“Well, weddings bring out the best in some folks—and the worst in others. Erin and her brother—he was the one chasing Jasper too—are really good at smoothing out the rough spots to make it a perfect bridal day,” Shortie laughed, unabashed and booming. Abigail couldn’t help but smile back. “Though I’ll have to ask her if she’s ever had a run-away ring bearer before.”
“So, you work with Erin?”
"I'm her favorite caterer,” Shortie nodded, helping her up onto the curb after they crossed. "Her husband is a buddy of mine so, when I decided to start catering, we all started working together."
“Like wedding planners?”
“It’s like wedding planners plus. Erin does all sorts of crazy things to make sure her brides have the perfect day up to and including wearing a bridesmaid’s dress.” They paused beside her front steps. Abigail glanced at her grandmother’s empty planters and quickly looked away, eyes stinging.
“Are you in more pain?” Shortie asked with concern. “Please let me take you to get checked out.”
“I’m fine. I was just thinking that I need to put getting flowers for the planters on my to-do list,” Abigail reassured him. She put her foot up on the brick step and winced. She bit her lip. How would she ever make it up the 12 steps just to the front door?
Shortie swept her into his arms, grunting as he shifted to hold her under her knees and across her shoulders. She gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck, as he carried her up the stairs and into the foyer. She opened her mouth to insist he put her down but all that came out was, “You smell like cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon, sugar, and lemons are the magic ingredients in everything,” Shortie grinned at her, causing the freckles coating his cheeks to form new constellations on his skin. “But don’t tell anyone my secret, okay?”
Abigail nodded solemnly.
“Which door is yours?”
"I'm on the second floor," Abby said. "I can walk."
“It’s no problem,” Shortie strode up the staircase, still holding her. The sunlight streaming through the landing window highlighted the gold flecks in his denim blue eyes. His nose was too long for him to be truly handsome but his warm eyes and kind smile gave him a pleasant face. Abigail quite liked looking at it.
He took her key from her and unlocked the door to her apartment. He walked in and deposited her on the nearest armchair; her grandmother’s reading glasses clattering to the floor when he knocked them off the arm. He picked them up and gingerly placed them on the table, before dashing into the kitchen. He rattled around in the freezer before returning to the living room.
He removed her sneaker and sock, his fingers gentle, before placing the makeshift icepack wrapped in her best tea towel across her swollen ankle. The ice cooled her throbbing ankle, bringing immediate relief. “Feel better?”
“Thank you,” Abigail nodded. He pulled the colorful granny square afghan from the couch and tucked it over her.
“It’s me who should be thanking you,” Shortie laughed. “If you hadn’t grabbed Jasper’s leash, that dog would’ve been halfway to Atlanta.”
“He’s just a puppy,” Abigail smiled, remembering the gleeful way the dog dashed down the path, overjoyed with his Frisbee prize.
“Good thing he’s cute,” Shortie agreed before his phone trilled. “Yeah, Leo. Be right there.”
"The wedding crowd is hungry," Shortie tucked his phone in his back pocket. "What else can I get you or do for you?"
“You need to get back to your catering. I’ll be fine, Mr.—uh, Shortie.”
“Are you sure?” He chewed his lip. His phone trilled again.
“Your minions are calling,” Abigail shifted back in her chair, fighting the urge to wince as her muscles she hadn’t even realized she had protested. “You’d better go. It was nice to meet you.”
“Come by The Pie Plate sometime. Best praline donuts in the south.”
Abigail nodded, having no intention of ever visiting. She liked the quiet and comfort of her routine, though, even after Shortie left, she noticed that the apartment seemed much quieter than usual.
Chapter 3
The following day, Abigail woke up stiff and sore in unaccustomed places. Still, she dragged herself out of bed, setting her weight carefully on her injured ankle. She’d promised to visit her grandmother for lunch today, no matter how much she didn’t want to set foot in hated Savannah Ponds ever again. After breakfast, she folded the colorful granny square afghan from the sofa and gathered her grandmother’s reading glasses before setting out.
When she was just 12 years old, Abigail moved in with her grandmother, freeing her mother to focus on Abigail’s younger brother’s blossoming modeling and singing career. At four, he’d been perfectly cute and employable. At 12, in the full awkwardness of puberty, she’d been anything but. Her grandmother took her in, giving her a place to hide from the world in comfort. Now, fifteen years later, her grandmother chose to move into Savannah’s newest, thriving retirement community, full of active seniors, apparently deciding that if Abigail wouldn’t be pushed out of the nest, she’d vacate it herself.
At just before noon, Abigail drove up the sweeping lane, shaded by enormous oaks and bordered by emerald lawns. Savannah Ponds was carefully designed to be inviting, ignoring the depressing reality that this place was the end of the line for its residents. Abigail still couldn’t picture her vibrant grandmother thriving in what the brochures euphemistically referred to as a senior community.
Her grandmother chose a two-bedroom apartment, overlooking one of the smaller ponds, near the golf course. The triple story hunter green building blended into the surroundings, with white screened-in porches delineating each apartment. Wind chimes danced in the breeze, harmonizing into a welcoming medley, that somehow just made Abigail more annoyed at the bucolic perfection of the place. Abigail hobbled her way up the outer stairs and knocked, unaccustomed to having to wait for her grandmother to answer the door, a visitor to her grandmother’s home now, instead of it being her home too.
Her grandmother's roommate, Linda, opened the door and ushered her in. Linda wore a floor length floral robe and entirely too much gummy coral lipstick, to match her improbably colored hair. Linda waved her inside, the reflected light from the pond glimmering off the reading glasses perched on her head. Another pair dangled from a chain on her neck. Gram bustled out from the back bedroom, dressed in tailored camel colored pants and a sweater set the exact color of bubblegum. Her champagne hair was perfectly curled, and her makeup expertly applied, though they were only going to the Savannah Ponds Cafe for lunch. Gram took Abigail's hands and bussed her cheek in greeting, yet another reminder that everything had changed.
“I brought you your glasses,” Abigail held them out. “And your afghan.”
“Thank you for the glasses, dear, but I have five pairs just like them. That blanket just doesn’t work in here, does it, Linda? It’s a little too old lady-ish for us,” Gram waved to the living room, decorated in shades of ivory and cream and looking like a magazine spread. “You take that back home. Linda’s not quite ready for lunch yet so let’s sit here and have a chat while we wait.”
Abby frowned. She hadn’t realized Linda would be joining them for lunch. Selfishly, she wanted to have time with her beloved grandmother all to herself.
“Why are you limping, Abigail?” Her grandmother demanded as Abigail slowly lowered herself to the brocade sofa. She found it comfortable, and her irritation only increased.
“I fell.”
“When?”
"Yesterday, after I finished moving boxes here, I went for a walk in the park," Abigail said. "I caught the leash of a runaway puppy. He kept running, and I didn't."
“Goodness,” Her grandmother twisted her pearls, a nervous habit. Maybe some things stayed the same.
“Turns out he was the ring bearer in a wedding but got distracted by a Frisbee,” Abigail laughed, thinking of Jasper’s obvious joy. “So, I ended up hitting my head an
d twisting my ankle before rolling into the mud. Quite a spectacle.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“No. Shortie—“
“Who’s Shortie?”
"That's the guy who helped me—Shortie Campbell. He owns The Pie Plate,” Abigail rushed on as her matchmaker of a grandmother's hazel eyes narrowed. "He wanted me to go, but I'm okay. Not much injured other than my pride."
“So you had an adventure at last!” Her grandmother beamed at her, clasping her hands together over her heart. Abigail fought the urge to roll her eyes like a surly teenager. “Mallory Kent met her husband just like that!”
“Mrs. Kent caught the leash of a runaway canine ring bearer in Forsyth Park?”
“Don’t be so literal, Abigail. She slipped and fell in the mud. Joe Kent came to her rescue, and the rest is history. They were married 51 years,” Gram grinned. "Didn't I tell you that you'd meet someone this year?"
“You’ve said that every birthday for the past five years,” Abigail smiled wryly at her grandmother. “Gram, things don’t happen like that now. It’s all dating apps and hookups.”
“Romance exists, Abigail.”
“Maybe so, Gram,” Abigail bit her lip on the rest of her thought: Just not for me. She didn’t want to rehash her old argument with Gram today, especially on her first visit to her grandmother’s new home. “Tell me how you’re settling in.”
“Tell me more about Shortie Campbell.”
“Not much to tell,” Abigail lied, fighting the heat creeping up her neck. She’d done little else but think of Shortie since yesterday. He’d simply been being kind. No sense hoping for more or even imagining it.
“Was he one of the groomsmen?”
“No, he was delivering the cake,” Abigail grinned at the memory. “But he was kind enough to walk me home and get me ice for my ankle.”
“He sounds like a gentleman. Perhaps he has a job in the bakery for you?”
“I can barely boil water. I doubt a bakery would be a good fit for me,” Abigail shook her head. “But he did mention that his friend is always looking for bridesmaids.”
“You need a paying job, Abigail.”
“It would be a paying job. These are professional bridesmaids.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
"Me either. Apparently, his friend Erin is quite successful at it."
"You should do it, Abigail. It'd be good for you. You'd be around people your own age, and maybe you'll meet someone."
“I don’t want to meet anyone, Gram,” Abigail sought to head off their constant argument. The heavy weight of guilt fell on her like a cloak. Perhaps if Abigail had been more willing to try to date, her grandmother wouldn’t have deserted her home for this geriatric dorm. “The place looks nice. You’ve gotten a lot of unpacking done.”
He grandmother sighed heavily and opened her mouth to argue just as Linda bustled back into the room, dressed in a different flowing floral muumuu in lurid colors. Abigail tugged her freshly washed nubby brown cardigan tighter over her chest, feeling rather like a wren among peacocks. “Ready to go meet the Romeos, Nancy?”
“You bet,” Her grandmother stood.
“Romeos?” Abigail asked.
"Retired Old Men Eating Out," Linda explained. "Hurry, Nan, or we'll miss getting the best seats."
In her whole life, Abigail had never heard anyone call her grandmother ‘Nan.’ So many sudden changes. No wonder she felt just a bit lost and disoriented, like Alice down the rabbit hole. She trailed behind her grandmother to the lunchroom, wondering how her life could have turned upside down so quickly and if she’d ever get over this sense of things being topsy-turvy again.
Chapter 4
Shortie Campbell never liked gardening. When he was little, his grandfather paid a penny a weed to keep Shortie busy in the massive flower boxes lining the windows of The Pie Plate. Once Shortie realized that several hours of industrious weeding resulted in a less than a dollar payout, he lost interest. He enjoyed looking at flowers well enough but not growing them. So he had little explanation for why he found himself, on a precious Monday morning off, carefully mixing new topsoil in the empty planters outside Abby’s apartment. Since he’d seen her home on Saturday, he couldn’t quite forget the bleak sadness in her eyes when she saw the empty planters.
He eased the first azalea plant out of its plastic pot and gently kneaded the root ball before placing it in the waiting soil. The rich, slightly sweet smell of the loamy potting soil rushed up as he patted the covering into place. He eyed the oyster clouds scudding across the sky, obscuring the weak sunshine. Hopefully, he’d get both plants in their new homes before the forecasted rain arrived.
A set of low-heeled navy blue pumps appeared next to the planter and paused. “Mr. Campbell?”
“It’s Shortie,” He grinned at Abby, who stood surveying him warily, her big brown eyes wide.
“What are you doing?”
“I dropped by to check on you,” Shortie eyed her as he picked up the second azalea bush. She wore a prim, boxy navy blue suit, with a high-collared white blouse. In her arms, she carried two empty boxes, a neat leather portfolio on top. “No worse for wear?”
“I’m fine,” Abby answered in a cool tone. “Thank you.”
“Been for a job interview?”
Abby glanced down at herself and then nodded once, “I visited my temp agency.”
“Didn’t have anything?”
“Unfortunately, not,” Abby sighed. “What are you doing?”
“I brought you flowers but didn’t think you’d be up to planting them,” Shortie patted the second azalea into place.
Abby blinked at the two planters and then smiled shyly, “Thank you. They’re lovely.”
“Least I could do after you saved the wedding,” Shortie split a bottle of water between the two planters and tugged off his gardening gloves. “What are the boxes for?”
“Packing up.”
“You’re moving?”
“If I don’t find a job soon, I’m going to have to,” Abby answered, then chewed her full lower lip. “I don’t suppose you’d have any openings at your bakery.”
“Not at the moment,” Shortie shook his head. “Erin’s still looking for bridesmaids though.”
“I’ve got no experience at being a bridesmaid,” Abby shook her head, causing a honey brown tendril to slide loose from her updo to curve against her cheek.
“You don’t need any experience.” Shortie grabbed his phone and tapped before raising it to his ear. “Erin, I think I found a bridesmaid to help out. Her name’s Abby. I’ll send her over to chat with you. Is about one good?”
“Mr. Campbell!“ Abby grabbed his arm, her small hand tightening around his forearm, her brown eyes wide.
“No one calls me Mr. Campbell. It’s Shortie,” He stowed his phone in his back pocket and plucked the boxes out of Abby’s arms. “And now you’ve got just enough time for lunch before your interview. Let me put these boxes upstairs for you and we’ll go grab a sandwich.”
“But—“ Abby called as Shortie hit the first step.
He turned back to watch her worry her lip,“Did you have a better idea?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Shortie dropped the boxes in front of her door and headed back downstairs. Abby stood, still chewing her lip, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. He handed her the portfolio and she took it, falling into step beside him. The gathering clouds turned the day gray as the cool breeze whipped Abby’s skirt against her legs.
“When did your grandmother pass away?”
“Oh, she’s not dead,” Abby shook her head, securing her skirt against her thighs with one hand. Shortie took the portfolio back from her and she shot him a grateful smile as she struggled against the wind. “She moved out to Savannah Ponds.”
“The retirement place?”
“I think they call it a senior living center. You know it?”
“Yeah,” Even now, two years aft
er his grandfather passed, Shortie still missed him. He swallowed hard. “It’s a nice place.”
“I suppose so,” Abby scowled. “I just don’t see why she didn’t want to stay here.”
“She’s from here?”
“Near enough. She moved here after she married my grandfather forty years ago and just never left,” Abigail answered. “He died when I was young and I moved in with her when I was 12. It doesn’t seem like home without her.”
“I understand.”
“And it’s not going to be home much longer if I don’t find a job.”
“I get that too.”
“I just—I’m not so good with change.”
“Who is?” Shortie shrugged. “But maybe you’ll like living alone.”
“Perhaps,” Abby tucked her hair behind her ear. “I think she got so tired of trying to push me out of the nest that she left herself.”
Shortie joined the queue from a food truck on the Drayton Street side of Forsyth Park. "This okay?"
"Just coffee for me." Abby grabbed her small blue purse, but Shortie placed his hand over hers. Her fingers stilled.
“It’s my treat,” Shortie said. “You’ve got a big interview coming up.”
They took their sandwiches—turkey on rye for her and a sub with all the trimmings for him—and sat on a bench, a stand of trees breaking the wind. “Isn’t this where I fell in the mud the other day?”
“I think that’s it.” Shortie pointed to a patch of bare grass. “You’ve got good instincts to grab that dog’s leash like that.”
"I guess I can become a dog walker if all else fails,” Abby grinned. "Gram's allergic, so I never had a dog growing up."
“See, change can be good, right?” Shortie encouraged her. “Maybe you can get a puppy.”
“I suppose. Though I better find a job first or I’ll be sharing his kibble,” Abby took a tiny bite of her sandwich. “Any tips for this interview you’ve set up for me?”
Kiss a Bridesmaid (Always a Bridesmaid Book 3) Page 2