Page 18 of Sugar Coated Lies
Sadie:Do you have your pepper spray?
Me: Yes.
It's in the car, but I’m not bringing it inside. I don't tell her that.
Sadie watches too many crime and murder shows. As a result, she thinks every stranger is a serial killer. It doesn’t matter that when we talked on the phone last night, I texted her a picture of Mr. Livingston’s business card and my GPS tracker, which showed a pecan farm, she still warned me to bring pepper spray and to check in with her. It’s a damn good thing she never met Gary or saw a picture of him. She would have deemed him a killer and insisted I quit daily.
Sadie: Be safe. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m calling the cops.
I roll my eyes.
Me:Please don’t. I might be working. I’ll text as soon as I can.
I get my purse from the backseat and tuck my long strands behind my ear to keep my hair out of my face—something the breeze is making difficult.
I climb the steps to the porch and enter the store through the barn-like doors. It’s even more impressive inside. Wood floors stretch the length of the store leading to a small café on the far side. The scent of oak, warm pastries, and coffee causes my stomach to gurgle. I only had time to grab a handful of cereal this morning before leaving for class. Grandpa was in a mood, determined to know why his wife wasn’t in the bed next to him when he woke up.
Tables and decorative stands showcase home decorating goods and an abundance of other stuff: kitchen utensils and jars, dish towels, potholders, teacups and saucers, vases, floral arrangements, candles, pictures, cutting boards, jellies, sauces, candies, peaches, and pecans, of course, as well as so many other things. It’s like I stepped into a store from a Hallmark movie. A cashier counter to the side draws my attention, but no one is there.
A woman and child poke through a basket of small stuffed animals, and an older couple chat with someone—an employee?—about the assorted flavors of coated pecans that fill a barrel.
I cross to the café, where tables and chairs encircle a country counter and pastry display. The back wall has a menu of the treats and drinks. This is out of a dream, and I’m going to work here! Tears of joy sting my eyes. I blink, in a hurry to remove any trace of emotions. It’s just I never imagined working in such a wonderful place.
A guy and a young woman enjoy donuts and coffees at one of the tables. I stop at the counter and peer through the opening that leads to a kitchen area.
“Can I help you?” the young man asks from the table.
I face him. “Hi. Uh, yes. I’m here for a job. I was hired the other day, uh, by Mr. Livingston.” Why can’t I speak?
The guy stands, his height and athletic build impressive. Light brown hair falls around handsome features and maple-colored eyes. His smile could win an award for most-inviting. Something about him seems familiar.
The young woman across from him—a blonde-haired classic southern beauty—wears a confused expression. “Since when is your dad hiring people?” she asks the guy. Her southern accent is stronger and different compared to most people from this part of Georgia.
Grandma used to say, “We may not have wealth in Honeycomb, but our accents sound like we do.” They’re subtle, less twangy than other low-income areas in the state.
His maple gaze swings to the blonde. “He’s not.” The guy stops in front of me and gives me a quick once-over. Not in a creepy way, this is more curious and surprising. “You must be talking about Daire.”
I nod, hoping this isn’t a bad joke that rich people play on the less fortunate. It wouldn’t be the first time, although I’ve been careful not to repeat past mistakes.
The young man extends his hand. “I’m Easton, Daire’s younger brother.”
Oh! I hurry to shake hands with him. “Everleigh Reed. It’s nice to meet you.”
He gestures to the girl. “This is Tennessee but that’s a mouthful, so we call her Tennie. She’s a family friend.”
Her perfect brows form a V at the wordfriend, but she’s quick to hide it with a glorious smile. “Hi.” She stands and also greets me with a handshake. Her skin is as soft as whipped butter. “So, where’d you meet Daire?” She gives me a once-over too, as if sizing me up.
I don’t know how to answer. What if he doesn’t want anyone to know he was slumming it in the low-income area of Honeycomb? “Not far from here.”
“Hmm.” Her tight gaze says she knows I’m being evasive.
A middle-aged woman with dark curly hair barrels out of the kitchen, headed toward us.
“Millie?” Easton says. “Have you met Everleigh? Apparently, Daire hired her.” His light tone holds amusement.
“I just found out.” She wipes her hands on the apron around her waist, seeming in a whirlwind. Her tired but kind eyes meet mine. “Sorry, I’m late. Daire sprung this on me shortly before you arrived. I’m Millie.” She introduces herself with a handshake. “I see you’ve met Easton.” She glares at him. “Go finish your breakfast.”
He chuckles, as if he hasn’t a care in the world and likes causing trouble, but does as Millie orders. “Come on, Tennie,” Easton mimics the blonde’s accent and puts his hand at the small of her back, returning her to the table.
