Sweet Gone South by Alicia Hunter Pace

to the stairwell, and called after her, “Lucky for you, you’re going to get to see Jill!”
    Nobody had brought her casseroles when she’d moved in. Lanie wasted an hour, when she should have been paying bills and ordering supplies, watching the second parade of the day. Betty Jo Ledbetter, Carla Ashley, Jerrilyn Chambers, Jessica Johnson. Lanie could have gone to her office and left Phillip to play parade director but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Interspersed, a few older ladies from the church also came bearing food — or sent their housekeepers. At least they had the good manners to buy some candy.
    Who did these pariahs think they were, anyway, that they could just walk through her shop like it was a street in the tenderloin district? Not that Merritt had a tenderloin district. Phillip was packing up some truffles for Annelle Meade, Lucy’s aunt, when the phone rang.
    “Heavenly Confections,” she said cheerfully into the portable receiver.
    “Lanie!” The voice on the other end was an agitated whisper. She knew who that whisper belonged to, but he didn’t know she knew. She stepped into the back, taking the phone with her.
    “Yes, this is Lanie Heaven. How may I help you?”
    “Tell people I’m not home.”
    “Who is this?” She bit her lip to stop the laughter. Apparently these women were not anticipated or welcome. There was no reason for that to lift her spirits but it did.
    “This is Luke. I need you stop sending those women up here.” Well, that was over the top.
    “I’m not sending anyone anywhere, Luke. It’s up to you to answer your door or not.”
    She heard Phillip say, “Yes, ma’am. Behind the counter and down the hall. The stairwell door is the last one on the right.” Lanie ran into the kitchen and watched Carol Free stride past her.
    “Uh oh, Luke. Hope you like pie. There’s another one on the way.”
    “Help me out, Lanie.”
    “I’m not your doorman. This isn’t Studio 54.”
    “What do you know about Studio 54? It’s not even a club anymore. It’s a theater and anyone with a ticket can get in. You’ve probably never even been to New York.” The urgent hissing in his voice didn’t diminish one bit.
    “I know
all
about it. I read a biography of Andy Warhol. And I have too been to New York.” He didn’t need to know it had only been for three days to take a mini course on marzipan and liquid centers.
    “Look, Lanie. I’ve had a hard week and I — ”
    He was interrupted by Emma’s high, sweet little voice in the background. “Daddy! Knocking on the door!”
    “Okay, honeybee. I’ll be right there. Don’t open it. Lanie — ”
    “Goodbye, Luke. Enjoy your pie.” And she hung up and laughed for a good long time.
    The parade lightened up some in the afternoon but didn’t dissipate completely. Observing it lost its allure, so Lanie did her paperwork and tried out some new molds she’d bought for Easter.
    She was showing Phillip how to close out the register when the door opened one more time. Eula Lawson — or Miss Eula, as everyone called her — entered carrying a cake. It was a good bet she had no romantic interest in Luke.
    “Miss Eula, come in,” Lanie said. “Come meet Phillip. He’s just moved to town to work with us here.”
    “Well, if I’d known that I’d have brought you a red velvet cake too. I brought this one for the judge and his little girl.”
    “Yes, ma’am. You can go right up, if you like.”
    “Honey, would you mind giving it to him? My knee is giving me some trouble today.”
    “I’ll be happy to.”
    As Lanie walked down the hall, she heard Miss Eula say to Phillip, “I’ll take a half a pound of those caramel peanut clusters. Now, tell me where you live and if you like red velvet or carrot cake better.”
    “Can you make brownies?”
    • • •
    Luke was surprised at the relief he felt when he found Lanie on the other side of the knock at his door. She was still wearing those silly baggy pants — yellow