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“Have you started your paintings for the festival?”

“Not yet.” Digging in my pocket, I hand over the twenty. “But Noel said thanks for the royal jelly.”

Ma waves it away. “Keep it. You probably need money for lunch.”

“I’m not in high school anymore.” Still, I shove the bill in my pocket.

“I don’t know why they haven’t made you administrator of that nursing home. You practically run the place as it is.” She’s been harping on that old string since I graduated from college.

“It’s simple. I don’t want to be the administrator. That job sucks.”

Her eyes fix on mine. “What do you want to do, Patatina?”

Be Sawyer LaGrange’s wife. I shoot the thought down as fast as it pops up. Stop being an idiot, Mindy.

It’s been that kind of day, so I decide to level with her. “I want to own my own design firm. I want to run ad campaigns and do marketing, plan PR events, create logos for businesses and entrepreneurs like you and Noel…”

My mother’s forehead wrinkles. “Is that something you could do in Harristown?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

Worry fills her eyes, and anxiety fills my stomach. I know the idea of me leaving is hard for her. Hell, it’s hard for me.

After my dad died, Ma clung to my two sisters and me like we were all she had left in the world. Then when Tatum, my oldest sister, moved to Atlanta right out of high school, Ma cried for weeks.

Selfishly, I was kind of glad to see her go. She’d been Sawyer’s date to the homecoming dance and to prom, and I’d lain awake both nights in my bed, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.

She’d said they were nothing more than friends.

He never said a word either way.

I wanted to die.

Still, Tatum’s leaving and my mother’s reaction made a big impression on Tamara and me, not that my middle sister has ever wanted to leave this small town. She didn’t even move to New Orleans when her husband went to dental school for two years.

“Deacon’s helping me with my business plan. He knows I’d like to stay close if possible. Maybe we can find a way—”

“Deacon!” Ma’s eyes brighten. “He’s such a smart young man and so polite. Why don’t you ever invite him over to dinner? I’d like to get to know him better.”

Because he’s just a friend, and the last thing I need is you getting ideas?

“He was here at Thanksgiving, remember?”

“Six months ago!” She takes the pot of boiling pasta off the stove and carries it to the sink. “Have him come for dinner Friday. I’ll ask him to advise me about my bees.”

I take two bowls from the cabinet. “You can’t ask him for free financial advice. It’s his job, Ma.”

“I’m feeding him dinner, aren’t I? I bet he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal since Thanksgiving.”

Arguing with my mother is pointless, and anyway, Deacon likes visiting our house. He says it’s the home life he never had. I tell him to watch what you wish for.

“I’ll ask him.”

We sit down to steaming bowls of penne with marinara, French bread, and red wine. Before we start to eat, after we’ve said the blessing, she raises her glass and toasts my dad.

Thirteen years ago this night, he closed his eyes and never opened them again.

His favorite camellias were blooming milky white and red, neon-pink azaleas were bursting on the bushes in front of the house, and he left us as quiet as a spring breeze.