Page 17 of Finding Yesterday

Well, Claire, welcome to the rest of your life.

Winston comes and puts his wet nose on my face, and I snuggle him in close. He’s the single being in this world who seems to know just exactly what I need.

I don’t know what to do with myself, but I do know what I can do for Daddy. I have the money from Tangz, and I can get investors for my future restaurant.

After sending off a text to Nate, I rub Winston’s belly when I say, “Nate’s going to help me put back every missing vine, just where it belongs.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

BLUE VINE STARTEDas one of the gold rush towns in Georgia. By the 1920s, it had become relatively progressive for the South, contributing to the women’s suffrage movement. Blue Vine didn’t take prohibition so well either, building many underground distilleries and speakeasies where they made and served “bathtub gin,” or moonshine.

Then, Daddy’s father, Albert, and several of his friends, were freedom riders in the 1950s, something that was a rarity for a small, southern town.

Blue Vine has so much character and charm, and the square downtown is an actual historical landmark. It’s like a step back in time with the cobblestone walkways, the courthouse with the large Greek columns, the bricked antique shop, and the gas station with vintage signage and pumps.

Despite the fact that everyone knows everyone else’s business here, I always find myself happy when I’m in town. Right now, Blue Vine is comforting for my soul.

I step out of my car, pulling my wool jacket tighter around me. Although it’s not raining, it’s a chilly spring morning with everything wet from dew.

Now that I’m in Blue Vine, I’m going to return all my wedding gifts to the folks here, paying them a visit so I can thank them in person. Since most of our Atlanta friends gave us gift cards, those are easy to mail back, but many in Blue Vine gave us presents.

My first stop is the Blue Vine Inn, the bed and breakfast owned by Jean, the grandmother of my and Emma’s close friend, Charley.

I walk into the Inn’s foyer, handsome with its marble fireplaces, carved mahogany furniture, and ornate crown molding. At the same time, the Victorian velvet rugs and furniture are soft and inviting. Somehow, Jean has made the place fancy and homey, which is probably why the Inn always stays booked.

In fact, Hudson and I reserved the honeymoon suite for our wedding night, but instead, Emma, Charley, and I had a girl’s sleepover here. I didn’t want to ask Jean for a refund, so we made the best of it. As sad as it was, staying in gold satin sheets under a canopy bed did help a little.

Jean is bustling through the dining area, serving breakfast to guests, so I make my way into the kitchen where I give Jean’s present to Alice, her assistant.

When I step back out, Jean sees me. “Claire!” she calls out. “Last time I saw you, you were running out on a three-tiered chiffon cake.”

I chuckle. “Charley told me y’all enjoyed it, so that’s good.”

“Well, it was the least you could do, my dear.” She winks, then waves a hand and says, “Now get over here and give this old lady a hug.” A seventy-four-year-old woman weighing in under a hundred pounds, Jean could undoubtedly kick my butt if she wanted to. Of course she never would.

After getting a good strong squeeze, she says, “I am so sorry.” Jean always says she’s as tough as boiled owl, and although that’s partially true, under her iron shell is a heart of pure gold.

“Me too.” My voice wobbles. I can’t cry every time someone hugs me and says they’re sorry, or I’m going to be crying all day long.

After pulling away, I say, “So, I brought you back the gift you gave me. It’s in the kitchen with Alice. I wanted to come by and say thank you in person.”

She gasps. “Now, don’t you even think of giving me that gift back.”

“Jean, I—”

“Nope, you need it, trust me. Hitched or not.” She points. “Now head right back in there and pick it up.”

Before I can say anything else, Jean is pulling me into the kitchen where she snatches up the package and hands it back to me.

I don’t bother trying to fight with Jean—I know it’s pointless—so I open the gift to find that it’s a Cuisinart pasta maker. “Oh, Jean, thank you.”

“I know you didn’t have one, and I love mine.”

She’s a wonderful cook, and it means so much she bought me a favorite appliance of hers. “I can’t wait to use it, really.” After I give her a hug, she sends me off with a to-go container of her famous blackberry pie.

I’m on to my next stop. Five minutes later, stuffed with blackberry pie, the breakfast of champions, I’m sitting in the parking lot of Boon’s Diner. I’m ready to return a wonderful ice cream maker to Shirley, the restaurant owner and another old friend. After heading inside, I realize how many memories I have here.

My high school friends and I sat at those mustard-yellow booth seats after prom. We danced around on those worn checkered floors, being young and silly. And of course, we had countless chocolate milkshakes from that stainless steel machine. “Hey, Ms. Shirley,” I say when she appears through the kitchen doors.

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