Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Then I see him, and I have to resist the urge to crank the air-conditioning because that man can make a woman flush.
Sam Rochelle.
He’s walking down Wilmington toward Chesty’s, tall and broad-shouldered, his blond hair catching sunlight. His sunglasses hide what I remember to be impossibly blue eyes, and the dimple in his cheek flashes when someone calls out to him. He laughs—low, easy, familiar—and then disappears through Chesty’s door.
Still gorgeous and apparently still working at the same bar where he started after dropping out of college five years ago. I’d assumed bartending was a temporary thing for him… a way to fill time until he figured himself out. Sam’s a smart guy and I didn’t see bartending in his long-term future, but maybe I was wrong. After moving away, my finger isn’t on the Whynot pulse the way it used to be.
Muriel’s bungalow sits under a canopy of dogwoods whose leaves are fully unfurled, the flowers just starting to open. It’s one of my favorite trees and I know it has a lot of religious symbolism, but I love it simply because it represents spring in the South.
My aunt lives on a quiet street where everybody’s mail gets read twice—once by the recipient and once by the neighbor across the hedge. Muriel’s 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham sits in the driveway, taking up almost the entire concrete pad. The damn thing’s nearly twenty feet long with velour seats and chrome spit-shined to a sparkle. It was a gift thirty years ago from her late husband, Earl.
I note two cars parked along the curb and I peg the one with the Honk if you love Jesus bumper sticker as belonging to a sweet church lady. That proclamation graces many a bumper around here and always makes me smile with fondness.
The other has no identifying features, but I presume it’s a home health aide. Muriel got discharged from the rehab hospital just yesterday and I know she has to continue therapy.
Luckily, I rented a compact car at the Raleigh Airport and I’m able to squeeze in behind the Caddy. I grab my shoulder bag and don’t bother with my luggage in the trunk. I’m too eager to see Muriel and gauge how she’s really doing.
I don’t bother with the front door, intent on letting myself through the side entrance that leads into the small kitchen. The scent of lemon oil, cinnamon and maybe a hint of antiseptic hits me, and those three things together aren’t all that pleasant. There’s a pound cake on the counter, covered in plastic wrap with a small white bow on top, which confirms my suspicions that a church lady is indeed nearby.
It’s a universal truth that if there’s cake, you can bet that within twenty feet there’s a Southern woman checking in on her neighbor.
I move through the kitchen, following the sound of laughter, and find Muriel on the living room couch. Her leg is elevated on a fortress of pillows and her gray hair is pinned back from her face with bobby pins, but of course, she has on lipstick because she’s well-bred.
The smile comes without effort as I see she’s in full command of two church ladies—Mrs. Puckett and Mrs. DeVine—and a home health nurse who looks… tired. Not defeated—just the sort of weary that comes from being bossed around by a woman who can flay you with a look and then feed you till you cry.
Mrs. Puckett sees me first, her face lighting with recognition. “Oh, my stars… look what the cat dragged in. Penny Pritchard has come home!”
Muriel’s head twists and her gaze rakes from my silk blouse to my pencil skirt and low-slung heels. She puts on an exaggerated disapproving look. “If it isn’t Miss Washington, DC. Bless her heart and her humidity-sensitive hair.”
I snort, set my bag down, and cross to the couch. Bending over, I give my aunt a warm hug, noting that she holds on a bit longer than she normally would, and I don’t miss the flash of relief when she lets go. Muriel smells like Pond’s cold cream, and a million memories of me hugging her over the years assault me in the best way.
She pretends to shoo me but squeezes my hand before letting go. “You didn’t need to come all this—”
“Yes, I did.” I straighten and glance at the church delegation. “Mrs. Puckett… Mrs. DeVine… you both are looking pretty as pictures.”
They preen, Mrs. Puckett touching her white curls with a manicured hand. “Oh, please, darling girl. You’re the one who should have jetted off to Paris to walk runways rather than that dreadful Capitol Hill. Your looks could have taken you places.”
I disregard the comment because one of the things I always hated was people thinking my looks would take me far in life rather than my brains. I turn to the other tired-looking woman. “Hi. I’m Penny Pritchard, Muriel’s niece. I assume you’re a home health aide.”