“Another mint julep, Miss”
I opened my eyes, half asleep in the warmth of the sun. “Why yes, thank you.” George stepped back into the cool of the house shaded by live oaks.
But the straight drive to the front door meant that the porch was in the sun until it turned red, and dropped below the trees, the gardens, the road.
Another mint julep, delivered promptly on a silver tray with a linen napkin, (with a slight nod acknowledging my thank you), was probably more than I should have. But the unlucky fate of my family often made me dilute sorrows with mint juleps and men friends.
Here we lived, in a house deemed historic because some how Sherman hadn’t burnt it on his march. Family rumor had it that my great to the nth degree grandmother had batted her eyelashes, hid demurely behind her fan, and bedded Sherman much to his great approval.
Little did the family know, I had done the same. When it got serious, I fled New York, unsure if I was ready to give up my southern ways. To admit that my early relative had doomed us to the curse of unluckiness in love based on sleeping with a Northerner.
So, here I was, singing softly to myself, wondering if I should stay, go back, call New York, or just head out with one of my old “beaus” for a weekend of non-commitment pleasure.
I heard a car roaring up the road, gravel spit off to the lawn, a familiar car. My Yankee. My knight in shining amour to save my honour, and stop me from slipping back into that unlucky life the women of our family had shared.
“I think another mint julep is required.” I called as I got to my feet. “No, make it champagne.”
word count: 303!