Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

Shoving them out of my mind, I sigh. “Trust me. I won’t fall in love with this place. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Dogwood Lane, Tennessee?” she asks in her best southern voice.

“Your New Yorker attempt at a southern drawl is pathetic.”

“I’ll work on it. Now, tell me what you see. Paint me a picture of whatever you’re looking at. Bonus if it includes flannel.”

I take in the first building on my right. “The post office was built a hundred years ago and has needed a new coat of paint for at least the last twenty years.” I flip my turn signal on. “Across the street is a church with musket balls from the Civil War lodged in the steeple.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “The whiskey barrels lining the main drag are filled with pansies because the first year they planted those, the high school football team made it to the state finals. That never made sense to me because they lost, but apparently that’s close enough and no one wants to rock the boat. Superstitions and all.”

Grace goes into a monologue just to hear her newfound accent while I watch Dogwood Lane roll by. Styrofoam cups spell out GOOD LUCK to the softball team in the chain-link fence surrounding the high school.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m now stopping at the Dogwood Café, the only place in town where you can get a cup of coffee besides the gas station, because even I am not that desperate.”

“Doesn’t your mom have a Keurig?”

“My mom started drinking decaf.” I pucker, flipping off the ignition. “It’s like I don’t even know her.”

“Ew. Okay. Call me later.”

“Bye, friend.”

My blonde hair is piled on top of my head, my face free of makeup save for a dash of mascara, as I make my way toward the front door of the café. I step up on the patio and nearly get run into.

“Whoa,” I say, scooting out of the way as a little girl finishes her gymnastics trick. “That’s pretty good.”

She turns to look at me, her strawberry-blonde hair and spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reminding me of a younger version of myself. A grin splits her cheeks.

“That’s all I’m allowed to do out here,” she says, straightening her lavender shirt with AERIAL’S emblazoned across the front in gold lettering. “My nanny says I’ll bust my head open and she’ll have to take me for stitches. Have you ever had stitches?”

“No,” I say, laughing at the way her little nose crinkles like a bunny’s. “Have you?”

“Once. I fell off the trampoline and busted the side of my leg wide open. You could see my bones,” she says, her voice growing conspiratorial. “It was so gross.”

“That is gross.”

She watches me, her bright-blue eyes sparkling. There’s an ease about her that draws me in. It’s a charm, a charismatic element I’ve felt in only a handful of people over my entire life. Most people don’t have it, but she does in spades.

With a shrug, she flips a lock of hair off her shoulder. “Got lots of ice cream for dinner, though, so it wasn’t totally a bad thing.”

“Ice cream cures everything.”

“Yup. My leg is stronger than ever. I’m almost ready to get my back tuck with no help.”

Now she’s speaking my language.

I grin. “That’s awesome. I didn’t get mine forever. I think I was almost twelve.”

“Well, I’m almost ten. You weren’t that far behind me. But I have been doing this since I was three.”

Stifling a giggle, I nod. “Do you take classes at Aerial’s?”

“Yup. The Summer Show is coming up. It’s going to be amazing. Miss Aerial says it’s the best one ever!”

The pride in her little singsong voice hits my heart. The Summer Show is the biggest thing this town has to offer. It started off when I was a little girl as a dance recital. It now encompasses an entire weekend with gymnastics displays, dance-offs, and a parade. People come from all over to support the children’s charities Aerial’s sponsors. It’s the highlight of the entire town’s year.

“You should come,” she insists.

“I’ll try.”

The café door opens, and a woman with long black hair and glossy lips smiles and steps onto the patio. “You ready, rascal?” She turns and sees me standing next to the windows. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”

“No worries,” I say. “Just coming by for coffee and got caught up in talks of the Summer Show with . . .”

“Mia,” the little girl chirps.

“With Mia,” I add. “Sounds like it’s going to be great.”

The woman nods, side-eyeing the child. “Is it wrong to say I’ll be glad when it’s over?”

“Yes,” the little girl and I say in unison, making her laugh.

“Well, I’ll keep that to myself then,” she jokes. “You ready to get some work done?”