The minute Joey slingshots us into Goat’s Tit—yes, slingshots, because Joey is a terrible driver who forgets what works in the air doesn’t work on the ground, or maybe she just doesn’t care and wants to feel like she’s flying all the time—things start to happen. She screeches to a stop in front of Etta Jean’s and is out and around her Jeep and throwing open the door to the bakery before I’ve even unbuckled.
“Listen up,” I hear her announce to everyone gathered inside as I hustle after her, barely catching the door. “Gracie got a special Facookie rush order for four thousand cookies. It’s a profane picture, but it’s a shit-ton of money, so you’re all going to either help her or get your asses out of her way so she can make these, understood?”
“Cool your jets,” Nancy says. She steps out from behind the counter and ambles toward me. “We’ve always got Gracie’s back. Welcome home, hon. We missed you.”
She wraps me in a hug and pats my shoulder, and I’m home, and it’s so comfortable and familiar and yet…not.
Nancy pulls away. “Now, let’s get to work. Four thousand cookies? Joey’s right. That’s a shit-ton.”
“Ingredients,” Joey barks at me.
“Extra printer and ink,” I say. My face flames, but I keep talking. “All the information is on the printer in my office. I need every bit of edible ink in the entire state. And boxes. Like seven hundred cookie boxes.”
Nancy’s already heading toward the kitchen, Joey on her heels.
“You need some math, Gracie?” one of the nerd busters asks.
I rattle off my recipe. His fingers fly over his phone, working the calculations for how much I’ll need of all my ingredients.
He rises. “I’ll text Tammy and meet her at Costco in Huntsville. We should be able to get most of it in her truck.”
“Take my credit card. And thank you.”
He grins, and for a split second, his blue eyes remind me of Manning’s. “Sure. Out of curiosity, when Joey said profane—”
“Utter privacy,” I chide.
He could probably hack my phone and find the picture in three seconds if he wanted to.
He glances around, where everyone else is either whispering and pointing and probably saying they knew I was no good, but look how I was raised, or they’re arguing over rearranging my dining room to help with the cookies. More so with the arranging, it appears.
“Just saying,” he says quietly, “that if you’re willing to print dirty cookies, I might know a guy interested in buying a few dozen for a gift.”
I gape at him.
Does he know?
His cheeks go red. “Or not. Forget I asked. Sorry.”
“Email me later, okay?” I whisper. “Like maybe late next week after I’m recovered from this.” I point two fingers at my eyeballs, then at his. “But I’ll be watching, and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll Photoshop whatever picture you send me. And don’t think I’ll be kind.”
His grin returns. “Yes, ma’am.”
I dash to the kitchen, where Nancy already has all the ovens fired up, the flour bin on the counter, and is pulling every last pound of butter out of the fridge. “You go get printing,” she says. “I’ll start the dough. And you let us know if you need to sit down.” Her gaze drifts down to my belly. “And don’t be thinking this is getting you out of spilling all the details on your little vacation either.”
Now it’s my turn for red cheeks. “I’m not going to have any secrets left by the time tomorrow’s over, am I?”
“No, ma’am.” She winks. “Not that I didn’t know any of this before, but I don’t blame you one little iota for keeping anything quiet. You know Ginny Jo’s gonna have all them Baptists praying for your soul from now until eternity over this.”
“Hey, Gracie,” Joey calls. “We might have another problem.”
I sprint to my office. “What now?”
She points to the screen. “Unless I’m misunderstanding your ordering system, you have twenty-seven other new orders.”
“It’s the The Hollyblog,” Peach announces as she, too, strolls into my office. She must’ve been close on our tail the entire way up from Huntsville. She stops across from my desk and starts marching in place, which I should really be doing too, but I’ve been so freaking tired I keep declining her step challenges. “Some big Halloween party the other night. Liv what’s-her-name posted a picture of her eating a Dickookie.”
Nancy cackles in the kitchen. “Dickookie. I still just love that. Guess it makes sense you couldn’t call ‘em Dookies. But Cockies has a ring to it, don’t you think?”
My email program dings twice more.
All of us look at my computer.
“How do you shut off incoming orders?” Joey asks.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Peach announces. “Sugar, let me at the computer. We’re not shutting down. We’re announcing delays and jacking up prices. Baby’s gotta eat.”
“And she needs a pretty wardrobe,” Nancy chimes in. “And diapers ain’t cheap. Though I’d hope someone is coughing up some serious dough for those puppies.”
My phone rings.
Ted.
Oh, fuck. I’ve been avoiding Ted.
Before I went to Copper Valley, I mean.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hey. Heard you need some help. I’m down in Birmingham. Anything I can pick up for you?”
It’s all so normal, so before-the-baby-octopus-and-hiccup incident, I almost burst into tears. Instead, I ask him to swing by the distributor I get my boxes from and hang up the phone.
And then I burst into tears.
Happy tears. Overwhelmed tears. I-don’t-know-the-next-time-I’ll-see-Manning-or-even-if-I-want-to-after-that-discussion-with-his-father tears.
Peach smothers me in a hug. Joey grabs me from behind and hugs us both. Nancy gets in on the side to wrap us all up too.
“I love you guys,” I sob.
“Aw, honey,” Nancy says. “This is what family’s for.”
