Sweet Tea Tuesdays Read online

  By Ashley Farley

  Sweeney Sisters Series

  Tangle of Strings

  Boots and Bedlam

  Lowcountry Stranger

  Her Sister’s Shoes

  Adventures of Scottie

  Breaking the Story

  Merry Mary

  Also by Ashley Farley

  Saving Ben

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  For all my dear friends.

  I’m so very grateful to each and every one.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Acknowledgments

  A Note to Readers

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lula

  The thermostat on Lula’s insides was dialed up to broil. Only this time it had nothing to do with hot flashes. Her air conditioner had been on the fritz for two days. The sultry summer air permeated the house through open windows, but the ceiling fans spinning at full blast did little to cool down the rooms. The walls sweated. The doors swelled. Every surface was covered in a sticky film. The heat index in the kitchen was higher by ten degrees than the rest of the house thanks to the pot of butter beans simmering on the stove and the oven preheating to roast.

  The thought of eating a heavy meal in this heat made the meager contents of Lula’s stomach sour. Her ideal supper on a blazing hot day consisted of a spoonful of chicken salad and a cup of gazpacho made fresh from the summer’s ripe tomatoes, topped off with a scoop of caramel praline crunch ice cream for dessert. Such meager fixings would not do for her husband. Phillip had grown to expect a three-course meal every night of the week. And she’d done everything in her power as a housewife to foster that growth. She prided herself on her skills as a homemaker—her culinary talents, green thumb, and special knack for making their abode cozy and inviting.

  Lula seasoned her eye-of-round roast with salt and pepper and slid the pan into the oven, lowering the temperature to 475 degrees. “Woo wee, it’s hot in here,” she said as she straightened up, a hand pressed firmly on her aching lower back. She caught sight of her seven-year-old Lhasa Apso, who lay panting on his bed in the corner as if he’d chased the neighbor’s cat up a tree even though he hadn’t left his bed since breakfast.

  “Are you dying over there, Pooh?”

  The dog thumped its tail once and snorted.

  “I know, sweet boy. You’ll be cool soon. They should be here any minute.” She glanced at the clock hanging above the kitchen table. Fashioned out of an old piece of driftwood and seashells, the clock her father had helped her create when she was in the fourth grade was part of a Girl Scout project. The clock had marked the time for the last forty-five years of Lula’s life. Just as it had marked the last five hours.

  “We’ll send a technician out today between ten and three,” the bored-sounding woman had said when Lula called the repair service about her broken air conditioner. It was now three thirty. Which meant she would be late. And she hadn’t missed her standing four o’clock social with her besties since . . . since never in all the twenty-six years of Tuesdays they’d been getting together for sweet tea and girl talk at Georgia’s. Was she just going to let these repair people hold her hostage all afternoon in her own home?

  “I suppose we have no choice.” She looked down into Pooh’s sad brown eyes. “We won’t be able to sleep tonight if we don’t get the air conditioner fixed.”

  She ripped a piece of paper towel off the roll mounted under the cabinet and mopped the sweat from her brow. She wadded it up, tossed it into the trash can, and tore off two more sheets. She lifted her cotton blouse and stuffed the paper towels in the damp spots under both breasts. Eek! She really needed to do something about her soft, doughy midsection that was getting softer and doughier by the day in spite of her active life. She served meals at homeless shelters and tutored at after-school programs for underprivileged children. She tended her perennial garden, cleaned her house from top to bottom once a week, and spent hours on her feet in the kitchen cooking for her family and the sick folks who belonged to her church.

  So many of her friends had gone gaga over physical fitness. Midge, her next-door neighbor to her left, pounded the pavement every morning, running no fewer than three miles, and Georgia, her neighbor on the other side, attended yoga classes several times a week. The gals in her bridge and book clubs talked incessantly about the exercise classes they attended—spinning and core barre, hot yoga, Pilates, and total-body conditioning. Wasn’t boot camp for the marines? Sixty is the new fifty, blah blah blah. In Lula’s case, fifty-five was the new sixty-five, and she was darn proud of it. Walking Pooh to the stop sign at the end of the street and back three times a day offered ample exertion. Anything extra might cause her ticker to tock.

  Lula heard her cell phone ringing in a distant part of the house. She froze, listening. She didn’t want to miss the repairman calling to say he was on the way. She’d told the dispatch woman to have him ring her on the house line, but the woman had been too bored to pay attention. She followed the ringing sound through the back hallway to the new part of the house. Despite the cozy feel of the room—the leather-upholstered furniture, thick wool carpet, and stone fireplace—they referred to this space as the Florida room. The large windows allowed sunlight to beam in and provided a lovely view of her perennial garden, now in full bloom, in the tiny backyard.

  Her oldest daughter had already hung up by the time Lula located the phone wedged between the sofa cushions. Brooke knew better than to call her on her cell phone. Lula despised modern technology. She preferred paperback copies over e-books. She wanted her mail delivered by the mailman. And she would rather read a road map than listen to an automated voice on a GPS instructing her where to go. One day all the electronic devices would explode at once and set the world on fire. She laughed out loud at the vision of throngs of tourists walking the downtown streets of Charleston with flaming cell phones pressed to their ears. She’d been having the strangest thoughts lately.

  One
Christmas several years ago, her family gave her a computer, one of the portable kind that you opened up in your lap. She’d taken it back to the Apple Store and gotten an iPad instead. The handheld gadget served its purpose. She was able to get the e-mails she couldn’t avoid—correspondence relating to family business and confirmation notices of her online purchases. Lula loved to shop for china and crystal on eBay. She now had enough of her wedding and holiday patterns to feed twenty-four. One day her daughters would bring home their spouses and offspring for the holidays. She aimed to be prepared for Thanksgiving and Easter and every occasion in between.

  Lula took the phone back to the kitchen and collapsed in a chair at the table. She clicked on the missed call. She had to admit that being instantly connected to her loved ones without having to punch the numbers into her wall phone was convenient.

  Brooke answered on the first ring. “Did you lose your phone again, Mom? Where was it this time, at the bottom of your bag?”

  Lula brushed her damp auburn bangs off her sweaty forehead. “At the bottom of the sofa, actually.”

  “Since when do you sit on the sofa?”

  Lula smiled to herself. She was not a TV watcher, other than on Sunday evenings when she and Phillip ate their supper while watching 60 Minutes. She worked from the time her feet hit the hardwood floor in the morning until she fell into bed at night. Even then, she read a chapter in one of her romance novels before turning out the light. “Musta fallen out of my pocket while I was plumping up the sofa cushions. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you, darling?”

  “I’m fine.” Brooke sounded chipper. “And how are things with you?”

  “It’s as hot as the blazing fires of hell. But other than that, everything is dandy.”

  “Listen, Mom, I’m at work, and I can’t talk long. But I wanted to tell you I’m planning to come home for a visit.”

  Lula jerked her head up. Why now after three years? “That’s wonderful, honey! When?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact date yet. Sometime around the end of the month. I’ve been thinking a lot about all the summers spent out at the beach. The Fourth of July isn’t the same in San Francisco. I miss the cookouts and the fireworks. I even miss the heat and humidity. It’s chilly here in the summertime.”

  “You know, Brooke, it just occurred to me that it’s been years since we’ve had our Fourth of July party. Wouldn’t it be fun to get all our friends together again?”

  “Don’t go to any trouble for me, Mom. I haven’t kept up with many of my friends from home.”

  “Then it’s time for you to reconnect with them.” Excitement stirred in Lula’s belly as the idea began to take root. Images from past parties flashed through her mind. Hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on the grill. Children diving for live goldfish in the pool while their parents sipped vodka tonics. Men setting off fireworks after dark. “It won’t be any trouble at all. We’ll make it a welcome home party in your honor. Are you bringing anyone with you?” She held her breath. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Brooke brought home a beau?

  “Oh, Mom, I’ve gotta go now. My boss is giving me the hairy eyeball. I’ll text you when I know my travel plans.” Her daughter ended the call before she could ask any more questions.

  Lula stared at the calendar pinned to the wall beneath the phone that seldom rang. The Fourth of July was only a month away. So much to do, and only four weeks’ time to do it in. She wondered if the bluegrass band they all loved so much was still available. She should give them a call. Where in the world was her address book? She hopped up out of her chair, took a step, and then leaned against the table when the room began to spin. Spots appeared before her eyes, and her skin felt clammy despite the heat. She was groping for the chair to sit back down when everything suddenly went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Georgia

  Georgia sent Midge over to check on Lula when she failed to arrive promptly at four o’clock. Midge came running back less than a minute later. “Come quick!” she said, her electric-blue eyes huge and her arms flailing. “Lula’s passed out on the kitchen floor. I pounded on the door, but she won’t wake up. Hurry. Get the spare key.”

  By the time Georgia located the key in her junk drawer and hurried down the sliver of lawn that separated their houses, Midge had shinnied up the side of the house and was clambering through the open window. Georgia unlocked the door and let herself in. Midge stood over Lula’s still form, shaking her gently and saying her name in a soft voice as though trying to rouse a small child from sleep.

  Georgia knelt down beside her. “You listen to me now, Lula Horne. It’s time for you to get up!” When Lula didn’t respond, she smacked her on the cheek. “Wake up, Lula! Now. If you don’t get up, I’m going to have to call an ambulance.”

  Lula’s green eyes popped open and rolled around in her head before closing again.

  “Thatta girl, sweetheart.” Georgia tapped her cheek again. “Once more, but this time try to keep them open.”

  Lula’s freckles were more pronounced against her pale skin, and her auburn hairline was speckled with gray. For years Lula had considered dyeing her hair to get rid of the gray. Maybe the time had finally come. Georgia’s salt-and-pepper could definitely use more pepper, but her husband insisted she not change a thing about her appearance. Langdon claimed she looked dignified. Georgia thought she looked like an old lady. She would make an appointment at her salon next week, and she and Lula would go for their first dye job together.

  Lula opened her eyes again and looked around the room. “Why am I lying on the kitchen floor?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

  “That’s what we want to know. It might have something to do with the heat.” Georgia fanned herself. “It’s hot as blazes in here. I can barely catch my breath.”

  “That’s because my air conditioner’s on the fritz,” Lula said.

  “What’s that smell?” Georgia went to the stove, turned off the burner, and lifted the lid on the smoking pot. “Whatever this was is now charred.”

  Lula rolled her head to the side toward the stove. “Butter beans. For Phillip’s dinner.”

  “You’ll never get this pot clean. You’re better off throwing it away.” Georgia felt heat emanating from the oven. “What on earth are you cooking in here?” She turned on the oven light. “You’ve got it set on four hundred seventy-five degrees.”

  “A roast,” Lula said. “You can turn it off now.”

  Georgia pressed the “Off” button. “Do you want me to take it out of the oven?”

  Lula shook her head. “I’m using the high-temperature method. It has to sit in the hot oven for a couple of hours.”

  “Whatever you say.” Georgia was in no position to argue. She could manage the basics, but she was not a seasoned cook like Lula.

  Lula held her hand out to Midge. “Help me up.”

  Gripping her hand, Midge helped her into a sitting position. “Take it slow. You don’t want to overdo it.”

  Georgia removed a glass from the cabinet beside the sink and filled it with cold water from the dispenser on the refrigerator door. Returning to Lula’s side, she handed her the glass. “Here. Drink this.”

  Lula guzzled down the water. “I must have fainted from all the excitement.”

  “What excitement?” Midge asked.

  “I just received a call from—”

  “Stop!” Georgia thrust her hand out like a traffic cop. “Save it for teatime. Let’s go to my porch. It’s easily twenty degrees cooler outside than it is in here.”

  Lula glanced up at the clock. “I can’t leave. I’m waiting for the repairman. I won’t be able to sleep in this house tonight because of the heat.” She drained the rest of the water and handed the glass to Georgia. When she moved to get up, Midge and Georgia each took an arm and eased Lula into the nearest chair.

  “We can watch for the repairman from my porch,” Georgia said. “This house is not currently safe for habitation,
even for a dog.”

  All eyes traveled to the corner where Pooh was watching them from his bed. He lay perfectly still, aside from the rapid rise and fall of his tiny chest as he breathed. “We’ll bring him with us.” Georgia nudged Midge with her elbow. “Pick up the dog, will ya?”

  Midge shot Georgia an evil look, but she did as she was told despite her fear of dogs. With Pooh cradled in Midge’s outstretched arms and Lula and Georgia right behind, the threesome paraded single file back down the narrow space between the two houses. While Midge and Lula settled themselves on the porch, Georgia went to the kitchen for the tea tray, returning a second time for a bowl of water for Pooh. She opened the living room windows and lifted two box fans to the sill. Turned on high, the fan sucked the cool air out of the house and onto the porch.

  The porch furniture had changed often over the years, from a conglomeration of wicker and rattan love seats and rockers to the now more contemporary metal lounge chairs arranged around a matching coffee table. From October to May, Georgia substituted the coffee table for a round gas fire pit that enabled them to enjoy the porch all year round.

  Lula leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. “Ahhh . . . that’s so nice,” she said, savoring the cool air on her face. “I’m not complaining, mind you, but doesn’t your utility bill make Lang angry?”

  “He doesn’t know. I’m the one who pays the bills.” She poured three glasses of tea from her pitcher. “I wouldn’t care even if he did get mad.”

  “Ouch!” Lula’s eyes shot open. “Sounds like trouble in paradise.”

  “Honey, paradise is so far in my rearview mirror, I wouldn’t know what it looked like if it smacked me in the face.” Georgia sat back and crossed her legs. “I don’t want to talk about Langdon today. But I do have news. It’s not exciting enough to cause anyone to faint, but it involves a lifestyle change for me.”

  Midge took a sip of tea and set her glass on the table. “My news might make you faint. Although not from excitement.”