Page 43 of Lemon Pound Cake Club

I picked up my clutch. He came downstairs with me and held the front door open as I carried the cake out.

The evening was warm, but a breeze moved through the trees and brought a hint of citrus from the grove along the street.

Porch lights came on across the neighborhood, one after another. Camille’s house glowed from across the street.

Cars were already parked along the curb. Women in dresses and heels walked toward the front door, carrying covered dishes, bottles of wine, and trays of desserts.

I stopped at the edge of the driveway. For a moment, I felt like I was on the outside of something I’d wanted for years. It wasn’t about the house or the women, but something deeper. I wanted a seat at the table, to hear my name spoken with warmth, to be in a room where everyone knew my story and still welcomed me.

“You good?” Zaire asked behind me.

I looked back at him.

He stood by the door, hands in his pockets.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

I gripped the cake stand a bit more firmly.

“It’s just dessert.”

He smiled.

“That’s what people say right before everything goes wrong.”

I laughed and walked toward Camille’s house. As I got closer, I understood why everyone called her the unofficial hostess of Lemon Grove Estates. Her front porch looked like something from a magazine. Big white lanterns glowed by the double doors. Lemon wreaths hung on every window. Yellow hydrangeas filled huge planters, their flowers spilling over the sides like sunshine.

Even the music outside felt fancy. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers and blended with the laughter coming from inside.

I was about to knock when the front door opened.

“There she is!”

Camille stepped out in a white linen jumpsuit with a gold belt at her waist. Her curls framed her face, and her lemon-shaped earrings caught the porch light each time she moved. She hugged me before I could say hello.

“You made it.”

“I almost talked myself out of coming.”

She stepped back a little to look at me.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

She glanced down at the cake carrier in my hands.

“You baked.”

"I promised I would, and I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed."

“Oh, honey.” She smiled warmly. “Nobody ever comes empty-handed around here.”

She moved aside.

“Come on in.”

The first thing I noticed was the smell of vanilla, butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon. If happiness had a scent, it would be just like this.