The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend)

by Liz Talley

  “I make you happier?” Shelby asked, her head snapping around so quickly her hair lifted off her shoulders.

  He pulled in the drive next to his uncle Carney’s ’57 restored Chevy truck, surprised at his words, but, yeah, though the past few days had been hard, he’d felt more himself. “Oddly enough, you’ve made me forget how bad this year has been.”

  And it was true. For over an entire year, he’d existed in robotic fashion, smiling only when someone cracked a joke, and even then only because it was expected. Otherwise, each day was the same—empty house, hard day and lonely evening with a cat he’d never wanted in the first place. But after he’d conquered the horror over how badly he’d screwed up three months ago, an unexpected protective feeling and burgeoning fondness for Shelby had bloomed. The woman was such an enigma, bringing unexpected laughter in the middle of despair...and she had every reason to be as unsettled as anyone over the fact she was pregnant.

  “Only a bit, huh?” she said, eyeing his parents’ home. “This looks like something out of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. In fact I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof. Ouch.”

  “It’s been in our family since my great-great-grandfather Earl bought it back from his mistress. I like the irony a preacher lives here.” John killed the engine, climbed out and hurried around to open Shelby’s door, but she’d already climbed out.

  Closing the door she turned to him, her blue eyes full of...something. But the moment felt intimate, as if admitting she made him happy had moved them to a new stage...a stage he was afraid of entering. “Thanks for saying that.” She smiled.

  Her lips were glossy. Usually he didn’t like kissing women who wore sticky gloss, but at that moment he wondered what she tasted like. He couldn’t remember. Sweet? Spicy? Minty? “For saying what?”

  “That your life isn’t worse because of all this.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said you made me a bit happier. Key word is bit,” he joked.

  Yes, he’d actually made a joke. Strange. No, not a joke. Flirting. Shockingly, it felt fantastic.

  Her eyes twinkled as she laughed. “Now I remember why I wanted to dance with you, Josh Beauchamp.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I told the private investigator I thought your name was. Josh or Joe.”

  Holy crap, they both flirted with each other. “I remembered your name.”

  She gave him a smoldering look. “I’m memorable. Sue me.” And then she sauntered off with a little laugh. And he stood there, very, very much aware of Miss Shelby Mackey, the woman he’d invited to live with him.

  Damn.

  He felt... He couldn’t name the feeling...but he’d felt it before. A long time ago when he’d first met Rebecca Lynn with her subtle smile and surprising wit. It had been at the Dairy Palace. She’d attended school in Baton Rouge up until her junior year of high school so he’d never met her before that day. Once he did, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. This was how it felt at the beginning.

  John didn’t want to move in that direction. He wasn’t ready to flirt. But even as part of him dug in his heels, the other part stepped toward this woman carrying his child. Something within him stirred, and it wasn’t just about being a father in less than seven months. It was interest.

  In Shelby.

  Not a good idea, bud. Things are about as clear as bayou mud.

  He grabbed the ice chest he’d strapped down in the back of the truck, lifting it over the scratched edge. He was back to bringing the drinks again à la bachelor. Jake would probably be responsible for the rolls which he’d no doubt bring from Betsy’s Bake Shoppe.

  As he headed toward the front door following Miss Fancy Pants, he saw someone he’d not expected on the porch, sitting stock-still regarding him with a stunned look on her face.

  Rebecca’s mother.

  And Carla Stanton wasn’t happy about what she’d witnessed.

  * * *

  CARLA WAGUESPACK STANTON had seen much in her sixty-nine years. She’d endured her papa driving off into a bayou dead drunk. She’d sat through the funerals of both her parents, her brother who’d perished in Cambodia, her husband and her most precious gift of all—her beautiful daughter. But nothing had ever hurt her more than to see John Beauchamp flirting with the pretty blonde he’d brought to Thanksgiving dinner.

  The pain struck hard and fast, and for a moment, she couldn’t manage a breath.

  This was it. The day had arrived when John stepped back into a world without Rebecca. He’d made the leap she’d been unable to make. She should be happy for him. But she wasn’t.

  Seeing him with that other woman made her daughter’s death all the more horrific.

  If only...

  So many if onlys in regards to what had happened that September day. But none could change the outcome—her baby had died alone, terrified. Carla would never forgive herself for that...and she’d never forgive John, either.

  So to watch him laugh with the blonde felt like he’d walked up and slapped her in the face.

  When he saw her ensconced in the rocker, the laughter in his face slipped away. His expression went from surprise to shame to dread.

  “Carla,” he said as he climbed the steps to his parents’ house, the blonde beside him looking suddenly wary.

  Smart girl.

  “Hello, John. I suppose your parents didn’t tell you I was invited.”

  “No, but I never asked. How are you?”

  “Well as can be expected. My hip has been bothering me and Dr. Peevy’s been talking about replacement.” Her eyes shifted to the blonde. “You have a friend.”

  He nodded and the girl swallowed, clasping her hands behind her back, forming a smile. “I do. This is Shelby Mackey. She’s a friend of mine from Seattle.”

  “Oh?” Carla said, not bothering to rise. She shouldn’t have to be polite to the girl with the diamond earrings and the big tits. Shelby was the intruder here, not Carla, who’d been coming to Thanksgiving dinner at the Beauchamps ever since her daughter had married into the family. “I never knew you had friends in Seattle.”

  The girl extended her hand. “How do you do?”

  Carla took the hand only because her mama had raised her with manners. Her grasp was warm and firm, which made her even less likable. “Not very well if truth be told.”

  “Oh,” Shelby said, casting a glance toward John. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Carla was Rebecca’s mother,” John said.

  “No, I am her mother. That never changed,” Carla said, eyeballing John with a firm look. Rebecca’s death hadn’t changed who Carla was. She’d always be her baby’s mama.

  The blonde dropped her hand, noticeably paling as she cast a startled glance at John. Receiving no help, she mumbled, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps so, though if I’m reading things correctly from my viewpoint, you benefit from the cause of that pain.”

  The blonde’s eyes widened and she shook her head.

  “Carla,” John said, warning in his voice.

  “No, it’s true, isn’t it? You two are dating?”

  “No, we’re not dating,” John said, his green eyes crackling with more emotion than she’d seen in a while. Change wafted in on the Louisiana breeze. She felt this in her bones as much as she felt the arthritis, and she didn’t like the thought of the world moving on, forgetting what had happened, abandoning her daughter.

  Logically she knew life went on, but logic was a piss-poor companion to a brokenhearted woman.

  Shelby blinked. The girl had pretty eyes, the kind you saw in Miss America contestants, intentionally guileless, placid on purpose. But then her eyes changed. Shelby wasn’t as dumb as she looked. “He’s right, we’re not dating. I’ll be living with him.”

  John’s head j
erked toward Shelby.

  Carla rose, her hip screaming in protest. “Living with him?” Ice hung off her words even as anger fired deep in her belly. John was out of his mind if he thought he could invite someone to live at Breezy Hill.

  “In a technical sense. I’m considering relocating to Louisiana, and John has kindly offered me a place to stay,” Shelby said, her smile pasted on in a most determined manner.

  “You’re going to stay at Breezy Hill?” Carla said, shifting her gaze to John as the anger boiled over into fury. They could say whatever they want about being friends. Carla could tell it was more. She wasn’t stupid.

  “I’m happy to help out,” John said, his gaze intent.

  “You’re happy to help out?” Carla repeated.

  “Carla, Shelby’s a friend who needs a place to stay. Don’t turn this into something it’s not,” John said.

  Carla shook her head. “No. Not going to happen. That house belonged to my husband’s family and you’re not going to use it for...whatever you think you’re going to use it for. It belongs to the trust.”

  And I control the trust. She didn’t say the words, but John knew the score. Had he even thought about how this would look? His wife not even cold in the ground and he’d replaced her?

  “I think you misunderstand the situation, Carla,” John said.

  “No, I don’t think I do.”

  “This doesn’t have to do with Rebecca.”

  “Don’t say her name,” Carla hissed, her control slipping away. Today was Thanksgiving, a day to reflect on blessings. What was she to reflect upon? How empty her life was now? How utterly alone she was?

  “Carla,” John intoned, reaching a hand toward her. “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what? Feel the way I feel? She was my daughter.”

  “And she was my wife,” he said, his voice lowering, the hurt still there. Carla hated herself for it, but hearing the pain in John’s voice momentarily satisfied her. She wanted him to still feel that pain, to still feel guilt over Rebecca’s death, because it meant her daughter existed in some small way. Her fingerprints stayed behind.

  “I’m leaving. I’m not eating dinner with—” Carla shifted her gaze back to the blonde who stood looking as if she wished to be anywhere other than where she stood in her fancy boots “—your friend.”

  Carla didn’t wait for either Shelby or John to say anything more, merely pushed past the two of them, noting the expensive scent of Shelby’s perfume, and entered the Beauchamp house. Francesca “Fancy” Beauchamp came around the corner just as Carla bent to scoop her purse off the old church pew sitting in the foyer.

  “What’s wrong, Carla?” Fancy asked, waving a wooden spoon in her direction. “Oh, I forgot I had this spoon. You’re not going, are you? We’re about to eat. Waiting on John.”

  “I’m not staying, Fancy. Today is too upsetting for me.”

  “Too upsetting?” Fancy repeated. “Oh, honey, you don’t need to be alone today. Stay with us. We’re family.”

  Carla looked at Fancy in her ruffled apron with her perfect hair and warm smile and wanted to slap her silly. Family? No, she wasn’t family. She was a sad charity case for the Beauchamp family.

  Let’s invite poor Carla. She has no one.

  “I’m just not feeling up to snuff today, Fancy. No need for me to ruin everyone’s dinner.”

  “Oh, Carla, don’t leave. Abigail made the caramel pie you like.”

  Like caramel pie would keep her at the table with the woman trying to take her daughter’s place, and, for Christ’s sake, living at the Stanton family farm. The thought of Shelby standing in the kitchen where Carla had raised Rebecca made Carla hopping mad. She might do something inappropriate like throw a roll at the woman...or wrap her arthritic fingers around her pretty throat. Or maybe kick her fathead son-in-law in the balls for even thinking about letting another woman live at Breezy Hill.

  What was he thinking?

  She thought about Shelby with her blond hair, blue eyes and big knockers and knew what he was thinking.

  “Sorry, but I’m leaving.” Carla shouldered her purse as John and Shelby entered the front door. Fancy turned toward John, took in Shelby and Carla could see the dawning in her friend’s eyes.

  That’s right. John has moved on, and I can’t stand to sit here and watch.

  “Carla’s leaving,” Fancy said to John.

  “I know,” he said, his expression void of emotion. “I wish she wouldn’t.”

  Carla walked past them, trying to keep her eyes on the door and not on the woman standing there looking so put-together, so voluptuous...so damned alive. “Well, we all wish for things we can’t have, don’t we?”

  “Carla,” Fancy called, obviously distressed by her antics. She hated to disappoint her friend, but she just couldn’t do it. Every nerve in her body throbbed with anger, and the slightest scrape would send her plummeting toward can’t-take-it-back.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she called back, nearly tripping over the ice chest John had left on the steps...and her tears.

  Oh, my sweet Rebecca, I’m so sorry you’re not here. But I’m not going to make it easy for him. I’m not letting him replace you with that stranger. I’ll do whatever it takes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SHELBY STOOD IN the foyer of John’s childhood home, trying not to hyperventilate.

  What a shitfest.

  For a good ten seconds, she, John and his mother stood looking at one another while the rest of the house moved around them. A kid darted across the hallway yelling about a rubber bracelet, pots and pans clanked in the kitchen somewhere beyond John’s left shoulder. All seemed perfectly normal, but it was far, far, far from normal. Like maybe in the next stratosphere of not normal.

  “Well, that was, uh, awkward,” John’s mother said with a rueful shrug, her eyes darting from Shelby to John and then back to Shelby again. “I’m sorry.”

  She’d settled sharp eyes on Shelby. “It’s okay,” Shelby said because the woman seemed to be waiting on her to grant her pardon.

  “Mom, this is my friend Shelby Mackey. Shelby, this is my mom, Francesca Beauchamp. Everyone calls her Fancy.”

  The older woman, who barely came to John’s shoulder, wiped her hand on her apron and extended it. She wore a pink rubber cancer awareness bracelet and a sincere smile. Wispy hair the color of rhubarb stuck out at arranged angles and her eyes were as green as John’s. “Happy to meet you, Shelby. Welcome to our home.”

  “Thanks for having me,” Shelby said, taking the slightly damp hand extended.

  “There he is,” a booming voice sounded behind her.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Dad,” John said, accepting the hug and slap on the back given by the man exactly the same height as him. “Dad, this is Shelby Mackey. She’s a friend who will be staying with me for a while.”

  The man had sterling hair, a broad tan face and deep brown eyes that crinkled slightly. “Oh? You’re staying in Magnolia Bend for a while, are you? At John’s place?”

  Well, hadn’t she just said as much to Rebecca’s mother?

  She hadn’t meant to make that commitment. No good reason to stay in Louisiana other than it was far away from her family and their disappointment. She was a stranger here, and bearing the stares of the people in Magnolia Bend would be uncomfortable at a time she’d feel awkward enough.

  But John and those few minutes beside his truck earlier had pushed her in his direction. Whether she wished it or not, she felt something for him. She had no clue what that was—maybe some misplaced need to have the father of her child in her life or maybe leftover attraction from that night. Or maybe she wanted someone to take care of her, which was so screwed up. But somehow the words had flown out of her mouth.

  “For now,” she said. “I’m thinking of relocatin
g from Seattle.” She extended her hand yet again. “Starting over.”

  Starting over wasn’t a bad concept.

  But doing it in Magnolia Bend? She liked it fine—except for the mosquitoes—and so far the people had charmed her. The town could be a good place to raise her baby. Plus, John would be nearby so he could take a role in the child’s life. But she wasn’t sure about anything at this point. Only that by summer, God willing, she’d be a mother.

  “I’m Reverend Beauchamp, but you can call me Dan. Do you have a place to worship?”

  “Really, Dad?” John groaned.

  “Hey, it’s my thing,” the older man grinned, slapping his son on the back again. “Come on in the den. The Cowgirls are getting their butts handed to them. Shelby can visit with your mama in the kitchen.”

  John cast a questioning look in her direction and Shelby smiled. Part of her didn’t want him to go. Okay, all of her didn’t want him to go, leaving her alone with his mother and God only knew who else. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine. I think.”

  “Of course you will,” Fancy said, picking up a wooden spoon from a nearby table. “I need help with the gravy. You cook, Shelby?”

  “Um, I can boil water,” she said, making a face. She’d always intended on taking cooking classes, but never had. Her family housekeeper, Mosa, was a fantastic cook and had allowed the lonely Shelby to assist on occasion, but Shelby’s skills were limited. “And stir things.”

  “Perfect.” Fancy grinned, motioning her toward the area where seconds earlier pots had clanked.

  They swooshed into the large kitchen. Abigail buttered rolls, Birdie squatted on the floor beside an ancient Irish setter and a woman with long blond hair frowned at a layer cake. A huge island created from a worktable sat in the center of the bright blue kitchen. A cat perched on the windowsill watching as if it were maestro of the commotion unfolding.

  “Everyone, this is Shelby,” Fancy announced.

  “We know. She’s been staying with us,” Birdie said, not bothering to look up. The dog wagged its tail in greeting...or in appreciation of Birdie’s petting.