Minerva has worked for my family for as long as I could remember. When I got married and moved from Daniel Island into Charleston, Minerva “came with the house.” I didn’t really need a live-in housekeeper anymore, but Minerva wouldn’t tolerate being fired. So, I’ve kept her on, and to be honest, she’s the one who has helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life.

I went back out onto the side porch where the crates of spirits sat. Observing the boxes labeled Marrow Bone Creek, I opened the one on top and pulled out the bottle of locally distilled bourbon. I eyed the number of boxes and hoped it would be enough to keep these rot-gut Southerners drunk and merry for the evening.

Brunch would be just the immediate family, but the rehearsal would take place in the side garden tomorrow evening, and dinner would be served immediately afterward. I’d hosted many dinner parties over the years, but this was to be my first since the Shannon’s death.

It was hard to pinpoint why I stopped having those dinner parties. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was depressed; that much was obvious. And the shame around that depression made me self-isolate. I withdrew for so long that I felt a little like the girl who resurfaced after a night of horrible sex. Awkward and unable to participate in the vapid and insipid conversations I’d indulged in before because my life was so different now.

I’m different now.

So, I self-isolated again.

But when Jared flew into town with his brand-new fiancée on his arm and begged me to plan a wedding like one of my “old-school dinner parties,” I couldn’t say no. But in truth, I was dreading having all of these people in my house. Dreading the whispered conversations they would have in my home as I fed them and plied them with good liquor. The tension that thought caused in my shoulders made me want to rip my dress over my head and dive into the pool again. Instead, I took the bottle of Marrow Bone Creek into the kitchen, where Minerva was just hanging up with Amos.

“He’s on his way back with four crates,” she assured me as she took the whiskey from my hands.

“Good.”

Minerva kept an old AM/FM radio on the counter in the kitchen; it was always tuned to the oldies station. I turned it on now, and Otis Redding proceeded to beg me to try a little tenderness.

Just as Minnie set a frosted glass of bourbon and cold, tart, homemade lemonade on the counter for me, I heard voices coming up the back path. Animated conversations between five boisterous young men crescendoed on the back porch. My son, already three sheets to the wind, stumbled across the threshold.