“A drowned river rat, at that.” Lars shrugged and picked at the frayed hem of his khaki shorts. “This is my river-guide costume. If I change my look, I’ll lose my mystique.”
Jem snorted.
“Seriously, my friend”—Lars leaned closer—“who’s the girl?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jem saw Lucy walk through the arbor. She was wearing a peach-colored dress and her hair was down in soft curls that reached past her shoulders. She held a casserole dish in her hands and her eyes scanned the yard.
Jem stood up, his heart in his throat. As if he’d called her name, she looked over at him and smiled. Jem thought she’d never looked more beautiful, not even at the Strouds’ party. She’d been quiet and sad then, but now she glowed with life.
“Is that who I think it is?” Lars said, pulling down his shades to get a better look.
“Lucy Crawford. I don’t think you ever met her but—”
“Nope, never did, but I sure heard about how she dumped your sorry self.” Lars let out a low whistle. “Boy, you are a glutton for punishment. But somehow I can’t blame you.”
Jem was already headed down the steps, a smile spreading over his face. He should try to not care so much, but he couldn’t help the way his heart beat faster just at the sight of her. As he got closer, he realized her dress had sequins across the chest. She looked as if she’d just walked out of a high school prom.
“You look beautiful.” As soon as he said the words, he wanted to take them back. Not even a “Hey, how are you?” before he launched right into the compliments. Way to play it cool.
She beamed. “Thanks. I found this in the attic and I knew it would be just the wrong thing.”
“Just the . . . what?”
She nodded toward a group of girls crossing the grass. They all wore little sundresses that barely reached halfway down their thighs, simple strings of pearls, strappy sandals. Peals of laughter floated on the air.
“I brought you something.” He reached out for the dish, but she didn’t let go. “I want you to know it took me a long time to choose a recipe.”
“You shouldn’t have worried. We’ve got lots of food.”
“I know, it’s not that. Just open it.”
He cocked an eyebrow and peeled back a corner of the foil. “Cracklin’ cornbread. My favorite.” He leaned closer. “Wait a minute. This is plain.”
Lucy nodded. “There’s only so far I can go with this. And cracklins are my limit.”
So far I can go with this. He realized why she was wearing a peach prom dress from the nineties at a twenty-first-century Fourth of July party. He felt his mouth go dry.
“Cracklins are tasty, so I don’t know whether your limit is high or low.” He tried to sound as if he were making a joke, but he couldn’t stop staring into her eyes. She was telling him something about herself, and him, and that horrible party ten years ago.
“It’s real high,” she whispered. She took a deep breath. “I’m hoping one of your friends comes over to make fun of me, maybe tell me to get back in the kitchen with the catering staff.”
He nodded. That had been the very worst moment. Aunt Olympia had shooed him toward the kitchen, thinking he was part of the cooking crew. “And I’ll just stand in the corner like I don’t know you.”
Her face crumpled and he felt her pain as if it were his own. He wanted to take it back, but just like that memory, it was always going to be there.
She worked to get control and then said, “I’m sorry I didn’t defend you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell them you were my guest.”
Jem hadn’t thought he cared anymore, not really, but her words were tugging loose the hard, painful knot in his chest. “It’s okay.”
She shook her head. “It’s not. It wasn’t.”
He reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand. He didn’t know what else to say, and all he wanted was to touch her skin, let her know that he wasn’t that boy anymore and that she wasn’t that girl.
“Hi, honey!” The chirpy voice behind him made him jump. He turned and saw Regan trotting across the lawn. “I looked all over the house for you.”
He dropped his hand. “I’m out here.”
“Well, obviously, silly pants.” She threw her arms around him and squeezed. Jem patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. Her strapless sundress was skintight until the little skirt flared out, but he was still afraid it was going to fall off.
“I’ll take this inside,” Lucy said, starting past them.
“I can do—”
“No, you stay here.” Lucy’s gaze flicked to Regan, clinging to his waist and giggling up at him. “Otherwise you might get lost again.”
Jem watched Lucy walk toward the deck. It wasn’t his fault that Regan was the Southern-belle version of an octopus.
“Let’s go look at the goats.” Regan let go just enough to turn him toward the back of the lawn. “I heard that goat milk can cure a hangover. I think I’ll test it out.”
“You’re drunk?”
“No, but I can get there.” She giggled and ran a hand along the back of his belt.
Jem detached her hand. “I’m not sure if goat milk will save you, but it does contain the amino acid cysteine . . .”
“And?”
“When alcohol works its way through your system, it releases acetaldehyde, which can be deadly in a large enough amount, and cysteine can neutralize that.”
“Oooh, honey, I love it when you talk like that.” Regan slipped her hand up his arm. “Nerds are so sexy. I had this biology professor who was so hot. I loved when he would come to class in his sweater vest. I could hardly concentrate.”
Jem wanted to roll his eyes but managed to keep a straight face.
“He had the worst fashion sense, but it was kind of cute, ya know? Not like Lucy. That girl needs a real makeover.” Regan glanced behind her. “Vintage can work, but it has to be the right era. She’s got it all wrong with that nineties-prom thing. Even the shoes are those dyed-to-match kind.”
“I thought she looked fine.” Jem clenched his jaw.
“Of course you did, because you’re a man.” Regan giggled. “And that hair. I know Black hair is hard to work with. Paulette has to be at the salon practically every week. But Lucy is just letting it go wild. It’s huge!”
Jem didn’t know what to say. He’d seen Lucy wearing a silk sheath dress, with her hair smoothed down in a sort of forties-movie-star style. He’d seen her with no makeup, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’d seen her in a ponytail and office clothes. Now, he’d seen her with curly hair and a bad prom dress. Every single time, she’d taken his breath away.
It didn’t matter what she wore, or how she did her hair, or what she put on her face. She was beautiful and his heart responded to the sight of her without his permission.
A small smile touched his lips. When he had put his hand to her cheek, her eyes had gone soft. He could have sworn that Lucy, just for a moment, wanted to kiss him. He had hoped that if he invited her to the party, they would get to know each other away from her family and her friends. He hadn’t planned on Regan showing up, but it was still a major step forward that Lucy was here, and they had cleared the air.
That foil-covered pan of cornbread meant more to him than anything he’d been given since he’d left Tupelo, and Jem wasn’t going to let her peace offering languish. He was determined to do his best to carve out some space, somewhere, for him and Lucy. Maybe, if God willed it, in time they could find their way back together.
“All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one: you need not covet it), is that of loving longest . . . when hope is gone! ”
—ANNE ELLIOT
Chapter Nineteen
“Hello, I brought a side dish,” Lucy said, setting it on the counter. She almost laughed at herself. It was the sort of awkward g
reeting that matched her costume.
A red-haired woman looked up from where she was washing her hands at the sink. Her pink-flowered shirt matched her pink shorts, and her gaze took in Lucy’s outfit several times before she spoke. “Thanks. I cooked up a few dishes because I was afraid if we left it to the guys, our two dinner options were going to be barbecue ribs and beer.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “I’m Angie, Lars’s wife.”
“I’m Lucy. Jem invited me,” she answered, and hoped that was enough information.
“So, I’m thinking”—Angie frowned at Lucy’s dress—“ ’ninety-six? No, wait. ’Ninety-four?”
Lucy grinned. “I don’t really know. I found it in the attic. The mystery might never be solved.”
“And should I ask why? Or is that classified, too?”
Lucy took an immediate liking to Angie. She was clever, but in a gentle way. “I was hoping to make a point to someone.”
An eyebrow went up. “And do you think this someone got the point?” Angie hitched up one shoulder. “Because if that someone was a man, I’m thinking a text might be a better choice.”
“I think so.” Lucy had wanted to tell him she was sorry for so long that, when the time came, she could hardly get the words out. But she’d done it, and he’d accepted her apology.
“Well, good.” Angie looked around at the dishes. “We should start bringing these out to the deck. I’ll see if I can find Danny. He’s hiding around here somewhere.”
“Not hiding,” said a tired voice. A man was leaning against the doorjamb. His brown hair was a little too long and his face was pale, but the corner of his mouth twitched when he looked at Lucy. “Nice prom dress.”
“Thanks. I thought somebody better wear one. All those little sundresses with spaghetti straps are so boring.”
He smiled outright. “I’m not so worried about the sundresses. It’s all the girls in them. The chatter, the giggles, the inanity.”
“I saw goats. A party can’t be all bad when you have goats.”
“Yep, Angie is a regular Heidi. She milks them and makes cheese. Probably sings while she does it, too.”
“You bet I do.” Angie handed Danny a dish. “I don’t want you to hide in here all evening.”
“Already said, not hiding.” He wasn’t smiling now. “Seriously, I think this was a mistake. I went out for a few minutes earlier and . . .”
“It’s just a party. You eat some food and drink a beer and pretend you don’t want to be crawdad fishing,” Angie said.
“No, it’s an echo chamber of sycophants and I can’t listen to some bimbo recite her newest purchases while pretending I don’t want to throw myself from the roof.”
A laugh bubbled up in Lucy’s throat and she couldn’t keep it from bursting out.
Danny turned to her. “You think I’m kidding.”
“I know you’re not.” Lucy was still chuckling. “I’ve been to these parties before. Plus, I’m related to some of these bimbos.”
Angie took a dish and headed for the deck. “Just take a drink every time you want to say something rude. You’ll be fine.”
Danny shook his head. Angie was already out the door when he said, “I’ll be drunk.”
“Stick to Coke, maybe it will still work.” Lucy picked up her cornbread dish. “We can raise our glasses together.”
He smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”
A few minutes later all the food was laid out, and Lars let out a shrill whistle, getting the attention of the guests at the far end of the yard. “Grub’s on,” he hollered.
“I’m glad the heat isn’t so bad tonight,” Angie said, looking up at the sky. “But I don’t like the looks of that thunderhead.”
“Gonna be a storm, for sure,” Lars said, staring at the enormous cloud building on the horizon.
“Kelsey loved thunderstorms,” Danny said, as if to himself.
Lucy saw Angie and Lars exchange glances.
“What?” Danny said. “I can’t mention her name?”
“Of course you can. But I thought you were going to enjoy the party, meet new people.” Lars pointed to the group coming across the grass. The girls were young and pretty, their laughter floating ahead. Lucy saw Regan’s arm around Jem’s waist and her stomach clenched.
“I won’t be able to enjoy the party if I have to pretend she didn’t exist.” There was a hard note of anger in Danny’s voice.
“Nobody’s asking you to pretend that, but mentioning her name every five minutes sort of stops the conversation.” Lars took a long pull on his beer.
Danny turned to Lucy. “Did it stop our conversation?”
“Not at all.” She wanted to like Lars, but the guy seemed to not have the faintest idea of how it felt to be in love with someone who wasn’t coming back. “When you love someone, it’s hard not to see them everywhere.”
“Ah, a romantic.” Danny leaned back, threading his fingers behind his head. “I used to be one, until my wife died. And then I was just pathetic.”
Angie made a noise and got up to rearrange the dishes.
Danny whispered, “I’m not supposed to say that I was suicidal and didn’t shower for three months. I’m supposed to say I bore it like a man.”
Lucy didn’t know if Danny expected her to laugh, but her heart was heavy. “I’ve been where you are. Or were. You can’t talk yourself out of that place.”
His eyebrows went up. “You lost your husband?”
“No, I’ve never been married.” Lucy saw Jem and Regan walk up to the deck. The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out. “But I did love someone once.” She felt as if she had to clarify. “And we broke up.”
“That’s nice,” he said, and took a sip of his Coke.
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “You just used Angie’s party advice. You took a sip of your drink and pretended you didn’t want to be crawdad fishing.”
Danny laughed, and it was a surprisingly warm sound. “You got me.” He sobered. “You have to admit that breaking up with someone and losing a spouse are different.”
“I know.” She looked down at her hands, remembering Jem’s touch from just a few days ago. “But that love is the same, and the loss is deep. I know how it is to look around you and see them everywhere. Everything they loved is still here, and it hurts to see it.”
He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. “True.” He looked over the group of girls; most of them huddled around Jem. “But I think when a woman loses someone she loves, she can run to her friends for support. They take her out shopping or to the movies; they distract her with craft projects or get her hooked on Downton Abbey. Men have nothing to fall back on but whiskey and fishing.”
“Do you really think a woman can be distracted from a broken heart by a knitting project?”
He shrugged. “Sure seems like it. Every TV show I see, the girl is drowning her woes in chocolate and throwing herself into some new hobby.”
“Huh. And you take that as truth because TV is the last word on the female heart.”
“People wouldn’t watch it if it didn’t make sense to them.”
Lucy could see Jem watching them from a few feet away. He was probably wishing she would stop arguing with Danny and ask him about something normal, such as fishing. “I’m not sure about chocolate or hobbies, but I do know one thing. When women have their heart broken, they don’t run out and find another man. Not usually. But men, it’s the first thing you hear. They’ve got a new girlfriend and call her a rebound relationship.”
“I’ve known guys who did that,” he conceded. “And although I didn’t, it may have been less about not wanting to than that I hadn’t showered recently enough to attract any sane woman.”
“Right.” She sighed. “I wish it was different, really. But women will wait for a man long after a man has given up waiting for a woman.”
Danny stared out at the thundercloud building in the distance. “When I think of how long I have to wait before I see her again, I wish I could skip to the end of my life.”
Lucy reached out and touched his hand. “I know. Looking too far ahead is the worst kind of torture. One day at a time, as they say.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Or one party at a time.”
She smiled and turned her head just in time to see Jem’s expression—of concern, anxiety and something else. Regan was chattering away in his ear and rubbing her hand up his arm, but he didn’t seem to be listening.
“Time to eat, everybody,” Danny called as the last of the guests straggled onto the deck.
Lucy stood up, feeling tired and spent, as if she’d run for miles instead of sitting at a picnic table and discussing broken hearts. She hoped, for Danny’s sake, that Jem’s plan would succeed. Maybe Danny would decide life held some happiness after all, but she didn’t think a barbecue would make the man forget the love of his life. She was almost certain it wouldn’t because she knew just how he felt.
“Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.”
—CAPTAIN WENTWORTH
Chapter Twenty
Lucy carefully outlined her eyes with a brown pencil and stared at her reflection. If she could change her color at a whim, she would be the spitting image of a Regency girl from Theresa’s movie. Her pale-pink dress fell in silky folds from the bodice, and the velvet-ribbon piping around the scooped neckline was a shade darker than the fabric. A lace overlay created an elegance that was timeless.
“Almost ready?” Rebecca’s friend Shelby popped into the room. She was wearing a matching gown in pale-green, but hers covered an obviously pregnant front. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes before the ceremony starts, and the priest wants us near the front doors so we can process in as soon as it’s time.” Her red hair was piled up in a small shower of curls.
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 23