Free One Foot in the Grove by Kelly Lane Page A

thought.
    â€œThere are grits in the cupboard for breakfast,” continued Daphne. “And some of Boone Beasley’s marvelous thick-sliced, nitrite-free bacon and low-fat spiced sausages in thefridge. And blueberries. Yes, do make some blueberry pancakes. And biscuits. And sausage gravy, of course. One can’t have biscuits without sausage gravy. There’s plenty to work with in the pantry. And there’s fresh eggs from the Spencers’ farm, some of Daddy’s peaches, and all sorts of fresh fruit and veggies. Can y’all carve those little rose-shaped butter patties like Loretta did? Guests just adore those! We’ll need ice. Maybe y’all can run down to Carter’s Country Corner Store and pick up ice. They still open at six, don’t they?”
    â€œDaphne, aren’t you getting carried away? It’s not like we’re feeding an army.”
    â€œYes. Still, we want our hospitality to be nothing short of extraordinary. Our reputation is paramount. Guests write
reviews
on the Internet, you know!”
    â€œTrust me. I know all about the Internet.” I rolled by eyes. “No worries. You just get some rest. I’ll take care of all the details. It’s no problem.”
    Liar, liar, pants on fire!
    Daphne’s pom-pommed feet tip-tapped to the door as satin gowns swirled about her lithe frame. She pushed open the door and floated outside.
    â€œDon’t be worryin’ about all this, Eva. Y’all will do just fine. Nighty night!”
    A gust of wind ripped the flimsy screen door from Daphne’s hand and slammed it shut.

C HAPTER 7

    Daphne drifted across the yard under wads of dangling Spanish moss that cast eerie shadows on the wet lawn. My sister floated through her lush, well-tended flower and vegetable gardens, then up the stairs onto the big wraparound porch of the farmhouse. The kitchen door opened and closed silently as she stepped inside.
    I saw the back stair light flick on and then off. Except for a glow coming from Daphne’s curtained master bedroom window in the third-floor family quarters, I didn’t see a light on anywhere. Sleeping guests probably hadn’t noticed the fast-moving tropical storm. After stuffing themselves silly with Chef Loretta’s mouthwatering, mammoth meal and finishing it all off with a slew of cocktails, they’d all tumbled to bed, completely unaware that their cook had absconded with their fishing guide—off to Vegas.
Sigh
. At least they’d had one good meal. The Last Supper.
    Make no mistake, “cooking” for me was, at best, heating up takeout. Or stir-frying tofu and a bag of frozen veggies. To prove it, I had nothing in my cupboards, except for a fewof Daphne’s fresh herbs that her oldest daughter, twelve-year-old Meg, had picked and made into a bouquet for me. Moreover, the notion of me preparing food in any sort of “professional” capacity—worse still, preparing meals capable of meeting Daphne’s demanding, perfectionist standards—was, in a word, insane. My chest tightened again just thinking about it. I’d never get to sleep.
    â€œCome on, Dolly. There’s a breeze outside. Maybe we can think better in some fresh air.”
    I pushed the screen door, and it creaked open easily—too easily. Trees swirled above me as a burst of wind grabbed the flimsy door and slammed it back into the cottage’s wooden exterior. Dolly yipped as she shot between my legs then skidded and tumbled across slippery grass. The rickety wooden door caught the wind again, flew back the other way, and smacked shut behind me.
    Gardenia-scented air, thick and heavy with moisture, hugged my body close. I pulled my hair from its topknot and gathered it into a ponytail before tightening and retying my shoelaces. A drift of Spanish moss blew from a twisted tree limb to the lawn. Dolly pounced on it and shook the heathery wad.
    I tried to think how I could fix a