Chapter 21
Sam
Derek’s talking tour dates, but I’m watching Penny over the rim of my coffee. She laughs at something he says, sunlight catching the copper in her hair, and the ache hits again—love mixed with a countdown clock.
Yeah… it’s love. I write about it enough to know when it’s real.
I told Penny to take the DC promotion and it was the right decision. And yet, it feels like I handed my own heart a one-way ticket to doom. Penny called her boss and accepted the position. She’ll be heading back to Washington at the end of the week.
Central Café is bustling and I’m glad to see it back at full tilt under Penny’s ministrations. Muriel is making a strong comeback, needing less of Penny’s time. Which means her journey back to the nation’s capital to take up her life once again is bearing down on me.
Muriel’s got her Rollator parked like a throne beside our table, issuing quality control edicts between sips of sweet tea. “If that catfish ain’t crisp, I’ll haunt this kitchen while still alive,” she calls out to Betsy, who only rolls her eyes and plates another order.
Derek scrolls his phone. “I’ve added trips to Nashville and Atlanta.”
“Pack the good jeans,” Penny teases. “The ones that make book clubs forget their chapter assignments.”
Muriel snorts. “Just make sure he wears a clean shirt on television.”
I ignore Muriel and shoot a wink across the table at my girl. I’m equally dreading this press tour as I am looking forward to figuring out this new life.
The bell jingles and Eli steps in, dust on his boots and a five o’clock shadow that’s bordering midnight. “Town’s at it again over your books,” he says, tilting his head toward the square. “Heard the shouting from the sidewalk.”
Before I can answer, he holds the door for a woman I don’t recognize—camera slung cross-body and a backpack over a shoulder. She’s pretty in that sunny cheerleader way, but her expression is filled with sharp intelligence.
She spares a glance at Eli, does a double take when she takes him in, and then walks right into Mildred Santee, who’s trying to leave through the same door Eli’s still holding open.
“Sorry,” the woman mumbles and then looks around at the seating arrangements.
“Just grab a table wherever you want, honey,” Muriel says, ever the hostess as she jumps up with surprising agility and rolls her walker the stranger’s way. “You passing through or visiting?”
The woman smiles and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “A bit of both. I’m Reese Cartier. I’m a travel blogger doing a piece on small Southern towns. Just checked in at Millie’s.”
Muriel brightens. “Well, welcome to Whynot, sugar. We’ve got sweet tea, loud opinions, and—apparently—a matinee protest going on outside.”
Reese’s eyes twinkle with the promise of fodder. “Should I be worried?”
“Only if you hate entertainment,” Muriel replies. “This is foreplay for town meetings.”
Penny cranes her neck and looks out the window before glancing at me. “Wanna go have a look?”
I take a peek, and yeah… picketers are in a clustered group with signs. I can’t read them from here, but I’m pretty sure I know what they say.
I drop my napkin and rise from the table. “If Floyd’s out there with a megaphone, I’m liable.”
Penny and Derek follow me outside, as does Eli, the stranger named Reese, and Muriel. The rest of the customers move to the large window and peer out.
The sound hits like a swarm and I note the square’s split down the middle. On the courthouse side, the church crowd waves signs.
KEEP SIN OUT OF WHYNOT.
GUARD THE CHILDREN.
LOVE SHOULD BE PURE.
A hymn rasps tinnily from a portable speaker and the protestors yell at another group of people on the opposite side of the square, led by Floyd.
He’s pulled his pickup onto the lawn—sure to wrangle him a ticket from our police chief—and he’s standing on the bed like it’s a pulpit. Morri, in full drag—glittered jumpsuit, heels, platinum hair—wields a megaphone beside him.
“What do we want?” Morri hollers.
“Love!” roars his side.
“When do we want it?”
“Every chapter!”
Derek mutters, “I need hazard pay.”
Penny squeezes my arm and I glance down at her. She’s not amused at all, and neither am I.
I’m sick of this.
Mrs. Johnson, with her tight brown pin curls and a Bible in hand, spots me. She points a condemning finger. “You ought to be ashamed, Sam-Pete Rochelle! You’re poisoning this town.”
I love how she calls me by my childhood nickname. Hell, that woman used to change my diapers, and now she thinks I’m leading a satanic cult.
With a sigh, I walk her way. Keeping my voice even, I stand toe to toe with her, and the protestors turn en masse my way.
“Mrs. Johnson… I write about people trying to love each other better. If that’s poison, it’s a strange one.”
She doesn’t answer because a man’s voice calls out from the rear. “It’s filth!”
Anger wells within me and I look straight at Delbert Goodson. “That’s funny coming from a man whose wife caught him in bed with another woman.”
Delbert’s face flushes and he quickly ducks his head.
Mrs. Johnson takes up the mantle again as Floyd and his group converge on us. “Read the Bible, Sam-Pete, and let it be your guide.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I’ve attended my fair share of Sunday school classes and I’m pretty familiar with what it says. Just as I’m pretty sure there’s lots of talk in there about not judging folks.”
Floyd whoops and Morri snaps his fingers. “You know that’s right.” He then lowers his voice and tilts his head toward Floyd. “Not that I’ve ever read the Bible.”
“Heathen.” Floyd chuckles.
Voices raise in anger, chants and hymn verses. Counter-cheers and accusations fly. I step forward again, pulse in my throat, ready to help separate people if it gets ugly.
Then a new voice cuts clean through the noise. “That’s enough.”
The crowd parts, and there stands my mama wearing a pretty blue-flowered dress with a white cardigan. She’s got on her pearls and her chin is set to maximum stubbornness.
I tense, not really wanting to argue with her in front of all these people.
“Tell him, Nancy!” someone calls from the church side. “Tell your boy he’s lost his way!”
Mama doesn’t turn to them. Instead, she walks right up to me and places a small hand over my heart. “I read it,” she says.
It takes me a second. “You… read my book?”
“I did.” She swallows, but her voice doesn’t waver. “I skimmed the parts that made me blush, but I read the rest. And I was wrong.”
Silence rolls across the square, other than Floyd muttering a low, “Oh, you go, Mama Rochelle.”
“These aren’t dirty stories,” she says loudly, turning to face the church group. “They’re about mercy. About two people choosing kindness when it would be easier to turn away. That’s not sinful. That’s a mirror. And sometimes God uses mirrors to show us where love should be.”
Morri presses a glittered hand to his chest. “Someone stitch that on a throw pillow.”
A few church ladies look rattled. They glance at each other, unsure how to react.
Mama’s gaze comes back to me. “You make people believe in goodness, and that’s holy enough for me.”
My throat tightens, but before I can say anything, my dad ambles up behind her, hands in his pockets. “Told her if she was gonna fuss, she had to read it first,” he says with a half grin. “Turns out the boy can write.”
Mama shoots him a look that’s half exasperation, half affection, then turns back to the church ladies. “Go on home,” she says, not unkindly. “Bake a casserole for somebody who needs it. Pray with your hands, not your finger-pointin’.”
Grumbling ripples, but signs lower. Delbert is already high-tailing it back to his truck, shoulders hunched forward. And one by one, the group disperses in little knots.
Floyd windmills his arms like he’s flagging a plane. “That’s right, citizens! Make room for character development!”
Morri sashays toward my mama, all six glittering feet of him. “Ma’am,” he says, voice courteous now, “you did good.” He leans in to air-kiss her and she’s not sure what to make of it. Startled, she pats his back, careful as if he’s made of spun sugar.
“Well… aren’t you… festive,” she manages as she takes him in.
“Only on days ending in y,” Morri chirps and swishes away.
When it’s mostly quiet again, Mama turns to me. She hesitates, then steps into my arms for a long hug.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she says against my shoulder.
“It’s all good,” I assure her. “And thank you for having my back.”
She looks up at me, eyes a little wet, then turns to Penny, who’s standing a few feet away, her face shining with tears she isn’t bothering to hide.
“You keep him honest,” Mama says gently.
“I’m trying,” Penny replies, voice thick and bright at once.
Dad claps my shoulder with the same big-handed affection he’s used my whole life. “Proud of you,” he mutters, like the words are heavy but worth lifting.
We stand there—the four of us, and the town that won’t ever learn to whisper—until Mama clears her throat and straightens her pearls. “All right, then,” she says. “Who wants pie? I’m buying.”
“No, I’m buying,” I say, hooking one arm through Penny’s and the other through my mother’s.
Floyd materializes like he was conjured by the word. “Now we’re speaking my spiritual language.”
Laughter catches and spreads. The square loosens its fists.
I glance down at Penny as we walk back to Central Café, and she smiles at me with that same steadfast support she’s shown since she found out my secret.
Maybe love is roots and wings, but maybe faith is letting both do their work without trying to hold either back.
I resolve myself to have confidence in this relationship.
She’s the girl I’m in love with, and I just witnessed a town undergo a transformation.
If that isn’t a testament to embracing our differences, I don’t know what is.