Joce sat down and watched as Sara poured two glasses of tea and put what looked to be homemade cookies on a plate.
“I know very little. All of this is new to me,” Joce said. “I’m still recovering from…from…”
“Miss Edi’s death?” Sara asked softly.
Joce nodded. “Did you know her?”
“No, I never met her. But I’ve certainly heard enough about her.”
“Have you?” Joce drank deeply of the tea. She hadn’t realized she was thirsty, then she ate a cookie in two bites. When she started on the second one, she looked at Sara’s wide eyes. “Sorry. I’ve been driving for days and I guess I forgot to eat.” The truth was that she’d been so nervous last night she couldn’t eat her dinner, and this morning she’d skipped breakfast.
“Now that is true concentration!” Sara didn’t say anything else, but went to the refrigerator, took out a bowl of something, then got some lettuce, mayonnaise, and bread. She put it all on the counter, then held up the bread. “Look! It’s Yankee bread. No Wonder Bread allowed in my house.”
“Does it have pineapple in it?”
Sara looked confused.
“No pineapple, no bread. At home in Florida we put pineapple in everything. Or coconut.”
It was Sara’s turn to laugh. “Okay, I’ll stop stereotyping. It’s just that Edilean is so near Williamsburg that we get more than our share of tourists. They think we fry everything.”
“You don’t?”
“Not since we heard the word cholesterol.”
As Joce took the sandwich on a plate, she said, “You don’t have to do this. Really. I can feed myself.”
“You have a lot to learn about us Southerners. We feed people. I think it’s in our DNA,” Sara said. “Do you mind if we take this outside so I can finish that dress?”
“Gladly,” Joce said as she carried her glass and plate and followed Sara out to the table. When they were seated, Sara with the dress across her lap, needle in hand, Joce took a bite. “Did you make this?” It was chicken salad and had sliced grapes and apples in it. It was delicious, like something from an expensive deli.
“No, my mother did. She’s sure I’m going to starve living alone. Or worse, that I’ll eat something that isn’t homegrown and organic. She raised those chickens, and the apples are from our trees.”
Joce looked at the sandwich in doubt. “You knew this chicken?”
Sara shrugged. “By the time I was three I learned not to name any living thing around our house. Except my sisters. I named them, but they still didn’t end up in a pot.”
Joce nearly choked. “Don’t get me started! Whatever sister story you have, I can top it.”
“Think so? Both my sisters graduated from Tulane with cum laude degrees. Both of them got married the week after they graduated—to doctors, of course. And both of them got pregnant the week after they married. And they were virgins on their wedding nights.”
Joce took a drink, then gave Sara a smug look. “No competition. My sisters are Steps. They’re identical twins, beautiful, naturally blonde, and are five feet eleven inches tall. You know what they call me? Cindy.”
“Cindy?” Sara’s eyes widened. “Not…”
“Right. Short for Cinderella.”
Sara didn’t want to concede the title just yet. “I have four utterly perfect nieces and nephews, two of each. They never, ever forget to say please and thank you.”
“Ever hear of Bell and Ash?”
“The models? Sure. Last week they were on the cover of—No!” Sara gasped. “You can’t be telling the truth. They’re your…?”
“Stepsisters,” Jocelyn said.
“You win. Or lose, I don’t know which. I think I’ll call my sisters and tell them I’m glad they’re mine.” She looked at Joce in speculation. “How do you stand it?”
“I get by,” she said, shrugging as she looked at Sara. “I don’t think I would have made it if it weren’t for Miss Edi. She was the one who saved me.” She looked down at her sandwich. “Speaking of Miss Edi, she said you’d lived here all your life.”