The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,67
taste.”
I reached for my water glass. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Polly’s teasing expression faded. She looked me square in the eye.
“Oh, yes. I have. So have you.”
That’s all we needed, one sharp, honest answer to chip through the ancient ice. Apologies tumbled out so quickly that we were talking over each other, so anxious to be heard that we barely bothered to listen, but that was all right. We knew what we meant. We had changed. We were older, hopefully wiser, and tired of feeling so alone. If and when we were ready, there would be time for explanations, but only one thing mattered just then.
“I’m so happy to see you again, Celia. Really.” Polly dabbed her eye with her napkin. “When I saw you in the shop that day, it was everything I could do not to jump over the counter and hug your neck.”
“And when I stood outside of St. Philip’s and saw a tall redhead that I thought might be you, then decided it wasn’t possible, I was so disappointed.”
“That’s just how I felt when you walked away,” Polly said, clamping her hands on the table edge and leaning in. “For a second I thought it was you, but then you walked away and I thought, ‘No, couldn’t be.’ But then, just few days later, after I’d finished adding up all the red in my account books and was feeling very sorry for myself—bam! You walked right through my front door! I mean, what are the chances?”
“A zillion to one,” I said. “It was supposed to happen.”
“It was!” Polly exclaimed. “It absolutely was.”
The server plopped a plate down between us and Polly’s eyes lit up. She snatched the hot bread from the plate and broke it in two, releasing a puff of steam and strong scents of cinnamon and banana, and held half out toward me. “You have got to try this,” she said. “Put some of the cream cheese stuff on top. It’s heaven.”
“Oh, my. Wow,” I said, rolling my eyes rapturously toward the ceiling after popping a piece in my mouth, then fanning my hand in front of what was left. It was still too hot to eat but that wasn’t going to stop me. “I’ve got to bring Calvin here when he comes to visit.”
“Who’s Calvin?” Polly asked.
I told her all about him, and Steve, and the various iterations of Steve who had come before, and my life in New York, and the broad outline of all that had happened since I’d left Charleston, and the events that had brought me back.
“You’re adopting a baby? No kidding?”
“Trying to adopt a baby,” I corrected. “It’s a long shot, especially as a single woman, but I really want a family. I want it more than anything. Even if I lose, I had to take the chance.”
Polly nodded slowly and deeply as I talked, dipping and lifting her long neck and red head like one of those weighted desk toys with the rocking red bird that dips its beak into a glass of water when you give it a shove.
“I get that,” she said when I finished. “Well, not about the baby. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids, but I just never wanted any myself. I wouldn’t mind getting married again someday, if I could find a guy who’s fun and nice. The fun guys I meet always turn out to be jerks and the nice guys always turn out to be as boring as a dry weekend.” She took a bite of her waffle and grinned. “’Course, all my weekends are dry now, so maybe it wouldn’t make any difference. Maybe I would settle down with a nice guy, if I could find one.”
She shrugged and shoved another piece of waffle in her mouth, then reached over for the pitcher and poured a lake of syrup onto her plate. I’d never seen a grown-up eat like that. It was actually kind of impressive.
“But a baby?” she said, chewing and shaking her head. “Not for me. But I understand about taking a chance on something you want so much. The craft shop, that’s my dream. I’ve put everything I have in it.”
“That’s great.” I took a bite of my grits. They were good but part me wished I’d ordered a waffle. “But Polly . . . did I miss something? I don’t remember you being all that crafty.”
“Oh, I wasn’t. I flunked art in my sophomore year, among other things. Mind-altering substances are bad for your