Page 2 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

I didn’t ask for this role. Didn’t sign up. No invitation came in the mail. I certainly didn’t RSVP, but here I am, on the receiving end of a full-fledged Leonie smile, and it’s the greatest gift in the world.

I never knew a love so full could exist—certainly not between a baby that was left on my doorstep and me. But I wouldn’t trade any of it for all the treasure in the world. Not even the sleepless nights, the diaper change sprint, or the bewildering look she sometimes gives me.

It’s like we’re both still trying to figure each other out and how we got here. But if I can do one thing right in my life, it’s being the best mother possible for this little girl.

I could stay here all day gazing into her eyes, but I don’t trust Molly at the Grille for another moment and this little peach needs a nap.

Back in the car, I drop Leonie off with Lexi and JQ and then return the Corolla to Missy. Crossing the street to avoid Mrs. Halfpenny’s daily diatribe about how this town has gone to the dogs—never mind that hers is battery-operated—I all but run to the restaurant.

After this morning, I could really go for a lollipop. It became a habit after I quit smoking. This was B.B. as inBefore Babyover ten years ago. I’d picked up the habit for three months after Cory died. But then quit and lollipops became my vice. I like all kinds—the gourmet, round ones, the cheap flat ones, and even the giant colorful ones.

Entering through the Grille’s back door, I duck into the office and check my private stash in the bottom drawer of the desk. Fresh out of ’pops ... and looking like a madwoman in the speckled mirror by the door. Smoothing my hair and applying a fresh coat of red lipstick, the race to the end of the day begins in three, two, one.

Tying on my apron and stepping through the double-swinging wooden doors to the dining room, I find Molly leaning on the counter.

Mr. Soto sits at the other end, drinking his daily milkshake. It’s Friday, which means he splurges on chocolate.

I stare at Molly and snap my fingers. “At attention.”

She quickly straightens and all but salutes me. What can I say? I run a tight ship.

“Betsy might let you get away withleaningover at the Hogwash Hairwash & Style, but there’s always something to do here while you’re on the clock.”

“Does that mean you’re paying me?” Molly’s Cajun accent used to be nearly as thick as mine, but lately, she’s been using a more neutral tone like a news anchor.

I clear my throat. “I’m paying you with pancakes. That was the agreement.”

I’m lucky I have enough money to keep the lights on.

“Pancakes with extra whipped cream?” Molly asks.

“Fine.”

Roxanne Lagniappe, Molly’s cohort, sits on the spinning stool on the other side of the counter.

“Are you going to order anything?” I ask.

It’s not that she’s keeping a spot from a paying customer, but if she’s going to take up space, she may as well contribute.

“Can I see a menu?” she asks.

It hasn’t changed in twenty years, so I imagine she has it memorized along with everyone else in town, but I slide one in front of her all the same. The laminate pulled away and water seeped inside, making the alligator on the logo look drunk.

“Can I get an apron next time?” Molly asks, eyeing mine, embroidered with my name in yellow thread.

“Who said there’ll be a next time?” I ask while wiping down the counter.

“I know where you went today.”

Of course she does.

Hogwash Holler Fact Number One: There are no secrets. What you think you’re keeping to yourself is always public knowledge. Perhaps there’s something in the water. Or we alltalk in our sleep. Could be a truth serum in the coffee. Then again, until recently, I was the only game in town who served the stuff. A Coffee Loft opened down the street and they likely have a proprietary formulation sans truth serum.

The source and purveyor of our town’s gossip is none other than Molly Hazelwood. We went to high school together, and she knows everything, usually even before the people involved do. She moonlights as a receptionist at the hair salon a couple of days a week—a prime location for gathering juicy gossip, second to this very counter.

It’s hard not to keep my ears open, but my mouth remains shut. I’ve been on the wrong side of gossip enough in my life to know better than to blab.

She says, “As a result of your meeting earlier, you’ll probably need help around here from time to time.”

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