Country Heaven

by Miles, Ava

  The gasp came from Tammy’s mouth before she realized it.

  “Oh, Tammy, I’m so sorry!” her sister said.

  Her heart felt like a frozen glacier in her chest. “It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean anything.” Rising, she shuffled to the doorway. “I’m happy for you, darlin’. Really, I am.”

  Tory rose and headed her way.

  “I’ll have these clothes back to you tomorrow, Tory. Thank you for letting me borrow them. I’m sorry I was such a bother.”

  “You weren’t a bother. Why don’t you stay and finish your coffee? We can…talk some more.”

  About what? There was nothing more to say. Everybody’s life was changing but hers.

  “Thank you, but I need to get back.”

  When Tory handed her the cookies, Tammy took them in a daze. “Oh, how silly of me. Here I cause all this trouble and forget the reason I came in the first place.”

  Rye’s long strides ate up the ground until he towered over her. “Tammy, stop it. You don’t have to act this way.”

  She saw Amelia Ann press a hand to her heart, her face pale.

  A laugh bubbled up her throat. “Act? That’s a good one. That’s the only way some of us get through the day.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way,” her brother said.

  “Yes, it does. I’m married with two children. I have to make the best out of what I have.” Isn’t that all she did? There was nothing more. Nothing else. “You and Amelia Ann can live the lives you want, Rye.” When his warm hand settled on her shoulder tentatively, she jerked away. “I’m too far down the road.”

  She walked stiffly out the kitchen, leaving behind silence. It was a sound she well knew. It was the main sound in her own home.

  Only she wasn’t sure she could take it anymore.

  When I was little, I watched Gone with the Wind with my grandma. The movie captured my imagination. The women seemed so elegant in their hoop skirts, dancing the Virginia Reel with men sporting wickedly handsome slim mustaches. Houses like Twelve Oaks with their curved staircases seemed a dream. Being an only child, I frequently imagined friends like Scarlett or Melanie for my tea parties. Using my grandma’s lace–edged napkins, I’d serve what we termed French éclairs. They were actually cream puffs, but again, we used our imagination. Scarlett wouldn’t eat cream puffs. Depending on how much time my grandma had, sometimes we’d serve the éclairs with vanilla pudding, which we called French custard. Other times, I simply settled for French Chantilly cream. Back then, I used Cool Whip with a dash of ginger. Now, I can make all these things from scratch. But as a child, those cream puffs were magical. And my imaginary friends in their fine gowns were always pleased.

  Cream Puffs (or French éclairs a la Tory)

  1 cup water

  1 stick of butter

  1 cup flour

  4 eggs

  Boil the water and butter until the latter melts. Add the flour and mix, forming a yellow paste. With a wooden spoon, add 4 eggs, one at a time, and beat well. Drop with a tablespoon onto a greased cookie sheet. Bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes. Slit the cream puffs and fill with custard or cream, depending on your preference. Or fill with something else that sounds good to you. These airy, golden brown pastries work well with many fillings.

  Tory Simmons’ Simmering Family Cookbook

  Chapter 13

  The sunlight shone in bright patches across the yard the next day. Birds chirped. Squirrels chased each other, bending thin tree branches before leaping into the air. It was almost as if nature had forgotten the torrential rain of the previous day. Tory watched it all from the window with a jumping stomach.

  She and Rye were going on a date. He’d actually asked her last night. Said he wanted to romance her a little.

  They both knew they were going to make love, so she appreciated his gesture. It confirmed she was making the right choice with him.

  When she heard Rye call her name from outside, she smoothed her hands down her sage cotton blouse and checked her white linen A–line skirt for stains. Today, she was wearing Amelia Ann’s clothes and her gold sandals. When Tory had asked to borrow an outfit, Amelia Ann hadn’t reminded her of what she’d said a couple of days ago—that there was nothing between her and Rye—she’d just smiled and volunteered to do Tory’s hair and make–up, too. It felt strange, being so dressed up. She hadn’t gotten this fancy since her grandfather’s funeral.

  Tory took a last look in the mirror and headed out to meet Rye. She blinked when she saw him. Gone were the cowboy hat, jeans, and T–shirt. He was wearing khaki pants and a blue button down dress shirt still showing the fold creases, and she had a moment to wonder if he’d bought the outfit on his errand in town.

  When he stared at her without saying anything, nerves started a complicated tango in her belly again. She raised her chin and walked carefully down the stairs, unaccustomed to the three–inch sling–back sandals.

  “Hi. Nice car.” She eyed Amelia Ann’s sleek blue BMW convertible.

  Suddenly, under the shadow of the big plantation house up on the hill, there was romance in the air.

  ***

  Rye stood there stupidly. Surely, the heat was making him light–headed. She looked like Tory, but the packaging had altered dramatically. He couldn’t decide where to fix his eyes—at her sexy legs or the delicate crease of cleavage winking out from her green blouse. The pearls at her neck and ears made him tug at his collar, which suddenly felt three sizes too small. Amelia Ann had given her Grandmama Crenshaw’s jewelry to wear. Did his sister have any idea what it did to his blood pressure to see Grandmama’s pearls on Tory? Yeah, he’d bet she did. He could still see Grandmama stroking them as she sat next to Granddaddy Crenshaw, laughing as he opened his birthday presents. They’d been the picture of happiness, a rare sight for him growing up.

  He tripped as he walked to the passenger side of the car and fumbled with the handle before opening it. “I thought it would be nicer than the truck.”

  Her brow rose, but she ducked inside and let him close the door after she settled into the tan leather bucket seat.

  He shook himself as he hunched his frame to fold himself into the driver’s side. The car was no bigger than a tin can, and there didn’t seem to be anywhere for his legs to go. He saw Tory bite her cheek to stop from laughing and almost swore.

  “So where are we going?” she asked.

  “It’s a surprise.” He had filed away her comment about how much she loved that infernal movie, Gone with the Wind—no disrespect to his friend, Rhett Butler Blaylock, intended—and now he was taking her to a place he knew she’d enjoy.

  “Okay. Can we put the top down?” she asked, gesturing to the ceiling.

  Was she nuts? It was about two–thousand degrees outside with a haze so thick a baby could cut his teeth on it. “You want it down?”

  She nodded.

  He bared his teeth in a forced smile. “Sure, darlin’, whatever you want.” If she wanted the top down, he’d do it. Isn’t that what courtin’ was all about? It had been his idea to go for a real date, after all. She deserved it after everything she’d done for him, and deep down, he wanted to do something special for her.

  She burst out laughing suddenly. “Oh, no, what have you done with Rye Crenshaw?”

  “Huh?”

  “Were you really going to put the top down in this heat just because I asked?”

  He frowned. She had his number, and it was early yet. “You might be nicer when I’m trying so hard with this courtin’ stuff.”

  “Courtin’ stuff?”

  Did she have to repeat it? Heat crept up his neck. “Well, I sing about it, so I should be able to do it.” Even though he hadn’t. Not since Emeline.

  “You also sing about checking out a stacked blond hottie as she’s draining a long neck.”

  Great, so she was going to be that way. “Look, I was trying to make this a nice date for you to show you how much I appreciate you being there for me. I didn’t w
ant to just take you to Jack’s Shack for BBQ.”

  “Besides, you were hoping to get lucky.”

  He hadn’t thought she was going to call him out on it. “Christ, Tory.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet. Your ears are getting red,” she said, her smirk carrying over into her voice.

  He whipped around to face her and pulled her to him, kissing her roughly. Her lips softened. Her mouth opened. She all but melted against him.

  “I think I’ve got you figured out,” he murmured, nipping at her mouth once more. “You get even sassier when you’re nervous. You only shut up when you’re sad. And since you’ve already shot me up pretty good today, I’ll take that to mean that you’re more nervous than usual.”

  She pulled back and secured her seatbelt. “You’re right. I am nervous, and I’m sorry I teased you.”

  He started the car and put it into gear. They hummed down the driveway, the tight engine showcasing its perfect engineering.

  Halfway there, Rye took Tory’s hand and laid it on his thigh. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

  She turned away from the lush countryside dotted with farmland.

  “You look good too.”

  He squeezed her hand, and they rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

  When he turned onto the oak–lined driveway to Bedford Plantation, Tory sat up straighter in her seat. The place hadn’t changed a bit. Gardens packed with a whole bunch of pretty flowers covered the front of the property. The rose brick antebellum mansion with white columns and black shutters held all the gravitas of a former age. Gravel crunched under the tires as Rye pulled into the circular driveway.

  Rye was halfway around the car when Tory slammed her door shut. “You’re supposed to wait for me to do that,” he said.

  “I am?” She gripped her necklace and gave a soft smile. “I’ll do better next time.”

  To the right of the house, a fountain gurgled near a stone bench that was situated under a white arbor covered in a purple flowered vine. If it hadn’t been so hot, he would have led her there and simply held her hand, taking in the eye–catching sight of the gardens.

  There was peace here. This place. This woman.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured.

  Rye heard the awe and whimsy in her voice. “Yes, I thought you might like it, since you mentioned liking Gone with the Wind and all. The family still lives here. It’s more out of the way than the cluster of plantations just south of here, so it doesn’t receive as many visitors. Makes it more private.” The air carried the scent of fresh cut grass and a faint whiff of honeysuckle. He extended his hand. “Shall we?”

  She took it, her fingers curling around his. “Yes, let’s.”

  After knocking, an elegant white–haired woman opened the door. “Mr. Crenshaw. Ms. Simmons. I’m Emily Bedford. Welcome to Bedford Plantation.”

  She led them inside that place of grandeur. After getting them drinks—a mint julep for him and a peach champagne cocktail for Tory, the peaches fresh from their orchard—Emily Bedford gave them a tour of the house, telling stories of her family’s rise to wealth decades before the Civil War, or the War of Northern Aggression as they called it around here, and their struggle in the aftermath.

  Rye listened with half an ear, unable to take his eyes off Tory. He loved the way she listened intently when Emily answered one of her frequent questions, how her face brightened when she laughed at a funny anecdote.

  Nearly an hour later, Emily showed them to a private garden for dinner. She explained how the carefully selected plants glowed when the moon’s rays kissed them, which was why it was called a Moonlight Garden. The hydrangeas were white and plentiful, intermixed with pale, silver ferns.

  Arranged in the middle of the garden, the dinner table was set with the Bedford family china of roses and heather, the silver gleaming on the white tablecloth. After Rye and Tory sank into the cream–colored cushioned chairs at the table, Emily introduced them to their waiter and excused herself.

  Rye glanced at the French doors across from him. He’d reserved the garden suite in case Tory wanted to stay over. God, he hoped she would. He shifted in his seat and dropped his napkin in his lap, letting his eyes rest on her.

  Bedford had never held any allure for him the many times he’d been forced to come in his youth. It symbolized a history and tradition he rebelled against. But he’d wanted to do something just for her, and coming here seemed a small sacrifice after everything she’d done for him, become to him. Yet, tonight, seeing it through Tory’s eyes, it was charming and inviting, and his old opinions faded away. He reached for his pewter cup, twirling the mint sprig.

  Tory was fascinated by the marble carriers that ran water around the garden’s perimeter, serving as an old–fashioned air conditioner, which allowed them to eat outside in the heat. She told him about the gardens of Alhambra in Grenada, Spain, where the same device was used, something she’d learned in one of her history classes, her undergraduate minor.

  He realized there was so much he didn’t know about this woman. And so much he wanted to know.

  The first course of sun–kissed artichokes against a bed of greens arrived as the shadows lengthened, and the sun began to dip in the sky. Crickets and cicadas sang over the clink of silver against china as they sampled a chilled apple soup dotted with smoked bacon. He and Tory didn’t talk about serious matters—there was no mention of his family or hers or the tour. Her love of cooking was something she happily shared when their entrée of pecan–crusted trout arrived, and he listened without interrupting, watching her eyes glow like emeralds, especially when she made him laugh by concentrating on a single bite of the trout and telling him what spices the chef had used.

  As the moon rose, the garden came to life with glowing white light. Their waiter served them peach pie with custard ice cream. Tory swore it was the flakiest crust she’d ever tasted, and suddenly Rye could wait no longer to touch her. He rose and walked to her side of the table, pulling her from her chair. She tasted of peaches and cream when he kissed her, and in that moment, he never wanted to let her go.

  Tory slid her hands into his hair as he tugged on her bottom lip and slid his tongue inside to rub lazily against hers. Fitting her against his hardening body, he circled his hips. Her head dropped back, and he kissed a trail down her neck and filled his hands with her breasts, brushing her tightened nipples through her blouse.

  “Rye.” She pressed a hand to his chest. “We need to stop. We’re in the middle of dessert.”

  “Yes, we are,” he teased.

  Her eyes closed when his mouth nipped at her nape and moved the pearls aside to gently bite where neck and shoulder met. The shiver that coursed through her body made him smile.

  “There’s a lovely bedroom waiting for us right through those French doors,” he told her. Because he knew he would see the truth in her eyes, he looked straight into them as he spoke. “Is that what you want?”

  Her eyes darkened. “Yes, it’s what I want.”

  His fingertips caressed her delicate cheek. “Then let me make love to you.”

  Even though he’d never referred to the act that way, it seemed appropriate for this moment, this woman. Rye picked her up and carried her across the patio. He didn’t question the gallantry. It simply felt right.

  The air conditioning was cold on his skin when he entered the suite, pulling the drapes to the French doors closed with one hand. The room was cozy and intimate, and on the small table to the side of the doors was a crystal vase filled with red roses. It was perfect. After all, what woman didn’t like roses? The leather–back books artfully scattered across the antique furniture looked nice, but he had to wonder… Did anyone really come here to read?

  He smiled when he saw the bed. Now, that’s what he was talking about. The dark wood four poster was massive, and his feet wouldn’t hang off the end. Someone had already turned back the covers, revealing the inviting pale blue linens. There was another crystal vase brimming
with white hydrangeas on the bedside table.

  He couldn’t have done any better. Somehow, this first time with Tory deserved this elegance, this romance.

  And he wasn’t going to ask himself why it mattered so much.

  ***

  Tory scanned the room. Her heart was going to burst. She’d never imagined being surrounded by such loveliness—or having a man take such care with her. Who would have imagined Rye Crenshaw could read the cue cards in her mind?

  His breath tickled as he kissed her neck. Oh yes, that spot.

  “I want you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Heart racing, she turned in his arms. She knew she was smiling like a fool, but she couldn’t help it. Didn’t want to. She linked her hands around his neck.

  “That’s convenient. I was thinking the same thing.”

  His mouth tipped up. “Can’t you be serious for once?”

  But if she was, it would only scare him—and her, for that matter. They both knew this was temporary, and she had to keep reminding herself of that. “About this? No way.”

  He caressed her hips with his thumbs. She saw his dark eyelashes flicker down. Heat pooled in her belly. This man knew how to look at a woman.

  “You’re not planning to use that smart mouth to poke holes in my technique, are you?”

  Even if she had enough experience to do that, she would never have been that cruel. She trailed her hands up his chest, wanting to feel his hardness, his strength. “I’m sure your technique is just fine. I was planning on using my smart mouth on other things tonight.” To demonstrate, she opened a button on his shirt and pressed her lips to his warm skin.

  The rush of her skirt’s zipper sliding down sounded in the quiet room. “Works just fine for me.”

  When Rye slipped his hands inside her skirt and grabbed her butt, Tory jerked against him.

  “Like that, do you?”