“Thanks,” I say, somewhat surprised. Should I be hungry when I was just jilted at the altar? I honestly don’t know.
She looks at me, lifting a brow. “Want me to bring you a scoop of vanilla to make your pie à la mode? It’s on the house.”
She obviously feels bad for me. I look down at my left hand, which should be wearing a wedding ring just now. I am sort of pathetic today.
“Stop feeling sorry for me,” I demand. I grab my fork. “But ice cream does sound good.”
She vanishes with a wink and returns with the scoop of ice cream on a side plate.
“Thanks,” I grouse. “But again-.”
She holds up her hands. “You’ve made yourself clear. I’m not going to baby you. Do let me know if I can get you anything else, though.”
I think about asking her if she keeps any extra wives in the back, but I decide not to inflict my dark humor on her. Nobody needs that.
I dig into my cobbler first, savoring the sweet stickiness of the peaches and the pleasurable crunch of the crumbs and crust. Taking a bite of the ice cream, I notice the tangy creaminess of the icy treat.
A bell chimes softly as a young woman pushes the door open. With her bouncy, honey-blonde hair, bright yellow sundress, and sun-kissed skin, she looks like the embodiment of summer. She’s on the tall side and has a slender frame. She raises her hand to greet Pearl. The two women are probably about the same age, just out of college.
Way too young for me to be noticing that the blonde is hot as hell. Not only have I only been single for all of two hours, but I’m also probably ten years older than this girl. But I find her unspeakably attractive. She seems so carefree as she takes the stool next to mine.
I imagine her as being the total opposite of Holly. Holly is always impeccable and elegant, with her dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, clad in a fluttery white silk shirt, and the latest wide-leg trousers that just came off the runway in Milan.
If my ex is polished and cosmopolitan, then this girl’s beauty is the opposite. It’s delicate and homegrown. She has broad cheeks set with high cheekbones. A delicate spray of freckles is dappled across the bridge of her nose and falls gently across both sides of her face. Her eyes are bright against the rosy glow of her cheeks. The sweet sweep of her butterscotch hair frames her heart-shaped face. Her button nose and expressive blush pink lips are so damn perfect that it honestly takes my breath away for a few moments.
She’s stunning.
Our gazes meet briefly and her sparkling green eyes startle me. She arches a brow and smiles.
God, is she flirting with me? She smirks before looking down at her menu.
I swallow and straighten imperceptibly. A little shaft of sunlight pierces my near-impenetrable gloom.
2
Savannah
“Hey, hon.”
I look up from the Gem’s menu to find a couple in their early sixties looming over me. The woman wears a long beige dress covered with tiny pink printed flowers. She clutches the arm of a man in faded jeans and a white T-shirt with the Atlanta Kings’ crown logo on it. I squint, trying to place where I know them from.
“We went to Cullen Bridge Baptist Church with your momma,” the woman says, her Georgia accent thicker than a bowl of grits. “Your mother was such a spirited woman. She was the best community advocate in the coastal South. She had a big voice and she used it to stick up for people who needed protecting. The entire state of Georgia misses her. We just wanted to say how much we loved her. We pray for her. And of course, you are in our prayers, too.”
She leans forward and gently pats me on the shoulder. I force a smile to my lips.
“Thank you so much. It’s nice to hear that she had such an impact.”
The woman looks like I’ve just made her day. “You’re welcome. You should come to services this Sunday! The congregation has been looking for someone to fill your mother’s shoes.”
I blush twenty-three shades of pink.
“That’s so nice of you, but I’m afraid I attend another church,” I lie. I don’t attend church, but I certainly don’t want to discuss my faith with a random woman.
“Our door is always open.” She squeezes my shoulder and then steps back. “Have a blessed day.”
“Y’all too,” I say earnestly. “Happy Sunday.”
They shuffle off and I lean my head back, exhaling. It’s been three months since I lost my mother to pancreatic cancer and I’ve had countless blessings heaped upon me. I’ve come to dread it, but I can’t bring myself to tell anyone that.