The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend)

by Liz Talley

  “Father Finnegan, come meet the answer to our problem,” Matt said, calling to the priest who had stopped to chat with Birdie. Shelby noted Birdie looked a bit guilt-stricken at conversing with a man of the cloth. Peeping at naked men had a way of making a girl feel...oh, who was Shelby kidding? She’d seen the ass on their neighbor. Couldn’t fault the kid for admiring a work of art.

  Father Finnegan fit every image she’d ever had of Friar Tuck down to the fringe above his ears and flushed cheeks. “The devil you say.”

  Oh, and he was Irish and said Old English–sounding things. Totally adorable.

  “This is Miss—”

  “Mackey,” Shelby filled in, extending her hand. “I’m new to Magnolia Bend and will be here until Christmas—”

  “Or longer,” John interjected, which made his family’s collective ears perk up. She’d never seen something like that actually happen, but apparently ear-perking was a real thing.

  “Or longer,” she agreed. “I’m certified in secondary Math and can pitch in to help out.”

  The priest clapped his hands together. “This is fantastic.”

  She’d been hoping for jolly good or smashing, but fantastic worked.

  “You can start...Monday?” Matt asked.

  “As long as her doctor gives her the all clear,” John said, setting a hand on her shoulder, making her feel protected. She shouldn’t like that feeling, but she did. She craved someone to care.

  Pathetic.

  “Doctor?” Fancy repeated, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sick?”

  “Not anymore,” Shelby clarified. “I can start Monday.”

  She smiled through the questioning looks from John’s family, but was saved from having to explain further by the screech of the microphone.

  Like salmon, the crowds skirting the darkened park streamed toward the charming white platform with the gingerbread trim and the rotund man clad in red and white fussing with the microphone. The silent Christmas tree, gold tinsel glinting occasionally, waited to be set ablaze.

  “Whew,” John breathed, moving to stand beside her.

  Shelby looked up at him as everyone fell into a small semicircle, facing the mayor and the choir clad in festive red robes assembling onstage. Not bad for a first da—whatever this was. She wasn’t going to try and label her and John’s evening...just enjoy it.

  The microphone screeched again. “Sorry, folks,” the mayor said, cupping the mic and giving a sheepish grin. A few men catcalled and everyone laughed, seemingly in good spirits.

  “Are we good, Jimbo?” the mayor said into the mic. A plump man wearing candy cane suspenders gave him a thumbs-up. “Good, now let me try this again.”

  He extended his hands. “I’m Mayor Richard Burnside, and I want to welcome kith, kin and those of you who found your way here by accident to the thirty-second Magnolia Bend Candy Cane Festival.”

  A cheer went up and John leaned close. “Bet you never thought you’d be here on a Saturday night.”

  Shelby whispered, “It’s cute. I like it.”

  “You say that now, but wait until the cloggers take the stage.”

  “What are cloggers?”

  “You’ll find out, but walk with me for a minute.” John jerked his head toward the wide space behind the gathered crowd. As unobtrusively as possible, Shelby faded into the darkness with him. Behind the pavilion, a few kids, including John’s nephews, ran around tossing a football. A few teens clumped together, faces aglow in the light of their cell phones, around benches circling a huge live oak. Beyond this area sat a small playground.

  “Sometimes being with my family is like being underwater holding your breath. Gotta come up for air.”

  Shelby matched his stride on the brick pathway leading to the playground. “They don’t bother me, though I think they’re all confused by my moving in with you. I’m afraid your father doesn’t approve, your mother has false expectations of romance and your sister will figure the baby thing out soon. Or Hilda. This secret might not be a secret long.”

  “You think I should tell them about the baby?”

  Shelby shook her head. “Not for me to decide.”

  John said nothing, merely headed toward the bank of swings. He sank onto the curved blue plastic, digging his boots into the worn dirt beneath. Shelby took the swing beside him.

  “I’ll wait a bit longer I guess,” he said, releasing his feet and allowing the swing to fall forward. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.”

  “Neither do I,” she said, following his motion, careful to lift her shoes above any mud that might be present. “I don’t think there are rules, John.”

  For a moment he said nothing, just kicked the swing into motion, the creak of metal against metal a keening moan in the darkness.

  “I want you,” he said matter-of-factly as if he might have said “might rain tomorrow.”

  Shelby planted her feet, slipping a bit in the high heels, and the swing hit the back of her thighs. He wanted her.

  John, however, didn’t stop swinging. For a few seconds, she stood wondering what to say to him, feeling something warm slip around her heart and squeeze it. Not to mention how the tinderbox of her loins fired at the raw statement. The sexy night folded around them, intimate despite the celebration going on a football field length away.

  “I don’t want to want you. I shouldn’t,” he said, still not looking at her, still swinging.

  Shelby sank back into the swing, regarding the lonely, tortured man, who was able to address his desire only in the cloak of darkness. After a moment, she reached out and caught the chain of his swing, bringing him toward her. John stood, still clutching the chains of the swing.

  “Why are you so afraid?” she asked. “Don’t you know everyone carries fear? Everyone hurts?”

  He stared at her, his eyes shrouded in the night. Still she could feel them move over her, weighing her words. “I don’t want to feel that way again,” he said. “I lost Rebecca and it took a piece of me. I’ll never get that back.”

  His words sliced at her and she didn’t know why. Why should she care? She didn’t love John. Her need to have him beneath her, above her, inside her was nothing more than a product of nature. She felt bad for him, liked him most of the time, but nothing else. So why did it feel like he’d punched her when he said he didn’t want to want her?

  “Well, I’m not Rebecca. You don’t know me.”

  He let go of the swing and lifted a hand, cupping her face, tilting it up to the glow of the moon peeking from behind the darkened clouds. His calloused thumb stroked her cheek. “I know who you are.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  His gaze moved over her, caressing the stubborn chin she lifted to him, perhaps yearning for the mouth she’d colored rum raisin. “Shelby, you’re so damn pretty.”

  The tinderbox exploded at the need shining in his eyes, and flames licked her body. She swallowed hard, seeking his firm mouth with eyes she knew reflected the desire welling inside her. God help her, but she wanted to heal him, wanted to show him that heartache could be healed...if only with her touch.

  With her lips.

  “All I can think about is how good you tasted that night,” he said, his gaze still on her mouth.

  “I thought you didn’t remember that night.”

  “I remember some things. Like how you tasted of wine, like something so good I had to have just one kiss,” he murmured, lowering his head, his thumb tracing her lower lip just before his mouth covered hers.

  A moan escaped her as his arm curved around her back, bringing her against him. She tilted her head, opening her mouth enough to taste him. He tasted like mint, warm and good. She lifted a hand to his jaw, thrilling at the feel of his body hard against the softness of hers. Being held by John felt too damn good.
>
  He broke off the kiss and studied her in the moonlight. “See? I can’t seem to help myself.”

  Shelby licked her lips. “I know.”

  And then he lowered his head again, this time sliding his hand into her curls, tugging her hair gently, making her open to him. His mouth was hungry, moving over hers, nipping her lower lip. His tongue dipped into the heat of her mouth, stroking her, amping the liquid heat pooling in her pelvis. Her breasts, tender from the pregnancy hormones surging through her body, ached for his touch. She felt aflame and devoured his mouth with equal enthusiasm.

  Finally, breathing hard, John broke the kiss and stepped back, his breath little puffs in the cool night air. Shelby, matching the rhythm of his breaths, lifted a hand to her mouth, turning away.

  “I’m sorry,” John said.

  Shelby shook her head. Why did he apologize after every kiss? But, of course, this was the way it had been from the beginning. John with his guilt and tears and regret standing in the bathroom of Boots Grocery. Apologizing for wanting her had become a habit.

  She stepped away, sinking onto the swing she’d abandoned. The creak of the metal hinges might as well have been a scream in the night. John looked guilt-stricken standing beneath the low branch of the oak bowing over the climbing structure. At that moment she wanted to punch him as much as she wanted to kiss him again.

  “Know what?” she said.

  He turned to her. “What?”

  “Don’t kiss me again. Don’t touch me again.”

  He stretched out his hands. “Shelby, I’m—”

  “No.” She held up a finger. “Every time you touch me you apologize. Like I’m a goddamn disease. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “There it is again—the apology,” she snapped. Nothing made a gal feel worse than a man being sorry for kissing her. Okay. Crying after sex was worse. “Just go. I want to be alone for a little while, and I’m sure your family wonders where you are.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Look, I screwed up.”

  “And that’s your lot in life, isn’t it? Messing up, apologizing for it and, what? Expecting everyone to say ‘poor John, his wife died’ and then accepting you being a shit?”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “Why? Because you like being the walking wounded? Do you think you’re the only person who has ever survived a spouse dying?”

  “Shut up,” he said, pointing a finger at her.

  “No,” she said, turning her head from him. “You need to hear something besides ‘poor John.’”

  “Stop it, Shelby.”

  “You don’t have the right to tell me to stop it. I’m the woman you knocked up and apologized to for feeling something besides grief. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  He said nothing.

  “It makes me feel like I need to go back to Seattle and forget trying to do whatever the hell we’re doing. You don’t want to stop grieving. You don’t feel anything for me.” Her words made her chest ache. She was angry and crushed at the same time.

  “You know that’s not true. You know I want you here. I care about you.”

  “Because I carry your child. If that wasn’t an issue, you wouldn’t be standing here with me.” Shelby inhaled, trying to keep the tears at bay. She did not feel sorry for herself and she wasn’t begging John for anything. He needed to hear the truth.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Because you wouldn’t be here. You’d be back in Seattle, forgetting about me and the dumb-ass thing you did in a bathroom one night. And, I really don’t want to hear you talk about my grief. You have no right.”

  Shelby stood, hands clenched, so she wouldn’t smack him. “I may not have any right, but I’m obviously the only person who will tell you to snap the hell out of it and stop feeling guilty because you’re here and she’s not.”

  His face froze, anger flashing in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything about me or Rebecca.”

  “No, I don’t. But I’m not stupid. I see what you’re doing, hiding from life, running from everyone, apologizing for feeling desire. Who lives like that, John?”

  He grabbed her arm, dragging her and the swing to him. “Who do you think you are? A shrink? I’ve had counseling. I know what I feel. I know what I’m doing.”

  She stuck her chin out and glared at him. “So why are you still clinging to death? Why won’t you let yourself feel something?”

  His breath came fast, just like before, but this time it was fueled by a new emotion. “Because you scare me.”

  His words slammed into her and at that moment she got it. She understood. The attraction he had for her had knocked him down and dragged him along for the ride, and now he was running, searching for a way to get back to something he could control.

  For a moment, they both faced off against one another, intense, angry and wary.

  Shelby lifted her hand and patted John’s cheek. “Good. Because that means you’re running from something you can actually do something about rather than something you can’t.”

  Then she walked away, heading back to where the First Presbyterian Church choir sang “Silent Night.”

  “Hey,” John called, his voice still pissed. “What are you doing?”

  “Going back to the festival,” she called over her shoulder, not slowing. She’d punched him in the face with her words, and he needed time to think about them. She needed time to think about them.

  Her heels clicked on the brick, and rightness settled between her shoulder blades. Or maybe John shot daggers at her with his glower and that was the cause of the sensation. Still, she knew the words she’d thrown at him had been necessary if they were going to, well, she couldn’t say move forward in their relationship because there were no definitions on what they had.

  “Shelby,” Abigail said, catching her out of the corner of her eye just as the crowd applauded the choir exiting the stage. A horde of girls in fluffy red skirts with ribbons wound around their calves trotted on stage. “Where have you been?”

  “John and I stepped away for a moment,” Shelby said, shifting away from the suspicious inn owner. She didn’t want any lectures or warnings about pursuing something with John. Instead, Shelby fell into place beside Hilda, who watched the kids clacking around the stage to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” She turned to Shelby. “Our John needs to step away more often if you ask me. He needs some lagniappe in his life.”

  “What’s land yap?”

  “French for a ‘little something extra,’” Hilda said, returning her eyes to the girls making an inordinate amount of noise. “Our John needs something extra.”

  “Or he needs a kick in the ass,” Jake said, sidling up to Shelby and giving her a smile that on anyone less handsome would be deemed slimy. “You’re looking lovely this evening, Shelby.”

  “Mmm,” Shelby said, not wanting to encourage John’s brother, who looked more interested in the buttons on Shelby’s blouse than his brother’s need for something extra...and that bothered her. Not Jake being overconfident in his sexual prowess. He was hot and deserving of the ego, but the fact Jake hadn’t gotten the message she belonged to John.

  No, wait. She did not belong to John. The dense man she now lived with, who had just kissed her senseless, would not make a claim so she’d have to deal with Jake herself.

  “Aunt Hildy, you look just as delicious,” Jake said, bestowing a kiss on the older woman’s cheek.

  Hilda pinched Jake’s cheek. “Save it for the whores at Ray-Ray’s.”

  Jake laughed. “I don’t need flattery at Ray-Ray’s, Aunt Hildy. Just money for drinks.”

  Hilda snorted.

  “What about you, Shelby? Wanna come check out the scene at Ray-Ray’
s?”

  “Sounds like a load of fun, but I’ll pass,” Shelby said, watching one little girl miss a few steps and look as if she might cry. Shelby knew that little girl all too well.

  Keep stompin’, sister. You can do it.

  “Come on,” Jake said, his minty breath caressing her ear.

  “Look, Jake, you’re not my type.”

  He laughed. “Ah, you like the strong, silent and grump-ass type, huh? I get it, and actually, I’m relieved.”

  Shelby turned to John’s younger brother, who wore tight jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt. The ugly holiday sweater looped about his neck, proving Jake Beauchamp didn’t march to anyone’s beat but his own. And, Lord, was he gorgeous. Rugged and rangy, Jake had dimples, baby-blues and that look. That look had no actual name, but it signified the fact Jake could likely get a gal out of her panties, screw her silly, never call again and the gal would still be grateful because he’d been so damn good. Jake was a modern-day Paul Newman. Dangerous.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you’re waking him up.”

  “John and I are friends.”

  “So that’s why he can’t keep his eyes off you.”

  Shelby made a face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said with a secret smile. “And you do, too. John, however, is clueless, but give him time.”

  Shelby ignored Jake, instead clapping as the Creole Cutie Cloggers bowed, wiggling little fingers at their parents. She didn’t have to turn around to know John stood behind her. She could smell his clean scent, sense his presence. Something inside her went still even as her pulse increased.

  Damn Jake Beauchamp. How could he see what John couldn’t?

  John’s fingers were light as they brushed her arm, almost an apology. She jerked away.

  He leaned forward, but she hissed under her breath, “Don’t you dare say it.”

  John stepped back, solidifying their festive night as a disaster.

  It had begun with perfume, French lace and great expectation, and had ended like a dog turd on a blanket of white snow.