Gone With a Handsomer Man Read Online Free Page A

over me. I squatted beside the staircase, fit my inhaler into my lips, and sucked in the bitter Ventolin. I was dying for a cup of tea but when I get tired, I get clumsy. Even if I drank water from the tap, I’d break the faucet. If I stayed longer than a night, I’d want to cook barbecued ribs and fry a batch of coconut shrimp, but a house like this cried out for cheese soufflé and cold watermelon soup.
    I couldn’t see myself cooking here. I’d inherited the untidy gene—all the Templeton women had it. We cooked from scratch, creating feather-light biscuits. But we also made epic messes. I wasn’t built for high-class living. I let the dishes pile up in the sink; I didn’t always eat at the table. Home was a place where I could eat Oreo Cakesters in bed. Only I couldn’t get home. And I was stuck in a museum.
    After a while, I got to my feet and grabbed the banister. It shifted to the right, like it was ready to fall down. The stairs gave indignant squeaks as I climbed to the second floor—a sign that the Spencer-Jackson House and I weren’t going to get along.
    “Oh, shut up,” I told the staircase. When I reached the landing, I turned on the light. A gallery ran the length of the house, and the walls were lined with more pissed-off women. An arched window was open a crack, stirring the raspberry silk curtains. I caught the scent of sweet almond and thought of Mama. If she were here, she’d say, “Teeny, this house needs a little dirt. Go make mudpies.”
    The smell followed me down the hall, into a room with pink toile wallpaper and bedding. I unlocked the window and it glided right up—no broken glass or scuffed paint.
    I kicked off my shoes, pulled back the covers, and sank into the feather mattress. As I snuggled under the quilt, I thought about Bing. Was he hurt? Were those girls still with him?
    Last New Year’s Day, when my beloved Aunt Bluette lay on her deathbed, she’d made me promise I wouldn’t turn away from love. She’d practically raised me and knew how I was. “Teeny, don’t be afraid to let people see your frightened heart,” she’d said.
    I’d nodded and crossed my fingers behind my back. On that day, January first, I’d started an annual lie tally, and I’d just told fib number one. But I wanted her to leave this world with an easy mind and not worry about me in the hereafter.
    “I don’t want to look down from heaven and see you waiting tables at Hooters,” Aunt Bluette said, even though I’d quit that job two years earlier. I’d given it up because the tips were shitty and my boss had gotten too fresh. Aunt Bluette had put her foot down and said I needed a more peaceable job, so I’d started working in the Food Lion bakery. At first, I wasn’t trusted to decorate the cakes, so I worked the counter and doled out free cookies to kids. The bakery ladies warmed up to me, and before long I was making special-order cakes.
    Bing Jackson showed up at Aunt Bluette’s funeral and came back to her house with the mourners. I tried to place him as he walked around the dining table, piling food onto a plate. Spiral ham, bacon-deviled eggs, chicken and rice, seven-layer salad, and lemon chess pie. He gave me his card, Rodney Bingham Jackson III, and said to call him Bing. He’d been in Savannah when he’d read Aunt Bluette’s obituary. He was sorry for my loss, and if he could help in any way, such as listing the peach farm with his real estate company, just let him know.
    Bonaventure was an hour’s drive from Savannah. I sized Bing up right fast. An ambulance chaser. Out for himself. If he thought I’d hire him to sell this farm, he could think again. I was all set to show him to the door when he claimed he’d bought peaches from Aunt Bluette last year. He’d also bought one of her upside-down cakes with an out-of-this-world crumbly topping. He’d never tasted anything that good, even at Poogan’s Porch in Charleston.
    “Your aunt was a culinary genius,” Bing said.
    It