Switch (Landry Family 3)

Me: Any tips going forward?

Her: Use your mouth more, Mr. Landry. It’s how deals are made.

Mallory

THE SUN SHINES BRIGHTLY, WARMING my skin as I walk through Xavier Park with a mug of hot tea. I love Sundays, always have. The world sort of slows down for a second. People are happy from sleeping in or from going to church or hanging out on the sofa in their pajamas.

It’s a little treasure of life I’d forgotten about. With Eric, Sundays were a day to clean the house, iron clothes, change plumbing. There was never a leisurely breakfast or a trip to the country or a morning in bed with toast and television. I didn’t even realize how much I missed Sunday mornings until I got back to Savannah.

My phone stuffed in my pocket, I watch the geese on the lake and the kids playing on the swing sets and slides with their parents sitting at picnic tables, reading the paper.

It all makes my heart happy. The fresh air. The peace. The memories of Graham.

Keenan and I hit it off on our date, if that’s what you want to call it, but only as friends. By the third slice of pizza, we were joking about how pathetic we were, each clearly hung up on someone else.

I haven’t felt this happy in as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s not so much happy, it’s content. Optimistic. I’m not sure why the world looks a hint sunnier today, but it does.

My thig

h vibrates, my ringtone jingling in my pocket. I pull it out and see Graham’s name on the screen. Hurrying to a vacant table, I set my tea down and smile ear-to-ear as I answer it. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you today.”

“It’s no problem.”

“I took the entire Landry Security file home and I can’t find the Gulica quote.”

“It’s in the red paperclip. The top page is a yellow sheet, I think. Something from . . .”

“I got it,” he says. The way he says it makes me wonder if he didn’t have it all along. “Thank you. Good memory.”

I climb on the table, picking up my tea. I love the sound of his voice. It warms me from the inside out. “You’re welcome.”

“So . . .” He takes in a quick breath. “What are you doing today?”

“I’m at Xavier Park. Just walking around, drinking some tea,” I sigh happily. “I love Sunday mornings. What can I say?”

“Strangely, I do too,” he chuckles. “People are less assholish on Sunday. It’s like religion hits them or something.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

We laugh together, the kids behind me giggling as they run from the swings to the slide.

“When I was growing up,” Graham says, “my grandmother used to make a big Sunday dinner. We’d go to church and then to her house and she’d fry chicken or pork chops or make egg salad sandwiches. Us kids would run around her yard, raising hell, then we’d eat and watch football or take a nap or something. Those are some of the best memories of my life.”

“I’d just wake up and eat cereal and watch cartoons. My parents worked on Saturdays, so we’d have to go to a babysitter. Sunday was the day we got to stay home and sleep in. It was our lazy day. But you probably know nothing about being lazy.”

“Not really,” he chuckles. “But I do less on Sundays than I do the rest of the week. I may not take it completely off, but I do sleep in.”

“Until when? Five?”

“Six,” he protests. “I slept in until six today.”

“Slacker,” I tease. “I see you taking the day off. That’s why you called me to see about papers, right?”

“You got me.”

I take a sip of my tea, the honey at the bottom of the cup oozing to the top, touching my lips. “Tell me you at least had something crazy for breakfast.”