Page 52 of One Southern Summer

“Whitney implied that I was helping you with this project to make myself look good.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Is that what people are saying?”

“It doesn’t matter what people are saying.” He stepped toward her, his arms lifting of their own accord. He gently cupped his palms against her bare upper arms. “I asked you to do this because you’re smart and talented and more than capable of designing a beautiful functional space.”

And because your grandmother bribed me.

Her doubtful gaze nearly flattened him. He was being so selfish. So feckless with her fragile emotions. This was his out. His opportunity to tell her everything. “Avery, I—”

She stepped out of his reach and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m okay with the documentary, by the way. I’m sorry I doubted you. It sounds fantastic.”

Her weak smile brought little relief.

He shoved aside the guilt niggling at him, harassing him to tell the truth. At least he’d been honest about one thing. She’d asked if he felt she was using him. The answer was no. Regardless of Maribelle’s philanthropy, he would’ve asked for Avery’s input anyway. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

Chapter Nine

“There has to be a way I can convince those two they can’t live without each other.” Maribelle sprinkled a healthy dose of brown sugar on top of her oatmeal. Oh, how she hated oatmeal. It was worse than an egg white omelet, which was the other less than desirable breakfast option today. But her cholesterol levels had become her nemesis. Her doctor was going to order blood work next week and give her a lecture if her numbers weren’t good. So now it was oatmeal for breakfast every single day. A guy who lived down the hall told her that was the secret to throwing the numbers. Probably the brown sugar wasn’t in her best interest, but they just needed to let her live her life. She’d made it nearly ninety years. Clearly she had a few things figured out. Since she was still kicking and all. Why weren’t folks more receptive to her advice?

“Avery and Cole are being particularly resistant. They’ve been given ample opportunity to go on a proper date and nothing’s happening. I’m not giving up, though. What if I arrange for them to be—”

“Now, listen.” Lucille set her spoon delicately on the saucer under her teacup and pressed her lips into a line. “You’ve done more than your fair share of meddling. It’s time to give it a rest.”

Well, I’ll be.Maribelle stared at her, blinked then stared some more. Usually firing a meaningful look Lucille’s way made her wilt. Then she’d comply and go along with whatever scheme Maribelle had cooked up. This time was different. Lucille stared right back, her expression unusually frigid and her spine ramrod straight.

“Lucille, I do believe you’re having a stroke because that is complete and utter nonsense.”

“Maribelle, you are testing my patience. I suggest you proceed with caution before your family turns their backs on you. Then you’ll be miserable and alone.” She leaned across the table, her fingers trembling against her cloth napkin. “Is that what you want?”

“Gracious me, of course not.” Maribelle shifted in her chair. “My family is everything to me. I’m only doing this for them.”

“That’s preposterous.” Lucille slid the pitcher of cream closer. “You’re doing this for you. It’s always all about you.”

Maribelle pressed her palm to the front of her floral print blouse. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Lucille calmly poured cream into her tea. “Again, with the lies. You won’t rest until you’ve orchestrated every detail of your grandchildren’s lives. When will you learn that’s a fool’s errand?”

“Such harsh language.”

Lucille arched one very thin brow. “I’m just getting started. When Avery finds out what you’ve done and disowns you, you are going to be a bitter, stubborn old woman.”

Maribelle’s stomach churned and it wasn’t because of the oatmeal. “Who said I was bitter?”

“How else do you explain your behavior?”

Her body flashed hot then cold and the breath she sucked in was wobbly. Maybe she was having a stroke or heart attack. Did her jaw feel tight? Was her arm sore? She circled both arms quickly, windmill style.

Lucille’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure I’m not having a stroke. I feel funny.”

“That’s called guilt, Maribelle.” Lucille took a tiny bite of her buttered toast. “It’s consuming you.”

Well, didn’t she look all smug. And why was she eating butter on her toast? Her cholesterol was probably fine. Lucille rarely did anything dangerous. Come to think of it she rarely did anything even remotely questionable. So boring.

“I know what you’re thinking by the way.” Lucille primly dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I haven’t taken a lot of risks in my life, but in case you hadn’t noticed my family isn’t drowning in a heap of drama.”

“I am not responsible for the drama that Avery is dealing with. She has her ex-husband to thank for all of that mess.”

Lucille hesitated then took another bite of her omelet.

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