Chapter 35 #2
Brinton wondered the same thing. “Friends?” she asked, hesitant, heart deflating a little at the thought. Though friends-who-canoodled-in-dark-alleys-and-other-venues didn’t quite fit either.
Without hesitation, he shook his head, eyes cutting from the parking lot to meet hers. “Brinton, you’re more than my friend.”
As cool relief filled her chest, she smiled. “I can’t wait to meet your mamaw.”
That was mostly true. Often, Brinton was nervous to meet new people, and this felt like a metric ton of added pressure.
What if Mamaw thought she was too curvy, too melanated, or too…
not Kendall Chase? Would that change his feelings about her?
Her thumbnail sliced into an already shredded cuticle as she tried to fix her face into a neutral position.
As she followed Jamie through the garden path toward the cottages, Brinton’s hands were slicked with sweat. Her heart pounded in her chest. They stopped in front of a white cottage with gray shutters that was designed like a cozy farmhouse. When Jamie touched her shoulder, she jumped.
“Bee, you don’t gotta be nervous,” he said.
“I know, it’s stupid…”
“It’s not stupid. I get nervous every time I step foot on stage. It’s normal. But she is gonna love you.”
Brinton blew out a breath. “I’ll picture her in her underwear. That works, right?”
“Oh God. Please don’t,” Jamie barked through laughter.
He knocked on the door. Moments later, a woman appeared.
She was tall, with skin so smooth and clear she looked far younger than someone in her 80s.
She wore a baby blue cardigan and matching pants that brought out her aquamarine eyes.
Brinton now knew where Jamie got them from.
Her thick, silvery-gray hair was smoothed into a neat ponytail.
“It’s about time you showed up,” she said, her accent nectarine-sweet and prim.
“Are you kidding me? It’s been a week,” Jamie said.
She pulled him into a tight hug. “A week too long. And would it kill you to get a haircut? You look like a Beatle.”
Brinton imagined him more like a surfer who’d traded his board for boots. He adjusted his hat over his tousled waves. She tried not to drool as his biceps jumped.
“The Beatles are iconic.” Jamie grinned. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
Jamie’s mamaw appraised Brinton and gasped. “Well, aren’t you as pretty as a picture?”
“She is,” Jamie affirmed. “Mamaw, this is Brinton. My girlfriend.”
Jamie took Brinton’s hand and squeezed. This was a good thing, because her heart stalled mid-thud.
Girlfriend. She hadn’t been someone’s girlfriend in so long the word sounded foreign.
But she liked the sound of it from his lips.
He caught her eye, smiling like he’d won a medal. She beamed back like she knew she had.
“She’s a journalist writing an article about me,” he explained.
“Yes, I’ve heard all about it.”
Jamie and Brinton exchanged confused looks.
“Oh, honey, it’s a small town. People will talk about the color and shape of their you-know-what if it serves them.” She turned to Brinton. “I’m Emma Lou, but you can call me Mamaw.”
“I’m honored to meet you,” Brinton said earnestly. By now, she knew better than to extend her hand. Instead, she stepped forward to hug her. Emma Lou embraced her firmly, enveloping her like a fuzzy robe. Another thing she must have passed on to Jamie.
Once Brinton left Emma Lou’s cocoon, Jamie leaned down and whispered against her ear, “That’s my girl.”
Soon, they huddled at the round, wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.
The room was cozy, teeming with the character and charm of a life well-lived, including a collection of flea market glasses and dishes on open shelves and a brigade of family photos in mismatched frames on the walls.
Pink roses, fresh-cut from the garden, in tall glass vases dotted nearly every corner of the room.
Emma Lou had the head chef send over flaky buttermilk biscuits and gloriously tart strawberry jam. She also made the most luscious soft-scrambled eggs and buttery grits Brinton had ever tasted.
“More orange juice?” Emma Lou asked. She started pouring into Brinton’s half-full glass before she could answer.
“Thank you, that would be great,” Brinton said. She pitched an amused look Jamie’s way.
Emma Lou retrieved a blue etched glass from the shelf, filled it to the brim, then set it before Jamie. “I know your daddy won’t let you have this when you gotta sing, but he ain’t here,” she said, a satisfied grin on her face.
“Yes ma’am,” Jamie said. He drained it in a flash.
“Brinton, how are you finding it here in Iris? I suspect my sweet boy has been hospitable?”
“I love it. I’ve met some amazing people. I also think sweet tea is officially running through my veins,” she said, laughing. “And it’s been incredible spending time with Jamie.”
From across the table, he regarded her like he was admiring one of Earth’s natural wonders, like everything she said was valuable and worth preserving. Blissfully, her cheeks warmed.
“Once Yeehaw Fest is done, I’ve got a few more places I wanna show you, if you’re up for it?” Jamie asked.
“That would be great,” she said.
Great was an understatement. After nearly two weeks in Iris, Brinton was more game for life than in the last two years.
When she first arrived, she felt so miserably out of place, and she couldn’t wait to finish the story and go home.
But as the days passed, these serene moments with Jamie went by too quickly.
“And when will you be leaving us? I hope not too soon,” Emma Lou said.
Brinton’s optimism cracked under reality’s crushing weight. “I’m finalizing the article now, then it’s back to New York City on Monday.”
That was two days from now. She felt confident about her work so far, but she’d also done it in a silo, insulated from the prying eyes and rampant criticism at work.
At some point, she had to send the draft to Rich before it was published next Friday.
It was a thought that kept needling its way into her subconscious, but in this peaceful moment, she tamped it back down.
For once, she wouldn’t let fear fuck up her day.
Emma Lou clasped her hands together. “Well, that means we gotta make the most of every second.”
Brinton genuinely smiled back at her. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Mamaw, how about I play a new song for you and the girls?” Jamie asked. “I got my guitar out in the truck.”
Brinton checked her phone. It was only eight. They had plenty of time before he was due in Nashville for the eleven o’clock soundcheck.
“Oh, I’d be pleased as punch.” Emma Lou beamed, then turned to Brinton.
“You know, Jamie has quite the fervent fan base. He plays for us in the garden every week—I have to beat those old biddies off with a stick. Especially Cheryl McClain. Don’t be fooled by her smile. Her lips are as loose as her—”
“Mamaw,” Jamie barked.
“I was going to say morals, but I suppose both work,” she said, a sly smile on her face. “The sweet Lord can strike me down if I’m lying.”
Emma Lou began clearing Jamie and Brinton’s plates from the table, but he intercepted her and placed them inside the extra-deep white enamel sink.
She winked at Brinton, who giggled. “Cheryl likes her men old enough to shoot whiskey but young enough not to need a little pill, if you follow me.”
“Wait—I found a new angle for my story,” Brinton said, hand waving in front of her. “‘Country’s prince finds happy ending with sexy octogenarian.’”
“You’d like that,” Jamie said, rolling his eyes before scrubbing calcified grits from a copper pot.
Emma Lou laughed, leaning close to her. “Oh, we’re gonna get on famously.”