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  PRAISE FOR KRISTY WOODSON HARVEY

  “A major new voice in Southern fiction.”

  —Elin Hilderbrand, New York Times bestselling author

  “Harvey pulls the reader into the hearts and souls of her characters.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author

  “Southern fiction at its best.… Beautifully written.”

  —Eileen Goudge, New York Times bestselling author

  “Sweet as sweet tea on the outside and strong as steel on the inside.… Kristy Woodson Harvey is a natural.”

  —Ann Garvin, author of On Maggie’s Watch and The Dog Year

  “An author whose carefully crafted paragraphs stir my imagination and touch my heart.”

  —Leslie C. Moore, editor, Sasee Magazine

  PRAISE FOR THE SOUTHERN SIDE OF PARADISE

  “Kristy Woodson Harvey has done it again! Perfectly tying together the stories of Ansley, Caroline, Sloane, and Emerson (and their men!), The Southern Side of Paradise is full of humor, charm, and family. Fans of the Peachtree Bluff series will not be disappointed!”

  —Lauren K. Denton, USA Today bestselling author of Hurricane Season

  “I devoured The Southern Side of Paradise. Kristy Woodson Harvey spins a deliciously authentic Southern tale of family and the often messy, complex relationships between sisters, mothers, and daughters. This book is the perfect beach read.”

  —Susan Boyer, USA Today bestselling author of Lowcountry Boil

  “Harvey excels at drawing strong, genuine relationships.… Her Peachtree Bluff setting creates the kind of beach town full of colorful characters and big porches that make for the best kind of summer escape.”

  —Booklist

  “As the eldest of three sisters, I know you’re not supposed to pick favorites—but The Southern Side of Paradise is Kristy Woodson Harvey’s very best. The heartwarming finale to the Peachtree Bluff series, this novel had me laughing, crying, and wanting to hop on a plane and head south. I loved every page.”

  —Camille Pagán, bestselling author of I’m Fine and Neither Are You

  “Woodson Harvey has been called a major voice in Southern fiction, and her latest novel—the third in the Peachtree Bluff series—delivers a healthy dose of her signature wit, charm, and heart.”

  —Woman’s World

  PRAISE FOR THE SECRET TO SOUTHERN CHARM

  “The Secret to Southern Charm is a compelling, beautifully drawn tale of love, hope, and small-town secrets. The richly detailed backdrop of a charming coastal town and the struggles and joys of four generations of women solidifies Kristy Woodson Harvey’s spot as a rising star of Southern fiction.”

  —Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author of Beach House for Rent

  “The characters will leap off the page and into your heart, and you’ll find yourself rooting for them so fervently, you’ll forget they’re not actually real. Kristy Woodson Harvey has delivered another masterpiece.… Let’s just say that this one had better have a sequel too, because I’m not ready to leave these charming ladies behind.”

  —Kristin Harmel, international bestselling author of The Room on Rue Amélie

  “An engrossing contemporary tale that readers of Southern fiction will enjoy.… Harvey is proving herself to be an author to look out for in Southern fiction.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Harvey’s growing fan base will find another great beach read in this second novel in her Peachtree Bluff trilogy.… Harvey is an up-and-coming Southern writer with staying power.”

  —Booklist

  “Looking for a perfect romancey-angsty read? Then look no further.… Harvey’s exploration of infidelity and the challenges of being a military wife add wonderful layers to an already great read.”

  —USA Today’s Happy Ever After

  PRAISE FOR SLIGHTLY SOUTH OF SIMPLE

  “Kristy Woodson Harvey really knows how to tell a Southern tale. Every single time her stories unwind gently, like a soft wind in Georgia, then that wind catches you off guard and throws you into her characters’ tumultuous lives. I loved it.”

  —Cathy Lamb, New York Times bestselling author

  “Kristy Woodson Harvey cuts to the heart of what it means to be a born-and-bred Southerner, complete with the unique responsibilities, secrets, and privileges that conveys.… It’s easy to see why everyone is buzzing about Slightly South of Simple.”

  —Cassandra King, author of The Sunday Wife and The Same Sweet Girls

  “My prediction is that writers come and writers go, but Kristy Woodson Harvey is here to stay. The warmth, wit, and wisdom of this novel pave her way into the exclusive sisterhood of Southern writers.”

  —Huffington Post

  “Full of heart, emotion, and Southern charm…”

  —PopSugar

  “With a charming, coastal Southern setting, Slightly South of Simple is a heartfelt story about the universal themes of love, loss, forgiveness, and family. I’m thrilled to hear that this book is part of a series and look forward to getting to know this cast of strong Southern women even better.”

  —Deep South Magazine

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  To my forever friend and partner in crime, Kate McCanless McDermott, who introduced herself by cutting my hair the first day of kindergarten. The rest is history.

  CHAPTER 1

  gray: perfect island blonde

  I had always been a planner. My calendar was filled a year in advance, vacations chosen from a well-curated spreadsheet of bucket list destinations ranked in order of interest, and my son’s potential summer camp options were mapped out for the rest of his childhood, categorized by activity and color-coded by region. My company’s succession plan should I (a) die, (b) retire, or (c) never return from one of the aforementioned bucket list vacations had been detailed since the day I filed for my first LLC.

  Needless to say, when my startup took off, and I got married, had my son, and bought my dream house all in very short order, I thought my hard work had been worth it. The hours spent goal setting, evaluating, strategizing, and visualizing had come to fruition, bloomed into the beautiful garden that I had been seeding, sowing, and watering for the past several years. I thought I had this adulting thing in the bag. I thought I was set.

  Life had other plans.

  I put the car in park, took a deep breath, and stepped out. The heat rose from the asphalt of the parking lot as I hoisted my rattan beach bag onto my shoulder. Cicadas sang in the tall sea oats, and the dunes in front of the beach club rolled like hills, their valleys revealing a spectacular view of the ocean. The hazy sky went pink, yellow, or orange depending on where I looked, blending to a seamless blue over the ocean at the horizon line.

  I gave my outfit a final once-over in the car’s reflection. Large floppy hat, huge Jackie O sunglasses, vintage pareo tied around my neck, and plain but chic flip-flops. I stood up straighter and cleared my throat. It was going to be okay. On a day as spectacular as this, it couldn’t help but be. I had gone over the plan at least a hundred times in my head: Park car on the far side of the lot, directly opposite the pool. Exit car and veer left of the octagonal patch of grass visible from the terrace and outdoor dining area. Walk briskly but nonchalantly straight into the protective watch of
my best friend, Marcy, who would be waiting for me poolside.

  My flip-flops traveled in measured steps across the concrete pavers as Step on a line, and you’ll break your mama’s spine came to mind, reminding me that, always and forever, we are children at heart.

  No matter our age, first days back are never easy. I was a grown-up now. I could have avoided this first day. But I refused to hide out in the shadows as though I had something to be ashamed of; I refused to sacrifice a summer at one of my favorite places in the world because of a little scandal. On this opening day at the beach club, members from near and far who called Cape Carolina—this little slice of sandy paradise—home each summer would gather together again for three glorious months by the shore. They would be chattering excitedly, catching up on everything that had happened over the past nine months while they were apart. Suffice it to say, I would be a hot topic.

  As I turned the corner, I gave my friendliest wave to the brunchers on the terrace who called out greetings. But I passed by quickly. For every person who would give me a hug in true concern, there were four who would try to gather dirt and then whisper about it behind my back later.

  My plan didn’t account for the fact that the teak lounge chairs between the terrace and the pool deck were teeming with sunbathers, mimosa sippers, and bridge players.

  I had almost passed through unnoticed when Mrs. Jenkins, a remarkably agile octogenarian whom I hadn’t seen since the previous summer, jumped up from her chair and stopped me in my tracks. “Gray, darling,” she said dramatically, her bright abstract-print caftan blowing in the breeze. “I am so sorry…”

  Here it was. I nodded in polite recognition and braced myself for the blow. I knew it was inevitable, but I wasn’t ready to hear how sorry everyone was about my impending divorce. I knew they were, in their way, even the ones who weren’t as charitable about their delivery. But they were also relishing a new scandal to discuss this summer.

  But then she continued, “I am so sorry I didn’t make it to your mother’s funeral, sweetheart. Burl was in the hospital, and I simply could not leave him.” She took my hand, making the bangles on my wrist jingle, and I was grateful for my huge, tear-concealing sunglasses. I gave her jeweled left hand an understanding squeeze, my ring finger conspicuously empty in comparison to hers. This was how it was when we came back together, as though the past few months had never happened, were suspended in time. I usually loved that. But this year it meant rehashing things that had happened almost nine months earlier, including my mother’s funeral.

  “It was a beautiful service,” I said. It had been. I had enlisted my favorite florist to make the arrangements nothing short of spectacular. Mom had specifically told me not to waste money on flowers. They weren’t a waste, though. They were glorious, the backdrop of the church’s stained-glass windows making them even more so. Those flowers brightened one of the darkest days of my life. No one in the church except for Marcy realized that I was grieving the loss of three people. My mother, of course. My husband, who was next to me in the pew but no longer next to me at night. And my sister, whose brand-new husband, Elijah—who, to put it mildly, I believed was a cult leader—had brainwashed her out of our family. To add insult to injury, he had performed the service, per my mother’s request. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her in her final days that the man she thought had saved her wild child, Quinn, and brought her to Jesus was nothing like he seemed—much less that Greg had left me.

  Mom had died in September barely seven months after her February diagnosis, after a swift but valiant battle with a cancer that seemed determined to take her from here, from me, from all of these earthly problems. It was a blessing; I knew that. But it still hurt like hell. She had left when I needed her the very most. I needed her today, to help me face this firing squad head-on.

  “It was magnificent,” Mrs. Stoddard added, standing up to join us.

  I was trapped. The plan had failed. I quickly scanned the property for Marcy, but she was nowhere to be found.

  “And congratulations on your sister’s wedding,” Mrs. Stoddard added, raising her wrinkled hand to shield her face. “I only wish we had been invited,” she said lightly.

  Wow. I felt like I was getting away with murder. The first dig of the day didn’t have to do with Greg. Even still, I couldn’t help but imagine everyone around me whispering about my marriage. If she hadn’t worked so much.… If she had cared a little more about the man being the man.… Did you see her travel schedule?… Poor little Wagner.… It is the worries that plague us the most that cut the deepest when other people call them to the surface. Because this year had been difficult for my son. He had adjusted remarkably well to his new circumstances, but that didn’t keep my shame and guilt from being very real.

  If only Greg would agree to the very generous settlement I had offered him, this could all be over, and I would feel so much less self-conscious. Once it was over, it was over. No one would have anything left to talk about. But Greg was turning a simple divorce into a now sixteen-month soap opera by demanding half of my affiliate marketing company, ClickMarket. My company, the one I had been building since I was twenty years old. Just thinking about his greed made anger rise in me. He didn’t want me, as he had made abundantly clear on our “second honeymoon” last February, three days after I found out my mother had cancer. But he wouldn’t let me go either. So I was stuck here, in legal and emotional purgatory, waiting for a bunch of strangers to decide my fate to the tune of $500 an hour.

  Deep breath. I reeled myself in and replied to Mrs. Stoddard: “It was such a small wedding. I’m sorry we weren’t able to have all our friends there, but Quinn was insistent that our mother see her walk down the aisle, so time was of the essence.”

  She looked contrite now. “Of course it was, sweetheart. Of course.”

  They meant well, these ladies. I knew they did. They had seen me through good times and bad, were the first to bring meals when Wagner was born, to throw parties when a celebration was in order. Maybe now they’d want to throw a party for my divorce. Or my thirty-fifth birthday, which was looming large.

  Just when I felt myself start to relax, I saw her. Her. The twentysomething blonde with the MBA I had hired to be my husband’s executive assistant when I had somewhat begrudgingly promoted him to CFO of my company and given him a corner office. It wasn’t that I didn’t want my husband on my playing field. Greg just wasn’t a very hard worker, and everyone except him could see that he didn’t deserve to be a part of my C-suite. There were positives to Greg’s aversion to work, especially when it came to raising our son, but I’d always had serious qualms about his being a part of my business.

  Ironically, his executive assistant was not one of them.

  Suddenly I was thankful that these ladies had taken post along my route to the pool. Though we hadn’t specifically addressed the Greg and Brooke situation—thank God—I knew they were abreast of the drama. Everyone was abreast of the drama. So I nodded my head slyly toward Brooke as she approached and said, “Mrs. Jenkins, Mrs. Stoddard, would you do me the very large favor of keeping her occupied for a few minutes?”

  They laughed delightedly, always glad to be caught up in a scheme.

  Brooke was in full makeup, a sundress, and five-inch wedges that seriously slowed her pace. As she called “Gray!” I pretended not to hear her and crossed the final few yards of concrete pavers to the pool gate. Before she could catch me, Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Stoddard descended on her with small talk. They were so good; it didn’t even seem suspicious. But just when I thought the worst was over, I heard a muffled “how humiliating” from a “friend” as I walked by. I’m sure she thought I couldn’t hear her, but I have ears that rival a bat’s. So I turned, shot her my most genuine smile, and said, “You have absolutely no idea.”

  “Oh, no,” she stammered. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

  But I was already gone, lifting the safety latch on the iron gate and walking past the elaborate hut with its Bermu
da shutters that served as the pool bar. There were a dozen or so sunbathers lounging around the perimeter of the pool, some in full sun and others under the club’s black-and-white-striped umbrellas. Children splashed and played in the water. Even in my state, I couldn’t help but smile at their joy.

  Palm trees swayed above the white wooden cabanas. The trees weren’t native to this area, but the club kept them alive by wrapping them through the winter. The view across the pool of the otherworldly blue ocean was transportive, and it made this little oasis in Cape Carolina feel like a tropical mini-vacation. Not that I was eager to return to the tropics after last time.

  “Gray,” I heard Brooke calling again from behind me, louder than before. Good Lord, leave me alone, I thought. I was being immature, I knew. Still unable to locate Marcy, I quickly and calmly removed my sunglasses, hat, flip-flops, and pareo and set them in a pile by the edge of the pool. There was one place I knew Brooke wouldn’t follow me. She would never ruin a perfectly good blowout, which, to be fair, I respected.

  I had been mature when Greg told me, on our trip to the British Virgin Islands, as we were sipping mimosas on the stern of our boat—still sex-sticky, no less—that he was leaving me. I had been mature when he moved out of my house and straight into Brooke’s the day after we buried my mother. I had been mature when they asked to take my only child on a three-week vacation to Europe, which they were leaving for tonight. I was done being mature.

  As I heard Brooke’s footsteps behind me, I flashed back to the BVIs, to Greg looking me in the eyes and saying, “Gray, you are the mother of my child, and I will always love you. But I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways.”

  Ten years of holding his hand and smelling his particular brand of morning breath and feeling his cold feet underneath our sheets. Ten years of his bad jokes at my office and even worse show tunes in the shower. My husband—the man I had made love to less than thirty minutes earlier, the man who had held my leg in the delivery room, who had stood at the other end of the aisle when I was in a white dress—was out.