Shelbourne & Mattingly: Part 1
Part 1 of The Tea House
Welcome to Rockland Springs, Kentucky, on December 21, 1992. The shortest day of the year seems perfect for beginning Erie and Seth's story—two childhood friends whose families built one of Kentucky's most beloved bourbon legacies. Their worlds are about to shift in unexpected ways at Aunt Leo’s Kentucky Tea Parlour on this winter morning.
"The Tea House" is Part 1 of Shelbourne & Mattingly, a winter novelette. New parts will be released every Saturday. All parts will be available free to readers as we build our community of story lovers.
Pour yourself a cup of Earl Grey (Seth's favorite), and step inside where the fire is warm and secrets are waiting to spill like bourbon from a tapped barrel...
December 21, 1992
1: THE TEA HOUSE
My aunt Leona Shelbourne believed that broken teacups weren’t the end of the world—which was fortunate, given my track record. Aunt Leo’s Kentucky Tea Parlour was a rebellion of flea market treasures: vintage tablecloths, red bistro chairs, and enough mismatched china to serve half of Rockland Springs. A sink full of morning dishes waited, but instead I was sitting with Seth Mattingly, drinking sweet, milky Earl Grey, watching winter rain soak the street. Christmas music from the ancient Crosley mixed with the pop and snap of the fireplace, almost making me forget about the December chill.
A ray of sunshine pierced the gray clouds. “Erie, look.” Seth placed his paint-stained hand in the sudden patch of sunlight. “A warm yellow light has entered our world.”
“I’m not familiar with this magic.”
“I believe it is known as ‘the sun.’ An ancient celestial body that occasionally remembers we exist.”
“Unlike you, who graces my presence each morning at eight-thirty sharp.”
“I’d advise you not to get used to that.”
“It’s too early for gallows humor.”
“Noted.” His hands shook as he lifted his cup. “I’ll save the doom and gloom for a more civilized hour. How’s nine-thirty work for you?”
“Can you make it ten? I want to indulge in an hour of make-believe bliss.”
I sipped my tea and gazed at the Kentucky Heritage Museum across the street, a Civil War-era mansion with its famous cannonball scar—a ragged hole left unrepaired to honor the Battle of Rockland Springs.
Seth nudged my foot beneath the table. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” A smudge of blue paint traced his jaw, like a bruise.
“Back off, Mattingly.” I gestured at the empty shop. “It’s not like I’m drowning in customers.”
“Just how I like it. I’m your center of attention.” His eyes met mine for a fraction too long.
“Someone has to keep an eye on you.” I reached toward the blue smear. “You’ve got a little something...”
He flinched. “Leave it. It’s my new signature look. What do you think?”
“Makes your eyes pop.”
Seth lifted his empty teacup. “More Earl Grey, Shelbourne.”
“Sure you don’t want to try an oolong? Or a rooibos?”
“Afraid not. Some of us don’t need exotic teas to feel special.” He stirred his Earl Grey. “Though Aunt Leo probably wishes I was more adventurous.”
“No, Aunt Leo thinks everything you do is precious.” I went to boil water. As I rounded the counter, I noticed that Seth had hand-lettered his own message on the chalkboard specials sign: “Tea of the Day: The Tears of Our Enemies. (We also have Earl Grey.)”
The baked goods case was empty. I’d arrived before dawn to bake six batches of Aunt Leo’s bourbon-drenched lemon cupcakes, but a slew of early customers had decimated the supply. The two-hour morning rush had been relentless, just me providing lost tourists with distillery directions, brewing pots of Winter Solstice tea, and ringing up purchases for bourbon fruitcake and Rockland Springs sweatshirts.
I refilled Seth’s cup with pretended formality. “Fun fact: Earl Grey tea was originally flavored with bergamot oil to disguise the taste of bad water.”
“Very interesting,” he said, stirring cream and sugar into his tea. “But here’s a fact I bet you don’t know. You shouldn’t have unprotected sex during chemotherapy.”
I nearly dropped the teapot.
“Just file that away for future reference,” he grinned.
“Good morning, Miss Shelbourne. Greetings, Mr. Mattingly.” Brother Elias stood in the kitchen doorway, his white habit and wire-rimmed glasses spotless despite the rain.
“Brother Elias.”
“I’ve left Ms. Leo’s fudge in its usual spot.” I nodded, still blushing from Seth’s out-of-nowhere comment. Elias turned to him. “I heard about your trip to the Brown Center in Louisville. All of us at the abbey have been offering prayers.”
“Thanks, Brother Elias. God and I aren’t on speaking terms at the moment.”
“Now, now. Sometimes prayer is just showing up. Like you do here each morning.”
“That’s right.” Seth smiled at me. “Some say I’m more predictable than the sun rising.”
“Brother Lazarus also found comfort in routines. Morning prayers, evening vespers, even during chemotherapy. Though he always said the hardest part wasn’t the treatment. It was seeing us watch him suffer.”
Seth’s spoon stopped mid-stir. I signed the delivery slip.
“I’m off to the distillery.” Brother Elias adjusted his glasses. “Time to restock our not-so-secret ingredient.”
“Don’t forget your tea, Brother Elias.” I handed him a to-go cup of lemon ginger. “Extra honey today.” He left as quietly as he came.
By lunch, Maggie Mattingly would know her youngest son had given up praying. I sent up my own prayer that he would keep the contraception conversation to himself.
Seth’s fingers found his temple—that gentle signal I’d learned to read. “Nature calls. Try not to miss me too much.” He slipped into the back.
I busied myself with the abbey’s bourbon fudge display, trying not to count the minutes. I saw myself in Aunt Leo’s prized Victorian mirror: copper hair escaping its braid, cheeks pink from the morning rush, eyes wide from too much tea. My apron was printed with the logo Seth had painted for Aunt Leo in seventh grade, a teapot in sunset colors of blue and rose. “It’s perfect, dear heart,” she had said, cupping his face. “You’re Kentucky’s Claude Monet.”
Seth returned from the bathroom, his skin pale. “Must be nice to always look phenomenal,” he said to my reflection, running his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt at order. His brown waves used to fall past his collar—Sacred Heart’s longest-running dress code violation.
I rolled my eyes. “Says the fairest Mattingly of them all, even on bad hair days.”
He gave up on his hair and turned to the fudge display. “Ah, the divine marriage of Trestle Ridge and dark chocolate.”
“Almost as magical as Trestle Ridge and honey, the cure-all for bourbon babies.” Our mothers had mixed Shelbourne & Mattingly bourbon with honey for everything from teething pain to nighttime coughs.
“‘Panther sweat’—I can still taste it. Though these days, I prefer my medicine straight.” He pushed the sample box toward me. “Breakfast?”
“Don’t mind if I do. You?”
“Nah. Not hungry.” His eyes met mine, held. “But I can wait until ten to share the morbid details.”
The bell jingled. Shannon Clay from the Tourism Board appeared, her blonde hair arranged with the kind of precision that required both time and professional products. Behind her stood a man in a navy blazer and khakis—Topher Gates, Rockland Springs’ newest import, all gym-sculpted shoulders and wheat-colored crew cut, pink skin glowing, not a thread out of place.
“Erie Shelbourne, back from the north!” Shannon’s voice carried. “And Seth Mattingly, as I live and breathe. I didn’t expect to see you out so early.” Shannon and Topher chose a table beneath a framed photograph of our distillery’s founders—Jonathan Shelbourne and Mason Mattingly—proudly posing in their work clothes in front of their first rickhouse in 1936. Aunt Leo had topped their heads with jaunty felt Santa hats. Several of Seth’s earlier paintings hung nearby, firmly marked “not for sale.”
Shannon waved away the menus, while Topher tugged at his tailored sleeves. “Two chai lattes, please.” Her red lipstick matched her wool suit. “Erie, I thought for sure you’d stay in Chicago after college. I know you had your heart set on working for a big city museum.”
“Turns out I needed to come home for a while.” Let Shannon think what she wanted—that I’d failed in Chicago, that I was settling for serving afternoon tea and small-town gossip. The truth was messier.
“Well, it’s so fun that you’re back working at Aunt Leo’s,” she said, her voice bright as artificial sweetener. “Just like high school. It’s like nothing ever changes around here!”
I set down their lattes, hearts drawn in milk foam.
“Seth and Erie, meet Topher,” Shannon said. “He’s our new marketing director. We were just at your family’s tasting room—your paintings are simply gorgeous there, Seth.”
“We’re looking for something similar for the visitor’s center,” Topher added. “Something that really captures our bourbon heritage. Tourism’s our future, especially with the industry changes we’re seeing.”
“Sorry, those are long gone,” Seth said. “I’m working on something completely different now.”
“Oh, do tell!”
I studied Seth, wondering what Shannon with her salon waves and Topher with his preppy blazer thought of him in his indigo sweater, fraying at the neck, stained with oil paint, his sharp elbow poking through a growing hole. The chips of pale scalp showing through his scruffy brown hair told a story only we understood.
“My new series is called Impermanence.” His hands framed an invisible canvas, and suddenly he was all artist. “Imagine this: I take Civil War photos and paint layer after layer with oils. As the colors blend, it’s like looking at bodies through old church windows. Just shapes, really. Beautiful shapes.” His eyes lit with that dangerous spark I knew too well. “Then I take my razor blade and scrape back the paint, exposing what's hidden, whether you want to see it or not. Only then do you realize they were dead all along. Time becomes meaningless, until suddenly it’s all you can think about.”
“I’m not sure the visitor center is ready for that,” Topher said with a husky laugh.
TO BE CONTINUED in Part 2 of THE TEA HOUSE