Talia
For the first time in three years, Talia felt alive.
She stood in her Aunt Elara's warm, cluttered kitchen, the scent of the sumac they had bought still lingering on her hands. The market, a chaotic early morning rush, had invigorated her. It hadn't felt like work. It felt like art. It was about the joy, not the numbers.
As she measured the dark, citrusy powder into a glass jar, she instinctively recalled her father's careful, loving motions.
"It's beautiful, Auntie," she said, her voice lighter than it had been in years. "The quality is incredible. That man... his sourcing is perfect."
"Of course it is," Elara said, already halfway through a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. "He's been there for forty years. He knows his trade. Not like that man you ran into."
Talia paused, her hand hovering over the jar. A memory flashed through her mind—arctic-blue eyes, filled with anger and sadness. "Oh. Yeah. He... he seemed a little lost."
"Lost? He looked furious," Elara scoffed. "And he was standing in the middle of a spice hall at 5:30 AM in a hoodie that probably cost five hundred pounds. Men like that aren't 'lost,' darling. They are 'brooding.' It's a very expensive, very annoying hobby. Forget him. You," she said, pointing a jam-covered knife at Talia, "are the focus."
Talia's brief moment of happiness vanished. "What focus?"
Elara took a long, noisy sip of coffee. She surveyed her niece with a sharp, appraising gaze. Talia was still in her "uniform": worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a shapeless, comfortable sweater that once belonged to her father.
"Phase one was a success," Elara declared, as if giving a briefing. "We've reminded you that you are a Solomon. You have a passion. You are not just a grey invoice walking around."
"I'm not grey," Talia muttered, glancing down at her grey sweater, and then immediately blushed.
"You are a cloud, darling. A sad little raincloud. You look... haunted. Like a Victorian child. We've fixed the inside," she tapped her own chest. "Now, we fix the outside."
Talia's dormant anxiety flared to life. "What's wrong with the outside?"
"What's right with it?" Elara countered, standing up. "You are twenty-six. You are beautiful. You are on holiday. And you're dressed for hauling sacks. Which," she added, holding up a finger, "you are forbidden from doing. Today, we are going to be ladies."
"Ladies?"
"Ladies," Elara affirmed. "We are going to The Midland. For high tea."
Talia felt her heart sink. The Midland. The grand, gothic, red-brick palace in the center of town. A place where a single pot of tea cost more than her daily food budget.
"Auntie, no," Talia said, her voice tightening. "That's... that's... a hundred pounds. At least. I can't... I... we can't afford that."
Elara's warm, smiling face became serious. She walked over to Talia, her expression fierce.
"Listen to me, Talia Solomon," she said, her voice low. "Rule one of your rescue: I am in charge. Rule two: You are not your family's bank. Rule three: I am paying. I am your aunt. It is my job and my pleasure to spoil you. You have forgotten what it feels like to be spoiled. You have forgotten what it's like to just receive."
She cupped Talia's face, her thumb brushing her cheek. "You cannot fix your life until you remember what it's supposed to feel like. And it's supposed to feel, at least sometimes, like tiny sandwiches and scones you didn't have to bake. End of discussion."
Talia's throat tightened. The urge to argue, to be responsible, battled with a profound desire to just let go.
"And," Elara added, her smile returning, "you are not wearing that."
An hour later, Talia stood in front of a full-length mirror, feeling like a fraud.
Elara's "guest" closet was really her own overflow—a treasure trove of colorful, expensive, and rarely-worn silks, cashmeres, and linens. Elara had pulled out a simple, forest-green silk blouse and a pair of perfectly tailored black trousers.
"They... they fit," Talia whispered, her hands gliding over the smooth, cool fabric.
"Of course they fit. You have my mother's hips. Now, stop looking at them as if they're going to bite you."
Talia faced her reflection. The woman in the mirror was not her. She wasn't the tired, apron-wearing, spice-dusted ghost. This woman was elegant. The green blouse enhanced the amber in her eyes and made her dark hair look richer. She looked like someone who belonged at The Midland.
She felt a strange, new sting behind her eyes. "Auntie..."
"Ah-ah! No crying. Crying is for weddings and funerals. This," Elara said, fastening a simple gold necklace around Talia's neck, "is a re-civilization. Now, let's go. Our table is at 2 PM."
The drive into the city center felt different this time. She wasn't an exhausted exile. She was a woman in a silk blouse, feeling the smooth leather of Elara's car seat, her hands nervously clasped in her lap.
When they arrived at the grand, imposing, red-brick façade of The Midland Hotel, a doorman in a top hat rushed to open Elara's door.
Talia's stomach flipped.
"Auntie, this is... this is too much," she whispered, her hand on the door handle, too nervous to get out. "I feel like they'll know I'm a fraud."
Elara leaned over, her perfume surrounding Talia. She took her niece's hand, her grip steady.
"Talia," she said, her voice soft but firm. "You are a Solomon. You are the smartest, strongest, and most passionate woman I know. You built a business from nothing. You are worth more than everyone in that tea room combined. Now... chin up. Shoulders back. And walk in there like you own the place."
Talia looked into her aunt's fierce, loving eyes. She took a deep breath, the scent of Elara's perfume blending with the faint smell of spices on her skin.
She opened the door.