Read From Scratch for Free Online

“And?”
    “ And she knows you’re in town,” Annabelle says, her voice turning muffled. I hear her shouting at someone in the background.
    “Please tell me you’re joking,” I say, louder than what is appropriate for any indoor space in an attempt to talk over whatever squabble she’s having.
    Seconds pass of more muffled arguing. Finally she sighs into the phone and says, “Sorry about that. A damn bike messenger nearly decapitated me. Anyway, if you’re at the Prickly Pear, you better run and hide while you can. You know how pushy that old woman can be.”
    As if on cue, a voice as sweet as southern tea drawls my name, emphasizing each syllable. I’d recognize that Charleston accent anywhere.
    I cringe. “Annabelle, she’s here. I need to call you back.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “We’ll catch up later at the committee meeting. Don’t be late.”
    Huh?
    Plastering a smile on my face, I set the cereal bowl aside and haul myself up from the couch. Sullivan Grace Hasell—better known as Ms. Bless Your Heart for her uncanny ability to insult the sin out of someone but mask it as a compliment swathed in a little southern flair—stands before me in a floral couture dress. Her caramel-colored hair is styled in an elegant bun that accentuates her long, graceful neck.
    “There you are!” She encases me in a hug. I breathe in her perfume, a mix of pears and freesia, the same scent she’s worn since forever, as she drawls on, “Where Annabelle said you’d be.”
    Of course it is.
    “Hello, Ms. Hasell,” I say with exaggerated cheer.
    “I hardly recognized you, dear. You look stressed. Are you stressed?” She cups my face in her hands. “Oh, you know what I think it is? It’s the way you’re wearing your hair now, all pulled back tight in that ponytail. But never mind about that,” she says, peering at me through long, full lashes. “You’re looking lovely as ever, even with those fine lines around your eyes, bless your heart. It’s nice to see you haven’t let those midwesterners pressure you into the Botox craze.”
    “Actually, I opted for liposuction instead,” I deadpan. “Sucked the fat right out of me.”
    Sullivan Grace ignores me. “Though you really should try a lighter color palette, Lillie. That black sweater makes you look haggard. Not to mention it dulls out the soft blue of your eyes.” She collects an imaginary speck of lint between her thumb and pointer finger and discards it to the floor. “Elizabeth would throw a fit if she knew you’d abandoned your apron for those drab pinstripes.”
    My heart does that dropping-into-my-stomach thing again as anger swirls inside me. I rub my temples in slow, precise circles as I battle the headache forming from the mere mention of my mother’s name.
    Sullivan Grace was my mother’s college roommate and closest friend before my mother went out for butter on my third birthday and never came back. But that didn’t stop Sullivan Grace from sticking around. Growing up, I think she saw me as some kind of charity case. Or maybe she was worried that since I no longer had a female figure in my life, I’d end up shaving my head and joining the circus. Or perhaps, in some convoluted way, she felt like she owed it to my mother to make sure I turned out on the right side of normal. Whatever the case, Sullivan Grace has always been there, lingering in the background, pushing my buttons with her veiled reprimands and meddling ways.
    “Oh well, it’s not important now. It’s marvelous to see you,” she says, gushing like a shaken soda can. “Jackson said you’re moving home.”
    “Actually, I’m only here for a short visit.”
    “Nonsense,” she says, waving me off with a flick of her wrist. “You’re needed here.”
    “That’s kind of you, but the diner is better off without me.”
    “I’m not talking about the diner, dear, though Jackson did make me the most delectable eggs Benedict this morning. He really is the