Simple Gone South

Gone South - 3

by

Alicia Hunter Pace

For the fabulous Lynn Raye Harris, our plotting partner and friend of our hearts, who has taught us that the more we hurt them, the sweeter the happily ever after. We love you. J.P.H and S.L.J.

Acknowledgments

This story, more than any other in the Gone South series, has been a journey. Though this story has little resemblance to the first version, it all started with Lucy and Brantley. It was with them that Merritt, Alabama, was born and the Gone South gang came to life.

There is something special about creating the unsold story, something wonderful about continuing to write page after page based not on a contracted deadline or for readers who are begging for the next story but on the love of the characters, the story, and the hope that this will be the one.

We owe thanks to:

Our families and friends who lived with us in the early stages of Gone South. It wasn’t always easy.

Rhonda Nelson, who read for us and believed that Merritt was a place readers would want to go.

Sandy Callahan, the best proofreader in all the land.

Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, and Jess Verdi at Crimson Romance, who not only always help make a better book, but help us to be better writers.

Chapter One

Getting hit in the head with a taco will make a man rethink a relationship.

Brantley Kincaid was at Mateo’s Grill and Cantina with his on-again, off-again girlfriend Rita May Sanderson when she took exception to his lack of enthusiasm for her suggestion that they take a long weekend and go to Paris. And she wasn’t talking about Paris, Texas, either. He had just returned to Nashville from a three-month stint in San Francisco where he’d been consulting on a project to restore a group of Queen Anne row houses. If he had wanted to go anywhere, it would not have been Paris and even if he had wanted that, he damn sure wouldn’t want to do it in three days. He was in no mood for a city as big as Paris and, besides, apart from escargot and oui, he couldn’t speak a word of French. Who wanted to run around for three days dodging cars and bicycles, saying yes, snail? Not him.

Rita May did not agree.

So she threw the taco at him. It had guacamole on it, which he normally liked—when it wasn’t being hurled through the air in his direction. It wasn’t the first time. Rita May was a thrower and a breaker—coffee cups, CDs, books, assorted food. He’d seen it all—headed right for his head.

“Rita May,” he said as he picked lettuce out of his hair and wiped salsa off his ear. “I know how it’s gotten to be kind of our trademark for me to offend you in some way and then for you to throw something at me. And then I apologize for the offending and you apologize for the throwing and for destroying my property, if that has been the case, which it usually has. Then we have sex and go shopping to replace whatever it is you broke, which I pay for. But now you have hit me with a taco in a public place, and I am shutting this freak show down.”

Having already made short work of the paper napkins, he pulled his handkerchief out and finished cleaning himself up as best he could.

He’d had enough. This was possibly the twelfth time they had broken up, but it was the first time he’d done the breaking. So it was understandable that she was all surprised with open mouth and big eyes. Her eyes were still the brightest blue he’d ever seen, but not worth it anymore, no matter how many Keith Urban and Jackson Beauford videos she’d been in. He got to his feet and threw a wad of bills on the table. There was a fire fall of cheese down the front of his bespoken shirt that he hadn’t noticed. He brushed it into his plate.

“But we came in my car. How will you get home?” she asked.

“You let me worry about that, Tradd.”

Her face turned red and she said through gritted teeth, “Don’t call me that! Never call me that in public!”

Time to walk away. This was turning into an argument—and he didn’t argue. Ever. It was one of his rules.

“I am not calling you anything anymore,” he said pleasantly as he fished steak out of his pocket. Tradd Davenport might be a little too uptown ball gown for her persona of aspiring country music star, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t her real name. No matter.

As Brantley walked away, the chip basket hit him in the shoulder but he didn’t look back.

He bought what passed for a barbecue sandwich from a street vendor and walked and ate for four blocks. Ordinarily he would not have chosen barbecue, because God knows they didn’t have any real barbecue in Nashville, Tennessee, but that was all that was available at the moment and he was hungry. Real barbecue came from where you were raised, but he had no plans to return to Merritt, Alabama—not even for the best pulled pork in the south. Maybe he should have taken his fajitas with him, though they would have made for messy walking food. Not that he wasn’t already a mess.

He flagged down a taxi.

His townhouse still had that musty, closed up smell. And it still looked like a hotel room. His clients who lauded his “impeccable taste and attention to detail” would be shocked to see how he lived. He had some nice antique furniture because his grandmother had seen to it, but he’d never even bothered to unroll the Oriental rug she’d sent. Who had time? Or inclination? Clean was about all his domicile had going for it and that was because he hired that done. Well, that and his bed. He liked a comfortable bed with a good sink effect. All those extra pillows and gewgaws had cost a lot but the sink effect was excellent.

He could hardly wait to get in that bed—without Rita May complaining about how he kicked and stole covers. He was surprised at how downright cheerful he was about it.

Having washed the taco out of his hair, he’d just stepped out of the shower when his cell rang. That would be Rita May, who would have thought of a whole new batch of his shortcomings that she needed to apprise him of. Brantley had no interest in hearing—again—about how he didn’t know what a relationship was, so he let it go to voicemail.

It was kind of cold in the house. He had to dig deep to find his favorite flannel pants because he hadn’t worn them yet this year. They had ducks on them. It was the kind of night that called for favorite pants. He had fewer opinions about t-shirts so he didn’t have to dig.

Finally, he reached for his phone. He was only going to listen to enough of Rita May’s message to enjoy her fury at finally being the one who got dumped. After peeping at the caller ID, Brantley relaxed.

It was Missy, aka Mrs. Harris Townshend Bragg, III, aka the demon spawn who, at ten months old, had put her hand in his first birthday cake before he got a chance. But apparently they had bonded over that torn up cake because she was his best and oldest friend. Before dialing her back, he settled himself into his leather chair in case it was going to be a long conversation—which was likely. Of course, she might just be calling to tell him a joke or give him an order.

She didn’t ask after his health, the weather, or any of the things a woman of her social standing and breeding should have. She didn’t even say hello.

“Brantley!” Missy said his name like she was in charge of it and he needed reminding of that fact. “Listen! I want to talk to you.”

Clearly, Missy, or you wouldn’t have called.

“Hello, Missy. This is Brantley.” He always made it a point to greet her and identify himself. It had not rubbed off on her, not in the twenty-odd years since she had been capable of dialing his number. “How is the sainted Harris Bragg? And my godson? And baby Lulu?”

“Oh, they’re fine.” He could see her waving her hand like she did when she didn’t want to talk about something. Not that she didn’t love her husband and children. At this moment, they just were not her mission. “Listen! I need you to come home next weekend.” From where Missy sat, “home” was still Merritt because that’s where she was. It mattered not to her where he paid taxes, had set up his architectural restoration business, and got dumped. “I’m in the Junior League Follies and I need you to come.”

Oh, damn.

He and Missy had been to the Follies a few times when they were kids because their mothers were in it. It involved grown women dressing up like famous people and lip-syncing and dancing, all in the name of charity.

“Don’t tell me they are still doing that.”

“Not for a while, but it’s been resurrected. And not they, Brantley. We—meaning me and you—because you’re coming.”

He could tell her yes now or he could tell her yes later, but in the end, people always told Missy yes. Besides, he hadn’t seen his dad and grandmother since before he left for San Francisco. If he didn’t visit soon, they’d land on his doorstep.

“All right,” he said. “What else?” Because it just wasn’t going to be that easy. Of course, going to Merritt was never easy. How could it be? Too many graves.

“I need you to come to the after party too.”

“How much is this going to set me back?” It wasn’t going to be cheap. Junior Leaguers were never cheap.

“Twenty-five for the show and a hundred for the party.”

“Must be some party. Generally people like me enough that they let me come to their parties for free.”

“Charity, Brantley. I know what you made on that San Francisco job, so don’t argue with me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And, Brantley?” she said sweetly. “Please tell Rita May she is welcome to join us.” She said it like she was a queen granting a boon to a lowly peasant—which about summed up Missy’s opinion of Rita May.

“That will not be happening,” he said. “She has decided she does not approve of the way I do business. She will be passing her time elsewhere from here on out.”

“Praise Jesus,” Missy said.

“Now, Melissa, I am sure what you mean is, ‘Brantley, I am so sorry your relationship did not work out.’”

“Yeah, that,” she said. “There’s something else.” Wasn’t there just always? “Lucy and I need some serious hair products. I need you to go to Sephora at Green Hills Mall to get them.”

NO, NO, NO! He hated the mall—not just that mall, but every mall. But again, there was no refusing Missy. He reached for his pen and DayRunner.

“Go ahead. Tell me.”

She paused. “You’re getting your DayRunner, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“There’s an app for that, you know.”

“I don’t want an app. I want paper. I want to write with a fountain pen—the very same Mont Blanc pen you gave me upon our graduation from that fine institution, Merritt High School. Now, what is it you need from the hell mall?”

“All you have to do is pick it up,” she said, like it was a gift. “I’ve already talked to them and they’ve got it gathered up. I’ve given them my credit card number and everything. All you have to do is give them my name.”

That was something anyway. He decided to steer the conversation away from the Green Hills Mall before she thought of any more errands. “Is this shindig on Saturday?”

“Of course. You can’t do anything on Friday nights during football season.” Right. High school game. He’d played on that team with none other than Nathan Scott, former college star and present Merritt High Head Coach.

“I might not come until Saturday morning.”

“That’ll be fine. We need our hair stuff by early afternoon.”

“I’ll find you when I get there.”

“Call my cell. I don’t know where I’ll be.”

“I’ll do it.” With his clean hair and ducks, he went to bed.

* * *

Lucy Mead slid into a back booth at Lou Anne’s diner. She was elated. She’d had a great morning—it wasn’t every day you got handed a job that was beyond your dreams.

But she was hungry. And tired. Thank goodness her new project wouldn’t start until after the Junior League Follies were over. Why she had let her best friend, Missy, talk her into performing in the Follies, she would never know. Their other two book club friends weren’t performing. Lanie was working on the after party and Lucy could have done that too. Or she could have helped Tolly with publicity. But no. Missy wanted to lip-sync and dance and she wanted Lucy to do it with her. So that’s what they were doing.

What they weren’t doing was eating much. Damn those costumes. Not that it would hurt her to miss a meal. She might not be the fat teenager she had been, but her hips and thighs could use a break from the carbs.

“Hey!” Missy sang out as she slipped into the booth across from Lucy. Missy was walking perfection, even after two children. She always had been. Lucy would never forget her first summer in Merritt. She still marveled that eighteen-year-old Missy, the beautiful blond cheerleader, had befriended the awkward, overweight, younger girl Lucy had been.

She’d been fifteen and had begged her anthropologist parents to let her stay with her great aunt Annelle while they went to some village in Brazil. Or was that the Denmark summer? She couldn’t keep up. Back then, they’d moved to new faculty positions every few years; Clemson, University of Georgia, Florida State. And every summer there had been some dig or study in some remote place. Lucy had hated it. Working at Annelle Mead Interiors that summer had been heaven. Not only had she found her best friend, she’d found her professional calling. Of course, she’d gotten her heart broken too, but wasn’t that what the fifteenth summer was for?

Maybe it was the nostalgia or the lack of food that made her say to Missy, “I love you.”

“Of course you do!” Missy said. “I’m loveable.”

“Some would say.” Lou Anne approached the table with menus, water, and a smile.

“We don’t need those menus, Lou Anne,” Missy said. “We are going to split the grilled chicken salad. No dressing. Just some balsamic vinegar. Water to drink.”

Lou Anne sighed. “These Junior League Follies are going to be the death of my business. There’s not a woman in this town between the ages of twenty-four and forty who’s eating.”

“It’s going to be the death of me too,” said Lucy.

“Poor babies. I’ve got a chocolate cake, still warm. Why don’t you let me bring you some? Just a little? I’ll give it to you for free, if you’ll just eat.”

Lucy’s mouth watered. “Better not. You see, we have these costumes . . .”

She imagined herself on the stage of the Merritt Community Playhouse looking like the Goodyear Blimp. That probably couldn’t happen in four days, but fat was always right around the corner.

“Okay, but you girls come to see me Monday. I’m going to give you a proper meal.”

“Good news,” Missy said after Lou Anne had gone. “I have solved our hair product dilemma.”

“I told you I would go to Birmingham to get what we need,” Lucy said. Their regular stylist wouldn’t even attempt what they needed done. The girl at the mall was willing to try but only if they obtained the correct products, which could not be had in Merritt.

“You don’t have time for that. We have practice every night. Besides, never do something that you can get someone else to do. That’s my motto.” She smiled her million watt cheerleader smile. “I called Brantley last night. He’s bringing them.”

Hell and double hell! Not Brantley Kincaid! Anything but that.

“Mmmm,” Lucy said and sipped her water. “I thought he was in San Francisco.” She was surprised at how disinterested she sounded, but she was disinterested. Mostly.

“He’s back. And he’s coming to the Follies and the party. Sans that she devil from hell, Rita May Sanderson. They have broken up again.”

“It won’t last.”

“We can hope.”

You can hope; I don’t care. She couldn’t say that, of course. Not to Missy. Missy had shared a teething ring with Brantley and she’d cheerfully have a street fight with a motorcycle gang for him. It had probably always been so, but after that horrible day when his mother and beloved Papa Brantley were killed in a car crash Missy had appointed herself the one woman Brantley Kincaid Protection Agency.

“Rita May is mean to Brantley,” Missy went on.

“So you say.”

Lou Anne served their half salads and defiantly set a basket of corn muffins, homemade yeast rolls, and butter between them. Oh, God—she had included little packets of honey and strawberry jam. Lucy’s mouth watered. Then she remembered the first time she’d seen Rita May. It had been at the Country Club Father’s Day brunch.

Brantley had stopped by the table where Lucy and Annelle were eating.

“Well, if it’s not Lucy Mead looking like a strawberry cupcake.” The pink eyelet dress had looked so pretty in the store and made her feel so feminine, but now she hated it. He smiled, winked, and laid his hand on her shoulder. Then he introduced her to the tall, model thin, porcelain skinned woman on his arm. Her sleek black linen dress contrasted perfectly with her sleek white blond hair. Rita May Sanderson definitely did not look like a cupcake of any flavor. And she could not have looked more different than Lucy.

Lucy’s maternal grandmother had been Italian and Lucy wore that history on her face—dark brown eyes, full lips, and perpetually tanned skin. The only way to tame her dark curly hair was to keep it cut short, close to her scalp. Put her in a striped t-shirt and she looked like she should be climbing on a Vespa scooter in a 1960s movie. All she needed was a beret and more eyeliner.

And then there were those hips and thighs. Always that.

Lucy pushed the bread basket to the edge of the table.

Missy let out a little whimper. “I might have some skim milk in my coffee later.”

“You weakling.” Lucy grinned with relief that they had moved on from the subject of Brantley Kincaid and his maybe-yes, maybe-no romance.

Maybe-yes, maybe-no. That was Brantley through and through. She had done a pretty good job of avoiding him these last few years. He didn’t come to town often, and when he did she usually had warning and could leave town herself. Of course, there was the odd time or two that he’d showed up unannounced, and a wedding or birthday party here and there that she could not miss. Still, she’d held it together, considering.

What had happened that first summer was one thing. As much as anything, it had been her fault—and that of circumstances. Brantley hadn’t even known how she felt, had never meant to hurt her. But what had happened that time in Savannah was a whole different matter. Not even Missy knew about it, and she never would. It had been at the end of Lucy’s freshman year at the Savannah College of Art and Design, and Brantley had come to town with some other Vandy students for an architectural restoration seminar. That was when she’d learned that Brantley was a runner. When something happened that he couldn’t deal with, he ran. After college she’d worked in Atlanta a few years before moving to Merritt to work with Annelle. Before returning, Lucy had decided that the easiest way to deal with a runner was to run from him.

Only she couldn’t do that this time. The show had to go on. Junior League president Millie Carmichael was entirely capable of hiring a hit man. She had the money and the guts. You had to have those things to be president of Junior League.

Lucy cut her chicken into smaller bites to make it last longer.

“Brantley said—” Missy began.

“Missy,” Lucy cut her off because she could not listen to what Brantley had said, whatever it was. Her news was supposed to be a secret, but it would be common knowledge soon. She could trust Missy and above all else, she had to change the subject.

“What? Tell me. Tell me now!”

No turning back. Missy could always tell when Lucy had a secret—well, almost always.

“I want to tell you something but you cannot tell.”

“Never.” Missy crossed her heart with her index finger like a girl scout making a promise to a bunkmate.

“Speaking of Brantley, his grandmother came to see me this morning.”

“Does she know Brantley’s coming this weekend?” Missy asked.

“I don’t know. We did not discuss Brantley. Miss Caroline told me that the city offered to buy the building where Judge Brantley had his law offices. They want to turn it into a community multi-purpose center.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Missy said. “That’s a great building. Did you know the whole top floor is a ballroom? It hasn’t been used in years but Brantley and I used to play up there when we were kids. After the judge died, they moved his furniture from his chambers at the courthouse back to his old office and locked it up. I know most of the rest of the building is rented out.”

“Here’s the thing. Miss Caroline is going to donate the building, but she wants control of the restoration. She’s offered me the job of restoring the interior.”

“Oh, Lucy, that’s wonderful!”

“She wants it kept quiet for now because she hasn’t notified the tenants yet. Her plan is to have the building vacant and the other details worked out by the first of the year. I am so excited—I still can’t believe she chose me.”

“I am not a bit surprised. I know she and Miss Annelle are friends but everyone knows Miss Annelle’s taste runs more toward art deco style and ultra modern. That wouldn’t work in that building at all.”

“Still, she could have brought someone in. It makes me feel like I am really home now. I mean, if Caroline Brantley accepts you for something so important, you must really belong, right?”

Missy laughed. “Why on earth would you think you don’t belong here? That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You grew up here; you haven’t been jerked all over the globe.”

“I say you belong here. But if you need Miss Caroline’s stamp of approval, I’m glad you’ve got it.”

“I want to do a great job. I don’t want to make her sorry. I want to give this town a beautiful building.”

“You will, Lucy. I know you will. Who else is going to work on the project?”

“No idea. Miss Caroline said she was still ironing that out.”

* * *

The streets of Merritt left no doubt that it was October. You couldn’t swing a dead dog without hitting a pile of pumpkins or a scarecrow sitting on a hay bale. There were a respectable number of ghosts and witches too. They would disappear November first but the other autumnal items would linger on until they were replaced by snowmen and Santas.

Brantley had promised he would arrive in the morning and he had—but just barely. Afternoon technically started at one minute after noon, so he had about fourteen minutes to catch up with Missy before he was officially late. He called her cell but it was Harris who answered.

“Hey, Harris, it's Brantley. Did I call the house?” It had happened before. Speed dial will do that to you.

“No, she left her cell here.”

“Missy without her phone?” She’d tried to take it to the delivery room.

“Yeah, I know. She’s crazy right now. Not sleeping much. Living on coffee. I’ll be glad when this is over.”

“I’ll bet. I’ve got two big bags of hair stuff and a receipt for an amount you don’t want to know about. She said to bring it to her. Do you know where that would be?”

“Sort of, I guess.” He sighed. Harris Bragg sighed a lot—and for good reason. Missy’s All-American quarterback-turned-lawyer husband was the only man Brantley had ever known who came anywhere close to being able to handle Missy. God love him.

“She and Lucy were going to get their hair done at the mall somewhere. They’ve gone out there.”

“At the mall? At a chain?” It worried Brantley that he knew where Missy ordinarily got her hair done, which was at a shiny little shop downtown.

“You got me.” Harris sounded bewildered. “But that’s what she said. Do you want to bring that stuff to me and let me work it out?”

Tempting. “Don’t you have the kids?”

“They can go to the mall.” Harris’s tone was begging Brantley to say no. He pictured Harris gathering up bags of kid stuff, strollers, and messing with car seats. He didn’t have the heart. Plus, all that would take time, which might get him in trouble with Missy.

“I’ll find her,” he told Harris.

At the mall, it was pure luck that he found them as fast as he did. He went in through Dillard’s, thinking he’d ask someone in there about hair salons. It was when he rounded the corner, trying to get away from the lingerie department, that he heard laughter that rang out like schoolyard magic. He’d ended up in women’s accessories where Missy and Lucy were trying on hat after ugly hat, some large, some small, some with feathers, some plain, and all belonging on heads that answered to the name of Grandmother. He must have stood there a full minute watching them clutch about each other, swap hats, and wipe tears from their eyes. For a second he thought they might be drunk but then he remembered what Harris had said about the lack of sleep and living off coffee. Apparently Missy was enforcing her present lifestyle choices on Lucy because they were in the same giddy boat.

He hadn’t seen Lucy in a while. She’d been out of town the last several times he’d been in Merritt. Her hair was a little longer and she looked good. He let himself enjoy that. Truth was, Brantley loved the look of a girl in shorts and a sweatshirt. You saw that ensemble a lot in the fall and spring in the south when the weather just couldn’t make up its mind. Sweatshirt, khaki knee shorts, and Keds—it was practically a uniform, but one they didn’t like to be caught wearing. Pity.

Missy finally caught sight of him. “Brantley!” She threw herself at him, hat and all.

When he hugged her, he could practically feel her buzzing. “What are you doing at the mall, Missy?”

“We needed some necklaces for tonight and we have to get our hair done here so we were just waiting for you to call.”

“How was I going to do that?”

“What?” She put her hand in her pocket. “No phone?”

“No phone,” he confirmed.

“Then how?”

“I talked to Harris and I used my magic Missy locater.”

“You could have called Lucy’s phone,” she said.

That had never occurred to him. Maybe it should have.

“I have a phone.” Lucy nodded her head seriously and her dark curls bounced around her face. “But you don’t have my number. You’ve never had my number.” Then she burst out laughing. She had a wonderful laugh. Brantley remembered then that he’d always thought that, even when she was a gawky fifteen-year-old and he had been the eighteen-year-old King of Main Street. Not too silly, not too loud, just very easy on the ears. But she was giddy today and her laugh gave way to a giggle—better than most giggles, but still a giggle. Missy joined in.

And snorted.

Oh, man. “Are y’all drunk?”

“No!” they burst out together, and laughed some more.

“Well, I hope I haven’t made you late for your hair appointments.” He was no longer interested in why Missy had lowered herself to interacting with a mall chain hair salon. “I have your stuff.” He held out the bags.

“You are the best! And we have some time; you can buy us some coffee.”

“I think y’all have had enough coffee,” he said. “I’m tempted to take your money away so you can’t buy any either.”

Missy stuck her tongue out at him. “They will give us some while we’re getting our hair done.”

“No, they won’t,” Lucy said. “Not here.” Lucy might know a little bit more about chain beauty parlors than Missy was ever likely to.

“How about some food?” Brantley asked.

“Yes!” This came from Lucy. “I want some food. I want some cake. And I want it right now. Chocolate.”

“There will be no cake eating,” Missy said. “Not by you and not by me until this show is over. We have to lie down to zip those pants as it is.”

“Well.” Brantley had had enough. “I need to go see my dad and grandmother. And I’ll see you both tonight.” He waved and they went back to swapping hats.

Lucy had looked really good. Had he said anything to her directly? Surely he had. His mama had sent him to Junior Cotillion to see to it that he had good manners.

Of course, he hadn’t used those manners the one time when they might have made a difference.

Chapter Two

Brantley’s grandmother, Caroline Eleanor Hurst Brantley, lived in the historic district in the same Queen Anne Victorian where Brantleys had been living and raising their offspring since it was built in 1889. Brantley loved that house—the turrets, the gingerbread, the nooks and crannies. He had no doubt that it was his happy childhood memories within those old walls that had shaped his passion for restoration and preservation architecture. But they never, as a family, ate a meal or celebrated a holiday in the dining room of that house anymore. Hadn’t in a long time.

For the most part, they had traded dining rooms for restaurants, with the occasional patio thrown in.

Today Brantley would be having lunch with his grandmother and father at the house where he had been born to Charles and Eva Brantley Kincaid—though the dining room was off limits there too. When he and his dad occasionally ate at that house it was always on TV trays in front of the television, but Big Mama was not the type to take a meal on a TV tray.

Sure enough, he found them on the back patio where Charles was grilling steaks and Big Mama was nursing a mint julep and gazing out at the golf course. The wrought iron table was set with a tablecloth and dishes in fall colors. There was even a centerpiece of gourds and Indian corn. That would be Big Mama’s doing. Pull out causal elegant. We can’t bear to eat at other tables, but the boy is coming home. We have to Do Right.

For a few seconds he watched them, thinking their separate lonely thoughts and living their separate lonely lives. He put on his happy Brantley mask before speaking.

“Hey,” he said. And he watched two faces swing toward him and morph into pure, unadulterated joy.

Being the recipient of such undeserved love could be a hard job.

Big Mama was the first to reach him. She was classy, tall, and gracefully thin with a white chin length bob. She hardly fit the connotation that Big Mama mustered up. She looked more like a Grandmere or Mimi, but Brantley women were always Big Mama to their grandchildren.

Brantley’s children, if he had any, would not have anyone to call Big Mama.

“Darling! You look wonderful.”

He kissed her cheek. “Not so good as you.”

Then he went from thin reaching arms to strong hands clasping his shoulders. “Let me get you a beer, Son.”

“Let me get you one.” Brantley untangled himself from them and walked toward the small galvanized tub where beer, soft drinks, and bottled water had been iced down. “You’re doing all the work.”

“Not all.” Charles turned back to the grill. “Miss Caroline brought stuffed mushrooms, twice baked potatoes, and banana pudding.”

Of course she would have. All his favorites. “Evelyn made the mushrooms and potatoes but I made the pudding myself,” Big Mama said proudly. Evelyn had worked for Big Mama so long that it was hard to tell who was the boss.

Brantley removed the caps from the beers and passed one to his father. “Nobody makes banana pudding like you,” he told his grandmother. Too late, he wished he hadn’t said that, because at one time, someone else had. But they were so happy to have Brantley there that they didn’t notice his blunder.

The three of them talked easily over the meal. Charles and Caroline had a lot to tell—the happenings at Christ Episcopal Church, Kincaid Insurance Company, Rotary, Caroline’s bridge club, and what was going on with the citizens of Merritt. They also had a lot to ask. There was no detail of Brantley’s life that they did not seize like it was the last gold nugget ever mined.

As they finished their pudding, Big Mama said tentatively, “Darling?” and raised her iced tea glass to her lips.

Brantley leaned in and raised his eyebrow.

“You aren’t going back tonight are you?” she asked.

It was a valid question. It was only a three hour trip from Nashville to Merritt and he’d been known to do a turn around visit in one day a couple of times. Okay, more than a couple; he’d done the turn around trip more times than he’d spent the night.

“No, not this time. It seems I am to dance attention on Missy not only at the actual Follies but at some big to-do at the club after. I thought I’d spend the night.” He looked at his father. “If that’s okay, Dad.”

Charles Kincaid smiled so gratefully that Brantley could have wept, if he was a weeper, which he was not. “I think I can endure your presence for a day or so,” he said lightly.

“Well.” Big Mama folded her linen napkin and placed it beside her plate. That’s when Brantley knew she was nervous. Nervous was not easily recognizable in a woman with a steel spine, but betraying etiquette was a sure sign. One did not remove one’s napkin from one’s lap until arising from the table—of course unless you had to clean food off your person that someone had thrown at you. Which wasn’t likely to happen here. “Do you plan to go to church?” she asked.

Ah, that’s why she was nervous. There had been a time when he would not go—could not go—into Christ Episcopal and kneel for communion at the same altar where those coffins had sat. But he’d gotten past that—more or less.

“Sure,” he said. “If I don’t spill on my good clothes tonight.” Though that wasn’t really a factor. Brantley and Charles were exactly the same size. In fact, apart from a few gray hairs mixed with the blond and a slight softening around Charles’s jaw brought on by age, they looked pretty much the same.

Big Mama and Dad laughed a little, not because Brantley had said anything funny, but because they delighted in everything that came out of his mouth. His head began to pound.

“Good.” Big Mama looked at her napkin, unfolded it, and put it back in her lap. “How do you feel about going to early service and having brunch after?”

“Sounds fine,” Brantley said. “Too bad Lou Anne is closed on Sundays. I could use some diner food.”

“Actually,” Big Mama said, “Evelyn’s nephew went to the coast this weekend and I asked him to bring back some fresh shrimp. She said she would make us some shrimp and grits.”

Shrimp and grits—also one of Brantley’s favorites. Made by Big Mama’s housekeeper of forty years. But that meant—

“Good!” Big Mama rose and Brantley and Charles jumped to their feet. “Don’t get up, darlings,” she said, not meaning a word of it. “I hate to eat and run, but I have errands and I know you two want some time together.” She delivered cheek kisses to her son-in-law and grandson. “I’ll see y’all at church and back at my house after.”

Brantley and Charles sat down again as she clicked away on her little leather flats. Damn. They were going to eat at the dining table. Something was up.

Brantley met his father’s eyes and almost asked.

Charles looked toward the golf course and then his watch. “I believe we have time to play nine before the Crimson Tide kicks off. What about it, Son?”

“Sure,” Brantley said. “Sounds good.”

* * *

Brantley slid into a seat on the back row of Merritt Community Playhouse with no time to spare. He had been given a show program that contained ads, thanks, corporate sponsors, and a spread on Junior League projects—Hospice, Habitat for Humanity, Children’s Hospital. There was a list of the performers in the order of appearance, but not the acts. Missy and Lucy were about halfway into the show. It was only then that it occurred to him to wonder just what it was they were performing.

Most of the acts turned out to be immediately recognizable and predictable—Janis Joplin, Faith Hill, Carole King, a dressed to the nines Dolly Parton, that kind of thing. There were a few show tunes, a la Liza Minnelli and Barbra Streisand. Junior League women weren’t known for embarrassing themselves by having shoddy trappings, so the props and costumes were good. He tried to guess who Missy and Lucy would be portraying but couldn’t think of many female duos, and none that seemed likely. He just could not see them as the Judds.

But there was nothing on this earth that would have prepared him for those two women walking on that stage dressed as Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora. And not just any Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora. Oh, no. These were not the men of the new millennium who had kids and gave money to the homeless. These were the bad boys from the ’80s. Missy had not been kidding about those tight pants, though she had not mentioned that they would be leather.

And the hair. It put him in the mind of hay bales gone bad. Missy, of course, was Bon Jovi. She was wielding a microphone, complete with stand. Lucy, as Sambora, had a guitar. There was a fog machine and a huge backdrop that spelled out “Bon Jovi” in lights. They nodded to each other, in time. The music started and they lip-synced to everyone in that little audience that they “gave love a bad name.” He made a mental note to go back to the table in the lobby where you could order a DVD of the show for $21.95. And that was before Lucy even did her guitar solo.

They brought down the house. They danced, they gyrated, and they sparkled. Then they told everyone that they were “wanted, dead or alive.”

Being wanted by Lucy Mead might not be a bad job. The thought startled him.

He was driving toward the Country Club when he realized that he was sitting there in his new Land Cruiser smiling into the dark. It was when he passed the Publix that he had an idea. They had a bakery, didn’t they?

He turned the vehicle around.

* * *

Lucy got out of the back seat of Harris Bragg’s Lexus SUV and followed Harris and Missy up the steps of the Merritt Country Club. This wasn’t the first time she went there with them, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but she could not imagine a situation where she would ever want to be there less than she did right now.

Missy said, “Lanie was coming at five today to help set up for the party and she said she’d save us a table for eight.” That was the way of it. They always had a table for eight, because there was no such thing as a table for seven. These days it was always Missy and Harris, Lanie and Luke, Tolly and Nathan, and of course, Fifth Wheel Lucy.

However, tonight that eighth chair would be filled.

She could have had a date tonight—she wasn’t that far gone—but letting Mark Phillips squire her around when she had no interest had seeped into the category of wrong. She was tired—bone weary, give me some bourbon and put me to bed tired. That kind of tired is what happened when, by day, you spiffed up houses for people who wanted it done before the holidays, and by night, you were Richie Sambora. She wouldn’t want to go to this party even if Brantley Kincaid wasn’t expected. But he was.

Hell and double hell.

Not that Brantley mattered anymore. Hadn’t in a long time, but, if he had to see her, it would have been nice to have looked her best. It was a matter of pride. But he’d seen her first in ratty old clothes and second dressed like a 1980s Richie Sambora.

At least now she looked pretty good. They had gone to Missy’s right after their performance to wash the gel out of their hair and dress for the party. She’d paid way too much for her dress, not unusual when shopping with Missy, but it was flattering—something that never ceased to amaze her. The burnt orange silk shirtwaist dress had a wide belt and left her arms and knees bare—not cocktail attire, but not suitable for work either.

Ahead of her, Harris and Missy walked hand-in-hand, both tall, blond, tanned, and athletic.

“Didn’t mean to run off and leave you,” Harris called from the door, where he and Missy had paused.

“I’m dawdling,” Lucy said and hurried to catch up.

Aside from the party committee, they were some of the first to arrive. The food was out but the band was still setting up. Laura Cochran handed them each a list of the items in the silent auction and a bid number. “Show over?” she asked.

“If it’s not, it’s close,” Missy said. “But we left after our act. We had to go to my house and make Jon and Richie go away.”

“Where do you think our table is?” Lucy asked because sitting was what she intended to do and right now.

Missy looked over the white covered tables around the room. “Over by the wall. Good job, Lanie.”

Harris let out a delighted laugh. “I am sure you instructed her exactly where you wanted to sit.”

“I might have mentioned something about near the bar and a good distance from the band, preferably against the wall.”

“Where is Lanie?” Lucy asked, as she settled into her chair.

“She will be downstairs working the silent auction,” Missy said, studying her list of items. “Tolly, Nathan, and Luke won’t be here until the show’s over. Hmmm . . . they have an electric train in the auction. That might be worth looking at.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Harris rolled his eyes. “It’s not enough that we spent a fortune on Bon Jovi props.”

“But we had the best ones,” Missy said. “We were the best.”

“Without a doubt.” Harris picked up Missy’s hand and kissed her wrist. “Always.” Lucy’s stomach turned over. Oh, to have someone look at her like that. Just once. No, once wouldn’t be enough. Once never was. Once was worse than never.

“I’m going to look at the auction stuff and check on that train. Lucy, you want to come?”

“No.” And she didn’t. She’d donated four hours of free design consultation and Aunt Annelle had given a chair from the shop. As far as she was concerned, her contribution to the auction was complete. “I want to sit right here and revel in the fact that I don’t have to throw my head back and pretend to bellow.”

Missy rose and Harris followed suit. “I’m going to get a beer. Wine, ladies?”

“Sure,” Missy said.

“Wild Turkey 101,” Lucy said. “Straight.”

Lucy closed her eyes. Oh, to be able to sleep. To be able to be away from here. Usually, she liked these people, liked these events. It was part of the charm of having a home in a small town. She didn’t like to think that she was letting the impending arrival of Brantley Kincaid ruin it for her. Why should it? If she didn’t live in his hometown, she probably wouldn’t even think about him anymore.

The band began to warm up with “Mustang Sally.” Where was Harris with her bourbon? That song always made her want to drink. Not that she needed alcohol to face Brantley. It had been a long time ago.

“Mr. Sambora, I presume?”

Lucy opened her eyes. And there he was, smiling like he always did and no one else could. If he’d been beautiful this afternoon in his white polo shirt and blue jeans, he was now Adonis in Brooks Brothers. Or Brooks Brothers coming undone since his tie was a little looser than it had probably started out. Blue blazer, khaki pants, blue oxford shirt that fit like it had been made for him—because it surely had. The burnished silver buttons on his blazer bore a monogram, but not Brantley’s. They were at least four generations old. Lucy didn’t have such things but she knew about them.

He sidled up to her, tall, broad shouldered, and lean hipped. His thick straight hair looked like moonbeams and sunshine had had a fight, but moonbeams had won. The result was pale blond with enough gold undertones hanging around to make it look warm. Gorgeous hair, and he had enough to toss. That color would have cost a fortune in a salon but Lucy knew it came from the same place he got his tan—the great outdoors. The cut was a different matter. Clearly, he had a stylist who knew how to make straight hair look alive. His driver license would say his eyes were brown, but they were as far from that as they were from blue. Clear dark amber was what they were. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a prehistoric insect trapped there. He had a firm jaw, white teeth, and was clean-shaven. Lucy hated that stubbly male model look—though Brantley Kincaid could have been a model. Always could have been, even before he grew his man’s body and lost the boy softness in his face.

Sparkle! Say something smart! Save your pride! she told herself. He was waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, well.” Oh, brilliant! She ran her hand through her hair. “I think I washed Mr. Sambora down the drain.”

He slid into the chair next to hers. Great. She could feel the heat of his leg against hers.

“So how did you come to be Mr. Sambora instead of Mr. Bon Jovi?”

He was kidding, right? Missy be anything less than the star attraction? “Well, Missy is blonde and I am dark. And I’ve been singing backup all my life.”

“There’s nothing backup about you.” He set a plastic Publix bag between them.

“You didn’t have to bring food,” Lucy said. “I think they’re having crab dip.”

“Yeah.” He looked toward the buffet. “Chicken fingers, pickled shrimp, meatballs. The menu never changes.” He opened the bag. “That’s how I knew they wouldn’t have any of this.” He reached into the bag and set in front of her a rich glossy chocolate cake decorated with chocolate curls, strawberries, and nuts.

“It’s a cake,” she said. More brilliance. Why had Brantley Kincaid brought a cake to the Merritt Country Club? Was Rita May here after all? Was it her birthday? Though Rita May had probably never had a bite of cake in her life—at least that’s how she’d looked in the last music video Lucy had seen her in.

“Indeed.” He winked and turned to look around the room. He waved and called to one of the club staff. “Miss Mavis!”

A woman of about sixty with a blazer and clipboard instead of an apron and a water pitcher smiled and moved toward them. “Brantley Kincaid. You just never know when trouble’s going to turn up, do you?”

He rose, gave her a hug, and turned to Lucy. “Lucy Mead, Miss Mavis saved me from myself more than once during the summers my dad made me caddy here to pay my car insurance.”

“Hardly hit a lick at a snake the whole time.”

“Miss Mavis, you wound me! But I want to ask you a little favor.”

“Didn’t you always?”

“Does the club still have that set of silver knives and forks that old Mrs. Rogers left in her will?”

“Unless somebody stole it since I polished it last week.”

“I need a fork.”

Miss Mavis shook her head. “There are forks on the buffet.”

“Yes,” Brantley said. “I can see that. There are. But they are stainless steel forks—not nearly good enough for Lucy Mead.” He laid his hand on Lucy’s cheek. She wanted to jerk away but she was paralyzed for so many reasons that she couldn’t even work out which was chief among them. “You see, Miss Mavis, Lucy put on a performance tonight that all of Merritt will remember. She needs to eat this cake with a silver fork. I want her to have it.”

Cake! He had brought the cake for her. She couldn’t eat cake!

“Brantley,” Miss Mavis said, “you know we only use that silver for small parties in the executive dining room. Even if there was enough of it, it would not come out for big parties like this.”

“I know. And I understand why. The top dogs in this town need to feel like they, and only they, get to use it.” The rich cultured tone of his voice did not match his chosen quirky vernacular, but it was natural sounding and charming, like it had always been. “But I submit to you, Miss Mavis, that unless it is you, there is no one more elite than Lucy Mead. And I don’t need it all. I just need one fork. One. Little. Fork. One.” He leaned toward the older woman and smiled a little wider with each word. Lucy felt like she was in some crazy surreal dream. Had she gone to sleep and dreamed that Brantley turned up with a cake and started demanding silver forks? Or fork. One. All he needed was one.

Miss Mavis gave a huge sigh. “You’ll get it back to me?”

“In better condition that it ever was, for having graced the lips of Lucy Mead.”

As she sighed again and trotted off, Brantley sat down again.

“You brought this cake for me?” Lucy asked.

“For you. All for you. Don’t let anyone else have any.”

“Not Missy?”

“Especially not Missy. She’s already gotten to be front man and denied you cake today.”

They were silent, Lucy because she was in utter shock and Brantley because he was busy looking at her and smiling. Miss Mavis stepped up behind him and placed a red cloth napkin beside his hand.

“One hour, no more. And if you get caught with it, I will swear you stole my keys.”

Brantley unwrapped his little bundle to reveal an ornate dessert fork, rich with time and patina. He dipped right into the middle of the cake and pulled out a chunk. “Open up, Lucy Mead. I want you to eat enough cake to make you happy and give you the energy to dance with me.” And he brought the cake to her mouth.

* * *

Why, why, why had she agreed to let him drive her home? Was she crazy? A magic snatcher—that’s what he was. He dangled his magic in front of you and then snatched it away.

And after the others had joined them, his magic had just gotten bigger, brighter, and more irresistible.

She hated herself a little bit right now. She hadn’t intended to dance with him but after washing down the cake that he kept feeding her with bourbon, she had been powerless to stop him from pulling her into his arms when the band struck up “Tupelo Honey.” And there she was, moving in his arms, remembering the chemistry between them, smelling his shampoo, and listening to him sing softly into her ear. He didn’t even sing off key. Was there nothing he couldn’t do? It had been so long since they’d danced together that she’d almost forgotten how he made her a better dancer. And if she had almost forgotten it, he wouldn’t remember at all.

Brantley turned the car toward the historic district and interrupted her thoughts. “I’m surprised you still live in Miss Annelle’s house.”

“Why?” she asked. “I adore that house. When I first moved to Merritt from Atlanta I lived in the apartment above the shop but after we renovated it in the Art Deco style, my aunt loved it and we swapped. Aunt Annelle is somewhat of a minimalist.”

Moving into that house had been so important to her. At first, she’d fought Annelle, not believing that her aunt really wanted to give up the beautiful Victorian cottage on one of the prettiest streets in Merritt. But once convinced that it truly was Annelle’s preference, Lucy was thrilled to have a home that wasn’t a modern high-rise Atlanta apartment or a house piled with artifacts and reference material.

“I would have figured you for something more sleek and modern,” Brantley said and proved that he knew nothing about her. And she knew everything about him—every building he’d worked on, every vacation he took, every car he bought. Not that she went looking for it. That would be like scheduling a train wreck. But between Missy and being in the church Flower Guild with Miss Caroline, she was kept very much apprised of the doings of Brantley Kincaid.

“No,” she said. “My specialty is historic interiors. That’s why I came back to work with Annelle. I was sick of designing hotels and she needed me. She can design anything, but her heart is in modern decor.”

“Then why were you doing commercial design in the first place?”

“Not everybody gets their dream job right away,” she said and could have added even if you did.

Cheap. She’d sold herself for a cake. Hell and double hell.

“Here we are.” There was one good thing. It never took long to get anywhere in Merritt.

“Thank you for the ride,” Lucy said but he didn’t hear her. He was already out of the vehicle, coming around to open her door. And now he had her by the arm and was towing her up the sidewalk. Was he going to try to kiss her? Well, she was not going to let that happen. She’d let it happen before and look where it got her. It was not going to happen again. And he definitely was not coming in the house—not for a drink, not to use the bathroom, and definitely not to touch and kiss her. Let him stop at a bar, pee in the bushes, and go to a brothel.

But he didn’t try to come in or kiss her. What he did was worse. He took her key, unlocked the door, and said, “If you lived anywhere but Merritt, Alabama, crime rate zero, I’d insist on walking in with you. But you look tired.”

“I am,” she agreed. “Thanks for the hair gel and the ride.” Breezy. That was good. He didn’t want to come in. She was relieved and a little embarrassed that she had assumed he would.

But then he half closed his golden eyes, smiled a lazy smile, and took her hand. He kissed her palm, taking his time about it without getting sloppy. Then he curled her fingers over the place his lips had been, as if he was bidding her to keep the kiss safe.

“Lucy Mead, you are going to hear from me.” He said it like it was her eighth birthday and he was presenting her with a white pony, all decked out with silver bells and pink ribbons.

Walking away from such a pony would have been hard for any eight-year-old.

But she did.

* * *

Big Mama’s house was bursting with the aroma of shrimp and grits, but underneath that were all the old smells—furniture wax, lemon, and yeast bread. Brantley fancied that he caught a whiff of pipe tobacco, but that wasn’t possible, not after all this time.

“Evelyn had to leave,” Big Mama said. “But she left everything on the sideboard for us.” They were all trying to be casual, but walking into that dining room where there had been so much good food, laughter, and love was like climbing a mountain. No—a mountain that someone had set fire to. The last time there had been food served out of the room no one had sat at the table, and the food had been the casseroles, cakes, and platters that always arrived in bad times.

No one seemed capable of breaking the threshold. Well, he would do it. He was the cause of this and he could at least lead the way.

Brantley marched to the sideboard like he was wading into war. “Just let me pour y’all a drink.” Everything was laid out like it had been for so many holiday and Sunday brunches. Silver coffee service, crystal bowls of fruit, steaming silver chafing dishes. He reached for the pitcher of bloody Marys and poured three.

Big Mama and Charles had scaled the fiery mountain and were at his elbow. Big Mama raised her glass, like she always used to do, though Brantley wondered what she could possibly be glad enough about to toast.

“To Brantley,” she said.

“Indeed,” Dad said.

“Yep, me!” he said, because why not? And they clinked glasses and laughed a little.

Now what? There was one thing that was different. The plates would be on the sideboard ready for filling, but Evelyn had always laid the silver, napkins, and coffee cups on the table. Not so today because she probably didn’t know where they would sit.

“Let’s fill our plates, shall we?” Big Mama turned to the table to set her glass down. She looked barely panicked, but for no more than a split second. Most people wouldn’t have even noticed. One thing for sure, that woman always did what she had to. She set her glass in the place that had always been hers, at the foot of the table.

“Charles,” she said, “As my son, please do me the honor of sitting at the head of my table.” She looked at the place that had always been Brantley’s and gestured. “Brantley, please.”

And he set his glass at the place across from where Mama should have been—where she would have been if not for his asinine behavior seventeen years ago.

So they filled their plates and ate. Brantley related the details of the Follies and party. They dissected the details of the previous day’s Southeastern Conference football games. And yes, the sermon was good this morning. According to Big Mama, Lucy Mead probably wasn’t in church because she attended the eleven o’clock service, the same one that his family usually attended. And wasn’t Missy’s baby beautiful?

Brantley had just begun to think that the point of this meal was simply to get them back into the dining room. Then he saw Dad and Big Mama lock eyes and barely nod to each other.

Charles took a sip of his coffee. “Son, how are things going with your business?”

“Good,” Brantley said. And it was true. The time he’d spent at Hargrove, Smith, and Associates had been valuable and productive but he had not wanted to be an associate anymore. And he had wanted to pick his own jobs. Hanging out his own shingle was the best thing he could have ever done. “You know how I worried that there would be too much time between jobs, but these days it seems like I always have a choice.”

“So you already have a commitment?” Big Mama asked. “Now that the San Francisco job is done?”

“No.” Brantley rose and poured everyone fresh cups of coffee. “Not yet. I’ve got a couple of possibilities. There’s a Federal style town hall in a little town a couple of hours from Boston that is very appealing. They’ve even got all of the funding in place. I would go in a heartbeat but the job will take quite a while and the idea of Massachusetts in the winter . . .” He settled back into his chair.

“And your other possibility?” Dad stirred sugar into his coffee.

“Private residence in New Orleans. I’m going down there next week to look it over. Probably wouldn’t be as much money, but it won’t take as long. I’ve never done a Greek Revival plantation house before. Or any plantation house—not by myself. I worked on one when I was at Hargrove. Let’s hope the money they are paying me to come isn’t all they’ve got and they’re planning on using some Voodoo to get me to do it for free.” Suddenly, a winter in New Orleans seemed very attractive. “I could like it there. Saints games, hurricanes—the drink, not the storm—French Quarter music, and the food.” Maybe if he liked it, he might even move there. There was nothing holding him in Nashville. He could set up shop anywhere.

“Brantley,” Big Mama said. She looked hard into his eyes. “I’d like you to consider something.”

Oh, damn. Here it comes. Just when he was beginning to get comfortable.

“The city approached me about buying the Brantley Building.”

His head shot up so fast he was surprised he didn’t break his neck. Sell the Brantley Building? The building that had been in their family since before the turn of the century? The turn of last century—as in 1887, when the building was built.

She raised a hand. Her gold Tiffany bracelet clanked against her watch. “I am not selling it.”

Well, that was something.

“But it started me thinking.”

Never good. Let the status quo continue. Let it reign supreme!

“The city wants the building for a multi-purpose center. You know, a meeting place for civic groups. A small auditorium for lectures, and the like . . . perhaps a space for art lessons. And there’s the ballroom. It’s bigger than the one at the Merritt Inn, and the country club can’t handle every function. It would be wonderful to have a nice place for dances, receptions, and such. Don’t you think that sounds nice? Nicer than renting it out for random office space the way we’ve been doing?”

What? Was she selling or not? “But if you aren’t selling?” He left it hanging in the air.

“I am interested in giving the building to the city. I would be the permanent board chair, until I pass the position on to someone of my choosing. Charles would have a place on the board, as would you, if you want it. I would reserve the suite of offices on the third floor—the ones that Brantleys have always used—for my use. And if you should ever want those offices—”

His head was spinning. This was an ambush. Or so he thought until she spoke again. That’s when the real ambush came.

“The building is in good repair, but in some places its integrity has been sacrificed for function.” She paused and looked as chagrined as she ever did. “At a time when the building needed attention, your grandfather and I were young and did not appreciate the past as we might have. We made mistakes. I want it restored. I need an architect, and I need it to be you.”

* * *

Still shell shocked, Brantley stood on the sidewalk outside the building where his Papa Brantley had had his law offices before becoming a judge.

He loved that building. Second Empire style, circa 1887. Original red brick, cast iron colonnade, single light sash windows, neat brick pilasters.

“You’re a grand old girl, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Just like Caroline Hurst Brantley.” He hadn’t told her yes, but he hadn’t told her no either. How could he? And that went for yes and no. He had only listened and nodded as she talked about funding, relocating tenants, and timelines. She’d mentioned talking to Lucy Mead about the interior design. He hadn’t responded to that either. He had just asked her for the keys to the building.

She had put a silver key ring in his hand. “That’s your set,” she said. Just as he was leaving, she told him to take until Thanksgiving to decide. But clearly she considered the matter closed. The proof was in his hand. His initials had been engraved on the heavy oval disc of the key ring.

He sighed and fitted the key in the front door. If the route to that dining room had been a fiery mountain, this was a sea of lava.

He walked quietly on the industrial carpet, not thinking about the ornate woodwork that had been painted or the drop ceiling. He went straight to the elevator that would take him to the third floor.

It took a second key to make the elevator let him out. Like the ballroom on the top floor, the third floor was no longer used. When Papa was elected judge, he’d had his office furniture moved to his chambers at the courthouse. Later, they had moved it back here. At least that’s what Brantley had been told. For all he knew there was a tattoo parlor set up in there. Unlikely, considering Big Mama’s view of the world, but one never knew.

But no. It wasn’t like it had been, of course. The bookshelves were empty, though boxes marked books sat in neat stacks against the wall. There was no artwork. There were no lamps or family pictures on his desk, but the antique walnut burl wood desk and chair, matching filing cabinets, and credenza had been placed where they had always sat.

There probably wasn’t any candy in the top left hand desk drawer either. Still, Brantley couldn’t stop himself from checking. No, but what was there broke his heart when he thought there wasn’t a piece big enough left to break.

In an ornate walnut frame that matched the furniture was a double matted piece of green construction paper with a purple crayon drawing of a man and little boy. The man was holding what Brantley knew to be a golf club, but could have been a stick or an axe. At the bottom printed in a shaky hand was TO MY PAPA FROM BRANTLEY. Some of the letters were backwards. It had hung in his office and later in his chambers until—well, until then.

Brantley put the picture back in the drawer and then sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk. “Hello, Papa,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit in your chair. I won’t spin it around. We haven’t talked in a while. I know we usually have these little conversations at the Merritt Cemetery, but I figure you are more here than there. I’m okay, doing pretty good.

“Do you remember when I was little, and you would take me to eat lunch at the diner and then back here to your office? I’d hide under the desk at your feet while you saw clients. You would slip me chocolate stars from Heavenly Confections to keep me quiet. By the time Mama or Big Mama came to get me, I’d be one nasty sticky mess. You always got in trouble.

“I still eat chocolate stars from Heavenly Confections. Miss Clarice is gone now, but Lanie runs the shop. She is a better grandchild than I am.

“I know I say it every time, but I am sorry. I as good as killed you and Mama and I am sorry. I know I tell you this every time too, but I mean it this time. Pretty soon, I am going to find a way to tell Big Mama and Dad what a brat I was that day and how I threw a fit and sassed Mama because I didn’t want to get dressed and come pick you up. If I had done what Mama had asked to do, if I hadn’t made her mad, that car wreck would have never happened. If I could undo it, I would. I can’t. But I can face them like the man you would want me to be. I’ll figure it out.

“It’s no excuse, but it just seems like there is never a right time. Never enough time. Back when it happened, the day right after the funeral, they packed us up and we went to Ireland for two weeks. When we got back, we flew right into Nashville and they took me straight to Vandy. We didn’t even come back to get all the stuff Mama had been collecting up for my dorm room. They just went to the mall and bought more. And for all intents and purposes I have not been back. Oh, a day or two here and there. Summers, when I was in college and grad school, I took more classes and did internships. Sometimes the three of us travel somewhere for Christmas. It’s hard to make a confession in Jamaica on December 25. I can hear you now. ‘Boy! Do what’s right. And only you can figure out what that is.’ I know what’s right, but if I tell Dad and Big Mama—. Well, there is no if—I will tell them. They have a right to know that wreck was my fault. I will just have to take what comes with it. When the time is right, I will do it.

“And it looks like we are going to have some time. Maybe.”

Suddenly, he had to get out. Out. He couldn’t think about this anymore. He didn’t bother with the elevator. Instead, he took the stairs, two at a time. It was easy. People had gotten progressively taller over time and, consequently, modern steps were deeper. But these steps were old and shallow. Taking two at a time was easy, three maybe a possibility.

But wait. He was out of steps and out the door. The history of steps had done him a good turn, given him something to occupy this mind. Now he needed something else. He leaned against the building to catch his breath. What was that psychobabble phrase?

Go to your happy place.

And suddenly, without thinking, without trying to decide where his happy place might be, he was there. Happy. He was at the country club lifting a forkful of chocolate cake to Lucy Mead’s lips and she was refusing to open her mouth until the last second. She was looking at him fighting a smile, her brown eyes wide, but eventually laughing and pushing her hair off her face. And, finally, he was dancing to “Tupelo Honey” with her in his arms, smelling her scent of chocolate and bourbon.

Who would have thought it? Lucy—after all these years, after that debacle in Savannah so long ago. Relief washed over him. It was like looking at a snarled, complicated maze but realizing the correct path was direct and simple.

It might not be for forever, but what was forever, anyway? Was there even any such thing?

But there was Lucy Mead and she was on his mind.

Chapter Three

Text message to Lucy Mead, the Sunday after the Follies, 4:01P.M.:

Brantley here. It was fun seeing you. Headed back to Nashville.

Voicemail, Sunday night, 9:15 P.M.:

“Lucy Mead! This is Brantley. You may be wondering how I got your number. Turns out, it was right in the Christ Episcopal Church Directory, which was right by the phone in the kitchen at Chez Kincaid. Anyway, I’m back in Nashville. Give me a call.”

Text message. Monday, 10 A.M.:

At the airport. Headed to NOLA. Phone will be off. I really enjoyed seeing you this weekend. I’d like to talk to you. I’ll call you later.

* * *

After reading that last text, Lucy’s stomach went into a tailspin. She threw a paint chip sampler wheel against her office wall. Why was he doing this to her? Confusing her? He wasn’t supposed to text, wasn’t supposed to call, wasn’t supposed to say he’d enjoyed seeing her. He was supposed to take his ass back to Nashville, reconcile with Rita May, and forget her like he had always forgotten her.

She hadn’t answered the first text because it hadn’t called for an answer. In fact, it could be interrupted as a kiss-off message. After all, in a fit of flirtation, he’d said she’d hear from him. That text was hearing from him, fulfilling a promise. Done; move on. She had been sure she wouldn’t hear from him again—then he’d called. She hadn’t answered because, exhausted from the weekend, she’d gone to sleep early.

Now this. He was going to call tonight. Or so he said.

And why now? Maybe he was bored. Or, since he was in New Orleans, lonely.

Damn it, she could not go though this again. It wasn’t fair. How dare he? Did he think her heart was up for grabs anytime he turned that golden boy smile her way and led her to a dance floor? Maybe he wouldn’t call; probably he wouldn’t. He’d probably forget.

And if he did call, she wouldn’t answer. That would be for the best. Yes.

* * *

Voicemail, Monday night:

“Here I am in New Orleans. I’m here to look at a plantation house. Know what’s wrong with this house? Well, apart from the fact that someone married into the family in the ’70s who thought it would be a good idea to turn the bottom side gallery into a ceramics studio. Anyway. It’s the name. Riverview. How predictable. If I had a house worth naming—and I might one day, never can tell—I’d name it Lucy Mead’s Laugh. I can’t think of much better. I’d like to hear that laugh tonight. Call me. Oh, and in case you can’t tell, I’ve been drinking. Just a little. If you’ll call me and tell me your shoe size, I will bring you some tall boots.”

* * *

Why now? Why? Why could this not have happened back when she was in love with him? Why now, when she was over it, over him—over, over, over!

She listened to the message every day for a week. She couldn’t help herself. But she did not call back. Not talking to him was the only way to survive him.

Finally, it looked like he’d given up. No doubt, he was back with Rita May by now. She was relieved—and a little sad.

* * *

Voicemail, a week before Halloween:

“Hi, Lucy. I’m back from New Orleans. I did a little consulting but I’m not taking on the project. I ran afoul of an interior designer down there. It’s not the first time. She soundly reprimanded me for saying couch instead of sofa. I just can’t say sofa. A man starts using words like sofa, next thing you know, he’s drinking piña coladas and wearing sandals. Would you allow me to say couch, Lucy Mead?”

* * *

She laughed and laughed. Then she imagined what she would have said to him if she had been willing to call him back. We interior designers have to stick together. If we allow people to go around saying couch, the next thing we know, they’ll be decorating their pressed wood night stands with lava lamps and plastic flowers.

Maybe she could call. They were friends, sort of. At least they used to be and they had the same friend circle. She put her thumb on the call button.

Then she jerked it away. What was she thinking? No matter what she told herself, if she started talking to him, she would hope. And there wasn’t any hope.

Clearly, his persistence was only because of her refusal to talk to him. If only he wasn’t so funny.

* * *

Voicemail, a few days later:

“Lucy, Brantley again. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. You can call me at work. (615) 298-2719. It doesn’t ring straight to me. Melba—my assistant—answers. She’s the one who really runs Kincaid Architectural Design and Restoration. Just ask her. Anyway, tell her you want me dead or alive and she’ll put you through. That, or she’ll give me a message if I’m out. I’m going to play racquet ball tonight but if you get my voicemail, leave a message and tell me when would be a good time, and I’ll call you back. I don’t have a landline at home. I mean, why would I? Counting my phone at work, I’ve already got two numbers. Why would I need more phones than I’ve got ears? Anyway, bye. Call me.”

Text message, two days later:

Happy Halloween, Lucy Mead!

Voicemail, later that day, 4:30 P.M.:

“I’m just getting ready to leave work. I’ve got a whole bucketful of Snickers and M&Ms so I’m ready. I guess I should say packs of M&Ms. You can’t just give loose M&Ms to kids. Or homemade stuff. That’s against the rules. I told Lily—Lily cleans and fetches for me when it suits her—anyway, I told her she needed to make me some popcorn balls and she informed me that you couldn’t give popcorn balls for Trick or Treat. I told her I know that. They are for my own personal use. I might fire her if she doesn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve got plain and peanut M&Ms. I’m going to let them pick, which will take time, but will make me popular. Plus, I’ll give them a Snickers. Not one of those two bite Snickers, either—a whole Snickers. Those two bite candy bars are like airplane drinks. They give you a little plastic cup that’s gone before they move up the aisle. I want a whole Coke all to myself. I know why they don’t want you to have it. It’s because they don’t want you to go to the bathroom. Well, I’ve opened an inappropriate subject so I’ll leave it. Did you know that you can call the florist and they will carve you some Jack-O-Lanterns, bring them right to your front step, and then send you a bill? I am not dressing up for Halloween. When a grown man starts dressing up for Halloween, the next thing you know, he’s volunteering at the art museum and booking a tour of wine country. That can’t be me. But I think you should dress up. I know you already have the Richie Sambora outfit, but I’m not sure kids would know who that is. How about that harem girl from the Disney movie? Jasmine? That would be an attractive look for you.”

* * *

He hadn’t asked her to return the call this time. What did that mean? Did he just want to call and hold forth on the life and philosophy of Brantley Kincaid, as pertains to Halloween candy and airplane drinks? Like some oral history blog?

That night, per Missy’s direction, Lucy and the other book club girls dressed as characters from Alice in Wonderland, with Missy as Alice, Tolly as the Queen of Hearts, Lanie as the Mad Hatter, and Lucy as the Cheshire Cat. Along with the spouses, they took the children Trick or Treating and then went back to Missy’s for chili and football watching. It was a loud fun chaotic night.

There was no reason to feel alone. But she did.

The Cheshire Cat was a far cry from Jasmine.

Brantley did not call again for a week.

* * *

Voice mail, a week after Halloween:

“Hey, Lucy. I got a dog. My golf buddy got a divorce, and started acting a little crazy. Then he got a girlfriend who was too young for him, as divorced, crazy-acting, golf buddies will do. This girl was not so young that she wasn’t legal but she had no sense. So she had acquired a dog as a fashion accessory. Except you can’t hang a dog on a peg like a hat, so I took the dog. It wasn’t hard. I told her if she didn’t give me that dog that I’d call her daddy and tell him she wasn’t staying in that fancy apartment he is paying for. I guess it never occurred to her that I don’t even know her daddy’s name, much less his phone number. Speaking of phone numbers, dial mine, why don’t you?”

Voicemail, the next day:

“Lucy, this is Brantley. I have faced that you apparently do not want to talk to me. I don’t really understand why, but I can take a hint—though it took me long enough. I thought we had a really nice time when I was in Merritt for the Follies. But maybe you’re seeing someone. I’ll be honest . . . if you’re not, I’d still like to hear from you.” He laughed a little. “Hell, I’d like to hear from you, anyway. I might be able to take you from him. But unless I hear from you, I won’t bother you again. I don’t want to turn into stalker man, though it may be too late for that. But cut me some slack, Lucy. I like you. Maybe you could just call and tell me you don’t want to talk to me. Or text me.”

* * *

But she couldn’t do that. To say she didn’t want to talk to him would be a lie and if she called, they’d end up talking and she’d end up—well, somewhere she could not be. So she didn’t call and that was that—what she had been trying to accomplish. It was for the best. She wondered if she really had heard the last of him, but when the days stretched to a week and then two, it was clear he had given up.

She wondered how close her voicemail box was to being full and how long she could save his messages.

* * *

At 7:05 A.M. two Saturdays before Thanksgiving, the ringing of Lucy’s cell phone woke her. Who could be calling this early on a weekend? A beep signaled that she had a voicemail. She reached for the phone to listen.

“Lucy Mead, I have decided that I am not really accepting of not hearing from you. I deserve to hear from you face to face that you don’t want to talk to me. Wait. I don’t. I don’t deserve that. But I want it and it feels like the same thing to me. So I am on my way to see you. I’ll call when I get there.”

* * *

She jumped straight out of bed. Oh, hell. Double hell! Where was he? Why couldn’t he have said how far away he was? She might have several hours but who knew? He could be five miles away. But surely not. Surely he did not leave Nashville at four o’clock in the morning.

Still, she couldn’t chance it. If those phone messages had almost done her in, seeing him would be her complete undoing. She could not be Brantley Kincaid’s distraction while he decided what he wanted out of life.

She had to get out of here. Where to go, where to go? It didn’t have to be for long—just until tomorrow night. He’d give up by then. He had to go to work on Monday, after all, and so did she. She’d go to Oxford, Mississippi, to her parents’ house. They were on sabbatical from Ole Miss. There was a doctoral candidate house sitting while they were in Tibet, but it was still their house, therefore hers. She’d call the girl on the way. She’d say—well, it didn’t matter what she’d say. She didn’t have to say anything, explain anything. She had a key and a right to be there.

First, she needed to dress. She’d laid out her clothes for the gym—yoga pants, sports bra, and a t-shirt. And a hoody because it was cold in the mornings now. That would do. Shit. She needed to pee and there was so little time. She threw on the clothes and ran to the bathroom, socks and cross trainers in hand. The toilet was as good a place as any to sit while putting on shoes and socks. She should have thought of that little time saver years ago.

Okay. Calm. She’d need some things. Not much, but some. Her luggage was in the attic. No time for that but there was a canvas boat bag in the closet. She grabbed it and headed for her vanity.

Toiletries first. Where was that cosmetic bag? Here, but what did it matter? A handful of this, a handful of that. Underwear. Socks. The shoes she had on would do. Okay. Real clothes. One outfit was plenty. She’d be back tomorrow night. A pair of jeans and that lightweight red cotton sweater should be fine. If not, she had the hoody and the t-shirt she was wearing. It didn’t matter if she wore them twice. All that mattered was getting out of town before he got here.

Almost to the finish line. Cell phone. Purse. Did she have cash? Not much, but plenty of credit cards. Her phone started to ring. She crammed it in her hoody pocket and threw open the front door—where she ran right into Brantley. He held a dog leash in one hand and his phone to his ear with the other.

The phone in Lucy’s pocket went to voicemail.

Brantley said, “Hello, Lucy Mead.” Then he turned off his phone and hers beeped, signaling that she had a message.

Chapter Four

Lucy knew there was very little chance of remaining collected in this situation, but she intended to try.

“Hello, Brantley. How are you this morning?” she said as if she ran across him on her porch every morning of the week, as if he had made no attempt to contact her since he was last in Merritt.

He was wearing faded jeans, white running shoes, and a luxurious cotton knit shirt the color of a caramel apple. The shirt hit him at mid hipbone and there was a short, heavy brass zipper at the neck, unzipped just enough to show his collarbones. He had to know how good he looked—no one with hair and eyes like his could wear that color and not know.

He pushed up the sleeves.

“How am I? Ignored. That’s what I am.” He smiled and leaned on the doorframe. A ball of fur no bigger than a softball peeped out between his shoes. “Meet Eller. Her name evolved from L.R., short for Lab Rat. It’s a better name than Blanchfleur, which she never even answered to.”

The dog was solid white with red bows in its hair, one over each ear. It could not have weighed more than two pounds. Where was the golden retriever, the bulldog, the Doberman pinscher? Where was the dog that a man who refused to say sofa should have? Pit bull, beagle, Irish setter. Cocker spaniel, even.

“That is not the dog I would have expected you to have,” Lucy said.

“Yeah, well, she’s not the dog I expected to have either, especially with those bows the groomer put in her hair. On the other hand, I see her as living, breathing evidence that I have no insecurities about my manhood. Though I admit you have taken me down a peg or two in that department. And I can’t help but wonder why.”

She briefly considered pretending she had changed cell phone providers and hadn’t gotten his messages but discarded the idea.

“I’ve been very busy,” she said.

Eller sniffed at Lucy’s white Adidas and Brantley looked her up and down. “Off to the gym?”

“Uh, no.” She ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t even combed it. Ever since she’d let it grow, it was wild under the best of circumstances. These were not the best of circumstances. “I have to be somewhere.”

“Do you?” He took her arm and gently propelled her back though the door. “You don’t mind if Eller and I come in for just a minute, do you?”

“Uh, no. Please do.”

Brantley walked around, taking in her living room. Lucy had worked very hard to make the treasures her parents had given her from their travels work with her traditional pieces. Finally, she’d struck the right balance, making a comfortable, interesting room. Brantley stopped in front of the three-foot tall gong from China.

“I’ve got a great idea for a game,” he said, picking up the hammer. “I’ll ring this gong. You go put on your Jasmine outfit and run in here and say, ‘Yes, master!’”

Anger coursed through her—at him, at herself, maybe even at that poor excuse for a dog, who was sniffing at her camel saddle ottoman. Calm. She must remain calm. He was smiling that flirtatious smile but there was something more in his face—not quite anger, but maybe a challenge. Yes. He was gauging her response to see if she had listened to his Halloween voicemail all the way through, to see if she understood the reference to the Jasmine costume. She could feign confusion, but why? She didn’t want him to think that his messages had affected her in such a way that she could not listen to them through to the end. At the same time, she did not want him to know she had listened multiple times.

Finally, she said simply, “I don’t have a Jasmine outfit.”

“Too bad. I bet we can get you one from eBay. Where’s your computer?” He looked around the room.

“As much as I would like to peruse eBay with you for fantasy attire, I have somewhere I have to be.” After all, she didn’t have to say where. She didn’t have to justify herself for leaving town. She held up her boat bag as proof that she was leaving.

“Do you?” He took the bag from her. He didn’t grab it or wretch it from her hand; he hadn’t had to. She had stupidly held it out. “Since you are ill prepared for the Jasmine and master game, let’s play a different one. It’s called ‘Brantley looks at what Lucy’s packed and guesses what she’s up to.’”

“No, I don’t think—” She reached for the bag. “That’s my property and you have no right.”

“Wait, wait. No.” He drew the bag away from her grasp. “If I don’t win right away, I’ll let you be on your way. And it is your property. I’ll give you that. But it is also evidence to prove that you are lying to me. Because unless I miss my guess—” He opened the bag and looked in. “Lucy Mead! What a mess! Some people live in a mess. They do. But the order in this house does not match up with the mess in this bag.”

“I am messy. I’m a huge mess. All the time. Just look at my hair. This house is only orderly because the maid was here yesterday.” In case he asked, what could her maid be named? Thelma Lou. Yeah.

“Now let’s see.” He reached in the bag. “Hmmm . . . blue jeans.” He held them up. “And a red shirt.” To her horror, he plucked out of the bag not the simple red sweater she thought she’d reached for, but the silk beaded top she’d bought last week to wear with black velvet pants to the Flower Guild Christmas party. Shit. “The question is, are you going to a tractor pull?” He held up the jeans and then the top. “Or the opera? Or maybe the Junior League is having a combined tractor pull and opera for a fundraiser.” He laughed. “If not, you should suggest it. I’d pay money to see that.”

“I packed in a hurry and made a mistake.” She held her head high.

“Clearly. Let’s see what else there is.”

“Brantley—”

“Four pairs of white socks and a thong.” He held up the red lacy wisp of elastic and satin. She expected him to make a comment about the thong but he said instead, “Lucy Mead, how many feet do you have?”

She folded her arms over her chest and said nothing.

“Let’s see what else. Empty cosmetic bag and a landfill of health and beauty aides. Big bottle of shampoo. I usually like a small one for a one-thong adventure. Eyeliner, sparkle lotion, and two lipsticks—Kiss Pink and Brandy Wine. I don’t see any mascara and I know what store women set by their mascara—at least women with eyes as big and brown as yours. I don’t see any deodorant, nightclothes, or a comb. No phone charger, though you could have one of those in your car. Less likely for the nightie and deodorant. Now some people like to sleep naked and enjoy their own personal musk but I just don’t see it for you, Lucy Mead.”

Plainly, he was pushing her and he didn’t care who knew it. But even in the face of all this, his charm was coming through, broadcasting like Times Square on New Years Eve night. She needed a weapon and anger was the only one handy.

She went there. Easily.

“You don’t know anything about me.” She had been itching to say that for years. It felt good—so good!

“I know you don’t call me back—and I know I will win this game. Because I know where you’re going.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere—or at least you weren’t going anywhere until thirty seconds after you got my stalker voicemail this morning. What I am thinking is you listened to my message, jumped up, and put on the first thing you laid your hands on. I’ll bet your bed isn’t made and I don’t smell coffee. Disappointing, that. I could use some. A doughnut wouldn’t be amiss, either. I’m hungry. I’ve been awake for a while. “

“You didn’t have to be. You could be in your bed right now.”

“Don’t distract me by making me think about beds. After dressing, you packed this orderly, sensible bag for your orderly, planned trip.” He went and sat on the sofa. “When I pack, I like a tidy bag and a list helps that happen. I don’t strike you as a list maker, do I? Well, I am. That’s why I was named Young Historical Architect of the Year last year. People give me a chance because I’m funny and likable, but they trust me because I give good results—superior results. Funny and likable does not get results. Smart and detail oriented does—which I am. Plus, I’ve got that list-making thing going for me. If there were an award for Packer of the Year—or of the decade even, I would win that award too.

“Lucy Mead, you would not. I could help you out with that, though. It all goes back to the list. For my list making, I like an old fashioned DayRunner. I tried a PDA for a while but it’s just not the same. And then there’s the iPhone, the Swiss Army knife of communication and organization. Trouble is, there are no margins for doodling. I get some of my best ideas doodling. Besides, I like the satisfaction of a good pen on real paper. DayRunner refills are not as easy to find as they used to be, but I manage. I already have mine for the new year. Melba knows just where to get them. I’ll get her to get you some.”

“I don’t want—” What didn’t she want? A DayRunner? Him here? For him to continue this maddening, witty, bossy banter?

To want him? She hesitated and it cost her.

“Back to the list,” he interrupted. “See, you have a master basic packing list for things you always need when you travel, like toothpaste and phone charger. Then there is a variable section for things like ski jackets and swimsuits. For instance, if we were making a list for you to visit me on Halloween, we would include things like thongs and deodorant in the basic list. In the variables, we’d have your Jasmine suit. If you were so minded, you might also write, ‘Bring Brantley some real barbecue because God knows they don’t have any anywhere but Merritt.’”

Her mouth was dry, arid even. “I am not coming to visit you for Halloween and I already told you I don’t have a Jasmine suit.”

He ran his hands through his silky thick hair. She wished she didn’t remember what it felt like. “There could be an alternative.” He held up her red thong and beaded top. “These might make an attractive ensemble. If you’d like to put them on so I can help you evaluate, I don’t mind.”

She had thought she’d been angry before. That wasn’t anger compared to what she was feeling now; that had been yoga and a massage all rolled into one. All of a sudden, she knew she was going to say everything that had drifted through her mind and heart since she was fifteen years old. It was going to feel good, better than good. It was going to be like lying naked on a mink blanket. And when she was done, he’d walk out of her house and she’d never hear from him or lay eyes on him again. Good. She wished she was sitting so she could jump to her feet for dramatic effect. During her time as Richie Sambora she’d learned a thing or two about drama. But she’d have to settle for moving in front of him and looking down at him, menacing. Oh, yeah. She could be menacing with the best of them. Dennis, even.

“Listen, here, Mr. Young Architect of the Year. I’ve got some things to say to you and you might want to get your DayRunner out and make a list of it. Number one. I don’t have a Jasmine costume. I am not going to get a Jasmine costume. And while I’m at it, you might as well know Jasmine was not a harem girl. Disney does not make movies about harem girls.” Brantley Kincaid had the audacity to smile, which was like gasoline on a fire. “Number two.” She held up two fingers. “Who do you think you are? You might be the Golden Boy of Merritt, Alabama, and the Prince of Green Hills, Nashville, Tennessee. You might be able to talk somebody out of a silver fork and into carving pumpkins, but you are not going to boss me around. You also might as well know that between my parents moving around from this university to that, and hauling me off to Timbuktu every time I turned around, I’ve lived in about a thousand places. And, Brantley, never, never have I ever heard of a florist who carves Jack-O-Lanterns. I looked it up on the Internet. Florists don’t do that!”

“They did for me.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course, they did! That’s my point. You are in charge of your world. People let you be in charge of them. But you are not in charge of me and I don’t ever have to call you back.”

“You’ve proven that well enough. But about that list where you are laying down the law to me. I’m pretty sure you’ve named about eight things, not two,” Brantley said. “That list making class needs to be sooner rather than later.”

“I’m not done with two yet!” Oh, what a maddening man. “You can’t tell me what to do. I am not some kid you can bribe with a choice of M&Ms and a full size Snickers. I am not your assistant, your housekeeper, your grandmother, or Missy—or any of the other ten thousand women who are just waiting around to try to please you. Most of all, I am not Rita May Sanderson.”

“Yeah.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I can tell that by the way you are not throwing objects at me.”

“What?” He opened his mouth to answer but she carried on. “Never mind. Also, you can’t just—” Waltz in here and break my heart again!

“What number are we on?” he asked and grinned like the devil he was.

She hated him! “Shut up. And isn’t it about time for you to get back together with Rita May?”

“I am not getting back with Rita May. I am done.”

“You have said that before.”

“Never. Never have I said that. I have said before we were broken up, and who knew what the hell was going to happen. Well, this time I know what the hell is going to happen. Nothing is what is going to happen where Rita May Sanderson, otherwise known as Tradd Ellis Davenport, is concerned. She threw one taco too many. So if that’s what all the not calling back is about—”

“It’s not. You should just get in your vehicle and take yourself back to Nashville.”

He stood and gave her a long slow smile. “I’m not going back to Nashville.”

“Well, you can’t be here. Until you do, go to your dad’s. Or Miss Caroline’s, or Missy’s. Hell, go check yourself and that dog into the dog pound for all I care.”

He held his hands out and gestured to the space around him. “Oh, Lucy Mead. You really don’t understand. I am here. I am back.”

Chapter Five

“Back?” Lucy sat down on the saddle ottoman and immediately regretted it. Brantley towered over her, even after he sat back down. “What do you mean by back?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. I am here. I am moving into Big Mama’s carriage house. Today.”

“Wha—” She never stuttered. Or never used to. It couldn’t be true, not just when she had begun to get herself together from last time. But had she? Begun to get herself together? Surely. It had been fourteen years.

Logic. That’s what she needed, so she asked a logical question that would make what he was saying not true, make him admit he was lying. “What about your business?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “My business is here now. Right here.”

What did that even mean? And if he really was staying in Merritt, how could she not know this? Why didn’t Missy tell her?

“Does Missy know this?”

“No one knows, not even my family. See, Lucy, after I decide something, I just get on with it. So, let’s you and me go down to the diner. I’ll buy you some breakfast and we’ll talk about it.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about, Brantley. And I don’t want any breakfast.” Her stomach growled. Audibly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Not hungry, huh?”

“No.” She crossed her legs. “I am not.”

“Well, I am. I’m starving. You could sit with me while I eat, just sit there and let me look at your pretty self. My attempts to court you through telecommunications have failed miserably so I am here to do it in person.”

A ragged breath tore through her. She closed her eyes. He was kidding her, had to be. He was acting like he didn’t remember that night in Savannah, when she had been so willing to give herself to him and he’d seemed so willing for her to, but at the last minute climbed out of her dorm room bed and ran. Humiliation of that level didn’t come along every day. She took a deep breath. And then another.

“Brantley, I am not going to breakfast with you. Besides, I don’t believe you are moving here. There’s nothing for you here. Your business is in Nashville . . . your house—”

“My business is wherever I say it is,” he said glibly. “I am closing my office down for now. I have put my townhouse on the market. I don’t know what I’ll do when the job here is finished, but until then—”

Job here? Oh, God. No, it couldn’t be. Yet, it was so obvious. Why had she not seen it coming? Still, she had to ask, had to be sure.

“What job here?”

“The Brantley Building, of course. Same job you agreed to.”

Agreed? That was putting it lightly. She had jumped. She had practically kissed Miss Caroline’s feet. She would have danced in the street, if she’d been a different person. She’d done everything but ask enough important questions.

“I cannot take the job now, for obvious reasons.”

“Obvious? Like you are obviously not hungry? What would those reasons be, Lucy Mead?”

Hell and double hell! Had she invented Savannah? Or had it meant so little to him that he didn’t even remember?

“We’re friends,” she said, though it wasn’t entirely true. “We’re in the same social circle. I cannot work for you.”

“For me?” He let out that golden boy laugh that had rung out on golf courses and at fraternity parties and debutante balls all over the south. “If you think you will be working for me, you don’t know much about Caroline Hurst Brantley. No. You will be working for her. And so will I. Miss Caroline rules these parts. She wants me. And she wants you. If you have decided you are not going to do this and plan to sashay over there and tell her so, good luck and by all means, take me with you. I could use a lesson.” He patted his knee and made kissing sounds at Eller, who jumped into his lap and looked at him adoringly. Of course; the story of his life.

“Brantley, I—”

And he smiled. “Come on, Lucy Mead. It’ll be fun.”

That was the hell of it. It would have been fun and so fulfilling. She had already started doing research and had fantasized about the grand opening. Perhaps she would even win an award.

But that couldn’t happen now, and all because of him—the man who had cost Lucy her heart at fifteen and again at nineteen. She had let it happen and she’d been paying in small ways ever since. She couldn’t count the times she’d had to flee town, had to miss out on plans she had looked forward to, all because the golden boy was coming to town.

And now he was going to cost her this job that was so much more than a job. It was her heart’s work, the kind she loved best and a sign of true acceptance into her adopted hometown. And that wasn’t the least of it.

He would be everywhere. Missy, who knew nothing of Lucy’s broken heart and humiliation, adored Brantley and he her. They had been babies together in the Christ Episcopal nursery. Their mothers had been friends. They had shared cotillion classes and high school. They had gotten drunk together for the first time. They had done everything except date and have sex.

And when Judge Brantley and Eva Kincaid had been killed, Missy had slept on the floor by his bed that night, and every night after until Charles Kincaid whisked him off to Ireland.

No way was any social event that involved Missy happening without Brantley. She’d probably even let him come to book club.

He sat across from her now, totally unconcerned that he was ruining her life. He seemed to have forgotten that he was even in her presence, so enthralled he was with lavishing attention on that dog.

Careful, Eller, he’ll dangle his magic in front of you and then snatch it away.

Telling Miss Caroline would be hard. She had been so pleased with Lucy’s enthusiasm. But she would move on. Strong women like Miss Caroline did. She’d use her contacts and come up with someone else in no time—probably some tall, thin sophisticate who would rent one of those soulless sterile condos out at the lake for the duration of the project. Winter at the lake. Frosted over windows and a gas log fireplace. Brantley would be glad to make the twenty-minute drive out there to work. He might even get snowed in. Tiptoe Watkins had told Lucy last week that they would for sure have snow this winter, because the skins of the apples were tough. That was good. That demon woman who had stolen her job would cut her hand when she tried to make Brantley an apple pie. She wouldn’t die or even lose a finger—just hurt a little and ruin the pie. Oh, and maybe she would bleed all over their plans, so they wouldn’t be able to win any awards. She deserved ruined plans for stealing Lucy’s job and Brantley deserved a ruined pie for ruining—well, everything.

Miss Caroline would not understand. She was not the kind of woman who let people ruin things for her. It wasn’t fair.

Brantley pushed his silky moonbeam hair out of his eyes.

“I need a haircut. Can you cut my hair? Just trim it up a little?” He was teasing her now and his smile was way too sweet.

“Sure,” Lucy said. “Let me just get my hacksaw.”

He laughed. “Lucy Mead, I don’t like the sound of that. Maybe I’ll just go lie in the road and let a possum gnaw it off.”

“Maybe you will.”

And maybe I won’t let you ruin this job for me.

That was a new thought. Her heart rate picked up. It had to stop sometime, didn’t it? She closed her eyes and saw herself fleeing town on a Rascal because Brantley was coming to Missy’s ninety-fifth birthday.

“I have decided to go ahead with the job,” she announced formally. “We can work together.”

His head snapped up. Of course he was surprised. No matter what she’d said, he had not seriously considered that exactly what he expected to happen, might not.

“That’s good news,” he said, like it was new news to him.

“I will not kowtow to you,” she said.

“No one ever does.” He got to his feet. “Okay. I need to move a few things into the carriage house, plus let my dad and grandmother know I’m here. I’m going to need to leave Eller here with you while I do that.”

“No.”

“She’s no trouble. She never poops or pees on the floor. And I’ve got some dog food in the car.”

“I didn’t think she was trouble. I think you are. But you aren’t going to be my trouble.”

“Please, Lucy. What if she got hit by a car during all the chaos of unloading my car? That would be terrible.”

Lucy looked at the little ball of white fur. It would be terrible.

“Put her in Miss Caroline’s house.”

“She’d be better off taking her chances in the street than dealing with that monster cat from hell of my grandmother’s—meanest animal on four legs. Come on, Lucy.” He smiled. It wasn’t fair when he smiled. “It won’t be for long. I don’t have much stuff.”

Lucy hesitated. She ought to make him take the dog to Missy. Or his dad’s house. Anywhere.

“All right. But you come and get her as soon as you’re done. I mean it.”

“I will. Then I’ll pick you up at six. I can’t stay out late because I’ve got to fly to San Francisco early in the morning for some PR and glad handing for the project I just finished. I’ll be gone about a week.”

“Wait! Hold on! What do you think you are picking me up for?”

“Our date. I am taking you out.”

“No.”

“I told you that you were going to hear from me. I made that clear.”

“I am not dating you.”

“We’ll see,” he said. “That’s mostly what I came back for. I’ll just get that dog food.”

Chapter Six

Things had not gone as well with Lucy as Brantley would have liked but better than he’d feared. After all, she had let him leave Eller. That was something. At first, he had been surprised at her refusal to return his calls. People almost always returned his calls and if they didn’t, he didn’t care.

But not Lucy; she refused and he cared. Even after he’d gotten the message that she wasn’t going to call, he had kept calling to hear her recorded voice, and because he wanted to tell her something. He had suspected she was listening to the messages he’d left and he’d been right. She’d proven that this morning with all that talk about hiring pumpkin carving.

Several times, he’d vowed to leave her alone but he just couldn’t.

She was his happy place and he knew as well as he knew the earth turned that she wanted him too—though you sure couldn’t prove it by her actions. Even as he’d made his plans to return to Merritt, all he could think about was seeing her, being near her—and he had not been at all sure that she would let that happen. Last night, he had packed his final box and had intended to sleep late this morning before making the drive. But he’d woken in the wee hours, overwhelmed by his need to see her. So he’d ambushed her on her porch. He’d been afraid, afraid of how he felt and afraid she wouldn’t let him in. So he’d gone all smartass on her—probably not the best move but he was making this up as he went.

But oddly, he took it as a good sign that she wanted to run from him. That proved she had some feelings worth running from.

He had no idea why, after all this time, such strong attraction kicked in. But there was something there—something fiery and fine that made him remember a bourbon-soaked late spring night in Savannah, Georgia when they had danced and laughed and he’d almost committed the unpardonable.

“Don’t poop where you eat, boy,” Papa Brantley had said to him more than once—and he had almost done that. Having a one night stand with a hometown girl from his inner circle would have been bad enough, but taking her virginity would have been the ultimate in mixing pooping and eating. Thankfully, he’d realized before it was too late and remembered who he was.

“Brantley, remember who you are. If you aren’t acting like a gentleman, you need to slow down and think.” More wisdom from Papa.

But that was a long time ago—fourteen years. They’d been kids—though at twenty-one, he hadn’t thought so. That would have made Lucy nineteen. But what had he known? What did he know now? A smile spread over his face. He knew he wanted a little Lucy Mead magic for himself and it didn’t matter why. She wasn’t a kid anymore and he wanted more than a one night stand, though how much more he couldn’t say. He was still working that out.

Things had been so complicated with Rita May. Aside from her temperament, which was enough to make for a hard day for anyone, his family and friends had not liked Rita May. Charles and Big Mama had been as quiet on the subject as Missy had been vocal but there was no doubt that they all lived in fear that he would marry her. How peaceful it would be to rest in that Lucy magic, how simple to embrace something that was accepted and familiar. Plus, he doubted Lucy spent much time throwing stuff at people.

As he pulled into Big Mama’s driveway, his heart beat a little faster and his face suddenly felt hot. She didn’t know he was here. Neither did Charles. He wasn’t really sure why he hadn’t told them he was coming. He’d already emptied out his townhouse and called a realtor. The movers would be arriving Monday with the few things he’d wanted to keep—his workout equipment, his electronics, and some family furniture Big Mama had sent up there when he’d bought the townhouse. Maybe he hadn’t told them he was coming because there had always been a possibility that he might change his mind. But he would say he’d wanted to surprise them. They believed everything he said.

He looked at the house and frowned. He didn’t like the look of that gingerbread bracket under the west eave. It was sagging. He was sure of it.

He’d climb up there and take a look later today. He almost hoped it was a complicated repair that would take hours. He could fix it himself, and he took a lot of pride in that. Not everybody knew he was capable of manual labor. Fact was, he knew enough about how to repair a plaster wall and lay tongue and grove flooring to tell the difference between a craftsman and someone who could just get it done. Just getting it done wasn’t good enough, and he was secretly glad when he had to get his hands dirty from time to time. He’d won the respect of more than one contractor by rolling up his sleeves and pitching in. He’d made some mad too.

He ought to take a look at the rest of the eaves, and the roof too.

Why had he not noticed that sagging gingerbread when he was here last? Because he hadn’t looked closely—couldn’t stand to. And now he was supposed to just walk up on that porch and into that house, like it was his second home—like he used to do.

He got out of the car. It was now or never and it couldn’t be never. The porch was swept and the mechanical twist doorbell, which was original to the house, had been polished recently. Nothing shoddy about the maintenance of Big Mama’s life at eye level. He spun the bell and backed off to inspect the porch ceiling.

The door swung open and he pasted on his happy mask. He spun around to find not his grandmother, but Evelyn.

Evelyn was as broad as she was tall, and the color of milk chocolate. Her hair should have been white years ago, but it had been bright red as long as Brantley could remember. He suspected this was her one indulgence in “foolishness.” Evelyn did not hold with foolishness. The only thing she hated more was debauchery.

She put her hands on her hips to stop herself from hugging him. Evelyn was stingy with her hugs, if not her grits.

“Boy, what are you doing here this time of morning? Does Miss Caroline know you’re here?” She couldn’t quite hide her smile.

“Is that all you’ve got to say to me?” Brantley hugged her in spite of her floundering and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“I asked you a question! Miss Caroline did not tell me you were coming. Of course, you never give any warning. You swoop in here for fifteen minutes, eat, make a mess, and leave.”

He followed her into the house. “Not this time. I’m here to stay. Where is Big Mama?”

“She’s down at the church getting the flowers ready for the altar tomorrow. What do you mean ‘here to stay’?”

“I mean I intend to eat and make a mess for more than fifteen minutes. I am moving into the carriage house. At least I hope I am. Nobody has moved in there since Tolly moved out, have they?” Now that he thought of it, that might have been a good question to have asked before now.

Evelyn shook her head. “Moving in, huh? Well, you aren’t doing it today. That place has got to be cleaned top to bottom. It’s been empty for months now, ever since Tolly and the coach bought the old Patterson house.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No way I can get to it before Tuesday. Miss Caroline’s got her card club coming Monday.”

“I can get a cleaning service. I swear by all that is holy that I do not intend to cause you extra work.”

“Humph.” Evelyn put her hands on her hips again. “Don’t swear to the Lord and don’t lie. You’d get me up to Nashville at high noon on Christmas Day to iron you a shirt if you thought you could.”

“Not anymore. You can iron my shirts here—at least for the time being. I am done with Nashville.”

“Are you now? And that Jezebel, Rita May?”

“Her too. But I do think calling her Jezebel might be going a little rough.”

“Humph. Well, you just plan on staying in this house or out with your daddy till I get that place cleaned up.”

“I have to go to San Francisco in the morning for a few days. My furniture is arriving Monday. But really, Evelyn, I can get someone to clean. You have enough to do.”

“Nobody is cleaning but me.”

He knew better than to argue. This was Evelyn’s turf and she intended to defend it. “Then I will pay you extra.”

“I don’t want your money, Brantley Kincaid. Bring me a t-shirt with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge on it and a magnet for my refrigerator that looks like a street car. That’s all I want out of you.”

Brantley made a mental note to write it in his DayRunner.

“Welcome home,” Evelyn said. “It’ll make your big mama and your daddy happy.”

“Or break their hearts.” He immediately regretted saying it, so he smiled his I’m just joking smile.

“I reckon you won’t have eaten anything,” she said. “I’ll just get in there and make you some breakfast.”

He opened his mouth to speak when, like a ghost riding a tidal wave, piano music blared from the other side of the house. Brantley gasped and plastered his back against the wall as Frankie Valli’s “Walk Like a Man” rocked the floorboards of the old house. He clamped his eyes shut and felt the blood drain from his face.

He was going crazy. Nobody played that piano. No one could play it—except him and Papa. They couldn’t read a note of music but they had played by ear and what they had lacked in skill, they made up for with enthusiasm.

Yes. Crazy.

“Baby?” He felt a warm hand on his arm and when he opened his eyes the concern on Evelyn’s face matched the tone of her voice. “It’s all right, baby. It’s just old Tiptoe Watkins in there. Miss Caroline called him to come tune that piano when she thought you might be coming home.”

So not crazy. That was something. He laughed uneasily.

Evelyn resumed her haughty manner. She knew what he needed. “Go on in there and mind your manners. Ask Tiptoe to stay for breakfast. I’ll get to it.”

As she walked away, Brantley said, “Evelyn, don’t tell—”

“Don’t tell what?” she asked without turning around. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Nothing to tell.”

The last thing Brantley wanted to do was walk toward that room with music spilling out of it, but one did not disobey Evelyn.

When Tiptoe saw him, he ended the piece with an elaborate flourish and rose from the bench of the baby grand, extending his hand.

“Brantley Kincaid. You are going to make your grandmother one happy woman.”

Tiptoe Watkins owned the local cemetery and had more money that Midas. After all, death wasn’t optional. He presented himself as a simple man with cornpone wisdom, but he was Harvard educated and had done the world tour, back when young men did that before settling down.

He had been one of Papa’s best friends. Who knew why he tuned pianos? Probably for the social aspect and to amuse himself. Tiptoe was a talker.

“We all live to make Miss Caroline happy,” Brantley said as he shook Tiptoe’s hand.

“Fine instrument.” Tiptoe laid a hand on the piano. “Got a fine sound now. Want to take her for a spin?”

That wasn’t happening. It was never happening.

“Maybe later,” Brantley said. “Evelyn is fixing some breakfast. She said to make sure you stayed.”

Tiptoe laughed. “I had my Raisin Bran, oh, about six o’clock, but I’ve always thought Frodo and the boys had the right idea.” Tiptoe winked. “Second breakfast. Especially when Evelyn is doing the cooking. Reckon there’ll be cheese grits?”

“I reckon there will.”

Brantley motioned for Tiptoe to have a seat on the sofa and he let himself down in the chair across from him.

“So you’re going to see what you can do with that old building downtown?”

“My grandmother seems to have spread the word,” Brantley said. “Odd. I thought this was not for public knowledge.”

“I am not the public,” Tiptoe said. “People tell me things.”

“Odder still, I have not told my grandmother that I will do the restoration.”

Tiptoe laughed. “Yet you are going to do what she wants.”

Brantley nodded. “I am.”

“See, your grandmother is a wise woman. She knows the secret to getting what she wants—something that works every time.”

Brantley idly wondered if this elusive mythical secret would work on Lucy.

“Enlighten me, please. I could use a little magic.”

“No magic about it.” Tiptoe held up one finger. “First, act like what you want is a done deal. Be confident. Don’t entertain the thought that “no” could even be an option. Second, make everyone else think it’s happening. Perception is everything.”

Brantley laughed. “Big Mama certainly has that down. How do you think this method would play if you were trying to make a woman go soft on you?”

“Cannot fail.” Tiptoe nodded. “Especially if you make yourself dependent on her. Women love to be needed.”

“You’re a wise man, Tiptoe.” Brantley laughed it off, but he filed away what Tiptoe had said. There might be something to it.

* * *

At five o’clock that afternoon Lucy was still wearing what she had thrown on that morning. She was irked that Brantley had not come to get Eller, but not surprised. He might never come back. There was a small part of her that found it heady that, after all this time, he wanted to go out with her, but she wasn’t fooled. He only wanted it because she had refused to return his calls.

She considered putting Eller in the car and driving around until she found him. But she needed a shower and by the time she finished it would be six, or close to—the time he was supposed to pick her up for their “date.”

Not that she was going. Oh, no.

Or maybe she would. She could tell him that it wasn’t a date, but they could get some dinner. She would even pay for her own. That might be just the thing to do if they were going to have to work together—and it looked like they were.

Lucy showered and changed into brown corduroy pants and a lightweight cotton sweater the color of honey. Not date clothes, but a casual, nice looking, fall weekend outfit. She tamed her hair the best she could and applied the same amount of makeup she would wear to a football game or to the mall.

At a quarter to six, she walked Eller yet again, who, yet again, did not avail herself of the facility that was the great outdoors.

“You’ve got my number,” she said to the dog. “You know I can’t tell when you really need to go out or when you just want to see if you can make me take you.”

Then she went inside and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. Hating herself, she checked to make sure she had not set her phone to silent.

Eller begged for food and Lucy fed her—again. She’d never had a dog, and had no idea how often a dog was supposed to eat. She checked the time and the clock screamed 6:30 at her. She was a fool. Why had she let herself think he really did want to see her? That he wanted it enough that he would show up on time? If it wasn’t for that dog, she would leave. That way she would be gone if he came and if he didn’t, she would never know. Either would be fine.

Apparently, he’d gotten a good look at her this morning and decided he’d been too hasty. She would give him until seven and then she was driving Eller straight to Charles Kincaid’s house. She’d take her to Missy, except she didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions about what she was doing with Eller in the first place. She began gathering up the leash and dog food. She would say that Brantley had asked her to watch the dog, but apparently had gotten tied up and she had to be somewhere. And if Brantley was there—well, she hadn’t considered that.

The doorbell rang. Ten till seven. There he stood with a takeout bag of barbecue, a whole pie, and a six pack of beer. Eller went into fits of rapture.

Brantley, however, was not rapturous—or even remotely happy. Oh, he had a smile of sorts pasted on his face, but there was gloom in his eyes and a thin layer of sweat on his upper lip. She was right. He didn’t want to take her out, but he’d had to do something, since he’d been so insistent, so he’d brought barbecue. Obviously, this was the last place he wanted to be.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “It was unavoidable.” He didn’t sound sorry. He retrieved a piece of meat from his bag and gave it to Eller.

It was then that she noticed he had a fresh haircut and was sunburned.

“I see you got a haircut when you were supposed to be coming to get your dog,” she said as meanly as she could.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Do you think it looks good? It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a real barber shop. Melba always makes my appointments at this place with soft music, where everybody has their own little private room. I can’t believe I let that foolishness go on. I am never going to another place that requires an appointment. I’m going to go right in and sit down and wait my turn like I did today.”

“Must have taken a while.”

He ignored her and, though she did not invite him in, he walked around her and took the food right back to the kitchen. And if that wasn’t nervy enough, he started rummaging around in the cabinet for plates.

Lucy was hot on his trail. “I’m sure you had a great time at the barber shop. You seem to always have a good time. Did you get in a little football watching?”

“I did not.” He started to unpack the bag. “But the Tide kicks off in a few minutes. Do you allow people to eat on your couch while they watch TV?”

“I am not eating with you.” He didn’t want to take her out, but thought he could buy her off with barbecue.

“I cannot imagine why not. I brought pork, chicken, and ribs since I didn’t know what you like.” He smiled that devastating smile. “I got beans, slaw, and potato salad too. And the pie. It’s lemon. Not as good as pumpkin, but it’ll do. They didn’t have pumpkin. We’ve only got four quarters and a half time to eat it all, but I think we can.”

Was he making fun of her because she used to be fat? She looked him up and down and could find no evidence of it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

He leaned toward her and gave her a smoldering look and made her stomach flip. “Do you like lemon pie? I could go back and get chocolate if you like that better. I want to make you happy.”

“Then you need to take your dog and your barbecue and leave.” She folded her arms over her chest.

He sighed and the gloom in his eyes washed into his face. “Lucy, I am so tired. And hungry. Please just let me eat and watch football here with you. I have to be at the airport before God gets up in the morning.”

“I guess you should have thought about that before you spent all day on the golf course tiring yourself out and getting sunburned.”

“I have not been on the golf course,” he said with a sigh. “And I’m sorry I didn’t come get Eller. I was doing some repairs on my grandmother’s house. Time got away from me, and then I got a bad splinter in my hand. I am sorry for being late.”

He held out his palm to show her a ragged angry gash covered in orange Betadine. Hot shame settled over her and her heart cried out a little. It wasn’t gloom on his face. It was pain. That didn’t mean he wanted to be here, but maybe he did.

“Nothing would do Caroline Brantley and Charles Kincaid but that they haul me down to the ER where I had no cell phone coverage. To add insult to injury, I got a tetanus shot in my ass. But I should have called when I got out, before I got the barbecue.”

Softness crept over her. Her heart couldn’t afford softness, but it came anyway.

“Why didn’t you tell me all that as soon as you got here?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “There are two ways of doing things, easy and hard. And I am the grand champion of picking hard. Please, Lucy.” He settled his golden eyes into hers. “I just want to be here with you. That’s what I’ve wanted all day. I wanted to take you out to dinner and then watch the game together, but I was getting fussed over at Merritt General Hospital for no good reason.”

She believed him. He might not mean it tomorrow or in an hour but, right now, he meant it. She should make him go. It would be better for all concerned, but she couldn’t stop herself or the tenderness that was welling up inside her.

“Go turn on the game,” she said quietly. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

Later, after they had eaten, somewhere during the second quarter, he put an arm around her and pulled her to him, and she wasn’t able to stop herself from letting him. She had worked so hard to bury all those old feelings, just like she’d worked to lose those extra pounds. She’d always known fat was right around the corner and, evidently, so was being in love with Brantley again.

Weak. She was so weak. And she knew all about weakness. She felt it again when the game was over.

He gave her a lazy smile. “Roll Tide.” They’d won the game.

“Roll Tide,” she responded.

“Thank you for not throwing me in the street,” he said.

“It would have been a big mess. You and Eller there in the street with all that barbecue, coleslaw, and lemon pie all over you. I try not to make a mess if I can help it.” But wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now? Sitting here in the crook of his arm, feeling his body heat, and smelling his scent?

“There are worse things than rolling around in barbecue.” He lifted his injured hand and slid his thumb along her jaw line. “Though I’d rather have you for my rolling partner than Eller.”

“I don’t know.” Now, her chin was resting in the V between his thumb and index finger. He barely moved his hand against her cheeks as if he was enjoying the feel of her skin and had no desire to bring her face to his own, no desire to kiss her. No, that wasn’t quite right. The desire was there; she could see it in his eyes. He had just chosen to enjoy the moment rather than rush it. “I don’t see the charm of rolling around in barbecue, especially if there is potato salad involved.”

“No?” He bit his lower lip. “I see the charm in Lucy Mead. Does she see the charm in me? Even a little? Ever?”

“Sometimes,” she answered. “Though I shouldn’t. You cost too much.”

He laughed that low sweet laugh and shifted. It might have been an accident that his thigh pressed more firmly against hers.

“I am free for the taking,” he said.

She needed to stop this and get him out of here. She captured his wrist in her hand, pulled it away from her face, and looked at his palm “How is your hand? Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said. He was lying.

She rose. “Didn’t you say you had to catch a plane before God gets up? Hadn’t you better get some sleep?”

“I can sleep on the plane. I’m a good plane sleeper. Wheels up, I’m out.”

“But you have to get to the airport. And it’s an hour away.”

He sighed. “Okay.” He held out his uninjured hand. “Help me up. I’m injured, in pain.”

“You said your hand didn’t hurt.” But she took his hand.

“Sometimes I lie,” he said as she pulled him to his feet. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “And sometimes I don’t.”

And in that moment, he took charge of her world. When he took her in his arms, they snapped together like a magnetic fastener on a purse and his mouth on hers was like the temptation of the last bit of ice cream in the freezer. She’d never had any self-control where that was concerned either. Best not to allow ice cream in the house.

I’ll just have this last bit of chocolate mint chip tonight and then it will be gone. I can start fresh tomorrow, without the temptation. Might as well have it. After all, I’ve already ruined my diet today with the pizza.

But his mouth was not ice cream—it was so much better. This was not the kiss of a fraternity boy who thought he knew everything. This was a man’s kiss, with a warm tongue and lips that knew how to take their time around a mouth. And—dear Lord—he slid his hand up her side and cupped her cheek. Finally, he urged her to her toes until their pelvises met. There was nothing coy about the way he pressed his erection against her. He was in charge and bent on making her remember this moment. Light spread through her—not just the hot searing heat of the sun, but the silvery soft glow of moonlight.

And that was a dangerous combination, one that could claim a heart, a body, and a life.

She did not need Brantley Kincaid warming her with his light, could not tolerate it. Yet, it was he who broke the kiss.

“Lucy Mead, that was sweet,” he said. “I’m going to pine for you while I’m gone.” And he left, leaving her one big bundle of confusion.

* * *

That confusion lasted until the next morning when she opened her door to go to church. On the porch sat a bag of dog food and a cardboard box with a dog bed, three leashes, and a plethora of dog toys—and Eller in a dog carrier.

The note on top said, “Lucy, I asked Eller who she wanted to stay with while I was gone and she picked you! Seriously, my dad’s allergic and there is the matter of the demon cat at Big Mama’s. It would eat her in one bite. I’ll call you. You might even answer.”

Every bit of confusion and softness she had felt mutated into anger. As she hauled Eller and all the Eller paraphernalia into the house, even the sympathy she’d had for him over his injury evaporated.

The dog carrier caught the front of her new blouse and the sound of ripping silk gave way to the ringing of her phone.

She turned off the phone without checking the caller ID. Then she ripped her already ruined blouse off her body, wadded it into a ball, and threw it at as hard as she could. She wanted it to break something or at least land with a thud. But it unfurled four inches from her hand and floated softly to the floor like a soap bubble.

Having found no satisfaction in blouse throwing, she screamed like a cave woman who had been denied her gathering rights. It felt pretty good, so she did it again.

Chapter Seven

Even after staying in seclusion with her phone off all day Sunday, Lucy’s anger was still with her Monday morning.

She stormed into Annelle Mead Design and Interiors at 8:25 A.M.—fifty-five minutes later than she liked to be and twenty-five minutes later than she was supposed to be. She had an armload of dog supplies and Eller’s leash wound around her legs.

Aunt Annelle looked up with amused surprise. “I don’t know whether to be more shocked that you’re late or that you’ve got a dog in tow.”

Lucy dropped the dog food at her feet and removed the leash from Eller’s collar; the dog began to zip around the shop like a hummingbird at ground level.

“One surprise is all that’s necessary,” she said grimly. “One led to the other.”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” Annelle said.

Lucy carried the bag that contained Eller’s food and water dishes, toys, and bed to her office. “I can sum it up in two words: Brantley Kincaid. But I will tell you this. I have a new appreciation for Lanie and Missy, having to haul all that kid stuff around all the time. Is this okay?” She gestured to Eller, who seemed to know Annelle was in charge and was sucking up to her. “I can lock her in my office.”

“No!” Annelle bent over and scratched behind Eller’s ears. “Lock this perfect baby up? Never! She might bring us some business.”

“Let us hope she doesn’t do her business on the floor.” Lucy reached for her messages.

A client canceling an appointment. The fabric for Angie Callahan’s drapes was on backorder. Nothing but good news. Oh, and the last one put the icing on the cake.

“Do you know why Caroline Brantley wants me to come over as soon as possible?” Lucy asked Annelle.

“Not specifically. I know her bridge club is coming today at eleven and she wants to talk to you before then—the earlier the better.”

“Then I guess I’d better feed that dog and go. She’s probably going to fire me from the Brantley Building project. Or tell me she’s hired someone else who I’ll have to answer to.”

“Darling, I’m sure that is not true. Run on.” Annelle bent to pet Eller again. “I’ll take care of feeding this precious girl.”

* * *

Miss Caroline opened the door and ushered Lucy into the living room.

“It was so good of you to come over, Lucy. Please sit.” She gestured to the velvet sofa in front of the fireplace, which was ablaze.

Miss Caroline sat beside her. “I know it’s a little warm for a fire, but I can’t resist if there is the least bit of snap in the air.”

“It’s lovely,” Lucy said and let her eyes wander to the mantle. “A mantle that wonderful deserves to have a fire as often as possible.” She paused, reluctant to show off, but if Miss Caroline was going to fire her, she ought to know what she was losing. “American Victorian Renaissance Revival. Black walnut. I would put it original to the house.”

Miss Caroline smiled. “I knew there was a reason I wanted you for the Brantley Building.” So maybe she wasn’t going to fire her. “But no, it isn’t original. It should have been. Originally there was a marble monstrosity that was a hundred years too early. I couldn’t take the naked nymphs.”

“Good call,” Lucy said.

“Would you like coffee?”

She would have loved coffee but not as much as she wanted to get this chitchat over with and find out why she was here.

“None for me, but you go ahead.”

“It’s just as well,” Miss Caroline said. “We can leave Evelyn to her cheese straws and crab salad. She’s a much bigger snob about bridge club food than I am.”

Lucy laughed. “I don’t think anyone could rightfully accuse either one of you of being a snob. Discerning, yes; snob, never.”

“I like how you think.” Miss Caroline let her eyes wander to the huge oil portrait over the fireplace of the rosy-cheeked blond toddler. He was clutching a ball and the blue smocked bubble suit he wore was classic, just like this house and everything in it. “He was a beautiful baby, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Lucy agreed. And he’s a beautiful man. And a beautiful kisser. Wait. No. Stop. He is the man who left his dog on your porch without asking you!

“Brantley is the reason I called you over.” Miss Caroline smiled like she was giving away the keys to the kingdom.

What now? “I have spoken with Brantley,” Lucy said hesitatingly. “He told me we would be working together on the Brantley Building.”

“Oh, yes!” This woman was in hog heaven. “I so hoped he would do it. I think you two will do a wonderful job.”

“We will do our best,” Lucy said. At least she would. Who knew about golden boy?

“When Brantley returns, the mayor is going to call a press conference to announce our plans. There will be someone there from the State Historic Commission. I’d like you to be there.”

“Of course.” For this she had to come to the house?

“But that’s not what I needed to talk to you about.”

Lucy inclined her head toward the older woman. How much longer was she going to have to wait?

“Brantley is moving into my carriage house. I know you are familiar with it from when Tolly lived there.”

“Oh, yes. I was there many times.”

“Brantley is in San Francisco—” She paused. “Did you know he was in San Francisco?”

“Yes, ma’am.” And his dog is with me.

“The carriage house needs a coat of paint and—well, just a little care. Is there any way possible that you could put it together for me? By Friday?”

Hell and double hell! Friday? And for Brantley? She might throw up.

“Yes, ma’am. I will make it my priority.” Because, really, what else could she say?

“His furniture is scheduled to arrive this afternoon. He doesn’t have a great deal—a lovely Eastlake bed, a leather chair and ottoman, a few odd tables, an antique draftsman’s table. Brantley still likes to draw by hand sometimes. Of course, there is that monster television that will have to be worked around.”

“What did you have in mind?” Lucy asked. And wouldn’t it be better to wait and let him choose what he wants?

As if she had read Lucy’s mind, Miss Caroline said, “I know it seems odd that I want this done while he’s gone without consulting him, but if we wait on him he will sleep in the first place he puts the bed. He won’t do anything. I want him to be comfortable. I want his surroundings to be pleasing.”

“I see,” Lucy said and she did. Miss Caroline wanted him to stay. Good luck with that. Didn’t she know he was a runner?

“You can take some pieces from this house. Goodness knows there is too much here. And we can buy whatever is necessary. But I want to put this in your control. If I choose it will be to my liking. I want Brantley to like it.”

“I’m not sure—” she began.

“You’ve known my grandson for a long time. And you know how young people like to live. For instance, I cannot abide a television in the living room.” She gestured to the room around her. “But I imagine Brantley would like to be able to use his computer, watch television, and be comfortable all in one room.”

Lucy nodded.

Miss Caroline rose. “Then why don’t you come back and take a look at his furniture this afternoon? And you can go from there.” She reached into her pocket, brought out a key, and handed it to Lucy. “Take this so you can come and go as you please.”

“Just call me when it arrives and I’ll come over,” Lucy said as she got to her feet.

“Splendid! I trust you implicitly.”

As they made their way to the door, an apricot cat scuttled from beneath a chair and rubbed up against Miss Caroline’s ankle. She could have weighed no more than five pounds but she wasn’t skinny. Her frame was small and her meow was so quiet it was almost a squeak.

Monster cat?

Aghast, Lucy said, “Is that your cat?”

“Well, yes. Princess.”

“Your only cat? You don’t have another one?”

Miss Caroline shook her head. “She’s a timid little thing but Evelyn and I love her.”

Monster cat, indeed.

Chapter Eight

Pam, who worked part time at the shop, met Lucy at the door when she returned.

“Annelle called and said for me to bring these fabric samples to Sophie Anne McGowan’s house as soon as you get back. Sophie Anne didn’t like any of the ones Annelle took over.”

“Better you than me,” Lucy said. Sophie Anne was one of those clients who always had a project going and could not be pleased.

Lucy was feeling that right now. No. Not true. Throttling Brantley Kincaid would please her; it would please her to no end. Eller trotted up and wagged her puff ball of a tail.

“I am going to kill him,” Lucy said to the dog. “What I ought to do is take you over there and dump you on Miss Caroline. You’d like it there. Go get in your bed or I will.”

Eller did not go get in her bed.

“You’re just like him. You do what you want. Are you a runner?” The dog jumped onto the rose colored watered silk chaise lounge and lay down. Lucy started to shoo her off but changed her mind. “Yeah, you just stay there and shed all over it. I’ll put that in his bedroom. Miss Caroline gave me free reign.”

That gave her an idea. She pulled paint chips and fabric samples, took them to the counter, and began to put together palettes. Lilac and lemon for the living room. Peach and cream for the bathroom. Shades of pink for his bedroom. The window treatments would be floral. That was given.

She sat back on the stool and sighed. She wouldn’t do it of course. Even if she didn’t care about her professional integrity, Aunt Annelle would stop her if Miss Caroline didn’t. She shoved the sherbet colors aside and began to pull neutrals. She needed to call the painters and have them meet her there in the morning. Custom drapes were out of the question given her time frame. She’d measure the windows when she went over to look at his furniture later. There was a place she could order decent premade window treatments, but she needed to do that soon—today if possible. Also, it would be helpful to know when he was coming back. “About a week,” he said, which meant nothing, or worse—that he didn’t know and didn’t care. That was the way of a runner. Was this how working on the Brantley Building with him was going to go?

“Aw, Lucy. You worry too much. We’ll be done on time. When am I going to be done restoring that woodwork so you can bring the painters in? Well, let’s see. Hmmm. About a week? Give or take.”

What had she gotten herself into? She put her face in her hands.

The front door chimed and Mr. Reed from the jewelry store—impeccably dressed, every snowy hair in place—stepped inside. He was the kind of man who wore seersucker suits in the summer and bow ties and French cuffs year round. His wife had been in many times but Lucy could never remember seeing him in the shop before.

She got to her feet. “Good morning, Mr. Reed. What can I help you with today?”

He smiled broadly, like he always did. “Well good morning there, young lady. I’ve got a little something for you.” He set a small bag with handles on the counter. She peeped inside to see an oblong wrapped package. She almost asked who it was from, but she knew; she knew only too well.

“Thank you,” she said. “You didn’t have to bring it over.”

“Oh, but I did. Brantley was very specific.” He chuckled. “He would only talk to me. Called all the way from San Francisco. Tickled me. Used to be, there were a lot of people who would only talk to me. Now, they want my son. Or the ones your age want my granddaughter. But you would know Louisa. From the Junior League and all.”

“I do.” And if it had been Louisa who had delivered this, Lucy would have sent it right back with her. Brantley knew what he was doing when he sent Mr. Reed. “Thank you for bringing it over.”

It was only when Mr. Reed smiled wider and nodded to the bag that Lucy realized he was waiting for her to open it. There was nothing to do but remove the silver ribbon and white paper. She absolutely was not accepting jewelry from Brantley. From the shape of the box it could be a bracelet, necklace, or watch—all inappropriate.

But it was none of that. It was a silver dessert fork, Francis I by Reed and Barton. The handle of that fork had a whole jungle of fruit and flowers on it—more than enough to decorate a parade float.

“That wasn’t what he really wanted,” Mr. Reed said.

“No?” Maybe he favored his forks decorated with corn on the cob and link sausages.

Mr. Reed laughed a big booming laugh. “I tried to put him onto a nice bracelet or maybe some pearls, but he said he had to have a fork.”

I just need one fork. One. Little. Fork. One. Oh, he was hilarious.

“But you said it wasn’t what he wanted.”

“Well, not exactly what he wanted. He was sure enough he wanted to get you a silver fork like the special set at the club. I had to tell him it was Tiffany and that he couldn’t get it here. I told him he could order it online, but he wouldn’t have that, said to give him something close. That family has always been good about buying local. I return the favor by carrying all my insurance, business and personal, with Kincaid Agency. We all take care of each other. It’s what makes this town special, don’t you think?”

“I do.” Lucy picked up the fork and held it like a weapon. Perhaps she would stab Brantley with it when he got back in about a week. She wondered if there was flatware decorated with poisonous plants straight out of the Duchess of Northumberland’s garden.

“I told him if you have your heart set on Chrysanthemum by Tiffany, this really is not the same.”

“Excuse me? My heart set on Chrysanthemum? I don’t understand.”

He beamed at her. “We’ll take good care of you, Lucy. We take good care of all our brides, but I will see to you personally,” he leaned in and said companionably.

“Bride?” she said with some alarm. “Mr. Reed, I am not a bride. Not even close.”

“Oh, sure, Lucy.” Mr. Reed winked at her. “I get it. Can’t let things like this get out until the right time. I understand. I admit that I thought a fork was a peculiar gift for a man to send his sweetheart, but then I thought, of course, he wouldn’t be needing a ring. They have so many family pieces, some quite old.” He glanced at her hand to make sure that hadn’t already happened. “Alden brought in all of Caroline’s jewelry to be cleaned and reappraised not long before he died. She has some lovely things. You will be very happy. And if it needs sizing, you come see me.”

Hell and double hell! Triple hell!

“Mr. Reed, I will not be getting a ring of Miss Caroline’s or otherwise. Brantley and I are not—”

“Of course! Of course!” He gestured to the fork. “Now when—and if—the time comes, if you don’t like Francis I, you can trade this little fork right in. But here’s the thing with Francis I. You can get everything. Ice cream forks, strawberry forks, butter picks, jelly servers, petit four servers—you name it. There’s even a corn on the cob butterer. You don’t find that with all your patterns. I’d like to see somebody come up with a cheese grater in Chrysanthemum, but I can get you one in Francis I.”

Lucy opened her mouth to speak, though she had no idea what she would say. At her elbow, her cell phone rang.

Mr. Reed patted her arm. “I’ll just go and let you get that but I hope to see you soon!”

She gave Mr. Reed a little finger wave and glanced at the caller ID. Oh, yes. This was a call she would take.

Chapter Nine

“Brantley Kincaid, stop peeing on my leg!”

His warm caramel and butterscotch laugh filled her with a certain kind of longing—the impossible kind filled with if only and if it were different.

“Lucy Mead, I would never. That wouldn’t be a gentlemanly thing to do at all. And let me tell you, baby, here in San Francisco they are impressed with how gentlemanly I am.”

“I am sure they are. I’m sure they’re impressed with just about everything about you, but I am not. You left your dog on my porch without asking me and now you have sent Mr. Reed over here with a silver fork. He thinks we’re engaged!”

“I cannot do anything about what Asa Reed thinks but I am sorry about Eller,” he said with no trace of remorse. “I should not have left her without consulting you. I will never go to San Francisco and leave her with you without asking again.”

“I took her to the pound.”

“You did not.”

“I could have. I might yet.”

“Sure you will.”

“When are you coming back? Or are you?” Probably Rita May was out there with him.

“Of course I’m coming back. Maybe sooner than I thought, since you care.”

“I don’t care. Except Miss Caroline has me decorating the carriage house for you and I need to know how long I have. She wants it done by the time you get back.”

“I swear that woman has been trying to get control of my environment for ten years. I guess she’s finally accomplished it.”

“That’s what happens when you move into someone else’s house for free. Anyway, she put me in charge of it.”

Lucy backed up and sat down on the stool. She hated to admit it, but it was fun sparring with him since he was two thousand miles away and couldn’t touch her.

“I want you to give me that gong in your living room. I need it.”

“I am not giving you my gong. Now answer me. When are you coming back?”

“When I’m done.”

“Which will be?”

“About a week. Give or take. Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you come where I am? We could pick out some curtains and kiss some more. Plus, these people are not fun.”

“I am not coming there. We are not going to kiss. And the correct phrase is window treatments. Or draperies.”

“I’m not saying that. A man starts saying window treatments, and the next thing you know he’ll be figure skating and painting ceramics.”

“I am going to hang up now,” Lucy said.

“I called you fourteen times yesterday and sent you twenty-three text messages.”

“I am aware. I deleted them without reading them. If you have anything to say about what you want your surroundings to look like, you’d better tell me right now because I am not talking to you again.”

He sighed. “Okay. I want my workout equipment in that room downstairs where Tolly had her bedroom.”

“A home gym. Miss Caroline is going to love that.”

“Spring it on her before I get back, if you please. Plus, I don’t need a bedspread. I went to a store and told the woman there I liked a comfortable bed and she hooked me up with some stuff. It cost enough to feed a third world country for a year. I’m going to have to use it for the rest of my life, and after. I’m going to have my coffin lined with it. Who knew sheets and stuff cost so much?”

“Me. I knew. Most people know.”

The conversation continued in a similar vein, and Lucy had hung up before she realized she had not properly addressed that he was trying to make people think they were a couple.

She was considering calling him back when the front door opened and in walked Sandy from the bakeshop with a chocolate cake.

“Lucy!” she said as she rushed to the counter. “Look what Brantley Kincaid sent you! He is so precious. What a precious thing to do. It is perfectly fresh too. I don’t know why I let him talk me into putting everything else off and making your cake immediately. But I did. I guess I am just an old soft romantic. And he says it isn’t your birthday, even. You are a lucky girl!” Sandy looked at her cell phone. “Oops, gotta go! My pecan pies are nearly done, and I can’t trust anyone else not to let them burn. Enjoy!”

And Sandy was gone without ever having given Lucy a chance to speak. She looked at the enemy cake, with its creamy piled-high swirled frosting. She should take it straight to the dumpster—but what a waste. On her way home she would take it to the carriage house for the painters. For now, she would exile it to the top of the filing cabinet in her office. Out of sight, out of mind, not on her thighs.

She couldn’t help but glance at the front door. What next? Or maybe that was the end of it.

Marcia Tate, owner of the Blossom Shop, was what was next—with gifts and painful memories.

She breezed in carrying a bouquet of pink sweetheart roses and a carved Jack-O-Lantern.

“Delivery for you, Lucy!” Lucy liked Marcia but she was the nosiest person in the downtown merchant association. And she didn’t have to sound so surprised, never mind that Lucy had never gotten flowers before.

Lucy sniffed the roses and tried to ignore the Jack-O-Lantern. “I didn’t know you made deliveries yourself, Marcia.”

“I don’t.” She placed her burdens on the counter. “These were special circumstances.” She looked pointedly at the Jack-O-Lantern. “I’m to tell you that I carve Jack-O-Lanterns all the time—that they’re my biggest seller in October. I pointed out that this is November but he wanted it anyway.” She shrugged her shoulders.

There was no point in pretending to be coy about who he was. “Have you ever carved a Jack-O-Lantern?” Lucy asked. “Apart from that one?”

“Of course. I have kids. I was a kid.”

“I mean for a customer?”

“No. Do you want to tell me the story behind it?”

“No.” Lucy laughed.

“Will you?” Marcia coaxed.

“No.”

“Can’t blame me for being curious. When I asked what he wanted on the card, he said he didn’t need a card, that you’d know who was sending you presents.” She pointed to the roses. “He wanted tulips. I had to remind him that tulips are not in season and this isn’t Nashville or San Francisco.”

“I’m sure you did a fine job of that, Marcia. I’m sure he’ll keep his flower seasons straight from here on out.”

“So . . .” Marcia leaned on the counter. “That Brantley. He’s a charmer. Always was. Didn’t the two of you date some back in the day?”

Lucy frowned and shook her head as if puzzled, but she knew exactly what Marcia was referring to. “What day would that be, Marcia?”

“I seem to remember him taking you to one of those summer dancing school cotillions at the country club. I was a little older than you, but I was there. Maybe the last time I went.”

Lucy frowned some more as if she was trying to puzzle it out and then let a light dawn on her face. “Oh!” She brushed her hand in the air as if she were clearing away a spider web. “It was summer cotillion. My first summer here. Aunt Annelle had sent me to cotillion class, and I didn’t have anyone to invite. I asked Brantley to go with me as a friend. I’d been palling around with him and Missy all summer.”

Annelle would not have allowed fifteen-year-old Lucy to go to the dance with just any eighteen-year-old, but this was Brantley Kincaid: quarterback, acolyte, and professional charmer. It hadn’t hurt that he was the son of Eva and Charles Kincaid and grandson of Caroline and Judge Alden Brantley.

It hadn’t been a real date, though she had wanted so desperately for it to be. She would have never had the nerve to invite Brantley if Missy hadn’t prompted her, no matter how much she had wanted to. Missy had no idea of Lucy’s feelings for Brantley. She only wanted Lucy to go to the dance and had pointed out that Brantley wasn’t dating anyone. Once she had resolved to invite him, Lucy decided she was just going to ask, with no caveats or disclaimers. She would simply ask him to the dance the same way dozens of other girls were asking dozens of other boys. And Brantley would simply say yes or no. End of story. If he said no, she would not die. Her parents would return to the country and take her away in less than a month and he would be leaving for Vandy soon thereafter. She would not have to live with the humiliation for long.

But all her resolve melted away when the moment came to invite him. She had stammered and led with saying that Missy had suggested it, that she knew it wasn’t a real date, but since they were friends, it might be fun, and on and on and on until he laughed that sweet caramel laugh, laid an index finger on her cheek, and told her of course he would take her.

She’d been ecstatic. It had been so easy to forget how she’d issued the invitation. Annelle had taken her to Birmingham to shop for a dress for her pudgy little body and it had turned out, for once, to be a dress that made her feel pretty. She spent days daydreaming about how he would see her in a whole different light and end the night with sweet kisses and proclamations.

And truly, the night had started off like her fantasies. If at eighteen Brantley had been gorgeous in his khaki shorts and golf shirts, he was dazzling in a tuxedo. And he’d brought a nosegay instead of a wrist corsage like most of the other girls had. With her white dress and bouquet of orchids and calla lilies, she’d felt like a bride. He was attentive, funny, and seemed to be happy to be there.

And the dancing had been wonderful. She moved so easily in his arms; she had credited the lessons she’d had all summer until she and Missy had swapped partners. It was Brantley who had made her a good dancer. She’d never danced with such ease before or since—well, except for that night in the bar in Savannah and more recently at the Follies party.

But later that night it had all come crashing down. She was returning from the restroom to where Brantley was waiting a discreet distance away when she saw them. To this day, she did not know the name of the girl he had been talking to but she was wearing a blue dress, an indication that, like Brantley and Missy, she had just graduated from high school and this would be her last cotillion. The moment she saw her, Lucy felt childish in the white dress that the younger girls were required to wear.

“Are you dating Lucy Mead?” the girl had asked.

“No,” Brantley said. “Lucy’s a great kid but we’re just friends.”

In that moment, for the first time, Lucy understood the meaning of a broken heart.

“Just thought I’d ask. I am not one to move in on somebody else’s territory. Some of us are going out to my parents’ lake house after the dance.” The girl gave him a look that meant business. “Why don’t you come after you take Lucy home?”

Brantley laughed. “Maybe I will. I’d have to go home and get my swimsuit.”

“Maybe you won’t need a suit,” the girl said and the two of them laughed together.

The bottom fell out of Lucy’s world. What a baby she had been to think he could want her. This girl could give him what Lucy could not even consider. Even if she was ready to have sex, she was too fat to take her clothes off.

Grateful for the potted plant that had concealed her from them, Lucy fled back to the rest room and hid in a stall until her breathing evened out and her face cooled down. More than anything, she wanted to go home, but there were rules for this dance. No one left early without a good reason and advance permission—unless the undertaker was picking you up.

Right now, that didn’t sound like a bad alternative.

When she came out again, Brantley was standing alone and he smiled at her like she was the one he’d been waiting for all his life.

Like he’d smiled at her in Savannah, at the Follies, and two days ago.

Marcia brought her back to the present. “Yes. That would have been my last cotillion. I remember now. I was excited not to have to wear a white dress. I had that dark purple organza. My mother wouldn’t let me have black sequins.”

“I had forgotten that Brantley took me. It was nothing.”

“Wasn’t it right after that that his mother and grandfather were killed?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Three days later.” The next time she had seen him, it was at Christ Episcopal Church before the funeral. He had accepted her condolence hug but he’d been hollow eyed and empty.

“So . . .” Marcia had a sly look about her. “Jack-O-Lanterns and roses in November from Brantley Kincaid. What could that mean?”

“It means Brantley and I are going to work on a project together. Strictly professional.”

“Oh.” Marcia looked disappointed and somewhat skeptical. “Any chance you will tell me what that project is?”

“None. You’ll know pretty soon.”

In about a week. Give or take.

Chapter Ten

Lucy loved book club . . . usually. It didn’t even matter to her that she was the only one who ever read the book and they never got around to talking about it. There had been a time when Tolly always read the book too, but those days were over. In the space of one year, Tolly had taken in an orphaned teenager, married Merritt High football coach Nathan Scott, moved her new family into a big rambling house, and sent Kirby off to college.

No matter. Book club had never been about books; it was a time for wine, food, and gossip with her three best friends.

Tonight she dreaded it. Not only was she bone tired from decorating Brantley’s carriage house, she was pretty sure she was in for the grilling of her life—though she had told them all repeatedly that there was nothing going on between Brantley and her. After swearing them to secrecy, she had even told Lanie and Tolly what Missy already knew—that she and Brantley would be restoring the Brantley Building together.

The rumor that she and Brantley were a couple had ripped though town like a rabid dog out for blood. No doubt, between Mr. Reed and Marcia, the news had made it to the state line by now. Even Miss Caroline had given her a couple of knowing smiles and last night Charles Kincaid had shown up at her door to check the antifreeze in her car. “I know you’re busy getting that place squared away for my boy,” he’d said. “They’re giving a freeze warning tonight, and I thought I’d make sure you’re good to go.”

And it had gotten cold, so cold that she let Eller in her bed and caught herself almost wishing the rumor was true.

She blamed it on Brantley’s bed. Just that afternoon, after the painters finished, she had hung drapes and unpacked his bed linens. He had not been kidding. No doubt he had gone to a very high end bedding store. When she’d finished making the queen size bed, it was piled high with duvet, blankets, throws, and pillows—many, many pillows—in a decadent combination of chocolate silk, caramel cashmere, and champagne Egyptian cotton. When she thought she’d seen it all, she found the feather bed for the top of the mattress. She had teased him unmercifully about the self indulgence of that bed, and he’d admitted he was a little embarrassed about the number of pillows, but they were necessary for the “sink effect.”

And, yes, she had talked to him; she had talked to him every night. She’d had to; she had decorating questions to ask. It couldn’t be helped.

That was a lie. He didn’t care what she did to that carriage house but she kept answering that phone because she was weak, weak, weak! She was just so tired of being mad. And she had to find a way to work with him. Maybe it was for the best that they had been talking.

However, the phone was one thing. She would get hold of herself before he came home. There would be no touching, no time spent alone stretched out on the sofa, and definitely no kissing.

Of course, she was assuming he still wanted those things, which he probably didn’t. She parked in the driveway of Tolly’s new house and laid her head on the steering wheel. If only she could forget how he tasted. If only she could get that bed out of her mind.

And she had to. She could not risk it again.

She should get out of the car. She was late. She had dropped Eller by home and walked her but there had been no time to change out of the silk dress she’d worn to meet with the sales rep for imported tile. The guy had been young, Italian, and extremely good looking—if you were the kind to like dark coloring instead of warm sweet butterscotch and caramel. Hell and double hell. She should have said yes to dinner with him. Yet, here she sat.

Tap, tap, tap came the knocking on her window and Lucy jumped a foot off the seat.

Oh. Only Nathan. She opened the door and got out.

“You okay?” he asked. “I saw you sitting there with your head down.”

“Tired,” she said. “I’ve been working a lot.”

“I heard that.” He nodded. “And now it’s freezing cold. But it’s supposed to warm up at the first of the week and stay nice through Thanksgiving.”

“Where are you off to?”

He held up a stack of DVDs. “I’m going to meet Harris and Luke at Harris and Missy’s house. After the kids settle down, they’re going to watch game film with me.”

“I thought that was over for a while,” Lucy said as she moved toward the house. The Merritt Bobcats had gone to the regional championship but had lost in the finals last week.

“It’s never over,” Nathan said as he got into his truck. “Tell Brantley I said hello.”

Not him too!

Wearily, Lucy dragged herself up the steps of the wide porch of Tolly and Nathan’s brick Tudor style house. Built in the 1930s, the house was perfect for them with big rooms and plenty of bedrooms to accommodate the friends Kirby brought home from college. Lucy had decorated the house, all but the nursery. “We aren’t nearly ready,” Tolly had said. “Who knows what we’ll want by the time Kirby graduates?” Both Nathan and Tolly were one hundred percent committed to seeing the boy they’d taken as their own through his college football and academic career.

Lucy picked up the brass knocker and let it fall. Seconds later, the door swung open.

“Come in.” Tolly, ever elegant and classy, stepped aside. “Missy and Lanie are practically passed out in front of the fireplace in the library. They both had bad baby nights last night. Lulu was cranky and John Luke woke up at three o’clock ready to party.”

“Good. Maybe they won’t interrogate me.”

“Don’t count on it,” Tolly said as she took Lucy’s coat. “Believe me, as the most recent victim of the book club ‘need to know,’ you have my sympathy.”

“Sympathy won’t stop you from joining in,” Lucy said as she followed Tolly down the hall.

“At least I’ll ply you with liquor first.” Tolly went straight to the bar and poured glasses of wine as Lucy let herself down on the sofa that faced the one where Missy and Lanie sat dozing. Lucy and Tolly had planned the arrangement of this room just for book club with twin sofas flanking the fireplace and a large coffee table in between for food and drinks. Tonight the table was laden with individual tomato pies, tiny crab cakes, artichoke and asparagus salad, and chocolate chip cookies.

“Somebody’s been busy,” Lucy said, accepting her wine.

“Not me.” Tolly set down glasses in front of Missy and Lanie before she settled in next to Lucy. “You know me. I hire that done.” She took a sip of her wine and cast an eye toward the other sofa. “Should we wake them?”

“If we must,” Lucy said. She could handle Tolly. Lanie too. But Missy? No one could handle Missy.

As if on cue, Missy sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What? Damn.” She poked Lanie in the side. “Wake up, Lanie. We slept through the arrival of Lucy. Not surprising, considering how sneaky she is these days.”

“I am the least sneaky person on the planet. I don’t even know how to be sneaky. I wish I did.”

“That might have been true at one time.” Missy reached for a plate and turned to Tolly. “Can we eat? I’m starving. But Brantley knows plenty about being sneaky. What he didn’t know, I taught him and, apparently, he’s passing it on to you. Though I don’t know why you have to be so secretive. You and Brantley are perfect for each other. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”

Lucy filled her plate with one tart, one crab cake, and a generous portion of salad. There would be no cookie, not if she wanted a second glass of wine. Life was about choices. “As I have already told y’all,” she said patiently, “Brantley and I are not involved. All there is between us are old bricks and paint samples.”

“You do have to admit,” Lanie said tentatively, “that the two of you are perfectly suited. Same friends, same religion, same professional interests.”

“Not that she devil, Rita May Sanderson,” Missy said around a crab cake.

“Who he will, no doubt, return to any moment,” Lucy said.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Missy said.

“It’s wishful thinking on your part,” Lucy said. “There has to be something he likes about her, even if you do detest her.”

“No ‘if’ about it,” Missy said.

“Be that as it may, it’s all beside the point. Rita May or not, there is no Brantley and me.” Brantley and me. That phrase made her stomach turn over, and not in a good way.

“There was the matter of the fork,” Lanie said. “What was that all about anyway?

Hell and double hell! They knew about that?

“Forget the fork,” Tolly said. “I am much more interested in why he sent you a Jack-O-Lantern a week before Thanksgiving.”

They all gave her questioning looks. If they knew about the cake, they didn’t ask. “How am I supposed to know why Brantley Kincaid sends such weird gifts? Missy ought to know more about that than I do. She knows him better. Hell, she created him.”

“I did not. I tried. He would not be turned.”

“Turned to what? Tolly asked.

“My minion,” Missy said. “I’ve been trying to get a minion for years and haven’t been able to manage it yet. I cannot put anyone onto the Missy way of doing things. Tolly and Nathan aren’t even coming to my Iron Bowl party. They’re going to the game just to watch Kirby standing around redshirted.”

“That’s right,” Tolly said with no apology in her voice. “We’re very proud of Kirby for being redshirted. It means they are saving him so he will have an additional year of eligibility. You can go with us; I know Harris has tickets.”

“He does,” Missy said with a sigh. “And to tell the truth I would kind of like to go. But you know how Harris feels about it. He likes to watch the Alabama/Auburn game in his own house. But he did say that next year, when Kirby isn’t redshirted anymore, we will go. Beau will be old enough to go by then. And Kirby is family.”

Tolly and Harris, the children of identical twins, looked enough alike to be siblings. They practiced law together and were closer than most brothers and sisters.

Tolly laughed. “We’ll just see if he gets to play.”

“But the rest of you?” Missy looked from Lanie to Lucy. “You’ll be at our party?”

“Yes,” Lanie said.

“Of course,” Lucy said but it might be a lie. Depended on how Brantley was acting.

“Missy,” Tolly said, “I do appreciate that you are willing to uproot your whole family and come to Tuscaloosa for Thanksgiving. I know turkey in a restaurant is no one’s idea of a great Thanksgiving.”

Missy shrugged. “Kirby’s not allowed to leave until the game is over. The Bragg/Lee/Harris contingent does what it needs to. But I am bringing pies. We are having homemade pie, even if we have to eat it in our hotel rooms, right in bed.”

Relieved for the change of subject, Lucy jumped in. “What about the Heaven/Avery contingent? What are your Thanksgiving plans?”

Lanie smiled a sleepy smile. “Everyone is coming. My family, Luke’s parents, of course. Luke’s sister, Arabelle. We haven’t seen her since she got back from that Doctors Without Borders stint. Oh, and Luke’s cousin Sheridan and her husband. They’re bringing the baby they adopted last year, so John Luke will have a playmate.” She laughed. “As much as a ten-month-old and eight-month-old can play together.”

“That’s a lot of people, even for that big farmhouse,” Tolly said. “Are you cooking for all those people?”

“It will be a combined effort.” Lanie turned to Lucy. “How about you? I assume you’re parents aren’t coming back from Tibet. Are you going to those cousins in Charleston?”

“No.” And Lucy was thankful for it. It was a long drive and none of those people were anywhere close to her age. “It’s just Annelle and me this year.”

There were audible gasps from everyone in the room.

“No!” Lanie said. “You and Annelle come be with us at the farm. You have to.”

“It isn’t much to offer, but you can certainly come to Tuscaloosa with us. Annelle too, of course,” Tolly said.

“Absolutely,” Missy said.

Lucy laughed. “No. I think Aunt Annelle is kind of excited about what she is calling a ‘quiet, elegant, little celebration.’ She’s printed some recipes off the Internet for smoked turkey and wild mushroom bread pudding and pumpkin crème brulee.”

Missy sat up. “You can’t eat that! Not on Thanksgiving. It’s not traditional.”

“If you can eat canned cranberry sauce and dry turkey in a restaurant, I can eat whatever I want.” Plus there would be excellent wine, classical music, and they would dress up for the meal. She was rather looking forward to it. “And let’s not forget that we will have fabulous traditional Missy Bragg Iron Bowl party food two days later.”

“That’s true.” Missy nodded. “And best of all? Brantley will be there this year.”

Oh, joy. He’d been there last year too; he’d come unannounced. And she’d gone out the back door as he came in the front. But she was done running from the runner. Probably.

Missy was about to say something else when her cell rang.

“Sorry,” she said, and answered. “Oh? Well, can’t you—Okay. Yes. I’ll be right there.”

She turned her phone off and got to her feet. “Lulu is pitching a fit. I think she’s cutting a tooth and apparently Harris, Luke, and Nathan have done everything they can think off.”

“I’m sure Nathan was a great help,” Tolly said. “What did he want to do? Toss her around like a football?”

“Harris sounded just frantic enough to try it.”

Lanie was also on her feet. “I’ll go too. I rode over with Missy.”

“You don’t have to,” Lucy said. “I can take you to Missy’s to get your car and your family later.”

“No.” Lanie was putting her shoes on. “I’ll get my gang out of there so Missy can deal with Lulu. I would bet in all that excitement, Emma and Beau are wound up. That never helps anything.”

While Tolly was seeing Missy and Lanie out, Lucy gathered up the dirty dishes and took them to the kitchen. Tolly had used her good china and crystal. It shouldn’t go in the dishwasher so Lucy filled the farmhouse sink with warm soapy water.

“Well, that was short lived.” Tolly entered the kitchen carrying trays with the leftovers. “Will you take some of this food home with you? Nathan is not impressed with what he calls ‘tea party food.’”

“No,” Lucy said. “It was good, but I cannot afford the calories. You know how hard I fight.”

Tolly smiled. “You’re beautiful.”

“Well, I don’t feel like it. Not long ago I was at the mall and I looked up and saw a woman. I thought, ‘if only I looked like her.’ Then I realized it was me, in a mirror. But I never think of myself as that woman in the mirror. In my head, I’ve got another forty pounds.”

“We all have our demons.” Tolly began moving the tomato tarts into storage containers. Then she laughed a little. “What did you do with that chocolate cake? I know you didn’t eat it.”

“You heard about that? I’m not surprised.”

“I talked to Sandy when I stopped in the Bake Shop to pick up these cookies.”

“Lord.” Lucy put a hand to her forehead and discovered too late that there were soapsuds on her fingers.

Tolly laughed and came toward her with a towel. She dabbed it away. “There.”

“Thanks,” Lucy said.

“Lucy.” Tolly laid a hand on her arm.

No. Not a serious talk. Anything but that.

But Tolly went on. “I know we always joke that the four of us are one big double date, with you and Missy as a couple, and Lanie and me as the other. But we’re all sisters. You know that, don’t you?”

Lucy’s eyes filled with tears and she covered Tolly’s hand with her own. “Better than sisters. You don’t pick your sisters. We are friends of the heart. I would have even worn an ugly bridesmaid dress for you. But thank goodness what you picked was gorgeous.”

Tolly smiled. “I know you and Missy tend to confide in each other, as do Lanie and I. But I get how it might be hard to talk to Missy about this thing with Brantley, given how close they are. I’m here; you can talk to me.”

Lucy went back to her dishwashing. “Tolly, there is no Brantley and me.”

“That’s fine, if that’s what you want.” Tolly picked up a clean towel and started to dry. “But he is pursuing you. Rather relentlessly, from what I hear. You can’t deny that.”

Lucy was quiet for a moment. “I guess not. But, Tolly, Brantley is a runner. And for him, it’s about the chase. He thinks he can’t have me, so he’s interested. The minute that changed, he’d be done. Probably run back to Rita May.”

Tolly dried two wine glasses before she spoke again. “When I listen to your voice and look into your eyes, I am not convinced there isn’t something there on your part.”

Lucy put her hand up. “Tolly—”

“Just let me say this, Lucy. A while back there was a knock on my door. Opening that door was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. But I did. And I don’t like to think where I would be if I hadn’t taken a chance. Sometimes you have to open the door.” She laughed a little, as though she wanted to lighten the mood and picked up two of the freshly washed wine glasses. “Come on. Let’s have another glass of wine. If I know Nathan, he’ll watch game film with Harris for hours yet. We won’t say another word about Brantley.”

“All right,” Lucy agreed. “But I’m not washing those glasses again.”

“Deal.”

Close to an hour later, Lucy walked out of Tolly’s front door, down the steps, to the driveway—straight into Brantley Kincaid’s arms.

Chapter Eleven

Lucy let out a little squeak—more from surprise than fear—and Brantley silenced her with his lips on hers. His mouth was warm and cold at the same time, fire and ice.

She put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but somehow her arms ended up around his neck and she opened her mouth to get a better taste. He was better tasting than she remembered. Better than last week and better than Savannah.

The question was, what was she doing tasting him? She pulled away and stepped back. She would do well to remember that he had tricked her into taking care of his dog—again.

He was dressed in a white shirt, striped tie, navy slacks, and a camel wool topcoat. Still, he was shivering.

“Damn, Lucy Mead. You ordered up some cold weather while I was gone. I am freezing my ass off.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m waiting for you. I’ve been hiding in those bushes for over an hour.”

“And just who have you been hiding from?”

“Mostly Missy. I saw her leave. If she had spotted me, my life as I know it tonight would have ceased to exist. I would, no doubt, be admiring baby Lulu, playing Candy Land with Beau, and listening to the trials and tribulations of being Missy—instead of kissing Lucy. And not kissing Lucy would be the worst trial a man could face.”

And he kissed her again. She only let herself indulge for a few seconds. Forty-five tops.

“Why are you out here in the cold? Why didn’t you come in?” She hated that she was breathless against his mouth.

He licked her lower lip.

“I know the rules. No men at book club.” He ran his tongue in little circle at the corner of her mouth and let it trail down her jawline. “I had a special welcome planned and it did not include a bunch of women who pretend to read books, and especially not my oldest and dearest friend, who I love but who has no place in this particular scenario.”

By now he was speaking close to her ear and then he buried his face in her neck and found that spot—the one that shot an electric current straight to her nipples and between her thighs.

She should stop him. She had to stop him. But how could she? It was that spot.

“Lucy,” he whispered.

“Huh?”

“I’m cold. Real cold. Could we go?”

Suddenly, she was grounded again. Yes. Go. That’s what she had to do. Him too.

“Yes.” She pulled away. “I should go. Goodbye.” And she began to back away.

He followed. “I mean to go with you.”

“You can’t.”

“I have to. I walked here.”

She looked around. “You walked? From where?”

“Your house.” It wasn’t that far to her house. She might have walked here herself if it hadn’t been so cold and she hadn’t been running late. “I have to go there with you. Eller’s there, and I brought you some really great souvenirs. Plus, I have some other plans.”

He moved toward her again.

This time she kept her wits about her. Her good sense told her to make him walk, but that would have crossed the line to mean.

She clicked the locks on her car. “Get in. But you are only going to get your dog and your car.”

* * *

Brantley slid into the passenger side of Lucy’s Christmas ball blue SUV. He’d been bored in San Francisco and done a little research on this vehicle and he didn’t like what he’d found. Not only did it ride like a log wagon, it had an abysmal safety rating.

“This car is begging to roll over. Didn’t you see the safety rating on the Internet before you bought it?”

She frowned at him. “I did not consult the Internet. Or you.”

“Oh, Lucy, that is apparent. I would have advised against it. What you’ve got yourself here is a killing machine. It’s not safe. Nowhere close.”

“Really?” she said with no interest. “I think it’s perfect. It’s just big enough that I can deliver lamps and small pieces for furniture. And it was the right price and a snappy color.”

Brantley slapped his forehead. “Oh, that makes sense. It’s more important to have a snappy color than to live through a wreck.”

“Somehow I think I will be able to keep it between the lines of the wild streets of Merritt. If you are truly concerned for your safety, I can let you out.” She slowed down.

“Oh, no. No, ma’am. If you are going down in a fiery blaze, I am going with you. We’ll just leave Eller an orphan. They’ll probably put her down too since there won’t be anyone to take care of her. I don’t think Tiptoe holds with burying dogs in his cemetery, but maybe since this will be so tragic, they’ll bury us all together. Probably have to. Won’t be enough of you and me left to tell who’s who.”

Lucy gave him a sidelong look but didn’t say anything. Had he gone too far, joking about being killed in a wreck? He didn’t understand himself why he said such things, why he danced around a line that might make someone think he was in mental distress. He would never say such a thing to someone with his history.

“Poor us. Poor Eller.” On the way to her house, Lucy had to turn down the street where Big Mama lived—where he lived now, come to think of it. The moment had passed. Either she wasn’t going to call him on it, or she hadn’t made the connection, after all. Either way, he needed to stop it, needed to remember that he was, for the time being, around people who knew his history. “Speaking of Eller,” Lucy said. “I am really surprised that you are willing to have her live in that carriage house so close to your grandmother’s cat—you know, that monster. That animal is practically a lioness with a hurt paw and cubs, but more aggressive.”

Uh-oh. She’d met Princess. “Yeah. Well. See, Princess used to be that way. Big Mama had her on some kind of cat food that she was allergic to. Made her mean. She killed a whole pack of wild German shepherds last summer. But they got that food situation straightened out and she’s like a different cat. I didn’t know all that, of course.”

Lucy almost laughed. He could tell by the way she bit her lip and dropped her eyes. “Have you been home?” she asked. He’d dodged the Princess bullet, at least for now. “To the carriage house?”

“No, Lucy. I came straight to you. I didn’t even change out of my meet-and-greet clothes.”

“For the most part the carriage house is done. It would be completely, except Miss Caroline decided she wanted new cabinetry in the kitchen and bathroom. The bathroom is done, but the kitchen is not. It will be in a few days.”

“No problem. I do more bathing than cooking. In fact, I do no cooking, while I am totally committed to hygiene. I just need a place to keep my beer cold.”

“You’ve got a brand new Sub-Zero for that.”

“Pretty fancy.”

“Wait until you see the cabinets. Will Garrett is doing them.”

That name rang a bell. “Who is that? Do I know him?”

“You have not provided me with a spread sheet of who you do and do not know, Brantley. So I cannot answer that question.”

“Ah, my Lucy is feisty tonight.”

She ignored that. “If you don’t know Will, you should. He’s a master craftsman. Builds amazing furniture. I’ve used him a few times. I’d use him more but I don’t have that many clients who can—or are willing to—afford him.”

“Hey. I do know who that is. He’s younger than I am, but I remember him from school.” If he recalled correctly, Will had been a poor kid. Some said he was from the wrong side of the tracks, though Brantley had never figured out, or cared, just where those tracks were. Well, good on Will. “What’s he doing hanging around Merritt where people don’t appreciate his work?”

“I don’t have that particular information,” Lucy said. “I guess he likes it here. Many do.” She gave him a pointed look. “I know Will does lots of high end custom work. He ships stuff all over the world.”

Lucy sure did know a lot about this Will Garrett. Brantley didn’t like that. If he remembered right, he’d been a good looking kid. “Where does he live?”

“How should I know?” She turned into her driveway. “But there are some issues with some of the woodwork in the Brantley Building. I don’t know much about what the budget will be yet . . .” She let her voice trail off.

Happier that she didn’t know where Mr. Master Craftsman lived, Brantley said, “Sounds good. Big Mama wants it done right. It’s going to cost. I’d be shocked if she didn’t know how much right down to the penny.”

Lucy cut the motor, opened her door, and met his eyes. “Understand this. I am letting you in to get Eller. Regardless of the impression I gave you in Tolly’s driveway, I am not going to have sex with you.”

“Understood,” Brantley said cheerfully. And he did. He didn’t expect to have sex, though he certainly was open to it. His goals for tonight were to make her laugh and to get just a little friendlier. You had to do these things in stages. He opened his door. “I’m right behind you. I just need to get something from my car.”

* * *

Lucy had no more than turned on the lights, than Brantley was behind her. Eller ran into the room and, upon seeing Brantley, put on a show worthy of a game show contestant who’d just won the car.

Brantley knelt to pet her. “How’s my girl? Huh? Who’s a good girl? Has Lucy been good to you?”

The dog reared up on her hind legs and began to awkwardly dance around.

“Hey!” Brantley patted her head. “When did you learn that?”

“She wants a treat,” Lucy said. “They’re on the side table.”

“Oh?” He reached for the pouch. “I don’t recall bringing these.” Light dawned on his face, as he gave Eller her reward for dancing. “Lucy Mead! You’ve been buying my dog treats and teaching her tricks. And you pretended not to like her. You love my dog. That must mean you love me too.”

Heat drenched her from head to toe. “Yeah. That’s it. Have for years. Now take her out. And not the front. She’s afraid of the boxer across the street.”

While he was gone, Lucy gathered up all of Eller’s belonging and put them by the front door. With any luck, she would have him out of here in less than five minutes.

But there was no luck. When Brantley strolled back into the living room, he had two open beers. “I couldn’t help but notice there was some beer left from our barbecue and football night.” He handed her one.

Oh, what the hell. It had been a hard day. She sat on the sofa and took a sip. She would let him drink his beer and then he was out of here.

He wandered over to the gong, picked up the hammer, and struck it three times.

“Attention! This is the portion of the evening where the very repentant bad, bad Brantley Kincaid atones for his appalling manners when he left his dog on the sainted and beautiful Lucy Mead’s porch without obtaining her permission.” And he gave her that unfair smile.

She felt a little grin playing with the corner of her mouth. Words were cheap and easy but she doubted if there was a former fat girl alive who could keep from smiling when she heard the word beautiful applied to her.

Encouraged, Brantley rang the gong one more time and picked up a large brown shopping bag that she hadn’t noticed until now. He joined her on the sofa and set the bag at her feet.

“All for you, Lucy!” He gestured to the bag.

She let herself smile full on. “Is there a Jack-O-Lantern in there?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Open it up and see.”

The bag was full of things. The first thing she pulled out was a t-shirt—purple and pretty gaudy from what she could tell. This was fun.

But when she went to unfold it, the fun stopped. There was a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge on the front with hot pink letters that said San Francisco. Ugly as it was, that wasn’t what horrified her. The shirt was huge. A glace at the tag in the back proclaimed it to be a triple extra large. Is this how Brantley saw her? Was she that big?

There was nothing to do but say thank you. She opened her mouth and met his eyes—which looked wide with surprise. His mouth was a perfect O.

He laughed and took the shirt from her. “That’s not yours. That’s for Evelyn. I forgot there was other stuff in there.”

Relief washed over her as he took the bag and rummaged around, pulling things out. “Let’s see. Cable car magnet for Evelyn. Toy cable cars for Beau and Emma. Bib for baby Lulu.” He rummaged around some more. “Uh oh. Nothing for Missy. Meant to get something at the airport. I’ll have to buy her something and pass it off as coming from San Francisco or I will never hear the last of it.” He thrust the bag back at Lucy. “I promise the rest is yours. The finest, classiest souvenirs that San Francisco has to offer. Don’t look too hard at where they were made.”

With some trepidation, she pulled out item after item, but there was nothing else alarming, and each item funnier and tackier than the last. There was a plastic back scratcher from Chinatown, a plate with scenes from the city, a shot glass, a picture frame that played “I left my Heart in San Francisco,” and an Alcatraz snow globe.

“That right there, baby,” Brantley said pointing to the snow globe, “I thought was the cream of the crop, but it’s hard to beat what’s in that little box there.”

Lucy opened the box and burst out laughing. “I have been needing cable car earrings.”

Brantley ran his hand down her cheek and said, “There it is. There’s that laugh, the one I ditched a fancy cocktail party to come back early for.” He looked in the bag. “There’s just one more thing. Couldn’t come back without a shirt for you.”

Her stomach tightened as she reached in the bottom of the bag to pull out a plastic sack. It was hot pink with green writing and a gold lame bridge. If a more garish shirt had ever been made, Lucy had never seen it.

But it was a spandex cropped tank top, size small.

Warmth was already spreading through her when Brantley leaned into her and said, “I thought that would be a very attractive look for you. Maybe you’ll model it for me some time.”

Knowing it was a mistake and not caring, she grabbed his cheeks and brought his mouth to her own.

“Lucy Mead,” Brantley said and snatched her into his arms, laid her back, and devoured her mouth all in one forceful, sweet, tender motion. He broke the kiss and said, “I was a little too quick on the draw with that laying you down. Raise up.” And he proceeded to unzip her dress and pull it down in front.

Then he was busy with her bra and she ought to stop him. But she didn’t want to.

He gasped. “Oh, Lucy.” Her bra was on the floor now and he looked at her in wonder. Or it seemed that way. Could it be? He ran his hands over her breasts, almost worshipfully. “You are beautiful. So lush.”

She might have thought about what he said and analyzed it like she did everything, but he settled in to feast on her breasts and there could be no thoughts—only feelings. He took his time, sweet, sweet time. She had not had very many lovers, and never had she known a man who knew how to so thoroughly make love to breasts. Even he had not known all those years ago in Savannah. But now he seemed to have a sixth sense that told him when to lick and swirl, when to nuzzle, and when to increase pressure and lightly bite, almost to the point of pain. And he knew when to stop and start all over again.

She was lost.

She pulled his shirt out of his pants and slid her hands along the muscles on either side of his spine. They shuddered together, totally in sync. Fearful that she would pass out, Lucy took a deep breath. This was special, powerful, and defied comparison. It probably always would.

He shifted until he was lying between her thighs, throbbing, hot, and wanting. It was when he raised up and reached for his zipper that she stiffened.

“Shh, Lucy.” He covered her mouth with his and then worked around to her ear. “You said you were not going to have sex and that’s what I know until I’m told different. But that zipper—it can be a little rough on the man parts when they’re in the shape mine are in.”

It was then she discovered there was something better than how he was making her feel—it was these feelings mixed with laughter.

“And what a shape it is,” she whispered back, raised her pelvis to meet his, and they both laughed. This time she did not protest when he unzipped his pants and slipped them over his hips.

Then his mouth was on her breasts again and he was pressing, pressing, pressing against the sofa arm so they could feel each other better through the thin fabric of their underwear, because her dress was now around her waist. This was so perfect that she needed to savor it.

But she needed to stop. And stop him. If she didn’t, she was going to come, right here like a teenager in the backseat of a car. And if she came, she would owe him, wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t.

He sensed her hesitation.

“Lucy, I want you. But I meant what I said. I act on my last directive. But I wouldn’t mind if you changed that directive.”

And what if she did? What if they went upstairs, got into bed, and finished what they had started in Savannah? It could be wonderful.

But what if she repulsed him, like she had that night? What if he rejected her and ran again?

Unthinkable.

He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

“I can’t,” she said.

He nodded. “I understand. Not this time.”

She couldn’t speak to that. How could she lie there and tell him never when her dress was wadded up around her waist from both directions, her panties soaking wet, and her bra was on the floor?

“Lucy Mead,” he said formally with his rock hard penis still pressed against her. “I request that you allow me to call on you and take you to dinner tomorrow night.”

“All right,” she said because any other answer would have been ludicrous.

And she was tired of fighting—him and herself.

Chapter Twelve

Friday night at Lou Anne’s Diner was always busy, but especially so the first few weeks after football season ended. The citizens of Merritt were accustomed to going out on Friday night to see their Bobcats play, and they were a little depressed that it was over for the year and a little lacking in direction. So they headed for the diner for comfort food and to socialize with the same people they had been socializing with in the stadium all fall long.

Since she had not heard from him all day, Lucy had not been sure that Brantley would remember she had agreed to go out with him. Could be that, since she’d finally acquiesced, he’d crossed her off his list and moved on—like he had that night in Savannah.

But shortly before she got off work, he texted: Been working all day. Pick you up at 7. And he had. Right on time.

She wondered where he would take her, but she should have known it would be the diner. That was the place to go on Friday night if you wanted the world to know—and for some reason he still seemed intent on marking his territory.

It wouldn’t last, but that was okay. She’d finally faced that she needed to get Brantley out of her system so she could move on. No one could deny that he was good company and supremely entertaining. She would enjoy it as long as it lasted. She even intended to sleep with him, but not tonight and maybe not this month or next. It would be a time of her choosing because, this time, she would be in control. If they kept it light and breezy, it might even last until the Brantley Building was done and he left town again. If it didn’t, fine. She wouldn’t care and she would still do her job.

At the diner, it took a full five minutes for them to get from the front door to the first available booth. Everyone wanted a little Brantley magic.

“Lucy Mead, I have never fought as hard for a date as I have for this one,” Brantley said after they were settled across the table from each other.

“I doubt you’ve ever had to fight for a date at all.” Lucy dug her hand sanitizer out of her purse and rubbed some on her palms. She offered some to Brantley with a raised eyebrow.

“No. I like to wallow in my own filth. Besides if a man starts using hand sanitizer, the next thing you know, he’s growing orchids and making stained glass.”

“Or maybe not getting the flu.” She replaced the little bottle in her makeup bag and zipped it.

“I don’t get the flu. And it’s true; I haven’t spent a lot of energy trying to get dates. But damn, girl, you confound me. It briefly crossed my mind to ask Missy for advice—but only briefly.”

“Thank God for small favors.” That was all she needed.

“I did not dare. I have warned her too many times to stay out of my love life. I would never have heard the end of it. She would have built a float for the Merritt Christmas parade with a glitter banner that said, ‘Brantley needs Missy to Mess in His Business.’ But you would have been worth it, Lucy.” He winked and before she could stop him, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of her wrist.

Her stomach took a nosedive into the sea and caught a wave.

“I am hoping we have gotten to the simple part now, where I don’t have to beg you to see me. I am hoping you can see that this doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Simple part? He thought he was simple to deal with?

“Well, what do we have here?”

Lucy looked up. Oh, no. Lou Anne herself set water and menus on the table. She didn’t usually work on Friday nights. Lou Anne loved Merritt High football so maybe she, like her customers, hadn’t known what to do with herself tonight. Lucy removed her hand from Brantley’s and he stood to give Lou Anne a hug.

“I hear you’re back for good,” Lou Anne said.

“For good or evil,” he said lightly. “But at least for a while.”

A while. That said it all. Never forget that.

“Any chance our girl here might inspire you otherwise?” Lou Anne asked with a little knowing smirk.

“She is an inspiration.” Brantley settled back into his seat and opened the menu. “As is your chicken and dumplings and banana pudding.”

Great. Just what every girl wanted—to be compared to dumplings and pudding.

“Meatloaf and fried chicken tonight,” Lou Anne said. “Fried green tomatoes. Maybe the last of the season. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

Lucy’s mouth literally salivated. She wanted it all. She hadn’t known what her food choices would be tonight, so she had only eaten a container of yogurt and some raw vegetables today. She’d had to save all her calories for tonight because if she only ordered a bit of broiled fish or a salad, Brantley might tease her about being on a diet, remember how fat she had been, and run from her for fear that she might get that fat again.

Not that she cared; not that she could afford to care.

Brantley was clearly not worried about what he was going to eat. Not that he had to.

“She’s got pumpkin pie tonight!” he exclaimed. “I love pumpkin pie. Why does everybody think you can only have pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving time? Why can’t we have pumpkin pie on the Fourth of July, Easter Sunday, and every other day?”

“Maybe because pumpkins aren’t in season then?” Lucy suggested.

“I can send an email to Japan in less than two seconds. Somebody ought to be able to figure out how to make pumpkin pie happen year round.”

“It’s a tragedy.” Lucy looked at her own menu.

“You got that right. I’m having fried chicken, field peas, broccoli rice casserole, and fried green tomatoes. And I am ordering my pie up front so I don’t get left out if she runs out. How about you?”

She really wanted to have what he was having, but that was way overboard. The trick was to make it appear like she could eat like a normal person who went to the gym—not like she was depriving herself or like a pig that had been saving up all day.

“Meatloaf, green beans, carrots, and fried green tomatoes.” The tomatoes were the splurge and she would have a piece of cornbread.

“Dessert?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” she said as if she didn’t want it.

“Are you sure? I’ll buy you all the pie you want but I’m not giving you a bite of mine. I know what that turns into. I’ve been on the wrong end of Missy Bragg wanting just one bite.”

“I’ll eat first, and then see,” she lied.

Lou Anne brought them iced tea and took their orders. Thankfully, she seemed to have no more time for editorial comment on the fact that they were here together. With any luck she wouldn’t call Missy.

“Don’t come crying to me if there’s no pie left,” Brantley warned.

“I can contain myself.”

“There will be pie at Big Mama’s table on Thanksgiving,” he said with some hesitation. Then he added, “I want you to come.”

She laughed. “To your family Thanksgiving? No.”

He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He looked at the table, and did his voice shake a little? No. She must have been mistaken. He met her eyes again, all oozing golden smiles and cocky head toss. “My daddy and I are going to fry a turkey, I reckon. Evelyn will make the dressing. Plus, the pumpkin pie. You should come. Sit by me. Let me run my hand up your skirt while we eat cranberry sauce. Let me smear pie on you and lick it off.”

“Brantley!” She looked around. “Be quiet. Someone will hear you.”

“I’ll be quiet if you’ll come to Thanksgiving. We’ll watch football later.”

“No. Aunt Annelle and I have plans. It’s just the two of us this year.”

“Bring her. Aren’t she and Big Mama buddies anyway?”

“Yes. They’re on the church altar guild together, but you can’t just invite people to someone else’s holiday meal.”

“That is where you are wrong, Lucy. I can. I can go break out every inmate in the county jail and march them in to Caroline Brantley’s table and all she would care about was that I was there. I am adored.”

He sounded a little sarcastic. She’d never heard that out of him before. For some reason it made her uncomfortable. Some people could do sarcasm but it was a bad fit with Brantley.

“I cannot come to your family’s Thanksgiving, Brantley,” she said. “Annelle has plans for us.” She was surprised that he looked truly disappointed, maybe even upset. Well, life was full of disappointment. Brantley had not learned that well enough.

“Okay,” he said. And that was all. She could never remember another time when he had uttered a one-word sentence.

Time for a subject change.

“So,” Lucy said. “Miss Caroline called me today. She said the press conference would be Monday afternoon. We need to talk about that.”

“We do not,” Brantley said. “Not tonight. I don’t intend to have any conversations that would allow me to deduct what I spend tonight as a business expense.”

What? She had counted on talking about this.

“You can’t mean that. We need to make a plan. Know what we’re going to say.”

He shrugged. “It won’t be any problem. Big Mama will do most of the talking—about how she’s giving the building to the city and what it’s going to be used for. Where the present tenants are moving. Time frame for the restoration.”

“Brantley! We cannot go in there with nothing.”

“We won’t.” He took a drink of his tea. “I’ve been thinking on this. Got a few sketches. I’ll bet you have too. I’ll round us up an easel. Mount my pictures on a presentation board. If anybody asks any questions, we can answer them. Probably.”

“I do not like probably.” And she did not. She liked assurance. Preparedness. Guarantees.

“No? Lucy Mead, probably is the best life has to offer. There is no more.” His eyes turned upward. “Except this. Here comes our food.” He met her eyes. “Probably.”

If there had been any awkwardness, it melted away as they ate and bantered with each other and the people who stopped by their table to say hello.

It turned into an easy night with easy talk and easy laughter. Simple even. And true to her word, she didn’t order dessert though—in spite of what he’d said—he shared his beloved pumpkin pie.

And later when he took her home, it had been so easy for Lucy go into his arms on the sofa. She had reminded him that she wasn’t ready to sleep with him, and he did not press the issue.

He’d only laughed softly into her ear and whispered, “It can still be a sweet ride, Lucy.”

And it was—a hot, sweet, skin on skin ride, even if they did stop short of the finish line.

* * *

Brantley was seated at the antique drawing board that had been a graduation gift from his father when the carriage house door flew open. In bounded Missy Bragg, with Lulu perched on her hip and a diaper bag hanging off her shoulder.

“Brantley!” She set Lulu on her feet and tossed the bag on the new tweed couch that Lucy had picked out. “I need to talk to you!”

“Well, good morning to you too, Melissa.” He didn’t look up from where he was mounting early photographs of the Brantley Building to foam board. “Imagine my delight when I heard a knock on my door and found you on the other side. Won’t you come in and bring your delightful child?”

Missy waved him off and collapsed into his leather easy chair. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve been up since five o’clock. I’ve already bought groceries, been to the dry cleaners, and taken my car to be washed. And it’s not even ten o’clock.”

Lulu toddled up to him and threw her arms around his leg. “Juice!” she demanded. Like mother, like daughter.

He swiveled his chair around to meet his audience. Might as well.

“Sorry, kid,” he said to Lulu. “All I’ve got is beer. Why don’t you and I have one? We deserve it. Your mama is a hard job.”

“Brantley! Don’t say that to her.” She reached into her bag and brought out a sippy cup. “Lulu, come here. Come to Mama.”

And Lulu did. She already knew Missy had been put on this earth to be obeyed.

“What is it, Missy?” Brantley asked, but he knew.

“It’s all over town! And no one told me. Not you. Certainly not Lucy. In fact, she denied it, said there was nothing going on between the two of you.”

“And what, exactly, is going on?”

“You took her out to eat at the diner last night. Everyone knows.”

“A sure sign that there are ‘goings on.’ My God! The ties that are formed over pie.”

“You kissed her wrist. When y’all left, you were holding hands.”

He let his head drop and shook it in mock defeat. “Guilty. But I must confess the diner mating ritual was not complete. She did not eat from my fork, though I urged her to.”

“Brantley, I am warning you. Do not mess this up. Do not hurt Lucy.”

“I can’t hurt Lucy. I can barely get her to go out with me.”

Eller ran into the room and Lulu went into hysterics. Missy sprang up and snatched her baby into her arms.

“I didn’t know she was afraid of dogs,” Brantley said.

“She’s not. Huge rats are another matter.” She picked up the diaper bag. “I’ve got groceries in the car. I have to go.”

“Are you going to stop by Lucy’s and tell her not to hurt me?”

“Ha!” Missy stopped with one foot out the door and turned back to him. “Football watching—my house tonight. I’m making chili. Pick up Lucy. Might as well. It’s out of the bag now.”

Brantley nodded, having no idea what he was agreeing to. Not that it mattered. She was gone.

But all that made him ponder what was “going on.” He hadn’t really thought much about it; Lucy had been so resistant to his advances that thinking beyond that was wasted energy.

But in spite of her resistance, she was so easy, so simple. After Rita May, to rest in the calm that was Lucy was beyond appealing. He looked around the room she had decorated. It was so right for him with his drawing board, the new couch, and his leather chair pointed toward the big flat screen. She had even gotten him a lap desk so he could comfortably use his computer while sitting in his chair. How had she known that it hurt his back to sit on the edge of the chair with the laptop on the ottoman?

The rest of the carriage house was nice too. She’d installed his treadmill and lifting bench in the extra room like he’d asked, but she had covered the floor with a rubber mat and added a rack for his golf clubs, a table for his iPod docking station, and a towel rack.

He had not had a bedside table in Nashville but now he had two, and one of them had a charging station for all of his electronics. Throughout the house there were lamps, throws, and pillows. Not one bit of it was feminine either. It was like Lucy’s business was comfort.

That was nice. He couldn’t stay here forever, of course; he wasn’t in the forever business. He did good to deal with right now, and Thanksgiving was going to be a bitch.

He wouldn’t think about that now, but he could get tonight squared away. And maybe he could talk Lucy into getting some lunch today. And tomorrow she would go to church anyway. There wasn’t any reason why he shouldn’t pick her up. That would lead to lunch, and so on.

He picked up the phone.

Chapter Thirteen

The cold snap from last week was gone and November had faded back into Indian summer. It was beautiful, miraculous weather, but a little too warm for the grey wool suit Lucy was wearing.

She didn’t care. She was nervous about this press conference and she would have worn an otter on her head if that had been a good look for her. The suit might have been a little severe on its own, but she had brightened it up with a rich burnt orange silk blouse and a lot of pearls—maybe too many, though Annelle had insisted there was no such thing.

She and Brantley had spent most of the weekend together but she had been unable to coerce him into talking about the press conference, insisting that it would “be fine.” Still, she had insisted that they go over to the Brantley Building two hours early to set up the easels and get their presentation boards in order—if he had a presentation board. He kept saying he had “some pictures” but he was vague and every time she tried to talk about it, he kissed her.

That was a losing battle.

“If you are set on going over there before it’s necessary, you’re going to have to pick me up in that killing machine of yours. My very safe vehicle is in the shop for a tune-up.”

He had agreed to meet her at Miss Caroline’s house and now she mounted the steps, sweating a little bit.

The suit might have been a bad idea after all.

Or not. Brantley opened the door and he looked better than she had ever seen him—and she’d seen him looking good. Today he was wearing a camel hair blazer with navy blue flannel pants and one of those snowy white shirts that had been made for him.

But he looked a little tense. Maybe he was more nervous about this than she thought.

“Come in,” he said. “I just need to get my stuff.”

Miss Caroline popped her head into the foyer. “Lucy? My dear, you look lovely.”

“Thank you. I’m very excited.”

“She is,” Brantley said, folding an easel. “She would have had me down there before breakfast if I’d let her.”

“Lucy, would you mind taking a look at my table with me while Brantley puts his things in your car?”

“Sure.” She handed her keys to Brantley and he picked up a tan leather portfolio, with a rich patina of use. She had certainly been outclassed. Hers was nylon.

Miss Caroline led her to the dining room where the table was set with three different china patterns. Piled in the middle was a bunch of gourds, nuts, bittersweet, and small pumpkins. In addition there were two silver patterns, one heavy and ornate, the other simpler with clean lines, and several crystal goblets in varying degrees of formality.

“I can’t decide about my Thanksgiving table,” she said. “I like an unstructured Thanksgiving centerpiece of these natural things, though not quite this unstructured. I haven’t arranged them at all. I think the colors are good with this rust tablecloth.”

“Very pretty,” Lucy agreed.

“My problem is the china. The brown transferware is a natural for Thanksgiving. It’s what I always used to use, but with the rust, it’s so dark.” She gestured to the jade green set. “The Majolica belonged to Alden’s mother. I’ve never much cared for it; it’s just so green. But it is a fall color so I pulled it out.” She moved to caress an ivory dinner plate with a wide gold band. “This is my wedding china. I love it with the rust. It looks happy, but it’s so formal. I like formal at Christmas, but for Thanksgiving—” Her voice trailed off. Lucy had never seen her so unsure of herself. “I want a happy table.”

It was the longing in Miss Caroline’s voice that made Lucy pause. Could this be the first time she had set a Thanksgiving table since the death of her husband and daughter? Surely not. But come to think of it, since she had lived in Merritt, though Brantley sometimes blew in at some point during the weekend, Lucy could never remember him actually being in town on Thanksgiving Day.

Lucy stepped up to the table and picked up a Majolica salad plate. “Let’s see what we can do.”

* * *

After putting his portfolio and the easels into Lucy’s little SUV, Brantley re-entered the house to find Lucy and Big Mama bent over the table in the dining room. Lucy was moving plates around, stacking them this way and that.

“See? If you mix them, you’ll have some brightness and a casual look all at the same time. And, for contrast, I would definitely use the ornate silver and two kinds of crystal.”

As Lucy’s little hands flew this way and that, Big Mama murmured sounds of approval, uttering things like “oh, perfect,” “would have never thought of that,” and “just the right touch of whimsy.”

His heart began to pound and suddenly he could not get enough air in his lungs. It had been a long time since this had happened, but he knew the signs. The first time, he had thought he was having a heart attack, though eighteen-year-olds rarely had heart attacks.

Thanksgiving was supposed to be a happy time, not something to bring on a panic attack. And it used to be happy—but that was before. In the years since, he’d avoided the holiday altogether when he could. Other times, he had eaten with Charles and Caroline in restaurants in other cities.

“Whimsy!” Lucy exclaimed. “That’s exactly what we want.”

“Yes, I think so,” Big Mama was saying. “We tend to dress down on Thanksgiving, so I just couldn’t see—”

They were talking about whimsy and the dress code while he was about to sweat through his shirt. Good thing he could blame that on the weather and his heavy clothes. He took a deep breath to ward off the chest pains that were closing in anyway. God, he hoped he didn’t get dizzy this time. That was the hardest part to hide. He leaned on the doorframe with a practiced casual slouch. Another deep breath. They hadn’t even noticed him yet.

“See?” Lucy moved some more plates around. “You don’t even have to make all the place settings alike. You could use the transferware dinner plate with an ivory and gold salad plate here, and there just the opposite . . . ”

Deep breath.

Funny, he couldn’t remember that last Thanksgiving, at least not precisely. It was just mixed in with the others that were all so alike, with the men frying turkey and drinking beer, while the women did whatever it was they did. Of course, he hadn’t been allowed beer back then, and he had not been allowed around the turkey frying until he was about eight or nine. They’d been afraid he’d get burned. Sometimes it had been just the five of them. Sometimes there were other guests. Always, after lunch, there was a football watching marathon. Always, after a supper of cold turkey sandwiches, he and Papa played Christmas carols on the baby grand. Big Mama and Mama did not allow any talk of Christmas until Thanksgiving was officially over but Papa threatened Christmas music weeks before it was allowed.

Christmas. Oh, God. That was coming too. He couldn’t separate that last Christmas from the others either. He wished he could. Maybe if he tried hard to remember—but not today.

Deep breath, but the chills and heat set in anyway, chasing each other through his body and soul.

He knew what to do. Don’t be afraid. Show the panic who’s boss. Deep breaths. Don’t give in to the desire to flee the scene or loosen your tie. Act normal. Work through it. Pretend it isn’t happening and pretty soon it won’t be.

They still hadn’t noticed him. He swallowed. Good. He could still swallow. That meant he could probably talk in a normal voice. He cleared his throat.

“Hey.” That sounded normal enough. He smiled as they turned to him. “What color is my pumpkin pie plate going to be? I suggest Chinet white. The contrast between the pumpkin and stark white would be just the thing—whimsical as it were. Plus, you can throw it away once you lick it.”

Big Mama laughed and after a second, Lucy joined in but there was something in her eyes and the set of her mouth that made him think she could see through him. He didn’t like that. She could not know he might pass out any second.

“You silly boy!” Big Mama said. “Look what a beautiful job our Lucy did.” She pulled her cell phone from her skirt pocket and began to take pictures of the table.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked Lucy in a perfectly normal voice. He stood up straight, praying he didn’t need the support of the doorframe.

She came toward him with a little wrinkle between her eyes and laid a hand on his arm.

His heart slowed and the tightness in his lungs began to dissipate.

As Big Mama fussed with the little pumpkins and berries on the table, Lucy leaned in and whispered, “I’ll come for Thanksgiving.”

And just like that, complete calm settled in.

* * *

Lucy started to park in front of the Brantley Building. That wasn’t going to work. The press conference was going to be out front on the sidewalk.

“Better park behind the building,” Brantley told her. “We can go in the back door.”

“Oh, right.” She swung the car around, with her hands at ten and two. Ever the rule follower. She pulled right up to the back door, where Papa used to park. Oddly, Brantley was feeling okay. He hadn’t been up to Papa’s old office since the day Big Mama had asked him to take on the project and he hadn’t planned to go there today, but maybe it was time.

They were going to need a place for home base in this building and that office was the only one that didn’t need any major work. He might be taking a foolhardy chance on the heels of what had just happened, but how else was he to show the panic who was boss?

Upon entering the office, his fear evaporated because he immediately became absorbed in Lucy’s delight. She didn’t speak for a long time but she ran her hand over the built in bookshelves, stared up at the original light fixture, and scurried to get a closer look at the sconces. Every once in a while, she would turn and smile at him like she’d found a gold mine. Finally, she knelt in front of the burl desk and touched the twin medallions on the front.

She looked up at him. “Walnut. Early 1900s?”

He shook his head. He didn’t know. It had just always been Papa’s desk. He took a deep breath, not because he needed to, but because he could.

She went to inspect the matching filing cabinets, credenza, and finally the chairs—the one that Papa had sat in, and the two in front of the desk for guests.

“Oh, Brantley!” she said. “A whole matched set.” She swiveled the desk chair. “Even the chair is in perfect condition.” She looked underneath. “Somewhere along the way there must have been some repairs. Had to.”

He didn’t know that either but it was probably true. Back then, nothing had been broken. Everyone’s car was kept in perfect running condition, there were always ironed shirts in everyone’s closet, and laughter at every meal. It was no surprise that an antique chair would get immediate attention at the first sign of disrepair.

Watching Lucy love these things made him wonder if it was possible to have a life again where nothing was broken.

She stretched her arms out and twirled around like Julie Andrews on that mountain in The Sound of Music. “Brantley, all this office is going to need is some paint. I’ll want to get the woodwork and floor professionally cleaned.” She looked up. “The light fixtures too. We should get that wiring checked. But then that’s your department, I guess.” She laughed that Lucy Mead laugh.

Warmth erupted inside him, where panic had so recently reigned. He let it come out in his smile.

“Hey. For a girl who’s about to worry herself to death that we’re going to disgrace ourselves in front of the press and the public at large, you’re not too worried about getting down to business.”

“Oh, right.” She picked up her portfolio and walked toward the desk but stopped short. “Is it all right if I open this on the desk?”

“Yes.” He walked toward her, unzipping his own portfolio as he went. “You can do anything you want at this desk.”

Chapter Fourteen

Brantley had been right. The press conference went perfectly. As he predicted, Miss Caroline did most of the talking. Lucy had only been asked how she planned to make function meet authenticity, a question she had answered easily. She even had a few sketches.

What had astounded her was Brantley. His presentation boards were works of art, making hers look like something a kindergartner had strung together. She had expected him to be witty and charming, but that he mixed that with such a depth of knowledge was surprising.

After meeting and greeting, and hugging their friends who had come out to support them, Lucy and Brantley hauled their things back upstairs to that wonderful office. Brantley had his jacket and tie off before she had a chance to store her portfolio in the closet.

If he’d looked good before, he was delicious now. She wanted to devour him. Better not.

“You were great,” she said. “I am sorry I thought you didn’t have your act together. I see how hard you worked.”

He put his hands in his pockets and leaned on the edge of the credenza. “Did you think I don’t care about my profession, Lucy?” he asked. “That I don’t care about this project above all others?”

He wasn’t confrontational but, rather, there seemed to be an openness about him that she had never seen. It was like he had a mask that he usually wore—a mask that was real and a genuine part of him, but not the sum of him. Now, it was that previously hidden part of Brantley who was asking this question. She knew her answer was going to be important—just like she had known he had been treading on thin ice in his grandmother’s dining room earlier.

“I didn’t think you didn’t care,” she said slowly, “But, Brantley, I have some trouble telling what you care about and how much.”

He nodded. “That’s fair.” He was silent for a moment then he met her eyes. “I care about you, Lucy.” He nodded, like it was news to him. “I do.”

Don’t say that to me. Never say that to me. I can’t take it! Fear went through her, because it was this new open part of Brantley who was speaking and she had no idea if she could trust him—or herself.

“As much as you care about pumpkin pie?” She was proud of herself for the comeback. Two could play the evade and joke game.

He grinned and closed his eyes, like he was studying the question. “That’s a hard dilemma, Lucy. You see, pumpkin pie and I go back a long time.” He stepped toward her and put his arms around her. “But on the other hand—” And he kissed her, sweet and long, so sweet and long that she was afraid they were going to end up half naked on the oriental rug. She could see that they were moving quickly from half naked to full naked and she was beginning to be more and more all right with that.

But not yet. She pulled away. “I was proud of you today.”

The smile he gave her was not his usual practiced southern boy charm smile, but one of pure radiance. There must be real power in the word proud.

“I was proud of you too,” he said.

Yes, power in the word. She felt the effect.

“We are going to do good work here,” he said. “Also, my grandmother is thrilled you are coming for Thanksgiving. She’s going to call your aunt.”

The mention of her agreement to that took Lucy to a place she didn’t want to go—but she had to. She began to worry a button on his shirt.

“Any chance I’m lucky enough that you’re going to undo that button?” he asked.

She smiled at him as best she could. “Maybe later. Brantley, I need to ask you something.”

“You can, but the answer is yes. You can unbutton that button and all the others.” He touched his nose to hers.

She pulled back. “I know being back in town, and especially working on this project, has had to bring up a lot of memories.”

That open part of him began to retreat a bit, and some of the more familiar mask came out.

“Have you ever spoken to anyone about what happened to your family? A professional?”

“No.” He smiled that old smile. “Really, Lucy. It’s been a long time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing a little help.”

The openness retreated completely and the mask snapped fully in place. “All I need is for Lucy Mead to laugh for me and let me come over and watch Monday Night Football tonight.” He tickled her neck with his tongue until she laughed. She knew when to let something go.

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to work with Annelle tonight. Black Friday is almost here and we are assembling the Christmas decorations in the storeroom. She won’t allow them to go up until after Thanksgiving. We have to have them ready to go, so we can fly in there at the crack of dawn Friday and have it all in place by the time we open.”

He groaned. “I never knew that woman was my enemy.”

“Tell you what. You watch football with Harris, Nathan, and Luke tonight. But right now, let’s go to the diner. I’ll buy you a piece of pumpkin pie.”

“A poor substitute,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “But a poor horny guy will take what he can get.”

And so would she.

Until he left town.

Or went back to Rita May.

Or simply changed his mind.

Chapter Fifteen

Brantley stepped in through the back door of Big Mama’s house to the sounds of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade blaring from the small television in the kitchen. Evelyn was paused, knife in midair, with her eyes trained on the screen. He had forgotten how Evelyn loved a parade—any parade. Especially the marching bands.

“Well, well, well,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I did not expect to see the woman who has ruined me for all other women this morning. I thought you were going to be with your family.”

“Humph,” Evelyn said and went back to peeling apples. “I just came by to get y’all started. I made my dressing, relishes, and my pecan and pumpkin pies yesterday. But apple pie needs to be baked the day of. And everybody knows you can’t peel potatoes in advance. Plus, I had to get my ham in the oven.”

Evelyn didn’t trust fried turkey and always baked a ham. Of course, there was the year they had gotten distracted and burned the bird up. Had Brantley been fifteen or sixteen? He couldn’t remember, nor could he remember what self-absorbed story he’d been regaling his father and grandfather with, but the ruined turkey had been his fault. Most things were.

“She’s here because she doesn’t trust us.” Big Mama breezed into the kitchen with some kind of silky looking long shirt flapping around her, and smelling expensive. “Good morning, darling.” She gave Brantley a one armed shoulder hug and cheek kiss. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

If she had any apprehension about the holiday, it didn’t show. Brantley got to his feet, and hugged her full on. “Happy Turkey Day to you too.”

Evelyn dried her hands, pulled a plate of bacon and eggs out of the warming oven, and set it in front of Brantley. “I want you to eat every bite of that,” she said. “I know you. You’re going to start drinking when you and Mr. Charles start frying that turkey. Doing it on an empty stomach will just make it worse.” Evelyn did not approve of “whiskey drinking” and as far as she was concerned, all alcohol was whiskey.

“Where are my Thanksgiving cinnamon rolls?” The words came out of his mouth before he realized he had forgotten the Thanksgiving tradition of Evelyn’s homemade sweet rolls. His stomach turned over. Papa had loved those rolls. Stop. It will be okay. Lucy is coming. He took a bite of scrambled eggs.

“Cinnamon rolls are ready and waiting.” Evelyn looked pleased that he had asked. “I want to get some protein in you before you carb up. And liquor up.” She went back to her apples.

“Evelyn has been watching Dr. Oz,” Big Mama explained as she refilled her coffee cup and Evelyn’s.

“What does Dr. Oz say about drinking a little red wine?” Brantley didn’t know the answer precisely, but he could make a good guess.

“Dr. Oz is a smart man but he can’t know everything. Just some things. You’d do well to listen at him. Quit running all over the place all the time, like you got no time. All we’ve got is time, till we don’t.” Evelyn piled the apples in the pie pan and put the crust on top.

“I’d do better to listen to you.” Brantley got up, rinsed his plate, and put it in the dishwasher.

“That too.” She covered the unbaked pie with plastic wrap and took off her apron. “Well, that’s it, I guess.” She looked around. “Miss Caroline, you sure you don’t want me to stay? I can.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Big Mama said. “I’ve got your instructions. I know just what to do.” She picked up a piece of paper from the table where Evelyn had written out a timetable for finishing the meal. “Lucy and Annelle will be here early to help.”

The sooner the better. Brantley didn’t like the idea of Big Mama being in here alone while he and Charles sat in lawn chairs in the driveway tending to the turkey.

Evelyn took a plate of cinnamon rolls out of the warming oven and set them on the table between Brantley and Miss Caroline. “Don’t do the dishes. Just put the food in the ice box and leave everything else. I want to get in that china cabinet and clean it good before I put them back up.” Evelyn had said that every holiday that Brantley could remember and probably before. Mama and Big Mama used to laugh about it and say she didn’t trust them with the good china and crystal. But they always obeyed her. “Did I write down that the congealed salad and extra iced tea are in the ice box in the garage?”

“Right here.” Big Mama showed her the list.

“All right. I’ll be at my granddaughter’s house. If you need anything, call me on that cell phone Brantley gave me for my birthday. Or send me a text.”

When she’d gone, Brantley said, “We have to remember to call her and ask a question we know the answer to.”

“Right.” Big Mama nodded and took a sip of her coffee. “She’s worried about us.”

So am I. Except Lucy was coming, so it would be okay.

The sound of a vehicle in the driveway broke the silence. Brantley glanced out the window to see Charles emerging from his pickup truck.

He jumped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “Time to heat the oil!”

* * *

Annelle’s car was already in Miss Caroline’s driveway when Lucy arrived. She carefully lifted her food offering from the back of her vehicle. It looked nice. The burnt orange ceramic casserole dish that she’d had overnighted from Williams-Sonoma was sitting in a basket that she had lined with a linen tea towel printed with autumn leaves. The towel and the basket had also come from Williams-Sonoma. She could never remember stressing so much over what to make.

Of course, like a good southern woman she had asked Miss Caroline what she could bring. And like a perfect hostess, Miss Caroline had told her, “Not a thing.”

But they both knew that’s not how it was done. Flowers were out. Most people didn’t understand that taking flowers, especially flowers that had to be arranged, to a festive occasion only made trouble for the hostess. Wine and chocolates would have been good choices, but Annelle had beat her to the draw on that.

So it had to be food. She had thought of sweet potato casserole. She made a good one, but so did everybody else and the likelihood of it already being on the menu was high. She could make a Coca-Cola cake but from what Brantley had said, his family was pretty committed to pie. Finally, she’d hit on curried fruit. It was pretty, festive, and southern, but not a given for Thanksgiving. If Miss Caroline did not want to serve it with lunch, it would be good cold with turkey sandwiches later.

And if curried fruit was already on the menu, there was nothing she could do about it. She’d tried.

She’d tried to dress correctly too, though who knew what “dressing down” meant. She would have liked to have worn a simple dress, but she was too afraid that Brantley had meant what he said about putting his hand up her skirt at the table. Also, a dress was not as conducive to lounging around and watching football, as Brantley expected her to do.

Finally she had settled on brown leggings and a knee length tunic in fall colors. Might as well admit it. She’d had that outfit overnighted too, from Nordstrom. And the belt, gold jewelry, and bronze flats that went with it.

She was so new she squeaked. If she’d been taller, thinner, and prettier someone might have taken her for a mannequin in a store window.

“Lucy Mead.”

She jumped. Brantley had snuck up behind her.

“I thought I heard you pull up. Let me have that.” He took the basket, set it on the porch steps, and pulled her to him. “Happy Turkey Day,” he said and kissed her full on the mouth. He tasted like beer and cinnamon.

“Have you been drinking beer and eating pumpkin pie already?”

“Would that I had. No pie cutting until after the turkey. I learned that the hard way one year. Though, in my defense, I don’t know what they thought was going to happen with the pies right there on the counter and a step stool behind the door. But anyway, Evelyn’s cinnamon rolls are almost as good.” He slid his hand up her tunic and let it rest on her bottom. “I like this getup you’ve got on. Accessible.”

She jerked away. What had made her think this outfit was safer than a dress? “We are in the front yard of your grandmother’s house!” she hissed.

“We could go out back, where my dad is watching the turkey. Or better yet—to the carriage house.”

Where that scrumptious bed was. “Or we could go inside and make merry.” But she couldn’t help but smile.

“Or that.” He gave an exaggerated sigh and picked up the basket with the casserole dish. His phone beeped. He pulled it from his pocket and checked. “My father summons. We need to check the turkey. Here.” He handed her the casserole, pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and threw it open. “Go on in. They’re probably in the kitchen. I’ll see you in a minute.”

“But Brantley! I can’t just walk into Miss Caroline’s house!”

“Go on,” he said as he bounded down the steps and around the house. “She won’t care. I can’t let that turkey burn!”

Lucy almost closed the door and rang the bell but how stupid was that? She would simply explain that Brantley had opened the door and told her to go in. Miss Caroline wouldn’t hold it against her.

She stopped outside the kitchen door and wondered if Brantley had smeared her lipstick when he kissed her. She should put the curried fruit down and check that.

Then she heard her aunt’s voice. “Caroline, this must be very hard for you.”

After a pause, Miss Caroline said, “Yes, at turns. But I guess that’s been the story of our lives since the car wreck, even after seventeen years. People talk about premonitions before something happens or getting a bad feeling as it happens. There was never any of that for me. One minute I was weeding my flowerbeds and the next I was planning a funeral for my husband and my only child. Just that fast. But you move on, though it is a little poignant that Charles and Brantley are outside frying the turkey without Alden. I am so glad you and Lucy will be here. Setting those three places was so sad. But the hardest thing has been being in this kitchen without my daughter. I made tomato aspic yesterday and then remembered that Eva was the only one who liked it. I put it down the garbage disposal and indulged in some self-pity for a good long time.”

“I don’t believe anyone would say that was self-pity. I believe that is called grief,” Annelle said.

It was a shock to hear Aunt Annelle and Miss Caroline talking the way she and Missy, Lanie, and Tolly would have—though why she was surprised, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if her generation had the monopoly on friendship.

“Grief—I suppose so,” Miss Caroline went on. “But even at that, none of this is as hard as traveling to some strange city where Brantley is working and sitting in a restaurant, trying to pretend. Or worse, when Brantley would have no part of the holiday and Charles and I went it alone at the kitchen table. We always had invitations, of course, but it never seemed the thing to do. So.” Her voice filled with steel. “I am determined that this will be a good day. I know better than to try to recreate the past, but I will make this a different day. Charles and I are of one mind on that. Our boy is home. That’s what matters.”

Annelle murmured something else, but Lucy didn’t stay to hear. She quietly went out the front door and rang the bell, redoubling her resolve to do what she could to help this family have a happy day.

* * *

Brantley sat at the Thanksgiving table and watched his father and grandmother fall in love with Lucy. He had never seen her so charming, so beautiful. She smiled, she asked the right questions, gave the right answers. Most of all, she looked at him adoringly and laughed when he said something funny. And he found himself trying harder and harder to win her laughter.

And miraculously, it wasn’t hard. This was a happy table—and it was Lucy who made the difference. It felt like family.

They had already finished with dessert, but they remained at the table. Charles circled and poured everyone another glass of wine. “Tell us how your family usually spends Thanksgiving, Lucy. Aren’t your parents in Tibet?”

“They are.” She nodded and took a sip of her wine. “Though they go somewhere every summer, this is the first time they have been on a year-long sabbatical since I was twelve. I assume you don’t want to hear about the Thanksgiving that year we were in China. It would be a very short story.”

“No turkey?” Brantley asked.

“Not in the village where we were, though to call it a village is an overstatement. Eller is more of a dog than that place was a village.”

Everyone laughed with delight—again.

“But usually it’s the three of us and Annelle. Sometimes we go to some cousins’ in Charleston, but usually it’s in Oxford. Mama makes a turkey and—you’re going to think this is odd—lasagna.”

“Really?” Big Mama said.

“Her mother was Italian and she taught Mama to make really good lasagna. My daddy loves it, so we always have that. She also makes dressing, some with oysters, some without. The oysters are the Charleston influence. I don’t like them. They are the only thing that swims that I can’t abide.”

“Now, Lucy,” Brantley said. “I ask you this—do oysters really swim so much as they lie around and make pearls?”

She wrinkled her adorable little nose. “I am not all that wise in the ways of oysters. But I am wise enough in the way they taste to know that I want to stay away from them.”

“Maybe you just haven’t had the right oyster,” he said. “Perfectly fresh, on the half shell, with just a little lemon and horseradish.”

Lucy shuddered.

“I quite agree,” Big Mama said. “I think they earn their keep best by making pearls.” And she wound her fingers around the triple strand at her neck—the same ones Brantley’s mother had borrowed for special parties. He found himself wondering how they would look around Lucy’s neck.

“Pearls are one of the finest things in life,” Annelle chimed in. “Though I do agree with Brantley about the right oyster, and Michelle’s oyster dressing is wonderful.”

Lucy shuddered again. “Good thing that’s not all we had to eat. My parents always invite a slew of people from the university—students who can’t go home, other professors at loose ends. It’s causal and chaotic. Everybody brings something and it can get really interesting, especially from the foreign students. Once we had a big vat of tamales. There’s always some Indian food. Mama tells them to bring what they think of when they think of holiday food so there’s never any rhyme or reason to it.”

Suddenly Brantley felt like the most selfish bastard on the planet. This was Lucy’s first major holiday away from her parents. They weren’t dead, but still.

“Are you sad?” he asked. “Do you miss them?”

“I miss them.” She smiled. “But I’m not sad. Missing is part of loving, and we talk often. And I have loved today.”

Everyone laughed again. What she’d said wasn’t funny but they laughed because they were delighted with her—something he understood.

“So, Lucy,” Charles said. “What food do you think of when you think of Thanksgiving?”

She laughed. “Again, like the lasagna, you’re going to think this is odd, but homemade vanilla ice cream. My daddy always makes it at Thanksgiving because they’re always gone summers when most people make ice cream.”

Then something happened that hadn’t happened in a long, long time—so long that Brantley had forgotten the special thing that used to happen between his father and him.

They looked up, locked eyes, and read each other’s mind.

Simultaneously they laughed and rose from their chairs.

“Excuse us from your table, Miss Caroline,” Charles said, placing his napkin by his plate. “We’ll be back soon. My boy and I have a mission.”

They ran out the back door like exuberant children. Brantley hadn’t felt this way in so long and it felt good—but not as good as seeing his dad like this.

“I’ll drive,” Charles said. “You look up on your phone how to make ice cream. Find one with stuff we can get at the minimart out by the highway.”

After just one day, Lucy had already made such a difference in Brantley’s family. Slowly, an idea came to him. What if Lucy became part of his family? He could see a high chair at that dining table, with Big Mama spooning mashed potatoes into a small mouth. He could see a little boy with dark curly hair sitting in his dad’s lap in a golf cart as Brantley drove them to the next hole.

What if he stayed here? What if he could put this family back together? Then, maybe he could confess what he had done and they would forgive him.

He shook his head. He couldn’t think about that now.

“I know right where the ice cream maker is at home,” Charles said. “We’ll stop by there first.”

Chapter Sixteen

Annelle Meade Interiors was the only shop in Merritt that had no Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving. Maybe even Halloween. It was one of Annelle’s many eccentricities. The holly and the glitter would come out the day after Thanksgiving and not one second before.

Consequently, Black Friday started in a whirl and way too early for Lucy. She, Annelle, and Pam hit the ground running at five A.M. so they could decorate in time for the ten o’clock opening. Over the years, Annelle had become known for her unconventional attitude about the timing of her decorations as well as her unique approach. Just because she refused to decorate until after Thanksgiving didn’t mean she had not been working on her secret design for months. At the appointed time, people would pour into the shop for refreshments and to purchase the baskets of ornaments and rolls of ribbon that were duplicates of what Annelle used for her creations.

Annelle had gotten the idea for the Christmas Wedding theme last December when Tolly and Nathan had sprung on everyone, with three weeks notice, that they were getting married two days before Christmas. It had nearly killed all concerned, but the wedding had been a crystalline and velvet dream with the bride wearing her grandmother’s dress, the groom beside himself with joy, and three very tired attendants. Much of the work had fallen to Lucy since Missy had just given birth to Lulu and Lanie was very pregnant with John Luke. But it had been fun, though Lucy had wondered at the time if she would ever have a wedding of her own.

And she wondered it now, as she decorated the mantle with antique wedding veils, tiny white lights, silver bells, and gossamer ribbon.

In fact, it seemed even more improbable now. She knew that Brantley was no more a possibility than he had ever been, but now marrying anyone else seemed unthinkable. Because, God help her, she loved him, had loved him since her fifteenth summer. But that didn’t change anything. She just needed for her head to keep reminding her heart that this was temporary. She’d known that going in. But she was in deep. If she hadn’t been before yesterday, she would be now. Thanksgiving had been such fun and the capper was when Charles and Brantley came back with that ice cream maker, bags of ice, and rock salt. Annelle had left shortly after lunch to work on nosegays for today, but Lucy had watched football until almost midnight with Brantley, Charles, and Miss Caroline. She’d even given in and cuddled under a throw with him while they ate ice cream. And there had been nothing like it with his arms around her and the taste of happy vanilla childhood in her mouth.

She rearranged a bit of ribbon and aged ivory lace.

Annelle came up behind her. “Beautiful, Lucy. Absolutely magical.”

“It’s lacking something.” Lucy stood back. “I had thought to put nosegays at three strategic points but it’s too much. What do you think of this instead?” She randomly scattered little bunches of dried baby’s breath on the mantle shelf.

“Perfect,” Annelle said. “I think these are the prettiest decorations we’ve ever had.”

It was true. Lucy surveyed the shop. The trees, wreaths, and garlands were covered in little bridal bouquets, lace hearts, tiny top hats, silver doves, gold rings, blown glass wedding cakes, and sparkling snowflakes. White poinsettias were covered in crystalline glitter and their bases wrapped in white tulle. The refreshments for the open house were individual exquisitely frosted wedding cakes, and Champagne served in old-fashioned punch cups. Those cups made some of the older women nostalgic for their weddings from the days before everyone abandoned punch cups for wine glasses.

Lucy put the finishing touches on the mantle and arranged a dozen veils on a chair nearby. She would put baskets of the ribbon, lights, bells, and baby’s breath near the veils so that everything to recreate that mantle would be in one place. She carried her ladder to the storeroom. They opened in twenty-three minutes and she also still needed to set up the display of beeswax Christmas candles and lace gloves.

Missy came in as soon as the doors opened. “Annelle’s a genius,” Missy said, clutching a basket of merchandise.

“I used to doubt it,” Lucy said. “But by now, everybody’s tired of everything else in town. They are ready to see something new.”

“At this rate, there won’t be a thing left by five o’clock,” Missy said, glancing at the line at the counter.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Lucy said. “There’s more where this came from. She just doesn’t like for everyone to know how plentiful it is.”

“I’ve got to go,” Missy said. “I’ve got to get started on my food for tomorrow. Speaking of . . .” She shifted her basket to her other arm. “I expect you to declare your loyalty a little better than you have in years past.”

Missy did not think the crimson headband with ROLL TIDE stitched across the top showed enthusiastically enough that Lucy rooted for the University of Alabama over Auburn in the annual grudge match.

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” Lucy said without conviction. When she got off work, all she intended to remedy was how tired she was. And it wasn’t even 10:30 A.M.

Business was hectic. By noon, they had not only replenished the ornament baskets twice, but had sold three large pieces of furniture, five rugs, and a fair amount of other odds and ends. Lucy was just about to replenish the refreshment table when Lanie and her sister-in-law came in.

“Arabelle!” Lucy gave her a hug. “It’s so good to see you.” It had been over a year. After finishing her residency, Arabelle had spent a year in Africa as part of the Doctors Without Borders program. Where was it Lanie had said she was working now? Virginia? Georgia? “Welcome home.”

“It’s good to be home,” Arabelle said.

“We came to rescue you for lunch,” Lanie said with a laugh. “Emma and John Luke are with their grandparents at the farm. Arabelle and I are going to eat, shop, drink some wine, and shop some more.”

“Well, you can start with the shopping and eating here. We even have Champagne.” She gestured to the refreshment table. “But I can’t go to lunch.”

Pam crept up and waited for Lucy to meet her eyes.

“Mrs. Gilchrist wants your help with some pillows,” Pam said.

Barbara Gilchrist was known for dropping hundreds of dollars at a time for small items—and then redecorating a whole room to match them.

“Oops.” Lucy gave Lanie and Arabelle brief hugs. “Got to go, but I’ll see you at Missy’s party tomorrow?”

On her way to Mrs. Gilchrist, two other people stopped her to ask a question. And so it went the rest of the day.

* * *

Brantley was at loose ends. He’d done a little research, but there was only so much he could do on the Brantley Building until the tenants were out. He’d talked to Will Garrett while he was putting the finishing touches on the kitchen cabinets. Then he’d watched television until he got hungry. He called Lucy to see if she wanted to get lunch, but her phone went to voicemail.

No surprise. He’d already called four times and her phone had gone to voicemail every time. He’d lost count of the texts he’d sent and she had not answered a single one. He considered going to the Big Starr to buy some food to put in those new cabinets, but discarded the notion. He was hungry now.

Finally, he put on his shoes and went up to the big house. No sign of Evelyn. No sign of anyone, but the kitchen was shipshape. He pulled turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, and pie out of the refrigerator and took it to the pristine kitchen table that had been far from pristine last night.

Last night, he and Lucy had put what they could in the dishwasher and rinsed what wasn’t dishwasher safe. Lucy had been mortified to leave a mess and he’d had to explain to her that if they did much more there would be hell to pay with Evelyn.

“Yes, ma’am,” he’d told her, as he dried the roasting pan she’d just washed. “If you want to get along in this family, don’t cross Evelyn. Don’t mess in her domain. As a matter of fact, washing this pan might be over the line. She’ll forgive you, as you are not yet acquainted with the ways of our clan.”

She laughed. “You have ways, do you?”

“Oh, yeah. We do. Let’s see,” he said. “Come to the table as soon as you’re called. Don’t talk after entering the sanctuary or make faces at your friends. If you find yourself where you ought not to be, even if it was your bad judgment and poor planning that got you there, call Dad. He’ll come get you. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. And for the love of God and all that is holy, do not sass Mama.” He was remembering an incident from his teen years and it came out of his mouth before he thought, but it felt good to mention her. Lucy was looking at him eagerly. Maybe he would just carry on. “If you must sass Mama, don’t do it in front of Dad unless you want to spend the entire month of July with no car keys and no privileges. In case you’re not clear on what a privilege is, it’s anything except eating, going to church, reading the Bible or something from your summer book list, or being on the golf course for any reason except to tote somebody else’s clubs and say, ‘Yes, sir.’ Also, you can’t answer the phone unless you’re the only one in the house and then you are only allowed one of two responses. One: ‘I am not allowed to talk on the phone. Good-bye.’ Or two, ‘Yes, I will be happy to take a message for the people in this house who are allowed to have a social life and are not being held prisoner for an unfortunate slip of the tongue.’” He’d learned from that incident, but not well enough. The next time he’d sassed her it had cost more than a July under house arrest. It had cost a family.

He shook it off; he could because Lucy was looking at him, bright-eyed and happy.

“What happens if you sass Big Mama?” Lucy asked around her sweet smile.

The very thought of that gave him a chill. “Well, I don’t rightly know. I’ll tell you when I get back from joining the circus because one thing is about as likely to happen as the other. I suspect those in charge of handing down the punishment would just kill you. Or more like, Big Mama would look at you until you died of shame.”

As Brantley located the bread and mayonnaise for his sandwich, Big Mama came in the back door with an armload of bags. He turned to take them from her. She laughed and twisted away from him.

“No. You can’t see. I’ve been Christmas shopping!” She carried her packages to the laundry room and came out with Lucy’s casserole dish and basket.

Oh, Christ. Christmas. Yeah. That was the point. He laughed a little but only in his head.

“I cannot believe you have been out in that mess of Black Friday,” he said. “Couldn’t pay me to go out there.”

“It was fun. I had lunch with some of my bridge club. I intended to go to Annelle’s shop, but I forgot to take Lucy’s casserole dish with me when I left this morning.”

“You mean to tell me that all that kerosene fruit got eaten?” He had eaten a small bit yesterday and he’d put on a happy face about it, but it was clear that whoever married Lucy was going to have to be able to cook—or hire a cook. That was the worst stuff in the history of food.

“Brantley!” Big Mama said. “I believe the word you are looking for is curried, not kerosene. And there was a little left. Evelyn put it in a smaller container. I plan to eat it later. It was delicious.”

“It was noxious.” He continued to build his sandwich.

Big Mama set the dish on the table and sat down across from him. “You are making a sandwich from turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, and mayonnaise and you have the nerve to call that lovely fruit noxious. I hope you didn’t say that to her.”

“I’ve got some sense. I just wish y’all hadn’t bragged on it so much. She might bring it Christmas.” And she had to come for Christmas. It was the only way he’d get through it.

Big Mama looked extremely pleased and he suspected it had nothing to do with that fruit. “Have you considered that perhaps it could have been a very high quality dish, but you just don’t happen to like curried fruit?”

“You’re supposed to be on my side. I cannot believe you are defending my own girlfriend against me.”

“Oh, is that what she is?”

“Maybe,” he said. He had never considered anyone a girlfriend he hadn’t slept with, at least not since he was twenty. But if she wasn’t, she would be soon.

“I am on your side, darling.” She plucked the sunglasses from where she had pushed them to the top of her head. “Completely and eternally.” She rose. “I’m going now. I’ve heard Annelle has outdone herself this year with her decorations.”

Yeah, and robbed me of Lucy’s company. He hadn’t been in that shop since the summer everything went bad, when he and Missy would go in to see Lucy when she was working.

“Big Mama,” he said. “If you can wait until I finish my sandwich, I’ll go with you.”

Chapter Seventeen

It was three o’clock before the crowd thinned—just in time for Brantley and Miss Caroline to walk in the door.

Miss Caroline clapped her hands in front of her and looked from Annelle to Lucy. “Gorgeous! I had heard, but it’s even better than I imagined.” She picked up one of the small wicker shopping baskets. “I’m going to have to have some of this!”

Brantley smiled and sauntered toward Lucy. “She’s going to have to have some of this. Because, you know, she hasn’t got any stuff.”

“A woman can’t have too much stuff.” Lord, her feet hurt but seeing him soothed everything else.

“I am beginning to think Lucy Mead doesn’t have a cell phone anymore.”

She patted her pocket. “I must have left it in my office. Sorry. I guess you called?”

“A few times,” he said. “I brought back your basket, your leaf thing, and your orange pot. It’s in my car. I could just bring it over tonight.”

“Maybe,” she said. Truth was, even as tired as she was, as much as she needed to go to bed as soon as she got home, she wanted him to come over. It scared her how much she wanted that. “I had a late night and early morning. I will definitely need a nap. I can’t promise I won’t sleep straight through.”

“You could come do that at my house.” He leered at her just a little. “Will finished the cabinets and you could see them. Then—” he looked at the ceiling “—we could see what happens. Whatever.”

She couldn’t think about that bed right now. “Did you talk to Will about the Brantley Building?”

He nodded. “I did. He’s interested. We’ll meet with him at the building sometime in the next couple of weeks. He’s a good guy. I invited him to Missy’s Iron Bowl party.”

“Brantley! Why do you think you can invite people to other people’s parties?”

“Because clearly I can. I can do most anything I want. There’s only one thing that I can think of that’s not coming my way right now.” He licked his bottom lip just in case there was any question about what it was he wanted.

“Oh?” She widened her eyes. They were just dancing the dance of when not if now. They both knew it. “What is it that you could want? We have many things here.” She walked over to the candle display. “Could I interest you in one of these lovely candles? One hundred percent natural ingredients.” She turned around and reached into a basket. “How about some of this exquisite ribbon? Or some of this sweet baby’s breath? With some lights and a few pieces of crystal you could have a fabulous tablescape.”

“Would this tablecloth go with it?” He picked up one of the antique wedding veils from the chair.

Dismay washed over her as she saw him realize it was not a tablecloth.

“Oh.” Then he grinned like a devil had gotten hold of him. And before she could stop him, he whipped it around and put it on her head.

Heat washed over her face. “Brantley, no!” She reached to remove it, but he laughed, caught her hands, and kissed her. It was a playful kiss that she did not participate in, but it was enough. When she finally broke away from him and looked up, Aunt Annelle and Miss Caroline were beaming at them like they were passing out keys to all that could be good in the world.

She replaced the veil on the chair and said, “I’ve got to go call a fabric order in. I’ll text you after I have a nap—if I wake up.”

He was still smiling when she fled to her office.

Chapter Eighteen

Lucy dragged herself up the porch steps. If she had not been so tired, the wedding veil joke would not have gotten away with her as badly as it had. That’s what it was—a joke. And that was fine because, no matter how she felt, her relationship with Brantley was based on nothing more than fun, flirtation, and chemistry. Laughter and jokes were what held them together.

She locked the door behind her and caught sight of the sofa, with its soft pillows and the luxurious cashmere throw that Annelle had given her for her birthday. She wanted to be there more than anywhere in the world.

Except Brantley’s arms. No. Stop it. Don’t think like that. Enjoy the relationship but take it for what it is. Above all else, do not long for him. Longing for him is what got you Savannah.

She rubbed the place between her eyes. She was only having these thoughts because she was so tired. Hungry too. She hadn’t eaten since the apple and yogurt she’d had that morning while decorating a Christmas tree with dried orange blossoms and lacey linen handkerchiefs. Next year she was going to talk Aunt Annelle into hiring a couple of extra hands to decorate.

Of course, next year she would not have been up until all hours with Brantley Kincaid watching football, and then spent another hour on her sofa kissing and shedding just a few more clothes than the last time.

She looked longingly at that sofa. What she ought to do was have a snack and go upstairs and get in her bed.

But she could not take another step. And the bed wouldn’t smell like him like the sofa pillow would. Stupidly, she removed her shoes and settled in under the cashmere throw. Immediately, her nipples tightened and desire shot through her.

Hell and double hell. Apparently, she had taught her body to think that if she was on this sofa, she had a good time coming.

Coming. That was funny. She still hadn’t with Brantley, but only because she had willed it not to happen, would stop him just in time. She’d been so close, but she didn’t want it to happen like it did for teenagers in the back of a car. It seemed that they should save something for when they had real sex—and the time for that was fast approaching.

It was only the thought of Savannah that made her hesitate.

Savannah. She banished the particulars of that memory every time they threatened to creep up, but now she didn’t have the energy to fight. It was fatigue and a half dream state that took her back.

Fourteen years ago. Campus of the Savannah College of Art and Design. Mid April. Lucy had been nearing the end of her freshman year. It had been almost four years since her date with Brantley that wasn’t a date—and almost four years since she had seen him. Since then, she had spent every summer in Merritt working for Annelle, but Brantley didn’t come home summers. According to Missy, who remained in constant touch with both Lucy and Brantley, he went to summer school or interned with architectural firms. One summer, he had gone to Virginia and actually did manual labor on a property that was being restored. Missy had visited him there one weekend and she’d tried to get Lucy to make the trip with her, but that had been absolutely out of the question.

Missy still had no idea how Lucy felt. Correction. Had felt. That was in the past. But to say she never thought of him, surrounded by warm happiness, would have been a lie. After that night, Lucy had embarked on a plan to whip her body into shape and she thought of Brantley every time she reached for a piece of chocolate or was tempted to skip the gym. Since, she had learned how to balance an occasional treat and a lazy day, but not back then. In those days, she never deviated from her eating and exercise plan. After all, the scale and size labels in her clothes told her she had been successful, even if her heart and head did not believe it.

She had just come out of her mid-morning class—Form, Space, and Order—when she checked her phone and found she had a voicemail from a number she did not recognize.

Nothing could have prepared her for that message. His voice was still like warm caramel. “Lucy, this is Brantley Kincaid. I got your number from Missy. I’m in Savannah for a few days for an architectural restoration seminar that the college is having here. Anyway. Haven’t seen you in a long time. Give me a call back, if you would. I thought we could have lunch and catch up. Bye.”

She stood outside her classroom door stunned. Ha. More like Missy thought they could have lunch and catch up. Missy wanted all of the parts of her life to move together like clockwork, and that included her friends. Lucy could just hear her now. “Oh, good. You can call Lucy while you’re there! Here’s the number. Brantley! Are you listening to me? Put Lucy’s number in your phone!”

As far as Lucy knew, Brantley hadn’t even known where she was in school. If he had thought of it at all, he would have probably assumed she was at Ole Miss, where her parents taught—if he even remembered that.

She almost didn’t call him back. He wouldn’t try again. He’d only been acting on Missy’s directive and he would have fulfilled that now, whether they actually spoke or not. But she talked to Missy almost daily and she knew Missy talked to Brantley nearly as often. Likely, she’d get a call later demanding to know why Lucy had not called Brantley back and insisting that she do so, posthaste.

Besides, why shouldn’t she return the call? She reminded herself that her humiliation of four years ago was her secret and hers alone. And it had happened when she was fifteen, for goodness sake. At nineteen, she was a different person—different body and different attitude.

She would meet him for lunch tomorrow or the next day, and that would be that. Missy would be satisfied, and Lucy just might bury some demons in the process.

No time like the present. He answered on the first ring.

“Lucy Mead!” he said like she had made his day—the way he used to make hers when he waltzed into Annelle’s shop to lean on the counter and talk to her.

“Hello, Brantley.” She could think of nothing else to say.

“So are you free? I know it’s barely eleven o’clock but I am about to starve.”

Now? He wanted to have lunch now? She looked down at her clothes. Khaki knee shorts, Keds, and—since it was still cool mornings—a Hilton Head sweatshirt. Not exactly what she would have chosen to wear for a reunion with the boy who had broken her fifteen-year-old heart. It would have been easy to say she had class. He’d probably be relieved. But that wasn’t true; she was free until two o’clock. Besides, what did it matter? She’d dressed up for him once. She wouldn’t do it again.

“I could do that. Where are you?”

“Uh. Just a second.” He took the phone away from his mouth, but she heard him say, “Where am I?” Then he came back to her. “Eichberg Hall. With one of my professors in his friend’s office.”

She should have known. The school was scattered all over the city but she and Brantley Kincaid happened to be in the same building. No time to even collect herself, unless she lied, but why should she?

“How about that?” she said. “Exactly where I am. Architecture and interior design are in the same building. I’ll meet you out front.”

Though she took a detour into the restroom to comb her hair and touch up her makeup, she found herself waiting for him. Some things never changed.

But he had. For the better. The planes of his face were sharper and his formerly lanky frame was now a man’s body that had seen some gym time. He was tan and, though it was a little shorter and sleeker, he still had enough moonbeam-kissed hair to toss.

Dressed like a college senior at a professional seminar should dress, he made her feel even more childlike and sloppy in her attire.

He came toward her with his arms outstretched. The last time she’d seen him, they had hugged but he’d been despondent. Now he laughed.

“You are gorgeous,” he said. “Not that you weren’t always.”

Former fat people got that a lot.

“And you aren’t in your seminar,” she said.

“Starts tomorrow, though there’s some early stuff that I’m going to do with my professor and a couple of other Vandy students.”

“I’d heard a little about the seminar,” she said. “Our majors are first cousins.”

“Kissing cousins?” he said and gave her a little peck on the cheek, entirely brotherly. “Lucy, you just look so good.” And he gave her another little squeeze.

Did he have to sound so amazed?

“So you said you were hungry.”

“Yes, and I am entirely at your mercy. I know nothing.” He knew how to flirt and smile. He was proving that right now.

“There’s a deli not far from here,” she said, “if you don’t mind walking a few blocks. It’s been around forever. It’s in a great old building and they bake their own bread.” More importantly, while the place had character, there was nothing about it that said date place. She’d made that mistake once.

“I’d love to walk,” he said. “The buildings here are incredible and there’s no better way to see them. This whole city is a seminar.”

They walked the four blocks, stopping every so often to admire the architecture. He showed her things she’d walked by a hundred times and never noticed. The conversation was easy and it got easier as they ate. They talked about Missy, their classes, and what was going on in Merritt.

“So what are you up to next year?” she asked as he finished his cheesecake.

“Grad school. You?”

She laughed. “Right back here, if they’ll have me. And the next, and the next, and the next.”

“Right,” he said. “I forget you aren’t the same age as Missy and me.”

“No. I can’t quite catch up.” She looked at her cell. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got class.” And she thought that would be it. Duty done. They could report in to Missy. Move on. But it had been pleasant.

He laid his hand on hers. “Listen, Lucy. This was great. This afternoon, they’ve fixed it up for us to tour some historic houses around town. Tonight my professor has invited my classmates and me to dinner with a couple of the presenters. But would you like to get a drink later? I think I’ll be done by nine at the latest.”

She froze. Was he asking her for a date? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, this was not at Missy’s behest. She never even considered saying no.

For someone who had promised herself that she wouldn’t dress up for Brantley, Lucy spent an extraordinary amount of time shaving, plucking, blow drying, and applying makeup. She would have gotten her hair cut, but she was afraid he’d notice and think she did it for him.

The question of what to wear was a hard one. Having a drink meant a bar, but what kind of bar? She had not been to a lot of bars and she had done no drinking. In fact, she had been to exactly one Savannah bar to celebrate a classmate’s birthday and that had been months ago. Being underage didn’t slow many SCAD students down, but calories were a precious commodity that she preferred to spend on healthy food, not liquor. Plus, she hadn’t clicked with that many people, so there hadn’t been a lot of invitations. Brantley was probably staying at one of the nice historic hotels. What if he wanted her to come there? The bar there would be sophisticated, unlike the college hangouts.

It made sense that he would expect her to drive. He’d flown here. Or maybe he’d have someone drop him off and expect her to know about a place within walking distance, which just brought her back to that whole bar ignorance thing.

Oh, Lord. What if he did want her to pick a place, like he had at lunch? She supposed she could take him to that one waterfront bar, if she could remember where it was. Damn. Might as well say, Brantley, I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t go out much. I don’t have many friends. Correction. I have no friends here; I have acquaintances who I study with. We don’t do that in bars. We go to the studio and the library. Hey! Want to go to the library? They have a water fountain.

Maybe she could suggest coffee. She knew of some coffee shops. It wasn’t against the law for her to drink coffee and there were no calories.

Well, she’d worry about that when the time came. If the time came. He might not even call.

She opened her closet. The trick was to pick something that wasn’t too much or too little. Black linen pants and that pink top would be all right, but she wanted something more festive. She wanted to burst like spring, like the night around her. She shuffled through outfit after outfit, but there was nothing. Most of it was out of season and the rest of it wasn’t quite right. She should have gone shopping. Brantley might notice a fresh haircut, but he would not have known if her clothes were new.

Maybe she should just go with jeans and a cotton sweater. That was safe, probably even in a nice hotel bar.

Then she caught sight of the Lily Pulitzer dress Annelle had bought her last summer. She had never worn it. The cotton poplar dress was a shirtwaist with a full skirt that Annelle had claimed was just right for her curvy body. She’d also said the fuchsia and bright green complimented Lucy’s coloring perfectly, made her eyes shine. But it hit her not much below mid thigh and she felt conspicuous in the tropical print. Worst of all, it was strapless and she didn’t do strapless. She hadn’t even had a strapless bra but Annelle had bought her one of those too.

But it was pretty and spring-like. The tiny bow at the waist was feminine without being babyish. And it would be appropriate, no matter where they went.

Had she even brought the bra? She had.

It might be a moot point. He might not even call. He called.

She put on the dress.

She needn’t have worried about Brantley expecting her to play tour guide. He arrived in charge. Not only did he show up at her dorm in a car—though she had no idea if he had rented, borrowed, or stolen it—he had a plan.

Part of that plan apparently entailed saying, “Wow,” when he saw her.

He probably said wow a lot.

She could have said wow too. He was wearing khaki shorts, topsiders with no socks, and a small pony white Ralph Lauren oxford, untucked, sleeves rolled up. His clothes were fresh and he smelled like soap, which meant he’d showered and changed after dinner, taking himself from budding young professional to fraternity boy personified. Not that Lucy knew that much about fraternity boys. SCAD did not have Greek life.

Without asking directions or so much as hesitating at an intersection, he drove straight to a waterfront bar, but not the same one Lucy had been to. He chatted about the houses he had toured, the soft shell crab he’d eaten for dinner, and how one of his classmates wouldn’t eat seafood. How stupid was that? To be in Savannah and order a hamburger? That was like going to New Orleans and not having beignets. Lucy wouldn’t have known anything about that. She’d never been to New Orleans. She’d been too busy going to Istanbul and Alaska.

He could not have just happened on this bar. He must have asked around. Nobody got that lucky. It was nicer than the place Lucy had been to, but not an older crowd, at least not by much. There was a good mix of college students and young professionals. The band was playing beach music and the whole place had a spring break state of mind, sans wet t-shirt contest.

Brantley settled her at a table and asked, “What can I get you?”

“Club soda. Twist of lime.” She’d never had that but she figured it would look good in her hand.

He smiled. “Have I driven you not to drink, Lucy Mead?”

“The law of the land has driven me not to drink,” she said lightly.

“Oh, that’s right.” He tried to look repentant. It did not happen. “I keep forgetting.” But he did not try to pressure her.

Brantley would have turned twenty-one last September 8, but it was a safe bet he’d been drinking longer than that.

As he returned to the table, Lucy noticed more than one girl appreciating the view of him. He was easy to appreciate.

“So Missy brought her guy of the moment up to Vandy a few weeks ago,” Brantley said, taking a sip of what looked and smelled like bourbon. “Though she says he’s not a guy of the moment. She swears Harris Bragg is the one. Have you met him?”

“I have. I went to Tuscaloosa for the weekend on my way to Mississippi for spring break. I liked him. What did you think?”

“He’ll do,” Brantley said cheerfully. “He’s giving up a chance to play pro football to go to law school. I hope she does marry him. We could use a lawyer in the family.”

Lucy laughed. “Always working the angles, aren’t you? So ready legal advice is more important to you than Missy’s happiness?”

“Oh, Missy’s going to be happy. Don’t you worry yourself about that. No siree. If Missy is not happy, she will knock down whatever is in her way until she is. That is the way of Missy.”

“You are right about that.” Lucy laughed again and sipped her drink.

“You have a great laugh,” Brantley said and covered her hand with his.

And suddenly, there was something electric about the night. The beat of the music, the smell of the water, Brantley’s hand on her. The spring air was warm and fertile. She felt ripe like the buds of the trees and plants that lined the streets of the city.

“We both see Missy on a regular basis. Why don’t we ever see each other?” Brantley asked. “How long has it been?” His eyes clouded. “Four years?”

“About that,” she said, but she knew exactly. From the look on his face, he was figuring it out too, connecting the last time he saw her with the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

The band broke into “Summer Nights.”

She needed to stop that look on his face. What the hell—it was spring, she had on a sexy dress, and if she was ever going to be daring, it was now.

She jumped up and held out her hand. “What does a girl have to do to get a dance?”

His eyes smiled but he pretended to grimace. “Lucy Mead, tell me you do not want to dance to Grease!”

“I do. I wish they’d play the whole soundtrack!” She tried to smile like she’d seen Missy smile at Harris.

He downed the rest of his drink, laughed with a little headshake, and took her to the dance floor.

And they danced, perfectly in sync, as if they had been practicing together for years. They moved from one song to the next, laughing and absorbed in the moment, pausing only now and then for another drink.

If she had felt ripe before, now she was heavy, near to bursting with blooms. She wasn’t thinking anymore, not analyzing. She was just here with Brantley, loving the moment.

Then the band shifted into “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys and Brantley took her in his arms. While they danced, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world when he kissed her lightly on the mouth. He tasted like salt and bourbon and everything she’d ever wanted to taste. If he was a little tipsy, she was completely drunk on the adrenaline from the dancing, the night around her, and him.

She’d been waiting for this night for four years. When they left the bar together with their arms around each other, laughing, they both knew where they were headed.

At the car, he took her hand to help her into the passenger seat, but pulled her to him instead and kissed her like there was no yesterday or tomorrow.

Looking back, he probably shouldn’t have been driving but it never occurred to her nineteen-year-old self to question it. He was a god who could crush mountain ranges, lasso clouds, and ride Bengal tigers. Driving the short distance to her dorm should be no problem, even with his hand on her thigh, even leaning in every so often to kiss her.

But they arrived without incident; after all, the very young and the very stupid have a way of remaining unscathed—up to a point.

Though they were in a hurry, Lucy took the time to enjoy the shocked expressions on the faces of her suitemates sitting in the common area. She had never brought a boy here before, and certainly no one of the caliber of Brantley Kincaid. After all, there was no one else like him.

Behind the closed door of her room, they flew at each other, all hands, mouth, and body heat.

Catching the sight of the second twin bed in the room, Brantley said, “Oh, Christ! Tell me your roommate isn’t coming home.” And he kissed his way up her neck. “Tell me she’s dead.”

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t have one. She had a meltdown after midterm portfolio reviews and left.”

And she unbuttoned his shirt.

In no time, they were a naked tangle on the bed. She now understood that the fertile, heavy, ripe feeling had nothing to do with the spring night or the music.

It was sex waiting to happen.

She wasn’t practiced but she was determined that he would not be sorry, that she would make him feel as good as he was making her feel. It was easy to mimic him—to touch him and kiss him where he was touching and kissing her. She was a quick study and it was easy to tell from his moans when and where to let her hand linger.

She thought she would be shy about touching his penis, but when he reached to stroke between her legs it felt so amazing that she only wanted to give him the same feeling. Besides, this was Brantley—finally Brantley—in her arms, in her bed, and soon to be inside her as no one else had ever been.

So she stroked, lightly at first, and harder at his urging. She was rewarded with his moans of pleasure, and if she could do nothing but please this man for the rest of her life, she wouldn’t care about anything else—not chocolate, not antique silk brocade, not warm socks on a winter night.

She’d go to Istanbul, if he wanted her to.

“God, that’s good, yes,” he whispered in her ear and she felt his fingers parting and probing in a new place—the place. She willed herself to relax and open up to him. He continued to probe but he became a little tentative. She raised her hips to meet his exploring hand and he pressed again.

Then he went still. And stopped.

She knew something was wrong before he spoke.

“Lucy,” he said sweetly. “Lucy. Are you a virgin?”

Hell and double hell. She had not wanted him to know, had not wanted it to matter. Maybe it didn’t have to. He wanted her badly. The evidence of that was in her hands.

“Yes.” Her voice came out scared. Something told her to remove her hands from where they were and to put them on his cheeks. “But I want to. I want it to be you.”

“Oh, honey.” His voice was filled with regretful tenderness and in that instant everything changed. He wasn’t looking at her anymore like a man who desired a woman. He was looking at her like he had in the days when he would come into the shop to tease her and bring her a piece of candy from Heavenly Confections, like he had the night of the summer cotillion.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and bent his forehead to hers for a moment. “I am so sorry,” he said. “This is not right.”

“I don’t know why not,” she said. “I made a decision. All on my own.”

He briefly touched her face. Then he sat on the side of the bed, pulled his clothes on, and tucked the sheet around her.

“You would be sorry in the morning,” he said and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

And he left, leaving her with nothing but her longing and humiliation.

She was sure she would hear from him the next day and she did not know how she could face him. Turned out, that wasn’t something she needed to worry about.

As was her custom, Missy called on her way to class. “Did Brantley ever call you?” she asked. “Did you see him before he left?”

He had gone? That couldn’t be. “Left? The seminar doesn’t start until today.”

“Yeah. When I called him a few minutes ago, he was at the airport. He didn’t have time to talk. They were boarding his plane. He had to go back to Nashville. Something about a fraternity brother’s mother dying.”

He had run.

And two weeks later, so did Lucy, in her own way. She finally said yes to a boy in her drawing class who had been asking her out for weeks. Ridding herself of her virginity was a messy, unpleasant business, but she got it done.

* * *

She must have been sleeping lightly because the quiet tone announcing that she had a text message wakened her.

On the heels of sleep and her memories, it was a little disorienting to see her phone announce that the message was from Brantley Kincaid. But she opened it and the present caught up and settled around her.

Are you awake? Call me if you are, it said.

She almost didn’t call, but why wouldn’t she? Nothing had changed since before she lay down. It was all in the past. She and Brantley did not have a future, so why should the past matter?

“I want to bring you something to eat,” he said. “I know you’ve had a hard day. Do you want some of these Thanksgiving leftovers or should I pick up something else?”

Her stomach growled for food and her heart cried out for him. “Actually, I’d like to order a pizza,” she said. Pizza was a rare treat, but she’d had nothing today. She could afford it. “But I’d love it if you’d come over and share it.”

“Best offer I’ve had today. I’ll pick up some beer.” It was the present day Brantley who spoke, the one who desired her.

And she was the present day Lucy, the one who didn’t expect magic and happy endings, the one who had decided to just enjoy what she had right now, no matter how much she loved him.

Chapter Nineteen

Saturday after Thanksgiving—Game Day. The Iron Bowl was as much of a part of the holiday weekend as the turkey and the jellied cranberry sauce with the ridges from the can. Lucy had seen evidence of the great pilgrimage to Tuscaloosa when she’d gone to the Bake Shop earlier to pick up the brownies she would take to Missy’s party.

Missy had two rules: First, you had to arrive at least an hour before kickoff and get your visiting done so you could settle down and shut up at the appropriate time. Second, you had to wear your colors.

Of course, those were the official rules. There were others; there always were with Missy.

She would play the hostess until kickoff—which was two P.M. this year—and then you were on your own, because she was going to watch the game—preferably with the sound turned down because she knew football and didn’t need an announcer to tell her what was going on, thank you very much. She especially disliked announcers who would suddenly start in about the history of helmets and who had the best uniforms.

After kickoff, if you wanted food, you got up and got it. If you wanted beer, there were two kegs on the back porch. At halftime, Missy would pick up the dirty dishes, freshen up the food, and replenish the baskets of snacks scattered around.

Last year, Brantley had shown up to the party late and unannounced. He hadn’t even gotten to town until almost time for kickoff. Lucy had fled, giving some lame excuse about having to go to New Orleans to look at a tea service. This year was so different. The thought of next year made her a little sad, but maybe she and Brantley could end things in a way that they could be at the same place without awkwardness.

Of course, he could have always done that.

Last night, when she had been so tired, he had been so sweet—and sweet scared her; it scared her to death. She’d kept nodding off on his shoulder and he had stroked her hair and dropped a kiss on her head from time to time. Sex, for real or almost, had not been an option.

The warm Indian summer weather continued to smile on them so Lucy dressed in knee length khaki shorts, a crisp white oxford cloth shirt, and her headband with ROLL TIDE stitched across the top. No matter what Missy said, Lucy thought—since she was not alum of the University or even a native of the state—that was enough of a declaration.

When she opened the door to Brantley, her jaw dropped mentally, if not physically. He was wearing houndstooth shorts, an Alabama t-shirt, and a Crimson Tide baseball cap.

“Those are some shorts,” she said.

“Like ’em?” He turned to give her a look from behind.

If there was a bottom in Alabama that ought to be sporting houndstooth, it was his.

“All you’ve got left to do is paint yourself crimson.” She stepped aside to let him in.

“I’ll save that for the BCS Bowl.”

“So you think they will be playing for the National Championship?”

He bent to give her a kiss but stopped.

“Of course I do. I know it. So does everybody else. Don’t you keep up, woman?”

“Lately, I do good to keep up with you.”

“That’s a priority I like.”

She turned to gather her purse and tray of brownies.

“Aren’t you going to get your sweatshirt?” Brantley asked.

“What sweatshirt?” she asked. “It’s warm out. I don’t need a sweatshirt.”

“Your game day sweatshirt.”

“You mean an Alabama sweatshirt? I don’t have one.”

“You are wearing that?” He gestured to her shorts and shirt. “You have no colors. She will kill you dead.”

Lucy bowed her head so he could see the headband. “She never has and this is what I always wear.”

“You can’t even see that. Your curls cover it up.”

“You’re going to have to be satisfied with me and so is Missy. It’s all I’ve got.”

“I can fix that. We’re going to Clayton’s. I’ll get you a t-shirt like mine and a sweatshirt for when it cools off later.” Clayton’s was the sporting goods store over near the country club.

He looked her up and down again. “Why don’t you change out of those topsiders into your Keds? That would be cute.”

“My Keds? Since when to you have an opinion about what I wear on my feet?”

“I’ve got an opinion. I’d like to see you in some really tall boots. Black. With studs.”

“I’ll go to Clayton’s with you, but I believe I’ll keep these shoes on.”

“Well, it won’t be the same, but come on.”

“And I am not wearing a cheerleader uniform.”

“I don’t even want you to. I have bad memories attached to some cheerleaders.”

“We have to be quick,” Lucy said. “I promised Missy I’d come early to help.”

His amber eyes sparkled at her. “Can you spare a moment for a guy to give his girl a kiss?”

Oh, yes, she could spare that. She turned her face up.

* * *

Lucy and Brantley were the first to arrive.

When Missy opened the door, she was wearing blue jeans and a number twelve Alabama football jersey with BRAGG lettered across the back. It had seen better days. It wasn’t usually in Missy’s nature to wear something that wasn’t entirely pristine, but since this shirt had actually seen those better days on Harris’s body on the field of Bryant-Denny Stadium, she made an exception. On Iron Bowl day, she also made an exception about serving only high quality food made from fresh ingredients. Harris had some weird superstition that demanded Chex Mix, pigs in a blanket, and cheese dip made from Velveeta and canned Rotel tomatoes. Missy might wrap Little Smokies in canned biscuit dough and she might serve them, but she was never going to be pleased about it. Of course, these things were just a postscript to the other fabulous food she would serve.

In spite of the retro processed food that she would have already made, Missy looked pretty happy today.

“Lucy! You’ve got a real game day shirt!”

“You can thank me.” Brantley stepped in and hugged Missy. “I have no hostess gift. My gift to you is Lucy Mead appropriately dressed.”

“You never have a hostess gift,” Missy said.

“I also got her a sweatshirt. She’ll put it on later.”

“Oh, good God,” Missy said. “Don’t tell me you’ve started in on her about that. Leave her alone about a damned sweatshirt and shorts.”

“What?” Lucy asked.

“Brantley likes the look of shorts and a sweatshirt on a woman. And Keds, with socks—close fitting white socks, to be exact, that come just over the anklebone. I’m surprised he’s not trying to get you to put on Keds.”

Like she’d been wearing that day in Savannah when she’d worried so much that she’d looked sloppy. Maybe he’d liked the look of her that day as much as she’d liked the look of him, even if their visit had ended on a sour note. Suddenly, she decided. She was going to turn that sour note to a sweet one and she was going to do it tonight.

Brantley continued to banter with Missy. “She would not put on Keds. I could not make her. And you’re not supposed to know I like that look, Missy. But since you do, I do not apologize. There’s just something about it.”

“If I’m not supposed to know it, you shouldn’t have gotten drunk that time and waxed eloquent about it all over the place.”

Lucy would not have expected the warm, poignant feelings that washed over her. So many times she’d been in this house, single and alone, with Missy so gloriously happy with her family. For a long time, Lanie and Tolly had been alone too, but then Lanie had married Luke, followed by Tolly reuniting with Nathan. And Lucy was happy for them, truly happy.

But she had stood up with three brides at three weddings and she had been left standing alone. And sometimes it was hard to go into a restaurant and sit at a table for eight, with an empty chair beside her. Even on the odd occasion when she had a date, that chair still felt empty. But with Brantley it was different. She didn’t feel alone.

Now, Beau was running into the room, Harris behind him. They were dressed in matching number twelve jerseys and Brantley was lifting a squealing Beau over his head.

“If y’all wake up Lulu she’s yours for the day,” Missy promised. “And believe me, if she doesn’t get her nap out, she’s mean. She will bite you.”

Luke, Lanie, and Arabelle were coming up the walk now with Emma—also wearing a number twelve jersey—running ahead. Luke carried John Luke and Arabelle and Lanie carried white boxes that would be candy from Lanie’s shop.

“Miss Lucy!” Emma landed at her feet. “I got a one, two, three shirt, the same as Beau!”

Lucy dropped to her heels. “You look very snazzy.”

“That’s a one, two shirt.” Harris ruffled Emma’s hair. “And don’t you forget to tell Uncle Nathan when he gets back from the game that it’s way better than an eight, five shirt.”

“My Aunt Belle is here! She brings presents. Baby Avery went home.” Emma jumped up and down. And she was off.

Lucy looked up at the hugs and laughter going on all around her. This was family. And she would do well to learn to feel complete here with or without an empty chair.

“I’m going to find the pigs in a blanket and the cheese dip,” Brantley said.

“Please do,” Missy answered. “Eat yourself sick; eat it all before anybody whose opinion matters to me gets here.”

Brantley smiled and blew Lucy a kiss. “Will you be okay?”

It was the thing a man raised in the south and a veteran of cotillion class would ask his date, but Lanie laughed and pretended to swat at him. “She’s been okay with us without you around for years.”

Yes. She must remember that, especially after what she intended to do tonight.

“Let’s get that food put out before the masses arrive,” Lucy said. Tolly wasn’t here to keep them on task, so for today, she would take it up.

* * *

According to Missy, barbecue could not be cooked correctly at home without digging a pit and procuring hickory wood. Since she had no desire to ruin her landscaping, she had bought masses of pork, wings, chicken, and ribs from the best place in town, Depot Barbecue. However, the baked beans, corn casserole, slaw, and two kinds of potato salad were all her doing. She’d even made the pickles and the sandwich buns.

“You can’t tell anyone, Arabelle,” Missy said as she arranged deviled eggs on egg plates.

“Can’t tell that you bought the meat?” Arabelle looked puzzled and sniffed the pork. “This is from Depot Barbecue. Everyone eats there. They’ll recognize it.”

“Oh, no,” Lanie said. “You don’t get it at all. She doesn’t want anyone to know she made the other food. She always lies and says she buys it. She doesn’t want anyone to know she can cook.”

Arabelle laughed a pretty laugh to go with her pretty face. She had dark hair and bright blue eyes like Luke and Emma. “I won’t tell. I don’t understand but I am good at keeping secrets.”

“You’d understand if you lived in a town that had as many bake sales as this one does. They would wear me down to nothing.”

“Missy, how many guests do you think you’ll have?” Lanie asked as she started to count out plates for the buffet.

“Oh, who knows? We should put out twice as many plates as we’ll have people because some will go back and get a clean plate. I’d say fifty plates, but Harris is always inviting random people without telling me, so make it sixty. We can pull out more if we need them.”

“I’m afraid Brantley might have done a little of that inviting this year,” Lucy said. “Did he tell you he invited Will Garrett?”

“No,” Missy said. “But that’s fine. What’s one more? And we like Will.”

“Only one more?” Arabelle said. “What about his wife?”

“Will doesn’t have a wife,” Lucy said. At least he’d never mentioned one and she was pretty sure he didn’t wear a ring. “Though, I could be wrong.”

“No,” Missy said with certainty. “Will’s not married. Never has been. I’d know it.”

“No fiancée?” Arabelle persisted, as she poured Missy’s homemade barbecue sauce into a serving bowl.

“No,” Missy said. “Never been engaged. Though come to think of it, it seems there was some rumor going around about that. But it wasn’t true. Why?”

“Nothing,” Arabelle said. “I guess I heard the same rumor. No matter. Missy, do you want this barbecue sauce from the Depot put out too?”

“No. I control the sauce in this house and they are going to eat mine.”

* * *

An hour before kickoff the guests arrived in droves, including a classmate of Brantley and Missy’s, Ila Jo Gentry, who was in Merritt from Indiana for the holiday. Her husband, Jerry, wore a Notre Dame jersey.

“Are you going to send him home?” Lucy asked Missy.

“No. I guess I need to make my rules a little clearer next year.”

Lucy did not point out that there was no way Missy would don anything herself that lauded a team other than her own alma mater’s.

There were the usual suspects in crimson: the Cochrans, the Bennets, the Eubanks—all couples, all with children—plus Millie Carmichael, Jessilyn Chambers, and Jill St. John’s fiancé, though Jill was wearing the orange and blue. Besides Jill, other members of the Auburn contingent consisted of Carla Ashley, Larry and Jackie Joseph, and veterinarian Christian Chandler’s entire family.

When Will Garrett arrived twenty minutes before kickoff, it was impossible to tell by his attire—pressed jeans and a green starched oxford cloth shirt, devoid of any sort of logo—which team he rooted for, or if he cared. No one called him on it, maybe because baby Lulu was awake and in full overdrive or because Will wasn’t the kind of man you called on anything.

Most of the men settled into the den where the huge plasma TV hung, while the women divided themselves between the sunroom and the living room.

“I’m surprised you don’t want to be where the big TV is, Missy,” Arabelle said as she settled into a chair in the sunroom. Missy had steered serious fans to the sunroom and talkers to the living room. The older children were on the screened-in porch with the two teenagers Missy had hired to watch them.

“Lord, no. It would take a Marine Corp Special Unit to get me in there. You can practically taste the testosterone pouring out of there.”

“And what does testosterone taste like?” Laura Cochran asked.

Like Brantley, flashed through Lucy’s mind. And she hadn’t had a nearly good enough taste today.

But Missy answered without missing a beat, “Like pigs in a blanket.”

Lanie looked toward the TV. “Y’all watch for Tolly and Nathan.”

“Lanie.” Missy put Lulu in the nearby play yard with John Luke, who had pulled up and was dropping blocks over the side. “There are 101,821 people in that stadium. We are not going to see Tolly and Nathan—though we might see Kirby on the sidelines. His number is ten.”

“We might see Tolly and Nathan,” Lanie insisted as she patiently picked up the blocks and gave them back to her son. “If we watch.”

And just then ESPN sideline reporter Audrey Evans appeared on the screen and said, “I’ve got former Crimson Tide All-American Nathan Scott with me.” And Nathan’s face appeared on the screen.

Pandemonium broke out throughout the house, even from the Auburn fans.

He was one of their own.

* * *

It was an afternoon of food, fun, and, of course, football.

It was also an afternoon of Brantley, with him appearing every so often to offer Lucy a drink or just say hello.

During halftime, he wandered into the kitchen, where Lucy was loading the dishwasher, to try to convince her to put on that sweatshirt.

“It’s eighty degrees in here,” she told him. “Missy just cut down the air.”

“All the more reason for you to need a sweatshirt.”

“I’m good,” she’d said. “Go back to the man cave.”

He gave her shoulder a little squeeze before he left, and Ila Jo Gentry laughed.

“I’m glad I was around to witness that,” she said. “It was worth coming from Indiana to see.”

“What?” Lucy asked.

“Brantley Kincaid besotted.” If only that were true.

She looked across the way and noticed Arabelle standing by the fireplace in what appeared to be an intense conversation with Will Garrett. She idly wondered what that was about, but she was soon distracted by Brantley’s reappearance.

He carried two straight bourbons. “Here, baby. I thought you might want a fresh drink before the second half.” He gave her a brief kiss, so brief but so important because, even here among her friends, it was a ticket to fitting in, to belonging.

And she vowed that, though it wouldn’t last forever, she was going to make this last as long as she could.

Chapter Twenty

“Can you believe that game?” Brantley asked in an indignant voice as he held the door and helped her into his SUV. “I thought we were actually going to lose there for a while!”

Why he was so astounded, Lucy didn’t know. Alabama might have been the clear favorite this year, but where this rivalry was concerned, all bets were off—no matter who had the better team. For most Alabamians, this was the most important game of the season, far outweighing any bowl game or national championship. Losing this game got coaches fired; winning it guaranteed multimillion-dollar contracts.

But he ranted as he drove and she took pleasure in it—such pleasure that she barely noticed where he was going until he pulled into the garage between Miss Caroline’s house and the carriage house.

“I thought you might want to see the kitchen cabinets,” Brantley explained.

Yeah. That’s it. That’s exactly what she wanted to see.

She made a show of looking at them, though they were precisely what she expected. She had designed them and there was never any question of Will’s work. She opened each satiny maple door, and pretended to admire the precision.

Brantley came to stand in front of her and shifted his weight to one leg.

“So. I talked to Will today. He wants to take me to this architectural salvage place he knows in Georgia. I thought I knew them all, but he says this one is small but select. Great stuff. Might have some things we can use. He’s available Wednesday and we’d be gone overnight. We’re going in his truck so we can haul back anything we buy. It’s one of those big luxury jobs with plenty of room for you. I want you to go.” He leaned in toward her.

She shook her head. “I can’t, Brantley. Much as I would like to. I have a few clients that I have got to finish up with if I am going to give this project my full attention. The first of the year will be here before we turn around.”

He frowned, like he was trying to decide if she was being coy or if she really couldn’t spare the time.

And suddenly, the thought of being away from him for a night—for two days—left her feeling bereft.

Bereft—a word as old-fashioned as the crystal sconces and ornate woodwork that she loved, as old-fashioned as the feeling coursing through her.

She grabbed handfuls of his t-shirt and pulled him to her. He tasted like bourbon, like he had that night in Savannah. But tonight, she tasted like bourbon too, and not that silly affected lime and club soda that she had fancied so sophisticated. She was a woman with some experience, a realistic view, and a made up mind.

That heavy spring Savannah air was with them, right here in Merritt, Alabama, on an Indian summer November night.

And they both knew it. Brantley pulled away, cocked his head to the side, and gave her a questioning look. But, for once, he didn’t say a word. The air around them was doing their talking.

She barely hesitated. Caroline Brantley wasn’t the kind of woman to arrive unannounced and uninvited on her grown grandson’s doorstep, much less his bedroom, no matter who actually owned the property.

Still, one couldn’t be too careful. “Lock the door,” she said. And without a backward glance, she climbed the stairs.

By the time she stood beside that decadent chocolate, caramel, and champagne bed, Brantley had caught up with her. His arms went around her from behind and he lifted her breasts, kissed that spot on her neck, and rolled his erection against her bottom—all in the same moment.

Her knees gave away.

He caught her and his laughter was low and sweet against her neck. “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

He turned her around, lifted her to the bed, and proceeded to undress her, kissing as he went.

“I’ve got to ask you, Lucy Mead,” he said against her shoulder. “Is this it? Just in case I’ve got it wrong. ’Cause if this is another tease and tickle session, I can go with that. But I need to break it to some of my body parts.”

She laughed. He always made her laugh. That was almost as good as his mouth on her breast. Wait. Well, maybe not.

“No bad news for your body parts,” she said.

By now she was naked. “Thank God!” He pulled her to him, threw back the covers, and turned her face down in a cloud of wonder and began to kiss his way up her spine, all the while letting his fingers dance across her thighs, bottom, and over her ribs.

The bed was even better than she had imagined. The soft feathers beneath her, the sheets that felt like cool whipped cream, and the silk pillows made for a sublime tactile experience only surpassed by Brantley’s hard bronze body and warm skin against her.

“I was dangerously close to playing the blue balls card with you.” He rolled his throbbing penis against her buttocks and she shifted until she felt the pulsing between her thighs.

“I read somewhere once that was a lie,” she gasped.

“Not a lie.” He cut his own words off with his mouth against her neck and his tongue just so. She tightened her thighs around him to feel him better, to let him feel her better. “Maybe a lie,” he said heavily. “But who cares?”

With that he rolled to his back, pulled her on top of him, and urged her thighs apart until she was straddling him.

“How’s this?” He parted her and notched her against him in the most intimate way possible. “Slide against me. Yes.” He closed his eyes. “Harder. Now, kiss me.” And dear God, he opened his mouth and touched his tongue to his top lip. He did that for her and it made her stomach turn over.

When she shifted her body to bring her mouth to his, an unexpected jolt of pleasure made her cry out and buck hard against him.

He turned her on her back. “Lucy. I know what store is set by foreplay and there’ll be more of that next time. But, for now, it’s over.” He reached into the bedside table and pulled out a foil packet.

She couldn’t have agreed more. “And high time,” she said. “We’ve had days and days of foreplay.”

And finally, she opened up to him and he entered her, making them one. She thought, after such a long wait, it would be over quickly. But no. He took her to the edge, and pulled back again and again. He whispered that she was beautiful and that she felt wonderful. He moved in circles clockwise and then counterclockwise, until she cried out with pleasure and frustration.

Until, finally, he drove deep into her and urged her to rock against him.

“I want to feel you come, Lucy.”

And she did. She threw her pelvis forward so she could be sure he felt those glorious spasms.

And she felt his. Then they dozed in each other’s arms for a half hour and woke up and did it all over again.

* * *

It was sometime around midnight, after he had brought them a meal of the only thing he had in the house—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—and they had had yet another round, that Lucy sat on the side of the bed and reached for her clothes.

“You’ve got to take me home,” she said.

“I do,” he agreed and reached for her. “In the morning.”

Oh, no. That was not happening. It was one thing to lie naked in Caroline Brantley’s grandson’s arms with her sleeping serenely in her house fifty yards away. It was quite another to blatantly priss out the door in front of Miss Caroline, in broad daylight, wearing yesterday’s clothes.

He was way ahead of her. “Stay, Lucy. Stay with me. I know what you’re thinking, but I promise that we will not leave this house until I am more than sure that Big Mama is right and tight in her pew at Christ Episcopal. No one will see us go to the garage. Inasmuch as I am a grown man and make no apologies, I remember something my Papa used tell me.” His expression shifted to bittersweet. “He’d say, ‘Boy, see to it that you don’t present your personal business to the world in a way that will make some busybody report it in to your mama or your big mama. They may or may not care what you’ve been doing. They may or may not think it’s any of their business. But you can be mighty sure they will care a great deal if you are not circumspect and somebody feels the need to tell them about it.’” Then he looked at her imploringly, smiled, and held out his hand. “Stay.”

She hesitated. “I would not be a party to embarrassing Miss Caroline.”

“Nor would I.” He lifted the sheet and fluffed her pillow.

Temping. So temping to lie sweetly and serenely in his arms all night and wake up in the misty autumn light feeling rested and ready to be loved. Again.

But that wasn’t how the night went—at all.

To begin with, he slept right in the middle of the bed and snored, off and on. Though not a loud log sawing snore, it was audibly wheezy and right in the vicinity of her ear. When he wasn’t snoring, he was drooling—on her.

As far as the sleeping in his arms, that happened, and though she wouldn’t deny the sweetness, there was nothing serene about it. He clung to her like a four-year-old, latched onto his mother’s leg on the first day of preschool, taking her with him every time he turned over—which was often.

He talked in his sleep, muttering mostly about football and pumpkin pie. While he talked, he kicked, mostly the covers but sometimes her. He got up twice, presumably to use the bathroom, and both times when he came back to bed he said, “Lucy? Lucy? I didn’t wake you up, did I? Are you warm enough? Do you need anything?” and then promptly—before she had time to answer—fell asleep and proceeded to drool on her chest.

More than once she had to fight for the barest scrap of blanket, either because he’d kicked the covers off or dragged them to his side.

And that sweet, misty awakening had been anything but. During the night, rain and wind moved in, chasing away the magical warm autumn and bringing winter.

It was the best night of her life.

Chapter Twenty-One

Brantley rolled over and pulled Lucy to him. Her bed did not have the sink effect his did, but it was a fine enough bed on its own and mighty fine with her in it. And what they had just done had been beyond fine of any degree.

“I submit to you, Lucy Mead,” he said, “that the people over at Lou Anne’s only think Tuesday’s lunch special is chicken pot pie. No. The ultimate lunch special is Lucy Mead.”

She laughed and ran her hand up his side, and his heart and stomach turned over, circled around each other, and went back to their original positions. Mercy, this woman put everything she had into making love. And since Saturday night, he’d been the recipient of that effort many times in many places: his bed, her bed, couches, showers, a kitchen counter, and—once—in the elevator of the Brantley Building.

“So,” Lucy said with the tail end of laughter still mixed in, “do you want to set up a food cart and sell me on the street for $7.95? Iced tea and cornbread included.”

That should have been funny, but it was not. He didn’t like that picture worth a damn. In fact, it made him a little mad to even think of anyone else touching her.

He laughed anyway. “You are worth selling. I’ll give you that, but I do not believe I am willing to participate in that. Now.” He ran his finger along her jaw bone. “If we could record that laugh and sell it—well. With only a small portion of the profits, we could feed every third world country, buy a sports team, and rid the world of smallpox.” Educate our children in the finest institutions in the country. He didn’t add that part.

“The world is rid of smallpox.” She got out of bed and began to gather her clothes.

Damn. He’d known this was coming. She had to go do something about some curtains for somebody. She hadn’t been kidding about why she couldn’t go to Georgia with him and Will tomorrow. She was frantically trying to finish her projects by the first of the year. Then she’d be his, all his. They’d work on the Brantley Building all day and make love all night. She would be with him 24/7 and he would be safe from thinking about bad things.

Sunday, Lucy had asked Big Mama if she had any old photographs of the interior of the Brantley Building and Big Mama had produced a big box of pictures that was a jumble of everything that had ever happened to them. Big Mama had laughed and explained how she was “no good at keeping picture albums and Alden’s mother hadn’t been any better.” Lucy had opened the box, ooing and ahing like it was a chest of jewels. They never guessed that the sweating and accelerated heart rate had set in or that he had calmed immediately when he laid his hand on Lucy’s shoulder.

Too bad she hadn’t been there last night when he’d been at his old house and Charles had sent him to the bedroom to get batteries for the TV remote. He’d opened the wrong dresser drawer and found his mother’s jewelry.

And too bad she wasn’t going to Georgia with him and Will—though he didn’t so much need her for his sanity on that trip, as for the pleasure of her company. He would be fine away from Merritt. But if Will—who never really seemed to think anything was quite up to par—said this was a great place, Lucy would love it.

He rose up on his elbow for a better look at her bottom as she bent over to retrieve her shoes. “What about tonight? Please tell me you don’t have to work late. I’ve got a hankering for some catfish from that place out by the lake.”

“I don’t have to work late,” she said. “But I suggest you call your dad for company while you satisfy your hankering. I’m going to Lanie’s for book club.”

“What?” Well, damn! That’s why Harris had called and asked if he wanted to come over and re-watch the Iron Bowl with “the guys.” He’d turned him down—thought he’d be with Lucy. “You just had book club!”

“Simmer down, golden boy.” She gave him a sexy little smile over her shoulder. “I’ll call you when I head back. I’ll keep Eller while you’re gone to Georgia. You can go get her and be waiting here for me when I get back.”

Well, that was something. Not enough, but something. “I cannot believe you are going to go gossip and drink with those women when I’m leaving town tomorrow. You could do that while I’m gone.”

“We’re going to eat too. Don’t forget that,” she said glibly. “And I had those women before I had you.” And she went into the bathroom.

And I’ll have them when you’re gone. It hung in the air. She might as well have said it.

Maybe it was time he told her he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Lucy rang the doorbell of the Avery family farmhouse, Luke’s sister answered.

“Arabelle! I didn’t know you were still here,” Lucy said, surprised but pleased.

“It’s somewhat of a miracle,” she said. “I called in several favors and promised to work New Year’s to get a few extra days. Life in a big city hospital.”

“Very different from Merritt,” Lucy said as she followed Arabelle to the kitchen. “And Africa, I would think.”

“Oh, yes,” Arabelle said vaguely.

Five places had been set at the big round kitchen table. On a Lazy Susan sat four fondue pots of simmering cheese, broth, oil, and chocolate. Lanie was arranging bowls containing chunks of bread, raw meat, vegetables, fruit, and cake around the pots.

“Lanie, look what you have done,” Lucy said. She’d have to be careful tonight. Making a meal on tidbits added up really fast. Brantley didn’t seem to mind the spare flesh on her thighs but it could get so much worse so fast.

“I didn’t do it. Arabelle did,” Lanie said.

“It’s the least I can do after camping out here with you for a week and horning in on your book club.”

“Nonsense,” Lanie said as she walked to the marble topped island and poured three glasses of wine. “I’m just sorry Sheridan and David couldn’t stay as long as they planned. It was fun having two babies in the house.”

“Yes,” Arabelle said tightly and took a sip of her wine.

“I thought you were going to ride out here with Missy and Tolly,” Lanie said to Lucy.

Lucy laughed. “I suppose you thought that because that’s what Missy told you and Missy told you that because that’s what she intended to happen. But she did not check with me before she handed down her orders. I wanted my car.”

Lanie nodded. “I understand. Last time I had to leave early because I was with Missy. If she has another Lulu emergency, you and Tolly can stay.”

Actually, Lucy’s reason for driving herself was right the opposite. She wanted to be able to leave early. And get back to Brantley.

“Uh, yes,” Lucy said.

The bell rang. “And there they are.” Lanie exited the kitchen and a moment later squeals of greeting emitted from down the hall.

Arabelle smiled a controlled little smile and took a sip from her glass. “I envy you all this friendship. Always so happy to see each other,” she said.

“We’re not always this excitable,” Lucy explained. “We haven’t seen Tolly since before Thanksgiving. She was gone for days.”

“Days?” Arabelle cocked an eyebrow.

Lucy would have replied but, by then, the others had entered the kitchen and she and Tolly were hugging and dancing around. “How’s Kirby?” “I saw Nathan on TV!” “Wait until you see what I bought!” “Restaurant turkey—the worst!” flew through the air from four directions.

Days. It felt like forever. How much worse would it be when Brantley had been gone for weeks? Surely by the time it was months, she’d be over it.

“So.” Tolly took a sip of the wine Lanie had handed her and zeroed in on Lucy. “What’s this I hear about you having Thanksgiving at Caroline Brantley’s table?”

And Lucy laughed with delight in spite of herself.

* * *

“Lordy, I am stuffed.” Missy held up the long fork used to skewer the food. “I’ll be having some of those pots. And these forks. They would also make great weapons.” She playfully stabbed at Lanie.

“I can’t believe you’ve never had fondue,” Tolly said. “And I think the forks come with the pot.”

“When would I have had fondue?” Missy asked. “When have I been to Switzerland?”

“I haven’t been to Switzerland,” Lanie said. “And neither has Arabelle. But we’ve had fondue at the Melting Pot in Birmingham. Luke and Arabelle’s daddy loves it. If you weren’t such a snob about chain restaurants you could have had it too.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just start buying my candy at some chain instead of your fine establishment,” Missy shot back.

“That’s different,” Lanie said. And they all laughed.

Lucy reached into her purse and brought out a tiny wrapped package. “Before I forget,” she said handing it to Missy. “Here’s Lulu’s birthday present.” Missy, Harris, Tolly, and the kids were leaving the next day to go to Harris’s grandparents’ for Lulu’s first birthday. “It’s a charm for her bracelet. A little birthday cake with a one on it.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Missy said. “I am so glad you started that bracelet for her. I am the only southern woman on the planet who doesn’t have a charm bracelet and I would not have thought of it.”

Lanie said, “Arabelle has a great one. Twice the size of mine.”

Arabelle held up her wrist to show them the heavy charm laden gold bracelet. “It hasn’t grown as rapidly since Mimi died, but Mama still adds a charm occasionally. By the time Emma inherits it, she may need a gurney to haul it around.”

“Oh, Arabelle,” Lanie said. “Don’t say that. You’ll have your own little girl.”

“Maybe,” Arabelle said and got up to pour another round of wine.

“I tried to get Lucy to go with us to celebrate her namesake’s first birthday,” Missy said. “She said she had to work, but I know she doesn’t want to leave Brantley.”

“Not true. I would go, if I could. I do have to work. Besides, Brantley is leaving town tomorrow too. He and Will Garrett are going to a salvage place in Georgia to look at stuff for the Brantley Building.”

“Why aren’t you going with them?” Missy asked.

“Because,” Lucy said and lightly pounded the table for emphasis, “I have to work! I work. Why does no one believe me?”

They laughed. “Well, Lucy,” Lanie said, “you have to admit you were pretty vehement that nothing was going on between you and Brantley and the next thing we know, you’re kneeling at the altar with him for communion and eating Thanksgiving with his family.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Lucy said. “I was mistaken. Besides, don’t read too much into it. It’s early days.”

“I am reading everything into it,” Missy said firmly. “I am counting on it. I’m counting on you to keep him in Merritt and keep him away from Rita May Sanderson.”

At least Missy was honest about what she wanted.

Time to change the subject.

“Missy,” Lucy said. “I want to make a pumpkin pie. Could you send me a recipe?”

Missy looked triumphant and clapped her hands together. “Well, well, well. Could your sudden interest in baking be attributed to Brantley Kincaid and the esteem in which he holds pumpkin pie?”

Tolly and Lanie clapped their hands together, much as Missy had done, and made the sound of the female equivalent of a catcall. Even Arabelle smiled.

“I’ll email you the recipe I use before I leave in the morning. It’s great. I’ve made it a hundred times,” Missy promised.

“I need to talk about the Christmas parade,” Lanie said. “Last summer, when I agreed to donate the lollipops to give to the kids, I didn’t understand that I was also in charge of giving the lollipops out.”

“You don’t ask enough questions,” Missy said.

Lanie picked up her fondue fork and poked Missy’s arm.

“It’s true,” Missy said.

“Well, I’m about to ask you a question and the answer is going to be yes,” Lanie said. “I need y’all to give out lollipops at the Christmas parade.”

“Ride on a float and throw candy?” Missy said. “Sure. I love a float.”

“Well,” Lanie said, “you wouldn’t so much be riding on a float as you would be marching along side a float and handing out the candy. I am making these lollipops. I cannot make enough to throw willy-nilly into the crowd.” Lanie swallowed and looked around. “Besides, it will be more personal. Spread more Christmas cheer. You know.”

“Of course, we will do it for you, Lanie,” Lucy said. “We’ll be happy to. Won’t we, Missy?”

“Uh, sure. Yeah. It won’t be the same as riding on a float but, still, the parade.”

“What,” asked Tolly, who could never be accused of not asking enough questions, “will we be wearing?”

“That’s the other thing,” Lanie admitted. “There might be some cute green hats. Some shoes with turned up toes. Bells. Striped stockings.”

It took a second for it to sink in.

“Elves! We have to dress like elves?” That came from Missy.

Lanie shrugged.

Lucy rose and kissed Lanie’s cheek. “I will be proud to dress like an elf for you and give out the finest lollipops ever made. But I’m going to go now.”

Arabelle looked up in surprise. “You’re leaving before the book discussion?”

Missy, Lanie, Tolly, and Lucy exchanged looks and dissolved into laughter.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lucy sat in a front booth at Lou Anne’s eating a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and studying the recipe that had been in her email box that morning.

“Well, hello there, Lucy. I didn’t see you sitting up here.” She looked up to see Charles Kincaid standing beside her table. He had his jacket over his arm and his check in his hand.

She turned the recipe face down. “I didn’t see you either,” she said. “We could have eaten together.” She would have enjoyed Brantley’s father’s company.

“I can sit a minute.” He sat down across from her. “I have the strangest inclination to call you baby girl. Eva’s father called her that until the day they died.”

Lucy didn’t quite know what to do with that. “That’s charming.”

“The judge was a charmer. Does your daddy have a special name for you?”

“He sometimes calls me Lucy Belle.”

Charles laughed. “That sounds like something Alden would have come up with too. Brantley’s very like him.”

“Apart from his eyes, he looks like you,” Lucy said.

“Yes, he does. But I wish you could have known the judge, heard him speak. Brantley sounds like him—the cadence of his voice, his wit, and those odd phrases he comes up with. That’s his grandfather all over again.”

“I’ve wondered about his colorful vernacular.”

“That’s where he got it. I interrupted your reading.” He nodded to the face down recipe.

“Oh, this.” She turned it over again. “It’s a recipe for pumpkin pie. I was going to try to make one.” Her face went a little hot at this revelation, though she wasn’t sure why.

Charles looked beyond pleased. “So you’re going to make my boy his favorite pie?”

“I’m going to try.” She bit her lip. “The thing is I don’t know what a sugar pumpkin is.” She also didn’t have a pastry blender for the crust or a nutmeg grater. No doubt Missy would be scandalized but Lucy was just going to use the powdered nutmeg. However, she was going to make the crust. “Do you know anything about pumpkins?”

“I know there are some different kinds at the Publix, though I don’t know what kind.” Charles smiled the Brantley smile. “Tell you what. I’ve got to be out that way this afternoon. I’ll check in there. If they have any, I’ll leave one on your porch. If not, I’ll call you so you’ll know.”

“That would be great. It will save me going all the way out there after work,” she said, relieved. “I’ve got just enough time before my next appointment to run by the hardware store and get a pastry blender and a rolling pin.” And it wouldn’t take much time to go by Big Starr after work for the other ingredients.

“I’d get that for you too, but I have no idea what a pastry blender is.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” she admitted. “I hope it works out. I told him this morning I would have a surprise for him when he gets home.” Hell and double hell! Why had she let that slip out? Now Charles would know Brantley had woken up in her bed. But he just smiled broader. Maybe he assumed she’d told him on the phone.

Charles rose and picked up her check from the table. She opened her mouth to protest but he smiled and said, “Don’t even say it.”

* * *

Making pumpkin pie was harder than it sounded in the recipe and that had sounded plenty hard. That afternoon she’d written out a timeline. It took an hour and half to bake the pumpkin Charles had left her and then it was supposed to cool before she mashed it, mixed it with the other ingredients, and poured it in the crust to bake. She figured she’d tackle the pastry while the pumpkin was baking so hopefully she’d have a crust by the time she needed one.

It took a while to fight through the pumpkin with the best knife she had, which wasn’t saying much. She disregarded the footnote on the recipe that suggested saving the seeds to roast for snacking. She could buy SunChips. Those slimly seeds and the gunk attached to them were going in the garbage, or—oops—almost in the garbage. Some of it was sliding down the side of the can. Some it was sticking to her arm. Well, she’d clean it up later. She had pastry to make.

First, she was to measure out the flour and mix it with salt. Easy. Then cut the butter into small pieces and mix it into the flour with the pastry blender until it resembled course meal. She knew what that looked like from making cornbread. Next came the ice water, a tablespoon at a time, except she had to stop and make ice water. This part was tricky. It said between four and six tablespoons, depending on the amount of protein in your flour and the humidity. Well, dandy. Her flour was low protein soft winter wheat. It said so right on the White Lily bag. But did low protein flour want more or less water? And what did the humidity have to do with it? She picked up her phone and called Missy but her phone went straight to voicemail. Great. That meant that there was no cell phone coverage at Harris’s grandparents’ house. Missy never turned her phone off. Well, fine. Lucy didn’t need Missy. She started adding water and stirring it with a fork until she had something that looked like dough. It was a little crumbly so she added the rest of the water. Still crumbly. Well, too bad; that was all the water allowed. Maybe it would work out while it chilled for twenty-five minutes.

Okay. Pumpkin still cooking, dough chilling, pie pan out of the cabinet, new rolling pin washed and ready to go. It was going to be fine. There was time to mix the sugar with the spices, measure out the milk, and beat the eggs. At this rate, she’d be done in no time, certainly in plenty of time to talk to Brantley when he called later.

And he would call, wouldn’t he? He hadn’t said he would, but after last night . . . yes, he would. Certainly. Probably.

The baking pumpkin smelled good, which reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since her BLT at lunch. The crust had seven minutes left to chill, but it could go a little longer while she heated a Lean Cuisine and ate. A little extra would probably be even better.

She got distracted with a magazine while she ate her sesame chicken, and the pastry had enjoyed a full forty-five minutes in the refrigerator by the time she took it out and laid it on the floured wax paper. She picked up her rolling pin and started to roll, except it wouldn’t roll so she patted it for a while with her hands. The recipe said not to handle it, but how else were you supposed to get a pie out of this shit? Maybe she needed to dump it back in the bowl and add some more water. But did that mean she needed to chill it some more? She grabbed up the recipe with her greasy fingers and started looking for a loophole, though there was no point. She’d practically memorized it and there was no advice for when things went wrong—no advice from this greasy piece of paper and no advice from the no-cell-phone-coverage-having-Missy, who’d given her the recipe from hell and left town.

The good news was Brantley didn’t know what his surprise was supposed to be. She could throw it all in the garbage and he’d never know. She’d get a different surprise. Maybe a lemon icebox pie. Graham cracker crust, lemon juice, Eagle Brand Milk, eggs, Cool Whip—you got pie and a darned good one. He’d never know—except, damn. She’d told Charles.

Okay. Calm. Calm. Calm had always worked for her. Millions of people did this all the time, many of them dumber than she. Okay. Flour the rolling pin and roll. Short careful strokes. Yes. That was better. Hey, this wasn’t so hard after all. It was becoming a sheet of pastry! Just a little more. Yes. That looked big enough to fit in the pie pan. Now all she had to do was carefully, carefully, pick it up and transfer it. Yes, yes. There.

Hell and double hell! It fell apart in her hands.

And the doorbell rang.

Damn, damn, damn. She looked down at herself. Somewhere along the way, getting the pie crust in the pan had become more important than anything else in life—certainly more important than neatness. There was flour on her sweater, flour handprints on her bottom, and flour on her shoes. With Tolly and Missy gone, there was no one in this town she was all right with seeing her like this except Aunt Annelle and Lanie. Please let it be one of them or someone she didn’t have to let in.

She pushed her hair back as she walked toward the door. She was already swinging it open when she caught sight of herself in the hall tree mirror and saw the flour on her face and in her hair. Too late to pretend she wasn’t here.

And there stood Caroline Brantley, every hair in place, lipstick on, rust colored turtleneck tucked into brown wool pants, beige cable knit wool cardigan thrown around her shoulders.

“Oh, my,” Lucy said.

Caroline smiled. “Charles told me you were making a pie and you were starting with a fresh pumpkin.”

She did not know a word bad enough to describe this situation.

“Yeah.” Might as well admit it. “It’s not going all that well. Come in.”

“Let me get something out of my car first,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

So much for being Charles’s baby girl. He’d told on her. She tried to rub some of the flour off her face. What was that smell? Oh, damn. She’d forgotten about the pumpkin. There was smoke pouring out of the oven by the time she got there.

“Damn it all to hell!” she said as she threw the pan of blackened pumpkin in the sink. The smoke detector went off and she turned to see Miss Caroline standing behind her holding a Big Starr bag. She set the bag on the table, calmly opened the back door, turned on the exhaust fan over the stove, and started fanning the smoke out. After a minute or two, the ear splitting wail stopped.

“Well,” Lucy said, leaning on the counter that held the ruins of her piecrust. “Now you’ve heard me cuss.”

“Sweetheart, if you weren’t already a cusser when you got tangled up with my grandson, you were bound to be soon.” The woman actually looked amused.

“It’s not that I can’t cook,” Lucy said. “Now, I’m no Missy but I can make good lasagna and chicken and dumplings, and more than passable enchiladas. I’ll put my cheese grits up against anybody’s and I can fry a chicken. I can make a Coca-Cola cake from scratch. But this pie thing has defeated me.” She gestured to the kitchen. “Though not all pies,” she hastened to add. “I can make lemon ice box with the vanilla wafers around it.”

“Hardly a pie has been invented better than that one.” Miss Caroline took off her sweater and started cleaning up the mess. “What do you say we claim a victory where this pumpkin pie is concerned?”

“I’m not sure.” She looked doubtfully at the pumpkin in the sink.

“Oh, that’s history. I’m going to clean up here and I want you to unpack what I brought.”

Lucy opened the Big Starr bag. There was a box of Pillsbury piecrusts, a pound of dark brown sugar, a bottle of maple syrup, a carton of whipping cream—and a can of Libby’s solid pack pumpkin. She picked up the can of pumpkin for a closer look.

“Missy didn’t tell me about this.”

“Read the recipe on the back.” Miss Caroline bent over and wiped flour and bits of raw dough from the floor. “I assumed you have eggs and spices.”

Lucy nodded as she read.

Why, there was nothing to this. All you did was mix this can with a few things and you had pie! It didn’t even want nutmeg, freshly grated or not. With that box of piecrusts, this was no different from lemon icebox.

“Is this how you do it?” Lucy asked. “This is the one Brantley likes?”

“It’s not exactly how I do it. I substitute cream for the evaporated milk and brown sugar for the white. I add two tablespoons of the maple syrup. You just let that piecrust warm up on the counter for a few minutes and then fit it into your pan.”

“I can do this.”

“Of course you can.”

“You must think I’m the dumbest woman to ever walk.”

“I don’t think that. I think you want to make my grandson a pie and I think you want to do it by yourself. Else I would have sent Evelyn over. She might have intended to coach you through it, but she would have taken it over.” She moved to clean the pumpkin out of the sink. “I’ve made you a clean spot. Make your pie.”

Lucy mixed the filling while the rolled up crust warmed up a little. “So Charles didn’t think I could make this pie?”

“Charles doesn’t know a thing about pie, beyond the eating of it,” Miss Caroline said. “He just bragged that you were going to make Brantley his favorite pie. When he started talking about baking a pumpkin and buying a pastry blender, I thought there might be a little trouble. You never end up with a crust on the same day you buy a pastry blender.”

“There.” Lucy held up the pie plate with the perfect crust. She’d even crimped it, like it showed on the box.

“No one will ever know the difference. I love those crusts. The ones in the foil pans will give you away.”

Caroline finished restoring order and went to sit at the kitchen table. Lucy slid the pie into the oven, set the timer, and went to sit across from Miss Caroline.

“Oh.” She jumped up again. “I have no manners. Would you like some iced tea? Or I could make coffee. That is, if you trust my tea and coffee making after this mess.”

“Iced tea would be lovely and I trust you implicitly. Remember, I had your curried fruit.”

Lucy set about putting ice in glasses and cutting a fresh lemon.

“And, Lucy,” Miss Caroline said. “I trust you with Brantley. That’s not something I could have said to many young ladies.”

That warmed her and scared her all at the same time.

She didn’t know what to say, so she broached another subject, one she had been toying with for a few days.

“Miss Caroline,” she turned to face her. “I’ve been going through that box of pictures.”

“Have you found much that will help you with the restoration?”

“Oh, yes, so many great ones. But there are lots of family pictures too. I was thinking of making Brantley a photo album for Christmas.” Surely they would last until Christmas. “I’d get copies of the pictures I use, of course. But I didn’t want to do it without asking your permission.”

“Oh, my dear!” Caroline smiled broadly. “What a wonderful thought. And you must use the originals if you like. There are so many wonderful ones of him with Eva. With Alden. With all of us. What a treasure.”

Lucy wasn’t sure if Miss Caroline meant the book would be a treasure or if she was talking about Lucy herself.

* * *

Brantley called just as Lucy was crawling into bed, just when she thought he wasn’t going to.

“Lucy Mead,” he said. “I am not a happy man.”

Warmth spread though her.

“Do you know why I am not happy?”

She snuggled under the covers. “Because Will wouldn’t take you to Six Flags Over Georgia?”

“Close. I am missing my own personal amusement park that is Lucy Mead.”

“That isn’t the most flattering comparison I’ve ever heard,” she said. “I don’t believe I want to be thought of as a funnel cake and log ride. Maybe I’ll cancel your surprise.”

“No! Don’t take back the tall boots. Please. Anything but that. What if I compared you to something else—say, a rose garden? A perfume shop? How am I doing?”

She laughed.

“Ah, I’ve been waiting all day to hear that.” His sweet caramel voice was so warm, so sexy, and so convincing that for the first time she actually considered looking into tall boots.

“How was the salvage store?” she asked.

“Great.” The flirtation left his voice and took on the professional down to business tone. “Will called ahead and they stayed open late for us. That’s why I haven’t called before now. I’ve got to say, you were right about Will. He knows his stuff. And he entirely understands that we want to use period materials where we can. He even said he would install the salvaged materials in prominent places and use his reproductions, say, near the ceiling. Though he is pretty sure of himself. He said I wouldn’t be able to tell one from the other. I told him I doubted that.”

She laughed again. “Did you get some of the things we talked about?”

“Yes. Three doors, and they are going to be on the lookout for more. Will suggested that, though that’s taking money out of his pocket. For every door they find, that’s one he won’t make.”

“Will stays busy. I doubt he’s worried about that. What else did you get?”

“Some flooring. Woodwork, but not near enough. No light fixtures, but I gave them the pictures you sent.”

“Sounds like you did pretty good.”

“It’s a start. And there’s one more thing. You remember the picture you found of how the reception area looked originally? The fireplace they covered up?”

She shuddered. “How could I forget?”

“I wish I had brought that picture, but I think there’s a mantle and some tile here that would satisfy you.”

That would be a fantastic find. “I could scan the picture and send it,” she said.

“No. I am not making that judgment call, even with a picture. That’s for you to decide. I took a picture and I’ll send it to you when we hang up. If you want it, we’ll pick it up first thing in the morning. If not, we’ll head on back.”

He trusted her professionally. They were not far enough into the work that she had been sure he would. It would have been easy to gush about that but she didn’t.

“I’ll look at it and text you.”

“Just give me a yes or a no and I’ll take care of it.”

“Is it in good condition?”

“Fair. Nothing Will can’t set to right.” He paused. “I wish you could have come.” His tone told her that wish had nothing to do with fireplaces.

“I wish you were here,” she said.

“I will be. Probably by five without a mantle or by six with.”

He had calculated the time. Against her better judgment, she started counting.

Chapter Twenty-Four

As soon as Will dropped Brantley at the carriage house, he picked up his car and drove straight to Lucy’s—where he had every intention of staying until morning.

In the instant before he closed in for a kiss, he noticed that her color was high, and she had an excited-looking little smile. That might have something to do with the surprise she had been taunting him with or that he was back. Maybe both. The two days and night had seemed like a month.

He would have kissed her a month’s worth if she hadn’t pushed him away, gestured to her body, and said, “What do you think?”

No! Oh, how he hated a question like that. One of the things he liked best about Lucy was that she never did that. What was the answer? I like your body? That’s a great new hairdo? Or was he supposed to say something about that pink fuzzy sweater and that gray skirt that hit her about mid calf?

Then she put one foot out and raised her skirt to her knee.

She was wearing knee high black leather boots. The heels had to be all of three inches high and there was as thin strap around the ankle decorated with a few small silver studs and a delicate little buckle.

No doubt she had gotten them at the mall.

Now her smile had a little wicked edge to it and she was doing her best to leer at him. And she was blushing.

She was so proud of herself, thought she was being so bad. His heart positively melted at her innocence and because she was trying to please him.

Trying? Hell, she had pleased him. And something stirred in him that no thigh high vinyl boots, with platforms, eight-inch heels, and studs from top to toe ever could have.

She thought she was being bad and she expected him to respond in kind.

He’d show her bad.

He grasped her to him and pulled her skirt up. “Are you my naughty girl?” he asked, tangling his hand in her thong. “Oh, a thong too? You aren’t just naughty. You’re all the way to the bad zone, Lucy Mead.”

“I am,” she said and reached for the zipper of his jeans.

She wouldn’t be disappointed with what she found. It had been a long two days. Hmm. What he found showed it had been a long two days for her too. Or maybe it was the excitement of her bad girl boots. Either way, she was ready.

He retrieved the condom from his pocket right before his pants hit the floor.

And she laughed for him.

“Sorry to have to do this,” he said and ripped the thong off her. Then he backed her up against the wall and took her right there.

She came three times.

* * *

Later, they lay on the foyer rug, with Eller sniffing at their heads.

“Do you think she will tell on us?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, probably, but do we care?” He smoothed her hair back and she smiled with what must have been afterglow. Suddenly, he wanted to please her more than he had ever wanted to please anyone. That was saying a lot because he was a pleaser. “What do you say,” he said, “that we go to that Chinese takeout place out by the mall? We’ll get some of that shrimp with walnuts that you like. Then we’ll come back and order up one of those movies with somebody like Jennifer Anniston or Hugh Grant in it. Maybe both, if there is one. We can watch it right in bed while we eat.”

“We can’t,” Lucy said. “I told your grandmother we’d come over and help decorate her Christmas tree.”

And the bottom fell out of what had been shaping up to be a perfectly good day.

He should have seen this coming. But it had been so long since he’d participated in the annual Brantley family tree trimming that he had let himself forget. Let? Hell, he’d willed himself to forget—willed hard.

It had always been the same. Tree already set up in front of the window in the study, right by the piano. Big Mama hired that done. Brantley had always played the piano while Papa and Dad put the lights on the tree. Okay, so something wouldn’t be the same.

On the bar, there would be shrimp bisque in a chafing dish and hot open faced sandwiches—crab melts and broiled tomato and cheese—on a warming tray. The season’s first batches of Christmas cookies and eggnog. Probably wouldn’t be any of that bacon dip this year. Mama had always made that and mostly because he liked it.

His tie was too tight. He reached to loosen it and discovered only the neck of his t-shirt.

The boxes of ornaments would be open and waiting, with the construction paper and pipe cleaner ornaments he’d made wrapped in tissue and kept just as carefully as the blown glass angels that Big Mama’s mother had collected.

He’d broken one of those angels when he was small. Hadn’t meant to. It was pretty and he’d only wanted a closer look—but it had been so thin. He had been positive Santa Claus would definitely not come. Papa had swung him into the air. “What’s all this crying about? We don’t cry over things. Just stuff. That’s all it is. Why, your big mama will love that you liked it enough that you wanted to look at it.” And he’d taken him to the hardware store and let him pick out a new ornament to replace it—a hideous plastic frog wearing a Santa hat. They told the story every year and Mama would claim that if she had broken that ornament as a child, the outcome would have been very different. And right there among the sterling silver stars and crystal snowflakes, Big Mama always hung that frog in a prominent place.

Of course, Brantley wouldn’t be expected to hang any of those ornaments. No, he had to play Christmas carols while all this was going on.

Lucy was sitting up now, smoothing her hair and talking about changing into pants in case she needed to climb on a ladder.

“Aw, Lucy. We don’t want to do that,” he said. He held out his hand and tried to pull her back down. “I’ve been gone forever. We want to stay here. Just you and me. Chinese food. Sappy movie.” He smiled and let his eyes half close. “Maybe order up a bad movie for my bad Lucy.”

She laughed. “We have to go. I said we would. Maybe I’ll put those boots on for you again when we get back.”

“I’m not going,” he said lightly but he meant it. “Not going to do it.”

“They are expecting us.”

She was not giving in. It was time to get down to business.

“No, really, Lucy. I am not going. I have been on the road for the better part of two days. I have rifled through everything in a salvage store—and that includes the attic and basement—for hours. Some of it twice. I have loaded a truck with what I bought. And then I unloaded that truck into Will Garrett’s shop for storage. I am not going to go make merry tonight.”

He stated it all in a calm and pleasant voice. They were good reasons. That should be the end of it.

Except it wasn’t. Lucy Mead did not look delighted. Not at all.

“You don’t have to.” She got to her feet. Excellent! This was the part where she would call Big Mama and beg off. But she went on. “After all, I can’t make promises for you. I shouldn’t have. But I thought since it’s your family—well, never mind. I am going because I can make promises for myself. And I keep my promises.”

Well, here it was. He had not expected it this soon; he had hoped it wouldn’t come at all. This was their first argument. Except he didn’t argue. Ever. Arguing led to death and he would never be a party to that again. That’s why he had walked away from so many relationships. That’s why he had just let Rita May walk away, even in the early days when he’d thought she was sweet and he’d liked her.

It had infuriated Rita May that he wouldn’t argue with her. But he never had. He’d always let her go and, that last time, he’d gone.

But this wasn’t Rita May. This was Lucy—his salvation, his calm. He couldn’t let her walk away.

The time was now. He either had to argue with her and try to get his way or he had to go with her. Or there was a third option. What if he told her the truth, told her that he was not mentally prepared for Kincaid-Brantley Christmas rituals? She would understand; of course she would. And she would fix it for him. But how would he even start? No. Better just to go do it and get through it.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, hell, Lucy Mead. You slay me. After those boots, I just can’t tell you no. Any chance I can get you to go commando? At least give me something fun to think about?”

And she laughed. The moment passed.

Deep breaths. Work though it. Pretend it isn’t happening and it won’t.

* * *

By the time they left Miss Caroline’s house, Lucy was pretty mad at herself. She was also a little mad at Caroline Brantley for making her a party to getting Brantley to that tree trimming party. She sighed as Brantley helped her into the car. On the other hand, it was hard to blame the woman. Clearly, Brantley needed healing and she was trying to make that happen.

And it had been clear, almost from the moment they’d walked in that this was the first time Brantley had participated in this little ritual since his mother and grandfather had died. Miss Caroline was trying to recreate past memories. Brantley was fighting not to panic. Charles was just trying to keep it between the lines for all of them.

Miss Caroline had asked Brantley to play the piano and he had refused in a tone that was respectful but adamant.

Just in case she might press the point, Charles had intervened. “Son, come help me with these lights. Miss Caroline, why don’t you put on a CD?”

After that, things had gone well enough. There had even been some laughter.

“Brantley,” Lucy said as soon as he took his place behind the wheel, “I should not have pressed you to do this thing. I did not realize it was the first time since—”

He cut her off, but not in a hateful way. It was as if he wanted to stop the words from coming out of her mouth. “I don’t live here anymore. Or I didn’t. When would I have been decorating Christmas trees?” he asked lightly and started the car.

“I don’t know. You come and go. Or you did. Christmas break when you were in college. Sometime. But I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said as he drove.

“I guess I just don’t think that ‘I don’t want to,’ is a good enough reason to say no, when someone who loves you asks you to do something. And there’s no denying how much Miss Caroline loves you. It didn’t seem to be such a large thing that she was asking for. But it was. I see that now. Next time, just tell me the real reason for saying no. I promise I’ll be on your side.”

He pulled into Lucy’s driveway and turned to her. “When I said it was okay, Lucy, I meant it. It really was okay.”

“I can see,” she said carefully, “that you are going through fresh grief. You haven’t been back here, living with the memories, since it happened. And, Brantley, it was such an awful time. I was a kid, but even I could see that. I wish you would think about seeing someone.”

“Here’s the thing, Lucy.” He took her hand and his demeanor was so earnest, so different from the usual Brantley. There was that openness again. “It really was okay. It turned out good. I didn’t want to go, but I’m glad I did. And do you know why? Because of you. You ground me, Lucy. You make it all okay. I don’t need to talk to someone. I just need you.”

Wow. That was heady stuff, to be needed by Brantley. But it niggled at her. Even if it was true, she might be able to help him but she couldn’t be the total solution. No one could.

“And it helps everyone to have you there,” he went on. “You make things different and we need some different.”

Maybe. She wasn’t convinced, but this time of year it was so easy to put things off until “after the holidays”—even worrying.

“Are you ready to go inside and have your surprise?” she asked.

His eyes widened. “The boots weren’t my surprise? How could there be anything better?”

“Oh, this is better, way better.” And she led him in the door and straight to the kitchen.

“Lucy Mead, better is in the bedroom, not the kitchen,” he said.

“Wait until you see.” She pulled the pie and the can of whipped cream she’d bought out of the refrigerator. “I made it myself. Last night.” She didn’t plan to tell him it had almost been a lost cause. “Would you like a piece?”

“Well, yes I would!” he said enthusiastically.

She carefully cut a wedge, squirted a few rosettes of cream on it, and reached into the drawer for the silver Francis I fork.

“Open up!” She fed him a bite of the pie, praying it would be good.

If it wasn’t, he gave a good performance, complete with moans and shudders. “Best pie I have ever had. I have eaten pumpkin pie in many establishments, fine and otherwise. And I declare there is no finer than this one.” He let her feed him another bite before he took the plate and fork from her. “But as fine as this pie is, it does not quite come up with those boots.” He set the pie on the counter. “But I know how to even the score a little.”

And, to her surprise, he stripped her to the waist, laid her across the kitchen counter, and placed a dollop of pie and whipped cream on each nipple.

* * *

After lots of messy fun and a trip to the shower, Brantley stood up from where he sat on the side of the bed and snapped his fingers. “I forgot. I brought you something from my little trip.”

“Good.” She looked up from her dressing table where she was sitting combing out her wet hair. “I’ve been needing a shot glass that says Georgia On My Mind. I’ve been needing it for a while. It’ll go great with my San Francisco booty.”

He threw on a t-shirt and some flannel pants. “Be right back.”

The night had been such a roller coaster of good and bad, but was ending so good that she refused to fret about him going to his car wearing sleep clothes.

Soon, he returned and set a square cardboard box on the dressing table. “Salvage stores don’t wrap. Sorry,” he said.

Expecting some cheesy t-shirts and coffee mugs advertising the store, she opened the box.

What was inside took her breath away. Antique glass doorknobs. And there were so many—clear faceted crystal, milk glass, smooth translucent green glass with bubbles, and more crystal in jewel tones—emerald, ruby, amethyst, and sapphire.

And she began to cry—because it was the perfect gift, because he knew her so well and not at all, because he was grieving and broken, because she was almost touching happiness as perfect as this box of beautiful history that so many hands had touched coming, going, coming back, and leaving again.

And for Brantley and her, there would only be leaving.

“Lucy, baby. What’s wrong?” His voice was sweet, his hands on her face gentle.

“Nothing. It’s silly. They are just so beautiful—I’m overwhelmed.”

“That’s the kind of tears I like,” he said. “Come on. You’re tired.” And he led her to bed, turning off lights as he went.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The days of December sped by like pages of a book in the hands of a grand champion speed reader. Lucy was working too much to suit Brantley, but that was winding down. Her clients wanted their work completed for Christmas and Lucy never disappointed.

At least she didn’t disappoint him. Life was great. They had decorated a tree at her house and spent a great deal of time in front of the fire, sometimes clothed, most times not.

He’d had no trouble talking her into spending the holiday with him—the whole kit and caboodle. Potato cheese soup and watching It’s a Wonderful Life before church on Christmas Eve; midnight service at Christ Episcopal; opening one present after church; the whole unwrapping extravaganza and brunch Christmas morning; fancy dinner with some kind of giant piece of cow mid-afternoon, followed by lolling and playing with presents.

Lucy was all in.

He’d thought he’d have to share her with Annelle for at least part of it, but no. Annelle was going to Charleston and Lucy did not want to go. He hoped that at least part of her desire to stay was due to him.

While he still was not looking forward to the holiday, he knew now that he could get through it because she would be there to touch him, smile at him, and laugh for him.

On the other hand, he was looking forward to the week after Christmas. According to Lucy, Annelle always closed the shop from December 23 until January 2. That was not prime time for interior revamping and as far as selling odds and ends, Annelle claimed quality of life meant something and she did not intend to spend her Christmas Eve at the shop in case someone wanted to buy a tablecloth that they should have already bought. That seemed a pretty odd idea for a shop owner, but if it would free up Lucy for him, it was okay by Brantley. That week would be their last chance to play before getting down to serious business on the Brantley Building.

Maybe they would take a little trip. Yes. That would be fun. They’d had fun the day they’d gone to Nashville to Christmas shop and this would be even better. He’d get on planning that—right after he hauled all those boxes and bags of dishes and gewgaws over to the church for Big Mama and Lucy. Tonight was the flower guild Christmas party and, the way he understood it, they decorated tables and there was a prize for the best one. Lucy seemed to be helping Big Mama and when he had asked what about Lucy’s own table, she had laughed. “I don’t have a table. There are only eight and somebody has to die or choose you to take theirs over. I will never have a table of my own.” Big Mama had looked thoughtful and said, “You never know.”

He’d have to go back after the party and haul all that stuff back but, meanwhile, he was going down to Tiptoe Watkins’s barn, where the Rotary Club was building the Santa Claus float for the Christmas parade. Charles had been asking him to come by and Luke, Nathan, and Harris would be there. He wasn’t in Rotary, of course, but he probably would be after he told them he was staying in town. No one knew that yet, not even Lucy.

It might be time to figure out when he was going to do that.

Yeah.

* * *

Three days before Christmas and the morning before the Christmas parade, Brantley entered his grandmother’s house to ask her to make good on a promise. Evelyn, wearing a Christmas sweater with blinking lights, was singing carols to the top of her lungs as she dropped divinity on wax paper. Evelyn loved Christmas. She gave him a piece of still soft divinity sandwiched between two pecan halves and admonished him to “Be sweet.”

That’s exactly what he intended to do.

He found Caroline in the study, sitting beside the Christmas tree, with a notepad and a stack of Christmas cards in her lap.

“Hello, darling.” She lifted her cheek for his kiss. Could she really be as genuinely happy to see him as it seemed? Would she always? He pushed that thought aside. He was not here today for confessions. It might be unfair to ask for what he wanted without confessing, but fair or not, he wasn’t going to do it. Yet. But soon. After he had glued the family back together a little better. “I was just enjoying the tree, reading some cards, and making a list of a few last minute things.”

He sat down in the easy chair opposite hers—the one Papa used to sit in. Usually he avoided that chair but today it felt right.

“I don’t see how you could have anything left to write on a list,” he said. “There’s not room for one more present under that tree or one spot in this house that needs decorating.”

She laughed and laid aside her reading glasses. “There’s always something else to do at Christmas—at least there has been this year.” This year. Yes, because he was here and Lucy had put them back together. Christmases in these past years must have been as empty for Charles and Caroline as they had been for him.

Guilt tried to settle in on him but he turned it away. He couldn’t do anything about it then, but he could now.

“It’s been wonderful this year, hasn’t it?” she said wistfully.

“Yes.” And to his surprise that was true.

“Did you have fun at your dinner out with your friends last weekend?”

“Yes.” It had not been a fancy meal. They had—kids, babies, and all—gone down to Birmingham for a big, loud, messy Mexican meal. Kirby, who was home for winter break, had joined them. He had a girl with him, who the women grilled and the men tried to rescue. “After we had dinner, we drove around in a caravan and looked at Christmas lights. Missy declared it a success so it must have been. She says it’s our new Christmas tradition. Of course, Missy declares a new tradition about as often as the wind changes direction.”

“Still,” Big Mama said, “tradition is nice. History . . . a feeling of belonging. You are all lucky that Missy has appointed herself the gatekeeper for your friendships and traditions.”

“You’ve got that right. She’s the gatekeeper. She decides who gets in and nobody gets out.”

He regretted it as soon as he said it. Big Mama laughed but there was a little sadness hanging around in the background. Big Mama had been the gatekeeper for their family, but he’d been the gate crasher. And now, she was probably wondering if she would ever have another holiday season like this one, or if he’d be off in New England, New Orleans, or Timbuktu, where he might or might not allow her and Charles to meet him at a restaurant on Christmas Day.

It was time. “Big Mama,” he said quietly, “You are the first to hear this. I have told no one else, not even Dad. A long time ago you told me that when the time came, I could choose an engagement ring from the family jewelry. That time has come. Is that promise still good?”

“Well—” He had never seen Caroline Brantley look so befuddled; come to think of it, he’d never seen her look befuddled at all. And her face had gone white. “Well, darling, of course. Yes. But—”

“But what?”

“But who, Brantley?”

She was kidding, right? “Who? Lucy, of course. Who did you think?”

She put her hands up palms out and closed her eyes. “I didn’t think. I mean to say, it’s been such a short time with you and Lucy, that I was afraid . . . I mean, I thought it was possible that . . .”

Even after all this time, she would not say it, would not criticize his choices.

But he would. He crossed to where she sat and settled on the ottoman. “I am not going to marry Rita May, Big Mama. I am never going back to Rita May. I have not heard from her, seen her, or thought about her. It’s all Lucy.”

She didn’t look much happier. “I see.”

Oh, hell, no. Rita May was one thing. She deserved to be disliked; she got up in the morning begging for it. But Lucy was another. “I thought you liked Lucy,” he said coldly.

She looked up, shocked. “Like Lucy? My darling, I love Lucy. So does your father. We adore her. It’s just that it’s been such a short time. Are you sure?”

“Not so short,” he said. “I know we haven’t been strictly involved long, but we’ve known each other since we were kids. It’s not like I met her last month.”

Caroline was nodding now, getting some of her color back. “And Lucy is open to this? You aren’t rushing her?”

Rushing her? “No. I know my mind and I know Lucy’s.”

He was on the verge of asking if he was getting a ring or wasn’t he? Though it wasn’t really a question of getting a ring. Because he was getting a ring. Today. Asa Reed would sell him any ring he wanted without all these questions. He just wasn’t sure if he was getting a family ring. And if Caroline couldn’t be on board one hundred percent, he didn’t want one.

“Well, all right then,” she said. “As long as you are both sure. That said, I cannot begin to tell you how happy this makes me.” And she did look happy. Finally. She leaned over to embrace him. “And I know Charles will feel the same. Of course, you will have any ring you want, save the one on my finger. And that will come soon enough.” She held out her hand where she still wore the engagement and wedding rings that Papa had given her.

“Not soon,” Brantley said. “You’re going to be around a long time. And,” he said slowly, “I am going to be here with you. In Merritt. When the Brantley Building is finished, I will have to set up my office, of course. I’ll need a place. I know you said you were going to use Papa’s old office, but I thought—”

And she began to cry. “No. I don’t need an office. I never needed an office. Of course, you will have it. Brantley, this is just the best Christmas gift anyone could have given me. Lucy, you staying here, the office . . . oh, and the wedding!”

Okay. Enough. “First things first,” he said. “About that ring . . .”

She wiped her tears and looked thoughtful. “Yes. About that. Brantley, have you thought of—”

Oh, what now? “Of what?”

“Have you thought of your mother’s rings?”

Oh, damn. Oh, hell. Did not see that coming. His heart began to race and his head spun. Sweating now. Breathe. Didn’t see it coming at all.

And Big Mama wasn’t seeing it. “Eva had such lovely rings. I don’t know if you ever paid much attention. Charles bought the antique Edwardian setting and had it set with the rubies and diamonds.” She went on talking about rose gold, the quality of the stones, Lucy’s taste, and how pleased Charles would be.

And he went on sweating. Deep breaths. Chills and heat.

And there was no Lucy here to save him, to calm him, to make him not crazy.

Breathe. Pretend it’s not happening. Show it who’s boss.

Finally, he found his voice. “I had really thought a diamond ring. Not colored stones.” Surely, there was a ring like that in that stash.

Big Mama smiled brightly. “Then let’s go to the bank. Just let me get my key to the safe deposit box.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lucy smoothed her green velvet tunic and found her assigned place in the parade lineup. Besides the three of them, Lanie had drafted ten others to give out the candy; they were to march at staggered intervals along the parade route and hand the lollipops directly to the children, one per child. They were also to skip and smile. If they could kick up their toes and ring the bells on their shoes, that would be even better.

Lanie had allowed Missy to make the rules and instruct the volunteers. Lanie had, however, denied her a bullhorn.

Lucy practiced a little skip step and put a bell ringing motion in it. Not bad. Now with the other foot.

Strong arms caught her from behind. “How about a little elven magic?”

And that warm caramel voice poured over her, melting her into nothing. And nothing would be what she’d be left with next year. She had given up trying to protect herself, had decided that Christmas was magic, and she was just going to let the magic happen. Determined to not let thoughts of next year ruin this year, she turned in his arms.

“What have you been up to today?” She hadn’t heard from him since early this morning, when he’d woken her with his tongue applied just so . . .

“Oh, this and that.” He whistled a little and turned his face up, pretending to study the night sky.

That probably meant he’d been shopping for a Christmas gift for her. In addition to the photo album she’d made for him, she had found a set of antique drafting tools. They would look neat hanging on the wall, if he ever settled down.

“This and that? You’ve been busy.” She toyed with a button on his shirt. “I might have expected this or that. Never both.”

He laughed. “See, here’s the trick. Schedule it in your DayRunner and it happens. I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Brantley!” Missy was barreling toward them with a clipboard in hand and the bell on her pointed elf hat ringing. “Let her go! It’s time for the parade to start. Get up there on that sidewalk!” And she ran past, no doubt, to lay down the law to the rest of the elves.

“I guess I’d better get up there on that sidewalk.” His amber eyes were as bright as his smile. “Though it’s hard to take a woman in an elf hat seriously, even if she does have a clipboard.”

“I’ll see you at the high school for the party after.”

He kissed her nose. “I’ll be waiting for you at the end of the route. Can’t have elf girls wandering around town, left to get to parties on their own. They might get stolen.”

He walked away, but turned to give her a little wave before he blended into the crowd.

Moments like this made her wonder if it might be barely possible that . . .

The band struck up “Jingle Bells”—the signal that the parade had begun.

* * *

The after parade party, held in the high school gym, was given by the Rotary to thank everyone who had had anything to do with the parade, from marching cub scouts to the largest corporate sponsor. Consequently, it seemed like most of the town was there. It wasn’t an elaborate party. Who had time to make decorations and fancy food with all the effort that had just gone into the parade and with Christmas three days away? But there was pizza, cookies, soft drinks, and punch. Santa was handing out candy to the children who had been in the parade, and the Merritt High band was playing background music. There would be a few speeches, but mostly this event was about visiting with neighbors.

Brantley steered Lucy to a large table near the portable stage where the other book club girls were sitting. Beau and Emma played nearby, wearing their mothers’ elf hats.

Brantley pulled a chair out for Lucy. “Ladies,” he greeted the table. “What fine elves you are. Where are your menfolk?”

“Doing what menfolk do,” Tolly answered. “Hunting. For pizza.”

Brantley looked around and sighed. “Then I shall do the same.” He dropped a kiss on Lucy’s mouth. “I will return triumphant. No woman of mine will go hungry, no matter how many boy scouts and baton twirlers I have to take out.”

When he had gone, they all turned and smiled.

“What?” Lucy said.

“This is it,” Lanie said. “I’ve got a feeling.”

“I’ve got more than a feeling,” Missy said. “I drove by your house today, Lucy, and Charles Kincaid was out there cleaning up the leaves in your yard.”

“What?” Lucy said. What she wanted to say was What in the hell? But there were children present.

Missy shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

“I am so embarrassed.” Lucy covered her face. “I know I should have taken care of that. And it got so bad that Charles cleaned them up. But I’ve been so busy.”

They all laughed. “Busy with Brantley,” Tolly said. “I think Charles is just trying to show you that he approves.”

“I don’t know about Charles, but I certainly do,” Missy said. “I get down on my knees and thank God every night. It has been a hard job worrying about who Brantley was going to end up with.”

“Brantley has not ended up with—” Lucy began but stopped because the guys returned with pizza just as the mayor took the stage.

“I got you veggie and a water,” Brantley whispered, as he settled in next to her with his Coke and pepperoni and sausage.

At least no one could comment on how he had learned her ways because the mayor was speaking practically on top of their heads.

He thanked the Rotary and praised all the volunteers who had made the parade a success. Then he began to enumerate the strides Merritt had made in the past year—repaired roads, new businesses, the continued work by the Downtown Revitalization Committee. Then he went on to talk about Little League triumphs, the money the Junior League had raised for the hospital, the addition to the library, and Nathan’s team’s trip to the playoffs.

“That isn’t all that happened in our town this year. It’s just the highpoints. But, as most of you have heard, we have had exciting news of late. Beginning in January, work will begin to restore one of our historic treasures, the Brantley Building. Once it’s complete, it will fulfill a need that has been lacking in our community. We have long dreamed of having a multi-purpose center for cultural endeavors. And now we will have one, courtesy of the Brantley and Kincaid family.”

This was met with applause, maybe because people were pleased or maybe because they knew the mayor was almost finished.

But he said, “Mrs. Brantley, would you like to say a word?”

Miss Caroline was here? Lucy looked around. She was sitting with some of her friends not far from where Charles sat with Tiptoe Watkins and Laura Cochran’s father, Dr. Vines. Lucy gave them a little half wave.

Miss Caroline stood. “Thank you, Mayor Henry, but I believe I was quite loquacious enough on the subject at the press conference a few weeks back. Perhaps my grandson might say a word?”

More applause. Brantley didn’t flinch. He got up, mounted the little stage, and took the microphone. Lucy was so proud.

“Thank you, Mayor. I’ll be brief. My family is thrilled for this opportunity. I will not enumerate all that we plan to do, but Lucy Mead, Will Garrett, and I are already hard at work making plans. Just one of the things I am excited about giving this town is the ballroom. It sustained water damage in 1968 and has not been used since.” He gave the audience that million dollar melting smile and cleared his throat. “That was before my time but it is my understanding that it was once quite the little venue for good times and bad behavior.” Much laughter. “I may never have danced there but I did fight a couple of wars up there with the help of my trusty plastic soldiers and my second in command, Missy Jackson Bragg.”

“Second?” Missy called. “Not how I remember it.”

Laughter rang out and as it died, Brantley let his smile go. “But I will dance there. I’m looking forward to it. When I left this town, I thought I’d never be back for more than a visit. Then my grandmother asked me to take on this project and, well . . .” He gestured to Miss Caroline. “You all know my grandmother. Have any of you ever told her no?” Everyone laughed and Miss Caroline blew Brantley a kiss. “Back at you, Big Mama,” Brantley said. “Right back.” After a pause, he continued. “I have an announcement to make. No one knows this except my grandmother, but I hope this is something that will be considered an asset to Merritt and I am counting on it being welcome news for those dear to me. I thought I would only be here a short while, but I have changed my mind. Once the Brantley Building is restored, I plan to reopen Kincaid Architectural Design and Restoration in Merritt—in my grandfather’s former office in the Brantley Building.”

Brantley met Lucy’s eyes and smiled. And she smiled back. Oh, what this meant! They did not have to be temporary. They still might not end up together, but they had a chance!

Brantley was finally ready to stop running.

If this had been a romance novel, this would be the end, the happily ever after, where the reader just knew all would be well—because they would have time, sweet time.

Her heart was so full.

Brantley began talking again. “I’d like to tell you all that I decided to stay in town because of my ties, my family, my friends, and the charm of Merritt that cannot be denied. Those things are factors, but they’ve always been factors.”

Brantley stepped off the stage and came toward her.

“Now there is a variable—one I did not see coming.” He took her hand. “I am staying because of this woman.”

What? Surely this could not be happening. And why was he kneeling at her feet?

“Lucy Mead is a treasure beyond measure, though I think you all knew that before I did.”

Hell and double hell. People were on their feet applauding and catcalling. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw her three best friends clutching about each other and crying.

Yet, she still did not know what was going on until he said, “Lucy Mead, please do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

And suddenly she was on a carousel spinning out of control. Oh, it was pretty. Tempting even, but wrong because it was going to overturn and crash any second. Faces swirled around her. Miss Caroline, Charles, Missy, Lanie, Tolly, but most of all Brantley. He was smiling and so sure.

Then it occurred to her that it must be a joke. They must be filming a reality show and she was being taped for her reaction.

But Brantley reached into his pocket and pulled out a platinum ring with a diamond as big as a grape. And then there were the other diamonds around it.

That’s when she knew it was no joke. That ring had not come from some reality show prop room. It had not come from the mall, or even Reed’s Jewelry. It had come from someone’s jewelry chest or safe deposit box. And she knew whose.

What if she let him put it on her hand? What if she married him? Had his babies, lived and loved him for the rest of her life? Wasn’t that what she wanted, what she had wanted since that fifteenth summer when she learned about love and heartbreak and he learned about grief?

Love. Grief. Those were the keys. He had not said one word about loving her. He needed her as a crutch for his grief. That was clear. And staying in Merritt was not a sign that he was ready to stop running. This was just another way to run, to hide.

The carousel spun faster and faster and faster. Out of control.

This was no romance novel; it was a horror story.

Lucy jumped to her feet and ran.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lucy was in the Merritt High School parking lot before she remembered that she had no car and no way home. Lanie had picked her up before the parade and Brantley had brought her here. It was too far to walk, and public transportation in Merritt amounted to calling family or friends.

She might have called Annelle, but she was on her way to Charleston. Calling any of her friends was out of the question. That was the last thing she wanted. She had to get out of here, though. They’d be hot on her trail in no time.

Despite the distance, she was about to strike out walking, at least until she thought of something. Then she heard the laughter a short distance away and saw the cigarette smoke drifting from between two cars.

She hot footed it over there where she found three teenage boys in letter jackets smoking. She knew one of them, had sold his mother a rug last week.

“Robby Sipes, does your mother know you’re out here smoking?” Then she thought of an even bigger card to play. “Does Coach Scott?” All three boys hurriedly put out their cigarettes.

“No, Ms. Mead. We don’t smoke. Not usually. You’re not going to tell on us, are you? Please.”

“I might,” she said, “and I might not. Either way, I need a ride home. Right now. Who’s got a car?”

The boys started tripping over each other like the Three Stooges, with a chorus of “Yes, ma’am.” “Right here.” “Get in. We’ll take you.”

* * *

Inside, the gym was totally silent. Brantley was the first to recover. He turned to the crowd and smiled. “Note to self and to all you guys out there: don’t propose to your girl in public. I think she’s a little overwhelmed. If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to go find her. Merry Christmas!” And he tipped an invisible hat.

“Brantley.” That was Missy’s voice. He did not slow down. Nor did he slow down in the parking lot until he got to his car. He had no intention of looking for Lucy, even though she didn’t have a car. Missy and the others would catch up with her any second. They were probably all texting right now. Lucy would be fine.

He drove directly to the interstate and pointed himself north, toward Nashville.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lucy was a doer, not a crier. At least she never cried until she took care of business. As soon as she got home, she sat down and sent a text to Tolly, the friend she could most trust not to take things into her own hands “for Lucy’s own good.”

I am home. I am fine. I don’t want to see or talk to anyone tonight and maybe not tomorrow. If anyone wants to know what they can do for me, it’s that. Can you make that happen for me?

A moment later, the answer came. Yes.

And that’s when she began to cry.

Why did he have to go and ruin everything? Why could he have not just let things progress on, like normal people? They could have worked on the Brantley Building—and who knew what would happen with that now—made love, laughed, and ended up in forever.

Except they couldn’t. He needed a savior, someone to hide in. But if he had let things progress, maybe she could have helped him. Maybe he could have grieved until he ended up in a healthy place, ready for a healthy relationship. Of course, if that happened, he wouldn’t need her anymore.

Oh, it was too crazy, too confusing.

She crossed her legs and shook her head in frustration. That’s when she heard the jingle of the bells on her toes and hat and realized she was still dressed as an elf. Well, she couldn’t change what happened tonight with Brantley, but she didn’t have to sit around looking like a refugee from the North Pole. That she could change.

It was when she was in the shower that she realized she’d made a mistake—and a bad one.

The only man she’d ever wanted had knelt at her feet and offered her an engagement ring. And she had run, like he had always run.

Oh, it would have been ludicrous to get engaged. After being involved for this length of time, his emotional baggage aside, that would have been insane. But maybe she should have taken the ring publicly and later, in private, told him that they had to slow it down. Or she could have not taken the ring and said something like, “As romantic as this all is, I just don’t think I can get engaged wearing an elf suit. Maybe we’d better go somewhere else to talk about this.”

And everyone would have laughed. Then they could have gone home and she could have confessed that she loved him, that she was here for him, but this was too much, too soon.

Then a kernel of an idea took root. Maybe it wasn’t too late for that. Maybe she could still tell him those things. She got out of the shower and reached for her phone. Then stopped. No. This needed to be done in person. She dried her hair, dressed, and grabbed her keys. She would drive around until she found him, no matter where he was.

* * *

Thanks to those trying to reach hearth, home, mistletoe, and the foolishness that went with it, the traffic between Merritt and Nashville was a nightmare—slow and congested. It was looking like a three-hour trip was going to turn into closer to four.

Many men would have been humiliated by what happened, or at least embarrassed. Not Brantley. He didn’t do embarrassment. Never had. Many men would have been mad. He certainly wasn’t that, not at Lucy. He’d brought the whole thing on himself, made assumptions about how she felt. He’d been stupid and he’d lost her. It was that simple.

He was sure he had not realized the full impact of that yet. He’d never been impacted much when a relationship ended, but none of those relationships had been with Lucy Mead, with the healing laugh and the comforting touch. She was practically magic, but he had not been destined for magic, it seemed.

Though there for a little while, he’d thought . . .

Well, at least no one could expect him to do Christmas now. Or the Brantley Building. Out of the question. Good thing his townhouse hadn’t sold yet. He’d hole up there for a few days and pretend he wasn’t supposed to be with her. And next week, he’d make some calls and figure out where to go next. The New Orleans job might still be open. Or New England. Or maybe something else. He’d land in a new place, do some new things, and think some new thoughts.

Unless she called. That could still happen, though it hadn’t yet.

As if on cue, his phone rang. He checked the caller ID, like he had every time. Missy, again. He’d lost count of the number of times she’d called. He pressed the ignore button like he’d done numerous times already—for his dad, Big Mama, Luke Avery, and Missy many, many times.

“Melissa,” he said to the empty air of his car. “Did you know that the true meaning of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result? Lots of people know that but not everyone knows Albert Einstein said it.”

The phone rang again. Dad. Not Lucy.

It was after midnight when he pulled into the driveway of his townhouse that still had the realtors’ lock on the front door. It had started to rain and there was sleet mixed in. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. At first he thought he’d wandered into the wrong place but then he remembered that on the advice of his realtor, he’d hired a property stager. She was supposed to make the place look homey, like somewhere you’d want to live.

It looked pretty good, he had to admit. Not as good as it would if Lucy had done it, but way better than when he’d lived here. For one thing, it had furniture. There were magazines on the coffee table and a half knitted something with needles sticking out of it on an ottoman. Hell, there was even a decorated Christmas tree and stockings hung on the mantel.

He wondered if the liquor in those crystal bottles on the bar was real. He took a sniff. No such luck. He shook an elaborately decorated package under the tree. Empty, of course.

His phone rang again. Dad. He would listen to the voicemails tomorrow, but tonight, he just couldn’t. He considered turning the phone off, but she might call. It could happen.

Then something occurred to him. They might be worried about him, as in thinking he was dead.

He picked up the phone and texted Charles. I’m okay. I’m in Nashville. I’ll call you tomorrow.

The response came almost immediately. Thank you, Son. I’ll tell your grandmother. We love you.

They loved him. Oh, yes they did. No question. He took the phone charger from his pocket and plugged it up on the kitchen counter. It was easy to love someone who had never destroyed anything. And now he had no chance of making it up. Unless she called.

He picked up the TV remote and pushed the power button. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Then he looked closer. Not plugged in. No cable. Of course not. People looking at real estate didn’t usually stop to watch TV.

He bet they didn’t eat either. He opened the refrigerator. There was a pot of something in there that smelled like oranges and spices, but it sure didn’t look edible. The realtor must boil it to make people think there was baking going on where there was none. He hadn’t been upstairs yet, but he was willing to bet the beds were made with outstanding looking quilts and such, but no sheets.

He might as well think about getting comfortable on that couch. Sofa, Lucy would call it. There on the end was one of those things that women liked to wrap up in when they watched TV. That would do in this house that was all about show and nothing about real comfort.

Tomorrow—the day before Christmas Eve—he’d go out and get a toothbrush, another set of clothes, and—most important—some bourbon.

He’d just sat down and started to unlace his shoes when the doorbell rang.

It couldn’t be! But maybe it was. It was possible, if she had left right after he had.

He ran to the door and threw it open.

And there stood Rita May Sanderson, dressed in white from head to toe—knee boots, pants, sweater, ski jacket, hat, and mittens. In the eerily lit rain and sleet, she looked like an undead snow queen.

He instinctively stepped back, but she launched herself in the door and into his arms, coming close to lacerating his side with her hipbone.

“You showed up just at the right time!” she said. “My electricity went out. I was afraid the roads might be getting slick from the sleet, so I walked here—all four blocks!”

He peeled her off him. “The roads are not slick, Rita May. It’s forty degrees. And how did you know I was here anyway?”

She threw her jacket off. “I knew you wouldn’t stay in that little Podunk town long. I’ve been tracking you.”

What? Had she installed a tracking device under his skin like a dog, some night while he was asleep? “You have been tracking me? How on God’s green earth?”

“If you took as much interest in your smart phone as you do in that DayRunner, you’d know. The right app, the right know-how. I’ve known where you were every second since you’ve been gone. Before that, even. Well.” She walked over to the mirror and fluffed her hair. “At least every second I wanted to, when I remembered to look.”

He was speechless, something that did not happen often. That was one app he was going to learn all about and outsmart. Damn.

“So my lights went off. I looked at my phone, and guess what? Brantley Kincaid’s come home for Christmas.” She looked around. “This place looks pretty good. You should have had this done before. Do you have any chardonnay?”

He found his voice. “No, I do not. And even if I did, you aren’t staying—not to drink wine, not to fluff your hair, and not to break stuff.”

“Oh, Brantley, come on. I have forgiven you for making me break up with you. We always do this. And we always do this.” She came toward him with her arms outstretched.

“No.” He backed away. “First, you did not break up with me. I broke up with you. I meant it then and I mean it now. Now I find out you have been stalking me. You need to leave.”

“I told you my power is out.”

“Even if that is true, which I doubt, then go somewhere else. Your parents. Your BFF of the moment. Or take one of those candles off the mantle and rough it out at your own place but you are not staying here.”

She pouted but she looked like she might be starting to believe him.

“I don’t have a way. I walked.”

“And you can walk back. This is the safest neighborhood in Nashville.” And it was. This was a gated community.

“I’ve got a blister on my foot,” she whined.

He could have easily driven her, but that would only lead to more whining, more pleading, and more drama. And he was in no mood.

“Rita May, you are leaving, whether by dogsled, spaceship, or on the back of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. It matters not to me.” This was getting dangerously close to arguing. “I am going up those stairs to get me a pillow and when I come back down, you had better be gone, or I will call security. And I’m warning you. Pillow fetching does not take long.”

He was satisfied that she believed him before he mounted the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lucy had not known it was possible to drive around Merritt for so many hours. As she drove, she rehearsed what she would say. She loved him. She wanted him. She wanted to try, try really hard to turn this relationship into something more than temporary. But he needed to face his grief. She would help him; she’d be there every step of the way. She wanted to be his safe place, but she needed him to want her for more than safety. It would all sound very reasonable.

What wasn’t reasonable was that she couldn’t find him. Not at the carriage house, Miss Caroline’s, or his father’s. Not at Missy’s. He and Luke had been fraternity brothers at Vandy, so she drove to the farm. Not there either. It was less likely he’d be with Tolly and Nathan, but she tried there too.

She didn’t go in at any of the places. She would only do that if his car were there. But it was nowhere. Then she tried less likely places—the gym, the fish restaurant out by the lake, the country club because he could be in the bar drinking.

Then she started all over again. Finally, she faced that he was not in town. He had run. That wasn’t new and it wasn’t a surprise. And maybe he had good cause this time. She could lead him home; she was sure of it, if she could just find him.

It was going to have to be the phone after all. She pulled into her driveway, went in, and sat beside the Christmas tree they had decorated together. For good luck, she pulled one of the antique doorknobs he’d given her from the crystal bowl on the coffee table where she had arranged them.

Then she dialed the number.

It rang twice before she heard it click on. She took a deep breath and got ready.

But the voice was not warm caramel. She didn’t know what it was, but not that.

“Hello, this is Brantley Kincaid’s phone. Rita May Sanderson speaking.”

Lucy did what anyone in her situation would have done. She hung up and drank half a bottle of red wine straight from the bottle. Then, knowing she could not bear to crawl into the bed that she had so recently shared with Brantley, she went to sleep on the sofa.

Chapter Thirty

Lucy woke with a pounding head and a mouth like the desert. She looked at her watch. Almost six. Not only was she still wearing her watch, she had not removed her jeans and sweater. Though she didn’t remember taking them off, her shoes were laying helter-skelter next to the half empty wine bottle. Brantley always set his shoes neatly side by side, with the laces tucked inside.

His shoes would be sitting by Rita May’s this morning—probably tall black boots with studs—or she might still be wearing those boots, right in bed.

Sometimes a person who’d suffered a traumatic event didn’t remember it until they’d been awake a minute or so. Not her. She’d gone to sleep with it on her mind and woke with it on her mind. She’d probably dreamed about it. When she sat up, her stomach rolled, not with nausea but hunger. No wonder. She never had gotten around to taking a single bite of the pizza from last night, so she’d had nothing since a salad yesterday at lunch—unless you counted the wine. And how much nutritional value could half a bottle of wine provide?

After showering, she put on a set of ratty old sweats because what she wore did not matter. No clients, no meetings, no Brantley. No Brantley ever again.

But McDonald’s was open, even this early.

She picked up her keys, headed out the door, and drove there. What she really wanted was a quarter pounder with cheese and French fries, but it was too early to get that. And an apple turnover would be just the thing. She hadn’t had one of those in years. Oh, look! She could get that—it was right there on the drive-through breakfast menu. She might get two. Could you get a milkshake this early?

What was wrong with her? She never ate fast food and certainly not for breakfast. She was a good girl, kept right to the good nutrition rules. In the face of all this, why couldn’t she be lying on the sofa nauseated at the very thought of food? That’s how it always was in books. But she was not that person.

Oh, no. She was the once and future fat girl.

Evidently, she was going to eat her grief away, become plump, then fat, then morbidly obese. So what? She was good at her work. She’d throw herself into it—that and eating. Everyone would be clamoring for her to come evaluate their houses, vacation homes, and guest houses—if she could get through the door.

She wouldn’t do historic restoration anymore—only modern and futuristic. That would be her eccentricity. Eccentricities were tolerated from the brilliantly talented. Everyone would whisper about it.

“Why won’t Lucy—” because by then she would be just Lucy, no last name “—do restoration? That used to be her specialty.”

“I heard the White House begged her to restore the Lincoln bedroom but she refused.”

“What? You can’t turn down the White House!”

“Tell that to the First Lady.”

“And there’s that other thing. She always insists on incorporating at least one antique doorknob into her designs. Some critics say the juxtaposition between those knobs and her sparse designs is brilliant; others think it’s just peculiar.”

“I heard she was disappointed in love while working on a restoration project. Some say her lover fell, hit his head on a glass doorknob, and died.”

“That’s why she eats.”

“Take your order, ma’am?” Oh, good God. Could she be any more melodramatic?

She returned home with an Egg McMuffin, hash browns, two apple turnovers, and a large coffee. She sat down at the kitchen table but not before she noticed there were now two messages on her phone. Too bad. She was going to eat first, eat every bite. Well, she might save one of those turnovers until later. It had been defiance that made her get two.

After eating, she felt a little less giddy, if not better. Lucy hit the button for the first voice mail and reached for her coffee. This might take a while.

“Lucy, darling.” It was Annelle. “Just wanted you to know I am safe and sound here at Lawrence and Anna’s. Miss you, but you have a wonderful holiday with Brantley. We’ll talk on Christmas Day. Love you.”

No one had told Annelle of the recent misadventure. That was something.

She played the second message.

“Lucy! Listen!” Missy said, obviously thinking the message was Lucy live. Pause. “All right. Maybe you’re still asleep. So listen to me. I had a little powwow with Tolly, Lanie, and Miss Caroline last night.” Oh, hell. Miss Caroline. Dear God. “There was a lot of hand wringing and talk about respecting your wishes and not pestering you. None of it from me, of course. I have no intention of respecting your wishes if that includes not talking to you. Because, Lucy Mead, you are going to talk to me.” Don’t call me Lucy Mead. He calls me Lucy Mead. Or he did.

She’d done pretty well until now but a tear escaped and landed on her McDonald’s napkin. Why was she so upset? Why was she even surprised? She had known this was coming—except for those few seconds last night right after he announced he was staying in town, but before he’d dropped the proposal bomb. Two seconds of hoping made for a lead heart—and a veracious appetite. She should write that down. Maybe she’d get a DayRunner.

“Now,” Missy went on, “I am going to assume that you are still asleep but you’ve never slept past eight o’clock in your life.”

Wrong. She’d slept until after nine last Saturday. But it had been easy to sleep while Brantley had his arms around her and everything had seemed all right. There were more tears now, and if she was going to be honest, a certain amount of snot. She did not cry prettily. McDonald’s napkins made pretty good handkerchiefs. Miss Caroline wouldn’t approve but there was probably a lot that Miss Caroline didn’t approve of right now, starting with her grandson being publicly humiliated and some family jewelry that just happened to have gone astray. Or she assumed Brantley had absconded with the ring. Who knew? Maybe he’d given it to Rita May by now.

“So,” Missy went on, “if you haven’t called me by nine, I am coming over there.” Damn. What time was it now? Seven-thirty. “And Lucy, don’t mix me up with those other women. I am not a lady and I am not a hand wringer. I am a spoiled brat with a made up mind. And don’t even think of running somewhere else. I will hunt your ass down like a coon dog at dawn.” Were coon dogs more proficient at dawn than at other times? And what did Missy know about coon dogs anyway? “You know I can and you know I will.” Then there was silence. For a second Lucy thought that Missy had hung up. Then there was a little choking sound. “I love you, Lucy. I need to help you.” Oh, damn. She’d made Missy cry and Missy never cried. More silence and then the old Missy was back. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that moment of weakness has anything to do with my basic personality or present mindset. Nine o’clock, Lucy. Or sooner, if that’s what I decide.”

Better call her. If Missy showed up here, the others were sure to follow, if for no other reason than to try to extract Missy.

She dialed.

“Lucy! What the hell?”

“Is Brantley all right?” Why had she asked that? Of course he was all right. He was with Rita May.

“Brantley all right? I doubt it. Not that he has deigned to answer the phone for me.” Lucy thought of telling Missy that at least Rita May had not answered when she had called but the explosion that would bring forth wasn’t likely to do anybody much good.

“Did you think Brantley would be all right?” Missy asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“He texted Charles that he is in Nashville.”

Lucy hesitated. “Are Charles and Miss Caroline very mad at me? Are you?” Because let’s face it, in a contest against Brantley, no one outside of Harris and the kids was going to win with Missy.

“Mad at you? Why would anyone be mad at you?”

“For humiliating him in public.”

“Ha! He did that to himself. What fool proposes in public? What I’m interested in is how you are. And I am on my way there to see for myself.”

No. No. No. “No, Missy. I am fine. I didn’t sleep much and I am going to take a nap. That’s what I need. Besides, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. You have a dozen things to do. You said so yesterday. You need to make cookies, buy stocking stuffers, and go to Birmingham to pick up that doll for Lulu.”

“I don’t have to do any of that. Lulu doesn’t know one doll from another and we have plenty of cookies.”

“Not decorated ones for the kids to leave for Santa. That’s important to you. If I needed you, I would say so. What I need is to be by myself today.” And tomorrow, and the day after, and forever. But she didn’t say that.

“Well.” Missy’s voice wavered. “If that’s what you want. But only if you promise you’ll call if you need me. And only if you promise you’ll come spend the night with us tomorrow night and have Christmas here. I don’t want you to wake up alone on Christmas morning.”

“I promise,” Lucy lied. She’d figure out something to get out of it or she’d leave town. But one thing at a time. “Please tell that to Tolly and Lanie. They have holiday stuff to do too and I want them to do it. I want you all to.”

“All right,” Missy said reluctantly. “But, Lucy, as stupid as it was for Brantley to pull that stunt in public, this has a simple fix. You know that, right? Because you really are perfect for each other.”

Ha! Tell that to Rita May Sanderson.

* * *

Brantley slept until almost noon. He woke with a stiff neck and no idea where he was.

Then he remembered. He jumped up to check his phone, hoping that Lucy had called. He knew better than to try to call her. She wouldn’t answer unless she wanted to talk to him and if she wanted to talk, she’d call.

Then he remembered. He had no phone. When he’d come back downstairs last night, Rita May had left but his phone was in pieces on the kitchen floor. And the Christmas tree had been overturned.

Yep, she’d gone out like she’d come in. Causing trouble. But he didn’t have time to think about that. He needed to use that fancy for-show soap he’d seen in the upstairs shower, dry himself with one of those two inch thick towels, and put his dirty clothes back on—the clothes he’d been wearing when Lucy ran away from him.

He sighed. It would be a luxury to wallow in his gloom and the last thing he wanted to do was go shopping—especially with two shopping days left until Christmas. But he had to have a phone, some food, and some bourbon. The clean clothes seemed less important than they had last night but he’d get that too.

Apart for having to go out in the mayhem, for once he was thankful for Christmas. He’d have two days when he wasn’t expected to do anything.

And maybe she would call. Probably not. Still, getting a phone would be his first order of business.

* * *

Determined to eat something healthy and low calorie to make up for her breakfast, Lucy opened the refrigerator about noon. She reached for the lettuce to make a salad and found it to be brown and slimy. The low fat cheese was hard and the bread was molded.

She and Brantley had been eating out a lot. That, and eating with Charles and Miss Caroline. She wanted to cry; she needed to cry. But if she did, she’d never stop and she had to have supplies. There was no way to make it until the day after Christmas on a jar of olives, one Lean Cuisine, and half a bag of Eller’s dog food.

Oh, wouldn’t Big Starr be just jolly today, with people—people she knew—buying hams, eggnog, and the stuff to make fudge, ambrosia, and lane cake? Publix would be no better. She was considering driving further afield to the next town, when she remembered that those big gas stations out by the interstate had food. And no one she knew would be shopping there.

Still she put on a hat and sunglasses before driving out there. They didn’t have any yogurt or fresh fruit, but she got instant oatmeal, whole grain bread, skim milk, canned peaches, and a package of turkey lunchmeat—all reasonably good girl foods.

Then she drove through McDonalds again, wondering how early she could finish that bottle of wine.

After she ate, she decided to do something productive so she picked up her coat from where she had flung it on a chair and actually hung it in the coat closet.

It was then she caught sight of a box wrapped in silver paper decorated with snowflakes. The tag said, “For my Lucy.” There was no from. He assumed she knew who would be giving her presents.

If she were the kind who was lying on the sofa refusing to eat, she would not have opened the package. But, as she had proven with not one but two fast food meals in five hours, she was not that person. And once and future fat girls loved to bask in the pain.

So she unwrapped it.

The box contained a sea of ivory silk and lace. She pulled out piece after piece of creamy, lush lingerie until she realized it was a whole ensemble—bustier, garter belt, lace topped stockings, and a pair of exquisite but modest lacy panties. The whole set sparkled with tiny crystal beads and seed pearls.

And there was a card with a handwritten message; wouldn’t there just have to be?

Take note of the underpants. I would have gotten some more suited to my own personal taste, which would entail no crotch or maybe some that let that magnificent ass of yours hang out. But I thought these would be better for standing around with a bunch of women waiting to get tricked out to walk down the aisle. Where, I would like to remind you, Lucy Mead, I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be the one smiling.

She ran her fingers over the tiny, even, all uppercase letters—the handwriting of an architect. She reminded herself again that she had known what was coming, but that didn’t do one thing to alleviate the pain that was tearing through her like a match on a stream of gasoline.

In that moment, she would have driven to Nashville, and told him yes. No matter what his reasons for wanting her, she would have done it. She’d have married him now, today, this hour.

Except Rita May had answered the phone. She reached for the half empty bottle of wine. How, how, how was she going to live without him?

When she finished the wine, she opened another bottle. She thought of getting a glass this time, but why start that at this point?

Maybe drinking out of the bottle would be her new signature style. Yeah, she wouldn’t do historic restoration and she’d drink out of the bottle. There’d be pictures of famous people in magazines drinking from the bottle in “Lucy Style.” Waterford and Baccarat would try to capitalize on it and start making crystal wine bottles meant to be drunk from. They would send her boxes of them but she wouldn’t use them. No. She would remain true to drinking from the original bottle. Eventually, there would be no wine glasses made. A spokesman from Baccarat would make a statement. “Due to new trends that seem to have become the standard, we are no longer producing wine glasses. Continue to look for the excellence that you expect from Baccarat in our other fine stemware.” Waterford wouldn’t issue a statement. Unlike the French, the Irish were stubborn and didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. They’d just stop making wine glasses. They’d shrug their shoulders, melt down the wine glasses they had, and make them into chandeliers and double old fashions. She knew all about it; she’d been to the Waterford factory. Who knew what Libbey Glassware would do? But then, who cared?

And so it went for the rest of the day and night.

Chapter Thirty-One

Lucy slept until almost ten. The wine bottle was empty this morning but at least she’d made it into flannel pajamas. Dressing for bed was progress, even if she still couldn’t stand the idea of the actual bed. She would make more progress today. First, she wouldn’t eat fast food. Second, she would not cry. And she just might go to Missy’s to spend the night after all. She had to start picking up the pieces some time and Christmas Eve was as good a time as any.

Besides, Missy would serve a really good breakfast and there would be bloody Marys involved. That might make it worth it. Or not.

She considered driving to McDonald’s for coffee but that would mean getting dressed. Maybe. It distressed her how long she actually considered getting in the car in her pajamas. In the end, she made coffee and thought about toast. She didn’t have to decide right now about toast or if she would go to Missy’s. She’d already decided not to cry and to make coffee. That was enough decision making for now. She took her coffee cup and went back to the living room. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantle it almost scared her—dark circles, flyaway hair, and red eyes. She couldn’t do anything about the eyes, but she dragged the front part of her hair back with a ponytail holder. See, she was better. She cared how she looked. Some.

If she went to Missy’s she’d have to do her hair or face an intervention. Then she remembered something else. She had agreed to clear the flowers from the altar after the midnight service at church tonight. Damn, damn, damn. Older members of the flower guild always decorated for the Christmas Eve service and younger ones cleared it away and made smaller arrangements that would be delivered to the hospital on the day after Christmas by middle-aged guild members. That’s how it had always been.

Always. What a hateful word.

She was pondering how to get out of midnight flower duty when the doorbell rang. She jumped. It wouldn’t be Brantley. That would be too good—and too bad—to be true. Probably Missy, having stood it as long as she could. Maybe Tolly or Lanie. Or it could be the whole damn lot of them. There was nothing to do but let them in.

But it wasn’t any of those people. On the doorstep stood Charles Kincaid with so much kindness on his face that the tears in her eyes escaped with an explosive sob.

“Oh, baby girl.” He caught her in his arms, where she stayed for the barest second before stepping aside to let him in the house.

Much to her embarrassment, Charles picked up the empty wine bottle off the floor and set it on the coffee table.

“It looks like you’ve been passing the time of day the same way my son has. I think we’d better get this worked out before we have a couple of alcoholics on our hands. Though I am pretty sure my boy had himself a bottle of Wild Turkey 101.” Poor man. He had no idea there was nothing to work out. He removed his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. “They’re predicting snow for tonight. I almost believe it.”

“It’s cold enough,” Lucy said, though she had no idea if that was true. She hadn’t seen a weather report in days.

He picked up her coffee cup. “Is there any more of this around here?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Let me—”

“No. You sit down on that couch and curl up under that blanket. If I can’t find a cup of coffee, I’ve got no prayer of doing you any good.”

No prayer of that, regardless of his aptitude for locating coffee. She hoped he didn’t notice her McDonalds wrappers in the trash.

Charles came back, settled her refilled mug in her hand, and settled himself in a chair opposite her. She steeled herself.

“I’m not going to ask you a lot of questions.” He smiled like Brantley. The tears gathered again but this time she swallowed them. “At least I hope I’m not. I haven’t ever involved myself in my son’s love life before so I’m not exactly sure how this is going to go.”

“You can ask me anything you like. I have a lot to answer for.”

“Answer for?” He frowned like he didn’t understand.

“I embarrassed him in public. You can’t be happy about that.”

Charles laughed a little and sipped his coffee. “I am not sure Brantley has ever been embarrassed about anything in his life, but if he is, it’s his own fault. Or maybe mine. But I never imagined as I prepared my son for life that I would need to say to him, ‘Don’t issue marriage proposals in public, especially if you don’t know what the answer will be.’ I would have thought that was a given.”

She rubbed the place between her eyes. “I wish I had handled it differently.”

“Oh?” Charles said. “If you want to change your answer, I’m sure that can be arranged. When I talked to him last night, he was three sheets to the wind and not in the best state of mind.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s where he was always going to end up—back in Nashville with Rita May.”

Genuine surprise passed over Charles’s face. “No. He is in Nashville, but I can assure you he is not with Rita May.”

“I called. She answered the phone.”

“You called? That’s encouraging.”

“I was not encouraged.”

“Yes, I can see where you wouldn’t have been.” Charles went silent for a moment. “I think I am putting this together. According to Brantley, she did show up at his door. He told her to leave and went upstairs. When he came back down, his phone was broken. She must have answered it and then smashed it. Brantley has no idea you called.”

That was something. Not enough, but something.

Charles smiled. “So you see, it’s all a misunderstanding. The two of you can work this out.”

And she had thought that was possible too, before Rita May had answered that phone. What had changed? Other than mass consumption of wine and fried food? Apparently, alcohol and grease had made her wiser.

“It’s more than that,” she said.

“Lucy, I know you love my son. I can see it. I know you have been involved for barely a month, but I maintain if you don’t know in a month you never will. I ought to know. Eva was just like Brantley except in high heels and lipstick. I never had a chance.”

“And neither did I,” Lucy admitted. “But Brantley doesn’t love me. He never said that he did.”

Pure amazement washed over Charles’s face. “You mean to tell me that my boy proposed marriage to you and never said he loved you?” He shook his head. “I thought he had more sense. Though he’s not completely stupid. He does have the good sense to love you, even if he hasn’t said so.”

Lucy just shook her head.

Charles sighed. “Look, y’all have had a miscommunication. You can work this out. I have reserved three rooms at the Hilton in Nashville and I hope one of them is going to be yours. I am headed over to pick up Miss Caroline and that sorry excuse for a dog. It’s not the Christmas we imagined, but we are going to be where he is whether he wants us or not. Why don’t you get yourself ready and we’ll come back for you. He’ll be a lot happier to see his grandmother and me if you are with us. He’s got a new phone. Call him and tell him you’re coming. I would suggest surprising him but I think there have been enough surprises lately. Besides, I’d like to see him put out of his misery.”

“So would I,” Lucy whispered. “But I am not the solution to his misery.”

Charles took a drink of his coffee and inclined his head, signaling her to continue. She hesitated. Might as well.

“Brantley is a runner. When things become intolerable for him, he runs. It’s tied up in his grief for his mother and grandfather.”

Pain crept in to Charles’s eyes but he nodded. “I see.”

“I don’t believe Brantley has ever grieved properly and when he moved back here it slapped him in the face. I don’t understand all of it. He will not talk to me, will not consider getting help. But there are things going on inside him. For some reason, he can cope when he’s with me—or he thinks he can. He told me that the night we decorated the tree at Miss Caroline’s. But his dependence on me has nothing to do with love.”

Charles shook his head sadly. “A fiasco if ever there was one. I should have put a stop to that before it started but Caroline was doing what she thought was best. I am not blind to Brantley’s grief. I just don’t know what to do to help him. But I don’t understand why you think he doesn’t love you. Grief and love are not mutually exclusive.”

“I am a refuge—a way to cope. One that seems to work on some level. But that kind of coping mechanism is bound to last only so long. Marrying me would be just another way of running.”

“I guess I taught him that,” Charles said after a moment of consideration. “Maybe I shouldn’t have jerked him up and taken him out of the country as soon as the funeral was over. Maybe I should have kept him here and gotten some counseling for him.”

“Maybe,” Lucy said. “And maybe you did exactly the right thing. It’s impossible to know. What is not impossible to know is what kind of father you are. And what kind of grandmother Miss Caroline is. There are no better. You did what you thought was best, and it might have been. And it doesn’t really matter how Brantley got here.”

Charles nodded. “I don’t know that I have been the best father but thank you for thinking so. I can’t say you’re wrong about Brantley’s state of mind but don’t you think it would be a good thing if you went to Nashville with us and talked to him? Don’t you think you can help him?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know that I have that power. But I know this. I can’t go to him. He has to stop running before he can do anything.”

Charles rolled his mug between his palms and gave a half laugh.

“Until that day, nothing bad had ever happened to Brantley, at least not to speak of. From the first, we all fell at his feet—Eva, Caroline, Alden, and maybe me most of all. I’d buried my parents and there was literally no one else on the planet who shared my DNA. Not that Alden and Caroline didn’t treat me like a son, but this was different. He might have been born looking like me but he had his mother’s charm—and his grandfather’s. It’s a thousand wonders we didn’t spoil him beyond redemption. But as soon as he was old enough, Eva made him do volunteer work and later, I made him work to pay for his car insurance. Though they had a yardman, he had to work in his grandparents’ yard every summer. I can just hear Alden. He’d call and say, ‘Charles, send that boy over here in the morning—early before it gets too hot.’ Which, as you know, meant about six o’clock. ‘Caroline is of a mind to put in some flowers. We can’t let him lay up under the air conditioner watching that MTV all summer. We’ll ruin him.’ Alden spent a lot of time worrying about ‘ruining’ him. Then he’d buy him a new set of golf clubs and take him to Charleston to have his clothes custom made. We tried so hard, yet he ended up with a ruined life. The best laid plans.”

Lucy shook her head. “Brantley’s life isn’t ruined. He’s damaged and with good reason—one of the best. I hope and pray things will be better for him, for all of you. I just don’t think I’m going to be able to be part of that.”

“You know Brantley wasn’t the only one who saw you as salvation,” Charles said. “Caroline and I latched on to you too. For that I apologize. But he was home and he was happy. And in our defense—” Charles smiled like Brantley “—you are easy to love.”

“So are you.” She didn’t fight the tears. “And it will be easy for you to love the woman he ends up with one day when he’s healthy and ready.”

“Ah, baby girl. Come on and go with us to Nashville for Christmas. I’ll buy you a bottle of wine and a pony. I always wanted a little girl to buy a pony for.”

“I don’t think so.” She got up and retrieved a package from under the tree. “But will you give this to Brantley? It’s a photo album that I put together for him.”

* * *

Brantley’s realtor had not been delighted when she came by Christmas Eve morning to water the rent-a-plants and found him asleep in one of the God awful sheetless beds. He could only imagine what she thought about the wrecked Christmas tree and messed up bathrooms. Of course, she didn’t say anything. After all, she wanted to keep the listing. It was still his house and he’d paid for all the fake stuff to trick it out and he’d do what he damn well wanted here.

That included hooking up the TV and setting Coke cans, bourbon bottles, and takeout containers on the coffee table without the aid of coasters. He was being bad, bad to the bone, just about as bad as Lucy had been in those boots.

He’d bought himself a Christmas present too—a Blu-ray player and the complete James Bond box set—on Blu-ray of course. Ho, ho, ho.

He had just sat down with his leftover cold pizza and popped a disc in when the doorbell rang.

If that was Rita May, he was calling the police. He almost hoped it was.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when he opened the door and found his father standing there. Eller ran in, yelping with joy. At least someone was happy.

“Did you drive all the way up here to bring my dog?” he asked.

“No. I came to see my son on Christmas Eve.” Charles set a duffle bag and a paper shopping bag on the floor. “I brought you some clothes,” he said.

“Well, saddle up,” Brantley said. “Have some pizza. You’re just in time for Octopussy. Too bad Big Mama didn’t come. She’d like this one.”

“She’s at the Hilton.”

Oh, damn. That meant another painful meal in a fancy restaurant surrounded by other people who had no family. Even now, Big Mama would be searching the Internet on her iPad, looking for just the right venue, making calls, asking questions, seeking perfection that wasn’t going to happen. There would be appropriate clothes for him in that bag—unlike the sweat pants and t-shirts he’d bought at Wal-Mart yesterday. We interrupt this Bond marathon to bring you another empty Christmas.

“That’s a new look in decorations.” Charles gestured to the overturned tree and the broken ornaments scattered around it. The realtor had wanted to clean it up, but Brantley had told her no.

“That’s Rita May’s handiwork,” Brantley said. “She always was volatile.”

Charles sat down beside him on the couch. “Seems you left her alone with your phone,” he said.

“Yeah. I told you she broke it. I had to get another one.”

“That’s not all she did. Lucy called and she answered the phone.”

What? “Lucy called me? How do you even know this?” More importantly, had she called again? If so, how many times before he’d had time to replace his broken phone? Had she given up? No, wait, she wouldn’t have called again because she thought he was with Rita May.

Brantley reached for his phone.

“Son, don’t do that,” Charles said.

“I’ve got to tell her—”

“You made a mistake when you proposed marriage to that girl in front of half of Merritt without ever telling her that you love her. I have stayed out of your personal business, apparently too much. But you and I are going to talk. And I am going to keep you from making another mistake if I can.”

There was a lot going on in that short little speech but what snagged on Brantley was without ever telling her that you love her.

He opened his mouth to deny it, but maybe it was true. He was so in sync with Lucy that he must have assumed that she knew what he knew. Still, women liked to be told. He ought to know. Enough of them had tried to get it out of him over the years. That hadn’t happened since he was fifteen and thoroughly confused about the difference between love and the contents of Cindy Baker’s bra and underpants.

But he wasn’t confused now. He started to dial the phone.

“Brantley.” Charles resurrected the daddy voice from Brantley’s childhood. And it worked.

“I need to tell her,” he said. “I need to make sure she knows Rita May is not here with me.”

“I told her,” Charles said. “She knows what happened about that.”

“You’ve talked to her?” Though, come to think of it, that was a stupid question. How else would Charles have known Rita May answered his phone?

“I have. We had quite the little chat.”

This was mind-boggling. “I expect that from Missy. Even from Big Mama. But I’ve never known you to mess in my business.”

“It’s time someone did, someone who knows what he’s doing, meaning me. Missy and Caroline love you and they mean well, but they have no idea what they are doing most of the time. Lucy thinks you don’t love her, that you are a runner, and she’s just a refuge for you.”

“It’s not true.” A runner? He’d never run from anything in his life.

“I know. I can see that you love her.”

“I have to call her. Right now.” He began to dial.

“Brantley. You are a grown man. Do not make me take that phone away from you. What you need to say to her needs to be said in person. But you and I are going to talk right now. This is a talk we should have had a long time ago.”

“You’ve got my attention.” If they got this over with he could get on with his call.

“I knew I had made mistakes but after talking to Lucy I realized how bad they were. I taught you to be a runner when I took you to Ireland after Eva and Alden died.”

No. Not having this conversation. Not now.

“I am NOT a runner. I don’t even know what that means. What am I supposed to be running from? Or toward? That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. What do you think you’ve been doing ever since it happened? Refusing to come home for more than a few days at a time.”

“I am an adult,” Brantley said through clenched teeth. “I don’t live there anymore!” Or he didn’t. He did now. Maybe. Oh, hell. He was homeless!

Charles went on as if Brantley had not spoken. “Having a job that takes you all over the country.”

“That’s my job—how I earn my money! I am a restoration architect. People can’t pack up buildings and bring them to me!” Good thing his dad couldn’t ground him anymore for his tone of voice.

“Never coming home for summer when you were in college, or holidays if you could get around it.”

“I worked! I went skiing! That’s what college kids do! You should be glad I didn’t lie around all summer. No matter what you think, Merritt isn’t the end all and be all!”

“No?” Charles met his eyes. “You were pretty satisfied with it for a while there—until things didn’t go like you wanted. Then you ran again.”

The wind went out of his sails. And it was too bad too. He’d love to sail away. If he knew how to sail a boat. Which he did not.

Charles closed his eyes and shook his head. “Son, I am sorry it took Lucy to make me see that you are in crisis. I should have taken better care of you back then, and maybe you wouldn’t be going through this now.”

His heart rate picked up. And he began to sweat. He could not hear this.

“I’m not going through anything except losing Lucy.”

“That’s not true and you know it. You went warp speed on the girl because you needed safety among all your memories and you found it with her.”

Lucy was comfort and sanity. But she was more than that. She was everything.

“I love Lucy,” he said.

Charles nodded. “I know you do. But you can’t hide in her.”

“Look, Lucy is making complications where there are none and apparently she has sold you on it. This is simple. It should be easy. There are no problems.”

“Then why,” Charles asked, “are you and I sitting in a townhouse in Nashville on Christmas Eve, where neither of us wants to be? Son, it’s time you faced your grief. I failed you once, but I will not fail you again.”

Failed him? His dad had failed him? Oh, God. That was almost funny.

“No,” Brantley said. “You didn’t.”

“How can you say that?” For the first time Brantley saw how upset his father was. “You were eighteen and had lost two of the most important people in your life. I am your father. Did I get any help for you? No. I took you out of the environment where you should have been adjusting, that should have been your comfort. Home. Then I took you straight to a dorm room at Vanderbilt. No wonder you were never comfortable at home again.”

Brantley’s mouth went dry and every muscle in his body tightened. It was one thing to hide the truth, but to let his father blame himself was unthinkable.

“Brantley,” Papa had once told him, “be a boy as long as you can. It’s good training for when you have to be a man.”

He had certainly taken that to heart. But it was time to be a man, no matter what else he lost.

“Dad,” he said carefully, “you are wrong. Nothing was your fault. It was a hard time for all of us.” It was now or never, and it had already been never too long. “And none of it would have happened if it hadn’t been for me. If I hadn’t done what I did, we’d all be in Merritt right now doing what we used to do at Christmas. Nobody would be grieving and nobody would be buried.”

Good; it was out. There was no turning back. Even if Charles never wanted to see him again, at least that would be honest.

Charles looked thoroughly perplexed. “Son, I have no idea what you are talking about. You didn’t do anything.”

In for a penny, in for a whole life. Of course, that life was as fake as everything in this townhouse.

“I should have told you a long time ago. You may never forgive me. And that’s all right; I’ve got it coming.”

“Son, I could never—”

“Don’t say what you could never do, until you hear me out.” He’d started now. On with it. “The morning it happened, Mama had told me twice to take a shower and get dressed. It was going on eleven o’clock. I was playing video games and I kept telling her just a minute. She was pretty aggravated with me to begin with and, I admit, I was tired of her nagging me. I didn’t see what difference it made when I took a shower. So anyway, Papa called to say his car was broken down on the interstate. He’d been down to Birmingham for something. Some early breakfast meeting, I think. He was about thirty miles out of town. Of course, you know that part I guess. Anyway, he wanted me to come get him.

“She came in there where I was and said, ‘Brantley, your grandfather has had car trouble and needs you to come get him. Now, I’ve already told you. Put that remote down and get in that shower. Right now. It’s hot and he’s sitting in his car on the side of the road. You need to get there before the wrecker does.’ Well.” He closed his eyes. “It made me mad. Stupid. I was about to top my high score. I threw the controller down and said, ‘Why do I have to do everything?’ Funny. I never really did much of anything. I’ll never forget the look on her face. She put her hand up and said, ‘Pardon me, my little prince. I’ll do it myself!’ And she left. And you know what? I was glad. I still didn’t get dressed. I sat there and played that stupid video game until—well, you know that part. That’s what I was doing when you came to tell me. You had to send me to the shower before people starting coming.”

There it was done. Charles’s eyes had never left his and his expression remained neutral the whole time.

“And?” Charles said.

And what? Wasn’t that enough? “Don’t you get it? She left mad. First, if I had gone, it wouldn’t have happened. A minute sooner or later, it wouldn’t have happened. Second, she was so mad at me. If I had not been hateful, if she had not been mad, she would not have had the wreck.”

Charles put his head in his hands. “Oh, Brantley. Oh, Son.”

“Even if we can’t come back from this, even if you never forgive me, it’s a relief that you know. I’m tired of living a lie.”

Charles looked up and met his eyes. “Son, I knew about this. I always knew.”

That could not be true. His father could not know this and not blame him. “But how?” he asked because he could not get the question out about the lack of blame.

“Your mother called me on the way to pick up Alden. She was pretty steamed at you and she ranted for a minute or two. Then we started laughing. We kept saying back and forth to each other, ‘Why do I have to do everything?’ It was pretty laughable, considering the extraordinary effort we put into making your life easy. But we decided no video games for the rest of the summer and no taking the Play Station with you to Vandy. And then she said, ‘Oh, Charles, what are we going to do for entertainment when he’s gone?’ I assure you, Brantley, she was not mad at you. You were normally so obliging. You were just lazy that morning and had had a gut load of being told what to do. And you sassed her. That’s what teenagers do, though you not as often as most.”

Brantley was speechless. Or very nearly. There was something else he had to know.

“Big Mama?” It was all he could get out.

“Of course she knew. Your mother called her after she called me. She said we were being too hard on you. ‘He’s a good boy and he works hard!’ That’s what she said every time you needed punishing. Brantley, this is nothing. Please, for the love of God, Son, let this go. I should have talked to you about it at the time, I guess, but I never knew you were feeling guilty. And I was half crazy myself.”

It couldn’t be this simple—free absolution that he didn’t deserve. “Still, if I had gone—”

Charles shook his head. “Brantley, it was an accident. An accident. Do you think I haven’t wished a million times that I had told Eva to stop and get me, that I’d ride with her to pick up Alden? Or to let me go instead? The fact is, a semi blew a tire on the interstate and landed in your mother’s lane. It seems outrageous to say, considering what it did to our lives, but what happened isn’t complicated. And we’ve got some life left. We need to live it.”

He would not have welcomed relief even if it had come. “Still. The last thing I ever said to her was mean. Nothing will change that. And you know she told Papa, so the last thing he knew was that I wouldn’t come get him like he asked.”

Charles nodded. “We don’t know that she told your papa, but you’re right—she probably did. We’ll never know what they said, but I know this. There has never been a man who loved a grandchild more than Alden Brantley loved you. Besides that, he liked you. He liked your company. And I promise you this like I’ve never promised anything before: a silly teenage tantrum is nothing compared to a love like that.”

Charles got up and retrieved a package from the shopping bag he’d brought in. He’d certainly picked an odd time to give out Christmas presents.

“I haven’t seen this but I’ve heard about it. Lucy sent it to you. I want you to open it and have a look.”

Perplexed, Brantley unwrapped the package. Inside was a leather photo album with his initials embossed on the corner. This wasn’t an album with plastic sheets inside to slip pictures in. She had gone to some trouble to get this. The pages were high quality cotton rag and on the first page, she had written in calligraphy, “Brantley Charles Kincaid . . . The Beginning.”

The first picture was of his mother sitting in a hospital bed with him in her arms, and his father and grandparents looking on. Underneath she had written simply the date—but around the photograph, she had drawn the most wonderful fanciful pictures of the sandman, Humpty Dumpty, puppies, Peter Pan, and smiling moons. There was no connection between the little pictures. It was as if she sat and thought about a baby boy and drew what came to mind. And it was perfect.

As was the rest of the book. It told the story of his baby years, childhood, and teen years with photographs and her wonderful drawings. Birthdays, first day of school, Halloween, Little League, with Santa Claus, first communion, proms, in football uniforms and letter jackets. She had not used a lot of photographs—just her little drawings and one perfect picture per event showing one perfect love between a boy and his family.

It must have taken her hours and hours.

The last picture was of his mother and him right before his high school graduation. It was a candid shot that he had never seen, taken, it seemed, between the many pictures he’d posed for. Mama was coming for him with a hairbrush in her hand and he had his hands up, warding her off. He remembered now how she had not been satisfied with how his hair looked under his cap, and kept fussing with it. In the picture, they were laughing and she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that truly mattered.

He wasn’t sure how long it had taken him to go through the book—it seemed a lifetime.

“Now, Brantley,” Charles said, “look at that book and try to tell me that those thirty seconds seventeen years ago defined your relationship with you mother and your grandfather. With any of us.”

And he turned back to the first page. This time he and his dad looked at the book together. They laughed and told stories. There were even a few tears, something neither man would ever admit.

When they got to the end, Charles flipped past that last picture.

“Looks like there are some blank pages in this book, Son. What are you going to fill them with?”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Walking into Christ Episcopal at five minutes before midnight wasn’t as hard as Lucy expected, maybe because she was numb. And she needed numb because she had thought she’d be here with Brantley tonight. That had been the plan, then on to Miss Caroline’s house for eggnog and opening one gift. Instead, she would spend the night in Missy’s guest room.

She slipped into the pew beside Missy and gave a little wave down the line to Luke, Lanie, Tolly, Nathan, and Kirby. Harris was in the choir and everyone’s kids were with grandparents.

Louisa Bennet turned from two rows ahead and gave Lucy a sweet, sympathetic smile. It was only then that it occurred to her that this was her first journey into polite company since the night of the proposal. No one seemed to be pointing and whispering. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that Brantley was alone and hurting.

Only not really alone. Charles and Miss Caroline were with him. But she imagined that he felt as alone as she would feel at Missy’s tomorrow amid all the kids, noise, and extended families.

But she was glad she came tonight. It was soothing—the carols, the candlelight, communion, and the Christmas story. She knew the service by rote and that was comforting. Some things remained the same. That might not always be good, but it was predictable.

When the service was over, there were hugs and Merry Christmases all around but not a word about Brantley or what had happened.

Missy took her hand. “Okay, I’m going to ride with you to your house. Harris will pick us up and we’ll leave your car.”

Missy was still afraid she was going to opt out and spend Christmas alone. Not a bad idea, but not possible.

“I can’t. I’ve got flower guild duty. I’ll be along soon.” Missy looked doubtful and a little anxious. The others were frowning too. Lucy forced a little laugh. “Go home! All of you. Make Christmas happen.” Then she turned to Missy. “I have my bag in the car. I’ll come straight over. Any chance for some of that homemade hot chocolate of yours with the coffee liquor while we wait for Santa?”

“You bet!” Missy smiled and it was clear that she would have walked to Antarctica to get Lucy an icicle if she thought it would make her happy. Unfortunately, the only thing that Lucy wanted, Missy couldn’t get for her. No one could.

“Lucy, do you need help with the flowers?” Lanie asked.

“Sure!” Tolly said. “We’ll all help.”

Lucy smiled at their eagerness. “No. Anna Beth Benson is helping me.” She looked toward the altar. “There she is. She’s already brought the cart from the flower room.”

They all looked at her with expressions that meant they wanted to help her but they didn’t know how.

She laughed again and started passing out a second round of hugs. “Go! And Merry Christmas.”

It took two trips to move the potted poinsettias and the three flower arrangements to the flower room. The poinsettias would be delivered to the hospital as they were, but the three arrangements had to be reworked into ten smaller bouquets. Anna Beth pulled the vases from the cabinet as Lucy began to sort the roses, narcissus, holly berries, and evergreens.

“This won’t take long,” Lucy said.

“I hope not.” Anna Beth began to fill the vases with water and for the first time Lucy noticed she was a little tense.

“What’s wrong, Anna Beth?”

“Everything!” she burst out and looked like she might cry. “You know my kids have gotten to the age where every toy they get needs batteries. They were in bed by ten. Dale’s parents are here and they were asleep even before that. Anyway, the kids’ gifts were hidden in the garage. Our plan was to get batteries in everything, come to church, and then all we’d have to do is put everything under the tree after we got home.” She refilled her pitcher. Her hands were shaking. “So I had the batteries. I counted up how many and what kind we needed, Lucy. I did. I made a list.”

“I believe you,” Lucy said.

“They were in a sack and I put them in the laundry room on top of the drier. But when I went to get them, they weren’t there. We tore the house apart. I told Dale they weren’t in my car, but he looked there anyway. The only thing I can think of is that in the chaos, they got thrown away. Anyway, by then everything was closed. We went everywhere. We didn’t even come to church. I just came in time to do this. Now Dale is driving around to friends’ houses, seeing who might have batteries left after putting together their kids’ stuff.” She teared up a little. “I just hope we can get enough so that some of their things will work and they won’t be completely disappointed. I guess we can switch batteries from toy to toy in the morning but what are they going to think about that? What kind of Santa Claus wouldn’t bring enough batteries?”

Anna Beth’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said and answered it.

Another person in Lucy’s position might have been frustrated with Anna Beth, thinking that missing batteries was nothing in the scheme of things. But Lucy’s heart warmed. She longed for a time when she might be upset at the possibility of her children being disappointed.

“No, Dale,” Anna Beth was saying. “Not C. D cell. And four won’t do any good. It has to be eight. Okay. Tell Patsy thank you and take them. We might happen on more.”

Lucy couldn’t help Brantley. She couldn’t heal her own broken heart, but this she could solve.

“Anna Beth,” she said once the other woman had hung up the phone. “The big gas stations out by the interstate—they have batteries. You can’t get any yogurt, but they have batteries, all you want. And they don’t close.”

Anna Beth’s mouth formed a perfect O. “We didn’t think. Oh! We are so stupid.”

Lucy stepped around and took the water pitcher from her. “Go, Anna Beth. I’ve got this.”

She hesitated. “I can’t leave you with all this. And alone in the church.”

“I’ll have it done in no time. And I’m not alone. Franklin is vacuuming the sanctuary. He won’t leave until I do.” Anna Beth looked hopeful. Lucy laughed. She seemed to be laughing a lot tonight for other people’s comfort. “Go, Anna Beth. Make Christmas happen for your children.”

“Really, Lucy? You don’t mind? I won’t forget this.” And she was gone, calling Dale as she went.

“Merry Christmas,” Lucy said to the empty air and began to arrange flowers and greenery methodically. Maybe she would deliver the flowers to the hospital herself. She could even do it tomorrow, on Christmas Day, instead of the day after. Those sick people would need a little extra cheer. And come to think of it, she might need to get away from Missy’s for a little while.

She had signed up for hot chocolate and sofa time with Missy, something they both usually loved. But not tonight. Whatever Missy’s tact turned out to be would feel wrong—whether she tried to console, motivate, or even ignore. Though ignoring wasn’t likely. Not Missy’s style at all.

She tucked one final piece of holly into the last arrangement. All done. She wiped down the counters and locked the door of the flower room. Franklin was polishing the altar with lemon oil when she went into the sanctuary.

“I hope I haven’t held you up, Franklin,” she said.

“No.” He paused and smiled at her. “I like to leave everything clean before I go. Besides, I left one big rambunctious mess at my house. Grandkids everywhere. My wife chopping and cooking ninety to nothing. Grown kids playing cards and arguing like they’re five years old. They all think they’ve got to spend the night with us on Christmas Eve. You can’t walk for the sleeping bags.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Lucy said.

He laughed and went back to his polishing. “It is at that. I just wish it could be a quieter kind of wonderful. Wrap up good, Lucy. It smells like snow out there. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said as she walked to the vestibule.

And though she wouldn’t have believed it, when she opened the church door, it didn’t just smell like snow, there was snow—beautiful magical snow falling for a Christmas Eve night.

Except there was no magic—not for her. The only magic she’d ever known, the only magic she’d ever wanted, was in Nashville, Tennessee.

She pulled her coat tight around her and started down the steps.

And, to her amazement, magic stepped out of the shadows.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Lucy held her breath as Brantley mounted the bottom step and held his hands out to her. There was no power on earth that could have stopped her from walking toward him, though she questioned the wisdom in that. But there were snowflakes on his eyelashes, in his hair, all around him. How could she not go to him?

When she was two steps above him, he dropped to his knees.

Her heart sank. Not again. “What are you doing?” she asked.

He smiled but it wasn’t his dazzling golden boy smile. This smile was a little sad but maybe a little hopeful too.

“I got us into this mess on my knees and I’m going to get us out on my knees. I mean that, Lucy Mead.” He took her hands in his. “I am asking you not to marry me. I am acknowledging my fears and my demons. But I am willing to fight those demons so that the next time I come to you on bended knee, your answer can be yes.” He squeezed her hands and gave them a little shake. “You said a lot of things to my dad that made a lot of sense. I do want to hide in you.”

Maybe there was some magic to be had after all, if he truly meant what he said. Still, she had to hear more. “I accept your proposal to not marry you,” she said.

“I am not going to promise I will ever be completely over what happened to my family. I can’t promise that I won’t always want to hide in you just a little. But I do promise this: I will not ask you to marry me again until I am completely sure that I can stand on my own. And wise though you may be, Lucy Mead, there was one thing you told my dad that was dead on wrong. You said I didn’t love you. I do, Lucy. With everything I’ve got, I love you. But I will not ask you to be my wife again until I am absolutely sure the need for you has diminished until the love outweighs it.”

Maybe there was some magic to be had and they had a chance. Maybe was a scary place to live, even scarier than probably. But not nearly as bad as never.

He rose but he didn’t take her in his arms or kiss her like she thought he might. Instead, he took her hand and they sat down together on the steps. “I won’t lie to you Lucy; I’m a mess. But I guess you knew that. I had a long talk with my dad today and we both learned some things we didn’t know. Then we got Big Mama in on the sad fest. I’ll tell you all about it later. It’s not everything, but it’s a start.”

“Sometimes a start is much more than just the beginning,” she said. It all sounded good, but there had to be a plan. You just didn’t get up one morning and think I’m going to lose weight and expect results if you didn’t do anything differently. “Where do we go from here?”

“First, I’m not going to run anymore.” He looked to her for approval and she squeezed his hand. “I’m going to talk more to my family. Big Mama says there’s a grief counselor at the church and I might try that. Or who knows, I might go to a full-fledged shrink, lay myself out on the couch and talk till I’m hoarse, if that’s what it takes. I’ll figure that part out.” He gave her a sidelong look and dropped his eyelids. “And I hope I’m going to be able to talk to you.”

“You can always count on that,” she promised.

“I’m going to put a building to rights. And I’m going to live in this town. If you’ll let me, I’m going to be with you and love you because I want to, not because you have to keep me in one piece. I have to do that myself.” He laughed. “I sound like some kind of a self-help book, don’t I?”

“You sound like a man,” she said slowly, “who has decided that he’s going to work hard until he’s all right.”

He smiled and this time it was that golden boy smile. “I hate to appear any needier than I already have but I’ve laid my heart at your feet and I haven’t heard a word about getting any of that back.”

She was astounded. She hadn’t said it, had she? “Do I love you? Brantley, loving you is the story of my life, the only story I know. And that’s a story that’s never going to end.”

She laughed, and this time it wasn’t for anyone’s comfort, but because a little edge of happy took hold and began to spread.

“Never?” He closed in like he was going to deliver up a Christmas kiss. “I usually don’t like that word, but in that context, I’ll take never. But I’m going to be looking for some forever too.”

And she got her magical Christmas kiss with the snow doing a joyful dance around them.

Epilogue

June weddings were overrated. They had to be. Lucy was sure there had never been a more perfect wedding than hers and it was almost September.

And she hadn’t even had to do very much to make her wedding happen. For the first time in their professional lives, Lucy’s parents had not left the country for the summer but had, instead, come to Merritt to be with Lucy and get to know Brantley. Michelle Meade, Aunt Annelle, Miss Caroline, and the book club girls had insisted that Lucy just tell them how she wanted her wedding and they would make it happen.

“After all,” Tolly had said, “it’s your turn. You practically slaved over all of our weddings.”

“It’s not our fault that she’s the one with flair,” Missy said. “When we get done with this wedding, it’s liable to look like a barn dance.”

“It will not,” Lanie said. “She’ll tell us what to do. And you never mind Missy, Lucy. We’ll take care of everything.”

And that had been fine with Lucy—more than fine. She’d had the interior of a building to finish restoring. Now, the Alden Fairfax Brantley Cultural Center was complete and the first function to be held in the Eva Brantley Kincaid Ballroom was Lucy’s wedding reception.

She stood in the corner, not minding one bit being a wallflower at her own party. Her husband wasn’t beside her and she didn’t mind that either—especially since he was playing the piano so everyone could continue to dance while the musicians took a break.

Lucy had not understood the significance of the piano playing until late last spring when he had nonchalantly strolled to the piano at Miss Caroline’s and started to play. There had been tears, first from Miss Caroline, then Charles, and finally, Lucy, once she understood what a hurdle he had crossed. But Brantley hadn’t cried. He’d just smiled and continued on with his rusty rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl.”

It had not always been easy. He’d made progress, had setbacks, but he had not run. He’d wanted to a few times, especially the night they had their first argument—something that was also progress but sure hadn’t felt that way at the time. She’d never meant to bring up Savannah, never meant to make a snide remark about how he’d rejected her, but it had been hot, she was tired, and he was being an ass about something. She couldn’t even remember what now.

But the words came out and he was not one bit humble or apologetic. He claimed he’d done the honorable thing, the right thing, and he stood his ground, never backing down one inch, until they went around and around about it for over an hour.

Then one of them laughed and they made up in the most miraculous way. It was in the sweet moments after making love that he told her that he had finally been able to have a disagreement without thinking someone was going to die because of it.

His therapist would be pleased.

If she had had any doubt that he was going to heal, she would have known better when in June he finally came to her, as he said, “on bended knee.” The ring he presented to her was not the platinum and diamond one that he had pulled out of his pocket all those months ago at the parade party.

No. It was antique rose gold, set with rubies and diamonds—his mother’s ring. And just hours ago at the same altar where he’d been baptized and laid his mother and grandfather to rest, Brantley had slipped Eva’s wide wedding band on her finger.

Now, she ran her finger over the rings and sent out a promise and a prayer.

“Hello, baby girl.” She looked up to see Charles, handsome in his black tie attire. “Admiring your rings? I sure love seeing them on your hand.”

She tried to swallow her tears and failed miserably. “Just making someone a promise that I’ll do my best to love her baby the way she would want him to be loved.”

“Oh, I think she knows that. We all do.” He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes. “But no tears tonight. There’s too much happy here for that.”

And there was. She looked out on the dance floor, where her three best friends and bridesmaids were dancing with their husbands to the beat of Brantley’s questionable rendition of “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?” No broken hearts there. Her parents were drinking Champagne with Annelle, Lou Anne, and Miss Caroline. Tiptoe Watkins danced in a circle of three with Emma and Beau. And though Evelyn was a guest at the wedding, she was tidying the buffet and seemed to be giving the caterers a piece of her mind. And, oh, look! Arabelle, who, to Lucy’s delight, had come for the wedding, was letting Will Garrett lead her onto the dance floor.

Brantley hit a sour note, but never slowed down and neither did the dancers.

Charles and Lucy laughed together.

“He never was very good,” Charles said.

“Yet he plays on,” Lucy said.

Just then Brantley ended with a flourish and called across the room. “I’ve got time for one more before those hired musicians run me off this fine instrument that my dad bought for this room. But I can’t play this next one without my bride sitting with me on this bench.” He patted the place beside him and gave her a wink and smile.

Then he broke into “My Girl” as she wove her way through the crowd to him.

About the Authors

Before they began writing as Alicia Hunter Pace, Stephanie Jones and Jean Hovey were friends—not just friends, but the finish each other’s sentences and swap shoes on the sidewalk kind of friends.

They had no idea their writing styles would be so different but, upon reflection, they could have looked at their travel styles for a clue. Jean once got off a plane in London with eight dollars, an ATM card, no reservations of any kind, and a vague idea that she wanted to go to the Victoria and Albert museum. When Stephanie travels, she arrives with a detailed concrete plan written in a notebook that she carries in a coordinating tote bag that matches her calendar and her shoes.

There’s something to be said for both philosophies. Traveling by the seat of one’s pants—whether in a foreign country or on the printed page—can lead to adventures never recorded in a guide book, but it seems to work out better if there is a plotter along with her hand on the rudder.

Writing with a partner—most people wouldn’t do it; most people shouldn’t do it. It could easily lead to hair pulling, lawsuits, and funeral food.

But it works for them.

Stephanie lives in Jasper, Alabama, where she teaches third grade and wishes for a bigger bookstore. She is a native Alabamian who likes football, civil war history, and people who follow the rules. She is happy to provide a list of said rules to anyone who needs them.

Jean, a former public librarian, lives in Decatur, Alabama, with her husband in a 100-year-old house that always wants something from her. She likes to cook but has discovered the joy of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets since becoming a writer.

Stephanie and Jean are both active members of the fabulous Heart of Dixie Chapter of Romantic Writers of America.

Simple Gone South is the third book in the Gone South series.

For Luke and Lanie’s story, check out Sweet Gone South.

For Nathan and Tolly’s story, check out Scrimmage Gone South

Visit them at their website, http://aliciahunterpace.com/

Like them at: www.facebook.com/pages/Alicia-Hunter-Pace/176839952372867

Follow them at: twitter.com/AliciaHPace

More from This Author

(From Scrimmage Gone South by Alicia Pace Hunter)

Tolly Lee parked her Mercedes in front of the house that was the shining star on a rundown street. She lifted the baked ham from her trunk and made sure the card that read, With Sympathy, Bragg and Lee, Attorneys at Law was firmly attached to the aluminum foil. For the life of her, Tolly could not understand what good a ham was going to do. She’d wanted to bring a gallon of martinis but her cousin’s wife, Missy Bragg, had said that would be in bad taste. The deceased, Eula Lawson, had been the biggest teetotaler to ever live and die in Merritt, Alabama. Everybody knew that.

Well. Everybody seemed to always know a lot of things that Tolly didn’t.

Eula’s marigolds hadn’t gotten the news that it was October. They framed the neat little shingled house as if they had the most important job in the world.

The front door was standing open so Tolly balanced the ham on her hip and let herself in the screen door. The tiny living room was choking with people.

“Right through here, honey.” A plump woman wearing an apron, who was obviously in charge of people bearing food, led her down a short hallway to a neat utilitarian kitchen. “Now, do we need to put your name on your plate so we can get it back to you?” She took the ham but Tolly couldn’t imagine where she was going to put it. The counters and table were already filled with cakes, pies, deviled eggs, and casseroles.

“No. It’s in a disposable pan.” There were a half dozen matronly women milling around, some who had clearly been crying.

“That’s so thoughtful. Could we offer you some coffee? Or some iced tea?” The woman set the ham on the stovetop beside a platter of fried chicken.

“No, thank you,” Tolly answered. “I am so sorry about Miss Eula. Was she related to you?”

“Only by love,” the ringleader said, wiping her eyes with the edge of apron. “She was in our mission group at Wesley Methodist.”

“Well. I am sorry.” What was she supposed to do now? If only Missy had come with her. Or Harris. They always knew what to do. But Harris was in court and Missy had to take three-year-old Beau to the doctor.

One of the other women seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped forward. “You’re Tolly Lee, aren’t you? The lawyer that Kirby works for?”

“Yes. Kirby started working for my cousin Harris and me last summer.” He was smart and good at his job, though lately he was only able to come in for an hour a day during his free period at school. She would be glad when football season was over.

“He’s in the living room if you’d like to speak to him.”

Yes. That was the thing to do. Speak to Kirby. After all, he was the reason she was here. As she exited the kitchen, Tolly heard one of the women say, “What is that boy going to do now that his grandmother is gone?”

Good question, but not hers to answer. Kirby’s parents had been killed when he was two, and he had gone to live with his grandparents. Miss Eula’s husband had died a few years later and it had been just her and Kirby ever since.

A wailing woman wearing an orange sweater two sizes too small dominated the sofa and, really, the whole living room. This must be the daughter from Ohio, Kirby’s aunt, and maybe, new guardian. A bored looking man dressed in a tank top and jeans sat to her right, drinking a beer. That would be her husband. The Methodist minister, Dr. James Carlyle, sat to the woman’s left, offering comfort. Tolly had written Dr. Carlyle’s will last year after he had a heart scare that turned out to be indigestion, which proved that tamales could be good for business. He met Tolly’s eye and inclined his head toward the back of the room. She looked over the sea of mostly gray heads and saw the shaggy dark haired one she was looking for.

Kirby Lawson stood against the wall next to a console television, perfectly erect and perfectly alone. He wore pressed khakis, a blue oxford cloth shirt, and navy blue tie. At seventeen, he was poised beyond his years. Poise was a byproduct of grief, she supposed.

“Kirby,” she said quietly.

He swung his red rimmed eyes, which were the color of faded denim, to meet hers. They were wild with fear and grief. Eula had died unexpectedly while making a cake and Kirby had found her when he’d come home from football practice yesterday.

“Oh, Miss Tolly! Hello. I won’t be able to come to work tomorrow. I hate to let you down. But the funeral — ”

Tolly laid her hand on his arm. “Oh, honey. Of course, not. And don’t you even think about coming today either. Harris and I won’t be there tomorrow afternoon, anyway. We’re closing the office to come to your grandmother’s funeral.”

“You are?” His eyes filled but he quickly blinked the tears away and Tolly pretended not to notice.

“Of course, we are. And Harris said to tell you he’d be here right now but he had to go to court. He’ll be by later.”

“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.” He looked at the floor.

What to say now? Tolly had never had anyone close to her die but she’d heard it was good to make the bereaved think of something happy. And Kirby Lawson was a good boy. He deserved to think of something happy.

“Kirby, your grandmother was a wonderful woman. I bet there’s not a person in Merritt who hasn’t had her cake on at least one birthday.” Eula had baked special occasion cakes to supplement their income. Kirby had brought Eula’s famous red velvet cake to the office on Tolly’s birthday in June.

Kirby grinned. “The McGowan twins.”

“Pardon?” Tolly asked.

“The McGowan twins. They never had her cake. Their birthday is in January, the same day as mine. Mrs. McGowan kept asking, but Granna always said she only baked one cake on that day and it was for me.” His grin became a full fledged smile, though it was a little sad around the edges. “To tell the truth, that suited me fine. I never liked them.”

“Why, Kirby Lawson.” Tolly patted his hand and gave him the best smile she could come up with. And if anyone needed a little wink, Kirby did, so she supplied that too. “I believe that’s the first negative thing I’ve ever heard you say about anyone.”

His smile faded and his mouth went hard. “I could fill your ear full of plenty of bad right now.” He looked toward the sofa where his aunt continued to wail and his uncle had opened another beer.

“Go right ahead, honey. Say anything you need to and I won’t tell a soul. Even if it’s not fair. You don’t have to give out fair today.”

“Well.” He inclined his head to her ear. “My aunt. She never hardly even called Granna. And now she’s acting like she doesn’t know how she’s going to keep living. It’s been like that ever since they got in from Ohio at four o’clock this morning. Plus my cousins Randy and Carlene didn’t even come. I guess they couldn’t be bothered.”

“I’m sorry.” Tolly took his hand in hers.

“And, Miss Tolly — ” He swallowed and this time didn’t try to hide his filling eyes.

“What, baby? Tell me.”

“Granna was fixing a cake for a baby shower. It was nearly done when she — ” He closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure.

“Yes, Kirby. I’d heard that.”

“And they — ” He cast a murderous look toward the sofa. “You won’t believe what they did. I came in here this morning and they were eating that cake. I took it from them and told them they had no manners and no feelings. I’m not their favorite person right now. Was that bad of me?” His face that had looked so much like a man’s a bare second ago was now a child’s.

“Oh, honey. No.” Tolly held out her arms and he came into them. He had to bend over to lay his head against her shoulder.

Tolly sensed that someone had walked up behind her. She felt a hand clamp around her upper arm, just above the elbow. She would have known that hand anywhere, even through the silk of her blouse, even after all this time. She tried to shake loose but the grip just got tighter. It was not a grip of affection.

“Coach.” Kirby raised his head from Tolly’s shoulder and stepped out of her embrace.

“Seven.”

Seven. Ah, she had almost forgotten that football people often called each other by their jersey numbers. Would it have killed Nathan Scott to call Kirby by his name today, of all days? Harris and Nathan had played college ball together and they still occasionally called each other twelve and eighty-five — especially if they had a few beers in them.

“You doing all right, son?” Nathan did not look at Tolly but neither did he loosen his death grip on her arm. She tried to free herself without attracting attention, but he only clamped down harder. Too bad they were in a house of bereavement. She’d bet everything she owned that he would let go if she bit him. Her jaws ached to make him bleed all over his white polo shirt. She could do it too, provided she didn’t break her teeth on his arm — which was a real possibility since he was as muscular as he’d been in his college playing days, when she had first met him. And he was just as good looking as he’d been then, probably more so. His straight caramel blond hair was variegated with white sun streaks and, suddenly, she remembered how silky it had felt. She tried to jerk away again and, though he still did not look at her, his jaw tightened right along with his hand.

“I’m okay, Coach,” Kirby said. “Doing pretty good.” Did Kirby believe that? Did Nathan?

“Yeah? That’s good.” Apparently Nathan did believe him. Wasn’t that just like a man? Asked and answered, move on.

“Coach, do you know Miss Tolly?”

“Oh, yeah, Seven. I know Miss Tolly.” Nathan employed the tactic they’d both used since his arrival in town last January. Though they often found themselves in social situations together, they never spoke one word directly to each other. They both liked it that way, so why wouldn’t he let go of her? She tried again, and failed, to break away. What the hell? Clearly, he didn’t want her to get away, but why? All they had done since landing in the same town was walk away from each other. Crap almighty, she should have never moved to Merritt after graduating law school, and she wouldn’t have if there had been any indication that Nathan would ever return to his hometown. But Missy was from here, and Harris had followed her. Four years later, she had followed Harris to practice with him. And here she was.

No one ever noticed the iciness between her and Nathan because they spoke at and around each other and no one, not even Harris, had any idea they had ever met before Nathan moved back to Merritt. Last summer, when they’d been goaded into dancing together at Luke and Lanie Avery’s wedding, they’d brought down the house but they’d not broken the icy crystal silence. And that’s how Tolly liked it.

Tolly drew Kirby into her gaze and smiled and nodded.

“I’ll be at practice this afternoon, Coach,” Kirby said.

“Yeah?” At least Nathan had the good grace to frown a little. “Is that what you want to do?”

Kirby looked across the room to where his aunt had launched herself into the arms of one of the kitchen ladies.

“Yes, sir. That’s what I want.”

Nathan’s brown eyes followed the path that Kirby’s had blazed and then looked back at Kirby. “All right, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You need anything, Seven? Anything I can do for you? Short of committing murder, that is.” Nathan glanced at the aunt again.

“No, sir.” A little smile played with Kirby’s mouth.

“Then we are going to go now.” Nathan increased the pressure on Tolly’s arm, just in case she didn’t know what we meant.

“Kirby, honey,” Tolly said, “call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk. I mean it. Call me at the office or at home.”

“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

“Bye, Seven.”

And before Tolly could speak another word, Nathan propelled her in front of him and drove her through the crowd like she was a trolling motor on a bass boat.

Once on the front porch, she spoke the first words she’d said to him in over a decade — thirteen years to be exact, almost to the day.

“Nathan, let me go!”

And for the first time in as many years, he answered her. “Townshend, you are coming with me.”

Townshend. She’d almost forgotten that he used to call her by her real name, not the baby name that four-year-old Harris had christened her with because he couldn’t say Townshend. No one, not even teachers, had ever called her anything but Tolly — no one but Nathan. He had called her that because that was how she’d introduced herself that night so long ago when she’d wanted to be daring and do something unexpected, instead of being the eternal good girl.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?” she demanded.

“I don’t think anything. I know we’re going to sit in my truck and have a little chat.” He pulled her down the steps, none too slow and none too gently. She stumbled and he caught her.

“Hey. Stilettos here,” she said through gritted teeth.

“That’ll teach you to wear shoes that won’t take you where you need to go.”

“I don’t need to go anywhere with you.”

He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “The day is done when I care what you need. What you are going to do is march yourself over to my pickup truck and climb in. I’ve got some things to say to you.” He pointed down the block to where his big black truck was parked.

So, finally, after all this time. She had half expected this when he had first moved back here to replace the recently fired Merritt High head football coach. But he’d remained silent and she’d relaxed — apparently too soon.

“My car is closer,” she offered.

“So it is.” He made to move her toward his truck but she planted her feet.

She could refuse. A carload of Methodists had just pulled up and were unloading casserole dishes. Dr. Carlyle was emerging from the house. They would save her, even though she was Episcopalian. She was sure of it.

“Townshend,” Nathan said. It was only then that she noticed just how far beyond angry he was — he was shaking livid. “Get your butt down that street and into my truck or I will make a scene that will get me fired and land us both in jail. I swear I will do it.”

She believed him. And a scene was the last thing she wanted. Airing her dirty linen in public — especially this dirty linen — would be the worst thing in Bad City. If the people of Merritt found out what she’d done, what she had cost their hometown hero, life here would be over.

But why the confrontation now? Until today, he’d seemed as eager as she to keep their past a secret. And why was he, all of a sudden, so mad? He’d been mad thirteen years ago, sure. But since, there had only been cold distance. Maybe it was the ham she’d brought that set him off. Maybe he thought pot roast was a more appropriate bereavement food. That made as much sense as anything.

She let him guide her down the street. He slowed down, though whether it was in deference to her high heels or because of his bad knee, she couldn’t say.

To purchase this ebook and learn more about the author, click here.

For more Alicia Pace Hunter titles, try Sweet Gone South and Take Me Out

Content

Simple Gone South
Gone South - 3
by
Alicia Hunter Pace

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

About the Authors

More from This Author (From Scrimmage Gone South by Alicia Pace Hunter)