How Sweet It Is Read Online Free Page A

not one of my favorite things.
    Suddenly my aunt calls for tea and fills a stainless-steel teakettle with water from the tap. “The sink water here is good,” she tells me. “At the coast, my stars. You could kill a few dozen seagulls with that nasty tap water. Always buy bottled when you go to the Outer Banks.”
    As though on cue, and in doggy agreement, Giovanni produces two barks.
    I’m not sure what to do with this tidbit of advice. So I do nothing but stand watching my aunt take out two mugs from a cabinet. One says Cherokee on it and has a painted bear. The other says Blowing Rock and has the face of an Indian maiden with large, dark eyes. From a tote bag that has You must do the thing you think you cannot do boldly scripted across it, she produces a Ziploc bag. “Shug,” she says as she spoons the contents of the bag into each mug, “you are going to like it here.”
    The Ziploc’s contents look to me like a dime bag of marijuana you would buy from a dealer in an Atlanta alley. What is Aunt Regena Lorraine doing with it?
    “I just love sassafras tea, don’t you?” she exclaims as she lifts the whistling teakettle and pours water into each mug.
    I don’t know; I’ve never tried it. Except for sweetened iced tea, I’m not a tea drinker. Hot coffee suits me, and I know where almost all of the Starbucks are located in Atlanta. I move to the sink to wash my hands and remove the slobber Giovanni placed there. As I dry my hands on a cotton towel, I see a can opener hanging on a small nail. I stoop to read the inscription on the stainless-steel handle. In a bold lime green font it states Always open with love . This strikes me as funny because I don’t think I’ve ever opened a can of condensed milk or cherry pie filling with love. Determination and frustration, for sure, but not love. My eyes scan the small kitchen to see other utensils hanging in odd places around the room.
    I am about to study more of them when Regena Lorraine summons me into the dining room. “Don’t want the tea to get cold, Shug,” she says. “Sassafras tastes best with steam rising from it.”
    As we sit across from each other at the wooden dining table, I think to myself that my aunt is my only connection to this small town called Bryson City. I don’t know another soul within a one-hundred-mile radius. And as eccentric as my sister Andrea and I have always thought our aunt to be, knowing her is better than knowing no one. I’m sure she’ll guide me on where to hand out my brochures and maybe even show me other venues for advertising my cake-decorating business to this mountain community.
    With satisfaction, Regena Lorraine breathes in the aroma of her mug of tea. Steam is rising from the liquid, causing her glasses to fog. “When is your first day to be at The Center?” she asks.
    I wonder where my grandpa keeps the sugar. “What?”
    “Have you called them yet?” Taking off her glasses, she wipes them with the fabric around the neck of her dress.
    “Called who?”
    She laughs, but I can’t see what is so funny. “They are going to love you!”
    “Who?” I ask. I want to say, “What in the world are you talking about?” but I don’t. My mother would consider that pure rudeness. I think of how to rephrase the question so that it will come across as polite and make my mother proud of me. “Can you explain this to me?”
    “Explain? Oh my, Shug.” My aunt places her glasses on the bridge of her nose and then takes a long drink. “Delicious!” she says, and laughs again.
    Uncertainty lines my face; I can feel it in every pore.
    Fingers gripping the mug’s handle, Regena Lorraine peers at me. “You don’t know?”

five

    S uddenly I am back in the hospital with my body covered in sterile bandages. Sally and Jeannie are giving each other glances—knowing glances. You don’t know, Deena? Lucas has been two-timing you.
    “Lay it on me, Auntie,” I want to say. I don’t think I am capable of being shocked by