Page 3 of One Weekend in London

Not by a country mile.

“I suppose it’s all for the best though. You would never have been good enough for Maxwell—for any of us—really,” she continues, sniffing all haughty-like before ripping back the curtain on years of insecurities and self-doubt.

They rush forward, infiltrating my every thought.

“The Winslows may come from old money, but outside of your grandfather, your family of adopted misfits will never be anything more than white trash masquerading in good clothes.”

I don’t get to speak.

Not before Papaw’s chair skitters backward as he stands to his full six-foot-four height, his eyes glossing over with rage. I know that look. His patience is gone, the lasso holding his tongue having crumbled to dust.

“That’s enough, Cornelia.”

His heavily accented words hold a dangerous tone. I’ve never seen Papaw raise his voice at a woman in anger, and I don’t reckon he’s about to start.

Still, the way he speaks is cutting all the same.

“If you think I’m gonna stand here and let the likes of you lash my granddaughter with that serpent-whip you call a tongue, all the while insulting the rest of my grandyoungins’, then you’ve got another think comin’.”

If I wasn’t on the verge of bursting into tears, I’d laugh at the indignation morphing Cornelia’s face. She’s offended. Good.

“I don’t believe I was speaking to you, Boone—”

“Don’t matter one lick to me ’cause I’m speakin’ to you.” Grasping the straps of his overalls, he fists them tightly, his scarred knuckles turning white. “You’ve said your piece, hogwash as it is. Now leave Sadie alone ’fore I have one of my boys throw Maxwell a second beatin’ on account of you causin’ her trouble.”

Cornelia gasps and clutches the expensive Akoya pearls dangling from her neck. It’s downright comical. Lillian agrees, judging by the snort she lets out after sidling up next to where I sit, her soft hand curling around my shoulder in silent solidarity.

“Boone, you wouldn’t—”

“Try me. When it comes to my family, there ain’t a doggone thing I won’t do.” Papaw leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “As for what you said about my girl—about our family—being pure trash.”

He chuckles, the sound humorless.

“Every last hardworkin’ Winslow has more heart than ten silver spoon-fed Beaumonts combined. Except for Miss Posey and maybe Mrs. Eleanor, there ain’t a single one of you fat cats who’s worth the powder it’d take to blow you straight to hell. And if this town knows what’s good for it, it’ll start rememberin’ that pretty darn quick.”

Not one to be insulted without verbally slapping back, the Witch of the South rears back to spit something else, but I don’t stick around to hear what she has to say. I can’t. Not when my throat continues to tighten, my burning lungs screaming for air I can’t seem to pull in.

Panic looms, close to taking over.

Wholly uncaring of the eyes locked on me, I jump up and burst out of the Bean, the cool morning air hitting me. Unfortunately, it brings no relief. My skin is on fire, the river of tears that now falls unchecked scorching my already flaming skin.

I need to run, to escape.

My feet move without my brain commanding them to, and I’m sitting behind the wheel of my CR-V before I know it, my hands wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel it’s a miracle the leather doesn’t crack.

Fighting to quell the anxiety threatening to wrap me in a permanent chokehold, I turn my head, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.

That’s when I see it.

The chevron-adorned rolling suitcase, my passport tucked in its front pocket, and matching overnight bag Lillian helped me pack months ago. Intended for the honeymoon I never went on, they’ve sat in my car since the morning I became Garrison’s most infamous runaway bride.

Maybe I should…

My breath stalls when an unhinged idea takes the shape of an invisible two-by-four and slams into me, knocking every lick of common sense I possess clear into outer space.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold.

But what if, in my case, it comes in the form of me taking a much-needed vacation on my ex’s dime? I’d bet good money he’s been too busy banging Vanessa—the betraying harlot—to cancel the American Express he gave me right after proposing. I’ve never used it, but I know good and well there’s no credit limit.

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