Now, where were the appetizers set last month?
By the upright piano and the dusty bulletin board full of mission trip photos, I think.
I smile as I pass people, including Red and Delia from the bar. Red waves, but Delia’s eyes jump away from mine the second they land on me.
“‘Bout time they enforce that law,” Delia mutters.
I slow my steps, pretending to study a “chicken spaghetti casserole” on one of the tables.
"Oh, come on, Delia," Red says. “She’s harmless."
"Harmless?" Delia's voice sharpens. “My grandparents ranthe hardware store for sixty years until that investment group bought them out along with Serena’s family’s auto repair shop. And then what happened two years later? Profits weren’t high enough, so they closed everything and abandoned main street."
"That was a different time?—"
“Easy for you to say. You’ve been here for four years. But this always happens in Mullet Ridge. Outside money comes in, promises to make things better, then leaves us with empty storefronts and folks out of work." I can hear the bitterness in her voice. "People here don't just work these businesses—they ARE these businesses. Been in families for generations."
“You really think that’ll happen here?”
"Maybe, maybe not. Point is, that law exists for a reason, and it's about time someone remembered why."
I have no idea what law they're talking about, but the way Delia said it—like she was looking forward to something—sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine.
Note to self: have Scottie look into whatever this is.
I walk to the end of the line of tables to find a space between a seven-layer salad and a jello mold shaped like a fish, complete with shredded carrots suspended inside. Across the table, I spot baked mac and cheese and something labeled “Ambrosia Salad.”
I find space next to the mac and cheese and grab one of the pens and folded index cards.
I write, “Smoked Paprika-Truffle Deviled Eggs.” I consider adding “hand-piped,” but something tells me that fits better on the menu atLe Rivage.
As I’m placing the card, someone at my shoulder tuts.
I flinch. Eunice stands beside me in a bright coral twin set with pearl buttons, sensible pumps, and a matching handbag the size of a lunchbox.
“Oh, Eunice, I didn’t see you there,” I say. She’s probably five-one, so it’s understandable.
“We can’t all be Amazons,” she drawls.
Right.
Because I’m never what people expect. What they want. I’m too tall to be a lady, too bony to be athletic, too big-boned to be a model, too opinionated, too jokey, too hot, too cold.
One day, I hope to find my Goldilocks moment. Or size. Or story.
But today is not that day.
Eunice tuts, but she’s staring at the ambrosia salad, not my eggs. “That ambrosia doesn’t look good. Poor Bessy’s been under so much stress with the—” she leans in—“divorce.”
“Oh no,” I say, hand to chest. “That must be awful.”
“It is. Bless her heart.”
Loretta joins us in a turquoise linen dress with a beaded belt and a perfectly tilted hat, radiating judgment wrapped in floral-scented diplomacy.
“So you brought the deviled eggs,” she says. “Doesn’t look like it was made with Duke’s, does it?”
“Sorry—what’s Duke’s?”
