Chapter One
Keri Clayton
The Wild Daisy café is packed. Every single table is taken, filled with familiar locals and several tourists. I grin, knowing the folks in Miss Jenny’s establishment were coaxed out of their offices or had to pause their small-town explorations because of the rich, meaty scent of brisket cooking low and slow in the back alleyway. It’s all coming from one of those gigantic pellet smokers.
Jenny has told me about her process before. It takes 12 to 18 hours, and she only attempts it once a month. Folks need to get to the café early for lunch on brisket day if they want a full plate. The smoke rising into the blue sky is a beacon to diehard natives, who start lining up before noon. I could see them through the large picture window of my office from across the street. When I stepped outside, the decadent smell overwhelmed my senses.I couldn’t help myself. It’s very hard to turn down Miss Jenny’s monthly brisket.
“You wanna come back into the kitchen and sit? I’ve got a card table set up for my favorites.” Jenny swipes a rogue hair from her eyes under her wide-brimmed hat. Her red lips curve into a knowing smile as she motions me toward the swinging kitchen door.
“No, thank you. I’d like a plate to-go, if you don’t mind.” I watch Jenny plant her fists on her hips, her daisy apron crumpling with determination. “What?” I grin.
“Keri Clayton, you’ve got to slow down and eat your meals at a proper table for a change. Taking a break from real estate and enjoying lunch won’t kill you.”
I laugh. “I know.”
She gently loops her arm through mine, her grip reassuring. She guides me to the long counter by the staircase. The counter bows under the weight of delicious desserts beneath glass domes. I spot her famous strawberry cake crowned with pink-berry frosting, and my mouth waters.
“Leroy and Marcus are closing out their tab now. I’ll get their two-top in the corner cleaned up real quick. You stay here, and I’ll send someone right over with a glass of fresh iced tea with two lemons, just how you like it.”
“Miss Jenny, you don’t have to do that…”
“—I insist,” she interrupts.
One of Jenny’s perky waitresses breezes past, arms full of mouth-watering meat and three sides. She tilts the plates toward me with a conspiratorial wink, letting the sizzling scent waft my way.
I roll my eyes and palm my stomach. I’m suddenly starving. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
“Good girl.” Miss Jenny pats my arm and disappears down the narrow hallway into the kitchen. A few seconds later, a pretty twenty-something girl hands off a Mason jar of iced tea with two bright lemon wedges clinging to the side.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the glass from her hands. It’s cold to the touch and streaked with condensation.
“You’re welcome.”
I squeeze the juicy lemons into the unsweet tea and take a quick sip before setting the glass next to the cake domes, my hip leaning against the ancient counter. The hubbub of conversation is like a comforting white noise, and a stark contrast from the dead quiet of my office. I take in my surroundings with pleasure, glad Miss Jenny insisted I stay. I mean, I don’t have much going on anyway. Business is painfully slow. Might as well enjoy a sit-down lunch for a change.
The 1908 Wild Daisy building was once a general store. It was renovated with a dramatic staircase leading to the large upstairs,where there are four guest rooms. I love the exposed brick walls, worn wooden floors, and the eclectic mix of antique furniture. The lobby and café downstairs exude an era from another century. It’s my favorite lunch spot in Heartsboro, Georgia. I always feel like I’m dining in someone’s home, not a restaurant. I usually opt for Miss Jenny’s chicken salad plate or a side of her delicious tomatoes and cucumbers in homemade balsamic vinaigrette. But the smell of that meat changed my mind. Today is Friday. I might as well get the weekend started with a substantial meal. I really wasn’t looking forward to eating the tiny power bar in my desk drawer.
Jenny waves me over to the two-person table in the corner by the front window. I smile, grab my tea, and make my way through the busy café, nodding and saying hello to several locals I’ve known for decades. That’s the thing about living in a small town like Heartsboro—everybody knows your name.
“You need a minute to look over the lunch menu?” Miss Jenny asks.
I slide onto the padded chair, careful not to bunch up my skirt. “I know I want the brisket.”
“Great. It comes with three sides today.”
I look up at her and smile. “Surprise me.”
“You got it.”
With my elbow on the table, I prop my chin in my hand and gaze out the window with a sigh. Miss Jenny recently added three wrought-iron tables and chairs out front underneath the striped, yellow-and-white window awnings after she was approved for an outdoor dining permit. It’s a win-win for those tourists and locals with dogs.
My eyes scroll from left to right, taking in the patrons enjoying lunch outside. An elderly couple sits at the first table, and I grin as the man offers a bite of pie to the woman holding a tiny Chihuahua, his actions gentle and sweet. The middle table holds a foursome of middle-aged women I don’t recognize, probably tourists having lunch before they visit the gorgeous lavender fields at Jamison Farm in peak season. That, or maybe they’re out antiquing or passing through on their way to Atlanta?
My eyes land on the third table. I notice a man hunched over a plate of food, eating like he hasn’t had a proper meal in days. My brow furrows, and I sit up straighter to get a better view. I’ve never seen this guy before. His sun-streaked hair brushes his shoulders, and his flannel shirt is torn at the elbows. I watch him run a napkin across his scruffy face. He takes a piece of meat between his fingers and offers it to his big dog, sitting obediently on the sidewalk next to him.
“Here you go,” Miss Jenny interrupts.
I turn away from the window and offer her a polite smile. “That was fast. Thank you.”
