Karma’s Kiss

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

It’s not enough that I remake the stolen cookies. I’m also enlisted to work the bake sale alongside my mother. Stacey Wolfe—the head organizer—was a teacher at Oak Hill High School for thirty years before she retired, and now she spends most of her free time trying to raise money for the school district. Her newest goal is to bring in reading and math specialists for the elementary grades. It’s a noble cause so I try not to complain about melting under the summer sun. Apparently Stacey thinks it’s best to set up right on Main Street to get the most foot traffic possible, so we’re directly outside Nichols with no shade to be had by the time the sun’s blazing overhead.

I’ll admit, I was skeptical of how a simple country bake sale could generate enough of a profit to make a dent in these specialists’ salaries, but I quickly come to realize this is no small operation. At least fifty people drop off items between eight and nine AM, and there’s a line winding down the block by the time we open half an hour later.

Cash is waved in front of my face. “Gimme a dozen lemon bars. Two of Mabel’s cherry pies if you got ’em, and of course, a half-dozen of Queenie’s chocolate chunk cookies!”

It feels like I’m working in the Walmart electronics department on Black Friday. People are shouting, cutting in line, demanding sweets. Queenie’s cookies sell out in thirty minutes. The mini cheesecakes and key lime pies go soon after. One man cries when I tell him we’ve run out of Mabel’s cherry pies.

“My wife is gonna kill me.”

We’re down to pecan pie bites and brownie bars when my brother’s McCall Heating he looked over and smiled at me, and I felt just as out of sorts as I had the night before.

“How do you like your eggs, Sawyer?” Queenie asked.

“Whatever’s easiest. I’m not picky.”

Queenie giggled and I rolled my eyes and Sawyer grinned, staring at me as I walked toward him and stole the coffee cup right out of his hand. “Give me that. I need it.”

“It’s black,” he warned just as I forced down an egregiously large sip. I pulled a face and handed it right back to him.

“That’s not black coffee, that’s tar. Queenie, how many scoops did you put in the machine?”

She waved her wooden spatula at me from the stove. “Listen, if you’re gonna criticize my coffee, you can march your butt down here and make it yourself.”

Sawyer and I raised our eyebrows at each other as we stifled our laughs. The whole thing felt dangerously easy, like he was already part of the McCall clan.

“Yes,” I tell David now, sounding unemotional about it. “He crashed on the couch because he was helping make cookies. End of story.”

“Sounds scandalous,” he teases before stepping back to allow a new customer to take his place. The bake sale ends in a few minutes, and people are making a mad dash for any last-minute items.

“What else did he tell you?!” I holler at my brother. “About our date?!”

David pulls a zipper across his lips before taking another huge bite of brownie, which is just plain annoying; shouldn’t his loyalty lie with me?!

While my first two dates with Sawyer were nothing short of vineyard-picnic-chocolate-mousse glorious, a part of me is wary about continuing down this path with him. Let’s take stock of why, shall we?

I’m only recently single. Actually, I’m still paying off my nonrefundable wedding dress, in fact. Where am I going to wear that now? Grocery shopping? Honestly, I should probably see if Matthew’s secretary wants to buy it off me seeing as she likes my taste when it comes to everything else for her wedding…

Anyway, besides my status as a newly minted single girl, there is the issue of Sawyer and me getting off to a weird start. That’s hardly a meet-cute we could share at our wedding. Yes, everyone! I participated in an espionage heartbreak attack on him and then accidentally let my feelings get in the way of the mission.

It’s not like it really matters. A few pierce-you-through-the-heart kisses does not a relationship make. I should not be entertaining the idea of texting him about a third date. It’s ludicrous.

Fortunately, the decision has been taken out of my hands for the moment. I’m busy tonight—couldn’t call him even if I wanted to. I have book club.

Once a month, my mother and her closest eleven friends get together at my mom’s house for book club. Seems simple. It’s not. I’ve heard about this club for years. I knew it was invite only, and even though there’s a waitlist a mile long, no new members are allowed to join until a current member dies. Truly, that’s what my mom said. With a straight face!

I thought she was exaggerating about this, but just a little while ago, our doorbell rang. Everyone in the group shouted at me not to answer it.

“Why in the world not?”

I ignored their protests and swung the door open to find Marie Claire—retired PTA president and current preacher’s wife—cradling a casserole dish and smiling wide.

“Madison, good to see you! You look just cute as can be in that dress.” Then she dipped her head around me to see into the living room. “Hi, y’all!”

“We’re a little busy here, Marie Claire,” Paulette Dougherty said, not getting up from my mother’s couch. I thought her tone was a bit aggressive, but it didn’t deter Marie Claire.

“Oh I know! I know! I saw you guys were over here and I was just at home tonight, not doing anything at all . Thought I could stop by with this seven-layer bean dip and—”

She was already handing me the dip when Lolly Garnett—Sawyer’s grandmother—yanked it out of my hands and shoved it right back at Marie Claire. “You know the rules!”

Then she slammed the door in the poor woman’s face.

I didn’t think Lolly had it in her! She’s got Queenie by twenty years and seems frail as a bird. She’s five feet nothing on a good day, maybe a hundred pounds.

My jaw was on the floor. “Don’t you think you all are taking this book club membership thing a little too far?”

All twelve women in my mother’s living room stared back at me as if I’d completely missed the point.

“It’s exclusive . It’s just the way it has to be,” Lolly snapped. “And besides, Marie Claire doesn’t want to join our book club, she just wants to come in here and get the 411 so she can gossip about us on Sunday. That woman loves to yap. If you’re ever curious about how a rumor gets started in this town, look no further than Marie Claire.”

The only reason I’m allowed to stay for book club (no, being a blood relative of Queenie is not enough) is because I’m living here right now. It wouldn’t be fair for my mom to kick me out for the night. I know this because I overheard the women debating whether to kick me out for the night.

“She could sit out on the curb for a while. What’s the big deal?”

Now, we’re sitting in the living room enjoying Laura’s margaritas, Pamela’s guacamole, Queenie’s melted brie, Lolly’s pigs in a blanket, and Paulette’s bacon-wrapped shrimp. My plate’s fully loaded and I’m figuring out how I could possibly shuffle things around a bit so I can fit one more shrimp when the women start diving into their discussion.

The book of the month is His Glory Ride . My mom described it to me earlier as a “fun little motorcycle book.” I took that to mean it was of a similar ilk to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance .

I was wrong.

“I didn’t like the way the author described Nico and Roxy having sex on the motorcycle,” Laura Pearson says.

“What’s the problem? With reverse cowgirl, she’d be able to steer AND use the throttle while in flagrante .”

“I just think at highway speeds, it would be safer, and thus sexier, if he instead took her from behind while keeping control of the Harley,” Stacey Wolfe declares.

“Well when I was dating that biker back in ’96, we used to…” My aunt Tricia goes on to enumerate all the helpful tips about optimal two-wheeled sex positions. I stare mutely at the shrimp platter as my ears start to melt off my head. No wonder they don’t want Marie Claire in their book club! She’d faint if she heard this discussion!

My phone rings on the counter in the kitchen. Thank god.

I flee from the living room like my life depends on it, not even caring that the call is from an unknown number. I’ll chat with a car warranty telemarketer if it means escaping that discussion.

“Hello?”

“Madison. Hey. ”

Sawyer’s voice sends tendrils of warmth through me. I soften like the infatuated fool I am.

“Hi.”

“I’m around the corner from you. Just finished eating dinner at Cactus Cafe with my grandpa. You were the only thing he wanted to talk about.”

I smile, then realizing I shouldn’t be smiling because of what I decided earlier (Sawyer and I cannot— will not —be happening), I wipe it clean with a sigh. “That sounds nice. Tell him I said hi the next time you see him.”

“Can I come by and pick you up?”

“I can’t tonight. I’m busy.”

“Doin’ what?” He doesn’t sound put out, just curious.

Voices drift in from the living room. “I for one would have appreciated a little bit more fondling—”

“Book club,” I answer, wondering how much he can hear.

“ You’ve been allowed in? Heard that’s the hottest ticket in town. My aunt’s been trying to join since the ’70s.”

I laugh. “I’ve been granted temporary privileges only. Don’t tell your aunt. Anyway, aren’t you sick of me after last night?”

“No. And well…not gonna lie, I was sort of hoping there’d be a few extra cookies lying around that house…”

I grin. “Sorry to say they sold out this morning.”

“All right, I’ll take you as a consolation prize.”

I flush from head to toe and turn my back toward the living room just in case anyone’s looking in at me.

“I really can’t tonight.”

“Is my grandma there?”

“Yes, and she brought her pigs in a blanket.”

He groans. “Come let me in.”

“You’re here ?!”

DING DONG.

“Now if that’s Marie Claire again, I’m not above using some foul language to get our point across,” Laura says.

I walk into the living room with the phone still pressed to my ear and tell the group, “That won’t be necessary. It’s just your grandson, Lolly.”

I continue into the foyer and open the front door to find Sawyer standing on the other side, phone still pressed to his ear as well.

He smiles a devastating smile. “Hey there.”

I shake my head and end the call. “You’re about to get your butt chewed out. You should have seen what they did to a woman who tried to barge in earlier.”

“ Sawyer! ” Lolly calls from behind us, pure elation evident in her voice. “Come on in, hun. I have your favorite pigs in a blanket over here.”

Sawyer steps inside and smirks down at me. His expression seems to say, What? Like it’s hard to get into book club?

The group’s discussion of His Glory Ride is completely derailed by the presence of Sawyer. I stand back and watch as they fawn all over him like he’s God’s gift to earth. They ruffle his hair, pinch his cheeks—the works.

“So handsome!”

“So tall!”

“And look at those dimples!”

Queenie gets him a glass of cold iced tea as Pamela starts loading up a paper plate for him.

“I’m really not hungry. Just came from dinner,” he protests, though in the end he accepts the plate and offers a hearty thanks.

“He was just with Crawford. Such a dutiful grandson. Takes him out to eat once a week,” Lolly brags to the ladies before turning back to Sawyer. “What are you doing here though? I don’t need a ride home for another few hours.”

He peers over at me, almost shyly. No. Not possible. This man cannot be shy. “Came to see Madison, actually.”

The group—hearing this juicy piece of gossip—whips their heads in my direction. I blush and give a guilty little wave, like yes, that’s me. I’m the Madison he’s referring to.

I’m surprised by their slack-jawed expressions; I figured word had already spread through town that Sawyer and I are dating. After all, a few of these women were at The Black Door last night, only a few tables away from where we were eating.

“I told you that was them last night!” Laura exclaims, pointing a finger at Pamela. “We couldn’t be sure. We were a few chardonnays in and neither one of us remembered our glasses…”

“Wait,” Paulette Dougherty says, shaking her head. “I thought you were engaged , Madison. To that man from Alabama. Matthew something, wasn’t it?”

Within a fraction of a second, the group goes deathly quiet. There are a few awkward coughs. Lolly furrows her brows at me, expecting an answer and fast .

“I was,” I say with a small smile, trying to make sure Paulette doesn’t feel bad for bringing up the subject. “Not anymore.”

“Now she’s busy turning me down,” Sawyer adds, and I’m grateful for the quick subject change. “I tried to get her to sneak away with me tonight, but she wanted to be here for book club.”

The women give me approving nods as if they too would turn down a date with Sawyer Garnett, the town’s golden boy, for a chance to be included in this ultra-exclusive club.

“You all could spare her for a little while though, right?” Before they can respond with protests or approvals, he carries his plate and his iced tea toward me and nods toward the kitchen. “Come on, let’s go out on the porch and let them get back to it in here. Hate to interrupt.”

I don’t see any reason to argue; I like sitting on my mom’s back porch, especially in summer time. If you can get past the heat—usually there’s at least a decent breeze—it’s worth it for the ambiance. Jasmine scents the air, so pungent and sweet. The porch overlooks a sloping backyard filled with cedar trees and two stately live oaks that compete for attention in the center of the lawn. David and I used to climb up one and then leap across to the other. It’s how he broke his arm in the third grade.

Queenie’s entire property inclines down to a creek. I used to wade in it as a child, searching for tadpoles and collecting them in a bucket. Even now, I can hear the water trickling over the shallow rapids as Sawyer and I take a seat side by side at her porch table. I grabbed my plate from the kitchen on my way out, so the two of us dive into all the yummy food.

“I’m not even hungry, but I dream about Lolly’s pigs in a blanket.” Sawyer pops two in his mouth and chews with a smile.

“Bet you’re proud of yourself, getting everything you want.” When he seems confused, I tack on, “Just strolled on in here and stole me away.”

He licks his bottom lip but stays quiet. Maybe he knows I’m right and there’s no sense in denying it.

“You know I really should be pumping the brakes with you. Those ladies probably think it’s weird that you’re here…given my recent engagement and all.” It feels important that I remind him of the circumstances surrounding my return to Oak Hill.

“I don’t really mind what they have to say, and there’s no need to pump the brakes. Let’s just see where this goes, Madison. Don’t get in your head about it all. It’s simple. I came over to enjoy these pigs in a blanket, and once I’m done, I’m going to ask you to take me down to the creek. You’ll think I’m doing it ’cause I want to check it out, but really, I’m just trying to get you far enough away from the house so those ladies in there can’t peek through the blinds and watch me kiss you.”

I can’t suppress my smile.

I nod back toward the house. “By the way, you know that’s no simple book club happening in there.”

His eyes widen as he picks up a bacon-wrapped shrimp. “Oh I’m aware. I flipped through one of my grandma’s books a few months back to see if I should read it. The title sounded right up my alley. Standing at Attention , with a soldier on the cover. Thought it was a nonfiction book about war.”

“But it wasn’t?”

He shudders. “Not the page I turned to. Parts of him were saluting, but definitely not that flag…”

“Okay, what do y’all think?!”

Marge and Queenie turn around to survey the progress I’ve made at the Wildflower Weddings offices. It’s Friday afternoon—a week since I returned to town—and I’ve been on an organizing mission for the last few days. I’ve spent something like fifty hours toiling away, and in all that time I’ve only managed to clear a single corner.

“I don’t see a difference,” Marge says, lifting up her heavy glasses and squinting as if that might clear up the confusion for her.

“What?! I unpacked like fifteen boxes that were stacked all the way up to the ceiling! There were travel agency posters hanging here too, remember?” I tap the wall. “And remember that world map? That thing had fused to the paint, and I only managed to rip it off in little strips.” Half of it is still up there, taunting me. I frown at it like I’m hoping the rest will shrivel up and fall off. “We’ll just have to hang a picture over it or something.”

“Looks really nice, Madison. Good work.” Queenie claps. “Place feels brand new.”

This is an extreme hyperbole. I’ve focused on this one corner, but the rest of the office looks about the same as when I started. Actually, Queenie’s desk is somehow even messier. As if to prove the futility of my task, a bell chimes over the door as a FedEx driver arrives with a stack of five boxes loaded on a dolly.

“Where do you want ’em, Queenie?”

“Hey, Mitch. Go ahead and stack them right over in that corner.”

MY CORNER!

He rolls them my way, dumps the boxes unceremoniously, tips an imaginary hat in my direction, and whistles a little tune on his way out. All the while, my eye twitches. If I look back, I’m sure the world map will have miraculously regenerated on the wall.

“Those are probably new linen samples. I ordered some a few weeks back.” Queenie waves her hand to dismiss the thought. “We’ll get to them on Monday. Ladies, it’s quitting time. It’s a rare non-wedding weekend for us. Marge, how about we treat Madison to a lethal mojito down at Armando’s?”

“Oh all right,” Marge begrudgingly agrees, “but last time I let you talk me into happy hour on a Friday, I found my underwear in my purse the next day.”

MARGE.

Queenie cackles. “If it was just your underwear and not the rest of your clothes, that’s a win in my book.”

Before I agree to join, I check my phone, surprised to find I don’t have a text or missed call from Sawyer waiting for me. Wednesday night, he and I sat on Queenie’s back porch talking for an hour before he led me down to the creek. We skipped pebbles and waded into the water up to our knees; it was hard to keep our footing on the slippery rocks, but Sawyer kept a tight hold on my hand. I told him, “That way at least we’ll go down together.”

He kissed me in the middle of the stream, tugging me close until I had to tilt my head back to look at him with only the dim light from the back porch illuminating his face. He gripped my waist and held me steady. The frogs and cicadas watched on as his hands moved up my sides, dipping shyly beneath my shirt as I tugged him even closer to me. I liked the feel of his warm calloused hands on my skin, manly in a way that made me burn for more.

We kissed until I thought my mouth might bruise, until every part of me felt like a live wire, too awake, too keen. I wanted to beg him to lay me down on the moist grass and cover me with his body. I wanted to know what it would feel like to have him touch me in places that ached.

That was before I slipped in the water and—just like I’d promised—took us both down. We walked back up to the house soaking wet and laughing.

Queenie met us at the back door with towels.

I eyed her skeptically. “How’d you know we fell into the creek?”

“Darlin’, hate to break it to you, but it’s a straight shot from the living room down to that creek. If you thought these ladies weren’t spying on y’all that whole time, you’re dead wrong. Sawyer, your grandma’s ready for you to take her home, waiting by the front door.”

Sawyer laughed and shook his head, bending to kiss my cheek and toss me a wink before he went to find Lolly.

Thursday, I expected to hear from him. It’s just become a pattern with us. Since I’ve been back in town, Sawyer has found a way to see me just about every day. Then yesterday, nothing, and today’s been the same.

I’ve tried to tell myself it doesn’t matter. I’ve been clear with him that I’m not ready to date, and though my warnings didn’t seem to act as a roadblock for him before Wednesday, since then, it’s been radio silent. I can’t help but feel like something’s off, but I can’t put my finger on what it would be.

“Madison, you in?” Queenie asks, drawing my attention away from my phone as she turns off her computer. “If we don’t leave soon, we won’t get a good table, and half the fun of happy hour at Armando’s is the people watching.”

I slip my phone back into my purse and shake off the ominous feeling. “Oh all right. Let’s see about these lethal mojitos…”

“I’m telling you, Madison,” Marge says as we walk out together, “whatever you do, keep your underwear on .”