Free From Scratch by Rachel Goodman Page B

us. They play hard and love harder. They’re scoreboard lights and packed-tight bleachers, Wes running down the football field and Annabelle cheering from the sidelines. They’re karaoke competitions, belly flops during Fourth of July pool parties, and coordinating Halloween costumes. Two people deserving of a different ending—a better ending—than the one I had with Nick.
    “I think you still have some fight left in you,” I say, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear. “Wes will come around. Give him time.”
    Annabelle sighs. “Forgiveness isn’t supposed to come with strings. Or retribution.”
    No, forgiveness is to be given freely. Unapologetically.
    But does it ever work that way?

SEVEN

    JUNIOR LEAGUE HEADQUARTERS is housed in a sprawling Classical Revival estate known as Hasell House, named after Sullivan Grace’s grandmother, former League president Harper Dell Hasell and the original Ms. Bless Your Heart, for her generous bequest to the charitable organization. With its soaring white columns, winged porticos, and Old Carolina redbrick siding, the Hasell House is where the ladies of Dallas’s social elite go to be seen.
    I follow Annabelle through the wrought-iron gate and stroll along the paved path to the entrance. On the far side of the grounds, positioned under a cluster of trees, is a bronzed fountain with birds taking a bath. On the covered porch, rocking chairs creak slowly in the breeze as soft sounds from a piano float out the stately windows.
    Inside headquarters, the late-morning sun fills the foyer, frothing up the walls like champagne and spilling onto the grand, sweeping staircase. On my right, in a floral wallpapered room, a group of League members chat around an oval table while working in an assembly line, folding papers and stuffing envelopes. A sitting room adorned with ornamental crown moldings, tapestries, and antique furniture opens to the left. Ahead lies a massive ballroom featuring an equally massive crystal chandelier.
    Annabelle leads me past the staircase toward the tearoom, where League volunteers set tables with silver flatware and fine bone china in preparation for the afternoon service. Even though the committee meeting started fifteen minutes ago, Annabelle insists on dropping by the kitchen to grab some finger sandwiches, pimento cheese dip, and lemon poppy seed scones.
    “If we walk in with snacks, Sullivan Grace is less likely to whip us for being late,” she says as we climb the staircase, a tray propped on her hip. “But stay away from the scones if you value your life.”
    We stop in front of large wooden double doors with a sign that reads: MEETING IN S ESSION, RING BELL FOR ADMITTANCE. Never one for convention, Annabelle uses the toe of her stiletto to give the doors two swift kicks.
    “A simple knock would have sufficed,” I say, nudging her with my elbow.
    “Too easy.” She winks.
    A moment later, the doors crack open and a woman with hair more processed and yellow than American cheese appears in front of me.
    “Who are you?” she asks with a southern drawl, dissecting my simple gray blouse and black pants, her nose wrinkled and lips puckered like a goldfish. I may have been offended if her expression weren’t so laughable. First my father, then Sullivan Grace, and now her? Apparently people in Dallas think I should be dressed for a debutante ball at all times.
    Before I can respond, her gaze swings to Annabelle and the tray of goodies. Her face lights up like a child discovering a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. “Why, Annabelle, aren’t you the sweetest thing, bringing us treats and everything,” she says, opening the doors completely and ushering us inside.
    Annabelle doesn’t even have time to place the tray on the sideboard before the woman attacks the pimento cheese, stuffing her mouth with crackers as she gabs on about the latest Junior League rumor circulating around town.
    “Jesus, Bernice,” Annabelle mutters. “You’re allowed to