Lisette was sitting with a man with a huge beard who was wearing a bowling shirt with the name GRADY printed on the chest. He was reciting a recipe for chicken wings, and Lisette was writing it down, a look of complete fascination on her face—like she’d never heard of chicken wings before. Selma rolled her eyes.

Selma saw Jack and walked over to him first. He was easy and was used to her flirting, and it served the purpose of other men seeing her do it, building the anticipation a little. He was at one of the grills. Several of the town children were around him, asking him questions and generally making him uncomfortable as they waited for their food. When she approached, the children grew quiet. One boy put his thumb in his mouth.

Jack tensed when he realized she was there. Honestly, it wasn’t like she’d broken his foot.

“Well, this turned out to be a bigger affair than I thought it would be. And there are steaks? Who popped for steaks?” she said, taking a handkerchief out of the pocket of her dress and fanning away the smoke coming at her from the grill.

“The steaks are courtesy of Lazlo Patterson, the man buying the property. He’s the one responsible for the sign too. Bulahdeen hates it.”

Of course she did. It didn’t fit into her nice, neat dream that this was going to make a difference, when Eby had clearly made up her mind. “Where is she?”

“Last time I saw her, she was trying to untie the sign. She’s managed to do it three times so far. Someone keeps putting it back up.”

Selma shook her head. Crazy old woman.

She scanned the crowd for the next man to bounce to and saw Harold, the owner of the Fresh Mart. He smiled at her and eagerly beckoned her over. His daughter was with him—the girl Selma had argued with just a few days ago. Brittany. Poor girl. She was under the impression that she could stop her father from being selfish, from wanting his own pleasure. Children always think that. Sometimes Selma wished women would stop blaming her when men left them for her. She could never take a man who truly loved his wife. So, really, it wasn’t her fault. They should thank her. She separated the wheat from the chaff for them.

She walked toward him, stepping through the crowd, when an arm suddenly slid around in front of her, holding out a black bottle of cold beer. “You look hot,” the male voice said.

Selma took the bottle and turned. He was in his late fifties … too young. Disappointing. But he had money, that she could tell. And he was married. He wasn’t handsome, but that didn’t matter. It used to, but not anymore.