Free Sweet Tea and Secrets by Nancy Naigle

kitchen.
    Even though she’d known most of these women her whole life, panic welled in her throat. She tried to slow her racing heart as she stood in the back of the room. They moved around noisily, shifting pots and unwrapping dishes. There was more Tupperware on the sideboard than most dealers stocked for a good year of sales. The women chattered about who’d made what, took turns heating their special recipes, then couriered them to the tables in the reception hall.
    In a sing-songy tone, one woman announced, “Jana’s chicken looks way overdone,” as she squatted in front of the oven. She held colorful nylon loop potholders and retrieved her special chicken casserole with corn flake topping. She hitched the oven door closed with her hip. “Oven’s available. Three-fifty,” she called to the group.
    Mrs. Owens leaned over Mrs. Brown’s cobbler. “Ooooh. That’s a little soupy, isn’t it?”
    Jill covered her mouth to keep from snickering aloud. Mrs. Owens was shameless. The woman swore that, for years, Mrs. Brown had been passing off store-bought peaches as her own home-canned. She couldn’t prove the rumor, but she did have everybody wondering.
    “My cobbler is perfectly fine,” Mrs. Brown said in defense of her dish. “That oven isn’t true to temp.” She marched out of the room, miffed. She had to know the other women had been talking about her. Those things had a way of getting back to people.
    That’s the thing about small towns—if you don’t remember how you’re doing, don’t worry. Everyone else is already discussing it.
    A younger brunette, with her back to Jill, said to Mrs. Owens, “Oh my goodness, can you believe that? Why would anyone make peach now when blackberries are at their prime?”
    Mrs. Owens patted the brunette on the hand. “You can learn a lesson from that. Rick will appreciate it. You know blackberry cobbler is his favorite.”
    Jill’s jaw dropped. The brunette must be the girl from Atlanta that Ricky Owens brought home from spring break when he quit college. Pearl had filled her in on the rumor that he’d brought home a Hooters calendar girl. She certainly looked like the type.
    A dark haired woman that Jill didn’t recognize right off came into the kitchen. “Two people made Pearl’s chocolate pecan pie,” she reported, shaking her head. “Don’t know why they bothered. Nobody could make that pie as good as Pearl. What were they thinkin’?”
    “Oh honey, I tried a piece, and it was perfect. I’m telling you, I think Pearl may have sent them herself,” claimed Mrs. Grizzard, the mail carrier’s wife. “Be just like Pearl to do that, you know.”
    The two women exchanged a knowing look.
    Jill’s lips relaxed into an unexpected smile. She’d made one of those pies. But who else had Pearl’s famous chocolate pecan pie recipe?
    Jill used to be a part of this group, and it wasn’t that long ago when she and Garrett attended every church function back then. Bradley never had time for church, so she hadn’t been to a service since she’d moved to Savannah.
    Now that the kitchen was mostly empty, Jill braved herself to join the others in the main hall. She pushed through the swinging doors, and paused. It looked like an even bigger crowd in here than the church could’ve held. Maybe she should have stayed where she was.
    Flower arrangements adorned every table. The arrangements were an explosion of bright colors that Pearl would have adored.
    At the far end of the room, a large portrait on an easel looked out across the visitors. Drawn to the picture, Jill moved through the crowd, not hearing one word that folks uttered as she passed by. She immediately recognized the signature in the bottom right of the portrait. Mary Claire had even captured the twinkle in her grandmother’s eyes. Though done in shades of black and gray pen and ink, the steel blue of her grandmother’s eyes was obvious. The way the right corner of Pearl’s mouth turned up, almost a