Gone With a Handsomer Man Read Online Free Page B

was true. The secret topping called for crushed pralines and pecans, with dark brown sugar, unsalted butter, and a dollop of molasses. The peaches were steeped in vanilla brandy for a solid month.
    He smiled. I smiled back. If you want to get to me, just talk about food.
    After the funeral, he kept coming around, driving all the way from Charleston. I talked to him through the screen door and wouldn’t even invite him in for coffee. Part of me didn’t trust him and the other part was grieving for my aunt. I tried to pack up her clothes, but they smelled just like her—vanilla extract and lemon furniture polish.
    The more I packed, the harder I cried. I felt woozy, as if I had twirled in a circle and fallen into a hole. There were gaps all over our orchard where trees had died. Aunt Bluette’s handyman, Mr. Tom, would yank them out with the tractor, leaving pits. I had a hole inside me just like that. Somewhere in the dirt-dark black, the truth was hidden, the truth of me, who I was and who I would become. But I was too grieved to think about the future.
    One afternoon I heard a car pull up the gravel drive. Bing got out of his Mercedes, and the sun hit his blond hair. I dried my tears and he took me to O’Charley’s for a steak dinner and said, “You and I, we’re alike. You lost your aunt, and I lost my daddy. We get each other, you know?”
    We drank two bottles of wine and went to his motel room. “Teeny, I love your brown eyes,” he said. “I love your name. Teeny. It suits you to a T.”
    The lovemaking was nice but unremarkable. No fireworks, just a little pffft , like the burp of a Tupperware container. If he’d been a pot of chicken soup, I would have tasted the broth and thought, It needs something else. I would have added salt, Tabasco, a grind of pepper.
    Prior to our date, I’d been in love twice. My first love, Cooper O’Malley, left me with a broken heart. My second, Aaron Fisher, up and died. What did I know about sex? Maybe it was just like getting used to expensive French wines when I had a taste for spritzers.
    “Was it good for you, too?” Bing asked.
    “Oh, yes,” I said. Lie number two.
    The next morning, Bing and I ate breakfast at Waffle House. While we lingered over a second cup of coffee, a rainstorm hit and we waited for it to clear. When we finally got back to Aunt Bluette’s, a hackberry tree had fallen on the roof. I’d never had to face a household emergency by myself.
    “Relax,” Bing said, “I’ll tend to this.”
    He went into the attic to check for leaks. Then he started making phone calls. Tree surgeons and a gutter man descended. I liked Bing’s efficiency, and he was a good kisser. So, why wasn’t I bowled over? He was a man-angel who’d swooped down to rescue me. Besides, I couldn’t run an orchard by myself. If I stayed in Aunt Bluette’s house, I’d have to let things go. My job at Food Lion wouldn’t cover the propane bill, much less the upkeep on a hundred-year-old home.
    Bing’s eyes said, Trust me. I’m the one . Though I couldn’t have said why, he reminded me of Aunt Bluette’s antique settee—the one with cream brocade, goose-down cushions, and carved rosewood feet. The perfect blend of beauty, comfort, and function.
    My Baptist guilt had prevented me from living with a man who wasn’t my lawfully wedded husband, but it didn’t stop me from driving back and forth to his house in Mount Pleasant. Bing thought a two-carat diamond would fix things right up. I bargained with Jesus and asked Him to cut me some slack. After all, the modern world made Sodom and Gomorrah look tame.
    I closed up the farmhouse, packed my turquoise Oldsmobile, and moved to Mount Pleasant. I planted an herb garden, organized the closets, and baked red velvet cupcakes. Bing worked long hours, but I didn’t want to complain. Then, an advertisement in the Post and Courier caught my attention. A Charleston neurosurgeon was selling a bulldog puppy. I drove to a white mansion