Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  Leaving Lizzie in the dining room alone.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the emptiness of Mayberry, to Gage, who no longer stood in front of her. No wonder he’d looked all shaken up when she’d mentioned visiting Hackberry. He’d told her that he’d spent his teenage years here in west Louisiana, the weekdays with his mom and the weekends with his father.

  Lizzie understood all too well the feeling of being blindsided by the memories. Danny’s house did that to her, although not so much recently. Still, a death was a death. Her father’s drunk driving accident had floored her when she’d been twelve.

  She hadn’t missed the man when he’d left them.

  You couldn’t miss an abuser, no matter what people said.

  But Lizzie suspected that Gage’s mother’s death was not the sort of unwanted reprieve that her father’s death had offered.

  She wanted to wrap her arms around Gage, hug him close. To offer comfort in any way that he’d accept.

  You are in way too deep.

  She knew that full and well.

  With a heavy sigh, she hooked her camera strap around her neck and let it hang between her breasts. She’d come back later, maybe when the sun had started to set. Danny had once called her a sunset chaser, and it was true.

  Right now, it was Gage’s well-being that mattered most, and she didn’t care whether he wanted the comfort or not.

  Lizzie sidestepped a break in the wood floor, and stuttered to a halt.

  The dust on the floor had settled, outlining the shape of two large-sized tennis shoes. Gage’s shoes.

  They looked like a ghost had stepped through, like a moment captured in time, and it seemed just a little ironic to her that Gage had stood tall and strong in this historical house, and yet his heart was firmly lodged in the past.

  24

  God, he was a mess.

  As Gage sat in his truck, eyes on Mayberry, he realized it to be true. What thirty-four-year old hauled ass during an adult conversation?

  Obviously, you’re the winner on this one. Congrats, man.

  Gage snapped his palm against the steering wheel, threw his hat onto the dashboard, and focused on evening out his breath. Get a grip.

  Over the years, he’d come to accept that there were a few topics that succeeded in clamming him up. Michelle. His father. His mother. Owen preferred to talk about them now—he’d sung a different tune during his early years in and out of jail—but that wasn’t Gage’s style.

  He didn’t want to discuss Ben and Bethany’s deaths, and he sure as hell didn’t want to think about Michelle walking out on him—after he’d proposed to her, no less.

  The passenger’s side door creaked open, the hinges rusty and in desperate need of oil. Quietly, Lizzie took her seat, set her camera in her lap, and flicked the AC vents away from her face.

  “I don’t know what happened to your mom,” she said after a moment, eyes straight ahead on the Greek Revival mansion, “but I’m glad you loved her. I can tell.”

  What did that have to do with anything? Of course he loved his mother. He’d loved her, even when she’d made a decision that tore his and Owen’s lives apart by the seams.

  In a wry tone, she continued, “Not everyone’s so lucky, you know. My dad? The biggest prick you’d ever meet. Think city-slicker with a penchant for booze, and you’ve got him to a T. He, uh”—her fingers flew into an uneven tap-tap-tap on her thighs—“he used to beat my mom and Danny.”

  Gage saw red at that, and he found it hard to breathe. “Tell me that he didn’t touch you,” he growled, “Lizzie, tell me that he didn’t—”

  “Not once.” A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Danny always cut him off. Told me to go play with my dolls upstairs. Sometimes, he pretended that my friends were at the back door, begging me to come out and play—only, I didn’t have any friends back then.”

  His heart ached with the image she painted of her as a little girl, both for her and for Danvers. He’d known the guy for years now, and never once had he suspected what lay beneath his affable, relaxed exterior. “It’s good he protected you. That’s what big brothers do, sweetheart, they protect their little sisters.”

  The tapping stopped. Her palms pressed flat. “When Danny was fourteen, my dad tried to kill him. The details have always been sketchy—Dad, of course, faked concern and worry, and Danny passed out during the attack, so there’s not much to go on from his side of things. But you should have seen my dad, parading about in front of EMS, claiming that Danny had attempted suicide.”

  The word lodged in Gage’s head. Lodged and rotated, and his stomach heaved like he’d been sailing the choppy Mississippi River, instead of being seated in a beat-up truck that hadn’t moved in an hour. With shaking hands, his fingers went to his face. Knuckles dug into his eye sockets, hoping to release the pressure. Palms dragged down his face.

  Oblivious to his anxiety, Lizzie went on in a low voice, wrapped up in the memory. “My father died the same way he lived. Drunk. Behaving recklessly. I guess I’m telling you all of this because sometimes, even if we’ve lost someone, we have to celebrate the love we had for them. I don’t love my father; I never did.” Her blue eyes blinked, and then she glanced his way. “I can tell that you love your mom, Gage, and it’d be a shame if you went the rest of your life unable to talk about her. People like that . . . they deserve to be mentioned from time to time.”

  “And your father?” he rasped.

  Her chuckle was dark. “Deserves to rot in hell, which I’m sure he’s doing even now as we speak.”

  The vehemence in her tone didn’t lighten his mood, but it did go a far way in softening the panic threading through his veins. “I see cases like yours at work all the time,” he told her. “I have for years. But I’ve never . . .” Gage swallowed. “I’ve never known a single person to grab life with as much . . . fuck, I don’t even know the word. Zest? Determination? How do you approach life, ignoring all the shit that happened to you and your brother and your mom, and not feel jaded every step of the way?”

  By the time he’d hit the streets as a beat cop at twenty-one, Gage hadn’t known how to look at the world with rose-colored lenses any more—if he ever had. He might as well have worn a cloak of distrust, for all the benefit of the doubt he gave to the general public.

  And then Lizzie had burst into his life with her talk of dating challenges and redeeming bad boys, and Gage had been hooked instantly. Her vitality. The excitement always brewing just beneath her surface.

  He craved her. Even when she sat inches away, beside him in his truck, he craved that enthusiasm for himself, as though through her, he could dare to feel something more than brimming anger for the cards he’d been dealt.

  “It’s easy,” she said finally, “I choose to be happy. Sometimes there are speed bumps along the way, but each day that I wake up, I’m determined to make good of what I’ve been given. If I don’t like something, I change it.”

  I choose to be happy.

  So simple. So easy.

  And something so entirely foreign to Gage.

  The closest he’d come to it was with her, from that very first moment that he’d met her, and she’d flashed those startling blue eyes at him.

  “I need to touch you, sweetheart.” It was so wrong of him to need her like this again, to pull her in because he wanted her light to wash away his dark. “How far away is that inn we booked?”

  Her breathing hitched into a slight gasp when his hands cupped the back of her neck. “It’s just over there, less than a mile, I think. Not far.”

  As much as he wanted to take her in the backseat of his truck, he didn’t need any folks from the lemonade stand pulling a Peeping Tom.

  Didn’t mean that he couldn’t kiss her, though, here and now.

  Their lips met in a frenzy. It wasn’t soft and it wasn’t slow. He felt frantic, searching for something only Lizzie could give him. Her mouth parted beneath his, drawing him in, touching her tongue to his when he swept th
rough, claiming ownership.

  No, not ownership.

  “I want you so badly,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He wanted her, too. More than was healthy for his piece of mind. More than he should, when he knew, now more than ever, that Lizzie Danvers actively sought out her happiness . . .

  And Gage had spent the last fourteen years existing in the dark.

  25

  The Mayberry House Inn had seen better days.

  As she and Gage pulled up in his truck, their hands linked on the center console, Lizzie couldn’t help but notice the dipping porch line, the chipped hurricane shutters, and the overgrowth of plants in the front lawn.

  So far, their trip wasn’t turning out exactly as planned.

  Glancing at the stoic man beside her, Lizzie worried over the straight line of his mouth. Tense didn’t even begin to describe his aura right now, and it hurt her to think of everything he’d been through.

  Was clearly still going through, if the exhausted pinch of his expression was anything to go by.

  She squeezed his hand once, and then leaned over to grab her backpack off the floor by her feet. “I bet it’s going to be great,” she announced, looping her hand through one padded strap. “The pictures don’t even do it justice.”

  Understatement of the year.

  “Wonder if it’s haunted?” he said after a brief silence, and she could tell that he was trying to pull his mood up from the bottom of the barrel. “Maybe the ghosts will do me a solid and retrieve the sheets for me every time you steal them away.”

  “Hey”—she jabbed a finger into his hard bicep—“I always return them. Stealing implies that you never get them back.”

  There. There was that sexy smile of his that turned her to molten liquid. “I get them back all right,” he said. “When you climb out of the bed the next morning.”

  “You enjoy every minute of it, Officer Harvey, I refuse to believe anything different.”

  They climbed out of their respective sides of the truck, and Gage moved over to the bed. He lifted his duffel out, then her travel-friendly suitcase.

  “Do you want me to get that?” she asked, stepping close and waving her hand toward the bright pink luggage.

  He batted her hand away with a mock-glower. “Nope, your only job is to do the socializin’ with this innkeeper.”

  Turns out, that didn’t happen.

  The moment they stepped into the Mayberry House Inn, the old floorboards creaking beneath their shoes, there was a flurry of commotion as a woman decked out in a lavender tracksuit strode forward, brown hair artfully arranged on the top of her head, oversized glasses perched on her nose.

  “Gage Harvey?” she exclaimed, eyes wide behind the clear frames. “Is that you?”

  Beside her, she practically heard his bones cringe as he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Louder, he said, “Mrs. Whitehouse, good to see you.”

  “Good to see me?” The brown bun shook atop her head, threatening to spill over. “Boy, I haven’t seen you in over a decade. Get your little tush on over here and give me a hug.”

  Slowly, dread threading through every movement, Gage set the duffel bag next to the suitcase and did as Mrs. Whitehouse ordered, wrapping his big arms around her bony shoulders for a quick hug.

  “Now that’s more like it. You think I don’t remember you and your brother runnin’ wild around here? How is Owen?”

  “He’s good, ma’am.”

  She shook her head, finger going to the bridge of her nose to shove up her glasses before they slipped right off. “Sure is a shame about his criminal record now. Some of the girls couldn’t believe it, you know. They’d sit at Moe’s, sipping their coffee, and your brother always did come up. Such a shame.”

  Gage’s shoulders, broad as they were, dipped as he slid his hands into the front pockets of his cargo shorts. Then he glanced back, black eyes seeking her out. “Mrs. Whitehouse, this is Lizzie, my . . . girlfriend. Lizzie, Mrs. Whitehouse was my high school history teacher.”

  Shock jolted up her spine, and it took everything in her to keep from smiling like a fool. She knew that he hadn’t meant it, not literally. Lizzie might have lived her entire life in New Orleans, but she knew that in small towns like Hackberry, appearances were everything.

  Don’t overreact. Play it easy, calm.

  She stepped forward, catching her reflection in the large entryway mirror off to her right.

  Oh, God, someone please slap the stupid smile off her face right now.

  “It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Whitehouse.” She held out her hand, not the least bit surprised when the woman grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her into a boob-smashing hug that threatened to cut off air supply.

  Over the innkeeper’s shoulders, she met Gage’s gaze.

  Help, she mouthed.

  He launched into action, ever the protector. Like peeling the skin from a juicy orange, he tugged Mrs. Whitehouse away. “So when did you buy the inn? It’s just, uh . . .”

  “Old?” Mrs. Whitehouse supplied, and then laughed heartily. “No need to mince words, Gage; I’m fully aware that it’s a little sad around the edges right now. And to answer your question, about two years back or so. The local preservation society decided they wanted to restore Mayberry House, but lacked the funds to do so. Asked the town if anyone minded taking a more important role in creating awareness, and I stepped in.” A small grin worked itself onto her face. “The gift shop was my idea, as was this inn. Actually had this house moved over from Lake Charles, can you believe it? Rode all the way down here on one of those crane things like something out of a darn movie.”

  Fascinated, Lizzie glanced around at the furnishings. Soft, muted colors decorated the space. The circular stairwell that led to the second floor was the major showstopper. They’d passed Lake Charles on the way here, a good thirty miles away. “I can’t believe y’all managed to move it such a far distance and keep it intact.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Mrs. Whitehouse planted her hands on her hips and took a look around at her home, a pleased expression on her face. “Part of the bargain with the preservation society was that I could live here free of charge, and they’d keep any profits from the guests. Which just so happens to be you two for this evening! Our lulls are slower than molasses here, so your booking was a nice surprise.”

  Without preamble, she stretched up onto her toes and pinched Gage’s cheek like he was two feet tall, and not six-foot-two and solid muscle. “It’s good to see you happy again, boy. You and your brother, especially after all that dreadful mess with—”

  He cut her off before she could finish. “It’s good to see you, too, Mrs. Whitehouse.” Grabbing the duffel again, he hooked it over one strong shoulder. “We already stopped by the plantation. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” she repeated, flapping a dismissive hand through the air. “There are reasons the doors aren’t locked yet over there. So many loops and holes to jump through, and we’re not even close to getting the poor house officially listed on the historic register. For now, anyone can pass through free-of-charge. Although . . .” Her eyes squinted behind her square frames. “Did y’all leave a dollar or two in the collection jar out front? Donations, of course.”

  Lizzie and Gage exchanged a glance. There’d been a collection jar?

  “We’ll be sure to do so before we leave,” Lizzie murmured smoothly. “I’d like to go back tonight anyway. With the lack of city lights over here, I’d love to grab some photos of the property sometime around sunset and into early evening under the stars.”

  At Mrs. Whitehouse’s furrowed brows, Gage explained, “Lizzie is a professional photographer.”

  “A photographer?” The woman glanced down at her velvet tracksuit and then jerked her gaze over to the mirror. “Fate would have it that the day I decide to let nature tame my hair, a photographer comes to stay.”

  Lizzie hid a smile. “I promise, I’m really not—”

  “W
ill you take my photo later?” Mrs. Whitehouse demanded with undiluted excitement. “A nice photo I can hang up above the mantelpiece? I’ve always dreamed of having a picture done professionally!”

  Like she could say no? The woman was so friendly it bordered on unreal. Small town living for you, though. “Absolutely, maybe before dinner?”

  Mrs. Whitehouse beamed, and then made a show of sweeping them up the stairs to the rooms on the second floor. “Now, you had booked for one of the smaller rooms, but”—she sent a happy smile toward Gage—“it’s so good to have you back in Hackberry, baby, and I can’t be shoving y’all into a room with only a full-size bed. How do you feel about a balcony?”

  She didn’t wait for them to answer, simply stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall and keyed it open. “Just for y’all!” She swooped in and did a little spin in the center of the room, the hem of her sweats catching on the backs of her tennis shoes. “A balcony and a king-size bed. You’re bigger than I remembered, Gage.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  Lizzie snickered, thrilling in the way Gage’s cheeks flushed with color as he set his duffel on the flower bedspread. “He’s definitely bigger,” she teased, unable to resist making the big, badass Officer Harvey squirm.

  His mouth gaped.

  Mrs. Whitehouse hooted with delight. “Oh, I like you, Lizzie! All right, you two lovebirds, I’ll leave you to it. Y’all are the only guests in tonight, so I’ll be making supper around six, yeah? Come on down before then, so we can take my photo!”

  With a flash of her hand, Mayberry House’s innkeeper sailed out of the room and shut the door behind her.

  “She didn’t leave behind a key,” Gage grumbled, still bright red.

  Laughing, Lizzie scoped out the bedroom. “Scared she’ll take a peek in here later just to see how big you really are?”

  “You’re enjoyin’ yourself, aren’t you.”

  Her feet rooted to the area rug. “For a playboy, Gage Harvey, you can be real serious at times.”