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PROLOGUE
The lemonade was a soothing balm against the heat and humidity of a low country summer afternoon in all its glory. The acidity made my lips pucker, but I didn’t mind. Mrs. Lehigh always made her lemonade without any extra sugar. Drinking it was a rite of passage for everyone in Beaumont County, and God help whoever had the stupidity to ask the woman for some sugar to sweeten it up.
“Let me refill your cup before you wander off Sutton,” Mrs. Lehigh offered, with a smile on her face. “It’s hotter than sin today.”
“Thank you,” I replied, extending my arm toward the pitcher. “It’s getting hotter by the minute.”
Freshly filled cup clutched firmly in my hand, I turned to survey the crowd. First Baptist Church’s annual summer festival drew people from all over the county to Beacon Hill. They had rides, food vendors, carnival games, and a craft bazaar. There were contests for pies, jams, and anything else under the sun that could be made with peaches. We were, after all, in the heart of Georgia’s peach country.
The large crowds the festival drew meant that Mama wanted us all to look our best, which led to our annual fight about me wearing whatever sundress she’d bought for me. I never felt comfortable in the dresses she and Sissy favored, and anyway, I had no one to impress. Being the founder and president of the high school’s computer club did not increase one’s popularity. In fact, it could be argued that it led to a dramatic decrease of an already precarious social standing.
I sighed as a bead of sweat slid down my spine. My eyes cut to where I knew Mama and Daddy would be — sure enough, they were chatting the day away with Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster at the pie table. Mama entered the peach pie contest every year, and every year, we’d pretend her pie didn’t win because the contest was rigged.
Good. I thought. This is the perfect time to escape.
Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I slowly and casually made my way toward the little crop of trees behind the gazebo at the back of the church. Later, when the sun set, kids would use the small, wooded area to engage in less holy activities. I was never invited to partake in any of those activities, but I had heard enough stories to know what went on. The trees were about the only shade available, and I desperately wanted the coolness and solitude they offered.
I stopped as the gazebo came into view, dismayed to see it was already occupied by two men who looked like they were in the middle of a heated conversation. Not justanytwo men either, I realized, shading my eyes with my hand against the glaring afternoon sun.
Macon and Holden St. James. The two sons of the most prestigious family in the county. The St. James family was low country royalty — the Kennedys of Georgia. A few times every year, they’d descend from their estate like benevolent gods to attend various community events they deemed worthy of their presence. They wanted to give the illusion that they were members of the community, but we all knew the truth.
The only one of the entire St. James clan who actually acted like a real member of the community was Macon. He was the entire county’s golden boy. Captain and quarterback of the football team, he had led the team to the state championship two years in a row. His athletic prowess didn’t come at the expense of his grades, either. He was constantly being recognized for his academic achievements, and he’d gone on to get both an academicandfootball scholarship to the University of Georgia. Breaking his family’s storied tradition of Ivy League education only made the rest of us love him more.
Every girl in our school dreamed of being the one to capture his heart, myself included. I had been in love with Macon St. James for as long as I could remember. I was ashamed to say there were entire notebooks hidden in my room, each one filled with “Mrs. Macon St. James” scrawled in gel pen. I felt like my love was somehow more substantial than anyone else’s too, because Macon had noticed me when I felt invisible to everyone.
In my freshman year, Sissy had been forced to drag me to a party one of her friends was throwing. My parents thought it was her duty as my older sister to ease my transition into high school. Sissy had reluctantly agreed, then promptly abandoned me when we got to the party. I’d spent what felt like hours sitting alone on a couch until Macon came and sat with me. We chatted for a while, and when I’d explained that I had come with my older sister but couldn’t find her, he gave me a ride home. After the party, he’d waved at me every time we passed each other in the hallway at school. He even made a big show about signing my petition to start a computer club, knowing his support would guarantee more signatures.
It would not be dramatic to say that my heart had been absolutely broken when he’d started dating my sister’s best friend. With my free hand, I rubbed the small ache in my chest that appeared every time I thought about Macon and Cam together. The same ache had formed when I’d seen them walking around the festival hand in hand, stealing the occasional kiss when they thought no one was watching.
The sound of raised voices drew me out of my thoughts, and I darted behind the church wall to avoid being seen. A few seconds later, Macon walked past my hiding spot, running his hands aggressively through his wheat-colored waves. His attention seemed to be elsewhere, and he didn’t even notice me standing there pressed up against the wall. I waited a few minutes before peeking around the corner. The gazebo was empty.
Now that the coast was clear, I continued my walk to the trees. The breeze was warm, but it still managed to dry some of the sweat beading on my forehead. One day, I promised myself, I would live somewhere that never got above eighty degrees. I sighed, sinking into the cool earth underneath a big old oak tree. I leaned my back against the wide trunk and stretched out my legs, ignoring the way the bark bit into the exposed skin on my shoulders. Placing my lemonade on the ground next to me, I closed my eyes and let my body relax. The tree was close enough to the gazebo that I could hear if people were coming, but it still kept me hidden from any occupants.
After only a few blissful minutes of solitude, I heard footsteps treading across the concrete of the gazebo floor. I pushed off the tree, preparing to make my presence known. I didn’t want to eavesdrop on anyone’s private conversation.
“Did you take care of it?”
The lazy drawl of the words stopped me in my tracks. I would know that voice anywhere. It belonged to Macon’s daddy.
“I did.”
The response was given in a younger version of that same drawl. While I was significantly less familiar with Holden, I recognized his voice as well, from the speeches he’d given at some of the charity events he had attended since graduating college this summer.
“Good.” An involuntary shiver worked its way through me at the sound of Mr. St. James’s firm voice. “Youthful indiscretions are unavoidable, but to associate with those people is unacceptable.”
“I told him it was time to take out the trash, so to speak,” said a third voice, raspy with age that I assumed belonged to Holden’s grandfather.
“He did not take it well.” Holden commented, his voice unusually flat, even for him. Whereas Macon exuded warmth and charm, his older brother was all aloof arrogance. “I don’t see him giving her up easily.”
“He can’t havefeelingsfor the girl,” Mr. St. James declared, an edict lightly tinged with disbelief.
Indignation flared wild and hot in my chest. Cam wasnottrash. She was smart and kind and beautiful — Macon’s equal in every way except pedigree. Her parents owned the diner in town, which was a perfectly respectable occupation.
“That boy’s letting his dick do all his thinking,” Macon’s grandaddy scoffed.
“I don’t care what he’s thinking with right now. I cannot allow his ill-advised dalliance with that Buchanan girl —”
The rest of his words were lost to the deafening ringing in my ears.Buchanan girl. There were only two Buchanan girls in Beaumont County: me and Sissy. They were absolutely not talking about me, which left Sissy. Time seemed to move as slow as molasses while their earlier conversation came back to me. Indiscretion, dalliance, thinking with his dick.
