Page 49 of Lessons in Lemonade

Suddenly, I don’t want to make an account for him on a dating site. That was the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. I don’t want him going out with anyone else, and I think I’m starting to understand why he doesn’t want me to either. We may just be friends, but I’m feeling greedy for his attention and time, as he must be for mine.

“What is this?” he asks at the same time I ask, “Where are you going?”

He looks down at his clothes and back up at me. “Food—I need some.” Then he pops up one brow as if it’s my turn to answer.

“I thought we could go for a ride.” I hold out my arms in a Ta-da! manner. I’m sitting in an old-fashioned white carriage with the top down and a thick red blanket spread across my lap.

“In that?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes, and be kind.” I lower my voice. “The horse’s name is Baby Love Love and he can hear you.”

The driver turns and winks at me, and Jack just shakes his head.

“How’d she talk you into this?” he asks the driver, who answers, “Money.”

Turning, Jack pulls his keys from him pocket, including the one I gave him, and locks the front door. He heads down the front steps of the house and climbs in next to me. He smells so good, and I breathe him in, letting my toes curl in my shoes.

“You do realize this is ridiculous, right?” He eyes me as he runs his hand through his hair then over his knee.

“Yes, but fun too. You’re new to Charleston, and I can’t think of a more perfect way for you to tour the Holy City.” Pulling the blanket up, I toss it over his leg that’s closest to mine while he drags it over the other.

“What happened to your date?” he mutters.

“Eh, let’s just say we’re interested in different things.” I scoot a little closer to him, and he looks at me curiously as the driver taps the horse and clicks his mouth. The horse moves, and we jolt backward.

“Here, I got you some of these.” I reach down to my purse and grab him a paper bag of candied pecans. “Hopefully they’ll tide you over until we’re done, and then we can get you some food. I can make you dinner, or we can go out.”

He opens the bag, and the sweet smell of roasted pecans wafts out.

“These are great, and I’m indifferent. I wanted to get out for a bit, and dinner seemed like a good reason to do so.” He pops one in his mouth, and I watch him chew. He really is such a handsome guy, from his dark features to the line of his jaw. My heart thumps hard as I tell it what it already knows. I could fall for him, easily.

But not tonight. I’ll worry about that another day.

“So, where to first?” Jack asks the driver.

“Rainbow Row. It’s the name for a series of thirteen colorful historic houses. It represents the longest cluster of Georgian row houses in the United States,” he says proudly.

Settling in, Jack wraps his arm around my shoulders and tucks me in next to him. We remain silent as he eats the pecans and the driver tells us story after story. While a lot are about the history of Charleston, he also includes a few spooky ones. He tells us about Lavinia Fisher, the first female serial killer ever convicted. She was also the first white woman ever hung in South Carolina. He pauses the carriage in front of the old Charleston jail, where visitors claim to have seen her ghost. Apparently, according to the legends, Lavinia used her last breath to yell out, “If you have a message you want to send to hell, give it to me—I’ll carry it!”

Jack chuckles at the absurdity, and as he glances down at me, I can see the strain from earlier has left him. With his free hand, he reaches for mine, tangles our fingers together, and places them on his thigh.

The driver talks about the Gray Man, Nettie Dickerson, and even the Gullah culture and how in the early nineteenth century, old antebellum plantation homes used to paint their porch ceilings blue to represent water. The idea behind it was that it warded off haints, or haunts, as they could not cross water and enter the house.

“Is that why the inside of your porch cover is painted blue?” he asks, church bells ringing for some occasion in the distance.

“No, that’s an old wives’ tale trick to keep the bugs away. Wasps and other insects see the blue, think it’s the sky, and take their nests elsewhere. Although, a very light blue paint would look lovely on the ceiling of OBA.” I think about how pretty it would be in contrast to the whitewashed brick wall and the other colors present.

“If you want to paint it, I’ll help you,” he says, running his thumb over the back of my hand.

“Really?” I ask, surprised.

“Yep.”

Later, after we stop for some barbecue and then end up on the couch to watch a movie, my phone vibrates with a notification. Sitting next to me, Jack posted a picture of us in the carriage in front of St. Michael’s church with the caption: Touring the Holy City in style with my favorite angel.

When I glance up, his dark eyes find mine from his end of the couch. Neither of us says anything, but then as a small thoughtful smile curves his lips, he looks away.

Oh boy. Feelings are changing, whether I want them to or not. I just need to keep my head about me and things will be okay. He’s not staying forever, and we’re just friends.