick and stone buildings arranged in a neat grid of locally owned shops, restaurants, salons, pubs, boutiques, and—what I came for—antique stores. A bell jingles on the door handle as I step into a shop called Very Vintage Vivian, and from somewhere in the jumble of old furniture and décor, a voice calls out, “Hi! I’ll be with you in a second.” Followed by a small crash. “Maybe make that two seconds.”
I wander through the shop, hoping something will catch my eye. After about five minutes, a woman around my age emerges from behind a china cabinet. Her long hair is dyed black on one side, platinum on the other, and her arms are covered in colorful tattoos from shoulder to wrist. She looks spectacular. “Can I help you find anything?”
“I’m just starting to look for lamps, artwork, and possibly some vintage beds for a specialty hotel on Kelleys Island,” I tell her. “I can’t pinpoint exactly what I want, but I’ll know it when I see it.”
“What’s the vibe you’re going for?”
“Kind of like … lake house.” I laugh when she recoils, her nostrils flaring. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m not looking for themed stuff. No oars. No anchors. No cutesy lake house sayings. I want things that are nostalgic, interesting, and fun.”
“Now those are words I understand.”
“Oh, and I need crystal chandeliers.”
She points up. Overhead are dozens of hanging light fixtures, among them five crystal chandeliers. “How many do you want?”
“I’ll take them all.”
“I’m Vivian, by the way,” she says, leading me deeper into the shop.
“I’m Rachel.”
There are several unassembled beds leaning against the back wall. Some look thrift shop old and are not quite what I’m looking for, but I find a cream-colored iron frame tucked behind a wooden cannonball bed.
“How big is this one?” I ask, touching the iron bed.
“Looks like a double, but we can measure to be sure.”
She digs into a pocket on her leather tool belt and pulls out a measuring tape. Together we verify the size, and I steal a peek at the price tag. It’s marked $550. I’m no expert on antiques, but I’d rather pay that amount for a vintage bed than the same amount for a modern replica with lesser quality, even if it has a few chips in the paint.
“It’s going to need to be refinished,” I say. “Would you take four hundred dollars?”
“I’d settle at four hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
While Vivian puts a sold sign on the bed and brings out a ladder from the back room to take down the chandeliers, I meander through the store, past an old hutch stacked with Fiestaware and bins filled with vinyl records. None of the furniture jumps out at me, but on a mid-century end table I spy a lamp with a base shaped like three fish, one atop another. It straddles a fine line between vintage and kitsch, making it perfect. On another table, there’s a lamp from around the same era, with an iridescent green base shaped like tropical flowers and topped with a tiered lampshade. I take both to the cash register.