Emma Lou began clearing Jamie and Brinton’s plates from the table, but he intercepted her and placed them inside the extra-deep white enamel sink.
She winked at Brinton, who giggled. “Cheryl likes her men old enough to shoot whiskey but young enough not to need a little pill, if you follow me.”
“Wait—I found a new angle for my story,” Brinton said, hand waving in front of her. “‘Country’s prince finds happy ending with sexy octogenarian.’”
“You’d like that,” Jamie said, rolling his eyes before scrubbing calcified grits from a copper pot.
Emma Lou laughed, leaning close to her. “Oh, we’re gonna get on famously.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The garden felt like stepping inside a Monet painting. Iris Grove staff had lined up three rows of white, fold-down chairs on the lawn in front of the large redwood pergola. On either side, there were sweet bushes full of red tulips, African marigolds, white zinnias, and pink roses, all meticulously pruned and offset by a perimeter of tall, sharply angled hedges.
Brinton stood a few feet behind the last row of chairs as women in groups of twos and threes filed in, followed by a few grumpy grandpa-types she assumed were their husbands. She had planned to watch the performance from this vantage to avoid drawing too much attention to herself. After all, this concert was for Jamie’s mamaw, not her.
Emma Lou was seated in the first row and motioned for Brinton to join her. Most of the seats were filled now, but Emma Lou patted the sole empty one beside hers. Brinton’s anxious heart thawed a little. She couldn’t say no.
Brinton snaked through the crowd, but as she was about to sit, another older woman plopped down instead. She worea violently pink floral maxi dress, and her severe pixie haircut screamed “I would like to speak to the manager.”
“Thanks for saving me a seat, Emma Lou,” the woman quipped through a pert Tennessean accent. “I’d never miss Jamie play. Who knows, one day I might become your granddaughter.” She unleashed a spiraling, wheezing laugh. The portly man beside her cringed.
“Good morning, Cheryl,” Emma Lou said, her tone like honey with a little vinegar splashed in. “I do apologize, but this seat is taken.”
“Oh, that’s fine, Emma Lou,” Brinton squeaked. “I’m good in the back?—”
Emma Lou’s palm floated over the chair. “Oh, no such thing. Your seat is right here.”
“And who areyou?” Cheryl asked, winded from all the self-indulgence. She twisted her thin red lips as she mused to herself. “Oh, my mistake. You must be staff. I heard we’re getting some new girls in housekeeping. You’re gonna need something to pull back all that—” Cheryl reached out to snatch one of Brinton’s errant braids, which had slipped over her shoulder, but Brinton swiftly flicked it back.
Ah, there’s that Southern Hospitality I’ve been bracing for.
The last thing Brinton wanted was to embarrass Emma Lou. But she didn’t endure all that she had to be racially profiled in a rose garden on a Saturday morning.
Brinton started to speak, but Emma Lou grabbed her hand.
“Her name is Brinton, and she’s writing a wonderful story about Jamie forLandmark. If you aren’t otherwise engaged in indelicate conversation at the Piggly Wiggly, you should read it. And if you make one snide comment to or about Miss Brinton to anyone in this town, I’ll ensure you’re served nothing but pigeon peas and saltines until the New Year. I trust you know I’m friendly with Chef Roberts and all of ourhardworking staff. Do you understand me clearly? Because if I have to repeat myself, I promise, I won’t be so polite.”
Cheryl’s lips stretched into a pained yet obsequious grin. Slowly, she rose from the chair. “Well, I better take my seat. I see they’ve added a few more in the back. Nice meeting you, Brinton. And good to see you, Emma Lou.”
“I’ll see you at church tomorrow morning,” Emma Lou said, her smile real and triumphant.
Brinton took her seat. When Cheryl was out of earshot, Emma Lou leaned in and whispered, “There are three Bs in this world I can’t stand: bullies, busybodies, and bigots. Cheryl McClain found a way to be all three.”
Emma Lou patted Brinton’s knee, and gratefully, Brinton sandwiched her hand on top and squeezed. Moments later, Jamie stepped onto the pergola, an acoustic guitar strapped around his shoulders. He launched into the jangly opening chords of “Table for One.”
The intimate crowd cheered as he sang, pitch-perfect and powerful despite no microphone or amplifiers. And when he hit the soaring chorus, Brinton could only marvel. She’d seen him perform in various social media posts, but watching Jamie in the flesh was simply electrifying. Her eyes refused to blink and lungs declined to exhale.
Brinton couldn’t contain all the feelings he summoned in her. One day, she knew, they could swell into something more…permanent. Admittedly, that was a huge step. While she wasn’t there yet, she longed for it just the same.
She already adored how he made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t before. She adored that he made her feel safe enough to second-guess her fears. She adored that he graciously gave back to the people he cared about, including a discerning group of senior citizens.
Sheadoredhim.
“Thank y’all so much,” Jamie said, politely motioning forthe rowdy seniors to simmer down. “I’ve got one more, a new one nobody’s ever heard before…because I wrote it a few days ago.”
Brinton beamed. That meant Jamie was sharing a song that he—not a ghostwriter—wrote. His fresh start. This was why he’d brought her there. Jamie looked nervous, which she certainly understood. She’d rather sacrifice herself to the 6 Train rats than unearth her most intimate feelings.
“This song is dedicated to the most important women in my life, my late mother, MaryBell Crawford. And my mamaw—who y’all know and love as much as I do—Emma Lou Chambers,” he said.
