Page 16 of Tasting Fire
5
Later,Emmy was still thinking about the debriefing as she pushed inside Hoffman’s Grocery and caught a glimpse of the same candy machines that had been there for years. How many times had Cash shoved a quarter into one of those, pulled out a plastic bubble filled with some trinket, and presented it to her as if it was a priceless treasure?
To her, they had been priceless.
She reached into her purse for a quarter, but stopped herself. A bauble that made her think fondly of Cash wasn’t what she needed right now. What would she do with it—place it in the box with all the others she’d kept from high school?
She grabbed an empty shopping cart and manhandled it down the condiment aisle. Trinkets be damned, she needed to concentrate on the TMT.
The rest of the team had obviously felt at least a shade of what Stan Jackson did about EmmyusurpingCash’s place as head of the TMT.
Wahoo! Come home, Emmy. You can do good things here and get the hell outta Baltimore.
“That wasn’t the only reason you came back,” she muttered to herself. “You came to chill out a little and have a personal life.”
“Huh?” A teenager with shaggy aqua hair looked up from where he was stocking jars of olives. “Can I help you with something?”
Excellent. Now it would be all over town that Emmy had lost her marbles since she left North Carolina. Hell, they all thought she lost her mind when she turned down Cash all those years ago. What did a few marbles matter?
Still, she reached past the kid and snatched a random jar from the shelf. “Just needed to grab this.” She dropped the jar—filled with cocktail onions she detested—into her cart with a clink. Her heart bumping, she ducked her head and made for the end of the aisle even though she had mayo on her list.
List.
If she just stuck to her list, everything would be okay. She unfolded the piece of paper she’d typed up of essentials she needed in her new, albeit temporary, apartment in the Murchison building over Grif Steele’s office.
Milk
Rice
Cleaning supplies
Chicken
Fresh veggies
Veggies. She could handle those. None of them would frown at her or make her feel as if they’d just as soon shove her onto the first plane headed north. They wouldn’t get their fragile male egos wounded by taking direction from a woman. Sweet potatoes were simple that way.
Head down, she beelined her basket toward the lefthand side of the store. Still, it felt as if everyone she passed was staring or whispering.
Just your imagination. You’re not that big a deal.
She made it to the tomato bins without incident, but tomatoes were more complicated than sweet potatoes. Hothouse, cherry, grape, Roma, heirloom. She spied a handful of purple-skinned beauties. Cherokee Purples. She hadn’t seen one of those since… since she and Cash were dating and his dad served them with his famous free-range chicken.
Could these be Ross Kingston homegrown? Emmy’s stomach growled at the thought.
She was just reaching for a particularly pretty one when someone behind her said, “Why Emmy McKay, I’d heard you were back!”
Oh. Oh, this could be good. Or very bad.
Allowing herself one quick breath, Emmy turned to face the woman she’d worked for in high school. “Mrs. Southerland, what a surprise.”
“You’re the surprise, being here in Steele Ridge. We all heard you were marrying some hotshot doctor up in Boston.”
“Baltimore,” she corrected automatically. Silly because Karen Southerland never forgot a detail, which meant she’d made the mistake on purpose. And some folks would consider Emmy herself to be the hotshot doctor.
Stop thinking with your professional ego and be social. You wanted to be part of a community again. This is your chance.
Mrs. Southerland smiled at Emmy, but the contraction of her zygomaticus major and minor was a strain at best because the orbicularis oculi never jumped on board. Apparently, Emmy was still persona non grata. Mrs. Southerland said, “And you were working…”
