“Hartley,” Lolly says, grabbing my elbow from behind me.
I stop, looking over my shoulder to find her peering up at me. Her heels make her a little taller, but she’s still a tiny package of dynamite.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she says as I face her. “I’m glad to catch you before Pastor Reed starts the sermon.”
“I heard he’s running late.”
“He’s here. Cherry Randolph is in hospice, and things got dicey last night. He paid her a visit this morning because they don’t expect her to make it much longer.”
I frown. “That’s too bad.”
“It certainly is. But what can you expect at her age? The Lord is coming for us all.”
I twist my lips to hide a smile because, while she’s right, I’m not sure that Cherry is any older than Lolly.
“Anyway,” Lolly continues, “can you come over for lunch after church? I have a couple of things I’d like to chat with you about, if you don’t mind.”
My stomach tightens. Lolly invites me to lunch every now and then, usually to thank me for helping her with a chore.But to chat? What do we have to chat about?
Nothing … unless it’s to tell me that she’s selling her property to Ed Beardsley.
I take a deep breath and steady myself. She doesn’t need to chat about it with me—she can do whatever she wants with her land. I’ll never be able to afford to intervene, and she knows that.So, what does she want? To break it to me gently?
“Two thirty,” Lolly says. “See you then.”
“I …” I begin, but she’s already two rows down chatting with Mayor Blackwell.
Dammit.
My stomach roils as I sidestep a kid racing down the aisle, wishing that I had stayed in bed.
This was coming. Hell, it was inevitable. I’ve anticipated this day for years now—the day Lolly decides that she’s too old to take care of three hundred acres and is ready to sell. But now that it’s here, it’s hard to believe.
It’s even harder to accept.
Mayor Blackwell steps out of my way, and my gaze lands on Markie … and Mira beside her. Her eyes lift to mine as if she knew she’d find them on her.
A soft smile curls the corners of her lips as the morning light spills through the stained glass windows. She looks like an angel in her white sundress, with her dark hair swept across one shoulder. Despite having her in my arms last night, this contact is somehow more intimate.
“Let me scoot you over a bit,” Lolly says, nudging me with her palm as she slides into the pew beside her granddaughters.
“Excuse me,” I say. I clear my throat, my gaze rising to Mira’s again. “Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” she says, her tone rising, inviting me to reply.
I don’t. “Mornin’, Markie.”
“Hi, Hart,” she says.
I give Lolly’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and then find my seat just as Violet plays the first keys of the opening hymn. The church fills with voices, most parishioners not bothering to open the hymnal. We sing the same twenty-odd songs in rotation. Those are the only ones Violet knows how to play.
“I’m sorry,” Lora whispers.
The woman from the bank stands in the aisle with her Bible clutched to her chest, waiting for me to make room for her like I have every Sunday for the past three months. And, like everySunday for the past three months, a sense of dishonesty creeps through my veins as I get to my feet.
I know she’s trying to get to know me. She offered to make me soup a couple of weeks ago when I had a cough. She routinely compliments my appearance and leaves opportunities dangling, inviting us to spend time together. But never once have I taken her up on her unspoken offers.
“No worries,” I say, moving to the aisle so she can take a seat beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mira’s arched brow. Her stare is hot against my cheek, and it takes everything inside me not to look at her. “Are you all right?”
