He also seemed to understand what I was thinking even before I said anything, which was also nice. And kind of surprising.
“The zoning is mixed-use, isn’t it?” I said, turning toward him. “Happy has her design showroom in her carriage house, and the Queen Street Grocery is doing business just a couple blocks away.”
“But the grocery store is grandfathered in,” Trey said. “They’ve been in business since nineteen twenty-two.”
“So? Fairchild’s Fine Haberdashers did business here until nineteen twenty-six. Doesn’t that count?”
“Possibly.” Trey turned toward Polly. “Do you want me to look into it?”
Polly closed her eyes again, pressed her fingers against her forehead, and groaned. “This is. So. Crazy. There are about two hundred reasons why this is a bad idea. But if you want to look into it . . .” She paused. “Fine. Knock yourself out.”
Lorne cleared his throat and Polly’s eyes popped open.
“What?” she barked.
“Nothing,” Lorne said, lifting his hands to prove his innocence and shooting me a what-got-into-her look. “I was just wondering what you put on the sandwiches. Because if you used mayonnaise, we’d better eat before the sun gets to them.”
Trey and I exchanged grins. Leave it to Lorne to get to the heart of things.
Dear Peaches,
It takes guts to take a chance on a dream. Doing it again after failing the first time takes not only superhuman courage but a willful suspension of logic.
But here’s the thing; hardly anybody grabs hold of their dreams on the first go-round. Even when you fail and fall, even if it doesn’t make sense, you’ve got to keep going.
Maybe especially then . . .
Chapter Forty-Two
Britney Spears was wailing so loudly that I could hear her the second I got out of the car and started unloading the groceries, trying to carry all eight bags in one trip.
When Calvin said he’d booked a rental car to use during his visit to Charleston, I’d told him it wasn’t necessary. Downtown Charleston is almost as walkable as New York and it’s just as easy to hire a Lyft here as it is in Manhattan. Also, Calvin is a notoriously bad driver. I went to a food show in Edison with him once and barely escaped with my life. The other turnpike drivers were responsible, even sedate by comparison, which, if you’ve ever driven in Jersey, is saying something. So, I was understandably concerned about unleashing Calvin on the unsuspecting motorists of South Carolina. But my worries were unfounded because, as it turned out, I was the one who ended up doing all the driving. Calvin was just in charge of making lists.
Fewer than twenty people were coming to the shower; so why did we need eight pounds of bacon, ten dozen eggs, three pounds of lox, and six dozen bagels in assorted flavors? Not to mention a balloon arch, red carpet, custom-printed invitations that looked like theater tickets, and a karaoke machine? The theme was “Broadway Baby,” but if Calvin honestly thought that people were going to grab a mic and sing show tunes tomorrow, we needed more champagne. Three cases wouldn’t be nearly enough.
I carted the groceries up the steps and rang the bell. Nobody answered, so I twisted sideways, arms loaded with bags, then crouched low and pushed the door handle down with my elbow before bumping the door open with my hip. My grip on the bags was precarious, so I trotted into the kitchen as quickly as I could. Before I could get to the counter, four blood oranges tumbled from the top of a bag. The whole load was starting to slip.
“Hey! Could I get a little help here?”
Calvin stood at the kitchen sink, shaking his shoulders and pulling the cord of the salad spinner in time with the bass beat, throwing back his head and howling that he wasn’t that innocent as the chorus came around. When I shouted again, louder this time, he stopped mid-wail and sprang into action, catching the bottom bag just before it hit the floor. I stumbled toward the counter and put the bags down with a thud.
“Watch it!” Calvin barked. “You’ll crack the eggs!”
I told Alexa to turn down the music and gave Calvin a glance that, had he been a houseplant, would have withered him instantly. “Do you know how many stores I had to visit to find ten dozen organic, pasture-raised eggs? Five. What kind of egg could possibly be worth two hours of searching and seven dollars a dozen?”
“The organic, pasture-raised kind.” Calvin pulled egg