by Linda Joyce
Her radar blipped. She blinked. There was a smoldering tension between them. She recognized it now.
James would be a problem. No handsome, southern charmer for her. She wanted a man-free life. Her brain reaffirmed that concept, but her heart waffled when James placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her toward the front door.
“That went well, don’t ya think,” James said. “How about if we try this again...soon. We haven’t covered everything about the job, mostly hit the important highlights.”
She saw mischief in his eyes. “Okay, sure...soon.”
“Wait here a moment. I have an idea.”
She stood outside the café as he walked down the street. Confused, she watched him go. Then her cell phone vibrated in her purse. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was a local area code. “Hello?”
“Miss Lind, I was wondering if you’d like to go on a non-date?”
“James?” Half way down the block, she could see him, but he had his back to her.
“How about around seven-thirty this evening? A drive through the country to learn your way around and maybe a late-night drink? I know a place with a live band on Saturday nights. You’ll experience local color. We’ll do this for the LCC team.”
“I’m not sure...that’s such a good idea.” He had walked away to call her?
“What if I promise, you’ll be home before midnight? After all, I don’t want to witness any shape shifting. I don’t know if I’ll ever look at pumpkin the same again, knowing you change at midnight.”
“Dr. Newbern, I want to keep things professional.” Was he afraid she’d say, no?
“Good. Then I won’t pick you up. We’re two colleagues getting to know each other better. Sort of a professional-bonding night. Where would you like to meet for a non-date?”
A non-date? She could handle that, right? She ignored the shouting voice in her head that told her to Run! Run away. Far away, from this man. The jitterbug dancing in her stomach threw a one-two punch to her head, which caused her heart to skip a beat.
James Newbern was not what she had anticipated in any way, shape or form.
“Why not?” she said. “You name the place.” After all, she came to Lakeview for adventure.
Chapter 10
The tall wood-framed etched glass doors created an elegant entrance to the bar at the only hotel in town.
“Wow. The newspaper said this had a five-star rating.” Branna stared at the beautifully crafted doors.
She’d read about the hotel’s restaurant and bar in a local survey. That seemed like a reliable recommendation. After all, options weren’t endless in Lakeview. Five miles west near the interstate, a handful of cut-rate motels for one-night-only tourists flashed No Occupancy signs on Saturday nights. None of them served food or adult-only beverages.
She spotted the Historic Register plaque on the brick wall beside the tall doors. The lodging establishment had remained locally owned since its opening. She had researched the place after James suggested meeting there, wanting to know what to expect, since she shied away from surprises. The building had antique character, and Lakeview folks might consider the 1900’s construction ancient; however, Bayou Petite had signed its city charter almost a hundred years earlier than when Lakeview called itself a town.
James had made it clear their outing tonight fell under the heading of “colleagues bonding.” It wasn’t a date, and she wouldn’t allow anyone to accuse her of not being a team player. A drive in the country would better acquaint her with Lakeview. The sooner she learned her way around, the more it would feel like home. She couldn’t admit it to anyone, not even her cousin Biloxi, that she missed Fleur de Lis, the chaos of her large family, and Greta’s cooking. She pulled the door handle to the hotel, grunting softly under its heaviness, and wondered if Dr. Brown had urged James to be more sociable to make up for his less-than-hospitable past.
Arriving early allowed her time to take in the surroundings and to nurse a drink before a drive into the countryside. The information on the hotel’s website boasted a full-bar menu. Having one cocktail and a protein-laden appetizer would ensure that when she drove home in a few hours there would be little, if any, trace of alcohol in her blood. Just in case she was pulled over, though, that had never happened before. She always took every precaution. The world might end if she fell from her family’s “good-example” pedestal. She didn’t need that on her guilt-ridden conscience.
Besides, one drink would calm her rattled nerves, and she would insist that James drive.
Inside the bar, shelves crammed with leather-bound books lined the walls of The Library. A half-dozen pub tables filled the space between the shelves and the carved wooden bar. The scene transported her back in time to an old saloon, only one with books. The look of it appeared as though it had been plucked from an old movie set. The bartender in his white shirt, silver and black striped vest, and black bolo tie looked perfectly cast, just like gamblers she’d seen in old black and whites who won every hand of cards, swilled whiskey from a bottle, and drew can-can girls to them like miners seeking gold.
The only difference between the movies she’d seen and the place where she stood—smooth jazz floated around her as if moved by air conditioning.
The bartender winked. “What’ll ya have, little lady?”
She smiled and hiked onto a tall barstool. “Gin and tonic with a lemon twist, please.”
“Happy to oblige you, sugar.” Then he muttered something under his breath she couldn’t quite make out about her and a “twist.”
“Is there an appetizer menu?” she asked when he returned with her drink and set it on a square napkin in front of her.
“You could nibble on me, darl’n, anytime.” He flashed a grin and raised an eyebrow, then leaned on his forearm on the bar top as if posing for a headshot.
“Excuse me?” Though raised in the south where “honey, darl’n, babe and sugar” were not usually considered insults, but friendly greetings between those well acquainted—her practice was to ignore men who used those terms of endearment to suggest an intimacy that simply didn’t exist. And while she hated confrontation, when the bartender licked his lips, she snapped.
“Do your regular customers like to be verbally mauled by you, darl’n?”
His grin dropped. His eyes narrowed. “Sorry.” He pulled out a menu from behind the bar and slapped it on the bar top in front of her. “Order away, ma’am.”
“Hey, Dave.”
Startled by a voice behind her, she swiveled on the barstool to find James approaching.
“Is that anyway to treat my newest colleague?” James’ voice was more teasing than chastising.
“Branna Lind, meet Dave. Dave, meet Branna Lind. Nachos, barkeep, and a beer.”
Dave nodded, popped caps on two longneck bottles, placed them on the bar in front of James, and then snorted loudly and walked away.
“Be gentle with the natives.” James chuckled. “Retract those Mississippi claws. We’re civilized here. I promise.”
“Hard to tell by that one.” She scowled in hopes of driving her point home.
“Well, Dave took one look at you and saw a challenge.”
“What?”
“An attractive woman comes into the bar alone, no wedding ring or engagement diamond.”
She looked down at her left hand, then instinctively rubbed where a band no longer circled her ring finger. “I’m a target because I’m alone with no ring?”
“The combination is like waving a red flag at a bull. This is a small town. You’re new and attractive.”
“Women were liberated years ago, you know. What about just getting to know someone? Why is it men still have to act like Bubbas?”
James cocked his head, his brow furrowed deeply. “You don’t look like that type.”
“I’ll probably regret this, but what type is that?”
Dave appeared and delivered a platter of nachos. He waited, clearly to hear James’ reply.
“The militant-feminist type.”
“Ya didn’t look like that type to me, either. But it’s true. Can’t tell a book by its cover.” Dave brandished his arms in a grand display noting the library of books around him. He shook his head and walked away muttering something she couldn’t hear.
“Liberation doesn’t mean militant.” Her earlier snappy retort to Dave was the first time she’d ever done that, instead she usually played peacekeeper and example setter for her siblings and cousins. Maybe she could do with a little more feminist energy.
“So, you grew up here,” she said, intent on changing the subject.
James slid the platter of nachos between them and placed one of the bottles beside her cocktail. “For you. Who drinks...” James pointed to her glass.
“Gin and tonic with a lemon twist.”
“Yeah, that.”
“A perfectly civilized cocktail.”
“Who drinks that with nachos? The beer is Dave’s way of making it up to you. He won’t put it on the bill.”
“I’ll thank him when he comes back. Do I look like kiss-and-makeup type?” She didn’t bother to contain her sarcasm.
“Yep.” James said before taking a bite of the nachos.
Well, he probably had that right. She’d made up with Steven more than once. What she didn’t know back then, Steven was also making up or making out with someone else at the same time. Steven and Dave were linked by the same gene pool in her book. Then, she reconsidered. Dave was probably more evolved than Steven.
“So you grew up here. We never finished that conversation.”
“Not Lakeview exactly.” James took a bite of another laden chip. The remaining filling fell back onto his plate. She tried not to laugh when he scooped up the filling with yet another chip and popped the mess in his mouth. He certainly enjoyed his food.
“I grew up west of here in the next county. It was one of the last dry ones in Florida.”
“Is that where we’re going this evening?”
“No. Mostly for a ride to show you the countryside—that, and where and how your students live. Maybe we’ll go over to the springs. Have you seen much of the area?”
“Very little.” She’d visited her brother at college a few times, everyone there wore orange and blue, about fifty miles south of Lakeview. She’d heard about the crystalline natural springs nearby with their constant seventy-two degree temperature. Unlike her brother’s time at college, she never had a free moment. Responsibilities at home directed how and where she spent time. Holiday and celebration parties to host at Fleur de Lis. Those events helped pay the bills. Family tradition and family responsibility claimed all of her time. After college, Steven became a fixture in her world. Once engaged, she’d spent what precious few minutes she used to have to herself on planning her wedding with her mother. She and Steven weren’t just getting married; their two families were merging as well. Between her extended family and his, the guest list had hit five hundred.
What a fool she’d been.
Thinking about it made her blood pressure rise. She downed her cocktail hoping the tang would wash away the residue of anger. A drive through the country sounded appealing, far more desirable than haunting old history.
She reached for a nacho and slid it into her mouth and chewed.
“Come on, woman. Eat up.”
She clinked the longneck against James’ bottle. “Just remember, I have to be home before I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”
Chapter 11
James walked beside Branna into the cooling evening. “I’m in the parking lot across the street. I’ll drive.”
“Which one is yours?” In a grand flourish, she waved her arms at the parked cars.
“Guess,” he said, grinning. His hand accidently brushed hers as they crossed in the middle of the street. The pulse that radiated each time they touched no longer startled him. It had turned into an anticipation of delight. The familiarity of it was something he could get used to. No doubt about it. Branna Lind charged him up.
A passing truck honked and grabbed his attention. He waved as the driver waved to him.
“I guess I didn’t think of Florida as the south,” Branna said. “At home, we always wave to those passing by. It’s considered polite, even if you don’t know the person.”
“North Florida is still pretty much old south. A rich Florida Cracker has two cars on blocks in the yard in front of his doublewide mobile home.” He chuckled. “Go south, past Ocala, it’s an entirely different culture. There, a lot of people are from out of state.”
“You’re a Florida Cracker?”
“Fifth-generation proud.”
They reached the mostly-empty lot, only six cars left. She walked away from him, pausing to look at the five vehicles on the left. James waited patiently. His hands in his pockets, he rocked back on the heels of his boots and tried not to give anything away.
At the end of the row, she turned around and faced him. “This one?” she asked pointing to a Ford Taurus closest to her.
“Nope. Want to guess again?”
She walked toward him, then stopped two cars away. “The Toyota?”
“Nope. Don’t drive foreign.”
“I drive a Volvo,” she said defensively. “I give up. Which one is yours?”
He turned and pointed to the lone car on the right side of the aisle taking up two spaces.
“Yours? Wow. Nice.” She crossed the distance to the rear of his car. “What year is this? Did you restore it yourself? Great paint job.” Branna stroked the top of the trunk, then the fender of his red Chevy Chevelle.
“1968. The inside isn’t completely finished. Waiting to install the back seat. A friend of mine is doing most of the work. Restoring cars is his winter hobby. I help when I’m able, but can’t take any real credit for the work.”
“It’s spotless. The paint job is flawless.”
The awe in Branna’s voice surprised him. He cocked his head and watched as she walked around, her fingers trailing across the new paint job. Maybe she recognized quality workmanship on the classic. Maybe she saw the Chevelle as more than just an old car.
Maybe there was more to Branna Lind than he first thought.
“Let’s go.” He opened the door for her. When she slipped past him and into the seat, a faint scent of flowers drifted to his nose. Nothing cloyingly sweet or strong, but soft and feminine. As she lifted her feet inside the car, her movements made him think of a dancer. Elegant. The denim skirt and gauzy white top she wore hugged her in all the right places. She even wore denim-trimmed sandals that matched her skirt. Where the heck did a woman find those kinds of shoes?
“You’re probably going to think I’m odd,” Branna said.
“Not odd. Just different,” he teased as he cranked the engine. It rumbled, then purred. The air conditioner blew coolness around them.
“I know it’s warm, but would you mind the windows down?”
“What about your hair?” he asked before he could stop himself. Didn’t women hate the wind-blown look? He happened to love it on a woman.
“We’re going for a drive in the country. I have a brush. You don’t care what I look like, do you?” She shook her head. Short hair swished back and forth, then fell neatly back into place.
The strong urge to touch her caught him off guard. “No,” he answered quickly.
“No, you don’t care what I look like? Or no, you don’t want to roll down the windows?”
James shook his head to clear the confusion. One beer with a plate of nachos wouldn’t raise his blood-alcohol level a point. But could Branna Lind?
“Let’s roll down the windows,” he said, stealing a sideways glance at her as he pulled from the parking lot.
He’d made it to the bar early hoping for a snack to stop the rumbling in his stomach. He had no intention of starving. Earlier, he had wanted to invite Branna for dinner and a drive, however, she seemed to think anything social, like sitting down to a meal, crossed the
line away from professional. Luckily, his arrival at the bar came soon enough to save Dave from her claws—which he was surprised she had—and he saved her from more of Dave’s tired come-ons. Before they left, Branna politely thanked Dave for the beer. They shook hands amicably. Dave assured her that he would remember his manners next time or provide his mother’s phone number so Branna could call and complain about how poorly he’d been raised.
“Nice ride,” Branna said. She tilted her head to the open widow and caught more of the passing breeze.
The breeze picked up as he increased their speed. They left town and turned onto the divided highway.
“Would you like to drive her?” James hollered.
“Maybe later. Music?”
“No stereo, yet. Bobbie, my friend doing the work, is still working on that. Hence the reason for the missing back seat.”
They drove in silence for a while. He slowed to make a turn onto a two-lane blacktop with a thirty-five mile-per-hour speed limit.
“The fields are larger the farther we get from town. Mostly soybeans and corn,” he explained. “Not much different than Mississippi, I guess. Except, we don’t grow much cotton in Florida.”
They passed a few houses where only rooftops were visible. Hedges and trees offered privacy and protection from rumbling traffic. As they drove, the scenery changed from wide-open fields to acres of densely planted pines waiting for harvest and marked for the pulp mills in Jacksonville. He caught whiffs of freshly mown grass. He did breathe easier in country air. The tension ratcheted tight in his body began to unwind.
“It smells different here,” Branna said. “No hints of brackish water, like at home.”
She reached her hand out of the window, as if trying to catch the wind. Her eyes were closed, though a half-grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. The rigidness she’d exuded after the incident at the bar had disappeared, and with it went much of her high-maintenance demeanor. Relaxed, she was feminine and too appealing.
His body responded. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What he’d hoped would be a fun night with Branna might challenge all his restraint. The tension that had unwound—Branna just sent soaring.