“Shoot, sorry, Red.” I throw him the rag and wet another from the sink. “Drinks are on me tonight.”
Red waves me off. “Don’t get yourself in a tizzy. But I’ll take the free drinks.”
When he finishes wiping his arms and face, he tosses me back the rag, and I mop up the counter and get him a fresh drink.
“What was it y’all were saying about the new owner?” I ask, trying to sound calm. Cool. Casual.
Not like someone who’s thought off and on about her and that big, radiant smile for months.
Red shrugs. “Oh, Kayla Carville bought the team, and half the town thinks she’s runnin’ it into the ground.”
“How do you figure?” I ask with a hint more challenge than I should. “Don’t the Mudflaps have a winning season for once?”
“It’s not the games,” Delia says. She takes a long drink. Too long. “It’sher. Some snobby New England billionaire comes in and thinks she knows our town? Please.”
“The Carvilles are from Atlanta. Y’all know she’s Tripp Carville’s cousin. Her grandpa owned Sugar Maple Farms. She’s got roots here.”
“I don’t care about her roots,” Delia says, slamming her now empty glass on the counter. “I care about her bringing a store-bought pie to a covered dish.”
Red scoffs. “Hon, you don’t even go to church. What do you care about some church potluck for?”
“Because it ain’t about church. It’s about the community. I go to every one.”
“And so does Kayla Carville,” Red argues.
“But that was her first time. And she had dessert, of all things.”
“So she bought a pie?”
“Red McCallister, you don’t know nothing about nothing.”
“Give her a break,” I tell Delia, more emboldened on behalf of Kayla than I ever would be for me. “She’s traveling in from Atlanta. It’s not like she has a kitchen here.”
Delia taps her glass for a refill. I pour her a second glass, but even though it’s just Guinness, I’mthis closeto cutting her off already.
“Nah,” Red says. “She’s staying at her cousin’s mini mansion in Sugar Maple with all those yankees.”
“The ‘Janes,’” Delia says in a mocking tone.
“Easy, Delia. One of those ‘Janes’ is dating my brother.” I wipe my hands on my rag and fold my arms. But my insides are twisting themselves into knots.
Sugar Maple is ten minutes away.
Kayla is staying here?
“Besides,” I add. “It sounds like she’s trying to fit in, if she’s going to a church potluck.”
“She’d fit in better if she cared enough to make a dessert,” Delia grumbles.
“She’s trying hard enough,” Red says, ignoring Delia. “The stadium looks better, at least.”
Delia shakes her head. “Money like hers doesn’t settle here well. We’re not impressed by a facelift.”
Red mutters something under his breath, and Delia curses him out, but their familiar bickering can’t carry my attention any longer.
Because just then, the bar door swings open, and a tall, lean woman with long auburn waves and warm, hazel eyes stands in the entrance with a tentative smile on her face. She’s effortlessly beautiful in wine red slacks and a white sleeveless blouse that shows her pristine, pale skin.
And that hair …
