Shit. What the hell is happening to me here?
“Time to go home and apply our self-tanners, ladies!” Mary London breaks up the hug. I want to roll my eyes, but earlier she gave me a bottle and a mitt with instructions on how to apply so I’ll be a good Southern model for her boutique tomorrow. The ladies around here don’t play around with their self-tans.
The girls are talking a mile a minute as they gather their things, slip their shoes back on, and talk about tomorrow’s festivities. Nana flutters around them, promising to swing by their houses and boutiques soon. It hits me, watching all these lovely women, that I’ve somehow missed this. I never knew this kind of neighborliness was something to miss, but now that I’ve seen it, witnessed it, and participated in it, I don’t know that I can ever live somewhere else.
What theheavenhas gotten into me here?
The door closes and the silence feels empty in their wake. Nana’s face is lit up, making her look ten years younger. She comes up and fluffs my hair, her arthritic fingers making me realize that she won’t be around forever.
“You look lovely, Betsy Mae. Palmer did a fantastic job.”
“Nana?” She quits fussing with my hair and meets my gaze. I pull her into a hug, surprising her. “I love you.”
She pats my back and softens into the hug. “I love you too, darlin’. Always have, always will.” She pulls back, holding my arms in her strong hands. “And those girls can be your best friends too. If you let them.”
I nod, but she’s not ready to let it go.
“I’m as serious as the King making a peanut butter banana sandwich, Betsy. You can trust those girls, and you can trust that young man. Let yourself be loved.”
Her words hit me square in the chest. All this isolation and grumpiness with people in general has made me lonely. I didn’t even realize it until I moved and spent time around quality people. ’Til I got hit over the head with the Southern-charm stick.
“I’ll try, Nana. I’ll try.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Silas
Saturday morning dawnsbright and early. Today’s the day we’ve been planning for. The clothes Betsy and I ordered for the Battle of the Boutiques, and for the fall rush of sales, will either flop spectacularly or succeed beyond our wildest expectations. The truth of it is probably somewhere in the middle of those extremes, but my heart rate is currently only picturing the worst while my heart is hoping for the best.
In a nod to a day slightly more formal than any old day in the boutique, I’m wearing dress slacks and a black polo. I already checked with Mary London, and she’s having Betsy wear a black, strapless formal dress with a large bow in the back. I made sure to be dressed to match her. Because sometimes it’s about the little things.
I end up parking in the new garage lot they built a couple blocks from the square. We want customers to be able to park up front, and I’m hoping there will be a ton of them today. As I walk to the Square, I start to see the decoration the council put up last night: refreshed spots of red, pink, and blue flowers in thepots lining the sidewalk, a hand-painted banner advertising our first annual Battle of the Boutiques hanging across the gazebo in the center of the square, large fans set up around the lawn area which is loaded with white folding chairs, and gold ribbons wound around each banister along the walkway. Food trucks are lined up on Saint’s Row, their generators already running.
A catwalk has also been erected, thanks to contributions by Deuce and Mary London’s boutiques that have been making money hand-over-fist for years now. The catwalk is five feet off the ground and extends from the gazebo, across the lawn, and ends right at the street. Chaos has already descended on the square. Workers and business owners alike are hustling everywhere, getting everything ready for an early start to beat the heat.
“Silas!”
I spin just a couple doors down from Harp and Hemline to see Janie rushing down the sidewalk after me, a piece of paper waving over her head. I hustle over. No one should be running in this heat.
“I’ve got that alcohol license for you!” She gives me a warm smile as she hands me the paper.
I glance at it, marveling that she got it done so last minute. “Thank you, Janie. Pays to know people on the council.”
She pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Silas. It’s the least I can do. Your mama would want me to help.” She pulls back and lowers her voice. “And I overhead your father talking to my husband about calling the loan with the bank. Don’t you worry about a thing. I told Richmond if he even thinks about doing that, he’ll be sleeping in the doghouse for the foreseeable future.”
I give her a grateful grin. “You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”
“I think I do.” She winks at me. “Speaking of significant others, how’s that assistant working out for you? She’s pretty cute for a Northerner.”
“That was a not-so-subtle change of subject,” I answer wryly. I don’t comment on the fact that Betsy isn’t a Northerner. Everyone around here calls anyone from somewhere other than the South a Northerner. There’s no use arguing semantics.
Janie shrugs and points at the liquor license in my hand. “A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do to get the latest gossip. You know that, Silas.”
Considering what she did for me, I give her what she wants. I lean in and drop my voice too. “I’m sweet on Betsy Mae. I hope she likes me back just as much. She’s a hard nut to crack.”
Janie looks so excited about that news I start laughing. She squeezes my arm. “You just keep giving her that smile and she’ll fall for you, don’t you worry.”
“Thanks again, Janie.” I hold up the license and then we part ways, her to go gossip about me to her friends, and me to get our models ready for the show.
