Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  She could almost hear their daddy’s big belly laugh. Sometimes when Sawyer got really tickled about something, he would laugh like that. The memories rushing through her scraped her hollow. “It’s been really good to reconnect with Nash, you know? He was my best friend. When I think about how things were before they were killed, how happy we were, I get sad. My memories of Nash aren’t … tainted with grief. Does that make any sense?”

  Cade wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I wish I could have made things easier, better. I tried.” His voice was thick.

  Tally turned and gave him a hug. Because he was older and had assumed responsibility for her and Sawyer after their parents’ death, he’d turned from playful big brother into a grim, serious man seemingly overnight. She’d never seen him cry. Now that she was older and a little wiser, she understood that he’d suffered as much, if not more, than her and Sawyer. Not only had he been dealing with the grief of the past, but the responsibilities of the future.

  “You did great, Cade.”

  “What? Did I miss the invite to the family hug fest?” Sawyer’s arms came around them. Tally was grateful for the intervention, otherwise she might be tempted to burden Cade with all her troubles, and he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  “Nice turnout, right?” Sawyer looked around with a critical eye and a frown.

  “Sure is,” Tally said.

  “Everyone seems to be having a good time.”

  “Everyone always has a good time, Sawyer. What’s the problem?” she asked.

  “My former boss reneged on his donation since I quit—can’t say I totally blame him there—and Regan stole the Cottonbloom, Mississippi, marching band back with the promise of a new tuba. What if the festival is a disaster?”

  “Your effort to spruce up the storefronts has done wonders. Getting the graffiti off the bridge made a huge difference. The flowers are lovely. All you need is music and food to make it a success. The point is to bring everyone together,” she said.

  “The point is to blow those journalists’ socks off and win that grant money.” He pulled at his bottom lip before adding, “And bring everybody together.”

  Nash walked back, having lost Birdie but gained two pecan pies.

  “If you’re planning on eating both those,” Tally pointed back and forth, “then you’d better pony up for a gym membership.”

  “I could kill at least one, but I thought I’d see if the Quilting Bee ladies would like some.”

  “Yes,” Sawyer hissed and tapped his steepled fingers together like a cartoonish evil mastermind. “You’re turning into my secret weapon, Nash. Those old ladies probably think you poop cotton candy, don’t they? While Regan might be mayor, those ladies rule the town, and they haven’t thrown their social weight behind Regan yet, have they?”

  Nash’s eyebrows rose over the rim of his glasses, but he only nudged his head toward the footbridge and held out a pie. “Want to help me, Tally?”

  She took it, but Sawyer grabbed her arm. “Bad idea. Tally would ruin your plan.”

  Nash shook his head. “I have no evil plan. I’m simply offering pie to a lovely group of ladies. In fact, consider me Switzerland. I hope both festivals are a rousing success.”

  Sawyer took a step forward and poked Nash in the chest. “But you demonstrated your Louisiana loyalty during the rabbit hoopla.”

  Nash patted him on the shoulder. “Sawyer, my man, you’re going to end up committed by Labor Day. You coming, Tally?”

  He didn’t wait but ambled toward the footbridge. Tally gave her brother a squeeze around the waist. “He’s right, you know. You are slowly losing it.”

  Sawyer gave her a playful shove, and she ran to catch up with Nash. The Mississippi side seemed unnaturally quiet and still. She looked over her shoulder at her friends and neighbors laughing and drinking, some even attempting to clog to the music. The scene took on an unreal quality, like looking at a movie. As if in agreement, they stopped in the middle of the footbridge to look down on the water.

  “It’s funny that the river doesn’t care,” she said.

  “Doesn’t care about what?”

  “The strife it’s caused this town. It flows along, cutting the divide a little deeper every year.” She picked at a fleck of sun-faded brown paint.

  He shifted toward her, resting an elbow on the rail. “You don’t think once Aunt Leora’s generation is gone, things will get better?”

  She envied Nash’s optimism. Even more, she envied his resilience. They’d both had more than their fair share of tragedy, but he didn’t need to search for a laugh or a smile. “I hope it does, but the rivalries have been bred into the children on both sides. We’re still swamp rats and they’re still ’Sips.”

  “I guess I’m the rare breed who’s both.”

  They walked up the slope to the common area, the grass already wetting with dew and itching her feet. The skeleton of the new gazebo rose like a phoenix on the burnt grass.

  Light from the Quilting Bee sliced from a narrow parting of the curtains, but Nash had been right, a chair was lodged in the door. Uncle Delmar’s voice, singing a timeless bluegrass ballad in a haunting minor key, drifted across.

  “It might be better if I stayed out here while you deliver the pies.” She shoved the pie at his chest, but he refused to take it. Ms. Effie was probably inside, but then again, so was Ms. Leora.

  “Nope. You’re my friend. Anyway, I’m Switzerland, remember?”

  He bumped the front door open with his hip, a smile on his face. Voices rose around him like a chorus. She sidled in after him, hoping to blend into the quilts that hung along the way, but her foot caught the leg of the metal folding chair that had been propping the door open. It clattered to the floor and the door shut, blocking out the music. Silence descended. Everyone looked in her direction.

  “We brought pie.” She hoped she hadn’t sounded as stupid as she felt, but judging by the look on Ms. Leora’s face, she’d crossed into village-idiot territory. Heat prickled her face.

  The few seconds since her spectacular entry felt like an eternity. Nash’s lips twitched, and unbelievably her lips tilted into an answering smile. He took over, leading the ladies to the counter like the Pied Piper.

  Ms. Martha, the owner, emerged from the back with paper plates, plastic forks, and a silver pie cutter. She had inherited the Quilting Bee when her mother died and was a decade younger than most of the women. She bustled with a no-nonsense urgency that Tally found abrupt and off-putting.

  Ms. Effie sidled over with a sliver of pie. “Isn’t this a surprise. Having fun?”

  “I was until Nash dragged me over here,” she murmured.

  “Come on, now. We’re harmless.” Ms. Effie grinned as Nash called for the pie Tally was holding.

  She approached as if the ladies were a pack of wild dogs ready to chomp her hand off. She placed the pie on the end of the counter, and one of the ladies slid it down to Nash who was surrounded on both sides by stooped, chattering women of a certain age.

  He doled out slices. As each lady received one, they drifted away to stand in conversational circles she wouldn’t attempt to penetrate. Even Ms. Effie had been assimilated. She backed toward the wall, keeping her eyes on her feet.

  Tally bumped into a warm body. “Terribly sorry.”

  A petite woman with gray curls and bottle-thick glasses graced her with a smile. “No worries, my dear. You’re Tallulah Fournette, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you.” Her voice was upscale ’Sip from a different era.

  “Yes, I am.” She forced a smile back, wondering what sort of rumors were floating around. Ms. Leora wasn’t more than three feet away and leaning in their direction.

  “I’m Vera Carson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Carson.” The name was one of the oldest in Cottonbloom. Her husband had been mayor of Cottonbloom when the town broke apart, but she’d been a widow for more than two decades now.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, so thi
s is fortuitous.”

  Tally fought the urge to look over her shoulder. “To me?”

  “Effie has been raving about you and your gym. I was thinking—well, we all were actually—that you should offer a class for seniors.”

  “A class?” Tally said dumbly.

  “Aerobics. Or yoga maybe. Just last month, the AARP magazine was saying how good yoga is for old bones.” Mrs. Carson’s smile gave the impression of sincerity.

  “Several of the quilting ladies are interested?” Tally gestured around at the gathering, but her gaze fell on Ms. Leora, who had sidled a few inches closer even though she didn’t seem to be paying them any attention.

  Mrs. Carson’s eyebrows rose over her glasses, her smile turning impish. “Not all the members of our quilting circle are game to try new things, but many are. If we spread the word through the ladies’ circles at church, you might have more old women than you can handle.”

  A zing of excitement drew a grin to Tally’s face. Her specialty wasn’t seniors, but she could learn. “I’m working on expansion plans now. A yoga studio was on my short list. In the meantime, I can work up some low-impact aerobics classes for you ladies to try.”

  “You let me know the details, and I’ll get the word out. The businesses on either side of the river need to watch out for one another, don’t you think?” Mrs. Carson’s eyes flashed with a message Tally couldn’t decipher.

  “We should.” She would have pumped Mrs. Carson’s hand in an overzealous shake of good faith if the other woman hadn’t been holding a piece of pie. Mrs. Carson glided away with a grace that reminded Tally of actresses in old black-and-white movies. A group of chatting ladies expanded to receive her.

  Nash propped a shoulder on the wall next to her and held a narrow sliver of pie on a plate. “Last slice. We can share.”

  She opened her mouth to share her news, but before she could speak, he slipped a bite into it. She hummed as the sweetness exploded.

  He licked his bottom lip as if he too tasted something sweet. The moment felt oddly intimate even though more than a dozen chaperones buzzed around them.

  “You try some.” She picked up his abandoned fork and speared a portion, raising it to his mouth. He opened and took the bite.

  His aunt joined them, looking as if she wished she had a crowbar.

  Nash shot a half smile at her, but didn’t step away from Tally. “Were you enjoying the music? Would you like me to prop the door open again?”

  “It had gotten stuffy.” Ms. Leora sniffed.

  “Delmar Fournette’s voice is something special, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” she shot back. Under the biting words were other emotions. Emotions Tally couldn’t classify, but none of it boded well for anyone claiming the Fournette name.

  “Aunt Leora,” Nash said with a hint of warning.

  “How nice of you to help Nash carry the pies, Miss Tallulah.”

  “You can call me Tally.” As soon as it came out of her mouth, she knew she’d taken yet another misstep.

  Ms. Leora pursed her lips. In spite of the years gone by, Tally’s heart rate picked up and her tongue wanted to make tripping excuses. Ms. Leora’s condescension was Tally’s kryptonite. She felt powerless to stand up against it.

  “I’m planning on leaving before the fireworks start. Will you be home shortly, Nash?”

  “Actually, we’re going to stay awhile. Not sure when I’ll make it home. I’ll come check on you in the morning.”

  The penetrating stare that was obviously an attempt at ESP didn’t faze Nash. Ms. Leora gave in first and huffed. “Fine. Be careful.” Her warning seemed to insinuate Tally was dangerous. And, considering their plans for the evening, maybe his aunt really did have ESP.

  “Finish this off, won’t you, Tally?” Nash took up the last bite of pie on his fork. She stared at the incoming bite until her vision blurred. The sweet, thickened corn syrup hit her closed lips, prompting her to open for him. His face seemed to move closer and no one else in the room existed.

  “Let’s go.” He handed the empty plate to his aunt and guided Tally out the door with a light touch at her back. Once outside, he said, “I’m sorry about my aunt. She can be a bit of a character, but she means well.”

  It was almost exactly what Ms. Effie had said about her. Tally saw only a bitter old woman. “Not exactly the word I would have chosen. It’s fine, though, I’m used to it. She’s never liked me. Isn’t it strange that she tolerates Ms. Effie fine, but mention the name Fournette and she looks tortured?”

  “I’m not sure what her problem is. I know the family was against my mother moving across the river and marrying my dad. Not sure if it was a swamp rat–’Sip thing or if they thought my mom could do better. Or both.”

  “Your dad worked hard to give her a good life. Nothing to be ashamed about there.” She didn’t remember much about Jack Hawthorne, but he’d always been nice to her.

  “Worked hard and was never home.” A bitterness she’d never heard from him flavored his tone. Instead of offering a platitude, she slipped her hand in his. She wasn’t normally a hand-holder, but with Nash the gesture felt natural.

  The night grew quiet. Her uncle Delmar and his band were packing their instruments away. A few people milled around the back of the platform while the crowd out front had grown throughout the evening.

  “Looks like they’re getting the fireworks ready. We’d better hurry.”

  They skirted the edge of the crowd, nodding or exchanging waves with a few people. No sign of either of her brothers, thank goodness, and the side street where they’d parked was deserted. The less questions they had to answer, the better. She grabbed the bag with the spray paint out of her car and joined him in the Defender.

  Anticipation had buzzed in the background all night. She’d forgotten what a rush doing something a little crazy could be. Being with Nash added a different element of adventure. “Is your favorite color still red?”

  “I can’t believe you remember my favorite color.” He gave a little laugh.

  “Superman’s color. Do you remember mine?” She tensed.

  “Let’s see, blue when you were about six, but by age eight, that was too boring, so you decided on periwinkle.”

  She relaxed and looked out the passenger window so he wouldn’t see her smile or the gleam of sudden tears. His answer had been more important than the simple question. “I still have a soft spot for periwinkle, but black is kind of my signature color now.”

  “Dark and dangerous. It suits you.” His voice rumbled with humor.

  “Do you normally go out with dark and dangerous women?” She didn’t need to fake the flirty tease in her voice.

  “Are we going out?” His head swiveled in her direction.

  Embarrassment burned her from the inside out “I didn’t mean … of course, I don’t think this is a date. I was just saying, you know,” she finished weakly.

  He hummed and reached toward her. She breathed in sharply and held it, but instead of touching her, he pulled something from behind the seatback. “I did some research this afternoon, and it seems Cottonbloom boasts more than one water tower. Do you have a preference?”

  Half a dozen yellow highlights glowed over the map he spread out. Laughter bubbled out of her. Mr. Organized. “Let’s go with secluded and short. That would be the one in Cottonbloom Parish close to Silas’s old market. You remember where it is?”

  “I think so, but don’t let me miss the turn.” He maneuvered them through the crush of parked cars and onto the parish road.

  She cracked the window, leaned her head back against the seat, and closed her eyes. Night air rushed over her, whipping her hair around her face. The earthy smell of pine and water and mud entered her bloodstream and pumped through her heart.

  “I should tell you something.” She didn’t open her eyes.

  “What’s that?” The two words tread cautiously between them.

  “I kind of, sort of, told Heath that you were
my boyfriend. To get him off my back and hopefully stop the incessant calls.”

  “When was this?”

  “Right before I saw you tonight. He called—again—wanting to know what the deal was with us.” She opened her eyes and glanced over at him. His hands were tight on the wheel, and his mouth was drawn into a frown. Apparently, his good humor had a line and she’d jackknifed over it. “You’re mad. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Yes, I’m mad. But not at you. What do you want to do?” His voice had roughened, giving him the dark and dangerous edge.

  She knew what he was asking—did she want to go to the police or to her brothers? Right now, she wanted to crawl into his lap and try to reproduce the same feelings of comfort and warmth that had wrapped around her like a security blanket when she’d awakened in his bed.

  “I want to climb a water tower and deface some public property. What do you say?”

  He didn’t say anything. The old market came into view around the curve. It was a shell of concrete blocks, grass growing inside higher than the walls. The roof had long ago fallen in. A faded sign advertising live worms and cold Cokes lay propped against the front door.

  Nash cut the Defender over the broken pavement of the abandoned parking lot. Darkness was overtaking dusk under the trees, and his headlights cut across the overgrown road. Knee-high grass outlined two ruts.

  The truck lurched back and forth, bugs swarming in the high beams. The gray support struts of the tower emerged from the shadows, and he pulled up next to a short fence surrounding the base.

  He cut the engine. Now not even the instrument panel lit them. The relative silence and darkness wrapped her in a cocoon, and she could have sat in the cab with him all night. He leaned over the middle console and tilted her face to his with a single finger on her chin.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice was low with a hint of his sizzling anger, his mouth so close, goose bumps rose along her arms at the soft touch of his breath. His heat radiated into her, arousing and comforting at the same time.