Sweet Love of Mine: Sweetly Southern Read online

  Worry etches his face.

  I’m surprised at the effect this has on me.

  This is Grant.

  Who is about to be engaged if he already isn’t. Why don’t guys wear engagement rings? That only seems fair.

  I reach for his hand, like I did his mom’s, but quickly pull it back. Holding Sonya’s hand is one thing, but Grant’s?

  Not happening. “It’s all going to be okay.” I hope my words are reassuring.

  “Can I ask why you are wearing two different shoes?”

  “Sure, you can ask.”

  “Oh, she’s a comedian, too.”

  Our words are whispered, but I hear them loud and clear. “I was in a hurry to get to your mom.”

  He nods. “I appreciate it.” He takes my hand in his. It’s comfortable, not awkward at all. “I appreciate you, Eden. Especially this last year. I feel like I’ve deserted her. I haven’t been around much.”

  His ninth-hour confession is good for his soul, I imagine. I also imagine Sonya doesn’t think he deserted her. “Your mom knows you have a life to live. And it’s in New York. I know you call often.”

  “Not often enough. Man, I hope she makes it through his. Where is the doctor?” His gaze flashes around the room, toward the entrance where doctors are making appearances, but always for someone else.

  My hand is still trapped in Grant’s. I wonder what Peony would think if she saw this. And now that I’m thinking somewhat clearer, thanks to this awful coffee, I wonder why Peony didn’t come with Grant.

  Dare I ask?

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Did you Uber here?” I ask Grant as we walk toward the front doors of the hospital, the steady thump of his whacky suitcase wheel nipping at our heels. Dusk has almost given way to darkness. We had been at the hospital all day, eating hospital food lunch while Sonya napped early in the afternoon.

  The doctor has now forced us to go home. Sonya came through the surgery, which wasn’t as extensive as the doctor thought it would be. She would actually be going home tomorrow. He wanted to keep her overnight for observation.

  “I rode MARTA from the airport, then Ubered from the station to here.”

  “I’ll take you home. To Sonya’s. That’s where you are staying, right?”

  The longer I am in his company, the less I have to think about the upcoming party and the mess I’m in.

  The automatic doors open and we walk outside. The air is warm like it was yesterday morning when I arrived here.

  “If you don’t mind, that would be great. Would you like to stop for dinner?”

  “I would, but I can’t go anywhere like this.” I point to my tennis shoes, then my baseball cap.

  “Embarrassed or vain?”

  “Neither. But I wouldn’t mind having a meal cooked by one of the world’s greatest chefs. Why don’t you cook dinner for us? I’ll stop at the grocery and you can run in and buy what we need.” I nod toward the parking deck stairs. “Seventh floor. Let’s go.”

  “How about some good take-out. I’m not in the cooking mood tonight.”

  “You know I’m kidding.” I try not to act winded as we reach the seventh floor. Grant is from New York and all they do there is walk or take the subway. I’m sure he’s in shape. I’ve missed going to the gym this last week with the party prep I’ve been doing.

  And now this disaster. Not only the caterer, but Sonya was my right-hand girl, so to speak. My stomach rolls and I start to sweat. Good thing I’m wearing this baseball cap.

  I can’t think about it tonight. There is nothing I can do until tomorrow, anyway.

  We stow Grant’s giant suitcase and get in. I start my car then hook my phone up to the charger. As soon as I turn it on, it rings and I recognize the number. It is a caterer I had called earlier from Sonya’s phone to see about catering the party. I glance at Grant, and answer the phone against my better judgment. Grant is looking at his phone. I pray he doesn’t deduce from my conversation that I have no caterer for this party.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi. I’m Beverly Jones, owner of Taste of the South Catering. I’m returning your call. Is this Eden Conrad?”

  “It is. Thank you for returning my call. I need to make an appointment to come by and discuss a possible catering opportunity. Do you have something open tomorrow? Morning?” I know the request is ridiculous, and noticing Grant’s sideway look, I realize not only is he listening, he’s reinforcing how ridiculous my request is.

  “Actually, I just had a client cancel for tonight. I know this is short notice, but I have an array of food here just waiting to be tasted.”

  I know God is a God of miracles, but this is too good. Except for the two different shoes. I have to let go of any insecurity that is giving me at this moment. Putting my business in front of my attire feels good.

  Feels responsible. “Sure. I can come by for a tasting. I need to drop a friend off first, but how does thirty minutes sound?”

  “I can come with you,” Grant says.

  I mute my phone. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I insist. The food will be colder if you drop me off first. Besides, we were going to get take-out, remember?”

  I can’t tell if he’s kidding or serious, but I don’t have time to argue. I unmute my phone. “I can be there in fifteen minutes. Will that work?”

  “Like a southern charm. See you then.” I inwardly groan at her cheesiness. Southern charm? Oh, well. We are in Atlanta. This is the heart of the South, although she didn’t sound like she was southern.

  “Thanks again for taking such good care of my mom.” Grant buckles his seat belt.

  “No problem. She’s been a lifesaver helping me plan this party for my parents.” I back out of the space, and we make our way down the levels of the deck. Grant hands me a twenty to take care of the parking fee. I don’t argue and give him his change. Then we hit the streets of Atlanta.

  We don’t go fast or far.

  Rush hour.

  And we’re downtown.

  “This is why I love New York.” Grant points to the line of brake lights in front of us. “I can take the subway anywhere.”

  “So you really like living in the city?”

  “I do. Have you ever been?”

  We move forward a couple of feet. “Yes. It’s been a while, though. I went with some girlfriends. It was fun. We talked about going back, but we’ve never arranged it.”

  “Mom comes up at least once a year. You should come with her sometime. I’ll show you the city like it should be shown. From a local’s point of view.”

  I feel comfortable with Grant. Like this day has been a day with a friend. He’s hot, yet he’s Grant. I haven’t had a conversation with him in too long, yet he feels like home.

  But not like a brother kind of home.

  Like a best friend kind of home.

  And now he’s invited me to his home in New York City. “Thanks for the invite. I might take you up on it. Look, I think we’re moving now.”

  The traffic breaks and other than stopping for red lights, we make our way to Decatur without incident. I pull in front of the catering business.

  I’m nervous. If I like this food I’ll have to tell her I’ll be back in touch with her. I don’t want Grant to know what a fail I had in picking the caterer the first time. It’s embarrassing. And he’s so accomplished and admired in his career.

  That might be me one day, but today isn’t that day.

  Of course, I only know what Sonya has told me. What I’ve seen on the Internet the couple of times my mom mentioned how well he was doing. But with me he’s quiet.

  And mysterious.

  And hopefully very uninterested in what this caterer will be serving.

  “I’m Beverly Jones. So nice to meet you.”

  When I spoke with Beverly on the phone I knew she didn’t have a southern accent, but I was unprepared for how unsouthern someone who owned a catering company named Taste of the South was.

  Her sandaled feet
are as pale as her arms. Her T-shirt reinforces my impression with it’s big read heart and the words New York on it. But what do I care where she is from, as long as she makes great food and can cater my party in six days.

  My face warms and my heart races at the thought of the limited number of days until the party. But I firmly believe it will work out. And maybe Beverly is my divine intervention. My miracle caterer. If so, I’ll just need a miracle cash flow.

  One thing at a time.

  I need to find out how much money I’ll need before I find where I’m getting it from.

  “Eden Conrad. Very nice to meet you. And this is my friend, Grant Allen.”

  She shakes my hand like a boss. “What a coincidence this is. You wanting an appointment. Me having a cancellation. I say the stars are lined up in our favor. The tasting room is this way.”

  She motions for us to follow. I look at Grant. “You can wait out here. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. I’ll come with you.”

  I try not to let his presence make me more nervous as we leave the reception area to walk down a sterile looking hallway. We follow Beverly into a room off to the right.

  A room decorated in pinks and whites. It’s fluffy and pretty looking. There’s an amazing layout of food in beautiful dishes set on an elegant lace tablecloth. “Have a seat,” she says, pointing to two chairs in front of Grant and me.

  Beverly sits across the table from us. As we sit I notice there are placards in front of each dish stating what the dish is and the ingredients. “So, when is the wedding?” Beverly asks.

  “Wedding?” I ask. Of course she would assume I’m here for a wedding. That’s probably the main event she caters. “Oh, there’s no wedding.”

  As soon as the words come out, I realize Grant is going to figure this out.

  Quickly.

  “So you two aren’t getting married?”

  “Us two?” I look at Grant.

  He’s smiling.

  “No. We’re not getting married. I’m an event planner. I have an upcoming event that I’ve been hired for. I’m looking for a caterer for that event. Not a wedding event.”

  Some of the pink puff fun has left the atmosphere at my words.

  “Oh. You two look like a couple. My mistake. But then again we are doing everything backwards here today. Usually it’s paperwork first, then food. But we’ll get to the paperwork later if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Beverly takes the lid off one of the silver serving dishes. “First we have a favorite of our customers. Spicy shrimp and grits.” She spoons out two tasting-size portions.

  “I’m the only one tasting,” I say.

  “There’s plenty for two.” She smiles as she prepares plate number two.

  “I agree,” Grant adds. He accepts the plate offered to him by Beverly.

  I pick up my fork and take a bite of the food. Heaven with a bit of spice is the only way I can describe what I have just put in my mouth. As I go for a second bite, I watch as Grant simply sets his fork down after taking his bite.

  “This is amazing.” I look at Beverly. ”It’s not too hot, yet it has a flavor like no other shrimp and grits that I’ve tasted.”

  “Thank you. That’s what we aim for. A unique twist on everyone’s favorites.”

  Grant remains silent.

  As Beverly dishes out the next food item, I think back on why I didn’t contact Taste of the South when I was searching for caterers for the party. After all she is in my backyard so to speak. Maybe it was the pricing? A lot of the places I searched weren’t in the budget.

  And now I really don’t have a budget. If my father knew I spent all the money he gave me to start my business planning their anniversary party, well, I’m not sure what he would do. He wouldn’t be very happy, that much I know.

  Beverly goes on to dish out and explain the next three dishes. I’m swimming in the amazing taste of the food, while Grant keeps quiet. Totally quiet. He barely tastes a forkful of each of the southern items.

  Maybe he lost his sense of southern cooking living up north for so long.

  Beverly places the lids on the dishes. “I’m not sure what type of party you are planning, but we do have more selections of food. I’d love to show you a menu and see if we can be of service to you. We’d love to make your day southern, just like our slogan says. It’s our promise to you.”

  “All of these dishes are delicious. I’m interested in seeing your complete menu.”

  Grant looks at Beverly then nods toward me. “Can we have a moment alone, please?”

  Beverly looks uneasy. But she picks up her notebook and pen. “I’ll be in the reception area.”

  “Thank you.” Grant and I speak in unison.

  The second I hear the door click I start. “What’s going on?”

  “I know you need a caterer for your parents’ surprise anniversary party next Friday.”

  I flush. “How do you know this? Or think you know this?”

  “Mom told me.”

  A sinking feeling mixes with relief. “Not possible.” Sonya doesn’t know about the caterer bailing on me. Grant is fishing for information. Information I’m not about to give him.

  “Possible. She’s worried about how you are going to deal with all this. Especially now that she’s laid up.”

  Can it be that Sonya knows about the caterer? If so, why didn’t she say something to me? I’m stuck between telling Grant the truth and pretending everything is okay in my parents’ party world. “I’m not sure what she told you, but…”

  “She told me she’d been trying to contact the caterer for a few days. Mom wanted to surprise you with a special cake to kick off your business, but the caterer seemed to have vanished. She was waiting until she knew for sure before she told you.”

  Well, there it is. All out in the open. “I don’t know how this could have happened. The caterer disappearing, not your mom knowing. Your mom is smart. And perceptive. Which is why she’s a great person to have helping me. I’m not even sure what to do right now. This food seems like the answer to my problem. If I can afford it, which I probably can’t. And if she can pull it off in such short notice, which would be a miracle.” I speak with authority hoping it carries weight with Grant.

  “That’s a lot of ifs. Besides, you’ll have the crowd asleep halfway through the party with all this carb filled, rich food. And it tastes like every other southern restaurant around.”

  “The grits are spicy. That’s different.”

  “Not really. Let me help you.”

  A sense of defeat enters my mind. “Oh, the big, bad New York City chef comes to rescue the little southern girl from her disaster of a party? Is that how you see it?”

  “That’s dramatic. I don’t see it that way at all.”

  “Then how do you see it?”

  “I see it as a business opportunity.”

  “Business opportunity? I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s leave here and I’ll explain. And trust me when I say this food came frozen. She heated it up and added a few spices, or creams here and there to make it seem homemade. I can tell. Will you trust me on this?”

  Trust Grant? I trust his mom, but that is different. I know her. I don’t even know him. But he does know I only have days to find a caterer.

  He does know that I’m launching my very own business with this party.

  What he doesn’t know is how broke I am and scared I am that I’m going to fail.

  How can Grant relate to anything I’m feeling? He’s a successful, award winning, entrepreneur. The very thing I want to be.

  “Do I have any choice but to trust you?” I feel trapped. The caterer’s disappearance, Sonya’s fall, everything is starting to close in on me.

  “Sure. You can go with this more-than-likely-over-priced-northerner-trying-to-be-southern, or you can see what I have to offer.”

  Was Grant sent to be my answer?

  More than
likely he was sent to be my thorn.

  I feel the pricks with each spoken word. “Okay. I’ll hear you out. But I’m not making any promises.”

  “Fair enough.”

  In the reception area we say our goodbyes to Beverly. She was shooting dagger eyes at Grant the whole time he was charming her, which totally proves she wasn’t southern.

  And that he was.

  “Are you still wanting dinner or would you like to talk over coffee?” He makes the suggestion as I’m pulling out of the parking lot.

  “I’m not hungry. So, coffee or moonshine. I’m not sure which I need more.”

  “I’m driving you to drink? Or is moonshine a routine part of your evening?”

  I laugh, trying to ease some tension. My tension. “Moonshine is not a part of my daily living, I can assure you. But until this party is over, I’m not sure what will happen.”

  I drive us to a coffee shop near Sonya’s house. The vibe inside is hip, urban, carefree. Everything I’m not. Especially the carefree part.

  I’ve set aside my embarrassment at wearing two different shoes and my baseball cap. Right now, my business is taking precedence over my looks.

  Somehow, that makes me feel older.

  Besides, I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically.

  After placing and receiving our orders, we sit, squeezing our way into an unoccupied corner table. The tight quarters force us to sit like a cozy couple, not two practical strangers whose closest contact was a grade-school kiss.

  Our knees touch.

  He doesn’t seem to notice.

  I shrug. Whatever.

  I need to hear his “business opportunity” idea. “I’m all ears.”

  His hands hold tight onto the cardboard cup. I notice a couple of scars on the sides of his fingers. Probably job related. Kitchen burns.

  “I’ve obviously only known about your problem for a few hours. I haven’t had the time to formulate a formal plan, but I’d like to help. I have a lot of connections here, in the Atlanta area, and I’m confident I can provide food for your party. Good food, not frozen, heated up food.”

  He looks directly at me while he speaks, a promising trait for sure. But his words don’t say what I want to hear. I want to hear that he has this all figured out.