Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  He turned toward Tally hoping her inclusion might divert the direction of the conversation when his aunt said, “I thought you and Bailey could go to the picnic together.”

  He turned back, his mouth opening but nothing coming out. As soon as he got his aunt alone, they were having a serious talk. Bailey’s smile gained a few more watts.

  He sidled backward, put his arm around Tally, and hauled her into his side. “Sorry, Aunt Leora, but Tally and I were just now making plans for Saturday. Bailey, are you and Tally acquainted?”

  The woman’s smile faded slightly, but stayed in place as if it was something she practiced on a regular basis. Smiling in the face of disappointment. A burst of satisfaction at turning her down in front of witnesses shocked him.

  Tally put on a strained smile. “I’m not sure our paths have ever crossed.”

  “You teach aerobics at a gym?” Bailey gestured toward her outfit.

  “Tally owns the gym across the river,” Nash said before Tally could answer.

  Bailey made a small sound of acknowledgment, as if she were suitably impressed but surprised. Nash had the feeling Bailey knew all about Tally and was playing dumb to gain the advantage.

  “You asked me to the prom. Do you recall?” Bailey took a step closer and tilted her head, her manner openly flirtatious.

  The humiliating incident had replayed in his head close to a thousand times. He’d obviously been delusional.

  “Did I? Times change, don’t they?” His dig didn’t go unnoticed. The look that flashed over her face made him wonder if this was how the male praying mantis felt right before being devoured.

  “You could bring Miss Tallulah to the picnic since you’ve already made plans together,” his aunt said with obvious reluctance.

  “Actually, we’re doing something else.”

  “What?” his aunt asked.

  “Yes, what?” Tally turned toward him, still under his arm.

  “I’m taking Tally dancing up in Jackson.”

  “You are?” His aunt and Tally spoke on top of each other in almost identical shock.

  His aunt patted Bailey’s hand. “Well, perhaps you could take Bailey out tomorrow night. She’s already said how much she’d like to get to know you now that you’re both grown.”

  In reality, Bailey looked like she wanted to retreat to lick her wounds. He’d torched that bridge. Malicious laughter threatened to erupt. “Sorry, but Tally and I are getting a drink together after she finishes up at the gym tomorrow.”

  Tally’s fingernails dug with a little too much fervor into his skin. Nash and his aunt stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. His aunt surrendered, transferring her attention to Bailey. “Well, perhaps another time then. Could you walk me back up to the Quilting Bee, darling?”

  “Of course, Ms. Leora.”

  His aunt wrapped a hand around Bailey’s elbow, and they walked away together, their heads close. His aunt would continue to plant eligible women from her church in his path like landmines. She wasn’t one to give up so easily, especially as they had both drawn battle lines.

  As soon as the women were out of earshot, Tally moved away from him, running her hands over the back of her shorts.

  “Sorry I got you all sweaty,” he said. “And sorry I pulled you into that.”

  “I didn’t mind. Turnaround is fair play, considering I told Heath and Wayne we were dating.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “I can’t believe you asked Bailey out in high school. I used to see her picture in the paper. Homecoming queen, Miss Cottonbloom. You really aimed for the stars there, stud.”

  “You don’t even know. I pumped myself up for weeks. The result of reading too many comics where the nerdy kid ends up getting the girl at the end. And hormones. And maybe simple stupidity.” He ran a hand through his hair, his chuckle rueful. “I did more than crash and burn. I exploded. Definitely a top-five most humiliating moment for me.”

  “Ugh. Why did high school have to be so hard?” Tally leaned against one of the columns in the shade.

  He joined her, propping a hand above her head and moving in close to share the shade. “Was it hard because of your grades or the crowd you ran with?”

  “Both.” She kicked at the dirt, her eyes downcast. “Everyone expected a female version of Sawyer and were highly disappointed when they got me.”

  “I doubt that’s true.”

  “It’s hard to misinterpret things like ‘Your brother’s so smart, what happened to you?’ or ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’ Sawyer was good at everything, straight A’s, captain of the baseball team. I might have seriously hated him if he wasn’t the coolest brother ever.” A smile snuck through the childhood pain.

  “High school for me was purgatory.”

  “Yeah, but you got out. Away. You’ve seen the world.” An odd thread of jealousy strung her words together.

  “If you hated Cottonbloom so much, why didn’t you leave?”

  * * *

  A shiver passed through her in spite of the glaring sun. An excellent question. One she’d asked herself time and again. Sometimes she did resent Cottonbloom. She felt trapped and stuck. Yet, Cottonbloom made her feel safe. It wasn’t a feeling she took lightly, not when devastating things could happen in an instant.

  “I don’t hate Cottonbloom.” Her words were defensive but true.

  She loved her job, her family, her friends. She loved walking down to Rufus’s place and not even having to order because he knew what she wanted. As much as it sometimes hurt, she loved hearing stories about her mama or daddy and how they were good people. If she left, who would she be?

  She checked her watch and took a step to the side, thankful she had an excuse to escape. “My class starts in fifteen. I’ll see you around, I guess.”

  “Hold up. I wasn’t blowing smoke back there. Let’s grab a drink tomorrow night.”

  “You think your aunt is going to check up on you?”

  The sound of his laugh grounded her, eased the unwelcome self-examination he’d instigated. “I wouldn’t put it past her, but that’s not why. I want to hang out with you. Is that a problem?”

  He grabbed his shirt, but instead of pulling it on, he rubbed it all over his torso. She followed the motion with her eyes wishing she could take it away from him and finish the job herself.

  The problem was the man was turning her brain into a mash of inappropriate sexual desires. She’d already had to refrain herself from licking him when he hauled her into his bare side. What would Bailey and his aunt have thought about that?

  “Nope. No problem.”

  “Good. And, Saturday, let’s drive up to Jackson. What do you say to that?”

  Hanging out during happy hour was one thing. Driving to Jackson for dinner smacked of a real, live date. “Is this about the list? Because I can assure you skipping prom has not kept me up at night filled with regrets.”

  “I’ll have you know, I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since Bailey rejected me.” He winked.

  A shot of excitement had her shifting on her feet, even though he hadn’t answered her question about the list. “You’ll take me somewhere nice? Not Church’s Chicken?”

  He tossed his head back with a full-bellied laugh, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the tendons of his throat. Still wearing a grin, he said, “I think I can spring for something a little nicer. Although as I recall, their chicken rocks.”

  Her lips curled up in a Pavlovian response to his smile. She scuffed the toe of her shoe against the beginnings of a dandelion that had sprung up from the charred grass and glanced up at him through her lashes. “So you’re using me to avoid any more matchmaking from your aunt?”

  “You wouldn’t condemn me to standing around in ninety-degree-plus heat, eating rancid potato salad, and making small talk with every eligible woman in Cottonbloom, would you?” His voice dropped to a husky tease. “Come on now, I thought we were friends.”

  Were they friends? Certainly, they used to be
friends, but the aggression that flooded her at the thought of a bevy of desperate women stalking Nash at the church social was decidedly unfriendly. Nash was the Bachelor of Cottonbloom, and she wasn’t letting one of those other women win. Not after their kiss.

  She nodded, and he rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. We’ll have fun.”

  Fun. If he wanted to take things slow and just have a good time, she could go along with that. In fact, maybe it was better that way. If things never got serious between them, there would be no reason to tell him about her dyslexia.

  She attempted a light, flirty tone to match his. “You think it will take the rest of the summer to finish your list?”

  “Longer, I hope.” The sudden switch from laid-back humor to smoldering intensity made her wonder what he’d added after their kiss. Her stomach squirmed in a not unpleasant way.

  “What time are you closing up tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Actually, Reed closes up on Mondays. I can be ready by six.” She checked her watch. “Good grief, I need to get back. My class starts in five minutes.”

  “I’ll pick you up around six tomorrow night.” He lifted her hand and brushed a kiss over the back.

  Who did that sort of thing anymore? It should be ridiculous. Somehow Nash pulled it off with charm. Perhaps it was because he was a world traveller while she had barely left the parish limits. When he let go of her hand, she touched the spot still cool from the touch of his lips as if his kiss was a tangible thing.

  She backed away, and he propped a shoulder on the column, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made his biceps pop and emphasized the planes of his chest. She swallowed, knowing she should turn around before she tripped on something and totally humiliated herself.

  He had acted the perfect gentleman, and all she could think about was playing hooky and exploring every inch of him on the gazebo floor. That would give the Cottonbloom Church of Christ congregation something to talk about. Before she backed herself into the river, she turned and jogged to the gym.

  What kind of game was he playing with his list? Did she care if it meant they got to spend time together? She didn’t. The admission popped into her head in flashing neon. Whether it was two weeks, a month, or until the end of summer, she would go along with his list. It would eventually end and the fun and games would be over. Everything good always came to end.

  Chapter Ten

  The next evening, Nash knocked, then pushed open the back door of the big house. “Aunt Leora?”

  No answer. The occasional hiss of water hitting the hot eye filled the silence. Tea bags sat on the counter next to a pot half full of water boiling on the stove. He turned the heat off and dropped the tea bags in the water to steep.

  No sign of his aunt on the ground floor. His heart quickened and he took the steps two at a time calling her name again, this time more forcefully, “Aunt Leora, where are you?”

  “In here.” Her reedy voice penetrated the closed door to her bedroom.

  Treading closer, he rapped twice before trying the handle. The door opened with a squeak. His aunt was sitting on the edge of her bed, tears trickling down her face. Her hair hadn’t been shellacked into its usual helmet with hairspray. A red shoebox familiar from his childhood sat on her lap. It was usually stashed high in his aunt’s closet. He’d imagined many times what she might be hiding inside but had never had the courage to sneak it down.

  “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?” Nash squatted down in front of her. A picture slipped from her fingers to lay facedown in the box.

  “What? No, I’m fine. Why are you asking?” Her mouth tightened even as her voice still wavered.

  “Because you’re crying?”

  “Am I?” She patted her cheek, startled. “I didn’t realize…”

  Slowly, so as not to spook her, he took the shoebox off of her lap. “Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes? I’ll finish up the tea and bring you a glass.”

  “That sounds lovely, Nash. I am feeling a bit peaked.”

  She lay back and swung her feet onto the bed. Without her pantyhose as camouflage, varicose veins and dark bruises riddled the pale skin of her legs. He backed out of the room, still holding the shoebox, and closed the door.

  He stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening but not hearing anything from her room. The contents of the box appeared to be mostly letters and pictures. He would return it to her after her rest. Unsettled, he retreated to the kitchen and laid the box on the table while he finished sugaring and icing the tea.

  He poured himself a glass and pulled the shoebox closer. He really shouldn’t. It was obviously private. Remnants of his childhood curiosity had him fingering the picture she’d been holding.

  On the back, in a masculine hand, was written Promise to wait for me—D.

  Nash flipped the picture over. Dense jungle framed a man in marine fatigues. His stance was casual, and the way he held his machine gun spoke of familiarity. A cigarette hung from his smiling bottom lip. The picture was black-and-white, but Nash could imagine that the bandanna tied around his forehead was blood red and the drooping vines dark green. The man was handsome and rough-hewn and squinting as if the sun was shining in his eyes. Nash didn’t recognize him.

  He set the picture aside and pulled out a letter. Creases made some lines illegible as if the letter had been read many times. A glance at the top put the letter writer in Vietnam in late 1965. He didn’t read farther, folding the letter and setting it on top of the picture. Had his aunt kept something special from his mother?

  He bit his lip. His stomach swirled with the knowledge he was snooping. He couldn’t stop himself. Flipping through the remainder of the box revealed more letters from the mysterious D, but no more pictures and nothing about his mother. The letters stopped in 1968 during the middle of the Tet Offensive. Had the man in the picture been killed? Was that why his aunt had remained unmarried?

  He cast his eyes toward the ceiling. His aunt was crying over a man who’d been gone close to five decades. He swallowed past a lump. He didn’t want to be crying over a picture of Tally when he was in his golden years, full of what-ifs. He wanted to hold tight to the real thing.

  He put everything back as close as he could to how he found it, fixed his aunt a glass of tea, and trekked back upstairs. Rustling sounded on the other side of her door and his rap was answered immediately.

  A fog of hairspray hung in the air, not a hair on her head out of place, and she had put on her hose and shoes. Her eyes flared at the sight of the red shoebox. She snatched it out of his arms and retreated, holding the box close and folding her arms over it.

  “Thank you for the tea. You can set it on my nightstand.”

  He did as she asked. Her eyes followed his every movement as if he were a threat.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I was fine. I am fine.”

  He debated a moment. “I glanced through the box. I’m sorry.”

  Her arms tightened and crumpled the sides slightly. “Did you read the letters?”

  “Of course not. I looked at the picture though. Was that your boyfriend?”

  Her jaw worked. “My fiancé.”

  The truth bounced around his stomach like a rubber ball. “Was he killed?”

  “He didn’t come back.” A wealth of pain was etched across his aunt’s face even though her voice stayed even.

  “I’m sorry.” The trite words seemed inadequate. His aunt had suffered too many losses. How many secrets hid under the layers of the past? It was the question that drove him to major in history, but he’d never thought to uncover secrets so close to home.

  “Thank you for the tea, Nash.”

  He heard the dismissal in her voice, and at one time he would have heeded the silent command. With heavy feet, he approached her and folded her into his arms for a quick squeeze. She smelled of bottled roses and hairspray. Pulling back, he patted her boney shoulder before stuffing his hands into his pockets. T
he awkward silence that followed made him regret his impulsiveness.

  Her hand, cool and soft, brushed his forearm. The touch translated into a wealth of thanks and love. Two things they never discussed.

  “Are you still planning on going out with that Fournette girl?” Aunt Leora turned to check her appearance in the mirror, her fingers probing into hair that barely moved.

  Nash closed his mouth tight. The walls had been mortared up again in an instant. “If you mean Tally. Then, yes.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror. “I assume you’re only sowing your wild oats on that side of the river.”

  “You assume incorrectly. I like Tally. If it’s up to me, you’ll be seeing a lot more of her. And, for Christ’s sake, don’t push any more women like Bailey in my direction. She is the last woman I would ever date.”

  “Nash, the Lord’s name.” His aunt’s face scrunched like she’d smelled a fart at communion.

  Stifling a sudden spurt of laughter, he said, “Sorry, ma’am. I’m headed now to pick Tally up. What’re your plans?”

  “Bridge night. A new lady is joining us.” She shuffled toward the door and Nash followed.

  “I was sorry to hear about Ms. Aster.”

  “Goodness, she’s not dead, just shuffled off to Shady Acres. Why don’t they rename that terrible nursing home Out to Pasture?”

  This time Nash let his laughter loose. They descended the stairs side by side, his aunt keeping careful hold of the banister and taking the steps one by one. Decisions loomed on the edges of his mind, but for now he waved his aunt off in her minitank before he climbed into the Defender for the drive across the river.

  Tally must have been watching for him, because he spied her skipping down the steps in his rearview mirror, his hand still on the door handle. Her outfit was similar to the she’d been wearing when he’d approached her in the Rivershack Tavern. Black T-shirt, dark jeans, and motorcycle boots. Her hair was in a loose braid hanging over her shoulder. She looked tough and sexy as hell.

  She hopped into the Defender and clicked the seat belt home. Dark liner smudged her eyes, emphasizing the green. She wore very little other makeup that he could discern, her lips a natural pink. The light flowery scent she stirred through the truck was in contrast to the visual package. Complicated and intense and sweet all wrapped up together.