Page 13 of Sweet Obsession (Honeysuckle, Texas #5)

It was impossible to enjoy a decent cup of English breakfast this morning without someone clomping up the porch steps like they owned the place.

A cup of lukewarm tea forgotten in her hand, Sara Kirby peered through the sheer lace curtains of her living room window.

A gaggle of reporters, looking like a flock of badly dressed, noisy geese, had taken up residence on her lawn, some spilling over into her prize-winning petunias.

She’d tried ignoring them, thinking they’d get bored and wander off to bother someone else.

No such luck. If anything, they’d gotten louder and more persistent, knocking on her door every few minutes like woodpeckers with poor manners.

They’d been there far too long, shouting questions at her front door and aiming their ridiculous long-lens cameras at her windows.

It was an invasion, a complete and utter breach of civility.

She had half a mind to turn the sprinklers on, but that might damage their equipment and then she’d have a stupid lawsuit on her hands.

No, this required a different sort of handling. Enough was enough. A few reporters with more enthusiasm than sense weren’t going to rattle her.

Setting her teacup down, Sara straightened her shoulders and walked to the hall mirror.

Patting her silver hair, ensuring the coif was perfectly in place, she adjusted the single strand of pearls at her neck, and straightened the collar of her crisp cotton blouse.

If one was to face a firing squad, one should at least look one’s best. She then marched to the hall closet and retrieved what she needed: a sturdy folding chair.

Leaving the chair by the front door, she swept into the kitchen, poured a tall glass of iced tea, and added a sprig of mint from the pot on her windowsill. Armed and ready, she strode through the living room and unlocked the door. Now or never.

The flock of reporters swarmed the porch steps, a cacophony of overlapping questions erupting at once.

“Mrs. Kirby, is Blake here?”

“Is it true he’s got a new girl?”

“Is it serious?”

“Why has he been hiding?”

Sara ignored them all. With a calm deliberation that seemed to momentarily stun them into silence, she unfolded the chair, placed it precisely in the center of her porch, tugged a metal side table beside the chair, set her glass on the table, and sat down.

Crossing her ankles, she smoothed her slacks and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

After taking a long, slow sip of her iced tea, she leveled a gaze on the most aggressive-looking reporter, a young woman with bright red lipstick and an impatient frown.

“All right,” her voice carried easily over the sudden hush, “if you’re going to pester me, you might as well do it properly.” She scanned the group, her eyes sharp. “Ask your questions one at a time. Enunciate. And for heaven’s sake, no interrupting. This is a front porch, not a wrestling match.”

The tallest one cleared his throat. “Uh… is it true your grandson is—”

“Five out of ten,” she interrupted crisply. “Points deducted for mumbling. Shoulders back, dear, you’re not a question mark.”

He blinked, straightened his posture, and tried again. “Is it true your grandson is hiding here?”

“That’s better. Eight out of ten. My grandson doesn’t need to hide anywhere. Next.”

“Mrs. Kirby, I’m Jessica Wells.”

Sara nodded at the woman in bright red lipstick. “Eight out of ten. Good projection, you remembered to introduce yourself, but that lipstick is the wrong shade for your complexion. You’d do better with a pleasant pink. Your question?”

“Can you confirm that your grandson Blake is currently in Honeysuckle?”

“Well, of course, he’s here,” Sara said with the patience of someone explaining the obvious to a particularly slow child. “Why wouldn’t he visit his family when he’s not playing music for his fans?”

The cameras clicked frantically. Another reporter, a nervous-looking man with too much hair gel, raised his hand like he was back in elementary school. “Is Blake dating anyone local?”

The man’s timid demeanor almost had Sara smiling, he already seemed so nervous, she didn’t have the heart to critique him.

“My grandson is a handsome, successful young man with excellent manners and a kind heart. Of course the local girls are interested. Have you seen him lately? That boy could charm the birds right out of the trees. Of course he gets that from my side of the family.”

“But is there someone specific?” Jessica pressed.

“Well now, that’s Blake’s business, isn’t it?

” Sara adjusted her pearls and fixed the reporter with a look that had cowed generations of misbehaving children.

“A lady doesn’t gossip about matters of the heart.

Though I will say this…” She leaned forward conspiratorially, and every microphone strained toward her.

“Any girl would be lucky to catch that boy’s eye.

He’s got his grandfather’s romantic soul. ”

The man with the hair gel practically vibrated with excitement. “Can you tell us her name?”

“Can you tell me why you’re standing in my flower bed?” she countered sternly with her best sweet Southern smile. “Those are award-winning petunias you’re crushing, young man. First prize at the county fair three years running. Their feelings are hurt very easily. Step to the left, if you please.”

Looking sheepish, the reproved man shuffled sideways.

“That’s better. Now, where are your manners? You haven’t even introduced yourselves properly. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

The reporter, momentarily flustered, recovered quickly. “Sorry ma’am, Robert Peel—”

A man with a notepad jumped in. “Is your grandson staying here with you? Is he hiding from the press?”

Sara fixed him with a withering look. “Now, what did I say about interrupting?”

For the next twenty minutes, Sara held court like a benevolent dictator, expertly deflecting every question with a mix of Southern charm, subtle scolding, and maddeningly vague non-answers.

She critiqued their posture, corrected their grammar, and the reporters, used to dealing with screaming celebrities and slick PR agents, were utterly disarmed.

Though not how she’d expected to spend her day, she couldn’t remember a time when she’d had more fun. Blake should sneak around town more often.

“I can’t leave.” Exasperation hung on every syllable of Blake’s words. “These people are crawling around like ants on a picnic blanket.”

“I’ll go check on Ms. Sara.” Jillian glanced at the grandfather clock in the shop’s corner. “I’m closer. Besides, with all this commotion, I don’t see any customers caring about candles today.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said with a soft voice.

“I know, but I want to.” For a second she thought his silence meant he was not happy with her. She braced for the worst when he slowly enunciated her name.

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” His voice was throaty and raw and made her toes curl in her shoes.

“I don’t know about that, but I am going to close up. Hold on.” Grabbing her purse from her desk drawer, she hurried to the door, turned the open sign to closed, and with a turn of the key in the lock, she was moving down Main Street as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself.

“So far, so good.” She felt like a spy in an action flick. Remembering how they skunked Garrett’s wife’s ex using the phones for communications, she decided that maybe being spies could be a lot of fun. “I’m almost to the corner and no one has shown any interest in me.”

“Considering how these reporters seem to be chasing down anyone on the street, I’m going to take it as a good sign that they’ve not bothered you.”

She couldn’t agree more. “Almost there,” she whispered, her rubber-soled shoes silent on the concrete. At the end of the block, she cornered the building, fully expecting to see the media crowd up the street laying siege to the Kirby house.

The scene that greeted her was so bizarre, so utterly unexpected, that she stopped dead in her tracks, nearly dropping her phone.

His grandmother wasn’t just handling the reporters; she was conducting them.

Sara Kirby sat serenely in a folding chair in the center of her porch, a tall glass of iced tea on a small table beside her, holding court like a queen on her throne.

The reporters weren’t a swarming mob; they were a semi-orderly, if somewhat bewildered, audience.

“What is it? What do you see?” Blake’s voice, tight with anxiety, crackled in her ear.

“I… you’re not going to believe this.” Jillian bit back the laugh threatening to erupt.

“Your grandmother is something else. I’d swear she’s holding court on her front porch like the Queen of England.

She has a folding chair, iced tea, and she’s got every single reporter sitting at attention like they’re in Sunday school. ”

“She what?”

“I’m serious. She’s critiquing their posture and correcting their grammar. One guy just apologized for stepping on her flowers.” Jillian didn’t bother to stifle the laugh that bubbled up. “Blake, she’s a lesson in utter magnificence.”

Through the phone, she heard him let out a breath that was part relief, and a whole lot of pride. “That’s my grandmother. She always was a force of nature.”

As Jillian watched, Mrs. Kirby spotted her approaching.

A brilliant smile bloomed on her face. Without missing a beat, she raised her voice, a clear, ringing tone that carried easily across the lawn.

“I have company now, ladies and gentlemen. And my petunias have had quite enough excitement for one day. Time for all of you to go home and find a real story to cover. Shoo!”

“Jillian,” Blake’s voice was urgent in her ear, “get inside with her. Fast.”

“Already on it.” Jillian quickened her pace, waving at Mrs. Kirby like she was an expected guest. “So sorry I’m late.”

The older woman beamed. “Right on time, sweetheart. Come on up.”

Jillian hurried up the porch steps, acutely aware of the cameras following her movement. Mrs. Kirby stood, folded her chair with practiced efficiency, and ushered Jillian toward the front door.

“Lovely visiting with you all,” Mrs. Kirby called over her shoulder to the reporters, quietly closing the door and turning the lock behind them.

“That,” Jillian waved a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the front yard, “was the most impressive thing I have ever seen.”

Sara Kirby simply smiled. “Nonsense, dear. Just a bit of housekeeping.” She patted Jillian’s arm.

“Hello!” Blake’s voice came through the cell phone that Jillian momentarily forgot she was holding.

“Sorry. We’re still here.”

“And the reporters?”

Jillian glanced through the lace curtains. “Are leaving.”

“You’re kidding? Maybe I should have Grams march over here and dispatch the reporters still camping out on Mom and Dad’s lawn.”

“Do you need me, dear? I’m sure I can teach your reporters a thing or two about good manners if you’d like.”

Through the speaker phone, Blake chuckled.

“Thanks, Grams, but I’m sure it will be fine.

As soon as they stop rummaging through the trash, I can probably sneak down the alley the same way I got here.

Jillian, since I’m stuck here for the immediate future, you might as well go ahead and update Grams on everything happening. ”

“Everything?”

“If you don’t mind.”

She shook her head even though he couldn’t see her through the phone. “Got it.”

“Thanks. You’re pretty awesome yourself.”

A few more words and assurances and the call was disconnected. Placing the phone in her purse, Jillian turned to Mrs. Kirby. “About that secret woman the reporters are looking for…”