Page 27 of Sweet Obsession
“But is there someone specific?” Jessica pressed.
“Well now, that’s Blake’s business, isn’t it?” Sara adjusted her pearls and fixed the reporter with a look that had cowed generations of misbehaving children. “A lady doesn’t gossip about matters of the heart. Though I will say this…” She leaned forward conspiratorially, and every microphone strained toward her. “Any girl would be lucky to catch that boy’s eye. He’s got his grandfather’s romantic soul.”
The man with the hair gel practically vibrated with excitement. “Can you tell us her name?”
“Can you tell me why you’re standing in my flower bed?” she countered sternly with her best sweet Southern smile. “Those are award-winning petunias you’re crushing, young man. First prize at the county fair three years running. Their feelings are hurt very easily. Step to the left, if you please.”
Looking sheepish, the reproved man shuffled sideways.
“That’s better. Now, where are your manners? You haven’t even introduced yourselves properly. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”
The reporter, momentarily flustered, recovered quickly. “Sorry ma’am, Robert Peel—”
A man with a notepad jumped in. “Is your grandson staying here with you? Is he hiding from the press?”
Sara fixed him with a withering look. “Now, what did I say about interrupting?”
For the next twenty minutes, Sara held court like a benevolent dictator, expertly deflecting every question with a mix of Southern charm, subtle scolding, and maddeningly vague non-answers. She critiqued their posture, corrected their grammar, and the reporters, used to dealing with screaming celebrities and slick PR agents, were utterly disarmed.
Though not how she’d expected to spend her day, she couldn’t remember a time when she’d had more fun. Blake should sneak around town more often.
“I can’t leave.” Exasperation hung on every syllable of Blake’s words. “These people are crawling around like ants on a picnic blanket.”
“I’ll go check on Ms. Sara.” Jillian glanced at the grandfather clock in the shop’s corner. “I’m closer. Besides, with all this commotion, I don’t see any customers caring about candles today.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said with a soft voice.
“I know, but I want to.” For a second she thought his silence meant he was not happy with her. She braced for the worst when he slowly enunciated her name.
“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” His voice was throaty and raw and made her toes curl in her shoes.
“I don’t know about that, but I am going to close up. Hold on.” Grabbing her purse from her desk drawer, she hurried to the door, turned the open sign to closed, and with a turn of the key in the lock, she was moving down Main Street as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself.
“So far, so good.” She felt like a spy in an action flick. Remembering how they skunked Garrett’s wife’s ex using the phones for communications, she decided that maybe being spies could be a lot of fun. “I’m almost to the corner and no one has shown any interest in me.”
“Considering how these reporters seem to be chasing down anyone on the street, I’m going to take it as a good sign that they’ve not bothered you.”
She couldn’t agree more. “Almost there,” she whispered, her rubber-soled shoes silent on the concrete. At the end of the block, she cornered the building, fully expecting to see the media crowd up the street laying siege to the Kirby house.
The scene that greeted her was so bizarre, so utterly unexpected, that she stopped dead in her tracks, nearly dropping her phone. His grandmother wasn’t just handling the reporters; she was conducting them. Sara Kirby sat serenely in a folding chair in the center of her porch, a tall glass of iced tea on a small table beside her, holding court like a queen onher throne. The reporters weren’t a swarming mob; they were a semi-orderly, if somewhat bewildered, audience.
“What is it? What do you see?” Blake’s voice, tight with anxiety, crackled in her ear.
“I… you’re not going to believe this.” Jillian bit back the laugh threatening to erupt. “Your grandmother is something else. I’d swear she’s holding court on her front porch like the Queen of England. She has a folding chair, iced tea, and she’s got every single reporter sitting at attention like they’re in Sunday school.”
“She what?”
“I’m serious. She’s critiquing their posture and correcting their grammar. One guy just apologized for stepping on her flowers.” Jillian didn’t bother to stifle the laugh that bubbled up. “Blake, she’s a lesson in utter magnificence.”
Through the phone, she heard him let out a breath that was part relief, and a whole lot of pride. “That’s my grandmother. She always was a force of nature.”
As Jillian watched, Mrs. Kirby spotted her approaching. A brilliant smile bloomed on her face. Without missing a beat, she raised her voice, a clear, ringing tone that carried easily across the lawn. “I have company now, ladies and gentlemen. And my petunias have had quite enough excitement for one day. Time for all of you to go home and find a real story to cover. Shoo!”
“Jillian,” Blake’s voice was urgent in her ear, “get inside with her. Fast.”
“Already on it.” Jillian quickened her pace, waving at Mrs. Kirby like she was an expected guest. “So sorry I’m late.”
The older woman beamed. “Right on time, sweetheart. Come on up.”
