Larkin waves. “Too late!”
He chuckles, shakes his head and shuffles inside. The scene could be painted on a postcard labeledSouthern Contradictions: Exhibit A.
But even as I laugh, a knot of worry sits low in my chest. Sam and I are easy together—dangerously easy—and I can’t tell if that’s comfort or warning. I sip mywine and picture him on his porch swing, the way he listens when I talk, really listens, like my words have weight. The thought aches in all the right and wrong places.
By the time the bottle’s empty and the fairy lights threaded through the overhead pergola are glowing full strength, there are no barriers to our discussion. We talk more about love, particularly with Larkin’s new marriage to Deacon. She keeps pushing the notion of a forever with Sam and I just nod along at the possibility. And when it’s time to leave, I pull Larkin into a hug.
“This was so much fun,” she says as we squeeze each other. “Let’s plan another one soon.”
“Just tell me when,” I say as we pull apart.
“And seriously, Penny… I know I’m pushing this happily ever after with Sam, but it’s because I want you to know a really deep and true love. I’ve found it and it’s the best feeling in the world. I just want my best friend to have that too.”
Her last words stick with me as I drive to Sam’s. The road winds past fresh tilled fields that will soon be planted with cotton, soybeans and field corn. Sam grew up picking tobacco right from these very plots, a horrid summer job that many of my friends did to earn money. It’s part of our way of living.
I think about Sam, how very ingrained he is in this community. So much so, even with his own motherturning against him as a result of well-intentioned judgment, he’s not lost hope about this town.
My heart’s doing that fluttery, foolish thing it does when I let myself think this could last, because just like I told Larkin, I don’t know that Sam would be the same if he ever gave it up.
Just as I know now—it isn’t a simple fling. It never was.
Sam’s porch is lit by string lights and fireflies, the kind of magic no decorator could replicate. He’s stretched out on the swing when I pull up, one arm draped over the backrest.
“You’re late,” he calls, grinning as I climb the steps. “I was about to send a search party.”
“Got lost in girl talk and a wonderful Weissburgunder that Jason recommended,” I say, sinking onto the swing beside him.
He chuckles, arm coming around my shoulders to pull me in for a gentle kiss. “Dangerous combination. All good at the diner today?”
“Yeah… it’s running smoothly. Muriel’s starting to come in and do some oversight management and a few employees have really stepped up to the plate. How was your day?”
“It was quiet,” he says thoughtfully. “I wrote all day… sitting right at my new desk. It was very productive.”
“I’m glad you’re settling into all of it. Did Derek get thatGood Morning Americaspot booked?”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, but only after I refused to go to New York for a studio interview. He about had a fit, but it turns out, they’re willing to come here so they can show the whole country boy, masculine author in his native environment. That’s what makes the story, according to Derek. A producer is coming tomorrow to shoot something called B-roll footage and get background on me.”
“Wow,” I murmur at the implications. “Fame is sneaking up on you.”
“Yeah, and not sure I like it. I’m going to have to play this all by ear.”
“You’re going to be fabulous at managing it, I promise.”
The swing creaks gently as we rock. It’s peaceful, too peaceful, and that’s probably why my nerves start buzzing.
He glances sideways. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
I lift a shoulder. “Been thinking about tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that.”
“And one day, the day will come that you’ll head back to DC.”
“Yeah,” I murmur softly. “Muriel needs me less. And that means leaving this behind. It means leaving youbehind and I’m not liking that.”
“I’m not liking it either,” he admits. “But I know how much your career means to you. You’ve got a lot to consider.”
“And how do you feel about it?” I ask hesitantly.
“I don’t want you to go,” he admits, and the relief makes me dizzy. “But I can’t ask you to stay. I’ll never ask you to give up your dreams for me.”
