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“Beau’s mentioned that name before. Y’all have some kind of Capulet-Montague thing going on, right?”
Milly lifts the side of her mouth. “Some backwoods version of it, yeah. It’s exhausting, if I’m being honest. It’s in everyone’s best interest to let bygones be bygones. I’m working on some back-channel negotiations of my own. But these boys, they don’t make it easy.”
“Your brothers?” I scoff. “Never.”
“I know, right? They’re the worst.” Her eyes flick to Beau. “And also the best. Look. It’s not my place to tell y’all what to do. I just want to see you both happy. Especially now that that little turkey”—she nods at Maisie, back on Mrs. B.’s hip—“is in the picture.”
“I know,” I say, swallowing. “I appreciate that. I want Beau to be happy, too. I’m trying.”
Milly takes my hand. “We all are.”
“I wish I had more time.”
“If it’s meant to be, time won’t matter. One of the many things I’ve learned in the ten years I’ve been in the wedding-planning business. That, and if you have second thoughts, you should probably listen to them.”
I squeeze her hand. “If only I’d hired you to plan my wedding.”
“Then you wouldn’t have had a wedding at all.”
“Exactly. Reason number five hundred why I wish I could’ve afforded you at the time.”
She wiggles her brows. “There’s always next time.”
“Ugh, don’t even go there.”
“Would you? Get married again?”
I turn my head and look into the fire. The flames lick higher now that Hank’s added a few more logs.
“I would, yeah,” I say after a beat. “The mistake I made with Ryan—he was an all right guy. He just wasn’t my best friend.”
Milly tilts her head, eyebrows still raised.
“I know, I know.” My turn to roll my eyes. “I’d say, ‘But Beau and I are platonic best friends,’ but yeah…a little late for that.”
Milly pats my hand. “I’ll leave it there. But know I’m rooting for y’all. Also, I think your daughter really, really likes it up here in the highlands.”
On cue, Maisie lets out her loudest giggle yet.
“Shameless,” I say.
“Just sayin’,” she replies.
Chapter Thirty
Beau
We’ve had many Sunday suppers over the years.
But this is the first one in a while—a long while, decades—that I’ve eaten with a baby on my lap.
Bel insisted she’d take Maisie while we ate. And immediately all six of us protested. I thought Mama and Milly would get into an all-out fight over who got to hold the baby.
So I made it simple and kept Maisie all to myself.
The table is piled high with food, all of it artfully arranged and beautifully presented in color-coordinated serving pieces, thanks to my sister. Several roasted chickens, skins crisp, juices dripping in the best, easiest gravy there is. A bowl piled high with mashed sweet potatoes, pats of butter melting to combine with the maple syrup drizzled over top. A deep casserole dish of Brussels sprouts gratin—“The secret is the heavy cream and a shit ton of gruyere,” Samuel confides—the cheese browned and still bubbling.
And because my brother is an overachiever like the rest of us, he “threw together” two dozen cornbread muffins, which he’s serving with homemade honey-and-chive butter.
“My goodness,” Lizzie says. “This might be the prettiest, most delicious-smelling spread I’ve ever seen.”
Annabel just shakes her head, settling her embroidered napkin on her lap. “You guys, this is insane.”
“Samuel’s one hell of a cook,” I say. “But he really pulled out all the stops tonight.”
My brother grins. “Special guests call for special food. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Which is one hundred percent fucking true—”
“Samuel,” Mama says.
“Sorry. It’s one hundred percent freaking true. But I’d like to amend that statement a bit and say food is the way to anyone’s heart. Especially us Southerners.”
Hank cocks a brow. “How many times you think your food’s gotten you laid?”
“Hank.” Poor Mama. How she survived four sons, I’ll never know.
Samuel just smiles. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“You’re no gentleman,” Rhett says.
“Obviously.”
Mama lets out a breath. “Where the hell did I put that spoon…”
“Hey,” Rhett says. “If I gotta watch my mouth, then you do too, Mama.”
She rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “Where the heck did I put it. That better?”
“Much, thank you.”
“Since Beau is otherwise occupied”—Samuel nods at Maisie, holding up his glass—“I’ll do tonight’s toast.”
“Christ,” Rhett groans.
Hank snickers. “How many times do you think he’ll bring up Bobby—”
“Y’all! I say this with love, but shut the hell up. Please and thank you.” Samuel clears his throat. “Let’s try this again. A toast. To the cutest damn guest we’ve ever had at Sunday supper, Miss Maisie Rhodes.”
I hold up my glass, then lean down to talk to the baby. “To Maisie. If Mama doesn’t steal you, I just might.”
Bel smiles at me from across the table. “You can steal her any day between the hours of four and seven PM. I guarantee you’ll be giving her right back.”
