Jack frowned. “Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing you there.”
Gramps gave a small shrug. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how much it mattered. Some places hold a town together, whether you sit at the counter or not.”
“We’re trying to save it,” Jack said, his voice urgent. “Me and Cora, Lolly’s granddaughter. I want to recreate some of Lolly’s recipes, get people talking, maybe find investors.”
Gramps fiddled with a socket wrench, staring at it like it held answers. “That’s a tall order, son. Lolly’s cooking...that was something special. Especially her peach cobbler.”
Jack perked up. “You’ve had her peach cobbler?”
But Gramps was already focused back on the motor. “You’re a good kid, Jackie. Always have been, no matter what this town thinks. You’ll figure it out. But I can’t tell you anything more.”
Jack knew when to quit. When Gramps had his mind made up, pushing wouldn’t change a thing. So he picked up a wrench and got back to work, letting the silence fall over them. He stayed until the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the yard.
Jack had been driving aimlesslyfor hours, the conversation with Gramps running on a loop in his head. The photo of hisgrandfather and Lolly was burning a hole in his pocket, reminding him of all the questions left hanging in the air.
He must’ve passed the café twenty times that night, but this time, the warm glow from the windows drew him in. Before he could overthink it, he pulled into the parking lot, staring down at the store-bought cobbler on the seat next to him. It was way too late for a social call, but he found himself walking to the door anyway, balancing the dessert in his hands. He hesitated, wondering if he was crossing some line. Then again, when had he ever been great at staying on the right side of the line? He took a deep breath and knocked softly.
“We’re closed!” Cora called out, sounding more than a little irritated.
“Even for a guy bearing peach cobbler?” he called back.
There was a pause, then footsteps. The door swung open to reveal Cora in oversized pink pajamas and a floral apron, her hair in a messy pile on top of her head. She looked adorably rumpled, and he had to resist the urge to tug on her sleeve like a fourth grader with his first crush.
“Peach cobbler, huh?” she said, eyebrow raised. “I never say no to cobbler.”
“Good to know,” he replied. “I thought you might need a break from...whatever it is you’re doing.” He peeked past her into the kitchen, which appeared to have been hit by a tornado. “Which is ...?”
She rolled her eyes but stepped back to let him in. “For your information, I’m trying to get in the right frame of mind for our float theme.”
He followed her into the kitchen, taking in the chaos. Every surface was covered with little packets of...“Are those microwave grits?”
Cora groaned and dropped onto a stool, looking defeated. “Yes. We settled on shrimp and grits for the theme, since it was one of Lolly’s most popular recipes. Aggie even talkedthe high school home economics class into making a shrimp costume for whoever’s riding on the float. I thought I’d practice making some to get into the spirit, but ...” She waved at the surrounding disaster, shoulders slumped.
He picked up a bowl and looked inside. The contents looked less like food and more like something you’d use to patch drywall. “Well, at least you didn’t burn them,” he offered, because gagging seemed too harsh.
She glared. “They taste like paste. If I wanted to decoupage, I would have hit the craft store.”
He huffed a laugh and set down the bowl. “Scoot,” he said, nudging her with his hip. “You’re making the grits sad.”
“Excuse me,” she said, staying firmly planted. “This isn’t your kitchen anymore, remember?”
“That’s funny,” he said, grabbing a pot. “Because I’m the only one here who knows how to make grits.”
“Oh, so now you’re a grits expert?” she said, fighting a smile.
He headed for the pantry, tossing her a cocky grin over his shoulder. “I’m Southern, and I’m a chef. Grits are in my DNA.” He rummaged through the pantry like he had a thousand times before. “The first rule of great grits is using the right kind. None of that instant nonsense.”
“Oh, really?” Cora teased from behind him. “And here I thought the first rule wasdon’t burn down the kitchen.”
He grabbed a bag of stone-ground grits and gave her a mock glare. “That’s your first rule. Mine is: Don’t waste good butter.” As he gathered the rest of the ingredients, he couldn’t resist giving her the play-by-play. Cooking was his thing, his comfort zone, and it never hurt that the ladies loved a man in chef’s whites. “We need a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Helps with even heat.”
Cora’s lips twitched. “I didn’t know pans could be bottom-heavy.”
“Oh, it’s important,” he said, leaning back against thecounter, giving her a slow, appreciative once-over. His gaze trailed from the scuffed tips of her sneakers up to the curve of her hips, lingering a second longer than necessary before meeting her eyes again. “In cooking and in life, a good bottom makes all the difference.”
She snorted, her cheeks blooming a shade of pink that matched the floral print on her apron. “Next you’re going to tell me you’ve got a favorite burner.”
He pointed to the front-left burner on the stove. “Naturally. This one has the best heat distribution.”
