mind.
Or, for that matter, questions from her grandmother about Georgia’s nonexistent progress on her quest.
The playground was filled with people—kids swarming over the swings and the slides, teenagers gathered in groups to selfconsciously ignore their elders, grown-ups visiting with neighbors as they lined up for ice cream and cake.
“We may as well get right in line for dessert,” Miz Callie said, chugging through the crowd with a firm grip on Georgia’s arm. “I wonder if they’ve cut my cake yet.” Georgia had delivered her grandmother’s delectable praline applesauce cake to the waiting refrigerated truck earlier in the afternoon. “It’s probably gone already. You
know how people love that cake.”
Miz Callie flushed at the compliment even while
brushing it off with a sweep of her hand. “There’ll be plenty fancier than mine, I’m sure. Land, there’s Marcy Dawson and her daughter. I haven’t seen them in an age.” She veered off. Georgia followed, forcibly preventing herself from rolling her eyes like a disgruntled teenager. If you went anywhere in the greater Charleston area with
Miz Callie, she’d be bound to find someone she knew.
The good thing about coming home was remembering how much she loved this place. The bad thing was a tendency to revert to a younger version of herself.
Marcy Dawson proved to be not a contemporary of her grandmother’s but someone more her mother’s age, with windswept blond hair and perfectly tanned skin that was complemented by her white tennis shorts. Her daughter, with an apologetic smile, dashed off after an exploring toddler.
Ms. Dawson assessed Georgia with the air of someone fitting her into her proper niche. “You’re Ashton and Delia’s daughter, aren’t you? I thought I heard you were working up in Atlanta, got yourself engaged, I believe your mother told me.”
“I’m just back to visit for a bit.” She slid her left hand behind her. “Helping my grandmother get settled at the cottage.”
That distracted the woman, thank goodness, and she turned back to Miz Callie. “Is it true, then, that you’re planning to stay on the island year-round?”
“That’s right. My, word does get around. But then, you play bridge with my daughter-in-law, I believe.” There was an icy edge to her grandmother’s voice that Georgia didn’t miss, maybe the faintest of suggestions that Georgia’s mother had been talking out of turn.
“Well, I…” The woman looked around as if seeking escape. “I guess she might have mentioned something about it.”
Miz Callie straightened, and Georgia caught her arm before she could say something Mamma and Daddy wouldn’t appreciate.
“Miz Callie, we’d better get in line for our cake or we’ll never get a table. Or better yet, why don’t you find a table for us and save me a seat?”
Her grandmother sent her a look that said she knew exactly what Georgia was doing, but she allowed herself to be diverted. “I’ll go find a seat, then. Mind you get me something chocolate now, y’heah?”
“I will.” Miz Callie’s passion for chocolate was second only to her love of the turtles. With a murmured good-bye to the Dawson woman, Georgia headed for the ticket booth. Just her luck, to run into a bosom buddy of her mother’s first thing. Not that she could keep her engagement-less status a secret for long, but Mamma had to hear about it
from her, not from across the bridge table.
Deal with it, her conscience insisted, and she did her best to ignore that small voice.
Clutching the tickets, she headed for the long tables holding the cakes. A man stood, surveying the array, and an unwelcome tingle of awareness went through her. Matt. She took a deep breath, pinned a smile to her face and stepped up to him. “What’s wrong? Can’t decide which
one to choose?”
He turned and seemed genuinely pleased to see Georgia standing there. She felt her face flush with heat. “For someone who doesn’t normally
Or, for that matter, questions from her grandmother about Georgia’s nonexistent progress on her quest.
The playground was filled with people—kids swarming over the swings and the slides, teenagers gathered in groups to selfconsciously ignore their elders, grown-ups visiting with neighbors as they lined up for ice cream and cake.
“We may as well get right in line for dessert,” Miz Callie said, chugging through the crowd with a firm grip on Georgia’s arm. “I wonder if they’ve cut my cake yet.” Georgia had delivered her grandmother’s delectable praline applesauce cake to the waiting refrigerated truck earlier in the afternoon. “It’s probably gone already. You
know how people love that cake.”
Miz Callie flushed at the compliment even while
brushing it off with a sweep of her hand. “There’ll be plenty fancier than mine, I’m sure. Land, there’s Marcy Dawson and her daughter. I haven’t seen them in an age.” She veered off. Georgia followed, forcibly preventing herself from rolling her eyes like a disgruntled teenager. If you went anywhere in the greater Charleston area with
Miz Callie, she’d be bound to find someone she knew.
The good thing about coming home was remembering how much she loved this place. The bad thing was a tendency to revert to a younger version of herself.
Marcy Dawson proved to be not a contemporary of her grandmother’s but someone more her mother’s age, with windswept blond hair and perfectly tanned skin that was complemented by her white tennis shorts. Her daughter, with an apologetic smile, dashed off after an exploring toddler.
Ms. Dawson assessed Georgia with the air of someone fitting her into her proper niche. “You’re Ashton and Delia’s daughter, aren’t you? I thought I heard you were working up in Atlanta, got yourself engaged, I believe your mother told me.”
“I’m just back to visit for a bit.” She slid her left hand behind her. “Helping my grandmother get settled at the cottage.”
That distracted the woman, thank goodness, and she turned back to Miz Callie. “Is it true, then, that you’re planning to stay on the island year-round?”
“That’s right. My, word does get around. But then, you play bridge with my daughter-in-law, I believe.” There was an icy edge to her grandmother’s voice that Georgia didn’t miss, maybe the faintest of suggestions that Georgia’s mother had been talking out of turn.
“Well, I…” The woman looked around as if seeking escape. “I guess she might have mentioned something about it.”
Miz Callie straightened, and Georgia caught her arm before she could say something Mamma and Daddy wouldn’t appreciate.
“Miz Callie, we’d better get in line for our cake or we’ll never get a table. Or better yet, why don’t you find a table for us and save me a seat?”
Her grandmother sent her a look that said she knew exactly what Georgia was doing, but she allowed herself to be diverted. “I’ll go find a seat, then. Mind you get me something chocolate now, y’heah?”
“I will.” Miz Callie’s passion for chocolate was second only to her love of the turtles. With a murmured good-bye to the Dawson woman, Georgia headed for the ticket booth. Just her luck, to run into a bosom buddy of her mother’s first thing. Not that she could keep her engagement-less status a secret for long, but Mamma had to hear about it
from her, not from across the bridge table.
Deal with it, her conscience insisted, and she did her best to ignore that small voice.
Clutching the tickets, she headed for the long tables holding the cakes. A man stood, surveying the array, and an unwelcome tingle of awareness went through her. Matt. She took a deep breath, pinned a smile to her face and stepped up to him. “What’s wrong? Can’t decide which
one to choose?”
He turned and seemed genuinely pleased to see Georgia standing there. She felt her face flush with heat. “For someone who doesn’t normally
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