signed up for her first triathlon,” GT said proudly.
I hadn’t been an athletic kid. I’d spent more time falling out of trees than climbing them. There had been entire semesters of gym class when I’d prayed the volleyball would never come near me. It was out of character for me to throw myself into an athletic endeavor. Especially one this competitive. But it was just the kind of project I needed to turn the focus away from the limitations of a diagnosis and onto the possibilities of a life.
Well, that’s what I told myself every time I started to get anxious about it.
“That’s so exciting,” Leah Mae approved.
“Why would you do that?” June asked, legitimately confused.
June’s bluntness was one of my favorite things about her. She wasn’t tethered to social norms like the rest of us. And there was something refreshing about her reactions.
“I know. I’m not the athletic type. But I need to do something besides sit on my butt and write a dissertation. I want to work toward something with measurable goals that will keep me focused on the prize.” I had no visions of grandeur of an age group medal. But I did want to finish. Even if I crawled across the finish line. I wanted to do it under my own power. If I could tackle something as big as a triathlon, the other challenge I faced would be manageable.
“Is Jonah going to help train you?” Leah Mae asked. “It’s so convenient that y’all are living under one roof.”
“I don’t think Jonah is looking for any new clients,” I said diplomatically.
“He still thinks she’s a reporter,” GT explained.
“Why don’t you simply cease your falsehood?” June asked.
“It’s kind of more fun watching him be all puffed up and mad over nothing.” It sounded just a little stupid when I explained it.
“That sounds manipulative,” June pointed out. “I can see why it would be entertaining.”
“Maybe we should feed him a few more little fibs,” Leah Mae mused. “Let it slip that you shoplifted from the Pop In?”
“Or how about you stabbed someone with a knitting needle at Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee?” GT suggested.
“Perhaps it would be more believable if we told Jonah we saw Shelby interrogating Mrs. Varney regarding the Callie Kendall case,” June suggested.
I laughed. “Isn’t Jonah your friend?”
They all shared a baffled look. “He’s practically family,” Leah Mae said.
“Then why would you go to all the trouble to mess with him like this?”
“Because he’s practically family,” GT said, as if that explained everything. “Also, the guy threw me in the lake.”
“How did Jonah Bodine throw you in the lake?” Jonah was strong. But it would take more than one man to lift my brother.
“He used a trebuchet,” June said.
“What a weird, wonderful town you have here,” I marveled.
9
Shelby
“My research suggests that Southerners in small communities are more likely to volunteer, even in unofficial capacities,” I said. “Can you ladies confirm that?”
My unofficial adoption by The Breakfast Club included the members taking a personal interest in me and my little survey. A few of them had invited themselves over for tea and to “sit a spell.” Meaning, they were pumping me for information on what their neighbors were saying under the guise of being helpful.
Mrs. Varney, Carolina Rae Carwell, Maribel Schilling, and Myrt Crabapple were rocking away in the pretty little rocking chairs Scarlett had on the front porch of the Little Yellow House. I’d bribed Leah Mae to make the sweet tea for me, and I’d bought cookies and cupcakes in town.
“Where do you get your information, girl?” Maribel giggled. “We don’t call helping neighbors volunteering.”
“What do you call it?” I asked, scribbling notes with one hand while licking pink icing from the other.
“Bein’ neighborly,” Mrs. Varney cackled. “You big city folk try to make being nice a big deal. Like it’s some kind of disease. If I give Myrt here a call on my way to the grocery store when I know she’s feelin’ poorly, it’s in my DNA to pick up whatever she may need. I’m not calculating favors or keeping track of whether or not she owes me.”
“It’s the neighborly thing to do,” Carolina Rae said, sipping her sweet tea and rocking.
“’Less of course it’s someone who’s constantly riled about somethin’ acting all ornery,” Mrs. Varney put in. “Then there’s some score keepin’ or maybe we don’t bring her the name brand butter. Or we give her the frozen batch of okra rather than makin’ it fresh.”