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Jimmy-behind-the-counter. Jimmy seemed like the kind of guy who would never snake your tips.
    He shook his head. “No, we don’t have a waiter. You’re supposed to just order at the counter.”
    I was confused. I looked back at our table as if it would explain the phantom waiter to Jimmy.
    â€œBut I thought—” I held my hands up in obvious confusion.
    â€œNah, Eli was just here for breakfast. He was probably trying to be helpful since you didn’t seem to know any better.” Jimmy shrugged. “Didn’t want to embarrass you.”
    Oh great, so I had accosted some poor customer and demanded that he take our order and wait on us. Mission not accomplished. I was embarrassed.
    Logan and I made it safely outside before she started laughing at me. “You’re such a dork, Livie.”
    â€œYou’re the one who made me think he was the waiter.” I made a conscious decision to change the subject. “What should we do today?” The slightly cooler temperatures of the morning were long gone and the day was heating up. I asked, “Research? Go by the cemetery? Visit the lake?”
    Logan looked around. “I don’t get it. How come Grandma never talked about her childhood? This town is totally cute.” We were walking along the sidewalk looking out over the green lawn of the town square. There were booths for a farmers’ market set up on one side and some kids playing soccer on the other. It was, in fact, very cute.
    â€œI don’t know. Hopefully we can find out. I was thinking we could go to the library and the local paper. See what they have in their archives.”
    â€œIt’s too nice today to be stuck inside.”
    â€œGood point.” We weren’t planning to scatter her ashes until Georgia could fly down, but we had a lot of information gathering to do before then.
    And this was the crux of our adventure. Research. Long hours at a library table reading through years and years of old newspaper articles until your eyes were seeing double. Leafing through countless legal documents until you stumbled on something that actually told you more of the story. Digging up old maps and plats and deeds to track the location of homes and property. I loved the idea of trudging through all of that. But I was absolutely not up for any of it today.
    We began walking back toward the inn. “So that leaves us with the cemetery or the lake.”
    â€œDo you think it’s her parents’ grave that she wants to be left on?” She asked me without looking up from the screen of her cell phone as she typed.
    â€œProbably.” I didn’t really know. But who else would it be? “Who are you texting?”
    â€œMy mom. I’m telling her how you’re ordering random townsfolk around to do your bidding.”
    I snatched the phone away from her and threw it in my purse. I was putting her in cell phone time-out. She was not allowed to make fun of me via electronic media.
    That same boy from the night before was standing at the valet stand in front of the inn in his oversized maroon jacket with the James Oglethorpe Inn logo embroidered on the pocket. He was waiting for a car to park or a person in need of an open door. He seemed pleased to see us. That’s when I realized why Logan had spent so much time on her hair.
    â€œMorning, ma’am.” I wished they’d all stop calling me ma’am. It made me feel very old.
    â€œGood morning.”
    He asked if we were planning to spend the day shopping. I glanced around at the few stores in the square. They were admittedly adorable but it didn’t really feel like a shopping Mecca.
    I said that we might shop later but asked him if he could tell me where the cemetery was. Apparently it was a quick drive and just outside of town. And the lake was even closer as the town actually sat on it. But to reach the marina, you had to drive through thirty minutes of winding back roads