Sweet Tea Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Grandma’s Biscuits and Gravy

  About the Author

  Sneak Preview

  Sweet Tea

  Copyright © 2021 Piper G. Huguley

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Print: 978-1-952210-20-4

  eBook 978-1-952210-21-1

  www.hallmarkpublishing.com

  For my father, Neal Huguley, Jr. who cried when he heard I was being published by Hallmark Publishing:

  Goodnight, sweet Prince. And flights of angels

  sing thee to thy rest

  Chapter 1

  Thirty-two-year-old Allie Dailey had everything she’d ever wanted, but she could not sleep.

  Her favorite things to watch during these sleepless nights were the infomercials, especially with the same brunette lady who did all of the half-hour ones, making apple pies out of Wonder Bread and pressing her sandwiches into technological gadgets that amazed.

  When the sun came up, Allie could finally rest. For two hours.

  Then she had to get up and go to work at the law firm of Pichon, Boar and Ellis—soon to be Pichon, Boar, Ellis and Dailey, with her name added onto the end, because she had just made partner.

  Everyone in the niche world of intellectual property law was excited about a young woman, one of her age, caliber—and color, if she were honest with herself—coming to be part of a firm. She was one of a rare few in New York.

  Except Allie wasn’t excited.

  She couldn’t put a finger on quite why. The thing she had been working for all of her life was beyond her caring just now. It made no sense. This ho-hum feeling she had toward her life made no sense.

  The one perk she had worked so hard for—to have a car to drive her to work—was hers now. She had a regular driver who would come for her, so she could work in the car. Every minute of her time had value and was accounted for in some way.

  And today, the car wasn’t there. And it was raining.

  Stepping in front of the apartment building away from the doorman, her heart beat a little fast at this strange turn of events. Something must have happened, but she couldn’t imagine what. Her driver was always on time.

  Ahh, there was the car. Her usual driver, Frank, an elderly Italian gentleman, had been replaced by someone who had the same tone of brown skin she did.

  Frank spoiled Allie something fierce, and she usually enjoyed his supercilious manner and saw to it he was richly rewarded at Christmas and his birthday, ever since she had first qualified for this perk two and a half years ago.

  Today, this new person pulled the car up to the curb and sat there.

  She watched.

  This gentleman didn’t get out of the car to open the door for her. This gentleman didn’t seem to be looking for her. This gentleman just sat, as if it were up to her to teach him how to do his job.

  She bent at the waist and looked into the car. The man looked at her and waved, but went right back to his phone.

  She couldn’t have been more offended if she had been smacked by her grandma. This ignoring of her needs somehow felt as if she had been. Smacked by reality.

  But no, it was Frank’s car, right down to the midnight blue, the number on the Empire State license plate, and the heated fuchsia lumbar cushion in the back.

  On rainy April days like this one, Frank would greet her with an umbrella so her shoulder-length black bob would stay smooth and relaxed and not frizz out à la Angela Davis.

  Allie had no umbrella and no way of negotiating the space between the awning of her apartment building and the curb. The doorman gave the car a look and stepped up, wielding his umbrella.

  “Miss Allie, it looks as if you have a substitute on this rainy day. How about I take you to the curb?”

  Relief washed up on her. “Yes. Thank you. So much.”

  The doorman had a huge black-and-red striped umbrella, one of those inside-outside marvels, and with a flourish, he assisted her to the curb, where she uncertainly knocked on the window.

  The window moved down slowly and the shining face of the driver appeared. “How do?”

  It was the twang in his voice that hit her upside her perfectly coifed bob, threatening to shake it. And her.

  “Here is Miss Allie,” the doorman said.

  “Oh my, yes.” The driver reached over and opened the door for her. For the seat next to him.

  The doorman scowled and led Allie to the back seat, where her fuchsia cushion awaited. Frank would have had it plugged in, ready to smooth out the kinks in her back with warmth. But when she sat upon it, the cushion, ice-cold and stiff, gave her no love.

  “I hope Frank is okay,” the doorman said.

  A mixture of alarm and surprise began to stir in Allie like nothing had for at least a decade. “Me too.”

  The doorman gently let her in and went around to the front, where he gestured and shouted at the driver. “Get along there! Come on!”

  Once Allie was encased in the car, the driver started an apology tour, something she could have done just as well without.

  “Sis, if I’d known you was who I was supposed to pick up, I would have been here sooner. I’m so sorry. You Miss Dailey?”

  “I am,” Allie said with the chill of January in her voice, even though it was April.

  He began to go on the apology tour all over again.

  Sigh.

  “I’ll be late.” Allie smoothed her bob. “Let’s just leave.”

  She held up her hand to quiet him, because there was something in the twang of his voice that unsettled her. She tried to focus on her tablet to get some work done, but the pitch of his voice, his word choice kept burrowing into her head like a screw. “My wife is going to want to hear all about this for sure.”

  “Hear about what?”

  “You. Me driving you. Ain’t this something?”

  “Why would that be newsworthy? I’m no one.”

  The driver peered at her in the rear view mirror, which made Allie a little nervous. “Naw. You a Smithson. Aren’t you? I saw on the call sheet. It say Althea S. Dailey.”

  With a sweaty hand, Allie closed her tablet, then wiped it on her Burberry scarf. Was there nowhere she could go on this infernal planet without being recognized? Would she never be shed of her Georgia red clay roots? She cleared her throat so that th
is man could hear her clearly. “There are a lot of people named Smithson in the world.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, but with the shape of your nose, you a Smithson all right.”

  Sighing, she moved plastic surgery up higher on her mental to do list items. She hadn’t wanted to take the time off for a nose job in her chase toward partnership at the law firm of Pichon, Boar and Ellis, soon to be Pichon, Boar, Ellis and Dailey, but now that she had checked off that goal, she would go out to California to those Botched doctors and get her nose altered. Narrowed. Fixed. Something un-Smithsonable.

  Breathe.

  Do your exercises.

  Allie drew in deep breaths and blew them out through her mouth to slow down that familiar awful feeling that came whenever a panic attack started. One hadn’t happened in a very long time, because she had learned how to control them, but this recognition came without warning. Came without expectation. She thought she was safe from being recognized here in New York.

  She was wrong.

  “I didn’t mean to cause you any offense, ma’am,” he said.

  The breathing was working. She calmed down enough to fend off the panic attack. She blinked her eyes in gratitude. “Oh no. I just never expect to be recognized here in New York City. When did you graduate from Milford?”

  Judging from his voice, he didn’t suspect how shaken she was. Good. “Class of ’95, and my wife was ’97. You graduate from there?”

  “No. I came north. For school. I went to Columbia.”

  “I see. Well, it sure is good to see home folks up here in the cold north.”

  Allie gave a wry grin. “What about the ‘return to Milford?’”

  “What do you think I’m chauffeuring rich folks for, ma’am? I’m trying to save my money for a little patch of land to retire to down there. I can’t wait. I’m about four years away from my goal. My wife is a teacher. She’ll have put in her thirty years and then we’ll both go back home. It’s sure good to see you here, though. Which branch are you?”

  Allie sighed. “Miss Ada is my grandmother.”

  The man nearly ran up into the back of a taxicab in his excitement. She reached her hand out to brace herself for certain impact. “You don’t say? God, that woman is a pillar. I enjoyed every mouthful of her home cooking she put into my belly while I was in school. As if you couldn’t tell.” He patted his rotund belly. Fortunately, he was quite near the subway stop where she noticed her executive assistant, Connie, making her way toward the building. Connie, who was a few years younger than Allie and of West Indian descent, appeared to be pregnant with three babies, instead of the one they all knew was in there.

  “Can you pull over and pick up that woman there?” Allie pointed Connie out.

  “’Course, God bless her.”

  Allie pressed a button to let the window down. “What have I told you?” she called.

  Connie stopped her walking and straightened up. “Hey boss! I was trying to get there first.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Get in.”

  Allie slid over off of the back cushion onto the cool leather seat. Connie eased herself and her bulk inside, leaning back into the heat of the pad. “Man, you live the life, boss woman.”

  “I’ll get you one.”

  Connie opened her eyes. “You do enough for me. No more.”

  “No more of your stiff-necked pride. I’ll do what I want.”

  The driver up front chuckled. “You just as stiff-necked, Miss Allie. That’s how Smithsons are.” He glided out into the traffic with a smooth gesture. People who could drive like that were rare indeed.

  “Who’s he?” Connie pointed to the driver. “Where’s Frank?”

  “He’s off today, ma’am. I’ll drive you in so you are nice and dry.”

  Connie waved. “Yes, I appreciate that, sir. Heaven knows what I would have done without you nearby.”

  She made comedic faces in Allie’s direction that made her want to laugh—a refreshing change from the chest-tightening anxiety that had threatened to come over her just a few minutes before. Her heart gladdened at the sight of her work tower coming into view.

  “You cook like your grandmother?” the driver asked.

  “Oh no. I can’t even boil an egg.” Allie flipped her hand.

  Connie gave her the side-eye. Why is he all up in your business? her expression plainly conveyed. Connie knew all about how the legend of Allie’s grandmother overwhelmed her. Suffocated her. Frightened her.

  The car fell silent. What was wrong with what she had said?

  “I just pursued other things. That’s all.”

  “How is she?”

  “Oh, Granda is fine. As feisty as ever. She’s getting ready for the Graduation Day feast.” The picture of her active little grandmother popped into Allie’s head. Had it been four years since her last visit? Maybe five? What a shame. How much time had gotten away from her?

  Connie’s hand, swollen with the late-stage, late-in-life, unexpected pregnancy, slid over to hers and squeezed. You don’t have to answer these questions, Connie’s eyes said.

  Allie shook her head, keeping any anxiety at bay. “Indeed. I know it would have to be a little different in these strange times, but I’m glad she is still doing it.” It occurred to her, then. She was in her thirties and had not seen her Granda in years. Well, now that she had achieved her goal of making partner, maybe it was time to go see her.

  “She’s busy, all right.”

  Pulling into the garage so that they could get out of the car without worrying about the rain, he parked, came around and opened the door for them. Well, at least he had some sense. “It was so good to see you, Miss Althea. So good.”

  Connie ambled out past him, cutting her eyes at the driver, almost making Allie laugh out loud.

  His large arm reached out and squeezed her to him before she could stop him. When Allie pulled back from his embrace, she was mortified to see some of her brown foundation left behind on his black suit.

  “I’m, I’m sorry.” Allie didn’t know what else to say.

  “No worries. When I tell my wife I saw Miss Ada’s own grandchild, she won’t mind. You take care now.”

  Fairly skipping back to his driver’s seat, the man drove off, leaving Allie there in the garage with her face half made-up, half unmade.

  “You look like Two Face from Batman,” Connie informed her.

  “Of course I do, and here comes Mr. Pichon.” Allie held up her hand over her face.

  “Good morning, Allie. Got a new love interest?” Mr. Pichon turned to see the car driving off.

  “No, Max. An acquaintance from back home.” Allie turned so she could get into the bathroom to repair her sliding face.

  “From home?” The older man gave her a new look, as if he had never seen her before over the ten years she had been with the intellectual property firm. “I thought you were from here in New York.”

  Allie linked her arm through Connie’s so that she didn’t slip on the slippery pavement, or slick marble flooring inside the lobby. “No.” She shouldered her computer bag and turned around so he wasn’t facing her bad side. “I’m not.” Something pierced her soul. And she said it. “I’m from the South. Georgia. Coastal Georgia. Milford.”

  Mr. Pichon followed them.

  Unfortunately.

  “Well, isn’t that interesting. I would have never taken you for a southerner.”

  Her heels had clicked on the hard quartz floor, but then she stopped and the echo resonated in her brain. Allie opened her mouth, but Connie spoke for her, as she so often did. “What’s a southerner like?”

  Allie lowered her hand and faced him full on.

  The sprinkles of brown aging spots on Mr. Pichon’s balding pate stood out as he turned crimson. “Well, you know. The voice, the manner, the expression of a southerner. That’s not you, Allie. You’re a very—well—classy woman. Graceful.”

  Connie scoffed. “She’s not like a country hick, then?” They had arrived at the elevator bank an
d she pulled her arm out of the crook of Allie’s, freeing her to go to the lobby bathroom.

  Thanks.

  “Yes,” Mr. Pichon said. “I mean no. Just classy and elegant. Not…”

  “Southern.” Connie tapped her foot. Her ankles had disappeared a couple of weeks ago.

  Smothering another laugh, Allie added that cushion for Connie to her mental list. Pichon didn’t like to deal with Connie directly, so he had gotten what he deserved. Allie stepped briskly down the hall to the women’s restroom. Best to do the repair job here before she went upstairs.

  Pichon was trying to compliment her, she guessed, but it was hard, taking a look at herself in the mirror, not to react to all of these comments on her appearance today.

  Her nose, something she had seemed reconciled to lately, appeared wider than ever. She held down her nostrils with her fingers, imagining what it would look like at that width. Yes. Call Dr. DuBrow today. Good thing she did have a nice figure. Of course, she worked on herself like mad and made sure to do all of the healthy things whenever she could.

  She dug her compact out, repairing the mess the driver made, as the words about her nose resonated in her mind, and she focused on covering up the ache that comment had caused her by dusting her skin over with the cosmetic puff as she applied the acceptable shade of copper, taking the tone of her skin down two shades.

  It was extra effort, but worthwhile, to make sure her neck was made up to match as well. Her fingers were a little slippery and she gripped the puff a little harder.

  Had Pichon seen her natural color? What had he noticed?

  So much time. She spent so much time every morning performing this exercise. And for what?

  What if she took it all off?

  What if she abandoned the two-tones-lighter copper foundation?

  What if she let her hair grow out of her head as it was?

  What if she kept her nose as it was, without contour, shading, highlighting, hiding it in plain sight?

  The questions chased themselves around and around in her mind until they caught up with one another in a tangled mess.

  Allie’s laugh echoed throughout the bathroom chill, as she fixed her face and hair, in that order.