Page 12 of Lady and the Hitman

“Sure.”

A beat of silence passed. I could hear wind chimes in the background. The nursery, probably. She and my dad had started it on John’s Island twenty years ago, long before I ever thought I’d come back here. Back then, I’d sworn I’d never return to the sticky heat of Charleston once I grew up and got out, never crawl back beneath the blanket of Southern civility that kept everyone polite and seething.

I’d gone to Penn. Got my bachelor’s degree inPhilosophy, Politics, and Economics with a specialization in Public Policy and Governance. Yeah, try saying that three times, fast.

I’d learned to wear all black and argue policy over sushi. And still, here I was—living in a Charleston townhouse with quaint shutters and iron railings, writing columns that pissed off half the city and pretending I didn’t feel trapped.

But my parents needed me. And I loved them.

Hope and Greg Hughes had raised me on compost and Billie Holiday and the unspoken truth that being liberal on John’s Island meant keeping your head down. They were the kind of progressives who still volunteered at the food co-op and made friends with their conservative neighbors out of necessity, not naiveté.

They didn’t ask for much.

So I gave them presence.

“How’s the nursery?” I asked.

“We had a couple more customers than usual today,” she said. “Mostly folks buying summer herbs. We put out the lavender in front, like you suggested. Drew them right in.”

I smiled, letting her voice settle over me like a clean sheet. “Good. Dad okay?”

“He’s fighting with a weedwhacker. So yes, perfectly himself.”

We talked for another few minutes, nothing urgent. But when she paused again, her voice dropped to something quieter.

“Zara …”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to pry. I just … I know your patterns. And you sound like you’re waiting on something.”

I nearly dropped the phone.

“Mom,” I said, too quickly. “I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “I just love you, that’s all.”

“I love you, too.”

There was a pause.

Then her voice, soft but teasing: “Is there someone new?”

My stomach flipped. “What?”

“Like I said, you sound … funny. Not in a bad way. Just … lighter, maybe. Like someone’s been making you smile when you don’t mean to.”

I swallowed, trying not to let anything shift in my tone. “No. There’s no one.”

“Zara.”

“Mom.”

She laughed quietly. “All right, all right. Just promise me if someone does come along—and I mean someone real—you bring him out to the nursery sometime. We’ve got the pool open. The crepe myrtles are finally blooming around the fence, and the whole back garden smells like basil and orange blossoms by late afternoon. It’s damn near romantic.”

I blinked, startled by the invitation. “You want me to bring a guy to the nursery?”

“Sure. He might want to go for a swim.” Her tone was casual, like it was no big deal. “It’s hot as hell out here. Man might appreciate a cool dip.”