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The old house calmed me. Provided a sense of much needed peace. From the outside, an impressive Federal-style three-story painted a crisp white with navy-blue shutters. A historic home set back from the road on a lot filled with a vegetable garden, winding stone paths, a few small outbuildings, including a mostly unused shed and greenhouse, and flower beds in a burst of color. The place was grand and welcoming. Almost regal.

Inside was a different story. Patterned wallpaper and flowered sofas launched an all-out assault on the senses the second you walked through the door. Gram had a thing for frilly touches. Lace table runners. Pillows with fringe. Pops of color. Not a lick of white paint anywhere.

Magnolia Grace—Mags to anyone who knew her and didn’t want to get scolded for using her “given” and much hated name—Nottingham was seventy-five and moved with the energy of a person half her age. Born and raised in North Carolina,she had a standing hairdresser appointment—not a stylist, a hairdresser—every Thursday morning at ten, which was as sacred as Sunday church service.

She donned one of her conservative no-pattern dresses, along with the perfect matching handbag, whenever she ventured out in public or had lunch with the ladies at her favorite restaurant in Reynolda Village. At home, she morphed into a different person. A color and pattern devotee who exclusively wore plaid bedroom slippers around the kitchen.

She was a deeply Southern woman who loved hats and sweet tea and the granddaughter she’d raised from age six. I hoped that last part survived my visit.

“Kasey!”

“Gram.” You didn’t brace for a hug from Gram. You let it happen. Drank in the familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla from Gram’s perfume and sank into the half-cranky, always-loving warmth only Grandma Mags’s arms could provide.

The smell and the touch kicked off memories. I was transported back to the years when I ran through the big house or stretched out on the velvety green lawn, looking up to see the puffy clouds roll by. Creating stories. Eating pies and cupcakes. Crying when Johnnie Pace dumped me two days before prom. The jackass.

“Let me look at you.” Gram pulled back, never letting go of my arms. A second later the corners of her mouth fell into a tight line. Her pursed lips carried more than a hint ofwhat did you do now?“What’s wrong? Tell me straight.”

Pummeled by grandma radar once again. “I’m just here for a visit.”

“Hmmm.”

Her humming was never good. The sound beat me into submission every time.

People let the bob of white hair and sweet smile fool them. Amateurs. Intelligence and strength lurked behind Gram’s blue eyes. The woman didn’t miss a thing.

Stay calm.“Is it that weird for me to visit?”

Gram could smell fear. She was the queen of not talking and letting people trip up in the silence. I’d fallen for the wildly successful trick so many times I’d lost count. Not today... hopefully.

A few minutes ticked by as Gram assessed and I choked back the words that would condemn me to a heap of lecturing. What was the right way to sayI used your pie story as an example at work and now some big company will want to muscle its way in here and try to buy the business and you?

Not weird at all.

“Did you lose your job?” Gram asked.

“What? No. Why would you ask that?” Okay, sure. Fair question. Even I could admit I possessed a bit of a professional follow-through problem.

It all started with what could only be calledthe law school fiasco.Dropping out before the end of my first year meant owing student loans for a career I didn’t have. In my defense, leaving law school had been the right answer because I needed to andoh my God,how boring. Leavingbeforethe tuition refund cutoff for second semester would have been a better plan.

“You’ve only been working at your newest company for a few months. How do you have vacation time saved up?”

The woman hadn’t worked outside of the house in decades, yet she somehow knew about office politics. “Companies aremore employee-friendly these days. Did I tell you about the free bagels?”

“Kasey!”

Celia’s high-pitched voice cut through the room. I pulled away from Gram and hugged Aunt Celia. Not my biological aunt. Frankly, my birth father proved that blood ties were overrated. Unlike my feelings for him, which were hostile at best, I loved Celia. She lived with Gram and, well, that was awhole thing.

“Auntie.” Celia’s squeezing hug enveloped me. “It’s good to see you.”

Celia Windsor was about eight years younger than Gram, though that was a guess. Celia offered different birth years, depending on who asked the question. She also hid her driver’s license with the stealth of an undercover operative, so good luck trying to verify a date.

Celia ended the hug with a wince. “Did something happen at work?”

Apparently I had a reputation to overcome. Time to get the conversation off my résumé and on to something safer. “How have you been?”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Celia rubbed her hands up and down my arms. “Come back home. We have plenty of room and more work than we can handle.”

Gram snorted. “She can’t cook.”