Sweet Gone South by Alicia Hunter Pace Page A

peeps on a green background — but she’d shed the apron. Her white t-shirt was tucked in and it looked like she might actually have a waist.
    Eyes off the waist.
He let them settle on the cake plate. “Not you too.”
    “No. This is from Miss Eula Lawson. She didn’t want to climb the stairs. Though I did bring Emma a chocolate duck.” She handed him a little gold box.
    “She’s still napping. With all the commotion, she went down late.”
    “Hmm,” Lanie said.
    He’d begun to lead her toward the kitchen but that stopped him dead in the middle of the living room.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “What?” Lanie widened her eyes, all innocent, like she hadn’t said
Hmm
. He’d seen that look before.
    “‘Hmm.’ You said, ‘Hmm.’ What did you mean?”
    “I didn’t mean anything. Every sound someone makes doesn’t have to mean something.”
    “True. In some random isolated cases that might be true. But that ‘hmm’ was neither random nor isolated. What did you mean?”
    “It just occurred to me to wonder if Emma is still napping this late, if that might not give you a little trouble later. That’s all.” She didn’t wait for him but trudged on toward the kitchen like she owned the place — which, come to think of, she actually did. He followed her to the kitchen where the granite counter tops and kitchen table were covered in food.
    “Trouble?”
    Lanie moved some pies on the table closer together and set the cake down. “I’m just wondering that if you don’t wake her soon, if she might not still be wide awake at midnight.”
    He hadn’t thought of that. “I think she might sleep through the night.” That sounded like a lie, even to himself.
    And Lanie didn’t buy it for a second. “I’m sure you’re right.” She looked around. “This looks a little like Morrison’s Cafeteria.”
    He waved an arm toward the casseroles, platters, and pie plates. “What am I supposed to do with all this?”
    “Dinner comes to mind.”
    “I can’t,” he said sheepishly. He hated his allergy, hated admitting his weakness, especially to this woman.
    He reached into the fridge and brought out two beers. He raised one toward her and inquired if she wanted it by lifting an eyebrow. It wasn’t that he
wanted
her to stay long enough to drink it. It was just that he wanted a beer really bad and it would be rude not of offer.
    She hesitated and then nodded. “You can’t what?”
    “I can’t eat this stuff. I can’t eat something if I don’t know for sure what’s in it. You’ve seen what happens.” He busied himself with finding the bottle opener and opening the beer. The kind he liked didn’t have screw tops. “Do you want a glass?”
    “Not unless you’re going report me to the debutante police.” He handed her the beer and she lifted the lid of a covered casserole “Surely there are no peanuts in lasagna.”
    “No. But I learned about peanut oil the hard way.”
    “I can see that. Southerners love them some peanut oil.”
    “So what about this Eula Lawson? Is she likely to come calling?”
    “No. She has been baking special occasion cakes out of her house for as long as you and I have been alive. She’s raised her teenage grandson by herself from the time he was two, when his parents were killed. Maybe you know him. Kirby Lawson. He runs errands for Harris and Tolly. You might remember Miss Eula’s kindness when you get ready to buy a cake on Emma’s birthday.”
    “I will.” He leaned against the counter and gestured to the rest of the food. “What about the kindness of the rest of it?”
    “Well.” Lanie picked up a pie in a disposable pan. “Not all of it was given in kindness. This one was. Do you know how I know?”
    He smiled. It had been a long time since he’d smiled naturally at anyone except Emma. It felt good. “No idea. Tell me.”
    “It’s in a disposable pan. Whoever brought it was welcoming you to your new home. It was meant to cause you no trouble.