Tami Lynn chuckles. “I think it reared its curious head when he saw you in the gym.”
“Initially…yeah.” Savannah says. “But now he’s doing damage control. Asking all of these questions. He honestly believes you have to talk about and define these things early on. Making ‘logical’ choices about the future,” Savannah mocks his deep tone, once again with theatrical air-quotes.
“Oh, you like it and you know it,” Tami Lynn argues, aware of Savannah’s philosophical, searcher perspective on things. “You’re just sore because he called you out.” She turns back to her desk, finally preparing to get some work done. “Sounds like you better figure out what you want. This guy ain’t playing, Savannah.”
“Don’t think I don’t do my homework,” Savannah balks. “I started my checklist as soon as he dropped me off yesterday morning!”
“Hope you included footnotes.” Tami Lynn laughs, considering Brody’s persistence.
“Yeah…yeah…yeah,” Savannah dismisses, making her way to Willow’s office.
Larry arrives to start his workday. Passing by Tami Lynn’s cubicle, he sticks a Post-it note to the side of her desk. A sheepish smile on his lips, too flustered to actually stop and talk, he continues on to his desk. Tami Lynn reads anxiously a short poem from the note:
I had a grand time this weekend, you and me,
The most intriguing thing I find you to be.
I shall loathe the distance in between,
Spending time with you again, my Raven Queen.
Willodean Abernathy, Editor In Chief, Savannah knocks lightly on the large, glass-paned office door. Willow waves her in, a set of all-knowing, deep chocolate peepers emerging up over the lenses of her fashionable bifocals. Leaning back in her office chair, Willow removes the glasses, their gold chain lying against yet another exquisitely tailored silk blouse, matching the color of her eyes.
“Ms. Bondurant,” Willow addresses, “so kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
Savannah smiles timidly. “I was researching. For this week’s column.”
“Researching? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Willow looks at her presumptuously. “Word travels fast around here, Ms. Bondurant.” Willow winks at her, a cautionary gesture.
“Sam was thinking you might not appreciate my column,” Savannah inquires, ignoring Willow’s expectant look for further elaboration of her absence.
“That’s why I don’t pay Mr. McDonald to think.” Willow rolls her eyes, shifting through a stack of paperwork on her desk. “I quite like your column and its catchy, little down-to-earth, double entendre title.” Yet again, Willow proves she is the queen of the backhanded compliment. “The title alone may beg of more male eyes,” she keenly adds, knowing that particular target audience is a hard draw when it comes to the Lifestyle segment of the newspaper.
“Superb!” Savannah comments uncomfortably, great being her word of choice. However, in the company of Willow, she finds herself once more searching for otherwise colorful adjectives. “I’ll stay the course then.” Savannah clears her throat, nervously preparing to speak.
Willow puts her hand up, palm-side out while continuing to look down, tending her paperwork. “No. I have not found the time to consider your book proposal,” Willow stops Savannah in her tracks.
“It’s quite concise,” Savannah promises of its short, information-packed format, alluding that it wouldn’t take much of Willow’s time.
Willow slings her arm to a bookcase, overrun with stacks of book proposal packages. “I’m sure they’re all ‘quite concise,’ Ms. Bondurant. My first priority is the newspaper.” Willow looks at her sternly.
“Yes Ma’am,” Savannah replies, biting at the inside of her cheek, the urge to continue pleading her case simply gnawing.
Willow finally looks up from her paperwork, her eyes meeting Savannah’s. “I may be overstepping my reach here, Ms. Bondurant. However, I feel obliged to recommend that you may be wise to reconsider the company you keep whilst fishing in the dark.” Savannah eyes her analytically. “Oh yes, I know of the tall drink of water with whom you’ve been spending your time. A wood art exhibit this weekend. You were the talk of the Junior League luncheon.” Willow chuckles with the thought of the outwardly ruffled Candida Wooten. “It may spawn a bit of a conflict of interest for you.”
“The Wootens.” Savannah exhausts, her nose scrunching in discontent, cognizant of their financial underwriting to the newspaper. “I didn’t know you were friends with Candida.”
“Please.” Willow gives her a look of reprehension. “I would befriend a snake before Candida Wooten. It’s simply business. Believe it or not, I’m looking out for you.” Willow juggles her bifocals between reading and appealing to Savannah. “You do not want to get mixed up with that bunch. They eat their own young for sport.”
“I’m not mixed up with that bunch. And I’m well aware of exactly what Candida Wooten is,” Savannah defends.
“When she releases her fangs because you’re standing in the way of something she wants, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Willow’s voice chimes complaisantly.
“I see. When and if she pushes for my dismissal from the newspaper,” Savannah keenly picks up on her drift. “You wouldn’t fire me over something like that, would you Willow?”
“You are aware you’re the only person at the paper, outside of my friends and family, who calls me Willow?” she makes her point that she does have an affection for the aspiring writer. “No Savannah, I would not fire you for Candida Wooten. But, with her contribution to the paper, she could take it to the board, if she really wanted to.”
“You wouldn’t fire me. But you wouldn’t necessarily go to bat for me either. That’s what you’re saying, Willow,” Savannah is sure to take the liberty with her name, the meager threat behind the conversation sitting very uncomfortable with her.
A knock is heard on the glass-paned door. A meek intern pokes her head inside the office, accompanied by Noah Bondurant. “Sorry, Willodean,” the intern speaks, her voice quiet, “I tried calling for Savannah, but your intercom isn’t working.”
“My intercom isn’t working because I turned it off to get some work done.” Willow scowls at the intern.
“I’ll take it outside,” Savannah offers, headed for the door.
“Please, come in,” Willow extends to the handsome, well-built, thirty-something, male specimen standing awkwardly in the doorway. “That will be all,” she counsels to the intern, who flees from the vicinity.
“My apologies,” Noah says. “I’m headed to Camp Lejeune today. Didn’t want to skip out without saying goodbye,” he explains to Savannah.
“I’m glad you came. Let’s go back to my desk,” Savannah offers.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Willow interrupts, curious as to Savannah’s relationship with the olive-skinned, high and tight, dark-haired, clean-shaven, hazel-eyed, ruggedly dapper man in Marine Corps Dress Blues, the scarlet blood stripe down the outer seam of each leg, signifying he is an Officer. Quickly deploying her bifocals, Willow stands from behind her desk, appropriating her svelte frame and the chic couture it resides in.
“Noah, this is my boss, Willodean Abernathy,” Savannah reluctantly complies.
Noah deftly removes his cap in Willow’s presence. “Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.”
“Please, call me Willow.” She extends her hand. Noting the facial similarities, Willow comments, “You must be related.”
“Long lost brother,” Noah acknowledges, slipping his arm around Savannah’s waist. “Real proud of this one here. Gets her name in the paper every week. You must be proud of her, too. She works real hard at her job, you know.”
Willow nods. “Yes. We’re quite fortunate to have Savannah.”
Growing uncomfortable with the attention and quite thrown off by Willow’s uncommon praise, Savannah redirects, “Noah just accepted yet another promotion. Sergeant Major.” Savannah graciously points to the patch bearing the a
ppropriate insignia on the shoulder of his uniform.
“Oorah,” Willow purrs her approval and a fitting congrats.
“You’re familiar with The Corps?” Noah devises curiously.
Willow’s lips form into a debonair smile. “My exes. All three of them,” she divulges, “were Marines. Two Colonels. One General.” She is sure to clarify their superior rankings. Savannah gulps, never figuring Willow for a military man aficionado. “Aptitude and power. Attractive and noble traits,” Willow explains. Savannah recalls Brody’s confession that no woman wants a man she can walk all over, apparently not even the overbearing Willodean Abernathy.
“The schedule got in the way,” Noah sympathizes, knowing all too well of the pitfalls of military marriages.
“It’s problematic, carrying on a relationship with a man who is never home,” Willow concurs. “Have you ever been married, Noah?” Willow’s voice and body language speaking cohesively, both interested and nearly seductive in their delivery.
“No Ma’am. Maybe once I retire,” Noah adheres to the time management issue as an enlisted man.
“Willow,” she corrects again, unwilling to be referred to, much less appropriated, as an elder by a man she would most like to consider an eligible equal.
“Well, we really should be going.” Savannah pulls on Noah’s arm, backing him toward the door.
Noah half bows, his cap still tucked under his arm. “A pleasure, Willow,” he takes great care in getting the address right this time before reassembling his cap to sit low on his forehead.
“The pleasure was indeed all mine, Sergeant Major Bondurant,” she purrs. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Savannah rushes Noah out the door and down the hallway for fear if she does not a most rare and smitten Willow may have her way with him in the office suite of the Savannah Sun Times.
“Thought you said she was cold as ice?” Noah inquires. “Seemed pretty warm to me.” He chuckles.
Savannah shakes her head, still disbelieving. “Apparently I need to join The Corps to win her approval.”
“Uniform gets ’em every time.” Noah slaps his hands together triumphantly, causing Savannah to giggle.
“You sure you have to leave?” Savannah prods. “Bet if I brought you to work every day for show and tell, I could get most anything I want out of Willodean Abernathy. Who’d a thunk it!”
“I could take her out a time or two. On weekends or holidays from work. If you think that would help your case,” Noah offers, as if he would simply be benefiting her.
“You like her? That way?” Savannah squints her eyes.
“She’s smart, successful. And pretty damn easy on the eyes,” Noah contemplates.
“There’s no doubt about that,” Savannah acknowledges, her boss certainly well-kempt, a most attractive woman. “But I bet she out ages you by about twenty years.”
“Lot to be said for dating an older woman.” Noah recalls a few in his past and how they taught him a thing or two in the romance department. “Is she a cougar? Straight up. Has an affinity for younger men?”
“That seems to be all the rage here in Savannah,” she exhausts, the most notorious feline, Candida Wooten coming to mind.
Chapter Seventeen
A lukewarm Georgia Saturday afternoon rolls around, welcoming the first week of November. Savannah accompanies Brody to his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary at his mother’s house. Surely another one of Brody’s tests from his ever-streaming checklist (number nine—gets along with my family), Savannah finds herself a bit apprehensive. Not only do things seem to be moving along at an even keel, the pace of her growing affection for Brody is at odds with the time frame in which she set. How could it be otherwise with the amount of time they continue to spend together?
Every new event, each new face, that of a friend or family member of Brody’s she meets, the deeper the attachment to him seems to form. The way he handles himself in public and in private, playing to her approval as the layers of who he is continue to unveil themselves, much to her liking. Fully aware that they have surpassed the simplistic, uncomplicated and casual meeting of the bodies, her heart, officially and quite disagreeably, has come into play. Holding her hand, as usual, Brody leads her into the gated backyard of his mother’s home.
“Brody!” a tall, stately, middle-aged man still holding on to a full head of thick, dark hair greets them, wrapping his arms snugly around Brody’s frame. “Good to see you, kid. And you brought company.” The man breaks his hold on Brody, enthusiastically extending his hand. “You must be Savannah.” Savannah nods, meeting his oversized palm, her smile reciprocal of his. “Lance Galloway,” he introduces himself.
“This is my mama’s husband,” Brody clarifies.
“I’m what they call the other half,” Lance jokes, alluding that his wife is the better half. Waving to a tall, good-looking blonde, Lance beckons, “Come on over, baby. See what company your baby brought.”
Brody shakes his head smiling, slightly embarrassed. Recouping, he embraces his mother. “Hey Mama.”
“How’s my boy?” she greets him. Pulling away, she inspects his frame. “Have you been eating right? You look a little slim. Used to eat me out of house and home, this one,” she pulls Savannah into the conversation with her eyes.
“Mama, this is Savannah,” Brody acquaints them.
“I wondered when we’d get to meet you. Heard you introduced her to your daddy first,” she says, a hint of displeasure in her voice.
“Thanks for having us over, Lydia,” Savannah speaks her name, having been prefaced by Brody in previous conversation. Studying her face, Savannah immediately picks out the high cheekbones and deep-set steel blue eyes she shares with her son.
“Uncle Brody! Uncle Brody!” a boy of about six years chants, making a beeline.
“Liam Patrick,” Brody greets him by name, stooping down and scooping him up in his arms.
After a quick hug, Liam wriggles free, pulling at Brody’s hand. “Come see my trap I set in the woods.”
Brody looks to Savannah. “She’ll be fine,” Lydia consoles. “I don’t bite…hard.” She winks at her son, the same charming grin staring back at him.
“What are you trying to catch?” Brody asks Liam as they walk away. “A wassa kitty?” Brody offers up with a spooky and excited intonation.
“What’s a wassa kitty?” Liam asks, his eyes as big as saucers.
“The most elusive wildcat on the planet. Hunters have been tracking it for years,” Brody tells a tall tale.
Another one of Savannah’s heartstrings finds itself effectively tugged watching the six-foot-four Adonis walk away, his pinky finger securely tucked in little Liam’s hand.
“Do you want children?” Lydia asks, taking note of the warmth in Savannah’s expression as she watches Liam and Brody.
“Yes Ma’am,” she answers, “someday.” Savannah notes the newly confirmed want making its way onto her Brody-inspired checklist.
“Brody says you’re a writer? Anything I’ve read?” Lydia keeps her inspection unthreatening.
“Well, I don’t have any books published just yet. I write for the paper mostly. A column for the Savannah Sun Times. Are you a big reader?” Savannah attempts to change the trajectory of the conversation, uncomfortable with the self-focus.
“Oh yes. I read anything I can get my hands on. It’s part of my job.” Lydia smiles. “I’m a technical editor at University Press.”
“Oh!” Savannah pipes, surprised and impressed. University Press is on her list of possibles to submit her book proposal should Willow pass on the project. “That’s very cool. You do exist? Editors.” Savannah chuckles, finding them rather elusive as a writer.
“It’s unfair the power we have,” Lydia sympathizes with her. “A lot of really good manuscripts don’t ever get published…all dependent on our interpretation…and the satisfaction of our day, quite frankly. Well, enough about business,” Lydia dismisses. “Brody says you’ve been married before?
”
“Ah,” Savannah hesitates, “yes Ma’am. We grew apart. Things just didn’t work out.” Savannah worries she’s making it sound worse with her need to explain.
“You don’t have to justify it to me,” Lydia offers, pointing to a jovial man across the yard, sitting next to and conversing with two very attractive twenty-something year old women. “That’s Vance. He was my second husband. Lance is third and final, thank God. Brody’s daddy, Chance, was the first.” She rolls her eyes, still some unrequited tension from that particular union and demise.
Savannah takes in the rhyming names, the odd account showing itself in her expression.
“I know, right. You think I would have shied away from Lance.” Lydia chuckles at the otherwise unfortunate omen. “We’ve been married now for eighteen years. Think this one’s actually going to stick.”
“Takes a little time to get it all figured out, I guess,” Savannah says.
“Youth is certainly wasted on the young,” Lydia replies, her drawl present but not overpowering.
“What are you gabbing about, Lydia honey?” an elderly gent approaches.
“I was telling Savannah here how it would have been more fruitful had I been wise instead of so good-looking as a young woman. Guess I can blame that on you and Mama,” Lydia jokes, complimenting her parents on their favorable stature and appearance.
“Ah ha ha,” he indulges in an enjoyable laugh. William “Bill” Weatherford sports a nineteen fifties-esque retro fashion of dress pants, a light plaid sweater vest and a matching paperboy cap. “I came to get a kiss from a pretty girl.” Bill offers up his cheek to Savannah.
Savannah pecks him on his clean-shaven face. “You sure smell good,” she compliments his aftershave.
“Glad to hear I still got it.” Bill winks at her. “Brody used to watch me shave as a young chap, biting at the bit to do so himself. He’d stare into the mirror wishing hair to grow on his upper lip.” Bill laughs. “I’d lather him up with Old Spice, give him a razor with the cap on and let him go to town.”
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