Prologue
Everyone’s eyesare fixated on me.
For others, it’s a regular day at the Garrison Bean Bar, my favorite coffee shop.
But for me, it’s as if I’m some sort of rare specimen trapped under a microscope, unable to move or breathe without everybody and their mama taking notes.
It’s as expected as it is disheartening.
Small Southern towns like Garrison, where I was born and raised, are infamous for their never-ending gossip.
And ever since the day I left Maxwell, the mayor’s eldest son and my cheating ex-fiancé, standing at the altar, I’ve been the star of nearly every whispered, cruel story.
I just want it all to end.
My hands shake, the warmth of the piping hot latte I hold doing little to quell the coldness rolling through me, embedding itself into the marrow of my bones.
“Ignore ’em, Sadie Lou.”
Fighting to keep my chin from wobbling, I set my mug down and look up, meeting the gaze of my papaw Boone, the man who raised me after I spent the first three years of my life bouncing around in foster care.
With his faded blue eyes filling with a dangerous combination of sympathy, annoyance, and downright anger, he’s clearly ready to throw a full-blown hissy fit.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he takes a long pull of his peach-infused sweet tea and covers my ringless hand with his own, his skin calloused and weathered from years of hard work.
“Put some starch in that spine of yours and sit tall. Because, darlin’, it doesn’t matter how much that beautiful heart of yours is shatterin’. You ain’t a kicked dog, so you ain’t gonna act like it.”
He’s right about one thing—my heart is shattering. It has been for the past three months since I discovered my ex’s betrayal. Only, it isn’t close to fracturing into a million irreparable little pieces for the reasons most would think.
It’s not the cheating or failed nuptials.
No, what kills me is how foolish I was.
For six years, ever since I was a na?ve senior in high school, I allowed Maxwell to cover my eyes with wool, choosing not to see the glaring red flags that, looking back now, were clear to everyone from the start... except me.
Red flags that all pointed to my high school sweetheart, the snake I was hours away from vowing my happily ever after to, being a heartless and deceiving scumbag.
I could kick myself for being so oblivious.
The constant backhanded comments and lack of intimacy, to the stream of “overtime” he clocked at his father’s law firm and the late nights he spent at the “gym,” were all pieces of a puzzle I refused to assemble.
A treacherous facade I was too blind to see through.
And the other woman? Vanessa was my maid of honor. Not to mention my best friend. She had been since preschool. Now, in my eyes, she’s nothing but a backstabbing hussy. And right or wrong, I wish her a fate as painful as her cutting betrayal. Perhaps a kidney stone the size of a golf ball.
Is it petty of me? Sure.
Does she deserve it? Absolutely.
Don’t get me wrong, Maxwell’s infidelity stings more than any white-hot brand ever could. Yet having my best friend stab me in the back by carrying on an affair and sleeping with my future husband—on the day of my wedding, no less—is a different type of hurt.
I fear I’ll never get over it.
That the cuts they inflicted will always bleed.
“I’m trying, Papaw.”
Diverting my gaze from his, I look at Lillian, my cousin Eli’s pregnant wife. As owner of the Bean, she stands behind the counter across the packed shop, a blush-colored apron cocooning her growing belly. A soft smile graces her pretty face; the sight of it brings me instant comfort.
“But it’s hard when…”
An overwhelming sense of foreboding takes hold of me, silencing what I was about to say, when the bell above the front door jingles and in walks Cornelia Beaumont, Maxwell’s witchy paternal grandmother.
Crap, I think to myself. Here we go.
Like a mischievous child trying to escape their parents’ ire, I sink into my chair, praying the floor opens up and swallows me whole. Death via being buried alive isn’t at the top of my wish list, but anything—and I mean anything—is better than the public humiliation I’m about to endure.
Cornelia, in all her high-society glory, strides in like she owns the place, her powdered nose turned so far heavenward I’m surprised she doesn’t drown each time it rains. Her beady, hawklike eyes scan the packed room, landing on me with the precision of a starved predator.
The sneer that overtakes her face is nauseating.
My stomach drops and the room falls silent, the air thick with dread as she makes a beeline toward me, each of her steps a measured toll of my impending doom.
“Well, if it isn’t Sadie Winslow.” The way she spits my name, her venomous tone one even the sharpest of tongues would envy, drips with unfiltered disdain. “My, how you’ve turned this town upside down.” She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the sound making me flinch. “Quite the scandal you’ve created, leaving Maxwell high and dry at the altar. You must be so proud.”
Her barbed words hit their desired target.
I open my mouth to reply; no words come. My throat tightens, suffocating any semblance of the retort I wish to sling her way.
Cornelia smiles, malevolence bleeding onto her painted lips as she seizes on my weakness and continues, far from done with me.
“Not only did you embarrass your lowly self, but you tarnished my sweet Maxwell’s sterling reputation—along with ours.” If possible, her nose lifts even higher. From this angle, I can practically see straight through to her brain. “You owe him and the entire Beaumont family a public apology.”
Satan himself will dress in a sparkly pink tutu and start serving every tortured resident of Hell bottomless glasses of ice water before I ever apologize for leaving Maxwell at the church, his pants around his ankles and Vanessa’s legs wrapped around his waist.
The only person I owe an apology to is myself.
For running away in tears and calling Lillian for help instead of taking the business end of a baseball bat to Maxwell’s lying, cheating behind. It’s all right though. Eli—bless his beautiful, vengeful heart—served up a heaping dose of justice on my behalf.
I bet Maxwell’s still feeling that beating.
Rightfully so too.
Cornelia may think of my family as low class simply because we prefer to live a simple life versus the extravagant one she leads, but we Winslows possess something the Beaumonts never will.
Loyalty.
I glance at Papaw Boone, seeking the strength he’s never failed to deliver. His grip on my hand, the slight squeeze he offers, is just what I need.
If I request he step in, he will. But even though I feel like crumpling to the ground, I won’t.
“Excuse me, Cornelia, but I don’t think—”
“You’re correct. You don’t think, Sadie. You never have, and that’s always been your problem. So selfish, so thoughtless.” Selfish? Even if her insult is pure horse manure, it’s still a backhanded slap to the face. “And now you’ve ruined everything.”
The woman is insane. It’s the only explanation. How did I ruin everything when I’m not the one who cheated? The downright audacity makes my knot-laden belly roil. I’m half-tempted to toss my steaming coffee right into her face. Maybe that would shock her free from her delusions.
Then again, pigs would probably fly first.
Murmurs surround me, morphing into a cacophony of condemnation. I can’t make a single voice out, but their judgment is all the same. Suddenly, I’m drowning in a sea of cruel gossip, each word a strike against my already raw soul.
Cornelia smirks, but she isn’t finished.
Not by a country mile.
“I suppose it’s all for the best though. You would never have been good enough for Maxwell—for any of us—really,” she continues, sniffing all haughty-like before ripping back the curtain on years of insecurities and self-doubt.
They rush forward, infiltrating my every thought.
“The Winslows may come from old money, but outside of your grandfather, your family of adopted misfits will never be anything more than white trash masquerading in good clothes.”
I don’t get to speak.
Not before Papaw’s chair skitters backward as he stands to his full six-foot-four height, his eyes glossing over with rage. I know that look. His patience is gone, the lasso holding his tongue having crumbled to dust.
“That’s enough, Cornelia.”
His heavily accented words hold a dangerous tone. I’ve never seen Papaw raise his voice at a woman in anger, and I don’t reckon he’s about to start.
Still, the way he speaks is cutting all the same.
“If you think I’m gonna stand here and let the likes of you lash my granddaughter with that serpent-whip you call a tongue, all the while insulting the rest of my grandyoungins’, then you’ve got another think comin’.”
If I wasn’t on the verge of bursting into tears, I’d laugh at the indignation morphing Cornelia’s face. She’s offended. Good.
“I don’t believe I was speaking to you, Boone—”
“Don’t matter one lick to me ’cause I’m speakin’ to you.” Grasping the straps of his overalls, he fists them tightly, his scarred knuckles turning white. “You’ve said your piece, hogwash as it is. Now leave Sadie alone ’fore I have one of my boys throw Maxwell a second beatin’ on account of you causin’ her trouble.”
Cornelia gasps and clutches the expensive Akoya pearls dangling from her neck. It’s downright comical. Lillian agrees, judging by the snort she lets out after sidling up next to where I sit, her soft hand curling around my shoulder in silent solidarity.
“Boone, you wouldn’t—”
“Try me. When it comes to my family, there ain’t a doggone thing I won’t do.” Papaw leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “As for what you said about my girl—about our family—being pure trash.”
He chuckles, the sound humorless.
“Every last hardworkin’ Winslow has more heart than ten silver spoon-fed Beaumonts combined. Except for Miss Posey and maybe Mrs. Eleanor, there ain’t a single one of you fat cats who’s worth the powder it’d take to blow you straight to hell. And if this town knows what’s good for it, it’ll start rememberin’ that pretty darn quick.”
Not one to be insulted without verbally slapping back, the Witch of the South rears back to spit something else, but I don’t stick around to hear what she has to say. I can’t. Not when my throat continues to tighten, my burning lungs screaming for air I can’t seem to pull in.
Panic looms, close to taking over.
Wholly uncaring of the eyes locked on me, I jump up and burst out of the Bean, the cool morning air hitting me. Unfortunately, it brings no relief. My skin is on fire, the river of tears that now falls unchecked scorching my already flaming skin.
I need to run, to escape.
My feet move without my brain commanding them to, and I’m sitting behind the wheel of my CR-V before I know it, my hands wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel it’s a miracle the leather doesn’t crack.
Fighting to quell the anxiety threatening to wrap me in a permanent chokehold, I turn my head, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
That’s when I see it.
The chevron-adorned rolling suitcase, my passport tucked in its front pocket, and matching overnight bag Lillian helped me pack months ago. Intended for the honeymoon I never went on, they’ve sat in my car since the morning I became Garrison’s most infamous runaway bride.
Maybe I should…
My breath stalls when an unhinged idea takes the shape of an invisible two-by-four and slams into me, knocking every lick of common sense I possess clear into outer space.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold.
But what if, in my case, it comes in the form of me taking a much-needed vacation on my ex’s dime? I’d bet good money he’s been too busy banging Vanessa—the betraying harlot—to cancel the American Express he gave me right after proposing. I’ve never used it, but I know good and well there’s no credit limit.
A sly smile curves my lips.
With my suffocating panic soothed into submission, I start my SUV and pull away from the curb, whipping around on the magnolia and shop-lined downtown street, leaving Papaw to drive himself home.
A black truck I’d recognize anywhere comes within inches of sideswiping me before hitting the brakes.
Weston, one of my older cousins, pops his head out his lowered window, looking irate. “What the heck, Sadie?” he hollers, unaware of the defiance taking root inside me, refusing to let go. “Pay attention, for Pete’s sake! If I had hit you, Papaw would’ve skinned me alive!”
I don’t yell back in reply.
Instead, I blow him a kiss and stomp on the gas, my tires screaming in protest as I take off, headed north, to the very place where the promise of vengeance and freedom reign supreme.
The airport.