Chapter 15
Sam
My favorite scent in the entire world is fresh-cut grass and right now, that’s what my house smells like.
That’s because when I got home late this afternoon, I got on my brand-new lawnmower that’s been sitting in one of my four garage bays.
I enjoyed a beer while I made long passes over the thick, lush grass.
Then I came inside and opened all the windows, including the massive glass doors on the back of the house, to let in the cool spring air.
It’s so pleasing to my senses that I’ve almost completely let go of the impossible meeting with my parents a few hours ago. It’s funny… how scent can pull you from one mood and ease you into another.
Of course, much of the reason I’ve put my mama’s unreasonableness aside is the fact that Penny will be here soon.
Boxes line the hallway, still full and in need of unpacking, but the kitchen’s put together enough to fake competence. I doubt Penny had time to eat during the dinner rush and probably was too busy closing down and cleaning up to spare it a thought.
I decided to make the one thing I’m semi-decent at, and that’s chicken pot pie.
It’s resting now on a wire rack, steam curling out of the slotted vents in the perfectly flaky dough.
I’ve got a bottle of white wine opened and chilled, and have no clue if it’s any good.
I only know that when I stopped in at Miller’s, which is Whynot’s combo gas station and wine shop, it was suggested to me.
I pull two wineglasses from the butler’s pantry and glance around. It’s the first time this place has felt like a home instead of a project, and I’m not sure if that’s because I finally hung a few pictures… or because Penny’s going to spend the evening with me.
My phone buzzes across the counter and I move to pick it up. I see it’s from Derek. You owe me combat pay. They’re picketing Millie’s because I’m “the enabler.” I’m hiding behind a Ficus.
I snort and thumb back, Welcome to Whynot. It’s not hell, but you can see it from here.
Three dots bubble, then, If I get smote by a church lady with a doily, tell my parents I died as I lived… dangerously.
I snort, but before I can reply, headlights sweep across the window.
A beat later, there’s the soft knock I already know, and when I open the door, Penny’s there with two white bakery boxes stacked in her arms and wind-flushed cheeks.
I don’t know that she’s ever looked prettier in a white sleeveless blouse with a yellow cardigan draped over her freckled shoulders and a knee-length skirt in olive green with white embroidered flowers at the hem.
“Congratulatory offerings,” she says. “One pecan pie, one chocolate cake.”
“Sweet Cakes?” I guess.
She shakes her head. “Muriel insisted on making these herself. I think she had some friends help, but she’s quite proud of herself.”
“Can she do that?” I ask, popping one of the tops and looking in.
“Well, she can walk and she can stand up with her Rollator. Should she be baking? Your guess is as good as mine, but you try telling that woman no.”
“Pass,” I say dryly. “You’re going to put me in a sugar coma.”
“I’m trying to fortify you for battles ahead.” She leans up and kisses my cheek. “Hi.”
“Hi.” It comes out soft. “You look… beautiful.”
She has an unusual beat of shyness where her cheeks pinken, and she ducks her head before looking past me. “Something smells amazing.”
“Chicken pot pie, just like my mama makes,” I say, a tiny bit of sadness weaving through my words.
Penny’s smile folds into something gentler. I’d provided her a text update on the slightly productive conversation I had with my parents. “They’ll come around. One thing at a time.”
We walk into the kitchen, and I set the boxes on the counter near my phone. I see Derek’s texted again. Update. Someone made a sign: Agents of Sin Sleep at Millie’s. Am I in danger of going to hell?
“Bless him,” Penny says when I show her the text. “He’s going to earn that commission today.”
I don’t bother answering him because I know that he’s just bored and wants conversation. He’d expected we’d work tonight and eat dinner together, but I had to disappoint him.
“Sorry,” I said when leaving him on the porch at Millie’s. “But I don’t have a lot of time with Penny, and I want to spend as much of it as I can.”
Derek was surprisingly gracious. “Go. Be with your girl.”
I serve up dinner with the wine, and we eat at the island like people who haven’t sat down since lunch.
Penny talks with her hands, describing her day at the diner, including how Ruby trained a new waitress who kept calling everyone “sir,” even the ladies.
I fill her in with more details about how it went with my parents.
“So, your mama’s still pretty upset?” she asks.
“She’s in a right state for sure. Tried to use my dad as a go-between.
Even though we’re sitting in the same room, she’d say…
‘Roy… tell your son that I am thoroughly embarrassed by this.’ And then my dad would sigh and turn to me sitting two feet away, and say, ‘Son… your mom is thoroughly embarrassed by this.’”
Penny covers her mouth with her hand and giggles. I chuckle, because it is as funny as it is frustrating. “And what’s your dad really think?”
“See… that’s the interesting thing. I don’t think he’s as put out by it as Mama claims. He was trying to be the peacemaker, but he never said anything derogatory to me. The opposite, really.”
“Maybe you need a private conversation with him,” she suggests.
“Yeah, probably. He’s the only one who could probably reason with her.” I watch Penny slide a forkful of the pot pie into her mouth. “So… things are looking to get weird.”
She lifts her eyebrows, chewing.
“Pap asked for a case of my books to sell from the bar.”
Penny smiles, nods and swallows, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, I love him.”
“He said, and I quote, ‘If folks are gonna drink and gossip, they can read somethin’ worth their time.’ He’s planning a ‘Books and Bourbon’ night. Wants me to do a reading tomorrow.”
Her face lights up with excitement. “Please say you’re going to do it.”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“Translation… you already said yes.”
I shrug, caught. “Translation… I already said yes.”
“Larkin’s told me she’s going to add them to her reading shelf in Sweet Cakes,” Penny adds, smug. “People can read about love while eating croissants and lemon bars. She made a little sign that says ‘Love pairs well with frosting.’”
I groan into my glass. “You people are going to ruin my tough-guy image.”
“Too late.” She sips her wine, then lowers her voice conspiratorially.
“Also, Muriel told off a couple of her church friends this afternoon while they were baking. They made a comment about ‘keeping wholesome spaces wholesome,’ and she said—and I quote—‘You can’t call love sinful when you’ve been praying to find it since 1974, Lorraine. ’”
I choke on a laugh. “She did not.”
“She did.”
The humor softens, leaving something truer behind. “It’s a strange feeling,” I admit, “having half the town show up for me and the other half holding signs I don’t think they understand.”
Penny turns her fork in her fingers, thinking.
“Where we live, faith and fear sometimes share a hymnbook,” she says.
“People are taught that modesty equals morality and anything outside the lines is dangerous. It’s not always cruelty—it’s habit.
It’s how they were raised and I might not like it, but I do understand it. ”
“Same.” I poke at a pea on my plate. “But it’s hard seeing my mom scared of something I’m proud of. It’s making it hard for me to identify with this new life.”
“You’re a good son and a man who writes love stories,” she says. “You can love your roots and still grow past them. I have a hunch that your mama’s love is deeper than her fear and she’ll come around.”
“I hope so,” I reply. “Because I know that I can’t give this up when it’s just getting started. I want this too much.”
“And you shall have it,” she says with a nod.
“You know they’re not just after romance,” I say after a pause.
“Half the books that get banned have nothing to do with sex. To Kill a Mockingbird, because it makes people uncomfortable. The Color Purple, because it tells the truth. The Hate U Give, because it asks hard questions. 1984, because irony is dead. I saw a list last month that had Charlotte’s Web on it—talking animals were deemed ‘inappropriate.’”
Penny blinks. “If talking pigs are the downfall of society, we’ve got bigger problems.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’m with you. And this issue is so much more important than them wanting to ban my books. Stories are how people practice empathy. Take them away, and you end up with folks who only know the world they already agree with.”
She reaches across and covers my hand. “The best way you can fight is to keep writing what you do. And we keep reading them. And tomorrow, you let Derek post your face, and you stand up in your own name.”
I look at our hands. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is,” she says, and her smile tells me she knows it isn’t, not really, but she’ll say it until I believe it.
After dishes, we refill our glasses and carry them out back.
The patio’s enclosed with screens and a string of retro café bulbs I found in a moving box.
The new couch is deep and squishy, the throw blanket still has crease marks.
I stack kindling in the outdoor fireplace and coax a flame until it catches, low and steady. It’s comforting and romantic.
Penny kicks off her shoes, tucks her legs under her, and pulls the blanket over her feet. The cool air is perfect. “You did good, you know,” she says. “Today. The signing.”
“I felt like I was teetering on a cliff’s edge the entire time.”
“But you didn’t jump. You flew.”
I settle beside her, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of the fire a slow creep across my jeans.
“Derek says there were three different Facebook threads by the time we hit the county line. Someone posted a photo from Raleigh. He’s panicking about tomorrow’s official rollout.
Says we’re either about to go big or go home. ”
“Maybe both,” she says, smiling into her glass. “Go big, then go home with me.”
“I like that plan.”
We fall quiet and her head tips to rest on my shoulder. I don’t know that anything has ever felt this right.
“This evening is absolutely perfect,” she muses, echoing my inner thoughts. “I don’t understand how you and I’ve known each other practically our entire lives, but we’ve never really connected before.”
I don’t lift a shoulder for fear of dislodging her weight. “I don’t know, but what I do understand is that I make a living from writing about connection in a fictional setting. But this is the first time it’s felt… real.” I turn my head, appreciate that she is basked in the glow of firelight.
Color blooms on her cheeks. “Really?”
“With you,” I say, “it feels more real than anything I’ve ever experienced.”
We look at each other, the kind of connection that shifts the ground under your feet. Then her fingers slide over, find the edge of my sleeve, tug lightly like she’s checking I’m not going anywhere.
I set my glass down, take hers from her hand, and set it beside mine. “C’mere.”
The first kiss is slow, simple, a press that says we have time.
She tastes like crisp wine and I want to devour every bit of her.
My hand finds the curve of her waist and hers squeezes my shoulder before sliding up to the nape of my neck.
The world pulls back, leaving the snap-pop of the fire and the hush of night.
We break just enough to breathe.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” I whisper back, and then we’re closer again, angled toward each other, and the kiss deepens. The couch creaks when we shift. The blanket slides, her soft laugh tickles against my mouth, and I feel it like a flame catching in my chest.
The world falls away and right here, it’s the soft glide of her palm against my jaw, the heat rolling off the fire, the kind of connection I write about but never thought I’d feel.
For now, life can spin without me. The signs can wave, the fans can clamor, Derek can hide behind Ficus plants and plan a thousand contingencies.
Right here, this is the only part of my life that I’m sure of.