“You know me. I’ll eat whatever you cook.”
“The bravest guinea pig known to mankind.”
“I’m still standing, my dear. I even survived buffalo chicken and pasta night.”
“Stop,” I said, grinning. “I told you that you didn’t have to eat it. You’re the stubborn woman who insisted on trying in spite of the hot sauce bobble.”
“You mean the great hot sauce spillage of the decade?”
“I can’t help it if I didn’t understand the tiny little hole in the lid was intentional.” Frustrated with how slowly the sauce had come out, I’d taken the whole lid off—and managed to spill way too much in the bowl.
“You’ve never made that mistake again,” Dotty said as she sat at the petite round table in my petite kitchen area.
I’d been hosting Dotty for dinner weekly for nearly two years. I’d first extended an invitation for two reasons—one, I wanted to pay her back for rescuing me the morning after my dad had cut ties, and two, I needed to learn to cook, and having a guest was motivation. Now it was our ritual, and it was all about our friendship.
I didn’t entertain anyone but Dotty in my tiny studio apartment. It was awkward, what with the bed in one corner and a love seat and two chairs squeezed into a tiny sitting area butting up against the kitchen table.
Dotty, bless her soul, ate everything I made for her without complaint. Except for the buffalo chicken. The dish had ended up so spicy that both of us had eyes and noses running by halfway through the meal as we laughed and laughed.
“Thanks for this,” I said, checking out the wine label. “You don’t know how much I need it tonight.”
“Rough day at the office?”
I opened the wine and poured. “I’m starting to think I made a mistake. I’m not sure about this whole business-owning thing.” My eyes filled as I said it, and I kept my back to her an extra few seconds as I reined in control of my emotions.
“What happened?”
I breathed in deeply and blew it out, picked up one of the glasses, closed the three feet to the table, and offered it to her.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she quipped.
I sat in the other chair. “I lost a client before they could sign.”
“Well, damn. But that’s going to happen sometimes.”
I swallowed, knowing I was going to spill the whole story but trying to gird my loins beforehand. Not because of any reaction Dotty would have, but because it meant digging up the old Magnolia.
“This was for a large wedding in June,” I told her. “You probably know the groom. Joel Hightower. His fiancée, a sweet girl from Birmingham, met with me last week, and it went really well. They have money to spend and wanted me to help. Or she did. Then Joel found out, and he basically said over his dead body.”
“I’d say we need to off him, but then there wouldn’t be a wedding at all.”
That made me grin in spite of my angsty mood. “No use killing off the groom.”
“What was his reasoning?” Dotty asked carefully.
“He didn’t spell it out, but I’m sure it was because he believes I hurt his little sister years ago. Back in high school, she was dating a particular guy. They broke up, and I went out with the guy. Let’s just say we got caught kissing after a football game, and everybody found out. She accused us of having a thing before they broke up, which was false unless you counted some low-key flirting that he started.”
“So you were made to look like the jerk in the situation.”
“Yes, ma’am. Honestly, I didn’t know how recent their breakup had been, and I’m not sure it would’ve changed anything if I had, but somehow I was the one who hurt Joel’s sister. Not the guy she’d been dating.”
When you were the girl who didn’t quite fit in, it was easy for others to put the blame on you.
“That’s been how many years?” she asked.
I thought back. “I was a senior, so like seventeen?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, my dear. The more events you put on, the more people in this town will see who you are today. They’ll forget all about their petty ideas from the past.”
