She smiled, her gold tooth winking at me. “That sweet girl, Nola, just called me. She’s so thoughtful and caring, isn’t she?” Ruth’s hand patted the bag, and I felt my heart sink.
“Nola?” I asked, staring in horror at the bag, knowing it wouldn’t contain my favorite cream-filled chocolate-covered doughnuts. “What’s in the bag? Dirt and cardboard or grass and tree moss?” I wasn’t completely joking. During my pregnancy, both Nola and Sophie had done their best to sabotage my food choices just because my ankles had been a little bit swollen. And Ruth had been a willing participant in their subterfuge.
Ruth threw back her head and laughed, her dark eyes shining as if I’d just made a joke. “No, ma’am. This is my new spinach and goat cheese in a chickpea flour wrap. Your friend Sophie gave me the recipe and I said I’d try it. Not that I’d eat it myself, but I figured being a businesswoman I should cater to my health-conscious customers, too.”
“Of which I’m not one,” I said. “I’m one of your taste-conscious customers—don’t forget about us.” I indicated the cup. “Is there at least lots of whipped cream and sugar in that?”
She made a face. “In green tea? No. Just good-for-you tea. Still nice and hot.”
“I’m sorry you went to all that trouble, but I’d like my usual, please.” I looked at her hopefully.
Instead of taking back the bag and cup, she let her gaze wander down the length of my maternity dress. “You sure about that?”
I stuck out an ankle, back to its trim prepregnancy size. “See? No more swollen ankles! I can eat what I like now.”
Still, she didn’t move. I caught sight of the clock on the wall behind her. Not having time to argue, I grabbed the bag and cup and slid a few bills across the counter. “Fine. But tomorrow, I’d like to go back to our regularly scheduled program. Don’t make me turn to Glazed Gourmet Donuts on King. It’s out of my way, but I need my doughnuts in the morning and can’t be responsible for my actions if I’m deprived of them.”
Ruth stopped smiling and I realized that my voice had risen an octave. Without breaking eye contact, she reached over and grabbed a single sugar packet and placed it on top of my cup. “Sounds like somebody’s having withdrawal. Tomorrow we’ll try half a packet.”
I narrowed my eyes. “We’ll see about that.” I made my way to the door.
“You bring those sweet babies in, you hear? I’m sure they’re getting so big. And with that Mr. Trenholm as their daddy, I just can’t imagine how beautiful they must be.”
I was torn between a mother’s pride over her babies and resentment over how everybody completely overlooked the fact that I was the one who had not only carried the babies for nine months, but also given birth to them.
I backed out of the door. “Well, then. Maybe we can come to some sort of a deal.”
She raised a dark eyebrow, and I did the same before turning around and letting the door close behind me.
I hobbled the few blocks to my office, my blistered feet almost completely numb by the time I opened the door into the reception area with its tasteful leather furniture and pineapple motif evident in the lamps, art, and throw pillows—all in an attempt to appear “old Charleston.”
“May I help you?” said a voice from behind the reception desk.
I stared at the stranger. She had a mop of dark, curly hair and bright green eyes. She was one of those older women whose age was impossible to determine because of a lifelong avoidance of the sun and an expensive skin care regimen. A brilliantly colored enamel dragonfly pin sat gracefully on the lapel of her pale blue jacket. “Where’s Joyce?”
“She’s moved to Scotland to immerse herself in her knitting. Wanted to be closer to the source, she said. She trained me for about a month and now I’m going solo while I study for my real estate license. I’m Mary Thompson, but everybody calls me Jolly.” She beamed and I noticed her sparkling earrings that matched her pin, with no golf motif in sight. I still missed Nancy Flaherty, my favorite receptionist who’d been here before Joyce, but she’d followed her love of golf and Tiger Woods and moved to Florida.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.” I hadn’t expected a big welcome-back celebration, but a familiar face would have been nice. Especially since I was in the middle of an alarming sugar low. “I’m Melanie Middleton—I mean Trenholm.” I still wasn’t used to saying that. “I’m back from maternity leave.”
The woman’s smile broadened. “Oh, yes. I’ve heard all about you.” She paused, leaving me to try to guess what she’d heard. “You used to be the number-one salesperson here. We have a new leaderboard now—it’s no longer a chalkboard. Do you think I’ll need to have a nameplate made with your name on it? Lots of competition for that number-one spot, and you’ve been gone awhile.”