Simple Gone South
( Gone South - 3 )
Alicia Hunter Pace
The last time Brantley Kincaid had an argument with someone, he was eighteen years old—and he regrets it like he will never regret anything again. If only he had not balked at going to pick up his grandfather that day, his mother would not have driven into the path of a truck and there would be two fewer graves in Merritt Cemetery. Though a frequent visitor, he hasn't lived in Merritt since burying his mother and grandfather. But now he's coming back and it might not be so easy to hide behind his wit and charisma.
Outwardly, interior designer Lucy Mead is a beautiful, confident professional. Inside, she's the friendless, overweight girl who spent her life following her archeologist parents all over the globe. And who could forget those teenage years of turmoil and unrequited love? It would have been kinder if Brantley had not known she was alive rather than treating her like Robin to his Batman. She carries the humiliation to this day.
Their friends and Brantley's family are delighted when he sets his sights on Lucy, though Lucy isn't so sure. She cannot deny the attraction, but something is wrong. Does he really love her, or does he see her as a refuge and another way to run from his grief?
If she can’t find answers, what could be a simple, sweet life might go completely south
Simple Gone South
Gone South - 3
by
Alicia Hunter Pace
For the fabulous Lynn Raye Harris, our plotting partner and friend of our hearts, who has taught us that the more we hurt them, the sweeter the happily ever after. We love you. J.P.H and S.L.J.
Acknowledgments
This story, more than any other in the Gone South series, has been a journey. Though this story has little resemblance to the first version, it all started with Lucy and Brantley. It was with them that Merritt, Alabama, was born and the Gone South gang came to life.
There is something special about creating the unsold story, something wonderful about continuing to write page after page based not on a contracted deadline or for readers who are begging for the next story but on the love of the characters, the story, and the hope that this will be the one.
We owe thanks to:
Our families and friends who lived with us in the early stages of Gone South. It wasn’t always easy.
Rhonda Nelson, who read for us and believed that Merritt was a place readers would want to go.
Sandy Callahan, the best proofreader in all the land.
Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, and Jess Verdi at Crimson Romance, who not only always help make a better book, but help us to be better writers.
Chapter One
Getting hit in the head with a taco will make a man rethink a relationship.
Brantley Kincaid was at Mateo’s Grill and Cantina with his on-again, off-again girlfriend Rita May Sanderson when she took exception to his lack of enthusiasm for her suggestion that they take a long weekend and go to Paris. And she wasn’t talking about Paris, Texas, either. He had just returned to Nashville from a three-month stint in San Francisco where he’d been consulting on a project to restore a group of Queen Anne row houses. If he had wanted to go anywhere, it would not have been Paris and even if he had wanted that, he damn sure wouldn’t want to do it in three days. He was in no mood for a city as big as Paris and, besides, apart from escargot and oui, he couldn’t speak a word of French. Who wanted to run around for three days dodging cars and bicycles, saying yes, snail? Not him.
Rita May did not agree.
So she threw the taco at him. It had guacamole on it, which he normally liked—when it wasn’t being hurled through the air in his direction. It wasn’t the first time. Rita May was a thrower and a breaker—coffee cups, CDs, books, assorted food. He’d seen it all—headed right for his head.
“Rita May,” he said as he picked lettuce out of his hair and wiped salsa off his ear. “I know how it’s gotten to be kind of our trademark for me to offend you in some way and then for you to throw something at me. And then I apologize for the offending and you apologize for the throwing and for destroying my property, if that has been the case, which it usually has. Then we have sex and go shopping to replace whatever it is you broke, which I pay for. But now you have hit me with a taco in a public place, and I am shutting this freak show down.”
Having already made short work of the paper napkins, he pulled his handkerchief out and finished cleaning himself up as best he could.
He’d had enough. This was possibly the twelfth time they had broken up, but it was the first time he’d done the breaking. So it was understandable that she was all surprised with open mouth and big eyes. Her eyes were still the brightest blue he’d ever seen, but not worth it anymore, no matter how many Keith Urban and Jackson Beauford videos she’d been in. He got to his feet and threw a wad of bills on the table. There was a fire fall of cheese down the front of his bespoken shirt that he hadn’t noticed. He brushed it into his plate.
“But we came in my car. How will you get home?” she asked.
“You let me worry about that, Tradd.”
Her face turned red and she said through gritted teeth, “Don’t call me that! Never call me that in public!”
Time to walk away. This was turning into an argument—and he didn’t argue. Ever. It was one of his rules.
“I am not calling you anything anymore,” he said pleasantly as he fished steak out of his pocket. Tradd Davenport might be a little too uptown ball gown for her persona of aspiring country music star, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t her real name. No matter.
As Brantley walked away, the chip basket hit him in the shoulder but he didn’t look back.
He bought what passed for a barbecue sandwich from a street vendor and walked and ate for four blocks. Ordinarily he would not have chosen barbecue, because God knows they didn’t have any real barbecue in Nashville, Tennessee, but that was all that was available at the moment and he was hungry. Real barbecue came from where you were raised, but he had no plans to return to Merritt, Alabama—not even for the best pulled pork in the south. Maybe he should have taken his fajitas with him, though they would have made for messy walking food. Not that he wasn’t already a mess.
He flagged down a taxi.
His townhouse still had that musty, closed up smell. And it still looked like a hotel room. His clients who lauded his “impeccable taste and attention to detail” would be shocked to see how he lived. He had some nice antique furniture because his grandmother had seen to it, but he’d never even bothered to unroll the Oriental rug she’d sent. Who had time? Or inclination? Clean was about all his domicile had going for it and that was because he hired that done. Well, that and his bed. He liked a comfortable bed with a good sink effect. All those extra pillows and gewgaws had cost a lot but the sink effect was excellent.
He could hardly wait to get in that bed—without Rita May complaining about how he kicked and stole covers. He was surprised at how downright cheerful he was about it.
Having washed the taco out of his hair, he’d just stepped out of the shower when his cell rang. That would be Rita May, who would have thought of a whole new batch of his shortcomings that she needed to apprise him of. Brantley had no interest in hearing—again—about how he didn’t know what a relationship was, so he let it go to voicemail.
It was kind of cold in the house. He had to dig deep to find his favorite flannel pants because he hadn’t worn them yet this year. They had ducks on them. It was the kind of night that called for favorite pants. He had fewer opinions about t-shirts so he didn’t have to dig.
Finally, he reached for his phone. He was only going to listen to enough of Rita May’s message to enjoy her fury at finally
being the one who got dumped. After peeping at the caller ID, Brantley relaxed.
It was Missy, aka Mrs. Harris Townshend Bragg, III, aka the demon spawn who, at ten months old, had put her hand in his first birthday cake before he got a chance. But apparently they had bonded over that torn up cake because she was his best and oldest friend. Before dialing her back, he settled himself into his leather chair in case it was going to be a long conversation—which was likely. Of course, she might just be calling to tell him a joke or give him an order.
She didn’t ask after his health, the weather, or any of the things a woman of her social standing and breeding should have. She didn’t even say hello.
“Brantley!” Missy said his name like she was in charge of it and he needed reminding of that fact. “Listen! I want to talk to you.”
Clearly, Missy, or you wouldn’t have called.
“Hello, Missy. This is Brantley.” He always made it a point to greet her and identify himself. It had not rubbed off on her, not in the twenty-odd years since she had been capable of dialing his number. “How is the sainted Harris Bragg? And my godson? And baby Lulu?”
“Oh, they’re fine.” He could see her waving her hand like she did when she didn’t want to talk about something. Not that she didn’t love her husband and children. At this moment, they just were not her mission. “Listen! I need you to come home next weekend.” From where Missy sat, “home” was still Merritt because that’s where she was. It mattered not to her where he paid taxes, had set up his architectural restoration business, and got dumped. “I’m in the Junior League Follies and I need you to come.”
Oh, damn.
He and Missy had been to the Follies a few times when they were kids because their mothers were in it. It involved grown women dressing up like famous people and lip-syncing and dancing, all in the name of charity.
“Don’t tell me they are still doing that.”
“Not for a while, but it’s been resurrected. And not they, Brantley. We—meaning me and you—because you’re coming.”
He could tell her yes now or he could tell her yes later, but in the end, people always told Missy yes. Besides, he hadn’t seen his dad and grandmother since before he left for San Francisco. If he didn’t visit soon, they’d land on his doorstep.
“All right,” he said. “What else?” Because it just wasn’t going to be that easy. Of course, going to Merritt was never easy. How could it be? Too many graves.
“I need you to come to the after party too.”
“How much is this going to set me back?” It wasn’t going to be cheap. Junior Leaguers were never cheap.
“Twenty-five for the show and a hundred for the party.”
“Must be some party. Generally people like me enough that they let me come to their parties for free.”
“Charity, Brantley. I know what you made on that San Francisco job, so don’t argue with me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And, Brantley?” she said sweetly. “Please tell Rita May she is welcome to join us.” She said it like she was a queen granting a boon to a lowly peasant—which about summed up Missy’s opinion of Rita May.
“That will not be happening,” he said. “She has decided she does not approve of the way I do business. She will be passing her time elsewhere from here on out.”
“Praise Jesus,” Missy said.
“Now, Melissa, I am sure what you mean is, ‘Brantley, I am so sorry your relationship did not work out.’”
“Yeah, that,” she said. “There’s something else.” Wasn’t there just always? “Lucy and I need some serious hair products. I need you to go to Sephora at Green Hills Mall to get them.”
NO, NO, NO! He hated the mall—not just that mall, but every mall. But again, there was no refusing Missy. He reached for his pen and DayRunner.
“Go ahead. Tell me.”
She paused. “You’re getting your DayRunner, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“There’s an app for that, you know.”
“I don’t want an app. I want paper. I want to write with a fountain pen—the very same Mont Blanc pen you gave me upon our graduation from that fine institution, Merritt High School. Now, what is it you need from the hell mall?”
“All you have to do is pick it up,” she said, like it was a gift. “I’ve already talked to them and they’ve got it gathered up. I’ve given them my credit card number and everything. All you have to do is give them my name.”
That was something anyway. He decided to steer the conversation away from the Green Hills Mall before she thought of any more errands. “Is this shindig on Saturday?”
“Of course. You can’t do anything on Friday nights during football season.” Right. High school game. He’d played on that team with none other than Nathan Scott, former college star and present Merritt High Head Coach.
“I might not come until Saturday morning.”
“That’ll be fine. We need our hair stuff by early afternoon.”
“I’ll find you when I get there.”
“Call my cell. I don’t know where I’ll be.”
“I’ll do it.” With his clean hair and ducks, he went to bed.
* * *
Lucy Mead slid into a back booth at Lou Anne’s diner. She was elated. She’d had a great morning—it wasn’t every day you got handed a job that was beyond your dreams.
But she was hungry. And tired. Thank goodness her new project wouldn’t start until after the Junior League Follies were over. Why she had let her best friend, Missy, talk her into performing in the Follies, she would never know. Their other two book club friends weren’t performing. Lanie was working on the after party and Lucy could have done that too. Or she could have helped Tolly with publicity. But no. Missy wanted to lip-sync and dance and she wanted Lucy to do it with her. So that’s what they were doing.
What they weren’t doing was eating much. Damn those costumes. Not that it would hurt her to miss a meal. She might not be the fat teenager she had been, but her hips and thighs could use a break from the carbs.
“Hey!” Missy sang out as she slipped into the booth across from Lucy. Missy was walking perfection, even after two children. She always had been. Lucy would never forget her first summer in Merritt. She still marveled that eighteen-year-old Missy, the beautiful blond cheerleader, had befriended the awkward, overweight, younger girl Lucy had been.
She’d been fifteen and had begged her anthropologist parents to let her stay with her great aunt Annelle while they went to some village in Brazil. Or was that the Denmark summer? She couldn’t keep up. Back then, they’d moved to new faculty positions every few years; Clemson, University of Georgia, Florida State. And every summer there had been some dig or study in some remote place. Lucy had hated it. Working at Annelle Mead Interiors that summer had been heaven. Not only had she found her best friend, she’d found her professional calling. Of course, she’d gotten her heart broken too, but wasn’t that what the fifteenth summer was for?
Maybe it was the nostalgia or the lack of food that made her say to Missy, “I love you.”
“Of course you do!” Missy said. “I’m loveable.”
“Some would say.” Lou Anne approached the table with menus, water, and a smile.
“We don’t need those menus, Lou Anne,” Missy said. “We are going to split the grilled chicken salad. No dressing. Just some balsamic vinegar. Water to drink.”
Lou Anne sighed. “These Junior League Follies are going to be the death of my business. There’s not a woman in this town between the ages of twenty-four and forty who’s eating.”
“It’s going to be the death of me too,” said Lucy.
“Poor babies. I’ve got a chocolate cake, still warm. Why don’t you let me bring you some? Just a little? I’ll give it to you for free, if you’ll just eat.”
Lucy’s mouth watered. “Better not. You see, we have these costumes . . .”
She imagined herself on the stage of the Merr
itt Community Playhouse looking like the Goodyear Blimp. That probably couldn’t happen in four days, but fat was always right around the corner.
“Okay, but you girls come to see me Monday. I’m going to give you a proper meal.”
“Good news,” Missy said after Lou Anne had gone. “I have solved our hair product dilemma.”
“I told you I would go to Birmingham to get what we need,” Lucy said. Their regular stylist wouldn’t even attempt what they needed done. The girl at the mall was willing to try but only if they obtained the correct products, which could not be had in Merritt.
“You don’t have time for that. We have practice every night. Besides, never do something that you can get someone else to do. That’s my motto.” She smiled her million watt cheerleader smile. “I called Brantley last night. He’s bringing them.”
Hell and double hell! Not Brantley Kincaid! Anything but that.
“Mmmm,” Lucy said and sipped her water. “I thought he was in San Francisco.” She was surprised at how disinterested she sounded, but she was disinterested. Mostly.
“He’s back. And he’s coming to the Follies and the party. Sans that she devil from hell, Rita May Sanderson. They have broken up again.”
“It won’t last.”
“We can hope.”
You can hope; I don’t care. She couldn’t say that, of course. Not to Missy. Missy had shared a teething ring with Brantley and she’d cheerfully have a street fight with a motorcycle gang for him. It had probably always been so, but after that horrible day when his mother and beloved Papa Brantley were killed in a car crash Missy had appointed herself the one woman Brantley Kincaid Protection Agency.
“Rita May is mean to Brantley,” Missy went on.
“So you say.”
Lou Anne served their half salads and defiantly set a basket of corn muffins, homemade yeast rolls, and butter between them. Oh, God—she had included little packets of honey and strawberry jam. Lucy’s mouth watered. Then she remembered the first time she’d seen Rita May. It had been at the Country Club Father’s Day brunch.
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