Page 26 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

“I’m sorry to bother you.” Her voice trembled. “But I think I see a vehicle parked at the end of the drive. I noticed the light ... It may be nothing ...”

“That’s me.” His deep tones rumbled from the speaker. “I’m at the top of the drive. I have the dome light on inside my truck to finish up paperwork.”

Relief sucked the adrenaline from her, and she slumped against the counter. “You stayed anyway? Don’t you have to get up early for work?”

“I got someone to cover my shift. Leaving you out here with only Keith Farrell for protection didn’t sit right.” He paused, then admitted, “I wouldn’t have slept anyway, worrying about you.”

She didn’t even hesitate asking, “Do you want to come inside? The light’s better in here, and I have food.”

“I’m already at your door. I just didn’t want to ring the bell and wake your guests.”

“I’ll be right there.” More excited than she wanted to ponder, she disabled the security system and flipped the lock, waving him inside.

Martin hung his game warden ball cap on the hook by the door. “Why are you still awake?”

“I’m too spun up from all that happened today, so I decided to bake.” Waving him deeper into the cabin, she plucked a clean knife from the drawer.

“Smells good, sweet. Not at all like grits, although I confess to being a convert, as long as you’re the one cooking them.”

“Well, I’ve been doing more than emptying the freezer of gumbo. I’ve also been on a quest to use up opened staples, like the flour and sugar.” She slid the blade around the edges of the tube cake pan, then loosened along the center hole. Lifting carefully, she tried to ignore Winnie’s voice in her head insisting she hadn’t let it cool long enough.

Breathing a sigh of relief as the cake held together, she eased the finished product to a dish. “This is Aunt Winnie’s secret recipe for pound cake. She didn’t share it with just anybody.”

He hitched up to sit on a stool at the kitchen island. “I haven’t been in the South long, but even I know how some of these ladies hold their recipes as close as state secrets.”

“Would you like a slice?”

“If it’s half as good as the grits and gumbo, I would be a fool to pass it up.”

“You should see what I can do with a fish fry. Well, if I was allowed to fish, which of course I would never do illegally.” Grinning, she cut a generous slice.

He forked off a bite and tasted. His eyes slid closed in ecstasy. “Man, that tastes even better than it smells.”

The praise warmed the corner of her heart that still felt like a homeless six-year-old who had crummy grades in school because she fell asleep on her desk. “When I open my restaurant, it will be like having Winnie with me every time I cook one of her specialties.”

“Restaurant?” He swiped a napkin along a crumb at the corner of his mouth.

“A food truck, actually.” She’d only told Winnie’s friends, no one else, half-afraid that people would laugh at her. “That’s what I plan to do with the money from selling this place.”

“I heard from Thea and June that you were leaving, but nothing detailed.”

Winnie and her friends always had been able to keep a secret. Or maybe they were hoping if they didn’t vocalize her move, it wouldn’t happen. “I’m relocating to Myrtle Beach. I’ll live in the Airstream by the ocean and support myself with the food truck business.”

“Why Myrtle Beach? Why not Charleston or Edisto?” he asked, already halfway through his hunk of cake.

She bit her lip to hold back a smile that he hadn’t questioned her dream, only the location. “Aunt Winnie talked about going to Myrtle Beach all the time but never made it there. She seemed to be a bit agoraphobic about crossing the county line.”

Once the words were out of her mouth, she wished she’d labeled her aunt as a homebody or even a hermit rather than agoraphobic.

“So she lived in Bent Oak all her life?”

“Actually, no.” She wished more of those photos in the album carried dates. “She came here as an adult ... I’m not sure exactly where she grew up. She was an orphan, and she said it hurt too much to discuss her childhood.”

Looking back, it felt self-centered or uncaring not to have delved deeper. Would he judge her for that?

“What foods will you serve?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Southern specialties, like barbecue, cornbread, slaw. The pound cake, of course. Then I’ll rotate other dishes like chicken bog.”

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