She looks around me and sees the dining room table set up like I’m hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Her mouth drops open. Before I can say anything, she spins on her sandals and grabs for the door handle.
“Wait!” I pull her back with an arm around her slim waist, letting her go immediately when her body goes ramrod straight at the contact. “Seeing as I asked you over here for something work related, I figured I’d return the favor by feeding you.”
Betsy spins again, this time to glare at me. “With candles?” She looks past me, then meets my gaze again, looking even more pissed off, if that’s possible. “Andflowers?”
I shrug. “Those are just from my garden.” It’s true, though there’s a whole bouquet and they’re neatly arranged in a blue-and-white ginger jar that used to be Mama’s. It’s worthy of being in a fancy hotel all by itself. Add the flowers that Mama taught me to arrange, and they’re a knockout.
Betsy continues to glare at me as her brain spins. One set of purple nails comes up to scratch at her arm while she thinks. Dear Lord, it’s like she’s actually,physicallyallergic to kindness.
I pull her hand away before she draws blood. I sweep my thumb across the back of her hand and come in hot with the big guns. It’s not entirely a lie. “I was talking to my father and got angry. Figured cooking was a good distraction.”
I can see her softening. Just the tiniest bit.
“What did he say?”
I gesture to the table with my free hand. “Sit and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Betsygrowlsat me. It could be explained away as a clearing of her throat, but I know it’s directed at me. I do my best not to laugh in response. I tug on her hand and she chooses to follow me. I let her go long enough to pull out her chair. She sighs like it’s such an inconvenience to have me doing these nice things for her. She sits and I push her in, then grab a cloth napkin off the table with a flourish and slide it across her lap. She’s staring at me, but I keep going as if this is normal.Because it is normal.
I sit across from her and put my own napkin on my lap. “We have salad with avocado dressing and Mississippi mud potatoes. And I grilled some filets and topped them with blue cheese. I hope you like it.”
Betsy’s eyes are wide as she takes in all the dishes. “I love blue cheese,” she says quietly.
I hand her the bowl containing the green salad. “I know.”
Her head whips up. “How do you know?” She takes the salad and I scoop up my favorite kind of potatoes. Mama used to make them like this, all creamy and savory with the added bacon.
“I asked my sister what you ordered when you went to lunch with her.” I hand Betsy the potato dish. “And I’ve seen what you eat and what you leave behind when I bring in lunch.”
Betsy’s ears have gone red, which pleases me to no end. “You’ve been watching me. Like, a stalker?”
I just smile and use the tongs to put a filet on her plate. “Like someone who cares about you.”
“Hmm.” She digs into the food. She doesn’t say anything but I see the way her eyes close as she savors each bite. The slight side-to-side sway that tells me she’s wholeheartedly enjoying my cooking. Mama taught both me and Mary London how to cook, saying it was a human’s job to know how to make good food, not just a woman’s.
When Betsy eyes the potato dish and I see she’s cleared her plate, I don’t ask. I just scoop up some more and plop it on her plate.
“Thanks,” she growls.
Now I can’t help but chuckle. That growl of a thank-you is music to my ears. She doesn’t speak until she’s halfway through her second helping of potatoes and sits back in her chair, hands over her belly.
“What did your father say?”
Oh. That. I forgot everything once I got her in the chair and eating my food. I’m not too proud to take a pity date if that’s the only way to get a meal with Betsy.
“He implied he might start letting the women of Heaven know that the boutique will be closing. Said they need to give our customers a heads-up and perhaps we can at least clear the debt if we have a big going-out-of-business sale.”
Betsy slams her upper body into the table as she sits up suddenly. Water glasses slosh but don’t spill. Her palm smacks down on the tabletop, making the silverware jump. “He didwhat?”
I shrug. It’s true. That’s exactly what he said. It was just a couple days ago and not the reason for me luring Betsy over here.
Betsy blows out a breath, cheeks rounded like a chipmunk. “I’m trying not to say what I really think of your father, Silas.”
“Can’t be any worse than what I think in my own head.”
“How dare he?” she hisses, banging her hand on the table again. I rescue my water glass.
She sits there and stews on it, purple fingernail tapping against her plate until her face suddenly clears. “We have to beat him at his own game!”
