Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Betsy
“You just missed an interception!” Nana hollers from the couch.
I whip my head up from where I’ve had my nose buried in my phone while I sit on the floor. The crowd on the television is going crazy, waving purple and gold pompoms with a level of excitement that could be described as hysteria.
“Goooo Angels!” I lamely reply, trying my best to match the enthusiasm and failing.
“Oh, Betsy. What am I gonna do with you?” Nana drawls. She’s smiling at me though, so I know she’s not mad.
“I’m sorry, Nana. I’ve just never been much of a ball sport person.”
Something about that makes her crack up. She wipes her eyes and puts her glasses back on. “What’re you lookin’ at over there.”
I hold up my phone. “Silas sent me the website where he buys all his merchandise. I’ve been combing through, trying to find some cute outfits for the mamas going to the football games.”
All I had to do was hear about that ten-thousand-dollar bonus and I’m all in. I’ll research until my internal thoughts start sounding Southern if it means getting the kind of money that will make a dent in this reverse mortgage of Nana’s. That bonus is practically mine already.
“Don’t you think you should be watching the game to understand what they wear? Studying the crowd? Observing the cheerleaders?”
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. Nana doesn’t have any kind of college degree and yet that makes a lot of sense. It’s research, kind of like what I did at Mary London’s boutique. I put my phone down on the rug and rise to curl up on the couch next to her.
The camera pans the crowd while the Archangels’ side of the stadium does some weird chant cheer with accompanying movements. My gaze darts back and forth, zeroing in on the middle-aged women.
“Oh! She’s got on a polka-dotted flared maxi!” I point at the screen with triumph.
“I don’t know what in tarnation that is, but she looks perty,” Nana says.
I lean down in a rush and grab my phone.
I don’t get it to the camera function in time, but that’s okay.
The camera pans and I see another woman looking extremely fashionable in a smock dress with a purple chevron pattern.
Suddenly, I’m snapping pictures like a madwoman.
The camera goes back to the game and I relax back on the couch, only to repeat the process every time they show the crowd.
During a commercial break, I turn to Nana. “How come all the women are in dresses? In California, women wear sweats or jeans. Just casual comfortable clothes.”
Nana pats my hand. I look at the worn white-gold wedding ring on her arthritic finger.
She said it’s her swollen knuckles that prevent her from taking it off, but I’ve seen it nearly fly off when she does the dishes.
Grandpa died when I was two and yet she’s still loyal.
I bet if I asked her, she’d say that here in the South, they don’t believe in the “til death do us part” portion of the wedding vows.
Love just endures. It’s hard to believe in a feeling lasting decades, even after the person is gone.
And yet it’s so sweet it makes my heart ache for a love like that all of my own.
“Why do you like all-black clothing, darlin’?”
I open my mouth, but stop short. I wasn’t expecting her to ask me that. Most people just lift an eyebrow at my goth look and move on.
“Well, I guess I do it because it feels like it matches my internal thoughts. My mood. Maybe my personality. I don’t get all excited about things or smile frequently. Black just feels like me.”
Nana’s nodding as I work my way through my answer. I can tell she doesn’t agree with my fashion choices, but she listens, even smiles at me when I’m done.
“And women out here in the South love to feel like women. They like to embody femininity and all that comes with it. Ruffles and pearls and flowers and smiles. It’s a state of mind, just like your style is. You grew up different but you’re still the same.”
I stare at Nana, trying to absorb why that statement feels significant. I’ve never been one of those people who think old people are irrelevant, just because they’ve aged. I think a lot of true wisdom comes with having seen decades of life and lived to tell the tale.
“Nana?” She nods at me to continue. “I’m going to think on that, okay?”
She drops her head on my shoulder and clings to my arm. The scent of flowery perfume and that essential muscle rub she uses constantly wafts toward my nose. “Have I told you how glad I am that you’re here with me, Betsy Mae?”
I eye the red brick building like it might fall in on itself and kill everyone inside.
Or lightning might take out the electricity.
Who knows what the heavens will unleash when I darken the door of Mississippi’s most attended church?
I’m regretting my black dress, even though it’s lacy and actually quite feminine, but there’s nothing for it now.
At least I left the boots at home and wore sandals I dare say Mary London would even approve of.
Nana loops her arm through mine and marches right up the stairs like those intrusive thoughts have never occurred to her, which they probably haven’t.
I may be named after her, but I’m finding we have quite a few differences.
Betsy Sue Pemberton has probably never had a mean thought in her life.
She certainly doesn’t flip people off on the regular like me.
Maybe if I stick close to her side, God won’t be able to find a way to smite me without taking sweet Nana too.
A couple at the door give Nana a hug and shake my hand, kind smiles in place. I take one step across the threshold and brace for impact.
But nothing happens.
Nana pulls me over to the left side of the church to sit midway up the aisle with a gaggle of gray hairs already occupying two whole rows of wooden pews.
I only recognize Birdie, who gives me a hug and introduces me to everyone else.
There’s zero hope of me remembering any of their names, but I don’t think anyone even notices.
They launch back into the latest gossip and I’m forgotten.
Dozens of middle-aged women join the crowd with their families or friends, and I study them, trying to pick out the prettiest most popular of the bunch to see what she’s wearing.
I catalog any of the items I see that correspond with the interviewing I did at Mary London’s.
Speaking of Mary London, I see her and Silas with their father on the far right side of the church, about four rows from the front.
The service starts as the pastor takes the pulpit, but I can’t seem to pull my gaze from Silas.
He’s wearing a collared shirt today, the blue pinstripes set off perfectly against his tan skin.
The man really is handsome, if you like frat guys or Ken dolls with brains and more brawn.
His golden head swivels and suddenly those piercing blue eyes are locked on mine.
He lifts his hand in the barest of waves, instant smile tugging on his lips making butterflies take off in my stomach.
I go to lift my hand to wave in return when a sharp elbow gets lodged in my ribs. I break eye contact to look at Birdie. She’s got a smug look on her face. She leans in and whispers with the volume of a person who forgets to turn on their hearing aids on the regular.
“I saw that boy wave at you, Betsy Mae. You can’t go wrong with Silas Winthrop.
” She winks at me while I slouch in the pew, ready to slide right into a hole in the ground and never come out.
A snicker from behind us only makes things worse.
Clearly everyone in a two-row radius heard Birdie’s ridiculous matchmaking.
I stay slumped down the rest of the service, refusing to look over to where Silas is sitting and hoping instead of being smited. Maybe God has decided to give me the gift of invisibility. I realize I have no such luck when the service ends and Silas’s father makes a beeline for me.
He’s handsome too, the grown-up, silver-fox version of Silas with more swagger and deeper pockets. He holds out his hand, and when I go to shake, he uses his other to cover mine in an intimate hand sandwich.
“’Ere she is. The woman I’ve heard so much about. You mus’ be Betsy Mae. I’m Clayton Winthrop, but my friends call me Clay.” His drawl is deep and slow and so Southern I wonder if he practices it in the mirror every morning.
“Hello, Mr. Winthrop. Lovely to meet you.” I try to pull my hand back, but he doesn’t seem ready to release it just yet.
Birdie wedges herself between us, and for once, I’m grateful for her busybody nature. “I don’t need any thanks, of course, but my suggestion of Betsy Mae workin’ for Silas seems like a match made in heaven, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mr. Winthrop—because there’s no way I’m going to call him Clay—seems irked at Birdie’s intrusion, but hides it smoothly, letting go of me to give air kisses to both her weathered cheeks. “I do agree that boutique needs a woman’s touch.”
Mr. Winthrop’s gaze slides back to me, but this time, he seems to take in the whole of me, black dress, earrings, and kohl-rimmed eyes.
He opens his mouth again, but gets cut off by Silas pushing his way into the row.
There’s not enough room between these pews for all four of us, so Birdie plops down into the seat and Mr. Winthrop is forced to take a step back into the aisle.
“Just the woman I was looking for. Do you mind if I steal Betsy away to talk shop?” He doesn’t wait for anyone to answer, just puts that big hand on my lower back and frog-steps me out of the row. He doesn’t let up until we’ve marched down the center aisle and out the door of the church.
The air has turned downright hell-like since we’ve been inside. Humidity and heat combine to make the air so thick it’s hard to breathe. I don’t mind, however. Something about Mr. Winthrop made me unsettled.
Off to the side of the church in the shade of a magnolia tree, Silas releases my waist and steps back. “Sorry about that,” he mutters.
He’s in dress pants today, covering up his muscular legs in fabric that looks like it’s straight from a fashion show in Europe. Who knew frat boy had it in him?
I tilt my head toward the church that’s quickly emptying. “What was that about?”
Silas’s easy smile is nowhere to be found. For a girl who doesn’t care for smiles all that much, it makes me unreasonably sad to see it disappear. “You should stay away from my father. Don’t tell him anything about the boutique, okay?”
I rear my head back. “Got daddy issues?”
Silas huffs a laugh that lacks humor. “Don’t we all?”
“I guess we do,” I admit, nodding my head.
“Where’s your father live?” Silas asks, clearly trying to move the subject away from Mr. Winthrop.
“No idea,” I answer truthfully. That fact used to hurt me—hell, it used to fuel some of my worst habits—but I’ve spent a lot of money I don’t have on therapy. Now it just saddens me to know what we both missed out on.
Silas sighs, then swipes his hand across his forehead. It’s hotter than hell’s sauna out here. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know where mine was, but then I feel guilty. I already lost one parent, I shouldn’t wish away the other.”
“Relationships with parents are tricky, I know.” I reach out and put my hand on his arm. His bicep is round and bulging beneath my fingers. “I won’t say a thing to your father, I promise.”
And then I walk away, because nothing good can come from bonding with my boss over shitty parents. It’s better if I keep Silas at arm’s length. I already had one man break my heart, I don’t need to get displaced feelings intertwined with another who’s even more wrong for me.
“You look pretty today, Betsy Mae,” I hear Silas call after me.
I don’t turn around. I don’t acknowledge his statement in any way.
But I do smile from ear to ear as I walk to Nana’s ancient car.