Sweet Tea and Time (A Summerbrook Novel Book 2) Read online

  SWEET TEA AND TIME

  By Vicki Wilkerson

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

  Copyright © 2017 by Vicki Wilkerson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  First Edition February 2017

  Contents

  Dedication

  Preface

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Recipes from Sweet Tea and Time

  To my mother and grandmother, who taught me how to live Southern and with grace…

  Preface

  This novel was imagined and written upon the poetic concepts of time set forth in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. The novel’s inspirational weight is designed to be that of the verses that inspired it—to be heard like the imperceptible ticks of a personal timepiece and not the loud chimes of a massive clock on some remote city square.

  To Everything There is a Season

  To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

  A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

  A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

  A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

  A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “To Every Thing There Is a Season”

  “What do you mean, you’re not going to give it to me?” Aiken Hughes couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You can’t do that.”

  He needed that permit.

  The young woman with the short, chestnut-colored hair stood at the counter, busily writing and checking the clock on the back wall every two seconds. Hers was an unpretentious beauty, not covered up by make-up, overdone hair, and fancy clothes. “Sir, the office is closed for the day, and I still have to finish our schedule for tomorrow.”

  He peered over the counter, noticing how she quickly set up a maze of appointments from a stack of notes she rifled through. Then she grabbed a stack of permits and filled them out in record speed. That was what he needed—his permit in record time.

  “If you’ll just give me your name and cell number, I can get in touch with you in the morning. As soon as I get in, I’ll call and we can discuss the permit then.”

  Impatience crept up in him as he frowned. “Aiken Hughes.” He tossed his business card on the counter. “Cell number’s at the bottom. What’s your name?”

  “Charlene Timmons.”

  He noticed the line of her slender neck as she craned around to check the clock once more. He’d always liked simple lines. And she and her neck were…simply beautiful.

  What Charlene Timmons wasn’t aware of was that a lot depended upon that permit. A family in a very difficult situation would be on the streets soon if he didn’t get that piece of paper. But the woman behind the counter didn’t know that. She couldn’t. Discretion was a part of the Humanity Project program. And he didn’t trust this…this Charlene person. At all. This wasn’t the first time Summerbrook’s town planning department had blown him off. He’d expected to pick up the permit yesterday, but when he’d called, he’d been informed it wasn’t yet ready. So he’d stopped by today, but was again getting the runaround.

  She stopped filling out the documents to look up at him and tried to push a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. Exhaling deeply, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Again. She looked flustered. But why was she out of sorts? It was he who was having the difficulty. With her.

  “Mr. Hughes, this office closed five minutes ago. It’ll take a good thirty minutes or more to explain what you need,” she said, now checking the time on the cell phone in her hand. She put the documents in folders and held them.

  The clock on the wall read 5:05. Yep. The office was closed. But he had that family to consider, and he wasn’t going to let things go so easily. “It’s been nearly a month already. My construction supervisor’s been in here three times. I need that permit.” He slapped both hands down in unison on the marble at the window.

  Why did he go and do that? He needed to keep his frustration for that family in check.

  She startled and dropped the stack of folders she held in her arms, papers fluttering to the ground. “What the—” She stopped herself. “Cheese and crackers,” she mumbled, staring at the new mess on the floor in front of her.

  Cheese and crackers? He chuckled inside. What kind of cursing was that?

  She released a long breath, and he could tell by the look in her eyes that she was running out of patience with him. “I promise that we can take care of this first thing in the morning.” Her voice was flat.

  His cell rang for the fifth time since he’d been standing at the window. He checked the phone—his foreman. He had to take the call this time. Clicking the call on, he said gruffly, “Yeah, Bertie. Can’t talk right now. I’m here trying to get that next project started.”

  He watched Charlene pick up the papers from the floor. He would have helped her, but there was that counter between them. He still tried to behave like a Southern gentleman—even when he was mad enough to spit nails—sixteen-penny ones.

  “What’s the hold-up?” Bertie asked on the other end of the call.

  Aiken shifted his weight again. “Don’t know what the problem is. Trying to find out, though.”

  “Make sure you don’t let the planning department know what’s going on,” Bertie said. “That family has been humbled enough by their circumstances.”

  Tension squeezed his chest. “I don’t know that I can avoid it at this point.” That knowledge just might get the project through the gauntlet before him, but Aiken’s own family had been humiliated and embarrassed all over the South Carolina Lowcountry, when they fell upon tough times. Back then they’d needed assistance when they couldn’t afford to make the necessary repairs after a hurricane took off the roof and ruined the inside of their home. He’d lived through the humiliation of seeing his father beg for help. Then his dad had turned hard and distant, closing out his family. Cutting off his once close connection to his son.

  Aiken mentally swore. Yeah, he had no interest in taking away what little pride the Burton family had left. But he also wanted that family to have their home. They deserved it. He exhaled slowly, forcing away the rising tension. “Call you back as soon as I know something.” He placed the phone back into the case on his belt.

  “Again, sir, we’re closed. You’ll need to leave now.” Her voice was insistent, but he saw something…soft in her eyes, but never mind her eyes. He had a job to get done.

  Anger sent a
burning sensation up his neck. Though he didn’t want to, he was going to have to trust her. He was going to have to tell her why the permits were so important. “Look. These permits are for a home for an underprivileged family—who’ll be on the street before long if I don’t get this house built.”

  She stopped what she was doing. “What?”

  “Yeah. I work for The Humanity Project.”

  “The Humanity Project?”

  “Yeah. We build homes for…disadvantaged families.”

  She sized him up for a moment or two. Then she checked that stupid clock again and grabbed a set of plans from a cubbyhole above the counter. Her waist curved in when she reached the rolled drawings, the movement elongating her shape. He mentally swore. This was strictly business, and he shouldn’t be sizing up her waist—or neck for that matter.

  Besides, he shouldn’t be checking out the woman who singlehandedly was creating a gigantic obstacle to his plans. Did she even care that he was helping people who couldn’t help themselves? She turned and saw him staring at her. Immediately, she put her hands behind her back. They were sturdy hands that looked like they were used to work. He liked that.

  “I’ve done all I can do for today,” she said, and grabbed her bottom lip between her teeth. Then he saw them. Dimples. One of his weaknesses. But he didn’t have time for dimples right now. Or to indulge his weaknesses.

  Besides, Charlene Timmons probably didn’t have any authority to do anything on her own. He’d just told her about the project, and it didn’t seem to make any difference. He shouldn’t take his frustrations out on her anyway. He certainly didn’t want to throw around his weight and get her into trouble. Her or anyone else. It had to be difficult for her, though, working in this male-dominated field in a small town like Summerbrook. But he wasn’t about to let someone put that needy family in jeopardy—no matter how…appealing she was with all her simple lines and unassuming beauty.

  He surveyed the plans for a second or two, then looked up. To get things done in this business, sometimes a person just had to go to the top, and he knew where the top was, even though he didn’t actually live in Summerbrook. “Is Mr. Davis still here?” he asked. Just then her face grew tight and her eyes narrowed, and he knew he’d probably just started a war.

  Well, so be it. He was at war with Charlene Timmons.

  Charlene bit her lip again. It was a bad habit she’d developed lately. She’d been so busy and so frustrated trying to balance work, her graduate courses and building seminars, and positioning herself to get that promotion she so desperately needed. Not to mention attempting to take care of her precious grandmother, which had become a full-time job lately. All she needed was additional problems—with Mr. Aiken Hughes trying to go over her head to get his small house built. He’d immediately gained her favor when he’d told her the project was for an underprivileged family. Not that there’d still be much she could do. She had directives from the town—whether she agreed with them or not.

  He’d known which button to push. She had to give him that. Mr. Davis expected her to be the gatekeeper between him and the builders, and she desperately didn’t want there to be any problems with her promotion.

  Aiken raised his eyebrows at her, and she clamped down harder on her lip. She hoped her dimples didn’t kick in the way they had a tendency to do when she gnawed on her lips, because she didn’t want him to think she was smiling at him or anything. The man was amazingly handsome, with his dark blue eyes and tanned forearms reaching out past his rolled-up sleeves. His chin was strong and squared and his hair—a color between black and dark brown—brushed over his ears. But the last thing she needed was…a complication right now. Although truthfully, she’d never complicate her professional life with personal issues.

  But she didn’t have anything to worry about. He’d never be interested in someone as…ordinary as her—a plain woman with…strong hands. “I believe my boss has left for the day, but to be sure, you may ask Miss Delrae, the receptionist up front.” She pointed and quickly drew her hand back.

  She caught a glimpse of the wall clock and her heartbeat increased. Time was racing by, and she really needed to stop by to check on her grandmother before heading to her evening class, which started at 6:00 and was all the way out in downtown Charleston. If Mr. Hughes only knew how late she was running and how important it was to her to make that short visit…but he probably wouldn’t care even if he knew. All he seemed to care about was that little house he seemed so intent on building. It was the kind of dwelling her boss and the town officials frowned upon. They had charged her with keeping those cookie-cutter box houses out of Summerbrook—if she could. Until they got it all zoned and built out like they wanted. No more little cottages like her grandmother’s, where Charlene grew up. Even if it were for a needy family, they wouldn’t want it built.

  It was imperative to her career that she did her job well. She had to. She needed this job and the upcoming promotion in order to take care of not only herself but Maama, too. There was no one else to take care of her grandmother. And who knew? One day—if things went really well—Charlene just might be able to build her own dream house—just like her grandfather had for her grandmother.

  Maama…just the thought of her grandmother’s name warmed her heart. And brought a bit of a smile to her face. She thought she kind of sounded like a sheep when she pronounced the word “Maamaa” like a true Southerner, so she avoided using it when she was around people—other than those who would be familiar with the pronunciation and moniker. For her, the word was warm and familiar and connoted the very essence of home.

  Mr. Hughes lowered his brows, but turned as if to go. First, though, he snapped one of her business cards from the counter like he was going to use it as ammunition. He paused and eyed her up and down, like he was scoping out a target. His gaze pierced her tummy and sent a tingle to her core.

  Yep. She was in his crosshairs. And he was the sniper.

  As soon as he left the planning counter, he headed toward the front and presumably to Miss Delrae.

  Charlene snatched her bag from under her desk, turned out the lights in the office in a huff, and briskly walked out the back way. She really needed to move fast now. Thanks to…Mr. Demanding.

  She wouldn’t have time for a prolonged visit, but she could at least stop at Maama’s to make sure her grandmother didn’t need anything before heading to her class in downtown Charleston. Her heart clenched at the thought of how tired Maama had been lately. Her grandparents had taken her in when she was nine, after one of her mother’s many boyfriends had decided Charlene didn’t “fit in” with his prep school kids. “If you study real hard and pull your grades up, I’ll come back for you,” her mother had said.

  That day never came. Charlene had imagined all sorts of reasons why she’d been abandoned. Maybe she wasn’t smart enough. Maybe she wasn’t pretty enough with her ordinary features. Well, she mentally corrected, ordinary features except for one. Her hands. They definitely weren’t ordinary. Her fingers were long, and her hands, strong—almost too strong for a woman. She still braced herself like a column when she recalled one of her mother’s boyfriends calling her “Gorilla Hands.” Their neighbor’s son had overheard, and for the next few years, that had been her nickname on the playground.

  The pain of being teased at school was horrible—and she didn’t even have her mother to come home to cry on her shoulder.

  It wasn’t for another few years that Charlene finally accepted the fact that her mother didn’t have either the financial or emotional power to come back for her. Her mom had been dependent on men for her security. Not tough enough to make it on her own. Charlene vowed she would never do that. She would be the success. And she would see to it that her grandmother had everything she needed. With her own capable hands.

  As she quickly made her way down the narrow passageway leading to the exterior door, she felt the heavy weight of all that lay in front of her. For a moment, she paused and leaned against o
ne of the walls. Exhaustion pulled down on her shoulders. She had to be strong. Resolve stiffened her back. Her grandmother was counting on her, and she had made promises to her grandfather before he’d died to take care of things. And she was smart enough and sturdy enough to do what needed to be done—in spite of what her mother and her boyfriends may have thought.

  Her cell rang. She resumed walking, but pulled the phone out and noted the call was from her best friend. “Hey,” she said, trying to be light in her tone, but tension had constricted her voice.

  “What’s wrong?” Hanna asked.

  Darn. Couldn’t fool her friend. “Grrr! Men. This new…developer dude I just met. He’s just like the rest of them. There must be some kind of connection between two-by-fours and testosterone levels.”

  “You didn’t go off on him, did you?” Hanna asked. “Remember the promotion.”

  “No, I kept it together. Played it by the book in front of him.” Internally, though, she wasn’t into playing by the superficially politically-correct rules at all. She knew what was going on behind the façade of the way things were run, and she was planning to show the whole lot of men in her small town how a woman could actually run with the big boys. By the end of the summer, she’d know all the rules and codes about building from the inside out.

  “What happened?” Hanna asked.

  “I refused his permit. And he got really mad.” She recalled his dark blue eyes and a tingle shot through her.

  “Why’d you refuse it?”

  She fumbled with opening the back door. “Preservation, Expansion, Positive Change, the town’s motto,” she said mockingly. “I didn’t create the stupid slogan, but if I don’t uphold it, I won’t have first crack at Mr. Davis’ job when he gets promoted to town planner.”

  “Well, I’d have been mad, too—if I were him.”