“No need.” Sammi beamed. “Mama’s driving today.”
Brinton followed Sammi to the driveway, where a custom, sky blue Mercedes SUV awaited.
Walking backward, Brinton circled the body appreciatively. “I pegged you as a quiet luxury kind of woman.”
Sammi slid into the driver’s seat, then flashed her signature grin. “In this town, men are either trying to hold you back or feel you up. But when I roll up in Jolene, they know my balls are just as big.”
Twenty minutes later, Jolene rolled into an unassuming strip mall and parked beneath the chipping, hand-painted sign outside Ladybird’s Boot Co.
“This place is the best. Don’t let the chaos scare you,” Sammi assured. She held open the creaky glass door, and Brinton stepped inside.
A cramped, dimly lit space that smelled faintly of leather and mothballs, Ladybird’s was a time capsule of Iris’s storied past. From the yellowing linoleum, to the ’50s upholstered couches still in plastic, to the dusty shelves packed with tchotchkes, it was a charming relic to behold.
Brinton scanned the frame-covered walls of icons, including Elvis Presley, Dolly Parton, and a few U.S. presidents. They had all come to the same place to get “boots blessed by the best,” as a battered tin sign above the cash register read.
“Sammi Smith, you better come here and hug my neck,” someone chirped in a magnetic, Tennessean twang.
Brinton turned around to find a short, older woman embracing Sammi. She had the grip of a lumberjack.
“Birdie, this is my friend Brinton,” Sammi said, a little breathless.
“Don’t be shy, sweetheart,” Birdie beckoned, arms outstretched. Sammi nodded enthusiastically, and Brintonobliged. It was one of the shades of “new” she’d embraced, surely thanks to Jamie’s doing.
Truthfully, it felt good to be physically close to someone after months of self-isolation.
“Ladybird was my mama,” Birdie offered, unclenching Brinton’s ribs. “We ran this store together since I could reach the counter. She passed away last year. God rest her soul.”
Sammi bounced on the yellow, paisley-print couch and patted the open seat beside her.
“This place is amazing,” Brinton said, sinking into the cushion. It was as malleable as a warm gummy bear. “It seems like everybody who’s anybody has been here. Did I see a picture of LeBron James on the wall?”
“Oh, yes. Did a custom pair for him. The man loves rhinestones. And feet as soft as a baby’s bottom, would you believe it?”
“Oddly, I can.” Brinton laughed.
“We’re here on serious business,” Sammi whispered in mock-secrecy. Her arm snaked around Brinton’s shoulders. “Our girl needs some boots—her first.”
Birdie grinned, making her deep smile dance across her sun-kissed skin.
“Oh, I know just the pair. Lemme measure you,” she said, her short, chestnut ponytail bobbing jollily. She slipped a tattered roll of measuring tape from her apron pocket, pulled up a small stool, and sat before Brinton.
Carefully pulling off Brinton’s boot from beneath her jeans, Birdie measured every conceivable angle, somehow committing each dimension to memory.
Brinton watched Birdie with rapt attention. “I’m usually a size nine. I know that’s huge, and you probably don’t—I could probably squeeze into an eight-and-a-half…”
She’d become so used to overcompensating so shewouldn’t be misperceived that she couldn’t turn it off. Disappointment tugged her smile into a taut line.
“Darlin’, ain’t nothing wrong with having a larger boot. Woman’s gotta have room to kick some tail, right?”
Birdie winked, and Brinton’s heart warmed from the familiarity. That she could, possibly, belong here too.
“These boots gotta be custom-measured. Not like those out-of-the-box types. Like you, they’re one of a kind.”
Affirmatively, Sammi grinned. “Birdie’s hands were touched by the divine. You’ll see.”
“How’s my boy?” Birdie asked, still working with surgical precision.
“He’s performing down at Yeehaw Fest next weekend,” Sammi said. “I’ll add you to the guest list.”
