Meeting at La Véritea

Melody approached the oversized wooden door of La Véritea House with care. So caught up in making her appointment on this brisk January day, she wore thin, flimsy shoes with hardly any tread, thinking only of the dress code and not the weather. She cursed under her breath as she gingerly navigated the slick stone steps, willing herself to stay upright while salty winds whipped in from the coast. 

Everyone knew La Véritea as the "High Time House" around town, dubbed as such for its lengthy waitlist and mysterious nature. Case in point — Mel had never met anyone who had been inside or able to secure an appointment.

There were a few reasons for this. First, La Véritea was extremely exclusive and therefore always booked. Second, not many people knew that it existed to serve more than just tea. And third, the people who went in rarely came out the same. Or at all. 

The regulars at La Véritea were all high-profile types like government officials, filthy rich entrepreneurs, Hollywood stars, and so on. This might make sense in somewhere like L.A. or New York, but tucked away here in sleepy Salinas off the coast of Northern California? 

Locals had stopped thinking it was strange long ago. Just some other elite club where fancy people came to get away from it all. They were just grateful they didn't bring swaths of paparazzi, entourages, and tourists with them. 

Small newspapers and gossip rags would occasionally run a "Spotted!" type column about who'd been in and out, but the state and national news never mentioned anything about La Véritea at all. Nor did the televised newscasts. Never a peep about how some of the regulars and their plus-ones left with a spring in their step while others receded from the limelight entirely. That a few acted dazed and daydreamy and some were sullen and secretive, even when before they were gregarious and lively. No reports that groups and couples walked in but not everyone always walked out. 

Stranger still, these big shots would bring a truly perplexing assortment of plus-ones — peers in their industry and luminaries in other sectors were easy enough to understand, as was the occasional lawyer, accountant, or family member. Just as often, though, they'd approach that imposing circular door with their dog walkers, housekeepers, and personal chefs in tow. Once, an extremely high-profile model arrived with her mailman. 

As a gesture of goodwill, the owner of La Véritea (a woman no one had ever clapped eyes on, known simply as Alette) saved one booking a month for a regular joe and their plus-one. Melody had submitted her name years ago. She had scribbled that and her telephone number on a scrap of paper she slipped into an ancient-looking copper raffle drum that stood at the base of the stairs. She had thought about it consistently for some time, then every so often, then never.

When La Véritea's sommelier reached out, it took Melody a few minutes to realize who he was and what on earth he was talking about. When he explained the real purpose of the tea house and inquired whether she would be able to make use of its services, her jaw dropped. 

How could they know that at that moment she was looking for just what they had to offer? It wasn't top-secret government business or a tawdry Hollywood scandal, but still. So much made sense now. 

Before hanging up, the sommelier mentioned one last thing. The staff at La Véritea had ways of making sure guests and their plus-ones never revealed the tea house's trade secrets once they left. She would do well to remember that fact and never, ever, forget it. 

Mel walked past the hallowed establishment's entrance multiple times a week — it was just on outside downtown near where she lived — but she had never been close enough to examine the door. At least 50 steps and a feeling of foreboding had kept her well away. Until today. 

Melody remembered her friend Meg and glanced over her shoulder to see how she was keeping up. She invited Meg as her plus-one, and as far as her companion was concerned, the two were in for a real treat. Megan couldn't wait to brag to anyone who would listen that she had been part of the chosen at La Véritea. She loved anything that made her life seem like it might be better and more interesting than anyone else's. 

Somehow, despite her giddy excitement as she mentally planned the perfect post and caption to describe her day, Meg managed to look haughty and imperious. 

The two women conquered the final stone step and Melody rapped on the door. Just like in old spy movies, a small hatch behind a twisting, Florentine-style speakeasy grille slid open. The subtle scent of jasmine wafted through as two brown bespectacled eyes swam into view. They belonged to a placid face that looked neither male nor female. 

"Thank you for joining us today. Your appointment will begin in five minutes. Please step into the vestibule, remove your shoes and excess layers, and leave all bags and mobile devices in lockers 88 and 89. Someone will be with you shortly to lead you to your table. As Tier-One guests, please allow two hours for your appointment. You may enter now."

Melody gave Meg a look; Meg just raised her eyebrows and half rolled her eyes. Feeling slightly annoyed, Mel turned her back on her friend and pushed open the door.

***

Inside was a sumptuous room with a dim, cozy ambiance despite its cavernous ceiling. There was no furniture save for elegant, vintage-looking lockers stacked against the wall and strategically placed wooden coat racks. The carpet was thick, red, and immaculate. The walls were painted in tones of deep mauve and crimson with glittering gold accents to match the hanging chandeliers, light switches, and other ornate hardware. 

Though they looked old, the safe's were biometric. "I don't remember signing anything saying they could take my fingerprint." Megan huffed as she placed her thumb against the front and allowed it to scan her unique crisscrosses and indentations.

After they had deposited everything into their allotted spaces, the two lingered awkwardly. "Feels weird to be without my phone," Megan said to fill up the space. "I wanted to take pictures. Hmpf."

Melody nodded in agreement. It did feel weird to not have anything on her person, but it was also liberating. 

Just then, a smartly-dressed hostess walked in from the far end of the room. Had there always been a heavy curtain there? Melody hadn't noticed it until it was swaying in her wake. 

"Melody Cork and Megan Small?" The woman inquired through red-tinted lips. They nodded. "This way." 

The hostess led them back through the curtain and down a long hallway dotted with sconces. They, too, looked ancient, but Melody could tell there were LED lights behind their facades. They passed doors without knobs and winding staircases, hallways that jutted off into unknown corridors and small enclaves. Stupidly, Melody thought of the Old Spaghetti Factory she used to go to with her grandparents. Then she thought about the Overlook Hotel from The Shining. She snorted. Megan shot her an irritated look. 

At long last, the hostess brought them to a room slightly smaller than the vestibule but still comparatively cavernous and just as sumptuously decorated. She caught aromatic whiffs of more jasmine, some rose, sage, and even marshmallow. "Must be the tea..." she mused to Meg.

They were seated in a small room behind a sliding glass door. It was like a train compartment mixed with a restaurant booth and even though it was cloistered and cramped, Melody kind of liked it. She felt oddly safe.

Of course, she was nervous too. She hated confrontation.

The hostess gently placed two menus before each of them once they sat down and offered them sparkling mineral water. "Do you have water that isn't carbonated?" Megan asked immediately.

"Of course." The hostess replied in a clipped voice before walking away.

Mel glanced down at the menu.

Tier One

Honestea 

Served with condolence cakes, crumpets, and your choice of curd  

Tier Two

The Truth Will Set You Tea 

Served with savor-this-moment sandwiches ~OR~ sympathy scones 

Tier Three

Tipple, Tope, Soldier, Spy

Served with apology tarts 

available only on request 

Tier Four

Catch Tea if You Can 

Meals off-site 

"So we can only get one thing?" Megan said as she looked up from her menu. "What's the point of that? People must spend tons of money here. God, rich people, I swear. This is free for us, right?"

"Yep, it's part of a 'giving back' program, the sommelier told me," Mel replied. "Some sort of agreement the original proprietor made with local legislation when they opened it. He said it was originally an apothecary before they expanded it. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure how old-"

Meg cut across her. "Thank god, I can already tell this place is overpriced and over-hyped. My water isn't even here yet."

Melody fell silent for a moment, thinking. Yes, they had come to the right place. "I guess we just wait for someone to come take our order?" Meg let out a mirthless laugh. "Why bother?" She said.

15 minutes crawled by while Megan, unbidden, told Melody about a coworker who annoyed her, the habits of her pets, and her favorite TV show. Megan always said everything was her favorite, though.

Like usual, Melody listened and offered the occasional sound of agreement or understanding, every so often trying to contribute something but always being talked over. She grew impatient. Where was that tea?

Finally, a server in a crisp white button-down shirt and black pants approached. Melody got up to slide open the door for him and could've sworn he gave her a tiny, grateful smile in return. He set down a beautiful tray with a gorgeous sterling silver teapot embossed with thin outlines of flowers: peonies, apple blossoms, white poppies, and lotus. She wondered what the significance was.  

Besides the teapot were platters of perfectly baked little cakes in a dizzying array of colors and crumpets surrounded by small ramekins of lemon and banoffee curd. 

"I thought it was the curd of our choice?" Meg huffed in the server's direction.

"It is, miss." He replied professionally. "The main guest chooses upon invitation." He tilted his head toward Mel, gave her the shadow of a wink.

Megan looked stony. "Is it vegan?" He shook his head. "Great. I can't have it."

"I mean you could, just this once? For the experience?" Melody offered gently, but Meg just shook her head.

"The baked goods are also sadly not to your dietary restrictions, miss," The server said with an apologetic tone. "And I'm afraid we do not allow any substitutions." With that, he left Meg looking mutinous.

"Let's try the tea," Melody said, hastily pulling a delicate ceramic cup and saucer off the tray. "Look, it's steaming hot and smells amazing. The guy didn't say what it was. Oolong, perhaps? What a weird place." She poured a cup for Meg and pushed it toward her, along with the sugar and cream. She instantly regretted it when she realized there was no almond or soy milk to be had. 

Melody gave herself a generous pour and tried to hide her shaking. Meg blew on her tea and sipped it gingerly. "This is actually really nice, even black." Meg said, surprised and delighted against her will. Melody tasted hers.

It was a rollercoaster of flavors. First sweet and tart, then earthy, then smoky, and when the swallow was complete, it left behind a slight tingling sensation, as though of peppermint.

"Shit," Melody laughed, "That's good!" Meg laughed too, and Melody felt a fleeting stab of regret for taking her here.

Fleeting, because Meg then immediately said, "Hope it's not caffeinated."

Megan continued to talk. As the minutes crept by her speech became increasingly agitated and quick. She was beginning to share more and more delicate information about herself and her life and seemed surprised she couldn't stop. Melody was feeling elated, as though she could say or do anything. 

Finally, it was Melody who interrupted Meg.

"Do you think you're a good friend to me?" She asked.

"No. I'm not a good friend to anyone. I'm actually pretty toxic." Meg admitted, shocked but still talking.

"I talk at you about myself constantly to feed my own ego, which is why I barely know anything about you. I latch onto you so I can make it seem like I have friends and guilt you so feel like you're victimizing me and can't walk away. I treat you poorly because I like to feel like I have power over someone else and to distract from how shitty my personality is. I never think twice about how bad I make you feel constantly. I'm a serial manipulator and have inflicted this behavioral pattern on every friend and partner I've ever had."

Silence. 

Melody smiled. "Thought so," she said. "I'm glad you could finally admit it. I feel really good about this. You can delete my number, I've already deleted yours. I wish you all the best." Melody picked up one last crumpet, smeared it with lemon curd, and slid open the door to the booth.

The server was waiting expectedly at a podium near the exit. "I'm ready to go now." She told him.

"Do you feel lighter, miss?" He asked.

"Like a huge weight has been lifted. Thank you."

He nodded. "Of course. You'll find your belongings just outside this door. There is a restroom to the right once you make your way down the hall if you need it, and another door that leads back out onto the street. Someone will be waiting to drive you home from there."

"What about my plus-one?" Melody inquired.

"She will sit in your booth until the appointment is up. Then we will explain how La Véritea House operates and what she can expect once she leaves. She will exit the same way you both came in."

Melody nodded. "Thank you," she said again. "This has been a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Cathartic even." 

"Our pleasure. Please review our rules once more on your way out — they're posted next to the exit. And miss?"

"Hmm?"

"Moving forward, choose your friends more wisely."

Melody chewed on that last piece of advice as she made her way out of La Véritea. Next time she wouldn't let it get this far, next time she'd stick up for herself. When she made it out onto the street, the sun was shining and a black car was waiting for her.