Page 18 of Georgia On My Mind (Southern Promises)

Hart laughed, watching the two of them banter back and forth.

“I’ll get y’all hooked up with two slices of the lemon meringue.”

Mr. Smith rubbed his palms together with glee before leaning toward Hart across the table. “It’s real meringue too, none of that store-bought crap.”

He nodded and took a sip of his tea.

“So, you’re a friend of Georgia’s, huh?”

His question startled Hart. “You mean, Gia, right?”

Ed rolled his eyes. “Yeah. She gets on to me for still calling her by her birth name. I’ve told her to cut me some slack ‘cause I’m old and that’s what I called her when she was growing up.” The elderly man sipped the hot coffee carefully.

Hart tried not to act too surprised, clearing his throat. “I’m a new friend of Gia’s. We only met just last week. She’s quite something.”

Ed nodded in agreement. “Yep. Her late Aunt Caroline was the original owner of the dance studio. She was a terrific influence on her when she went through a bunch of stuff as a kid.”

Shifting in his seat, Hart wasn’t prepared for small talk about Gia. But he was intrigued and wanted to know more. “So, you’ve known her for a while?”

“Her entire life. She was the cutest little thing, riding her bike to dance class, wearing a pink tutu and ballet slippers. Dancing has always been her passion, keeping her out of trouble, unlike that no-good mama of hers.”

Hearing the old man dis Gia’s mother surprised Hart and he cleared his throat. “Yes, she’s quite a good dancer.”

“You’ve seen her dance?” The old man looked at him expectantly.

“Umm…” Hart wasn’t sure how to explain the solo performance Gia had done just for him the day before. “Yes. I have.” He left it at that.

“Well, I hope she can make ends meet. I know it hasn’t been easy for her these last few months. She had to let most of her staff go.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She sure tries. I hope it pans out, but if you want to know the truth, I think she’d be better off letting her lease run out and relocate somewhere else; somewhere nice and safe. You know, a place with lots of young families with children. There ain’t many kids around these parts anymore.”

Angel dropped off two giant pieces of pie topped with at least six inches of creamy meringue. “Y’all enjoy,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.

Hart’s eyes almost popped out of his head. He could eat his fair share of donuts, but there was no way he could eat a piece of a pie that large without getting a severe sugar headache. Mr. Smith was already diving into his, happily munching away.

“You wanna talk real estate?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Yes, sir. That’s why I called and wanted to meet.”

Mr. Smith nodded. “I’ll give you the low-down real quick.” He wiped his face with a paper napkin. “I’ve been running this little corner of Atlanta since 1981. We’ve had our highs and our lows over the years. I thought about selling in the mid-nineties but wasn’t quite ready. Then the recession hit. I haven’t been the same since.”

Hart nodded empathetically while taking tiny bites of pie.

“No one is even interested in buying now. The area has gone to crap; crime everywhere and no one leasing space—at least, anyone reputable. I could lease to a bunch of pawn shops and title loan sharks, but I haven’t stooped to that level yet. But if I keep losing my tenants, I may have to suck it up for the revenue.”

“Have you ever thought about improvements? Maybe a giant facelift? Asking the county for tax incentives for new tenants?”

“Been there, done that, son. Banks won’t loan me the money for the kind of renovations I need.” He took a big bite of pie and let the conversation breathe. “Don’t get me wrong; there’s still a lot of good folks around here. Our area just happens to have fallen into that dark hole of the recession, and we haven’t quite figured out how to climb out of it. It’s slow goin’, that’s for sure. But the tide will eventually change, if I live to see the day.”

Hart pushed his half-eaten pie to the side. “If I could get some people on board to take a look at your property, maybe come up with a few ideas, would you be willing?”

Mr. Smith blew a puff of air out his nostrils. “Sure. At this point, I’m willing to look at hiring a hitman to torch the place for the insurance money.”

Hart laughed out loud. “Hopefully, it won’t come down to that Mr. Smith. And I’m pretty sure they don’t serve lemon meringue pie in prison.”

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