Page 13 of The Charm of You

It’s always been her way, though, something she passed onto me, along with her blue eyes.

In the car, I click my seat belt into place, settle my leather belt bag in my lap, and say, “Please don’t say anything to anyone about Edward, okay? I’m not ready to be at the center of the gossip mill just yet—or ever.”

“Then you probably should’ve dressed a little less like a New Yorker,” she tosses over, and although I know she’s kidding, I nervously slide my hand over my cashmere sweater midi dress.

Is this outfit too much? It probably wouldn’t have been had I not styled my hair and used lip liner. It’s too much.

“I’m teasing, honey.” Mama gently swats at my hand as we head toward the square.

“I know,” I say, but it’s weak.

She shoots me a dubious frown. “I can see the wheels turning in that head of yours. You’ve always had a tendency of overthinking things.”

“I’ve always felt a lot of pressure. It’s why I overthink things.”

“You’re in Sapphire Creek now. You don’t have to worry about city snobs judging you over your accent, and the only reason anyone will recognize you is to welcome you home. There are no billboards around here with your face on them, so you can relax. Here, you can just be Caroline Summers.”

I pick apart her words like I did when searching for symbolism in our high school English assignments. I look for anything comforting in my mother’s words to latch onto long enough for my tense nerves to loosen.

But I come up empty.

She’s right—I am home, and it feels good. But it’s a double-edged sword at the moment.

Back when I’d told Addie, our class president and also my friend, that I’d be here for the reunion and the parade, I was happy to accept both invitations because I thought I’d be returning home with lots to celebrate.

I thought I’d be coming back to show everyone they were right about me becoming a success, but so much can change in such a short time, can’t it?

I inhale an unsteady breath as we pull into a parking spot next to a quaint shop, whose blue awnings extend over a few tables. I’m suddenly nervous to go inside Bready or Knot, as if the muffins themselves will pass judgment on me.

Inside, the bakery is crowded with a mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces, but there’s one in particular that I’ll never forget, no matter how many years pass—Mrs. Goodwin, the owner.

She spots Mama and me and bounces around the counter, beaming with excitement and pride in her eyes. Her cheeks are a bit thinner than I remember, but her deep, honey Southern accent is the exact same.

And it’s yet another item on the list of things I’ve missed about home.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that the one and only Sweet Caroline?” She spreads her arms wide, and I happily melt into her embrace. She smells of pumpkin spice and cinnamon, and it makes my stomach growl. “Let me get a good look at you!”

Smiling, I playfully spin like I did on stage for pageants way back when.

“This is why you were Little Miss Sapphire Creek two years in a row,” Mrs. Goodwin gushes. “And as if you weren’t already so popular around here, you move off to New York and come back looking like a celebrity.”

“You give out compliments like free cookie samples,” I tease, squeezing her hands between mine.

“You always were a humble thing. I’m glad the city hasn’t changed that about you.” She winks, then slides one hand into Mama’s and says to her, “Our girl is back, Paulette. She’s back!”

As Mrs. Goodwin packages up a couple of pumpkin streusel muffins and a few complimentary croissants, more people enter the intimate space. Some offer greetings my way, and my smile becomes easier to hold as I wave back.

An hour ago, I was nervous about facing this town, but it’s fading the more I exchange pleasantries with friendly faces, especially when I catch sight of Addie among the crowd in the corner.

“Go say hi.” Mama nudges me toward my old friend.

“I’ll only be a minute.” I maneuver through the gobs of people smushed together, and as I approach, she locks eyes with me.

“Caroline!” Addie scoots her chair back, and the screeching skid catches the attention of the surrounding guests.

She abandons the two notebooks and a half-eaten pastry on the table, along with her friend. A man I don’t recognize swallows the wooden chair opposite her, and his posture is slouched and comfortable. Is he a date? Is this guy her boyfriend? It’s Saturday morning, so it wouldn’t be insane to assume as much.

In any case, she and I have a lot to catch up on. I had no idea she was seeing anyone. In fact, when we spoke last week, she mentioned being “as single as a personal pan pizza.”

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