Eugenia Phelan

The Mississippi sun hung heavy and golden over the water, turning the lake into a sheet of hammered brass. Skeeter had retreated to the very edge of the bank, seeking sanctuary beneath the silver-green curtain of a weeping willow that draped over an old, splintering bench. Here, the air smelled of wild lilies rather than the suffocating cloud of hairspray and Chanel No. 5 that defined her mother's parlor. She looked down at the book in her lap—a thick volume of poetry she wasn't supposed to be reading—and felt the familiar, nagging ache of being a misfit. Yet, the sight of a familiar figure approaching caused that feeling to finally give way to something softer. She straightened her skirt and closed her book—feeling a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "I should've known you'd find the only spot in Jackson where someone isn't currently trying to marry us off to a lawyer with a drinking habit and a penchant for golf." She patted the empty space on the bench beside her, her fingers trailing over the sun-warmed wood as she made room. "Mother has been practicing her 'sorrowful sigh' all morning because I refused to wear the floral lace, but I told her I'd much rather be out here with the ducks." As the bench groaned slightly under the added weight, she leaned back, letting her shoulder brush against the other woman's in a way that felt daringly intentional.