One Foot in the Grove by Kelly Lane Page B

parties. School kids sent us cards. For everyone, it’d been a romantic fantasy come true.
    There was another flash of lightning and a loud grumble of thunder.
    I pushed a piece of oil-soaked bread into my mouth and closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on the flavors . . . trying to block Zack, the stupid goat, and a million unpalatable memories from my mind. Loretta’s loaf was definitely better than the restaurant inspiration, I thought. The burly Italian cook had done a masterful job reinventing what I remembered.
    I stared up at the creaking ceiling fan, watching it churn uselessly in the hot, balmy air. Like my mind, it went round and round, but nothing came of it.
    I needed a meal plan, I thought. I wiped my hands on a tissue, opened my laptop, and typed “Southern breakfast recipes.” However, probably because of the storm, the Internet connection had quit. My mind rambled. What was Zack doing back in Boston? What were my old clients thinking? Did they believe the stupid, flack-spun story?
    A big
BOOM
echoed outside. Again, it didn’t sound right.
Gunshot?
I listened. The rain slowed; yet, I heard nothing more. Pep was probably right, I thought. There must be a boar hunting party somewhere in the woods. Still, they sounded awfully close to our plantation. Dolly woofed from her cushion, looking up with winsome dark eyes and girly lashes, her long black tail hairs waving back and forth like a feathery flag.
    I opened my nightstand drawer, pulled out yet anotherdoggie biscuit, broke it in half, and tossed Dolly a piece. Dolly gobbled it up instantly.
    â€œLast one for the night, Dolly.”
    Rain spattered hard and fast through the open back window. I picked up a
Wall Street Journal
article about olive oil titled “Can American Virginity Be Saved?” From somewhere, perhaps the drawer of my nightstand, my iPhone made some sort of soft burping noise. I had a phone call. Or maybe it was a text message. Or an e-mail. I didn’t know which. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t responding. Whomever it was, I just wanted them to leave me alone.
    I wiped my hands together. Already, I’d absently consumed an entire loaf of bread.
Who cares
. My mind flashed to Boston. The horse-drawn carriage had been parked on a quiet side street outside the Beacon Hill church before the wedding. Zack and I had planned to enjoy our first minutes as Mister and Missus Black by taking a carriage ride through Boston Common after the ceremony. After that, a vintage Rolls-Royce would whisk us away to the North Shore yacht club reception. The livery man had looked surprised when I’d approached the horse. All I’d wanted to do was pat the horse’s muzzle before following my sisters inside to the church anteroom. Yet, something wasn’t right. I heard whispers and giggles coming from inside the rollicking coach. I’ll never forget Zack’s startled, yet smug expression after I’d thrown open the coach door. I felt a sickening, heavy panic in my gut as I realized not only Zack’s infidelity, but also, the enormity of his egregious indiscretion. He didn’t, hadn’t ever, loved me. Our impending marriage was no more than a colossal publicity stunt to enhance Zack’s career. I felt nauseous. My world went black. Next thing I remember was the slick, icy feel of well-worn cobblestones under my bare feet as I rounded the street corner and bolted up Beacon Hill. Once they caught sight of me, a gaggle of reporters and photographers who’d set up outside the front of the church shouted and bounded up the hill after me. Of course, that was my mistake. I should’ve stopped and led them backto the discreetly parked carriage around the corner. I should’ve let them see for themselves.
    Just read, Eva
.
    Still, I couldn’t help myself. I wondered what happened to my fairy-tale lace wedding gown, with the princess-like full-length skirt, fitted three-quarter-length