A Taste of Sugar Page 4

  But then Mr. Neil smiled and said, “Let me take this to the board and see what I can do,” and Charlotte decided she’d work on it tomorrow because Lionel dropped his napkin again, and Babette looked delighted at the outcome of her dinner.

  * * *

  When it came to family and favors, Jace knew that doing the right thing would likely come back and bite him in the ass. And this favor was going to leave marks. Hell, just standing there in the garage at Kiss My Glass and looking at the burned-out hull of the car his family wanted him to rebuild was already pissing off his chest. Even worse, it was bringing some pretty intense feeling that he’d thought he’d buried years ago.

  “Christ,” he mumbled, running a hand over his face and heading for the door—and space that didn’t reek of the past.

  He stepped out into the crisp autumn night and watched a couple of maple leaves blow down the empty cobblestone sidewalk and into the street. The cool air filled his lungs, and he did his best to get a handle on all the emotions threatening to take him under. When that didn’t work, he decided to ignore them.

  There had been a time in Jace’s life when he couldn’t imagine leaving the wide-open plains of Sugar, but that was before. Before that summer. Before the fire. And before he cost his family everything.

  But no matter how far he ran, how many shitholes he was sent to, how many battles he fought, he couldn’t seem to outrun the slug-size hole growing in his chest. Until he’d met Charlotte, and in typical Jace fashion, he’d destroyed that, too.

  Now he was back in the only place that had ever felt like home, surprisingly still married to the only woman he’d ever loved, and he was going to walk away. Again.

  And wasn’t that fan-fucking-tastic, he thought, crossing Maple Street and bypassing his truck—not to mention the dozen texts from his brothers telling him to get his butt to dinner. And since sitting at the family table surrounded by his brothers and their ball-and-chain bliss required a few drinks, he headed for the swinging doors of the local honky-tonk.

  He was happy for what his brothers had built. Happy that they’d found that same insane connection and undeniable love that their parents shared. He really was. But being surrounded by everything he wanted, everything he’d once had, knowing he was never going to get it back made his chest hurt.

  And tonight he’d let his own selfish needs take precedence, because his family didn’t ask him for much, which was why telling them no was going to suck. This was one favor he couldn’t come through on. And even if he could, he wouldn’t be around long enough to rebuild that car.

  Hell, all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough for him to rebuild that car, and he only had two days.

  Jace took a deep breath and entered the Saddle Rack. Stepping inside the bar was like wading neck-deep in his past, literally. The dark wood dance floor, neon beer signs, and mile-long bar top was exactly the same as when he’d left. Even worse, there wasn’t a face he didn’t recognize—and they all seemed to recognize him back.

  Tipping his ball cap at half the town, Jace headed straight for the bar, passing the other half, it seemed, and stopped.

  Well, shit. His brother Brett was seated in their old spot at the far end of the counter. An empty stool on one side of him, two frosty longnecks on the other. And he was waiting. The smug, brother-knows-best look said he was waiting for Jace—that he knew he’d bail on the family dinner and come here instead.

  Locking eyes, Brett lifted his beer and saluted—challenging Jace to avoid him now.

  He considered just that, except Sunday night football had taken over the Saddle Rack, so there wasn’t another spare seat in the joint. Otherwise Jace would have taken his beer and found somewhere that didn’t stink of “projects” and disappointment. Jace took the stool next to Brett, making sure to jab him a few times while getting settled. “Shouldn’t you be at home eating dinner?”

  “I could ask you the same,” Brett said, sliding a beer in front of Jace.

  “Was going to grab a drink then head on over,” he lied, and Brett knew it but didn’t call him on it.

  “Cal bet you were just running late.”

  “Cal’s always been my favorite brother.”

  “That’s because he didn’t know half the shit you pulled growing up. Which is why I put twenty on you hiding out here instead of facing Grandma.” Brett clinked his bottle against Jace’s and lifted it in a toast. “Here’s to you being a total pussy.” Then took a long pull.

  Unable to argue that, Jace joined him, the cold liquid doing not a thing to help his breathing.

  “Now that that’s settled, why don’t you go thank your wife for making that fancy dinner?”

  “You say that like I didn’t already try.” Brett eyed him—hard—then toed the brown paper bag at his feet. A little puff of heavenly smelling steam escaped. “Mom’s meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes, Hattie’s green beans, and a whole pecan pie.”

  “You brought me dinner?”

  “Hell, no, I brought you this.” He gave Jace a swift punch to the shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “That is from Joie,” Brett said, going back to his beer. “When you didn’t show, she packed up two helpings and a whole pie to go. Said I couldn’t have dessert until she knew you’d been fed. The mommy flip was switched and she can’t do anything until everyone is taken care of now. So take the damn food. Eat it, and fast. Then call Joie and tell her how delicious it was, so she’ll give me my dessert before one of us falls asleep.”

  Jace leaned over and peeked inside the bag. It looked good and smelled even better. Like garlic and grease and his childhood—and home. God, it smelled like home. “Hey, there’s a piece of pie missing.” He eyed Brett. “Like a half-the-pie piece.”

  “You’re lucky I left you anything. Do you realize my daughter is fed and bathed and fast asleep?” Brett looked at Jace with the eyes of a man who hadn’t seen more than four hours of sleep a night in the past nine months. “In her crib, man. Not my bed. Her crib. And instead of me getting my ‘taken care of time’ I am here. With you.”

  Brett dropped his head on the bar top with a thunk, and Jace actually felt for the guy. Little Lily Anne McGraw, with her blonde curls and Daddy-do eyes, came out swinging. It was amazing how a kid smaller than a gas can had the ability to wrap a PGA superstar around her pudgy little finger with one coo.

  “Yeah, well, I spent most of the day trying to figure out how the hell you got ahold of a ’61 Stingray just like Dad’s,” Jace said, the last few words getting caught in his throat, making it hard to breathe. Jesus, he hadn’t felt this kind of slow suffocation since he was a teenager. “By this evening I realized it was Dad’s.”

  Which seemed impossible. Jace had come to terms a long time ago that the car he’d spent two summers rebuilding with his dad was gone. His dad had sent it off to be repainted, cherry red like Hattie had wanted, then the fire had happened, and when none of the local shops had a record of the car, he’d considered it lost.

  “Are you pissed because I didn’t tell you or because it was Dad’s?”

  Jace wisely didn’t respond, taking another pull of his beer instead. Only three people in the world had the ability to read Jace like a book. One was gone, the other wanted him gone, which left his brother Brett. “Where did you find it?”

  “When the crew was demoing what was left of the old farmhouse, they found it under the collapsed boathouse,” he said, referring to the small garage that had been near the lake on their parents’ property.

  Last year, Brett had retired from the professional golf circuit to raise a family in Sugar—and he’d chosen to build his home on their parents’ property. Kudos to Brett for making himself and his family a home, but it’s not what Jace would have done with the property. Not that anyone asked Jace how he felt about it—just like they hadn’t asked him how he felt about rebuilding his dad’s old car.

  “What was it doing in there?” The shed was near the water, and that was the last place to keep that k
ind of car.

  “I don’t know, but Hattie’s already been telling folks that she’s going to ride in it with her new granddaughter for the Founder’s Day Parade. Excited about there being three generations of McGraws,” Brett said, making what Jace was about to say that much worse.

  Hattie cruising the Founder’s Day Parade in the Stingray was a family tradition. It started the year she’d married Ray McGraw and continued with her sitting beside her son, years later her new daughter-in-law, then again every year each of the boys had been born. It was a rite of passage in the McGraw family, her way of making a public declaration that this was her family. These were her people.

  Then, the summer before Jace turned fifteen, they lost his parents and the car to a fire, and with it the tradition.

  “I told Dale I’d be back in Atlanta by Tuesday,” Jace said. “There is no way I can get that fixed before I leave.”

  “Use some of that vacation time you’ve been accumulating,” Brett said, as though it were that simple. Jace was secretly relieved that it wasn’t. And didn’t that make him a prick. “If Dale knew it was for Hattie, he would give you the time off.”

  And here was the second conversation he’d been trying to postpone. “Dale needs cash to expand the Beverly Hills location, so he’s selling the Atlanta shop.”

  Brett’s eyes went wide. “He’s selling? Wow, he’s been talking about it for years, but I never thought he’d actually do it.”

  “He’s selling the Atlanta shop to me.”

  There was a long, weighted silence as Brett took in exactly what that meant. Jace knew the minute Brett put it together—Jace buying Dale’s shop meant he was finally putting down roots. A safe two hundred miles from his family.

  Two hundred miles away from watching his nieces grow up. From his brothers. From the past.

  “I’m happy for you, bro. I wish it was closer to us, but I get it,” Brett said, and Jace felt his chest relax a little, because if anyone could understand Jace’s need for space, it was Brett. Before he’d met Joie, Brett had done his fair share of running, too. Sure, now he was happily living the domesticated dream in Sugar—he deserved it. But even if Jace had thought he deserved that life, it wasn’t his dream. Not anymore.

  “Does Hattie know?” he asked.

  Jace shook his head. “I haven’t told anyone yet.” Except Charlotte. “There is some paperwork I have to get finished up before we can finalize the deal, but Dale is determined to close by the end of October. Which is why I have to head back to Atlanta in a few days.”

  Even if he couldn’t get Charlotte to agree to come, maybe he could get her to sign some kind of official statement saying she wanted the annulment to go forward. Or maybe he’d just throw her in his truck. Either way, he wasn’t missing his meeting with the recorder.

  “Congratulations, I know this is what you’ve wanted.” When Jace didn’t say anything, Brett added, “This is what you want, right?”

  “Owning a garage like Atlanta Motorsports?” Jace snorted. “It’s been my dream since I was eleven and Dad took me to that car show in Atlanta and I got to sit in that ’65 Le Mans Ferrari.”

  Brett’s smile stayed in place, but there was something about it that felt forced. “What are you going to do about Dad’s car?”

  Guilt rolled through him, pinching his skull. “I know a guy who does clean work and owes me a favor.”

  Brett let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Make sure I’m there when you tell Hattie that you aren’t doing the work. I’d like to see what that looks like, because ever since she saw that article on you in Car and Driver she’s been telling anyone who’ll listen how you’re going to use all those fancy skills to get the Stingray looking like the day she came home.”

  Last month, Car and Driver magazine had done a spread on the top ten up-and-coming exotic car specialists in the country, and Jace had damn near topped the list. It was what had finally convinced Dale to sell. Jace’s reputation as an engine specialist had put him in high demand, keeping Dale’s shop booked months in advance. When that article was published, offers flooded in and Dale knew that if he didn’t sell the shop to Jace then Jace would eventually move on and open his own. He was practically running Dale’s as it was.

  “I said I’d look at the car,” Jace defended, his stomach feeling squirrelly. “I did, and there is no way I can get that fixed before I leave.”

  “Did I mention she cut out the article and showed it to her knitting group?” Brett said, and, yup, he was going to be sick. Or his heart was going to explode right out of his chest.

  Jace came back to Sugar with a clear goal: get in, get a signature, and get back to Atlanta to open his shop. No detours, no pit stops, just a straight shot toward something good. But to let down the woman who had sacrificed so much to make sure he had a loving home after his parents passed? Who could do that?

  He sure as hell couldn’t, not when he knew what parading through town in that car meant to her.

  “Then she hung it on the fridge. It’s next to Payton’s report card,” Brett added, and Jace wanted to punch him.

  Chapter 4

  In the South, the difference between voicing a concern and staging a coup wasn’t always clear. But Charlotte had faced off with enough entitled debutantes to know the difference. And Darleen Vander, with her couture smile and holier-than-thou pearls, was gunning for Charlotte’s job. She wanted to be the regent of the Sugar Peaches. Plain and simple.

  Not that it was a surprise. Darleen had been trying to steal Charlotte’s thunder ever since pre-K when Charlotte snagged the role of Dorothy in their school’s performance of The Wizard of Oz—leaving Darleen to play Toto. That the woman was doing it in Charlotte’s house, though, in the middle of her emergency Sugar Peaches meeting, while helping herself to a second glass of Charlotte’s sweet tea, took this from a silly competition to a feud in the making.

  Charlotte never backed down from a challenge, and a feud with the Vanders didn’t scare her. In fact, she had spent all last night coming up with the perfect plan to secure that endowment, and she needed the Sugar Peaches on her side.

  All of them. And losing her cool, even though she was boiling mad inside, wouldn’t help win friends and influence the right people.

  “The last time this leadership took it upon themselves to buck tradition we ended up with the entire Miss Peach court in cuffs,” Darleen said, and a collective gasp filled the room. Because everyone knew that by “leadership” Darleen meant Charlotte.

  “Cuffs are a bit of an exaggeration,” Charlotte clarified. The girls may have spent the night in the sheriff’s drunk tank, but no cuffs were involved. “And it worked out in the end. The skills they learned during their community service were priceless, and the experience gave two of them something to write about on their college entrance essays.”

  Not to mention Charlotte gained four extra interns for the pediatric ward. As far as she was concerned, it was a good experience had by all.

  “And I am not suggesting that we buck tradition.” She looked at the over-sixty group since they were the ones who had the hardest time with change, and she let loose a slow, serene smile that had the silvered ladies smiling back. “I want to expand on what our town’s founder envisioned. Our community has grown, and our Founder’s Day Fair needs to reflect that. This new parade route allows for twice the amount of premiere seating for spectators and more booths.”

  “We don’t need more seating or more booths.” Darleen stood, pressed her skirt down, and shifted to face the crowd—transforming Charlotte’s meeting into a cohosted event. “What we need is to go one year without some kind of scandal. The Sugar Peaches is one of the most honored and respected societies in town. People look to us with regard to standards and tradition, and we need to remember that as we consider other options. Each of these small concessions might lead to an unraveling of what we hold dear.”

  “No need for the dramatics,” Hattie McGraw, the most dramatic woman in town, said. She was a
lso the eldest member of one of the founding families—and Jace’s grandma. “The girl’s talking about adding three lousy blocks to the parade, not challenging the moral fiber of our organization. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Charlotte nodded, feeling the sudden need to obtain her grandmother-in-law’s approval. Which was ridiculous since no one knew about her marriage to Jace. “No, no moral fiber being challenged, just the location.”

  That got a few chuckles, and Charlotte found herself relaxing.

  “And I’m not going to pretend that these changes wouldn’t help the Grow Clinic, but it also addresses some of the problems we’ve been facing. Having the parade end at the Medical Center, and having the fair in the parking lot, will give us more space. That way spectators and vendor tents won’t be fighting for the same locations. Placing the booths at the end of the route leaves all of Maple Street for the families who want to watch the parade. We can even add ten percent more booths this way. More booths mean more money.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting,” Darleen said with so much sugar in her tone Charlotte felt herself forming a cavity. She held up a copy of the day’s agenda. “Since according to this, the next topic of discussion is this year’s benefactor for the Founder’s Day pot. As our current regent, what organization were you going to propose again?”

  Every year, a portion of the profits was allocated to the Miss Peach college scholarship fund and the remaining portion was given to a local organization of the group’s choosing. They had yet to officially decide who this year’s recipient would be, but everyone in the room knew that Charlotte was going to nominate the Grow Clinic. It had been the center of her campaign platform when she was running for regent. But with the way Darleen was presenting the Grow Clinic now, it would appear as though Charlotte was capitalizing on her position in the Peaches to benefit her charity.