Laura Abbot - My Name is Nell

“I’m glad to hear my daughter represents the best of Southern hospitality.”

“You taught me well,” Nell murmured.

Stella tucked her arm through Brady’s. “Come meet Lily’s husband and the others.”

Trailing the pair, Nell sought to unfist her hands, aware of the tension riddling her. This was no big deal, yet she knew her family. They would make something out of nothing. She glanced across the yard and her heart sank. Oblivious to Chase tugging on her shorts, Abby was watching Brady’s progress to the patio with narrowed eyes and thinned lips.

Somehow Nell made it through the introductions, ignoring the questioning looks some of the women angled at Brady and her. From the cooler Brady picked out a beer and a soda. “Which would you prefer, Nell?”

Before she could answer, Lily slipped in between them. “My sister doesn’t drink.”

Nell winced. Would Brady pick up on the pointedness of the remark or was she simply overreacting?

Brady handed Nell the soda, then smiled at the two women. “I don’t either, except for an occasional beer.”

After Lily excused herself, Brady looked down at Nell, his eyes soft. “I like your family. Nice people.”

Nell tore her gaze from him and glanced around. “Yes. They are.” Then she noticed Abby sitting in a swing, holding Chase in her lap. The girl’s eyes were fixed everywhere but on Nell. “Brady, I’d like you to meet my daughter.” She started walking toward Abby, confident Brady was following. “Abby, this is—” When she turned to include him in the introduction, he wasn’t right behind her as she’d expected. He had stopped several feet away and his face had gone pale. “—Brady Logan,” Nell finished lamely.

As if shaking off a trance, he ran a hand through his hair and approached the swing set. “Hello,” he said in a husky voice.

Abby gave him a brief glance, then continued swinging. “’Lo.”

Nell stepped forward, took hold of the ropes and brought the swing to a stop. “Brady recently moved here from California,” she said in a voice full of a mind-your-manners undertone.

“I know.” Abby’s stony face had softened not one iota. “Grandma told me.”

Nell could only wonder what other tidbits Stella had seen fit to divulge. She turned helplessly to Brady. “And this is Chase, Lily’s son,” she said running a hand over the toddler’s curly hair.

“Hi, Chase.”

The boy ducked his head into Abby’s shirt. Abby continued to stare at her mother in sullen defiance.

“What grade are you in, Abby?”

Slowly Abby turned to Brady. “Eighth.”

Brady’s voice sounded strangled. “Hope you enjoy the year.”

Nell was missing something. It was as if Brady, usually confident and assured in social situations, had become a tongue-tied adolescent himself.

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