Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The invited guests started to arrive, and when I realized who was at my table, I completely understood why Mary Elizabeth had made me the host.
It all came down to donors and who was who when it came to the biggest wallet.
“Welcome,” I greeted the woman, who I knew was Florence Sparks from just years of being a Kentucky gal.
“Ms. Sparks, I’m Mae West Grant Sharp.” I was rattling off my litany of names when I just should’ve said Mae, but when Florence Sparks’s Southern manners had been shoved down your throat for years in etiquette school, you remembered them.
Florence herself didn’t go around to all the etiquette classes anymore, but her reputation certainly did. Every Southern girl from Kentucky to Tennessee had either heard of Florence Sparks, feared Florence Sparks, or once been corrected by Florence Sparks over something involving a dinner fork.
She’d built an entire empire around manners, charm, and proper society through her Charm & Courtesy Society, in which children graduated into “Charmettes” and adults paid good money to learn how to host teas, survive formal dinners, and properly introduce people at country club functions.
Ahem, my case in point: Mary Elizabeth was the one who paid good money for me to go to Charm & Courtesy Society. So it made all the sense in the world why Mary Elizabeth made sure I remembered not to use my pinky.
Florence had written newspaper columns, appeared on regional television shows, and somehow turned correcting people’s table manners into a full-time career.
Even standing there now in a pale-pink skirt suit with pearls looped around her neck and white gloves tucked beneath one arm, Florence carried herself like she expected the entire table to sit up straighter the second she arrived.
And judging by the way several women at nearby tables suddenly adjusted their napkins and lowered their elbows off the table, they probably did.
“Charmed.” Florence’s face pinched, and then she took her seat.
There was a split second when I noticed her eyes graze the nameplates ever so slightly.
Then I swallowed hard as her gaze landed on the guest sitting next to her, Alice Charles, who I knew only due to the fact I was a volunteer for the National Park Committee, dealing with the Daniel Boone National forest.
Alice Charles was the forest supervisor for the Daniel Boone National Forest, and, from what I’d gathered during the National Park Committee meetings over the years, she wasn’t exactly the type to spend her weekends practicing pinky placement over teacups.
She carried herself with more practicality than polish, with dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail and the kind of posture that came from years of hiking trails, inspecting campsites, and dealing with tourists who thought warning signs were merely suggestions.
Today was one of the rare times I’d seen her out of her park service uniform, though she still looked more comfortable discussing trail erosion and black bear activity than Southern etiquette.
The tension between her and Florence hit the table so fast it might as well have come with its own place card.
Alice gave a polite nod while Florence’s smile tightened just enough for me to notice.
Considering Florence Sparks had spent years publicly complaining in newspaper columns about “government interference” ruining historic Kentucky charm, and Alice Charles oversaw large portions of protected land surrounding Normal, I had a feeling those two women had crossed paths before today.
I didn’t have even a split second to introduce myself and ease the tension between them before Tara Kelly, the First Lady of Kentucky, took the final seat on the other side of Florence.
Tara wore a practiced smile that looked pageant perfect for the crowd gathered around us, but the second she sat down, I noticed the stiffness in her shoulders and the way her fingers immediately reached for the stem of her tea glass like she needed something to do with her hands.
She greeted Florence politely enough, but there was a carefulness to it. Not warm. Not friendly. Careful.
Florence’s chin rose the slightest bit higher.
Tara’s lips tightened almost unnoticeably.
And right there, sitting in the middle of those two women while Alice Charles stared down at her folded napkin like she suddenly regretted attending the event altogether, I realized exactly why Mary Elizabeth had planted me at this table.
This wasn’t just a table.
This was the table.
Florence Sparks, Alice Charles, and Tara Kelly were the kind of women whose names ended up attached to nearly every major fundraiser, charity drive, historical restoration project, and state event in Kentucky.
If you wanted money raised, land protected, ribbons cut, or politicians to show up smiling for photographs, they were the women people called first.
And apparently, Mary Elizabeth had spent my entire adult life trying to slowly force me into becoming one of them.
Meanwhile, I still preferred sitting around a campground fire in yoga pants while Dottie Swaggert complained about tourists feeding raccoons hot dogs.
Still, for today, I would play the role Mary Elizabeth wanted me to play. I straightened my shoulders, smiled politely.
I picked up the small program Queenie had placed at each setting and smiled.
“We’re so glad y’all are here today,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as stiff as my spine felt.
“The Historical Society is raising money for the preservation project at the old train depot. The building needs a new roof, updated wiring, and a whole lot of love if we’re going to keep using it for community events. ”
“That depot is one of the few remaining structures in Normal with true historic value,” Florence said, lifting her chin. “It would be a shame to see it turned into another storage building or, heaven forbid, some sort of casual vendor space.”
I had a feeling Florence considered anything with a folding table and a cash box casual.
Alice glanced up from her napkin. “The depot sits close to one of the public access points, so restoration will need to follow some environmental guidelines.”
Florence’s smile stayed in place, but her eyes sharpened.
“Naturally,” she said. “Though I do hope those guidelines won’t strangle the charm right out of it.”
Tara Kelly reached for her water glass then seemed to think better of it and settled her hand in her lap. “I think there’s room for both. Preservation and protection.”
I looked among the three of them and decided right then that Mary Elizabeth owed me something sweet from the kitchen for sticking me at this table.
“Exactly,” I said, jumping in before Florence could smooth Tara’s words into something pointed. “That’s what today is all about. Preserving Normal’s history while still keeping it useful for the people who live here and the tourists who come through.”
Florence gave me a small nod that felt more like a grade than approval.
“Very nicely put, Mrs. Sharp.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying not to look too relieved.
Across the lawn, the rest of the tables had filled with women in summer dresses, wide-brimmed hats, dressy sandals, and enough pearls to keep a jeweler in business for six months.
The back lawn of the Milkery looked exactly the way Mary Elizabeth had pictured it.
White tablecloths rippled in the breeze.
Fresh flower arrangements sat in the center of each table.
The silos stood tall beyond the pasture, The Milkery painted in big white letters that caught the sunlight.
The farmhouse behind us had all the windows open, and every now and then the smell of biscuits, cinnamon, honey, and country ham drifted out from the kitchen.
Mary Elizabeth and Dawn had created a very cool background of various plants and foliage that grew in the Daniel Boone National Forest. They were assisted by Jessica Niles, from the Sweet Smell Flower Shop, where the guests could have their photos taken for the Historical Society website.
Of course, editor in chief of the Normal Gazette, Waldo Willy, was on hand to not only take the photos but also write a piece for the paper.
“This property is lovely,” Tara said, finally letting her gaze travel toward the big renovated farmhouse. “Mary Elizabeth has done a beautiful job with it.”
“She has,” I said, and that was one thing I could say without faking a single ounce of enthusiasm. “She and Dawn Gentry have turned this place into a working dairy farm, produce farm, and bed-and-breakfast. They keep the rooms full almost year-round now.”
“Our rooms are charming,” Florence said, adjusting the edge of her napkin. “The linens are high quality, the carpet is plush, and the breakfast this morning was quite good.”
Coming from Florence Sparks, “quite good” probably would have made Mary Elizabeth float out of her shoes if she’d heard it.
“The biscuits were wonderful,” Tara said. “And the honey.”
“That honey comes from a local beekeeper,” I said. “Mary Elizabeth likes to use as much local product as she can.”
Alice gave a nod. “That helps tourism. People want a real Kentucky experience when they come here.”
Florence’s brow rose. “Provided that experience includes proper presentation.”
“Of course,” Tara said, and there it was again. That careful tone. That body language that said Tara had history with Florence but was too well trained to show all of it at a public table.
“Hi, ladies,” Waldo interrupted. “Smile, please.”
Everyone but Mary Elizabeth planted the fakest smiles on their face, but they all seemed rehearsed. I couldn’t help but think this was their standard pose when they went to these fundraiser events.
I reached for my water glass and took a sip to buy myself a second after everyone went back to their normal facial expressions.