“Wait, cupcakes? But we already ate cake.”
“That was for the buffet, silly. This is the real deal. Just wait until you taste them.” She rubs her hands together in excitement. The food has been overflowing today, but then again, that’s just the way we do things. “All right, holler if you think of anything!” With her television-gorgeous smile and a spin worthy of a ballerina, she’s gone.
“She really outdid herself today,” Lexi says, glancing back inside.
“I think it was perfect,” I tell her, smiling. And it was. Between Shelby, Michelle, Marie, Camille, and my aunt, not one detail was forgotten. That said, it’s not the details that matter; it’s the people, the laughter, and the memories.
Well, maybe the food, too.
Years from now, when we talk about this day—and all our important days—what we ate won’t be remembered, but our time together around the table will be.
As chefs, we’re taught that the most important thing to learn is how to create the magic of flavor, and once that is accomplished, the possibilities are endless. They aren’t wrong, but I think that’s only part of it. There’s a secret ingredient, too, and not everyone knows it, but those who do understand.
“Are you ready to head back in?” Lexi asks.
“I am, although I’m not sure I can eat one more bite.”
“You? I’m equally hungry and full at the same time. The twins say, ‘Feed us,’ and my body says, ‘Really, you’re going to put more stuff in me?’ These last few weeks can’t go by fast enough.”
“You say that now, but soon you’ll be begging for sleep.”
“You’re probably right.” She smiles warmly and runs her hand across her stomach.
Together, Lexi and I move back into the tasting room, and as I think about that secret ingredient, I look around and know it was mixed into every snack, dish, cake, and pie. With my eyes on Jack’s and his on mine, I move to stand next to him. He laces our fingers together then brings our joined hands to his lips, where he gently brushes a kiss across my knuckles, and my heart swells with joy and adoration.
See, that secret ingredient, the most magical part—it’s love, always love, which is why I will forever stand by my declaration that food is love.
Sprinkle a little here, pour a little there, and I promise you everything will taste better.
Just try it. You’ll see.
Frozen Lemonade Pie
THE END
I always have to start with my family, because it’s the love and support that they give me, which makes this possible. Thank you for giving me the time I needed to work on these stories, for understanding why the kitchen is always dirty, and for loving dad’s grilled food. Well, for loving food in general, which helped inspire this series. Forever my taste testers, I hope you know that if it comes from my kitchen, it was made with love.
Elle Brooks, thank you for always being my biggest fan. This series took four years to complete, but we did it! Thank you for sharing your insight for this story, I just hope I got it right. As with all finished books, I raise my glass to you and to us, forever my book bestie. xo
Kelli Bunton, I’m not even sure where to begin. You, more than anyone else, has had to listen to me ramble on and on about this story and all the others, day after day after day. The plotting, the ideas, the questions for Eddie, the feedback, I am so appreciative for you there are not even enough words. I love you, and I’m hanging on to dream that this will one day be our fulltime gig. You and me, we can do this, but until then . . . let’s meet for lunch!
Megan Cooke and Karla Sorensen, thank you for being the best beta readers in the world. From line by line suggestions to overall story and character arc, I know between the two of you the story will turn out okay. Thank you for loving the story and for being my friend. Megan, this namesake was for you! xo
Thank you to my team who made my vision, words, and story sparkle: Julie from Heart to Cover, LLC, Caitlin from Editing by C. Marie, Emily from Lawrence Editing, and Elaine from Allusion Graphics, LLC. It’s perfect.
To my reader group Kathryn’s Krewe, thank you for the love, support, and patience you continually give me. One day I’ll be able to write faster for you, but in the meantime, at least you know another one is always coming . . . eventually. LOL I love y’all something fierce. xoxo
To the readers, thank you for reading, loving, reviewing, and sharing my stories. It’s because of you I continue to write and make this dream a reality. I will forever be grateful. This journey has been something else, and I’m so excited to see where we will go next.
Much love to all.
Until next time,
Kathryn xo
Kathryn Andrews loves stories that end with a happily ever after. She started writing at age seven and never stopped. Kathryn is an Amazon Bestseller for her much loved Hale Brothers series, Chasing Clouds and is a chick lit, contemporary romance, and Southern fiction writer.
Kathryn graduated from the University of South Florida with degrees in biology and chemistry, and she currently lives in Tampa, Florida. She spends her days as a sales director for a medical device company and her nights lost in her love of fictional characters.
When Kathryn is not crafting beautiful worlds that incorporate some of her most favorite real-life places, she can be found hanging out with her husband and two boys while drinking iced coffee and enjoying the sun.
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Starving for Southern Series
The Sweetness of Life
Last Slice of Pie
Lessons in Lemonade
The Hales Brothers Series
Drops of Rain
Starless Nights
Unforgettable Sun
Standalone Titles
Blue Horizons
Chasing Clouds
To get a sneak peek of Reid and Camille in Chasing Clouds, here is an excerpt from chapter 1…
Chapter 1
Camille
EVERY LITTLE GIRL dreams of her wedding, that one magical day with endless arrangements of sweet-smelling flowers, family and friends, and a big white dress with a skirt so gauzy and beautiful it’s meant to be twirled in, as if she were a princess. Music will play, birds will sing, and at the end of the aisle will wait a tall, dark, and handsome man who is so in love with her he’ll have tears shining in his eyes.
That’s the dream, right?
After all these years, my dream has become my reality, and today is the day.
Today is my wedding day.
A cool breeze drifts across the bare skin of my shoulders, I shiver, and goose bumps race down my arms. My eyes flick to the left, where one of the side entrance doors to the church was left open, letting in the southern February winds. The sunlight from beyond the door looks luminous and inviting, unlike in here, which is cloaked in darkness and shadows. The foyer is empty and still, with only the sounds of the organ playing from behind the two white wooden doors that will soon open and forever cement my fate.
I spent most of the morning quietly by myself, which is how I wanted it. No one understands—how can they? This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, but what they don�
�t realize is . . . it’s not.
I take a deep breath and let my eyes fall shut. The smell of pine wood fills my senses, reminding me just how old the church is and what my getting married here means to my family. Built in the mid-1700s, it’s one of the oldest churches in Savannah, and for more generations than I care to remember, my family has celebrated births, marriages, and the passing of life here within these walls. Just like all the other expectations bestowed upon me, there was never a question about where I would be married, just to whom.
Well, maybe not even that. Patrick has been their choice for years, and they slowly groomed him to understand what it means to be part of the Whitley family in Georgia as they pushed him my and Clare’s way.
Swaying my hips back and forth with the distant weight of hundreds of ancestors’ eyes, I focus on the rustling of my skirt as it swishes around me, the boards groaning under my feet.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Startled by her voice suddenly breaking the silence, my head shoots up and my eyes lock onto Clare’s. The concern and worry etched in her expression and the tension in her posture pull on my heartstrings. Even with as close as we are, she’s another person who doesn’t understand. I do have to do this.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, Camille.” She shakes her head frantically and takes a step toward me as my eyes sweep down over her and the pale blue strapless bridesmaid dress she wears. She’s so beautiful, just like I knew she would be, and I feel the sting of the tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t want this for you. This is not the life you were meant to have.”
Letting out a deep breath, I reach for her hand and squeeze. A warm buzz tingles my fingers, and it’s so familiar and comforting I find the strength I need to continue—to not walk away. She has to see that I’m doing this for her . . . for us, two halves of a whole that split apart and became the mirror image of the other.
“You’re the one who always says our destiny is written in the stars.” I smile at her. “This is my destiny.”
“And you always respond that the stars don’t move, we do. Therefore, you could just walk away. I’m begging you to please walk away. You’ll never be happy with him.”
“It’s not about being happy, you know that. It’s about being loyal to our family and doing our duty. We all play a role, we always have, and it’s time I step into mine.”
Her frown deepens, and her shoulders sag forward. She’s making me feel as if I’m letting her down, when the truth is I owe her this.
“Camille, this moral responsibility to our family is not you. It never has been, and there’s a difference between loyalty and being coerced. Please, I’m begging you, don’t marry him.”
Before I can respond, the organ stops, and Clare’s hand tightens around mine. The panic that fills her flows into me, and my heart starts racing as I think about her words. She thinks I’m being coerced? That’s the same as being bullied or threatened—is that how other people see it, too? With our eyes locked onto each other, she parts her lips as if to say something . . . but then the doors sweep open and she drops my hand.
No!
My fingers instantly cool and my ears burn to hear her unspoken words. What was she going to say? I need to know!
Her chin trembles, but she pastes on a smile as she slowly turns and walks down the aisle.
“Please—wait,” I whisper.
She hears the pleading in my voice and glances back but doesn’t say anything else. The muscles in her face suddenly relax, her concerned eyes seem to warm, and for the first time ever I’m unable to decipher her thoughts. Her expression has done a complete one-eighty, and she looks almost happy, content. Given the conversation we just had, I don’t understand. I’m confused.
What just happened?
Does she know something I don’t?
With a wink and a small smile, she turns around and walks forward. I follow, stepping into a scene that’s my childhood dream brought to life.
The foyer is no longer drafty and dark. Golden light is pouring in through the stained glass windows that line the perimeter of the church, illuminating it and making it almost magical. The air is delicious with scents of honeysuckle, orange blossoms, and roses, and the classical melody of Mendelssohn slowly makes its way past the thrumming of my heart. The string quartet, the flowers, the candles . . . all of it is just so beautiful.
“Camille, it’s time.”
I tear my eyes from the sight before me and see my father standing next to the last pew with his hand outstretched. The magic of the moment fades away as I realize the beauty is only surface deep, and this wedding isn’t what I’ve dreamed about. It’s for show, not for love. His face doesn’t shine with adoration and happiness for his daughter on her wedding day; it’s full of arrogance. He’s not smiling, but his lip is curled in a way that appears more like a sneer, and it’s this tiny expression that reminds me I’m just a pawn for others to move as they please. My heart sinks.
Maybe Clare is right. Maybe my loyalties to my family are misguided. Being loyal implies the presence of support, trustworthiness, and faithfulness, but not a single family member reciprocates those things to me. Instead, they antagonize, lie, and boss me around.
Not wanting to waste any more time, my father walks over to me, wraps his arm around mine, and pulls. As if on autopilot, I let him lead me down the aisle. I was at peace with my decision, but now, after one conversation, I feel like this might just be my death march.
The entire church is packed, both sides of the sanctuary and the upper balcony filled to the brim. Along with the ghosts of my ancestors, I can feel every set of eyes on me. The weight of judgment falls upon my back and shoulders, and although some look happy for me and are probably thinking, She looks so beautiful, I know others are mocking me behind fictitious smiles.
From left to right, up, down, and all around, I’m assaulted by a stampede of emotions. Panic becomes the strongest, and then nausea sets in.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” my father says just loud enough for others to hear as he squeezes my trembling hand. Maybe he is, or maybe he isn’t; I don’t know. I lost the ability to really believe anything he says five years ago. What I wouldn’t give right this moment to have the man in my memories and not the man currently walking me down the aisle.
Patrick moves into my line of sight. Terror streaks through my body, and the crowd becomes a blur. He isn’t exactly smiling—more like smirking—and my legs begin to shake.
Feeling the change in my steps, my father wraps his arm around my waist to steady me, and my breathing picks up. The air won’t come in fast enough, and my lungs feel as if they’re on fire. Squeezing the bouquet, I pull it against my chest and press as hard as I can.
Can’t people see there’s something wrong with me? Can’t they see this isn’t normal bride behavior? But then again, I’ve never been one for crowds, and they must think it’s just nerves.
Sliding my eyes off Patrick, I find Ali, my best friend from New York, and Brittany, my cousin. Ali’s eyes are sad, and she’s smiling at me in a way that screams pity. Brittany isn’t smiling at all—she’s crying. It’s then I realize I’m crying, too.
Moving my gaze back to Patrick, he sees the tears, and his expression falls.
For months I’ve been telling myself I can do this. I know how to do it. I was born and raised in this life, and I really don’t know any other. That doesn’t mean I don’t secretly want more, the thing every girl dreams about—true love—but right now, right this moment, looking into Patrick’s eyes, I feel nothing but fear. This can’t be all there is for me, can it?
I do deserve more, don’t I?
Then I remember.
I remember the real reason I’m here, and regret sinks in.
I know why. He knows why. Hell, everyone in this room probably does. And, here I am.
With his eyes locked on mine, his carefully constructed wall slips, and staring back at me is the boy I’ve known most of my life
. Before all of this—the expectations, the planning, the political aspirations, the lying—we were friends, and underneath it all, even after all of this, he still wishes I were someone else, and he knows I desperately want to be anywhere else but here.
As my father and I reach the end of the aisle, the strings stop, and a deafening silence blankets the inside of the church. Patrick and I continue to stare at each other, lengthening the moment until my father clears his throat. This is his way of letting us know it’s time, and Patrick’s eyes slide from me to him as if commanded. The muscles around his eyes tighten as the two men communicate nonverbally, and I watch Patrick’s wall re-erect as he slips into the role he’s meant to play. His lips twitch at one corner, the telltale sign of a smirk, and just like that, whatever emotional moment we were having is over. He smells victory for the one thing he wants most in his life—his career.
“Who gives this woman to this man in marriage?” the minister calls out.
“Her mother and I do,” my father says.
Turning me to face him, he gently lifts my veil, kisses my cheek, and then returns the sheer curtain to its proper place. He avoids making eye contact, and given our opposing stances on this marriage, I understand why.
Stepping toward Patrick, my father shakes his hand and then places my right hand in his left. Patrick’s hand is cold, and I find this fitting since he’s become so coldhearted and disconnected. A shiver runs through me.
My soon-to-be husband leads me up the steps to the altar. Ali reaches over for my bouquet, my other bridesmaids fluff out the back of my dress, and we come to stand in front of the minister.
“Please be seated.”
There is a soft chorus of clothes rustling behind us, but not a single person says a word. Brittany sniffles from over on my left, and Patrick’s grip on my hand tightens.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 27
