THE RISE AND Shine was a cozy traditional diner with worn red vinyl booths and a shiny black-and-white tile floor. Hank Williams Sr. blasted through the jukebox in the corner. The race car–themed pinball machines looked like they might have been original to the building construction in the 1960s. And when Marianne and Margot herded the boys through the door, Margot couldn’t help but notice that people stopped talking.
A lot of people.
They weren’t even subtle about staring at her. Margot was being weighed and measured, and based on some of the sneers she saw on the other customers’ faces, she was not making a great impression—which was weird, considering she hadn’t spoken or even moved yet.
“Sorry,” Marianne murmured. “You were a little less visible at the Dirty Deer.”
“Let’s just get a table,” Margot whispered as Nate tugged her toward a booth in the back. “Tell me honestly, is it the way I dress? Is that why people stare?”
“Nah, people around here don’t take much notice of tourist types. But, uh, your mama didn’t leave a great impression when she took off. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but my mama says that Linda never let someone’s feelings get in the way of her sharin’ an opinion. And she had a lot of opinions. She gets a lot of ‘bless her hearts.’ ”
“That I believe,” Margot muttered.
The diner served breakfast food, and only breakfast food, all day long because as the mustachioed owner, Ike Grandy, said right on the front of the menu, “This is America and I’ll serve any damn food I want.” There was a whole panel of the menu devoted to grits. But Margot was determined to order the Rabbit Food Special—a fruit plate and a veggie egg-white omelet—to try to counteract some of the fried food she’d eaten over the last few days.
She was also determined to avoid sweet tea, asking for a Coke instead. Their waitress, Marla, smiled warmly, her teeth showing stark and bright against smooth teak-colored skin, and asked, “What kind of Coke would you like? We’ve got regular, diet, Sprite, root beer, and Fanta.”
“Just a diet Coke, please,” Margot said. Marla nodded and made for the kitchen. Margot turned to Marianne. “You know, I’ve been ordering half-caf nonfat lattes from Starbucks for years and never had the complications I’ve had here.”
“You’re in Georgia, sweetie, home of ‘Co-Cola.’ Folks call all sodas Coke, no matter what brand they are. And then it’s up to you to get specific.” Marianne leveled Margot with her blue eyes and asked, “So, what was that with Kyle Archer earlier?”
“Nothing,” Margot lied smoothly as her cousin lifted an imperious dark brow.
“Principal Archer is nice most of the time, unless you take things off his desk and build towers with them,” Nate told her as he constructed a tower from tiny square butter containers. “And then he makes you write ‘I’m sorry’ sentences.”
“Have you done this more than once?” Margot asked.
Nate’s bright blue eyes darted toward his mother, as if he was mentally reviewing his Fifth Amendment rights.
“He’s okay,” Aiden said, his little face serious as he set his book aside. “He doesn’t take any bullcrap—” He paused to sneak a look at his mother, who frowned. “Any trouble from anybody, but he’s fair about it. And when he says he’s gonna do something, he does it, which is more than I can say for some of the grown-ups at the school.”
“Aiden, honey, why don’t you and Nate go play some pinball?” Marianne said, giving them each an equal stack of quarters. “No rockin’ the machine!”
The boys promised solemnly as they swept their change off the table and ran to the bank of video games across the diner.
“Okay, seriously, what’s going on?” Marianne asked.
Margot shrugged and restacked the sweetener packets in the table caddy. “I may have met up with your kids’ principal at the Dirty Deer last night and made out with him a little,” she said quietly, well aware that people at the surrounding tables could be listening. “There was some grinding and groping involved. In the front seat of his truck.”
“That’s where you disappeared to last night?” she cried. “I didn’t even see you! Or hear about it. Do you know how hard that is to pull off in this town?”
“Well, clearly, I didn’t pull it off, because now you know about me and my throbbing id.”
“Still, you had twenty-four hours,” Marianne told her. “That’s an accomplishment. You should be proud. Around here, everybody sees everything. And just in case you forget something stupid that you did, there will always be someone who’s known you since birth to remind you.”
Margot’s face went hot. As much as she wanted the information, she couldn’t bring herself to ask about Kyle’s background, not just because she was embarrassed but because she didn’t want to give the impression that she was attaching herself to someone local. She didn’t know if she would ever feel the kind of instant connection with anyone, certainly not in the way Marianne and Carl shared. And she didn’t want to give Marianne the wrong impression about her commitment to Lake Sackett.
“That sounds claustrophobic.”
“It can be. So, throbbin’ id, huh?”
Margot nodded.
“Do you think that you and Kyle might be a thing?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t even know his name was Kyle until I saw his name tag at the school. That’s probably not a foundation for a lasting relationship.”
“Well, just so you know, he’s a really nice guy. And not one of those ‘nice guys’ you read about on the Internet, but a truly sweet person. Really good with the kids at school, very understanding of Nate and his special brand of ‘creative chaos.’ Just one thing—”
Ike, the owner, interrupted, delivering the food himself, carefully spinning the plates heaped with waffles and bacon and eggs into their correct spots without being told who had ordered what. As the boys gave warrior whoops and stampeded back to the table, Ike leveled Margot with a long, speculative stare.
“I want you to know I am serving this plate under protest,” he said as the Rabbit Food Special came to a stop in front of her. “No one ever orders the Rabbit. It’s there for profiling purposes. But you’re Stan’s girl, so I’m gonna let it slide, just this once.”
Margot managed to refrain from the “you have disappointed me” stare she normally gave mouthy servers. She did not appreciate the reminder of her absentee father at the moment.
“Next time, you’re getting the Smokehouse Breakfast with a side of hash browns, and you’re gonna eat the whole thing,” Ike told her sternly. “I won’t be responsible for you blowin’ away in a stiff wind.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
Ike nodded and grumbled. “Boys, remember, no throwing the jellies. Marianne, my mama would like to pass along to Miss Tootie that she’s bringing seven-layer salad to the card game this week.”
“I’ll let her know,” Marianne promised as the boys dug into their pecan waffles.
Adult conversation was impossible while Marianne tried to get her children through a meal without a maple syrup explosion. Nate needed help cutting his waffles. Aiden had trouble opening up the ketchup bottle for his hash browns and then elbowed his water over onto the table while handing it to Margot. As soon as Marianne got them settled and raised a fork to her lips, Nate had to go to the restroom, and due to an incident involving the hand dryer, he wasn’t allowed to go alone.
“Is it always like this?” Margot asked Aiden as Marianne led his brother to the bathrooms. “Does your mom ever get a hot meal?”
“Nah, sometimes we spill more,” Aiden mumbled around a mouthful of waffle.
Margot shuddered.
The door to the diner opened with a peal of bells. Margot glanced up and her fork stopped midway to her mouth.
A scruffy-looking man with dishwater-brown hair hanging over his eyes stalked through the door. While handsome in a lean, unrefined sort of way, he also had the hardened look of someone who’d never quite had a break in life. He wore a Dawson Towing T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and jeans streaked with grease. The muscles of his arms were sharply defined in a way that spoke of capability, not gym hours. He glanced around the diner, scanning, frowning. Margot put her arm around Aiden in a protective sweep.
Oh, no. Margot had not spent nearly thirty years successfully avoiding victimhood in Chicago to be killed in a diner robbery in Georgia. She slipped her hand into her purse and dialed 9 and 1 before Marianne and Nate emerged from the restrooms.
The scruffy man spotted Marianne and the natural scowl seemed to slide right off his face. Margot had never seen someone light up before, but this man’s sharp features softened to anime levels of adorableness. His eyes brightened to an emerald green. His smile was wide and dazzling.
“Hey, baby!” he exclaimed.
Margot frowned and glanced around. Was he calling for one of the other customers?
Marianne turned and melted at the sight of the man while Margot was trying to remember wanted posters from her last trip to the post office. She pointed to their table. “Hey, sweetie, we’re over here.”
Margot lifted a brow. “Sweetie?”
Marianne giggled like a tiny, tiny schoolgirl as the man wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her soundly. “Got your van all fixed up with a new battery. Jeeter dropped me off so I could drive you home.”
“Aw, thanks, baby. Cousin Margot, this is my husband, Carl Dawson. Carl, this is my cousin Margot.” The boys started talking a mile a minute and leaped up to climb all over him, which he greeted with hugs and unabashed kisses to both.
And then he turned that devastating smile on Margot and suddenly she understood why her cousin had given up a comfortable life in Atlanta to come home to her high school sweetheart. To have someone look at her the way Carl was looking at Marianne, like she’d personally hung the moon and stars and then threw the sun up in the air just for bragging rights, Margot could see how Marianne would sacrifice quite a bit. She didn’t know if she could ever do the same, but she saw the benefits.
“Well, it’s nice to meet ya, Margot. My Marianne has told me all about you,” Carl rasped in a bourbon-soaked drawl that should not have been sexy.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Margot said. The sorry I thought you were going to rob us because I’m a classist, judgmental cliché was silent.
Ike delivered a plate of ham, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, and biscuits to the table. “Hey, there, Carl, I brought your usual.”
“I ’ppreciate it, Ike,” Carl said, shaking Ike’s hand.
Ike leveled a stern look at Margot while he pointed to Carl’s gravy-laden plate. “The Smokehouse Breakfast. This is a proper meal.”
“Noted,” Margot said.
Ike nodded and backed away from the table. Aiden took a seat at the end of the table to make room at the four-top. The boys began chattering about their school day and who had thrown what at lunch. Carl listened patiently, nodding and asking enough questions to show that he was paying attention. Margot just watched the volley of conversation bounce around the table, with her heart clenching inside her chest. She was glad her cousin was happy. She was glad the boys had a doting father. But it only served to remind her of what she didn’t have. Margot wondered if this was how Marianne’s family dinners usually went, or if the excitement of Back to School Night and dinner out was making them especially lively. She couldn’t remember a single meal in her home being so loud or relaxed.
Mother had insisted on playing classical music while the three of them ate at the dining table. Conversation was always polite but distant and cool, barely heard over the Chopin. And her mother had never craned over the table to give her full attention to Margot’s stories from school. Margot frowned, wondering again how different life would have been if she’d grown up in Lake Sackett. She couldn’t picture Mother and Stan having animated, cheerful meals together, but at least watching a happy family eating wouldn’t feel like something out of National Geographic.
“So how was the school meetin’?” Carl asked.
Marianne groaned and dropped her head nearly to her plate. Margot’s eyes cut toward their youngest. “Um, I can leave, if you don’t want me around for this. I mean, parent-teacher conferences are sort of like medical records, in terms of none of my business.”
“Oh, no!” Marianne assured her. “Both the parent-teacher conferences went really well. Aiden’s already ten points ahead of his Accelerated Reader goals. Nate’s math proficiency has shot up to the ninety-second percentile and his trips to the office are down by twenty percent.”
Carl offered both boys silent fist bumps.
“The meeting Carl’s talking about is the parent committee for the Founders’ Festival,” Marianne said, looking to her husband. “And it was exactly what I expected it to be.”
Carl grimaced and tucked into his bacon.
“I’m assuming the festival is a really big deal around here?” Margot asked.
Marianne sighed. “Yes, it’s coming up in early October. We’ve been planning for months, but nothing has actually been accomplished because every time the committee makes a decision and presents it to the PTA president, Sara Lee Bolton, she rejects it and does whatever she wants, while Mr. Archer tries to keep up. Meanwhile, the rest of us have already made plans and reservations and payments based on what we thought were the plans, and everything gets undone and confused and I have to count to a hundred so I don’t end up shoutin’ profanities in a children’s school.”
Margot shuddered. “So why is the Founders’ Festival so important?”
“Well, after the water dump, we have less to draw tourists to the town,” Carl said. “For Founders’ Day, we do up a farmers’ market and a craft fair and games and rides. People come down and make a real family trip out of it. And with fewer people coming into town for fishing and boating and the like, we have to draw even more people in to make up for the loss. We’ve stretched it out to more of a Founders’ Week.”
“And why is Mr. Archer involved?” Margot asked, ignoring the smirk Marianne tried and failed to hide behind her hash browns.
“The elementary school kids do a play and a concert and presentations about the town’s history. Plus the rides are all set up on the school grounds. And the retired principal always made a big point of being part of the planning,” Marianne said.
Carl’s green eyes narrowed at Margot and she felt herself swallowing in a noisy gulp. “You know, you probably wouldn’t be half as crazy as Sara Lee when it comes to all this planning stuff.”
Margot bit her plump bottom lip. “Was that a compliment?”
“I’m just saying that if we have this all-powerful, fancy-pants event planner, who better to plan it than her?” Carl said, nodding to his wife’s cousin. “You could do some good for the town. And build a little goodwill for McCready’s as you go.”
Marianne stood up and lunged across the table to grab Carl’s work shirt, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Margot imagined it tasted like gravy. “You are freakin’ brilliant sometimes, you know that?”
Though his cheeks flushed pink, Carl jerked his shoulders and casually returned to his food. “Course I am.”
“What do you say, Margot?”
“What? A hostile takeover of planning for an event that I’m completely unfamiliar with that’s only about two months away, in a place where I have no connections or vendor pull? That’s insanity. Why don’t you do it?” Margot asked. “You’re the one with children at the school.”
“My name is mud when it comes to workin’ with the community and anything involving children or charity or the public. It’s a long story,” Marianne said, turning to her youngest. “Nate, puppy face.”
Nate wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and very carefully poked out his bottom lip, angled his chin down, and widened his eyes to the point that Margot feared for his eyelids. “Please, Cousin Margot, won’t you please help run the Founders’ Festival and save our town?”
Margot pursed her lips. “That’s playing dirty,” she told Marianne.
“I’m a desperate woman.”
“I don’t even know if I’m going to be here in October,” Margot exclaimed. “I could get a job offer in the next few weeks and move, and then where would you be? Even more confused and unproductive.”
Marianne frowned as if she’d forgotten that Margot wasn’t a permanent resident of Lake Sackett. “Oh, right. Sure.”
“I’m sure it will work out just fine,” Margot said. “This always happens with big community events. Egos and chaos and details that don’t get addressed until the last minute. But it will come together, trust me.”
“Sure.” Marianne looked down at her plate and poked a bit of egg around with her fork. “So, Aiden, tell me about this new book you’re readin’. No scary ventriloquist dummies this time, right? That one gave you nightmares for a month.”
“Nope, this time it’s garden gnomes, thirstin’ for revenge!” Aiden said, grinning viciously.
Carl gave an exaggerated shiver and ruffled Aiden’s hair. “That’s creepier than the dummies. I don’t trust anything that tries that hard to be cute.”
Margot glanced at Nate, who was still using the puppy face while reaching for the strawberries on her fruit plate. “Exactly.”
MARGOT WAS RELIEVED and disappointed that Stan wasn’t waiting for her with an explanation when she arrived at work the next morning. She buried herself in details and busywork. She faxed. She filed. She even vacuumed flower petals out of the west chapel when Eunice Woodson’s grandson knocked over a vase full of daisies.
And that nauseating mix of anxiety and irritation hadn’t ebbed out of her stomach. It was still there, hovering under her diaphragm, when Uncle Bob poked his head in the door, his expression uncertain. “Margot, are you done with the Branson file?”
“Yes,” she said, handing him the manila folder from the neat stack on her desk.
While Bob had handled the planning and sale portion of the process, the Branson service was the first set of paperwork that Margot had completed on her own. It had not been easy, given all the customs and niceties—not to mention state laws—she’d had to remember while talking to Mrs. Branson. And it had given her an odd sense of accomplishment to finally slide the file into the outbox.
“Mrs. Branson called to double-check some details and I talked her into upgrading to the Buchanan casket with the bronze fittings, rather than just the brass-plated,” Margot said proudly. “And the bronze-lined burial vault, plus the waterproofing, which I don’t think anyone has ever ordered here, given the way the supplier reacted when I requested it. Mrs. Branson agreed with me that it was a much more fitting tribute to her husband, and if it happened to add another four thousand dollars to her total bill, so be it.” She offered her uncle a cheeky smile . . . which he did not return.
In fact, Uncle Bob looked downright horrified.
“Margot, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that if Mrs. Branson wanted to make herself feel better by spending a little extra on her husband’s funeral and the business happens to make a little extra money, what’s the harm? I took Mr. Branson from a Toyota Tercel funeral to a nice respectable Cadillac.”
Bob’s voice dropped to a stern level she’d never heard out of her cheerful uncle. “The harm is that Arlene Branson can’t afford to spend a little extra on her husband’s funeral. Her George’s cancer treatments ate up most of their retirement funds. She’s havin’ to move in with her daughter as it is. To play on her grief like that, to make her spend more, that’s not how we do things, Margot.”
Margot’s brow wrinkled. Upselling was one of her main skill sets at Elite Elegance. She was known for her ability to talk clients into premium catering orders, bigger floral arrangements, better linens. It was what she did. The idea that this talent might not be appreciated at McCready’s left her unsteady. She wasn’t sure what else she had to offer.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know we were running a nonprofit,” she said crisply.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. We’re not runnin’ a charity, but we are runnin’ a company that has stayed in business for almost a hundred years because we don’t treat our neighbors like sheep for the fleecin’. We’re part of the community, Margot. And we take that seriously.”
“Fine,” Margot said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Bob’s lips pinched into an unhappy expression. “I’m going to call Mrs. Branson back and explain to her that the suppliers didn’t have those upgraded features after all, but we can give her a deal on a package somewhere in the middle. Give Mr. Branson a comfortable Ford Taurus funeral.”
Margot knew he was trying to soften the blow with a joke, but she couldn’t find it in her to smile. She prided herself on her work ethic and talent. Flamingos aside, she’d never been chastised for how she handled events. And at this stage, she didn’t need the knock to her confidence.
“I’ll leave you to do that.” Margot stood and grabbed her purse. “I’m going to go into town and grab some lunch. Would you like something?”
“No, Leslie’s got me covered. Why don’t you just let her fix you something at the Snack Shack?”
“Because I need to eat something green that doesn’t involve gummy candy,” Margot shot back. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“All right, then.” Bob sounded disappointed in more ways than one as he sat at her desk and picked up the phone.
Margot sped down the hall and outside into the stifling heat. This was manageable. A little fruit, some lean protein, and she would be back on track. Everybody has bad mornings at work, and it wasn’t as if Tootie was going to let Bob fire her. Of course, she’d had a bit of a spat with Tootie the last time she’d spoken to her, too. Maybe there was a reason she’d grown up without an extended family. She didn’t seem to be very good at it.
Margot rooted around in her purse for the set of truck keys Duffy had graciously shared with her. And when she looked up, she realized she was walking toward Stan, who was waiting for her by the truck. He looked more rumpled than the first time she’d met him, more worn. The bags under his eyes were even more pronounced now that those eyes were infinitely sadder. But his eyes were clear and his hands were steady.
“Just what I need,” she muttered under her breath.
Stan chewed on his lip as she approached, as if he was still trying to figure out what to say to his daughter. Margot made it very easy for him.
“Whatever excuse you have for standing me up yesterday, I don’t want to hear it,” she said, clipping past him. She still couldn’t find the damn keys. How did giant pre–keyless entry metal monstrosities like that get lost in her relatively small purse?
“Margot, I’m sorry,” Stan said.
“Sorry for what, exactly?” she asked, her voice icy as she pawed through makeup, tissues, her phone. “Missing a lunch you agreed to, the first commitment you’d made to me in thirty years? Or being absent for those thirty years? Because if it’s the former, don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
“I don’t know what your mother told you about me—”
“She told me you were a drunk. That you weren’t the sort of man she wanted raising her daughter, that you were unreliable and unstable. She wasn’t wrong. She’s still not.” Her fingers closed around the keys and she pulled them free.
“About the drinking, no, not at the time. She was right about that,” he agreed. “But I’m dried out now. Got my twenty-year chip, even though I never got to make my amends to you. Your mama was right to—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, unlocking the door and yanking it open. “I really don’t. I was wrong to reach out to you. I was setting myself up for disappointment. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t want a dramatic apology. I don’t want to hear about your feelings. I just want to come to work, earn my keep, and get out of this town and far from you.”
“Margot, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never did.”
Margot wedged her foot into the truck and hurdled into the driver’s seat. “And yet you have, over and over. You had a choice yesterday. You chose not to show up.”
“I wanted to, but—”
She slammed the door, but unfortunately, Duffy had left the window down, so this conversation continued. “Was there a work-related emergency that couldn’t have been handled by anyone else?”
He shook his head, swallowing thickly. “No.”
“A mechanical failure affecting every vehicle in town that prevented you from keeping your appointment with me?”
Stan’s big sad eyes narrowed a bit, like he didn’t appreciate her frigid tone of voice. “No.”
“A cell phone tower outage that kept you from being able to call me to tell me you weren’t coming?”
“No.”
“So you chose not to show up, you let me sit here in my office waiting for you, wondering where you were. And you didn’t think that maybe that would hurt me?” Margot slid the keys into the ignition.
“No, I knew it would, but I thought it would be better than hurting you some other way.”
“That’s bullshit. It’s emotionally lazy bullshit,” she snapped. “Look, when someone shows me who they are, I believe them. You’ve shown me every day, since before I can remember, who you are. I believe it. Now, please, just let me work. Nothing’s changed. We don’t know each other and we don’t have to know each other. We are two strangers who happen to work in the same office. And that’s fine. I’m fine.”
Stan stiffened, staring at her for a long time. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” Margot nodded, turning the key. The engine roared to life and Stan’s response was drowned out. Margot gunned the engine, whipping her head forward and speeding off.