Any woman who’s had the privilege of growing up below the Mason-Dixon Line understands the history and tradition of a debutante ball. My mother was no exception. From the time I could walk, she started grooming me for my debut to polite society. I can still remember her little bits of advice to this day—tips she called her Debutante Rules. Of course, some of them were a little offbeat; but they did encourage me to become the best woman I could be. You see, my mama’s advice taught me that being a debutante is less about the long white gloves, the pageantry, and the curtsey, and more about a code of conduct that develops inner beauty, a sense of neighborly charity, and unshakable strength in character that sees us women through the good times and the bad. Later, as I traveled the world, I came to learn these rules of hers transcended borders, cultures, and economic status. In essence my mama’s Debutante Rules taught me that no matter where you’re from or who your people are, becoming the best person you can be is key to a happy life.
Debutante Rule #032: Like a magnolia tree, a debutante’s outward beauty reflects her strong inner roots . . . and that’s why we never leave the house without our makeup on.
Frances Simms’s beady eyes were enough to make my skin crawl on any given day, but at that particular moment the presence of the incessantly determined owner and editor of our town’s one and only newspaper was enough to frazzle my last nerve.
“Can’t this wait, Frances? I’m right in the middle of something.” I turned my focus back to my project. Truth was, I could have used a break; my arm was about to fall off from all the scrubbing I’d been doing in my soon-to-be-new storefront. Still, I’d suffer through more scrubbing any day if it meant I could avoid dealing with the bothersome woman. And today, of all days, I didn’t need her pestering presence.
Frances persisted. “Wait? I’m on a deadline. Especially if you want the ad to run in Tuesday’s issue.” The Cays Mill Reporter, the area’s source of breaking news—or rather, reputation-breaking gossip—faithfully hit the hot Georgia pavement every Tuesday and Saturday. Since I was a new business owner, Frances was hoping to sign me on as a contributing advertiser. For a mere twenty-four ninety-nine a month, I could reserve a one-by-one-inch square on the paper’s back page, sure to bring in hordes of eager, peach-lovin’ customers to my soon-to-open shop, Peachy Keen.
“This offer isn’t going to be on the table forever,” she continued. “I’m giving you a ten percent discount off my normal rate, you know.”
“Oh, don’t go getting all bent out of shape, Frances,” my friend Ginny spoke up. Having a slow moment at the diner next door, which she owned with her husband, Sam, Ginny had popped over to check my renovation progress. “This is only Saturday,” she went on. “Besides, Peachy Keen doesn’t officially open for another few weeks.”
Over the past nine months since my return to Cays Mill, what started as a little sideline business to help supplement my family’s failing peach farm had grown into a successful venture. From that first jar of peach preserves sold at the local Peach Harvest Festival to a booming online business, Harper’s Peach Products had been selling like crazy. Unable to keep up with the demand, I had struck a deal with Ginny and Sam: For a reasonable percentage of profits, I’d get full use of their industrial-sized, fully licensed kitchen after the diner closed each day, plus a couple hours daily of Ginny’s time and expertise in cooking. Since the diner was only open for breakfast and lunch, we could easily be in the kitchen and cooking by late afternoon, allowing Ginny enough time to be home for supper with her family. Then Ginny offered to rent me their small storage area, right next to the diner, for a storefront—a perfect location—which now stored much of my stock until we could open. The deal worked for both of us: I needed the extra manpower and Ginny needed the extra money. Especially with one child in college and her youngest, Emily, finishing her senior year in high school.
Frances was pacing the floor and stating her case. “That may be true, but space fills up quickly. My paper’s the leading news source for the entire area.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Frances,” Ginny bantered, “it’s the only news source in the area. Besides, that quote you gave Nola is five bucks higher than what I pay for the diner’s monthly ad.”
I quit scrubbing and quirked an eyebrow Frances’s way. “Is that so?”
“Well, I’ve got expenses and—” she started to explain but was cut off mid-sentence when the back door flew open and Emily burst inside.