Jo:Just yourself! Dean’s grilling. I’m making sides. It’ll be fun!
Dean’s grilling. So it’s Jo and Dean. That’s fine. Dean is grumpy but harmless, and Jo issunshine incarnate. I can handle dinner with an engaged couple.
I close the shop at five and drive home to change, taking the long way that winds past the marsh where the herons are starting to nest. The late afternoon light turns everything golden, and for a moment I can almost pretend I’m not dreading tonight.
Mom’s house greets me with its usual explosion of floral chaos. The tulips in the front yard are showing off—red, pink, yellow, white—and the old pear tree is so heavy with white blossoms that the branches are starting to droop. I really should stake them before a good rain brings the whole thing down.
Inside, I shower and change into jeans and a soft green sweater that Mom always said brought out my eyes. Boots that are practical for a March evening but also make my legs look longer.
The drive to Jo’s takes fifteen minutes, winding through the quiet streets of Twin Waves until the houses thin out and the trees get thicker. Spanish moss drapes from old oaks like something out of a Southern gothic novel. The intracoastal glimmers through the gaps in the foliage, catching the last of the daylight.
Jo’s place sits at the end of a crushed-shell drive,tucked into a lot that’s more garden than lawn. It’s exactly the kind of house I’d expect her to live in—a weathered cottage with a wrap-around porch, painted a soft gray-blue that matches the water beyond. Rocking chairs cluster near the front door like they’re waiting for someone to sit down and stay awhile.
The yard is a riot of early spring color. Daffodils bob along the walkway. Pink azaleas opening against the foundation. A Japanese magnolia near the corner of the house is dripping with blush-colored blooms, each flower the size of my palm.
I park behind Jo’s car and take a breath.
Just dinner. Just wedding planning. Just a totally normal evening with people who are definitely not trying to set me up with anyone.
Jo throws open the front door before I’m even out of the car.
“You’re here! Come in, come in!” She’s wearing an apron that saysI Cook As Good As I Lookand there’s flour in her hair. “I have so much to show you.”
“The yard looks amazing,” I say as I climb the porch steps. “Those magnolias?—”
“Aren’t they gorgeous? They only bloom for like two weeks and then they’re done, so I juststand at the window and stare at them.” She links her arm through mine and tugs me inside.
Jo’s house is all weathered wood and soft neutrals—cream walls, gray-washed hardwood floors, furniture that looks like it’s been loved for decades. Except Jo probably found half of it on the side of the road and transformed it with chalk paint and determination.
“I refinished that dresser last month,” she says, pointing to a gorgeous piece against the far wall. Soft white with teal drawer pulls. “Found it at an estate sale. The previous owner had painted it lime green. Lime green, Delilah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“And that bench used to be a headboard.” She gestures to a tufted piece near the window. “Pinterest is a dangerous place for people like me.”
I notice the evidence of Dean moving in. A pair of men’s boots by the back door, too large to be Jo’s. A German Shepherd bed in the corner of the living room, well-worn and clearly loved.
“That’s Rex’s spot,” Jo says, following my gaze. “He’s claimed it. Dean says he’s never seen Rex take to a place so fast.”
She shows me the backyard—the intracoastal silver-pink in the evening light, a wooden dockstretching out into the marsh, and three peach trees with blossoms just starting to open.
“I make preserves every summer,” Jo says. “And pie. So much pie. Dean pretends he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, but that man can demolish a peach pie in two days flat.”
We’re stepping back into the kitchen when I hear it.
The front door opening. Male voices. One low and grumbly, the other?—
My heart stops.
“Jo? We’re here!”
That’s Dean.
Which means?—
“In the kitchen!” Jo calls back, and her voice is too bright. Too innocent.
I turn to look at her, and she’s already arranging her face into an expression of wide-eyed surprise.
