“Oh my god, the ref’s fucking with me, isn’t she?”
“You’ll want to avoid checkout number three at the Piggly Wiggly.”
With a minute left in the first half, Darla gets the ball again, and she and Benny run side by side toward the goal, the right one and everything, dribbling the ball back and forth, as twinnish as twins can be. Laine’s sleeves are fully rolled up now, a fine layer of sweat dampening her forehead, as she claps like a maniac, urging those babies on. Then—
PHRRRRIIIIPTTT!The ref smiles fiendishly at Laine. “SHOELA—”
Laine leaps down and marches over to the referee and starts yelling in her face. I can’t make out much, but the wordsevilandSisypheanandWhat did I ever do to you?!float up before Chance comes over and joins them. At first, I think he’s gonna drag Laine off the field, but now he’s yelling at the ref, too, to the teenager’s evident delight.
“THAT KID WAS WEARINGVELCRO!” Chance bellows.
PHRRRRIIIIPTTT!The ref’s whistle shrieks in Chance’s face, then she tosses a yellow card at him. Chance throws his clipboard on the ground, groans rising from the bleachers.
Laine snatches the whistle out of the ref’s hand. “You can’tyellow cardhim!”
Undeterred, teen ref licks the back of a red card and sticks it against Laine’s forehead. “YOU’RE OUTTA HERE, CHAMP.”
It takes Booch plus three other concerned parents to drag Laine off the field. I find her sitting on my truck’s bumper, sulky as the day is long. It’s weirdly endearing.
“Well, well, well.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Never been thrown out of Soccer Saturday before.”
“You haven’t been paying attention then.” Laine sniffs. Her eyes flick upward as Chance, Darla, and Benny join us. The twins rush over, completely undisturbed by the game’s 0-0 score, and give Laine a hug on each side. “Hey, lil bits,” she says, her growly voice softening a bit. “Sorry Aunt Laine got booted out.”
“You were the loudest one there,” Darla says, then gives Laine a kiss on the cheek, which makes her smile.
Laine looks up at Chance, sheepish. “Sorry. I got … carried away.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Chance says, chewing his gum. “Maniacal’s another.”
“May-be if you taught those kids how to stay in formation, I’d have kept my cool better.” Laine stands, flint sparking in her eyes once more.
“Oh, you think you can do better?” Chance says.
“I know I can,a—butthole.” Laine steps into his face. They used to be eye-to-eye, but Chance shot up at least three more inches during college, and it clearly bugs Laine to hell and back. “When’s practice?”
Chance stares her down. “Tuesdays at five thirty p.m.,Coach.”
“I’ll see you then,Coach.”
With that, they nod aggressively at each other, and Laine turns and stalks off to the passenger side of my truck, just missing the first genuine smile I’ve seen Chance sport since she’s come home.
I salute him before getting into the driver’s side.
My work here is done.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Bless you, Elisa. I’ve been trying to get an appointment with the permitting folks for weeks!” I spin in my office chair, cradling my phone to my ear. “Pass along my gratitude to the mayor, too?”
“You’ve got it, Zoe,” Elisa says.
I swear, it’s like night and day out of that office since Rachel’s field day. While Mayor Esposito ultimately put both Into the Woods and Bluebell forward for the showcase, that’s been good enough for me. Overnight, the partnerships started rolling in, everybody excited to get on board now that we have a fighting chance of winning the spot. River’s almost done with our new infrastructure, Elisa got us a permitting appointment, and my newest business venture is soft-launching next week—the Redneck Wine Tour. Everything’s coming up Bluebell, except for—
“Have you heard fromEveryday Bon Vivantyet?” Elisa asks.
I twirl my pen in my hand, hating the flush traveling up my neck because Ihaven’t. I know from Olinda, former Small Business 101 student and now friend, that theEveryday Bon Vivantevents team is coming next week because they’ve booked her shuttle service to pick them up in Atlanta. I’ve been hoping they’d call requesting a tour while they’re here, but nothing. That hasn’t stopped me from engaging in a little guerrilla marketing effort, though. Olinda has agreed to reroute their trip on the way into town and feign van trouble in front of Bluebell Vineyards an hour after our Strawberry Moon night begins. Cue devious chuckle.
Our outdoor bulb lights have all been freshly restrung, there’ll be wildflower crowns for sale, and three delicious food trucks will be on-site. Ina coup, I even booked Blue Ridge’s best folk country outfit to play, The Genteelmen. They’re difficult to get a hold of, but Killian, Hannah’s ex-boyfriend, has been playing with them lately and put us on their busy schedule. It’ll be a magical, flower-strewn evening, our sweet wines flowing to the heart-plucking twang of guitars and soft voices harmonizing. We’ll woo the events team, I have no doubt.
