Savannah Breeze Read Online Free

think about taking the tuna off the menu for a while. Maybe substitute flounder.”
    â€œFlounder!” Daniel slapped the stainless-steel prep table with the flat of his hand. “Why don’t we just do fried catfish and hush puppies?”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it Tuesday,” I said, turning my back to him. “See you then.”
    â€œHey,” he said, sounding surprised. “Where are you going? It’s Sunday night. Weezie’s expecting us.”
    Most Sunday nights for the past couple of years, my best friend, Weezie Foley, and I have had a standing dinner date.
    The dinners had started as a girl’s-only affair, when we were both in deepest, darkest, divorce recovery. We’d meet at Weezie’s for drinks and dinner, and usually watch some old chick flick and fantasize about what it would be like to live in the moment of our favorite movies. Daniel had been added to the equation after he and Weezie became an item, and our number had since grown to five, with the addition of Weezie’s uncle James, and Jonathan McDowell, his significant other.
    The men were a great addition to the mix, because Daniel, after all, cooked like a dream, and James and Jonathan were gay men, so they liked everything we liked, plus they were both lawyers, which always comes in handy.
    â€œDamn,” I said, slapping my thigh. “I completely forgot. I’ve kind of got a date.”
    â€œSo bring him,” Daniel said.
    â€œNo,” I said quickly. “It’s not that kind of date. I mean, well, it’s complicated. Anyway, Weezie’ll understand. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow.”
    â€œA date?” Daniel raised one eyebrow. “The guy with the flowers?”
    â€œNone of your business,” I said. “See you Tuesday.”
    He shook his head, telegraphing his disapproval. “Has Weezie met this Ryan Edward Millbanks the third character?”
    â€œYou read the card? My private mail?”
    â€œSure,” Daniel said. “Some guy busts in my kitchen, wants to know where you are, and how business is, damn straight I read the card. Not that there was much on it. Who ever heard of a business card without an address?”
    â€œReddy is in asset management,” I said. “He’s from one of the finest old families in Charleston. He doesn’t need a business card to tell people what he does or where he lives. And I don’t need you checking up on my personal business.”
    â€œRight,” Daniel said sourly. “Because you have such good judgment where men are concerned.”
    â€œI hired you,” I reminded him. And I was tempted to add that I could fire him too if the need arose. But I wasn’t that stupid. And anyway, there was a very attractive man waiting out front to take me to dinner.
    â€œGive the gang my regrets,” I said, pushing open the swinging door to the dining room. “And from now on, stay out of my office.”

4
    On Mondays, my only real day off from the restaurant, I visit the home. Technically, Magnolia Manor Assisted Living is a “managed-care community,” but in reality, it’s an old folks’ home. A very fancy, very expensive old folks’ home, where my grandparents, Spencer and Lorena Loudermilk, have been living for the past three years.
    Granddaddy met me at the door to the trim little stucco cottage he and my grandmother share. He wore a pair of faded red sweatpants, a plaid flannel work shirt, and a Georgia Tech golf visor. His huge feet were stuffed, sockless, into unlaced work boots. He peered down at me for a moment through thick bifocals, his clear blue eyes sparkling once he realized who I was.
    â€œSugarpie!” he exclaimed, folding his long, thin arms around me. “When did you get back?”
    â€œBack?” I blinked. “Granddaddy, I haven’t been anywhere to come back from.”
    â€œEurope,” he said. “Your brother