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He'd become my friend over the last six months. I'd met him when he was scouring through the Civil War section, looking for titles on ancestry.
We got on like a house on fire, so to speak. It was actually funny, the things we had in common.
I squared my shoulders defensively. "Ain't no one telling a kid that they can't have their fairy tales. The world will mess ‘em up soon enough. Let ‘em be young while they can."
Harold chuckled. "Young lady, I have no complaints. In fact, I think you did the right thing. The father deserves a sentence for trying to deprive his son!"
I relaxed. "Maybe I could go all Avenger on him."
He walked with me to the counter. "What are you doing tonight?"
Nothing. I was just gonna go home and sit on the back patio in a pair of pajamas with my mama's quilted throw over me. I'd probably bury my face in a tub of bourbon pecan ice cream straight from the tub with extra bourbon and maybe a drizzle of dark chocolate.
A perfect dinner for a single lady on the verge of discovering her first gray hairs.
In all fairness, this dinner would pass muster with my mama.
She approved of a lot about me, even some parts that could make others run the instant I opened my mouth.
Harold probably surmised the extent of my evening adventures from the dreamy look on my face.
"I can see you're getting distracted, so I'll be quick. I'm hosting a dinner at my mansion. I want you there."
My eyes bulged. No way.
Nestled amid old oaks and magnolias in the very heart of Oakmont's historic district, the Montgomery mansion had become the stuff of local legend.
The house itself was a masterpiece of Antebellum architecture with its grand columns and sweeping porches, but it was the rumors that made me uneasy.
It was common hearsay that Harold's ancestors were all members of the Klan, and they'd even used the house as a meeting place during the Civil War.
Some even whispered that the hidden rooms and secret tunnels beneath the mansion housed the Klan's loot.
But despite what I'd heard, I believed my heart more.
Harold was a gentle soul, always ready with a smile and a kind word for his neighbors.
Sadie used to tell me it'd take him a lifetime to undo the reputation of his ancestors, but you had to give a man props for trying.
He continued surveying my face like I was some fascinating archaeological artifact. Or a gecko.
"So, what's it gonna be?"
I smiled. "Will you have bourbon pecan ice cream for dessert?"
Why did he look so relieved, like heneededme to be there?
His Southern drawl came through immediately, although he'd spent almost his entire life out of the country and in London.
Harold wasn't one for convention—it seemed to hurt his soul.
But in moments like these, he was as Southern as the rest of us.
"Bless your heart for sayin' yes. I reckon this shindig is gonna open doors for you. It's gonna be like a lit matchstick, sparkin' up a whole new flame in your life."
Well, bless his heart too. What in tarnation did that mean?
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