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"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?
2
Juniper
Iunlocked the door to my lonely, single life.
Okay, I totally did not mean to sound that bitter. At least I had my own little space in Oakmont's central precinct.
Magnolia Street was home to my quaint apartment, filled with charming brick buildings and old-world trees.
I stepped in through the front door and immediately found myself surrounded by the warm glow of the setting sun. It cast a soft halo of light across my living room.
The neighborhood cat, Bumbles, was already snoozing out on the balcony, his furry body stretched out on the cushion I'd left for him.
This was the fourth night he'd stayed with me. I knew the neighbors were gonna say I'd kept him high on catnip.
From my window, I could see a pair of graceful egrets flying toward a nearby marsh.
A group of chatty cardinals hopped along the branches of my old friend, the oak I'd named, well, Mr. Oakwood Hardy.
Yes, not all was bitter about this place. It was small, and there were days I wished I could open the door and shout, "What's for dinner?" but ... it was okay.
I was okay.
Sighing, I made myself more sweet tea and settled down on the sofa with a new list. The sound of a distant train whistle floated through the open window.
My phone drawled out a lazy tune. I looked at the name on the screen and groaned.
"Hey, Mama."
"June bug! How about you come on back to the nest and let Mama feed ya? I'm fixin' to fry up some chicken."
My mouth watered at the words. No one could make fried chicken like my mama. Juicy and tender, it exemplified Sunday meals with her.
She did mashed potatoes and gravy, collard greens and cornbread... the whole nine yards.
I loved to soak up the gravy and potatoes in the bread and do a perfect bite with a bit of everything.
But again, after I moved out, my mama's invitations to dinner became more and more of a call to an unavoidable war.
She'd feed me and bombard me with questions I had no clear answers to.
Some of them weren't all that bad—like what kids I'd met at the library or what Sadie's husband was doing.
