Muriel snorts. “Just make sure he wears a clean shirt on television.”
I ignore Muriel and shoot a wink across the table at my girl. I’m equally dreading this press tour as I am looking forward to figuring out this new life.
The bell jingles and Eli steps in, dust on his boots and a five o’clock shadow that’s bordering midnight. “Town’s at it again over your books,” he says, tilting his head toward the square. “Heard the shouting from the sidewalk.”
Before I can answer, he holds the door for a woman I don’t recognize—camera slung cross-body and a backpack over a shoulder. She’s pretty in that sunny cheerleader way, but her expression is filled with sharp intelligence.
She spares a glance at Eli, does a double take when she takes him in, and then walks right into Mildred Santee, who’s trying to leave through the same door Eli’s still holding open.
“Sorry,” the woman mumbles and then looks around at the seating arrangements.
“Just grab a table wherever you want, honey,” Muriel says, ever the hostess as she jumps up with surprising agility and rolls her walker the stranger’s way. “You passing through or visiting?”
The woman smiles and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “A bit of both. I’m Reese Cartier. I’m a travel blogger doing a piece on small Southern towns. Just checked in at Millie’s.”
Muriel brightens. “Well, welcome to Whynot, sugar. We’ve got sweet tea, loud opinions, and—apparently—a matinee protest going on outside.”
Reese’s eyes twinkle with the promise of fodder. “Should I be worried?”
“Only if you hate entertainment,” Muriel replies. “This is foreplay for town meetings.”
Penny cranes her neck and looks out the window before glancing at me. “Wanna go have a look?”
I take a peek, and yeah… picketers are in a clustered group with signs. I can’t read them from here, but I’m pretty sure I know what they say.
I drop my napkin and rise from the table. “If Floyd’s out there with a megaphone, I’m liable.”
Penny and Derek follow me outside, as does Eli, the stranger named Reese, and Muriel. The rest of the customers move to the large window and peer out.
The sound hits like a swarm and I note the square’s split down the middle. On the courthouse side, the church crowd waves signs.
KEEP SIN OUT OF WHYNOT.
GUARD THE CHILDREN.
LOVE SHOULD BE PURE.
A hymn rasps tinnily from a portable speaker and the protestors yell at another group of people on the opposite side of the square, led by Floyd.
He’s pulled his pickup onto the lawn—sure to wrangle him a ticket from our police chief—and he’s standing on the bed like it’s a pulpit. Morri, in full drag—glittered jumpsuit, heels, platinum hair—wields a megaphone beside him.
“What do we want?” Morri hollers.
“Love!” roars his side.
“When do we want it?”
“Every chapter!”
Derek mutters, “I need hazard pay.”
Penny squeezes my arm and I glance down at her. She’s not amused at all, and neither am I.
I’m sick of this.
Mrs. Johnson, with her tight brown pin curls and a Bible in hand, spots me. She points a condemning finger. “You ought to be ashamed, Sam-Pete Rochelle! You’re poisoning this town.”
I love how she calls me by my childhood nickname. Hell, that woman used to change my diapers, and nowshe thinks I’m leading a satanic cult.
