CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hannah Leigh eased through the back door of First Baptist’s fellowship hall. White cloths, red runners, pine in mason jars turned the long room warm and welcoming. The air carried the comfort of a hundred voices, babies fussing, the clink and rattle of dishes.
Aunt Winnie had given her a mission today. Collect recipes for the church’s cookbook fundraiser they’d be working on this year. She had her phone ready to record and a pad for notes tucked in her pocket.
It was called the Christmas Tidings Breakfast, but it was brunch, and it smelled like a holiday miracle.
Peppery fried chicken. A glazed ham shining like an apple in the sun.
Collards with a whisper of vinegar and salt pork.
Buttered corn. The fragrant sage dressing.
Sweet potatoes topped with candied pecans.
A pot of Brunswick stew that made her close her eyes and give thanks.
Deviled eggs in straight rows, dusted with paprika.
Baskets of yeast rolls brushed with butter until they glistened like the angel on the town tree.
Hannah Leigh had just reached for a plate when she saw Nate at a table with the historical society ladies. This was her chance. She slid her fingers around the dogwood charm in her pocket. Don’t let me down. Then, she took a big breath and made a beeline for Nate.
“Excuse me,” she said, steady and polite. “Good morning. Nate, could I steal you a minute?”
He looked up. Careful, but kind. He folded his napkin. “Sure. Y’all guard my plate,” he told the ladies, and managed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
They stepped into the hallway, where it was quieter.
“Thanks,” she said, wringing her hands, then releasing them. “Sorry to interrupt.”
He leaned a shoulder to the wall, arms crossed. “Something wrong? Lights out? Need a ladder?”
“No.” She swallowed and tried again. “Yes. Something is wrong. The important thing.”
“Oh?” He tipped his head. “You mean that job in Charlotte. I remember you saying that was the most important thing.”
The truth of that landed hard. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I should’ve told you about the call. I’d applied before that job before I ever came home.
And I’m sorry you heard me say that about ‘most important.’ That was me being excited about something I never thought would happen.
That’s who I’ve been for a long time. Chasing accounts.
Climbing the next rung like it would make me happiness. ”
He didn’t move. His eyes did, softening a bit.
“I kept thinking if I proved myself, the rest would follow.” She nodded toward the hum of the hall. “This season, this town, you. Nate, you reminded me what home feels like. I don’t want to chase anymore when I’ve already found it.”
“Hannah Leigh,” he said, quiet, like her name had weight again.
“I think I want to start an event company,” she said. The words picked up, sure of themselves now. “Right here in South Hill. I’ll travel for some jobs, but this would be home. If you’d want to be part of that. If you’d want to be anchored here with me.”
He let out a slow breath that sounded like relief learning how to speak. “You sure? You never looked like the anchoring kind.”
“Maybe I hadn’t found the right harbor.”
He stepped closer. Cedar and sawdust clung to his jacket. “You mean it? You’re staying. Or at least I get a say?”
“I’m staying. I love this town,” she said, voice plain and true. “And you. I don’t want to lose you to a job or anything else.”
He didn’t answer with words. He lifted his hand, brushed her cheek, and kissed her like a man who now knew where he belonged.
Joy spilled from the fellowship hall. “Time for the Twelve Days of Christmas. Everyone come grab a card so you know what part to sing!” someone called. Aunt Winnie added a joyful, off-key painfully long ‘five golden rings’ that made the whole church feel better about singing in public.
Hannah Leigh smiled up at him. “Guess it’s time.”
“Yeah,” Nate said, his forehead resting against hers. “Time for everything.”
They went back in. Aunt Winnie stood at the serving line, tying on an apron. “Hey, you two. I like seeing those smiles.” She patted the pocket, then lifted out a neat stack of recipe cards. “I brought extras. Folks get ornery if you make them wait to copy down a good thing.”
“Every time I see you lately, you’re wearing a different apron,” Nate said.
“Oh yeah. That’s my thing.” Aunt Winnie brightened, twisting to model the one she was wearing.
“This one, my sweet husband Skip gave me. I dropped a pie trying to wave at him through the kitchen window, and he thought he was being funny. He was just starting a new obsession for me. I have as many aprons as some folks have socks.”
“She’s not lying about the aprons,” Hannah Leigh said. “Did you really drop a pie out the window?
“Oh, I did. Cherry everywhere. He grabbed a towel and said, ‘That’s what happens when beauty and grace collide.’ The very next day, he brought me this apron.
Said it was armor for kitchen disasters.
” She waggled the recipe cards. “And this pocket is for treasures.” She raised her voice loud enough that everyone around could hear.
“We’re doing a cookbook for the spring fundraiser.
I expect your help. You need to get your recipes to Hannah Leigh. ”
“I’m on it,” Hannah Leigh said. “I’m collecting tonight.”
She and Nate joined the line. The dessert table came first, as dessert always should.
Pecan pies and chocolate chess, a lemon meringue with a crown tall as a Sunday hat, and apple pies glazed to a glassy sheen.
A tin of Aunt Winnie’s pralines sat near the end.
Birdie’s ambrosia was as beautiful as a stained glass window with the cherries, coconut, and oranges shining.
A card read, “Ambrosia the Way My Mama Made It,” and beneath it, “If you know, you know.”
“I need that recipe,” a woman in a snowflake sweater said, eyeing the bowl. “My sister claims I don’t marinate long enough.”
“It’s patience,” Birdie called from across the table. “And a pinch of salt. Fruit’s a diva. Salt keeps her honest.”
Hannah Leigh grinned. “I’m collecting for the cookbook. Your ambrosia and Aunt Winnie’s pralines are must-haves. We’ll tuck twelve recipe cards in the back, then sell the full cookbook to raise money for the choir robes and the youth mission trip.”
“I’ll print mine pretty,” Birdie said, striking a pose with her spoon.
They reached the savory spread. Nate cut a thin slice of ham, then set a piece of fried chicken beside it like the two had always belonged together.
Hannah Leigh ladled Brunswick stew, scooped sweet potatoes, and didn’t pretend she’d skip the dressing.
A deviled egg rode the rim of her plate.
When Aunt Winnie gave her the look—the one that said two deviled eggs was just good manners—she added another to her plate.
“Sweet tea?” Nate asked, tipping the pitcher.
“Half and half,” Hannah Leigh said.
He whispered, “That’s not the South Hill way, but I love you just the same.”
He loves me? She took the cup, her heart soaring. They found seats in the middle where the entire room came into view. At the next table, the men talked football and fixed the world in the same breath.
“You line up in a wing-T, and chew up the clock,” one declared, fork waving.
“Defense wins championships,” another said, nodding at Nate. “Back me up, Coach.”
“Balance wins championships,” Nate said, grabbing a roll. “Not too much of anything. Just enough.”
“Look at you, Mr. Neutral,” Hannah Leigh teased.
“Mr. Starving,” he corrected, buttering the roll.
Miss Sandra touched the piano keys, one bright chord that hushed the room.
“We’ll sing while you chew,” she said. “It’s the South Hill way.”
They sang “Go Tell It on the Mountain” with the gusto it deserves. People hummed between bites. Kids drifted back to the dessert table and bartered cookies with fierce negotiation. A wide-eyed boy asked Hannah Leigh if pralines were a kind of magic.
“Yes,” she said. “The kind you share.”
“Write that down,” Aunt Winnie said, plucking a card from her pocket and pressing it into Hannah Leigh’s hand. “Folks like a story with their instructions.”
“Got it,” Hannah Leigh said, scribbling.
Three ladies lined up to ask about the sweet potatoes. “Brown sugar and butter,” Victoria said, “splash of orange juice, cinnamon, and a touch of vanilla, the paste not the extract.”
Pens flew. Birdie pointed her spoon. “And salt? Do you add salt?”
“And a pinch of salt,” Victoria repeated. “Automatic.”
A blond-haired boy wearing a Santa hat and a grinch shirt leaned in. “Put my mac and cheese in there, too.”
“Yours?” His mama gave him a look. “Dylan stirred it. It’s my recipe.”
“He stirred it,” she allowed, and Hannah Leigh wrote, “Game Night Baked Mac stirred by Dylan,” and circled it to track him down later.
“Sweet!” Dylan fist-pumped and headed for the dessert table.
The evening unfolded comfortably. They started singing the 12 Days of Christmas song, and by the last chorus, there were more harmonies than hymnals. A toddler slept across two chairs, sticky with ambrosia and peace.
Hannah Leigh moved table-to-table taking recipe notes and soaking up praise for the festival. Folks asked what she saw for spring, for next year. The answers came without effort.
“I’m opening my own business here,” she told Mrs. Kinney from the florist. “Hannah Leigh Events.”
“You have the talent to make it a success. I can’t wait to partner with you on the flowers. Every event needs flowers.”
“Absolutely.” Hannah Leigh jotted a quick note to follow-up with Mrs. Kinney after the holiday.
She told Mr. Graham from the hardware store she’d need supplies for a pegboard wall, and was already shopping online for good lighting, and a corner desk.
Setting up an office with a view of Main Street felt so right.
She promised the choir she’d plan a baked-goods fundraiser with real ribbon awards and judges nobody could fuss about.
The plan slipped into place like a dress that needed no alterations—comfortable, flattering, just like it was made for her all along.
Now and then, she felt the pull of Nate’s gaze.
She’d look up to find him watching with the look of a man whose prayer had come around the corner and sat down at his table.
He didn’t hover. He poured tea, swapped out trash bags, teased teenagers off the cookie trays, fixed a wobbly table leg with a folded napkin, then promised a proper shim tomorrow.
“Balance,” he told the football men again on his way by, and they groaned like he’d betrayed their love of drama.
When the dishes thinned and the choir packed up, Hannah Leigh stepped outside for a breath of cold. Snow gathered along the top of the shrubs.
Forgiveness doesn’t always sound like trumpets. Sometimes it lands like snow, sure and soft.
She turned and found Nate on the steps, her scarf folded over his arm like he knew she’d forget.
“You cold?” he asked, tucking it around her.
“Not in a way that needs fixing.”
They stood a moment and listened to the quiet. The church bell chimed the hour. Inside, chairs scraped and spoons tapped foil pans. The world kept going. Sweeter, somehow.
“Your aunt’s pocket gained ten pounds,” Nate said, grinning. “Recipe cards.”
“She’s gathering stories as much as instructions,” Hannah Leigh said.
“We’ll print a dozen favorites in the back of the book the church is selling right after Christmas, then roll them into the big cookbook for the spring fundraiser.
Pralines. Ambrosia. Mac and cheese. Brunswick stew. Those rolls, if the baker will talk.”
“Don’t forget those sweet potatoes,” he said. “When Victoria said the words ‘Vanilla paste’ it made three women reach for their phones like you’d handed out miracles.”
Her joy bubbled up, as clear and bright as church bells on Sunday morning. “I’ll wrangle the rest this week. After Christmas, you can be my chief taster.”
“I accept,” he said.
They went back in and helped close up. She rinsed serving spoons. He folded tables. Aunt Winnie tucked leftovers in containers to take over to the senior center and patted her apron pocket as if balancing a ledger.
When she looked up, she tipped her head toward the door where Clarence and Margaret Jane stood with Birdie and the pastor. Margaret Jane’s cheeks were damp. Clarence’s jaw had eased. The pastor prayed a quiet blessing over them, then stepped back like a man who knew the tide had turned.
Aunt Winnie exhaled, soft as a lullaby. “It won’t be like it never happened,” she said. “But it will be lighter now. That’s what forgiveness does.”
“What are you thinking?” Nate asked as they carried a stack of trays to the kitchen.
“I can see it,” Hannah Leigh said. “A storefront with my name on the glass. Binders lined up neat. A big work table. Pegboard with ribbon and twine. In-progress projects clipped just so. By next December, I could be in full swing.”
“Tell me your tagline,” he said, and there it was again. That way he had of stepping right into her thoughts.
“Gather. Celebrate. Remember.”
He nodded. “That’ll sell.”
“It’ll shine,” she said, and they both smiled at that. No need to fill the space that followed. The moment held on its own.
They slipped out and walked toward the square, hand in hand. The church door clicked shut behind them.
“Tomorrow after church,” she said, “we’ll go by the storefront that’s for lease.”
“I’ll bring a tape measure,” he said. “And a pencil I can chew while you dream out loud.”
“Bring an extra,” she said. “For me.”
They crossed under the lights and headed home, and South Hill, bless its heart, held them like it had been waiting to do exactly that.