Free The Sweetest Thing by Deborah Fletcher Mello

into the party-event business afforded him some helpful information on what he might do differently for his own customers.
    They were knee-deep in conversation when something outside the window caught Harper’s eye. She leaned forward in her seat then suddenly jumped to her feet as she grabbed her coat. Quentin turned to stare where she stared and as she bolted for the door, heading back out into the cold, he followed.
    An elderly woman was leaning against the hood of an old Dodge Caravan. Two tote bags rested at her side. Her coat was well worn but her bright red knit toboggan and gloves appeared brand new. With the forest-green knit scarf wrapped around her head and mouth she seemed to be bundled warmly. But her breathing was slightly labored and when she pulled the scarf from her face her warm breath formed a small cloud in the cold afternoon air.
    “Ma’am, are you okay?” Harper asked as she rushed to the woman’s side.
    “Lord, have mercy!” the old woman exclaimed.
    Quentin eased next to Harper’s side and grabbed the woman’s arm. “Mrs. Todd, what are you doing out here?” he questioned.
    “Who’s that?” she asked, fighting to focus her gaze on Quentin’s face.
    “It’s Quentin Elliott, Mrs. Todd.”
    “Quentin? How you doing, baby?”
    He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he met Harper’s concerned stare.
    “I’m fine. How are you? What are you doing out in this weather?”
    “Mr. Myers had some vegetables he got at the market for me. I walked down to get ’em so I could make me a pot of soup.”
    Harper smiled at her thick dialect, her words muddled in the midst of a thick Southern accent.
    “It’s too cold for you to be walking out here by yourself,” Quentin admonished.
    “Oh, foots!” Mrs. Todd exclaimed. “I ain’t that old, boy!”
    Quentin shook his head as he raised his voice an octave. “I said cold, Mrs. Todd. It’s too cold! Why don’t you come inside for a minute and get warm. Then I’ll take you home.”
    “Bakery ain’t open today, is it?”
    “No, ma’am, but you come on inside anyway,” he said as he guided her back across the street.
    Harper gathered the woman’s bags and followed them back inside. As Mrs. Todd sat down, Quentin hurried to get her something warm to drink.
    “Who’s this pretty little thing?” Mrs. Todd asked, her gaze finally resting on Harper. “Who you?”
    “Harper Donovan, ma’am.”
    Quentin pressed a warm cup of coffee into the woman’s aged hands. “Mrs. Todd, this is Pop’s daughter. Harper came in for Pop’s funeral.”
    “This is Everett’s child?”
    “Yes, ma’am, she is.”
    Mrs. Todd gestured for Harper to come closer and Harper slid into the seat at her side. She pressed her wrinkled hands against Harper’s face, her cataract eyes studying her intently. “Lord, Lord, Lord!” she chimed. “You look just like your daddy. Just as pretty, and your daddy was one pretty, pretty man!”
    Harper smiled politely. “Thank you.”
    Mrs. Todd dropped the hold she had on Harper’s cheeks and reached for her cup. She took a big swallow and then dropped the container back down to the table. She pointed at Quentin then tapped at the edge of the mug.
    “Needs something special,” she said matter-of-factly.
    Quentin shook his head. “You sure, Mrs. Todd?”
    The woman nodded, tapping at her cup a second time.
    Harper looked from one to the other, not having a clue what they were talking about. Still shaking his head Quentin moved behind the counter into the kitchen. A few seconds later he returned with a glass bottle in hand, a decanter of dark bourbon moving Mrs. Todd to cackle with glee. Harper met Quentin’s gaze, her own giggles steeling past her lips.
    Unscrewing the cap Quentin tipped the bottle into Mrs. Todd’s cup as she leaned forward in her seat to gauge what he was doing. As he drew the bottle back she gave him a wide-eyed glare.
    “Needs something more special!” she said, emphasizing the word