Page 56 of At First Flight
“It always does. Even when they’re closed, the smell lingers on the sidewalk outside.”
“Seems like you’d want to keep this place a town secret,” I say as I peruse the menu, my eyes instantly landing on a dish I haven’t had in years. Heather, one of my parent’s kitchen staff, used to make chicken piccata whenever I’d come home for a holiday from boarding school, knowing it was a favorite of mine. I’ve tried it at various Michelin-star restaurants, and nothingcomes close to hers. But I’m willing to bet Sweet Gum Café knows what they’re doing.
“As hard as we try, it’s even more difficult not to share Aimee’s dishes with the tourists. Because they’re just that good. And that’s been in her family for almost a hundred years. They had some hard times a few years back. Betsy, Aimee’s grandmother, was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. It was like she went to the doctor one day, and then she was gone.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Lila shrugs, but I don’t miss the light sheen on her lower lids. “Her husband wasn’t far behind, which left Aimee to pick up the pieces. Her parents weren’t in the picture, and her grandparents raised her.
“So the entire town chipped in to get the café into shape while Aimee took some cooking classes at a college about an hour away. Ten years later, here we are, and Sweet Gum is thriving. In the summer, sometimes the wait is over an hour. People drive from all around to taste the local dishes.”
Leaning across the table, Lila whispers as if she’s offering me a secret code. “Aimee always leaves a few tables reserved for locals during the tourist seasons.”
Chuckling, I lean back against the bench, hitching one arm along the top. “I like that story.”
Lila beams under my praise, and I reach under the table to adjust myself in my pants. “And I like you,” I add, to which Lila rolls her beautiful eyes. “So does everyone else, it seems.” Subtly, I nod toward the group of men wearing dirt-covered gear, the telltale signs of a day of hard work. Since we walked into the place, their eyes haven’t left my nanny. I can’t even be mad, as I see her appeal plain-as-day.
From our seat in the back, I face toward the entrance, watching as the sun settles over the line of trees. Streetlamps flick on, dueling against the orange rays to decide who gets to illuminate the sidewalk.
Beneath the table, I’m brought back to the moment when I receive a stern kick to my shin, only to look up and find Lila’s cheeks shifting to a color of red to match the tablecloth checks. She apologizes under her breath just as a harried server rushes to our table, offering her own apology.
“Sorry, folks, we’re a little short-staffed…oh my gosh! Well, if it isn’t Miss Lila Wright? I heard rumors you were back, but I thought, surely, she’d come pay me a visit,” the woman exclaims jovially with a hand settled on her hip.
Lila dips her head before stepping out of the booth, wrapping her arms around the curvy woman. The woman’s keen eyes latch onto me immediately and I feel the weight of their stare.
“And now, who might this be?” she demands, keeping a stern grip around Lila’s waist.
“Sorry, Lisa. This is Dean Harrington. He and his niece and nephew just moved to town. Dean, this is Lisa.”
“Nice to meet you,” I reply, outstretching a hand for her to shake. Not even the jarred up and down movement can shake the thought of Oliver and Evelyn being called my niece and nephew. They feel more like my own than my own sister did.
“Likewise.” Even lost in my thoughts, it’s hard to miss her appreciative tone.
As Lila settles back into her seat, we both order a glass of sweet tea, and Lila requests an appetizer of the she-crab soupand Lynnhaven oysters. Two dishes she claims will change my life.
Seems like most things from this town possess that quality.
“So,” she begins.
“So,” I repeat, settling my arms on the table, bringing my body a few inches closer to her.
“Want to tell me about the phone call?”
Immediately, I tense, my fist reaching for the first thing it comes in contact with, the set of utensils wrapped in a napkin, and clench it for dear life. My neatly trimmed nails dig into the skin of my palm.
Through clenched teeth, I say, “I’d rather talk about you first.”
“Okay,” she replies with a smile, clearly trying to lighten the tense mood that’s fallen over our table.
Thankfully, Lisa arrives with our drinks and promises to return shortly with our appetizers.
“I’ve read a few of your articles,” I begin, and her eyebrows shoot up. “What made you choose to study food allergies? Did I get that right?”
“It’s really embarrassing and sort of sad.”
Lisa chooses that moment to drop off our appetizers at the table, then takes our order, quickly scurrying off to greet another set of guests. I gaze at Lila expectantly as she reaches for her spoon.
Scooping out some of her soup, Lila glances at me, then asks, “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”
