Hi, darlins! I’m Dilly. I’ve lived here in Winter Garden all my life. I’m a widow now, and unfortunately, I never did get around to having any young ‘uns. I don’t have any pets to speak of either, except for my raccoon.
My raccoon isn’t really my raccoon. He’s just a little booger who comes down out of the woods every evening at around dusk to get a biscuit. He comes right up onto the back porch and peeps in at me through the screen door. If I don’t notice him right away, he makes a racket until I go out there. Now, if I don’t have a biscuit, he’ll take a shortbread cookie. But he’d rather have his biscuit. I’m glad because I’m right partial to shortbread cookies myself. Not that I don’t appreciate a good biscuit too.
Amy—over at the Down South Café—makes the lightest, fluffiest biscuits you ever put in your mouth. I go to the café every morning for my breakfast, and I always get an extra biscuit to feed to my racoon. I’m usually the first one into the restaurant for breakfast. I even went there every morning when the place belonged to Lou Lou Holman. It wasn’t anywhere near as good then as it is now. Amy’s a better cook on her worst day than Lou Lou ever dared to be on her best one.
I believe that good looking deputy Ryan Hall is sweet on Amy, and her whole face lights up when he gets within shouting distance of the café. They’d make an adorable couple, and they’ve been on one or two dates. I think they’d be just perfect for each other. Ain’t that the way of a lonely old lady? Matchmaking for everybody else? Not that I’d be opposed to her matchmaking for me. I’m a widow—I’m not dead.
I do wish that blowhard George Lincoln would quit bothering Amy about selling the café to him. She wouldn’t sell him the blamed thing before she put all that time and money into renovating, why in the world would she sell it to him now? Pert near every day, he comes in huffing and puffing and telling her how hard the restaurant business is and how he’d make Amy a partner if she allowed him to tear down the café and build a bed and breakfast on the land. Granted, Winter Garden doesn’t have any hotels. But I don’t reckon we need one. Anybody from out of town who wants to stay over around here either stays with family or a friend or they go to a hotel in Abingdon about twenty minutes away from Winter Garden.
Well, I’d better stop gabbing and get these strawberries over to Amy at the café. She said something about making some jam. I do love me some strawberry jam. It’s good on biscuits and shortbread cookies…but don’t tell that pesky raccoon that!
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