Page 2 of One Southern Summer

Furrowed brows and fierce whispering between the event planner and her assistant demanded Avery’s attention. Uh-oh. What had gone wrong?

Panic quickened her steps as she strode toward them, casting another glance around the yard. The caterer had the food situation under control. Two women guarded the cupcakes and Addison chased a butterfly. Other than Pax not yet making an appearance and her family’s delayed flight, nothing earth-shattering triggered a warning.

“Hey, Meredith.” She infused her voice with calm and stopped beside the event planner. “Are we about ready?”

Meredith and her assistant exchanged nervous glances.

Avery’s mouth went dry, and she pressed her palm against Meredith’s slender arm. “What is it?”

Color splashed across Meredith’s cheekbones. “Avery, two of our white tablecloths have hideous red wine stains on them. I’m so embarrassed and I hate to ask, but do you have two we can borrow?”

The weight of dread lifted from her shoulders. “Now, that I can handle.” She rewarded Meredith with a reassuring smile. “Of course you can use mine. I’ll be right back.”

She turned and strode across the yard with a spring in her step. Stained tablecloths. If that was the only detail they’d overlooked, this party was going to be golden. She hummed softly as she pulled open the door to the screened porch, crossed to the back door then stepped inside. The fragrant aroma of fresh flowers enveloped her as she paused in the quiet kitchen.

A gorgeous floral arrangement from Pax’s parents sat on the large island’s marble countertop. So thoughtful. They’d booked a speaking engagement in California and couldn’t reschedule. Avery had silently rejoiced when she’d received her mother-in-law’s regretful text. They managed to get along when they were together, but Pastor and Mrs. Crawford had a way of commandeering the spotlight. Avery wasn’t the least bit interested in sharing today.

Her heels clicked on the hardwoods as she passed through the den. She’d stored her round tablecloths in the laundry room’s spacious custom cabinets. Michael Bublé streamed from a wireless speaker nearby. The rumble of masculine voices filtered from the laundry room and Avery paused. Then she heard Pax’s familiar throaty chuckle. She angled her head as she inched closer. What was he doing in there? And who was he talking to in that tone of voice she thought he reserved only for her?

She tapped her manicured nails on the door then gently pushed it open. “Pax? Are you—”

Her mind refused to comprehend what her eyes saw, and her legs quaked like her nana’s Jell-O salad at Christmas dinner.

This isn’t happening.

She cupped her hand over her mouth to silence the scream fighting to break free from her constricting chest. Pax and Trey were pressed up against the washing machine, locked in an intimate embrace.

Through the window overlooking the backyard she watched as Addison opened the lid on the trunk and dozens of pale blue balloons sailed into the cloudless sky.

Chapter One

Maribelle Hurst Lansing was mad enough to drown puppies. Ever since Olive McPherson waltzed into town and wormed her way into every club and committee, she’d made it her mission to aggravate people.

And tonight was no exception.

Ignoring the group’s obvious distaste for her yammering, Olive, The Queen of Book Club, blathered on about this month’s selection—the same mindless pablum she’d insisted her previous book club in Memphis enjoyed reading. She was always carrying on about Memphis. Maybe if it was so wonderful, Olive should consider moving back. Just saying was all.

Maribelle shot a pointed stare at Lucille, her across-the-hall neighbor at Westwood Manor and self-appointed chauffeur. Lucille conveniently avoided eye contact and loaded her fork with another bite of pear and pomegranate salad. Lucille’s husband had passed six months ago and she hated to go home to her empty apartment. Maribelle didn’t exactly love living alone either, but after ten years she’d gotten used to the idea. Besides she’d started binge watchingThe Good Placeand if she convinced Lucille to leave now, there’d be enough time to watch a full episode before her eyes gave out and she fell asleep.

When Nell, bless her heart, interjected and managed to shift the conversation toward the upcoming fundraiser for Imari’s Place, Maribelle groaned inwardly then drained the last of her sweet tea. She cared about human trafficking as much as they did, but were they really going to put an end to such a travesty during book club? Probably not. Which is why they should call it a night and write that handsome director a check like they did every year.

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Maribelle made a big show of checking her wristwatch. Lucille didn’t even bat an eyelash. Instead she carved her fork through another pear slice and nodded vehemently at whatever Nell was saying. Oh, for Pete’s sake.Finish your fancy salad already. It’s probably not even that good.

Not to be outdone by a community service project, Olive made a desperate grab for the spotlight and launched into her diatribe on the merits of authentic character arcs. Maribelle had had about all she could take. She pushed her chair back and stood then reached for her good pocketbook—the one with that Michael fella’s logo her granddaughter Avery said all the young people were crazy about.

Evidently, her body didn’t get the memo. For one terrifying instant, her brain and limbs battled, and she tottered precariously off-balance.

Dear Lord, do not let me fall in front of Olive McPherson.

She’d never let her forget it. Ever since Maribelle suggested they hire a ventriloquist for the family fun night at church and he’d offended half the congregation with his off-color jokes, Olive went to great lengths to remind her of her missteps. How was she supposed to know his act wasn’t appropriate for children? Whether she had one week or a hundred left on this earth, Maribelle vowed Olive would not hold one more iota of mortifying information over her head.

The young lady serving their table and hovering nearby must’ve questioned Maribelle’s judgment because her unsightly fingernails clamped around the sleeve of her cashmere sweater faster than a dog on a jackrabbit.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Lansing?” Her wide green eyes and polite smile did nothing to obscure her pity.

“No thank you, sugar.” Maribelle straightened, confident she’d dodged the proverbial bullet, and readjusted her sweater. “By the way, there’s a lovely nail salon in that new shopping center on Highland Circle. You should stop by sometime.”

The server’s smile faded, and she fisted her hand at her side. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

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