The Sight of You (Sapphire Creek)

1. IVY

one

ivy

T he sun beams down on me, and sweat trickles down my back.

Although summer officially began only a few days ago, this is Atlanta, so it’s felt like we’ve been in the thick of it for weeks.

Not that I’m complaining. It’s hotter than a fresh cup of tea, but I’m a teacher, which means it’s my time of year. I cherish this season more than my designer shoes.

As I enter through the side gate to my parents’ property, high-pitched laughter from the pool pierces my ears. My sterling silver bracelets jingle along my wrist as I slide my sunglasses onto the top of my head and walk toward the commotion. As I near, I brace myself for the impending inquiries.

My mom and her friends like to pry into my personal life, and they can be brutally honest—ahem, judgmental .

“I was wondering when you would be home, sweetie.” My mom sets her mimosa down and rises on tiptoes to hug me like I didn’t see her a mere two hours ago.

She also knows I have a standing nail appointment every other Thursday, something she recommended when I was a teenager.

I mainly keep it because I go with my best friend, Elaine, and it’s transformed into our own little tradition since college.

Over Mama’s shoulder, I wave to her friends. “Hello, Lori. Adrianna. What’re you ladies up to?”

I get mumbled answers in return as they eye me expectantly. None of them scold me for using a contraction or returning home without having touched up my lipstick.

Goose bumps erupt along the nape of my neck. Clearly, something’s up with them, and it can’t be good news.

“Oh, honey. Come here.” My mother wraps her arm around me and leads me to sit between the three of them.

I swipe a flute of mimosa from the tray and sit with my posture perfect like I learned as a debutante.

I also suck back a healthy gulp of the bubbly, which I learned at the sorority house.

Licking my lips, I ask, “What’s going on? Is it Spencer? Did he get bitten by a shark? Because I told him he shouldn’t go swimming with them. It’s too dangerous.”

Lori and Adrianna share questioning glances, while my mom waves her hands. “No, no, nothing like that. Your brother is having a marvelous time on his Jamaican adventure.” She fingers the layered necklace decorating her neck and locks her deep-set eyes on me. This is about you.”

I cling to the tightness in my back and steel myself against whatever news they’re about to drop on me.

Lori squeezes my hand. “We heard about Lawson. How are you faring? Are you okay?”

Mama looks at both of her friends, then studies me again. “You have heard, have you not? He is engaged, darling. He proposed last night.”

I blink, and my voice trails off as I say, “I didn’t know.”

“He did it at The Rose with a small group of family and friends in attendance,” Lori adds, and I suppress a flinch.

The Rose is where I’d reserved a table for the final Valentine’s Day that Lawson and I celebrated together as a married couple. He complained the entire time and insinuated I had terrible taste because there was a breezy draft overhead, and the champagne I ordered was too cheap.

Obviously, he simply needed to experience the restaurant and all its finer qualities with the right person.

“I hear the pictures are gorgeous,” Lori says.

Adrianna leans in with hushed tones. “I hear the ring is rather large.”

“It must be so devastating for you,” Lori laments like she’s in a Shakespearean drama.

“Well,” I start and clear my throat. My skin pricks with indignation as I muster a well-mannered, albeit robotic, response. “I’m not surprised. I didn’t expect him to be alone forever. I wish Lawson well.”

“It must be so difficult for you, though, since you do not have anyone .” Mama tilts the mimosa in my hand, urging me to sip like it’ll ease the ache in my chest.

All three of them look like they’re telling me he died—or like I’m the one dying a slow social death by still being single. I have no doubt they believe the latter.

“I don’t need anyone,” I bite out through straight white teeth, then happily sip of my own accord.

Lori gasps, and Adrianna places her hand over her chest.

My mother groomed me from a very young age and instilled in me all the “right” values for any respectable Southern woman. She paraded me through the pageant circuits for years. I was wearing makeup before I hit puberty. I was coloring my hair at twelve and doing Pilates before that too.

I’ve never gotten a tattoo, either, for that would taint my good name and the likelihood of securing a decent husband.

Yet, none of it was good enough. I wasn’t good enough.

Mama hushes her friends and turns to me, desperation flashing in her brown eyes. “Now, listen here. We will find you someone.”

Finding me someone has been at the top of her list of priorities since the day Lawson and I signed our divorce papers. She’s acted like my failed marriage rendered me damaged goods, and she can’t stand the blemish I left on not only my own social status, but hers as well.

She taps her chin like she’s trying to figure out directions on a map—one that doesn’t exist for my life. Then, she throws her hands up. “I have a fabulous idea. I cannot believe I did not think of it sooner. You will go stay with your aunt Carol in Sapphire Creek. You once loved it there.”

My mouth falls open. “Sapphire Creek? How is shipping me to that backwoods small town to stay with your strange older sister going to help?”

“She is not strange, sweetheart.” She idly slaps my hand.

“According to you, she has less class than a garden hose ,” I deadpan.

Beside her, Lori and Adrianna cover their mouths and muffle their snickers.

“The last time I was there,” I continue, “Aunt Carol served me chicken with a side of food poisoning, and I was so scarred that I never returned.” I glare, balling my fists at my sides as I recall night after night of vomiting. I was sick for the last week of summer and couldn’t enjoy my relished vacation from teaching.

I love my students, but all year, I anxiously await summer vacation for peace and quiet from shrill screams and grabby hands. They grab anything . Especially when they’re upset.

Or happy.

Or excited.

Month after month of that is rather draining.

“It was one time.” My mother pats my hand again, and her touch is so gentle it’s condescending.

“Why would you want to send me to your hometown? Are you feeling nostalgic or something?” I ask her.

Lori and Adrianna pretend to distract themselves with their drinks and sun hats, but their eyes dart our way with less than subtle intrigue.

My mother smooths the bottom of my dress for me. “It will be good for you to clear your head. Surround yourself with new scenery. Meet an interesting man. All I want is to provide you with opportunities.”

And by opportunities , she’s really referring to a way to push me out of town to show people around here that I’m living my best life. That I’m not still concerning myself with Lawson. It’s one of her many ideas to restore my reputation.

Her last brilliant plan was to set me up with a state senator’s son, which ended with me tripping over a server’s foot and chipping my tooth on the edge of a table. My delightful date promptly excused himself from our evening and never even called to check on me.

The debacle was in several local magazines, and I don’t think my mother’s face has ever flushed more from embarrassment. She was more crimson than the tide a few states over.

I, on the other hand, barely flinched. I’ve gotten pretty good at letting ridiculous rumors slide off me like drops of water.

My mother cares about people’s opinions much more than I do, and I don’t fault her for it. We’re simply different.

But I can’t argue further. Doing so with my mother isn’t easy. Priscilla Smith doesn’t leave much room for protest, whether it’s in regard to a brunch menu or her daughter’s life.

“I will call Carol now.” Mama practically squeals as she retrieves her phone from her purse. Lori and Adrianna smile encouragingly and clap like my mother single-handedly solved world hunger.

“Carol, how are you, darling? I have a favor to ask.” My mother turns her back to us and takes the call inside as if they’re discussing my bleak diagnosis.

Single syndrome . All the girls in Georgia, beware.

My mother’s excited shrieks float over us, and I point to the guesthouse. “Guess I should pack.”

I’ve been staying here for the last couple of weeks while my own house is being painted, and my kitchen’s being renovated. I’d worry about the projects, but my mother’s high-end designer and his team are on top of it. Edgar even shooed me away the last three times I went by for a progress update.

Half an hour later, I march toward my car with heavy steps. The sound of my suitcase rolling down the driveway is more interesting than my mother’s reminders and instructions on where I can get gluten-free meals while I’m away.

She’s intent on taking care of me, which was sweet right after the divorce. It was comforting to know I wasn’t alone during a time when I felt the weight of a million bricks on my chest.

But it’s been months of this, and her overprotective streak goes beyond the boundaries of mother and daughter. It’s times like these when I feel like flashing her my driver’s license to ensure she realizes I’m a thirty-year-old woman. I can not only drive myself to Sapphire Creek, but I can also locate a salad all by myself.

In my car, I wave to my mother as she answers a phone call and waltzes back inside, the epitome of poise and grace in each rhythmic stride.

I tug on my seat belt, but it gets stuck. I pull on it again and again, but it keeps getting stuck. It elevates my frustration. Letting go, I huff, with a scream on the tip of my tongue.

I could easily release it, though. Mama’s back inside, and the nearest neighbors could barely hear me with a megaphone; they’re so far away.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, and instantly, my chest lightens with the scandalous release of such a grotesque word.

It’s only been six months since my divorce was finalized. We’d been on a downward spiral for less than a year before that. Was Lawson seeing this woman while he and I were still supposedly happy? While I was suffering through Brazilian waxes and studying new sexual positions in order to keep him interested, had he already moved on?

I let out a few more curses, each one louder and with more gusto as I finally manage to click the seat belt into place.

Sighing with the small victory, I back out of the driveway, my head held a little higher. The debutante in me is so proud I withstood the news so well in front of an audience, but the insecure woman inside me weeps in my solitude.

This trip might not be my idea, but the longer I zip down the interstate and away from the bustling city, the more I warm up to it. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t rather be on a plane to St. Lucia, though.

Three hours later, I near the small corner of Georgia, and parts of it seem familiar. The last time I came here was eight years ago, but I spent most summers here before that.

The setting sun casts a golden glow over my serene surroundings and the welcome sign, which reads “Welcome to Sapphire Creek, Where Our Charm is Sweeter than Our Tea.”

I snort and slow down to abide by the new speed limit. The first thing I pass is a golf course on the edge of town, two mossy oaks standing tall at its entrance. I continue down a cobblestone street, then mosey through the square downtown.

To my surprise, it’s lively, with several couples and small families strolling along the sidewalks, decked in tank tops and baseball caps. Women emerge from Daphne’s Boutique with pink shopping bags in tow, and others exit Bready or Knot Bakery and Café with pale yellow boxes and paper bags.

Off the square, many kids play on a playground, chasing their friends around the sandbox while others hang from the monkey bars.

Is every Thursday evening like this?

Admittedly, it’s all very charming, but I’m still cautious about this visit. My emotions are all over the place today, as I dread being trapped with Aunt Carol. There’s also the frightening possibility of encountering a suitor worse than the state senator’s son.

I opt to stop at the closest bar to get in on the action like the rest of the town. A gin and tonic is calling my name.

I cling to my purse as I enter The Tipsy Tap and settle onto a barstool between a burly gentleman and a couple whose level of PDA would urge my grandma to clutch her pearls.

One drink and I’m out of here. Even half of a drink will do if the sloppy porn stars to my left keep at it.

With my purse secure in my lap, I open my mouth and lift a finger to signal for the bartender’s attention. But my tongue trips over itself at the sight of him, and I drop my hand.

His dark hair is tousled back, with only a few loose strands over one temple. His plaid shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing sculpted forearms. The sinewy muscles deliciously flex while he mixes a Manhattan.

As he sets the finished drink onto the bar for another patron, he smiles. It’s an easy, natural grin, like there’s no other place in the world he’d rather be than here, at The Tipsy Tap, serving the people of Sapphire Creek.

Butterflies scatter in my stomach, and surprising warmth settles in my chest.

A young woman with a black apron tied around her waist and a pencil tucked behind her ear rounds the bar, then stops to scold the sexy bartender. “I swear on my sweet grandma’s grave, God rest her soul, if you’re late again tomorrow, I’m going to take your truck hostage.”

“Ouch.” He clutches his impressive chest, and his exaggeration of hurt feelings is endearing. “But I brought you Mrs. Goodwin’s peach cobbler. I thought it made us even.”

“Hardly.” The server scowls, but I detect a twitch in her lips.

“You’re adorable when you’re mad.” The bartender winks as he presses a button on the register.

“Flirting will get you nowhere, Mr. Big Shot,” she sings, lifting a tray of two drinks and a basket of something fried over her shoulder.

The mysteriously intriguing man glides along the bar, swiping empty bottles as he inches in my direction. He exudes charisma and a carefree energy that instantly lures me in like the aroma of an expensive perfume.

He’s the opposite of the uptight, buttoned-up men on my mother’s list of eligible bachelors for me.

And I immediately like him.