“Right.”
“Did you hear that the high school got a new basketball coach this semester? Brett Sinclair. Nice boy. You went to school with him. He married some city girl from Los Angeles—a singer—and you know how wild they are. No one is surprised. No kids either. If the preacher doesn’t work out—”
I fumble out of bed, kicking the covers off me as I stand up. “Preacher! Mama, no. Hell no.”
“Elena Michelle, I am still your mother. And you promised you’d come. It’s his first Sunday, and you know all I’m doing is trying to fill the pews and make him feel welcome. It’s what I do. I support the church.”
She is involved. Runs a Wednesday-evening ladies’ Bible class. Takes food daily to the elderly or sick who can’t get out. Checks in with the women’s shelter in town.
But that’s not all she’s doing.
Dammit.
“What did you say?” she asks.
I must have cursed aloud. “Nothing. Just stubbed my toe.”
She exhales. “Look, I know Topher already told you about Preston and Giselle. They won’t be there. They went to Mississippi to tell Preston’s family. I’m sorry, love. You’ll find someone—”
“Jeez, I don’t need a man to be happy!”
“Uh-huh. I’ll see you at nine. Get dressed. Bye.”
“Mama—”
And she hangs up on me.
Shit.
One hour.
I look down at Romeo, and he kinda grins back at me. “Traitor,” I murmur and scratch his nose. He loves Mama.
My leather pants on the floor catch my eyes, and I snort. I didn’t have to cut them off, but I came close last night after spending an hour googling Jack Hawke, then downloading that horrible book about him. I only got through the first chapter before I tossed it across the room. According to Sophia Blaine, she met him at a postgame party and immediately fell head over heels in love—only she didn’t realize he was a drunk and abusive. I’m sure those specific details are outlined in the coming chapters, but I don’t think I have the heart to read them. I hate that my place of former employment actually published her book.
I pick the pants up and look over at Romeo. “Mama’s lucky these are absolutely shitty, or I’d put them right back on.”
Romeo sticks his head under the covers.
Exactly.
I walk down the sidewalk toward the arched wooden double doors of the First Cumberland Church, a nondenominational congregation that sits right next to the library on West Street. It’s the biggest church in Daisy, boasting over 300 members—350 on Easter and Christmas. It’s an old structure, built from bricks that used to be red but were recently painted a startling white. Lots of opinions about that at the beauty shop.
Taking a deep breath, I straighten my outfit, a white shirt with tiny pink butterfly buttons I sewed on myself. On my hips is a vintage black velvet pencil skirt, something I found in the attic. Nana’s. Lucky for me, she and I share the same curves. Still, the skirt is snug. Might need to go easy on the carbs for a while.
Serves Mama right that I left the blazer behind. She better watch out. I’m feeling rebellious.
“She’s lucky I even came,” I mutter to no one.
Mama is getting out of her Lincoln and calls my name, waving me over. Tall and thin, she’s stately with her coiffed blonde hair, elegant blue suit-dress, and midheel black pumps. Classy. She and Giselle are replicas—beautiful, cool, and reserved.
Her sharp blue eyes run over my outfit, lips tightening at my shoes. She sighs. “Pink shoes? Really? That’s not like you.”
But they are; she just doesn’t see it.
Good thing Topher and I are both a size eight. He was snoring loudly when I tiptoed in his closet and picked out the brightest, sluttiest pair I could find.
“Cynthia, leave the poor girl alone.”
I smile when Aunt Clara bounds up next to me, wearing a bohemian-style dress with purple flowers and lace. I grin. She looks a little mussed, her little feathered matching hat not quite on straight. She and Mama are ten years apart in age and are as opposite as night and day. Most days, Aunt Clara feels like my older sister.
“I love your shoes. You should wear them every day. I bet Mr. Rhodes is going to flip,” Aunt Clara says, crooking her arm through mine. “He’s going to be up there preaching, get a peek at those, and lose his place in the scripture. Saint Peter, save me from this woman!” She does a Hail Mary.
Mama slaps her on the arm. “Stop that. We aren’t even Catholic.”
“Mr. Rhodes is the preacher, I assume,” I say as we walk.
“Yes!” Aunt Clara says. “You’ve missed all the good gossip at the Cut ’N’ Curl this week. Goodness, did you hear about that Tigers football player and little Timmy Caine—”
“Never mind that,” Mama says as she slides in on the other side of me and pats my hand. “Let’s make a game plan for the preacher.”