Chapter 7: Enemies in Savannah

People all say that groceries are expensive in Savannah, and life is hard.

It’s the sort of complaint you hear at the Piggly Wiggly checkout, or while waiting at the DMV. “A loaf of bread costs more than a day’s wages!” folks grumbled, shaking their heads.

But for my mother and me, it didn’t seem so difficult.

We’d been through worse. The two of us, side by side, were tougher than we looked.

My mother had great skill. With a kettle set up, the aroma alone drew everyone in.

It didn’t take long for the scent to snake down the block, drawing in delivery drivers and shop girls on their lunch breaks. Even the police officer who directed traffic stopped by for a taste.

I was quick with my hands and feet, helping to attract customers and collect money at the stall.

I’d learned to make change fast, my fingers nimble as I ladled out stew or wrapped up fresh cornbread. "Thank you, sir. Come back soon!" I’d chirp, my best smile in place.

“Sir, your lamb stew! Come back for more if you like it!”

Sometimes I’d throw in a wink or a joke, making even the grumpiest old men chuckle.

The lamb stew was creamy white, sprinkled with green onions, and incredibly delicious.

People swore it was the best they’d ever tasted. Some even claimed it cured their aches and sorrows, though I suspected the warmth and kindness helped more than the broth.

Our business was booming.

It felt almost like hope, seeing the line stretch around the block, the cash box growing heavier each night.

Until one day, just as I picked up a bowl of stew, I was kicked hard in the lower back.

The blow knocked the breath out of me. I dropped the bowl, stew splattering across the pavement.

“Lila!”

My mother’s voice cracked, sharp with fear. She was at my side in an instant, clutching my arm.

She tried to save me, but the big kettle was kicked over, and my mother was knocked down too.

The kettle crashed to the ground, hot broth gushing everywhere. My mother’s hands flew to her skirt, already splotched red with burns.

Half a kettle of boiling hot lamb stew spilled onto her skirt.

The hiss of scalding liquid on skin was drowned out by my mother’s muffled gasp. I scrambled to help, but someone shoved me aside.

Standing in front of us were the staff of the governor’s mansion—a row of burly men, and behind them, a beauty in a pale yellow sundress.

Her dress fluttered in the breeze, but her eyes were cold, sharp as a blade. The men stood at attention, hands clasped in front of them, their faces unreadable.

The beauty frowned, full of displeasure: “Smash their stall.”

Her words fell like a judge’s gavel. A hush fell over the crowd as the staff surged forward.

“Yes.”

They didn’t hesitate—muscle memory from a hundred jobs like this.

As the staff were about to rush forward, I rushed to protect the kettle, screaming hoarsely, “Help! Help!”

My voice echoed off the brick walls, desperate. The crowd hesitated, uncertain whether to step in or slink away.

One man reached out, and I bit him hard. He screamed in pain and raised his hand to hit me.

I braced myself, jaw clenched, refusing to let go. My mother tried to pull me back, but I held fast.

In the chaos, a cold voice spoke:

“What’s going on here?”

The words cut through the commotion like ice water, making everyone freeze in place.

The crowd parted instantly. A man in a navy blue suit walked forward.

He moved with quiet authority, his shoes clicking on the pavement. People whispered his name, their eyes dropping to the ground.

He wasn’t dressed extravagantly, accompanied by only one assistant.

No entourage, no flashing lights—just a single, silent aide at his shoulder.

But when those men saw him, they all immediately straightened up:

“Governor!”

It was Andrew, the senator’s brother, the man who held more power than anyone else in town. He carried it lightly, but everyone felt its weight.

The governor, the senator’s brother—Andrew.

He walked forward, his face a little displeased: “In broad daylight, in the heart of Savannah, causing such a scene—what is this?”

His voice was calm, but every syllable landed with the force of a verdict. The men shrank back, suddenly sheepish.

Madison immediately stepped forward, took Andrew’s arm, and pouted, aggrieved.

She leaned into him, her eyes shimmering with practiced innocence. The crowd watched, uneasy.

“Andy, you know I can’t stand the smell of lamb. I just wanted to ask them to move a bit farther away, but this brat bit someone, and my men accidentally knocked over the stew kettle…”

She spoke in a singsong tone, every word designed to paint herself as the victim. Her lips trembled, but there was steel in her gaze.

The staffer, bleeding from my bite, immediately raised his hand to back up Madison’s story.

He waved his bandaged hand, nodding emphatically. "She’s telling the truth, Governor."

Andrew sighed:

His shoulders slumped, as if burdened by the pettiness of it all. “Let’s not make a federal case out of this.”

“Fine, just have someone help them move the stall.”

He gestured vaguely, not looking at anyone in particular.

“Yes.”

Two men immediately stepped forward to pull my mother.

They grabbed her elbows roughly, hauling her to her feet. I darted forward, fists clenched, but another man blocked my way.

My mother struggled to get up, but fell back down. Her skirt spread out, revealing calves red from scalding.

She bit her lip, refusing to cry out. The burns were already blistering, but she straightened her back, refusing to show weakness.

In the tussle, her sunhat fell off, and her face was revealed.

Her hair tumbled free, framing her face like a halo. A hush swept over the crowd.

They say beauty can’t be hidden, even in plain clothes.

For a moment, the two men pulling her were stunned.

Even the governor’s men, hardened by years of dirty work, paused, awed by the sight.

Even Andrew was a little dazed.

His hand hovered, uncertain, as if caught between duty and desire.

And a beauty in tears is even more heartbreaking.

The sight seemed to shake something loose in him. He cleared his throat, but the words caught in his mouth.

My mother held back her tears, slowly got up, and knelt before Andrew:

She knelt slow, shoulders squared, chin up—like she was daring them to see her shame and find her lacking. The crowd pressed in, silent.

“I have offended someone important, I deserve to be punished.”

Her voice was steady, stripped of all pretense. Even the governor blinked, unsure how to respond.

“I will move far away and never appear before you again.”

She spoke quietly, but her words carried. The crowd shifted, uneasy at the sight of such humility.

After saying this, my mother got up with my help and went to lift the heavy kettle.

I wrapped my arm around her waist, supporting her as best I could. The kettle was scorched and battered, but we clung to it like a lifeline.

Her legs had just been scalded, and the kettle was heavy. My mother staggered, looking especially pitiful.

Sweat beaded on her brow, her breath ragged. The onlookers shuffled their feet, some averting their eyes.

For a moment, I noticed that Andrew instinctively reached out, wanting to help her.

His fingers twitched, then curled into a fist. He hesitated, torn between power and pity.

But he quickly pulled his hand back.

His jaw tightened. The moment passed, and he let it.

This scene didn’t escape Madison’s eyes.

Her lips thinned, the color draining from her cheeks. She stood a little taller, chin jutted out in defiance.

She stood behind Andrew, her resentful gaze fixed on us.

Her eyes burned holes in my back, and I knew we’d made an enemy more dangerous than any man in a suit.