Jamie took Brinton’s hand and squeezed. This was a good thing, because her heart stalled mid-thud.Girlfriend. She hadn’t been someone’s girlfriend in so long the word sounded foreign. But she liked the sound of it from his lips. He caught her eye, smiling like he’d won a medal. She beamed back like she knew she had.
“She’s a journalist writing an article about me,” he explained.
“Yes, I’ve heard all about it.”
Jamie and Brinton exchanged confused looks.
“Oh, honey, it’s a small town. People will talk about the color and shape of their you-know-what if it serves them.” She turned to Brinton. “I’m Emma Lou, but you can call me Mamaw.”
“I’m honored to meet you,” Brinton said earnestly. By now, she knew better than to extend her hand. Instead, she stepped forward to hug her. Emma Lou embraced her firmly, enveloping her like a fuzzy robe. Another thing she must have passed on to Jamie.
Once Brinton left Emma Lou’s cocoon, Jamie leaned down and whispered against her ear, “That’s my girl.”
Soon, they huddled at the round, wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. The room was cozy, teeming with the character and charm of a life well-lived, including a collection of flea market glasses and dishes on open shelves and a brigade of family photos in mismatched frames on the walls. Pink roses, fresh-cut from the garden, in tall glass vases dotted nearly every corner of the room.
Emma Lou had the head chef send over flaky buttermilk biscuits and gloriously tart strawberry jam. She also made the most luscious soft-scrambled eggs and buttery grits Brinton had ever tasted.
“More orange juice?” Emma Lou asked. She started pouring into Brinton’s half-full glass before she could answer.
“Thank you, that would be great,” Brinton said. She pitched an amused look Jamie’s way.
Emma Lou retrieved a blue etched glass from the shelf, filled it to the brim, then set it before Jamie. “I know your daddy won’t let you have this when you gotta sing, but he ain’t here,” she said, a satisfied grin on her face.
“Yes ma’am,” Jamie said. He drained it in a flash.
“Brinton, how are you finding it here in Iris? I suspect my sweet boy has been hospitable?”
“I love it. I’ve met some amazing people. I also think sweet tea is officially running through my veins,” she said, laughing. “And it’s been incredible spending time with Jamie.”
From across the table, he regarded her like he was admiring one of Earth’s natural wonders, like everything she said was valuable and worth preserving. Blissfully, her cheeks warmed.
“Once Yeehaw Fest is done, I’ve got a few more places I wanna show you, if you’re up for it?” Jamie asked.
“That would be great,” she said.
Great was an understatement. After nearly two weeks in Iris, Brinton was more game for life than in the last two years. When she first arrived, she felt so miserably out of place, and she couldn’t wait to finish the story and go home. But as the days passed, these serene moments with Jamie went by too quickly.
“And when will you be leaving us? I hope not too soon,” Emma Lou said.
Brinton’s optimism cracked under reality’s crushing weight. “I’m finalizing the article now, then it’s back to New York City on Monday.”
That was two days from now. She felt confident about her work so far, but she’d also done it in a silo, insulated from the prying eyes and rampant criticism at work. At some point, she had to send the draft to Rich before it was published next Friday. It was a thought that kept needling its way into her subconscious, but in this peaceful moment, she tamped it back down.
For once, she wouldn’t let fear fuck up her day.
Emma Lou clasped her hands together. “Well, that means we gotta make the most of every second.”
Brinton genuinely smiled back at her. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Mamaw, how about I play a new song for you and the girls?” Jamie asked. “I got my guitar out in the truck.”
Brinton checked her phone. It was only eight. They had plenty of time before he was due in Nashville for the eleven o’clock soundcheck.
“Oh, I’d be pleased as punch.” Emma Lou beamed, then turned to Brinton. “You know, Jamie has quite the fervent fan base. He plays for us in the garden every week—I have to beat those old biddies off with a stick. Especially Cheryl McClain. Don’t be fooled by her smile. Her lips are as loose as her?—”
“Mamaw,” Jamie barked.
“I was going to say morals, but I suppose both work,” she said, a sly smile on her face. “The sweet Lord can strike me down if I’m lying.”
