Page 4 of Dear Southern Belle
“Don’t you worry, I’ve got others lined up to help fill in the slot. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you to perform with that voice of angel.”
I’ve always enjoyed the cadence of a Southern accent and I listen in on their conversation while I pretend to look at the plastic menu in front of me. They discuss some song options and make plans for the show tomorrow.
“Can I get you something?” The woman from earlier returns behind the counter pulling my attention away from their conversation.
“Glass of iced tea,” I say.
“Sweet?”
“Sure,” I agree distractedly, my attention returning to Magnolia’s profile.
The woman turns and fills a glass from the large stainless-steel pitcher on the counter behind her. She sets the glass down in front of me and I remember the whole reason I came in here.
“I have a pick-up order for—” I pause realizing I don’t know what name it would be under. “I’m not sure what the name is under.”
The woman behind the counter gives me a look like I’m an idiot and I don’t blame her. “Who called it in?”
“A woman named Martha.”
She nods like that is all she needed to know. “I’ll check on it in the back.”
I pick up the sweaty glass in front of me and take a sip of the iced tea. The overpowering taste of sugar hits my tongue and I cough the liquid back into my glass.
“Oh my,” Magnolia turns to me. “Are you alright?”
I can only nod as I cough into my hand. The older man she was just talking to chuckles under his breath and walks out.
“I think someone might have put too much sugar in the tea,” I say and wipe my chin with the back of my hand.
“I’ll have you know I made that sweet tea this morning.” She points to the name tag pinned to the front of her dress.
“Sweet tea?”
I remember my mother talking about how one of the things she missed after moving up North was that she couldn’t find a good glass of sweet tea. This can’t possibly be what she was talking about.
Magnolia smiles warmly. “Not from around here?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“New York?”
“Connecticut.”
“Ah,” she chuckles. “Our very own Connecticut Yankee in Oak View.”
Growing up my father would read Mark Twain to me before bed. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court was one of my favorites. I loved the idea of traveling back in time and using modern knowledge to my advantage. Oak View may not be another time, but it’s certainly unlike the world I’m used to.
“You’re a fan of Mark Twain?”
“Of course,” she takes another sip. “You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised. I’m just in love.”
She turns to look at me. “What?”
Did I just say that out loud?
“I said I love his writing.”
