That surprised a laugh out of her. It was very helpful in banishing the several butterflies that took up residence in the bottom of her stomach. It was their second--third!--conversation. He was in her house. What was she doing? Anne's fingers, now free, tingled. She wiggled them, knuckles rippling in little waves back and forth, and she turned quickly away toward the kitchen. Focus on guest service now!
The kitchen was in autumn colors. The living room was spring; the kitchen was fall. Deep reds and subtle yellows slipped and mixed all over the room, from the pads on the white wood chairs to the kitchen towels to the drips of paint that slid down the surface of the refrigerator. The tea kettle was spewing steam enthusiastically, silent since she had left the cap open and there was nothing to whistle threw. She frantically went through three drawers before she found the oven mitt and pulled the kettle onto a cool burner. "Oh, see. I left it." She sighed at herself.
True to her word, Anne was a tea-drinker. There were orange baked clay jars with lids that had permanent pen ink labels like "green," "ceylon," and "earl grey" along with herbal fruit teas. The "white, peach" one was open.