Southern Fried Blues (The Officers' Ex-Wives Club)

by Jamie Farrell

  He scratched his curly hair and surveyed her neatly organized trunk.

  As if he could wield her jumper cables better than she could against an army of fire ants.

  Instead, he swung her Windex out of the trunk like a gunslinger preparing for a showdown, then tucked her paper towels under his arm.

  “My car is very—” she started, but then it hit her.

  He wasn’t going to clean it.

  Carbon-based ants, meet ammonia.

  Forgetting simple chemistry principles was not a good omen for her degree.

  Wanting to watch her unexpected helper go to battle against the ants wasn’t a good omen for her sanity.

  Her skin flushed as if she were standing inside Hell’s boiler room. She reached for the Windex, but something stopped her before she could get close enough to grab it.

  Something that tasted suspiciously like fear.

  Not of him.

  Of herself.

  “I’ll do it,” she bit out. She flicked her fingers up, gesturing for him to hand over the Windex.

  “Ain’t no trouble.” His gaze wandered down her body, and she felt a whomp in her chest beneath the tingles spreading to her rib cage.

  “Be a shame to mess up them pretty clothes,” he said.

  “I can handle this,” she said firmly. She gestured to his car. “There’s another exit two rows down. I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  His eyes were big and blue as her wounded heart, but when he squinted at her like that, they went a shade darker to cobalt. “Now I’m sure it don’t matter none to you, but my momma’d have my hide if she heard I abandoned a lady with critters in her car.”

  Anna stifled a whimper of frustration. She swiped at her forehead. She’d probably drown in her own sweat before she managed to wrestle the Windex out of his hands.

  If she could get brave enough to get within touching distance of him. “I don’t know your momma, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  He scratched his hair again, and she felt an intense desire to claw out that part of her that wanted to know how it would feel between her fingers.

  Rebound, her brain yelled.

  Something more primitive was still clamoring about his hair.

  “Reckon you might be right on that one,” he finally said. “But she’d still know. Scares me more’n that mound you parked over, that’s for sure.”

  “I didn’t—” She stopped herself. Red ants swarmed around a huge ant mound beneath where her front bumper had been. “That wasn’t there this morning.”

  “Be doing me a real big favor if you let me take care of this for you.” The solemnity of his expression was refreshingly innocent compared with what she expected out of Rodney Friday night. “Besides, killing bugs ain’t no work for a lady. Even a Yankee lady.”

  An unexpected snort of amusement lodged in her nostrils. This one was either Southern chivalry at its finest or a few tomatoes short of a ketchup bottle. “This Yankee lady takes care of herself, thank you.”

  But she still couldn’t propel herself close enough to grab the bottle.

  He propped himself into the drivers seat and squirted a trail of ants. A whole row of the little buggers curled up in the fetal position. He took a leisurely swipe at them with a paper towel, then sprayed again. He shot Anna a sly look out of the corner of his eye.

  Like he was looking to see if she were watching him.

  She quickly dropped her gaze and made a show of checking the time. Her heart thumped again, but this time it was pure panic. If she left now and ran once she got to campus, she’d only be seven minutes late. Plus heatstroke recovery time after the dash to the classroom. She tapped a foot. “We could be done in two minutes if you’d let me help.”

  Squirt. Squirt. Squirt. “Getting the ones you can see don’t mean you’re getting the ones you can’t.”

  Anna shivered. “Still, you’ve done enough. Would it help if I wrote your momma a thank you note?”

  Oh, God, and he had dimples. Of course he had dimples. This fiasco wouldn’t be complete if he didn’t have dimples.

  “It sure would make her day,” he said.

  “Then if you’ll hand me my purse, we can both be on our way.”

  “Reckon I could do that, but then I'd have to find some other excuse to stay here and coax that pretty smile.”

  Oh.

  It was one thing for her body to go renegade on her. It was something completely different for her mind to contemplate skipping class so she could listen to Momma’s Boy drawl out Southern platitudes.

  Neil never talked to her like that.

  Of course, Neil had left. Packed up while she was at work. Sent his attorney to pick up her wedding ring. Avoided her like she was some kind of freak with a communicable label maker disease.

  “Now, see, that's supposed to make you smile more,” he said.

  Anna blinked, but her eyes still burned. “Sorry. Bad timing.”

  He squirted a few more ants. “Shoulda got him with the Windex.”

  Anna inadvertently pictured herself chasing Neil out of their house with her label maker and a bottle of Windex, and she was surprised to find she still had a laugh in her. “Now what would your momma say to that?”

  “That I should buy you dinner for making you sad.” He took another swipe at her steering column. “I’m Jackson.”

  All she had to do was tell him her name. She didn’t have to go to dinner, didn’t have to ever see him again. Tell him her name, and she’d move back into the ranks of the mostly-single-and-attractive-to-somebody ranks, questionable though his mental state might be. But she’d still be late for class.

  She sucked in a breath. She could do this. Just say her name. “I’m—I’m late. For class. And I don’t do late, and I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot. And I need this class, I really do, because—well, I just do, so I need to take the ant-mobile and go. But thank you. It was nice of you to help.”

  “Darlin’, you ain’t gonna get outta this parking lot without getting all bit up. They’re still crawling out your vents.”

  She wouldn’t cry again. She wouldn’t. “Then will you please let me help?” Nine minutes late. Did professors lock the classroom doors when class started? She couldn’t remember.

  He gave the dash a couple of quick squirts, then handed her the paper towels. “Keep on going. I’ll go on and get ’em from the other side.”

  Anna heaved a sigh of relief and sank into the car. She attacked the melting ants with an efficiency that apparently hadn’t made it this far south yet. Between the semi-cool air blowing on her, the faint scent of Old Spice lingering in her seat, and the feeling of being useful once again, things looked less dire.

  Jackson climbed into her passenger seat and kept squirting. “You taking classes out on base?”

  She suppressed a shudder and tore off another paper towel. These ants were going down faster than her marriage. “James Robert.” A beautiful, private campus without any military presence.

  “Ol’ Jim-Bob, eh? What kinda class you taking?”

  “Heat Transfer in Hell.” She lunged for an errant ant.

  “Thermo?”

  She stopped wiping to stare at him. “You’ve heard of thermodynamics?”

  He blinked, almost like he was offended, then nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am. I grew up Baptist. I know all about them temperatures in hell.”

  Another shadow of a laugh eased a bit more pressure in her airways. “Guess your momma raised you right then.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Together, it took five more minutes to wipe out the worst of the ants. If she sped on the roads and ran from the parking lot, she’d be only thirteen and a half minutes late, assuming a quick heatstroke recovery time. She tucked her Windex and depleted paper towel roll back into her trunk organizer, and she found a genuine smile for her unexpected helper. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He took her hand into his, his grip warm and smooth and flutter-indu
cing, and pressed something against her palm. “In case you need help with any more critters.” He stepped back, amusement evident in the quirk of his lips. “Hope you know more about hell than you look like you do.”

  He’d written his name and number on a paper towel.

  It was almost sweet enough to make being fourteen minutes late for her first class worth it. Even if he was a big ol’ redneck, he thought she was cute.

  Ants and all.

  Or maybe he owned an exterminator company.

  She sighed. Given her track record of being lovable, she was betting on the latter.

  JACKSON IDLY scratched at the red bumps popping up on his right hand while he watched the Honda Civic pull out of the parking lot. Never would’ve guessed Kaci was doing him a favor making him and Lance watch that old crappy girly movie about that Greek wedding last night, but he wished he’d squirted his itchy hand with the Windex before he let Miss Late Yankee peel out of here.

  Should’ve told her to change the label on it too: Windex, Ant Killer, and Bite Spray. He opened the Jetta, chuckling about the labels on her trunk organizer and boxes. His favorite had been the one labeled Jerkface’s Stuff.

  Northern folk weren’t so bad. He knew that after spending a spell or two up past the Mason-Dixon line, but he hadn’t met many who would offer to write his momma a note excusing him from being a gentleman. Between that and her sad doe eyes, he reckoned he didn’t have much choice but to leave her his number. She wouldn’t use it, hoity-toity Yankee who stared down her nose like that when his accent hit her, but she looked like she needed some reminding she was pretty.

  Especially when she let loose a smile, even if it was because she thought he was some dumb redneck. He grinned bigger. Would’ve played dumb to put her at ease, gentleman that he was, but he did love playing mind games with Northerners.

  The sound of his phone hollering out “Sweet Home Alabama” in the cup holder killed his amusement real quick.

  Momma liked to say God made man for practice and woman for perfection, but Jackson reckoned that was before Momma and Daddy made Louisa. Didn’t mean he could ignore her call, though. He settled into the driver’s seat and picked up the phone. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Jackson Beauregard Davis, where is my car?”

  Maybe he’d take the long way up to Auburn. Reconsider this whole moving-back-close-to-home idea, if Uncle Sam and his new landlord would let him. He gave the Jetta’s wheel a tap. “Right here.”

  He didn’t remember girls huffing at him like that back when he was in college. Thought they all gave it up by then. But not Louisa. Must’ve been a generation thing.

  “You said you’d be home an hour ago,” she said.

  “Car wasn’t done yet. You got somewhere to be?”

  “No, you’re just slower’n an elephant chasing a tiger with a football.”

  Jackson dropped his head back against the seat. “Pretty strong fighting words. Bit early, isn’t it?”

  “Never too early to remind a traitor where he stands.”

  And here they went. “You want your car, or you want your car running?”

  “Both.”

  He scratched the back of his hand again. Now what else had he expected from a female? Perfection indeed. Girl didn’t know how good she had it, having a stepdad with the connections for a vegetable oil engine retrofit and a brother with the time to come all the way across the country and bring it over to Georgia for the work.

  Or maybe he had it good, getting that excuse to leave Auburn early last week and stay here a couple extra nights while he took care of what he told them all was military business.

  “Don’t you have some studying to be doing?” he said.

  Wasn’t every woman that could narrow her eyes out loud, but Louisa could. “You’re not late because you’ve been playing kissy-face with some girl are you?”

  “You wanting your car so you can play kissy-face with some boy in it?” Sweet Lord, when had she gotten old enough for that? And what was worse, thinking of his baby sister making out with some yahoo, or suddenly picturing himself showing Miss Late Yankee how a man did things in the South?

  “She know she’s toast soon as hunting season rolls around?” Louisa said.

  “He know I’ve added to Daddy’s old shotgun collection?”

  Louisa snickered. “How dumb do you think I am to go flirting with boys who’d be scared of the likes of you?”

  He opened his mouth, but since he didn’t have as much of a clue as he should’ve as to what kind of boys Louisa brought home, he reckoned he’d better not jump into that one without thinking it through first. Wasn’t sure which one of them would look dumber if he did, and he wasn’t keen on him being the one.

  “Huh,” she said. “Gotcha there, don’t I?”

  “You ever park on top of an ant hill?” he asked finally.

  “Are you for real?” Louisa scoffed. “Even your dog’s smarter than that.”

  Sure, his dog was, but that didn’t mean Louisa was. Not that he had any intention of pointing that out, since she currently had possession of both his dog and his truck. “You keep any Windex in this car?”

  A girly cackle was his only answer. Figured she thought she was above cleaning her own car now too. Wasn’t like she had to pay for the thing herself.

  That had him rubbed wrong, but he couldn’t finger why that was. Russ had offered Jackson a car and free ride to college when he graduated high school. Just because Jackson wouldn’t get within sniffing distance of their stepfather’s money didn’t mean Louisa had to join him on the high road. She’d been too young to understand back then, and nobody talked about it now.

  Not her fault.

  He strapped himself in and gave the seatbelt a tug for good measure. Then he cranked the engine. “Need to make a stop, but then I’m heading up. See you in a couple hours.”

  And a lot more often after that, but he wasn’t ready to tell her his road trip was about something more permanent.

  Not when he was wondering what Miss Late Yankee would be doing about the time he rolled into town for good. She might be going to Kaci’s school, but the physics and chemistry departments didn’t mingle. Or so he’d heard her say. Might’ve been perfection in that too.

  A familiar chuckle he hadn’t heard in too many years echoed between his ears, and he could almost hear his daddy’s voice again too. Have your fun while you can, son. One day it’s gonna have you. He looked around, but other than a couple women walking to their cars, there weren’t any people in the parking lot. He rolled his shoulders back. The leaves on the old oaks fluttered, but the wind couldn’t have made that sound. Nothing could’ve made that sound, and he would’ve given his right arm to go back to the last time he heard it.

  But Daddy had been gone sixteen years now, and Jackson had learned to let the memories be enough. He still had Momma, and he still had Louisa. It was time to get on with getting on. He shifted the Jetta into gear and settled in for the long road home.

  Chapter Four

  Failure was not a shortcoming she suffered lightly, but as she’d had little practice getting back on the horse, she suddenly found she didn’t even know where the horse was.

  —The Temptress of Pecan Lane, by Mae Daniels

  ANNA SHOULD’VE taken the date with the exterminator.

  She sat in a corner of the Jimmy Beans Coffee Shop a block off campus, rubbing at the uneven tiles in mosaic tabletop as if she could force them into symmetrical lines. The instrumental music coming out of the ceiling was probably supposed to be soothing, but it reminded Anna of funeral hymns. Not even the aroma of fresh roasted beans could make this better.

  She should’ve gone home to study, but she still shuddered at calling her new, affordable-on-a-single-income apartment home. So instead, she’d walked into Jimmy Beans to grab a latte. Wasn’t as if her fish would notice if she were five minutes late. A line of kids who hardly looked old enough to vote had filed in after her, and instead of pushing back through them,
she’d used the human wall as an excuse to claim a table in the back corner and feel sorry for herself.

  The coeds were apparently part of some campus group, and not the officers’ ex-wives club that she’d seen advertised on the bulletin board outside her thermo classroom. If she were being honest with herself, she would’ve admitted she’d come here looking to make a friend or two who might tell her life would go on.

  But it was easier to scowl at the table and pretend she hadn’t been rejected by a group of bitter divorcees. The kids gathered at the front of the room took papers from skewed stacks that made Anna’s fingers itch. They gradually filtered out into the night. The door’s bells jingled, and warm air wafted over Anna’s skin. A blonde stayed behind by herself, her back to Anna, but she called out in a Dolly Parton–ish drawl, asking the barista for another espresso.

  Anna’s finger burned from the friction it was creating on the tiles, so she switched hands. Stupid South. Stupid Neil. Stupid, arrogant James Robert College professors.

  “Sugar, it’s too early in the term to be letting the classes get to you.”

  Anna blinked up. The blonde peered down at her. She’d seen the girl shopping in the bookstore yesterday. Her perky attitude and infectious grin had made her stand out.

  But it was the massive rock on her left hand that Anna remembered more. If love were measured in carats, she must’ve gotten the ring from God.

  Also definitely not the ex-wives crowd.

  Without waiting for an invitation, the blonde plunked her petite frame into the wire-backed chair across the table. “I’m Kaci. You got a name, sugar?”

  Anna blew out a slow breath. She fisted her hands and put them in her lap. Sure, she had a name. It started with an F and ended in an —ailure. But since Minnesotans prided themselves on their “nice” the way Southerners prided themselves on their manners, Anna nodded. “Anna Mar—somebody.”

  One hour. She wanted to get through one hour without that damn burning behind her eyes.

  Kaci gave her a smile laced with sympathy and encouragement. “How long’s it been since you took classes?”