Simple Gone South gs-3

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Brantley had stopped by the table where Lucy and Annelle were eating.

  “Well, if it’s not Lucy Mead looking like a strawberry cupcake.” The pink eyelet dress had looked so pretty in the store and made her feel so feminine, but now she hated it. He smiled, winked, and laid his hand on her shoulder. Then he introduced her to the tall, model thin, porcelain skinned woman on his arm. Her sleek black linen dress contrasted perfectly with her sleek white blond hair. Rita May Sanderson definitely did not look like a cupcake of any flavor. And she could not have looked more different than Lucy.

  Lucy’s maternal grandmother had been Italian and Lucy wore that history on her face—dark brown eyes, full lips, and perpetually tanned skin. The only way to tame her dark curly hair was to keep it cut short, close to her scalp. Put her in a striped t-shirt and she looked like she should be climbing on a Vespa scooter in a 1960s movie. All she needed was a beret and more eyeliner.

  And then there were those hips and thighs. Always that.

  Lucy pushed the bread basket to the edge of the table.

  Missy let out a little whimper. “I might have some skim milk in my coffee later.”

  “You weakling.” Lucy grinned with relief that they had moved on from the subject of Brantley Kincaid and his maybe-yes, maybe-no romance.

  Maybe-yes, maybe-no. That was Brantley through and through. She had done a pretty good job of avoiding him these last few years. He didn’t come to town often, and when he did she usually had warning and could leave town herself. Of course, there was the odd time or two that he’d showed up unannounced, and a wedding or birthday party here and there that she could not miss. Still, she’d held it together, considering.

  What had happened that first summer was one thing. As much as anything, it had been her fault—and that of circumstances. Brantley hadn’t even known how she felt, had never meant to hurt her. But what had happened that time in Savannah was a whole different matter. Not even Missy knew about it, and she never would. It had been at the end of Lucy’s freshman year at the Savannah College of Art and Design, and Brantley had come to town with some other Vandy students for an architectural restoration seminar. That was when she’d learned that Brantley was a runner. When something happened that he couldn’t deal with, he ran. After college she’d worked in Atlanta a few years before moving to Merritt to work with Annelle. Before returning, Lucy had decided that the easiest way to deal with a runner was to run from him.

  Only she couldn’t do that this time. The show had to go on. Junior League president Millie Carmichael was entirely capable of hiring a hit man. She had the money and the guts. You had to have those things to be president of Junior League.

  Lucy cut her chicken into smaller bites to make it last longer.

  “Brantley said—” Missy began.

  “Missy,” Lucy cut her off because she could not listen to what Brantley had said, whatever it was. Her news was supposed to be a secret, but it would be common knowledge soon. She could trust Missy and above all else, she had to change the subject.

  “What? Tell me. Tell me now!”

  No turning back. Missy could always tell when Lucy had a secret—well, almost always.

  “I want to tell you something but you cannot tell.”

  “Never.” Missy crossed her heart with her index finger like a girl scout making a promise to a bunkmate.

  “Speaking of Brantley, his grandmother came to see me this morning.”

  “Does she know Brantley’s coming this weekend?” Missy asked.

  “I don’t know. We did not discuss Brantley. Miss Caroline told me that the city offered to buy the building where Judge Brantley had his law offices. They want to turn it into a community multi-purpose center.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Missy said. “That’s a great building. Did you know the whole top floor is a ballroom? It hasn’t been used in years but Brantley and I used to play up there when we were kids. After the judge died, they moved his furniture from his chambers at the courthouse back to his old office and locked it up. I know most of the rest of the building is rented out.”

  “Here’s the thing. Miss Caroline is going to donate the building, but she wants control of the restoration. She’s offered me the job of restoring the interior.”

  “Oh, Lucy, that’s wonderful!”

  “She wants it kept quiet for now because she hasn’t notified the tenants yet. Her plan is to have the building vacant and the other details worked out by the first of the year. I am so excited—I still can’t believe she chose me.”

  “I am not a bit surprised. I know she and Miss Annelle are friends but everyone knows Miss Annelle’s taste runs more toward art deco style and ultra modern. That wouldn’t work in that building at all.”

  “Still, she could have brought someone in. It makes me feel like I am really home now. I mean, if Caroline Brantley accepts you for something so important, you must really belong, right?”

  Missy laughed. “Why on earth would you think you don’t belong here? That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You grew up here; you haven’t been jerked all over the globe.”

  “I say you belong here. But if you need Miss Caroline’s stamp of approval, I’m glad you’ve got it.”

  “I want to do a great job. I don’t want to make her sorry. I want to give this town a beautiful building.”

  “You will, Lucy. I know you will. Who else is going to work on the project?”

  “No idea. Miss Caroline said she was still ironing that out.”

  * * *

  The streets of Merritt left no doubt that it was October. You couldn’t swing a dead dog without hitting a pile of pumpkins or a scarecrow sitting on a hay bale. There were a respectable number of ghosts and witches too. They would disappear November first but the other autumnal items would linger on until they were replaced by snowmen and Santas.

  Brantley had promised he would arrive in the morning and he had—but just barely. Afternoon technically started at one minute after noon, so he had about fourteen minutes to catch up with Missy before he was officially late. He called her cell but it was Harris who answered.

  “Hey, Harris, it's Brantley. Did I call the house?” It had happened before. Speed dial will do that to you.

  “No, she left her cell here.”

  “Missy without her phone?” She’d tried to take it to the delivery room.

  “Yeah, I know. She’s crazy right now. Not sleeping much. Living on coffee. I’ll be glad when this is over.”

  “I’ll bet. I’ve got two big bags of hair stuff and a receipt for an amount you don’t want to know about. She said to bring it to her. Do you know where that would be?”

  “Sort of, I guess.” He sighed. Harris Bragg sighed a lot—and for good reason. Missy’s All-American quarterback-turned-lawyer husband was the only man Brantley had ever known who came anywhere close to being able to handle Missy. God love him.

  “She and Lucy were going to get their hair done at the mall somewhere. They’ve gone out there.”

  “At the mall? At a chain?” It worried Brantley that he knew where Missy ordinarily got her hair done, which was at a shiny little shop downtown.

  “You got me.” Harris sounded bewildered. “But that’s what she said. Do you want to bring that stuff to me and let me work it out?”

  Tempting. “Don’t you have the kids?”

  “They can go to the mall.” Harris’s tone was begging Brantley to say no. He pictured Harris gathering up bags of kid stuff, strollers, and messing with car seats. He didn’t have the heart. Plus, all that would take time, which might get him in trouble with Missy.

  “I’ll find her,” he told Harris.

  At the mall, it was pure luck that he found them as fast as he did. He went in through Dillard’s, thinking he’d ask someone in there about hair salons. It was when he rounded the corner, trying to get away from the lingerie department, that he heard laughter that rang out like schoolyard magic. He’d ended up in wo
men’s accessories where Missy and Lucy were trying on hat after ugly hat, some large, some small, some with feathers, some plain, and all belonging on heads that answered to the name of Grandmother. He must have stood there a full minute watching them clutch about each other, swap hats, and wipe tears from their eyes. For a second he thought they might be drunk but then he remembered what Harris had said about the lack of sleep and living off coffee. Apparently Missy was enforcing her present lifestyle choices on Lucy because they were in the same giddy boat.

  He hadn’t seen Lucy in a while. She’d been out of town the last several times he’d been in Merritt. Her hair was a little longer and she looked good. He let himself enjoy that. Truth was, Brantley loved the look of a girl in shorts and a sweatshirt. You saw that ensemble a lot in the fall and spring in the south when the weather just couldn’t make up its mind. Sweatshirt, khaki knee shorts, and Keds—it was practically a uniform, but one they didn’t like to be caught wearing. Pity.

  Missy finally caught sight of him. “Brantley!” She threw herself at him, hat and all.

  When he hugged her, he could practically feel her buzzing. “What are you doing at the mall, Missy?”

  “We needed some necklaces for tonight and we have to get our hair done here so we were just waiting for you to call.”

  “How was I going to do that?”

  “What?” She put her hand in her pocket. “No phone?”

  “No phone,” he confirmed.

  “Then how?”

  “I talked to Harris and I used my magic Missy locater.”

  “You could have called Lucy’s phone,” she said.

  That had never occurred to him. Maybe it should have.

  “I have a phone.” Lucy nodded her head seriously and her dark curls bounced around her face. “But you don’t have my number. You’ve never had my number.” Then she burst out laughing. She had a wonderful laugh. Brantley remembered then that he’d always thought that, even when she was a gawky fifteen-year-old and he had been the eighteen-year-old King of Main Street. Not too silly, not too loud, just very easy on the ears. But she was giddy today and her laugh gave way to a giggle—better than most giggles, but still a giggle. Missy joined in.

  And snorted.

  Oh, man. “Are y’all drunk?”

  “No!” they burst out together, and laughed some more.

  “Well, I hope I haven’t made you late for your hair appointments.” He was no longer interested in why Missy had lowered herself to interacting with a mall chain hair salon. “I have your stuff.” He held out the bags.

  “You are the best! And we have some time; you can buy us some coffee.”

  “I think y’all have had enough coffee,” he said. “I’m tempted to take your money away so you can’t buy any either.”

  Missy stuck her tongue out at him. “They will give us some while we’re getting our hair done.”

  “No, they won’t,” Lucy said. “Not here.” Lucy might know a little bit more about chain beauty parlors than Missy was ever likely to.

  “How about some food?” Brantley asked.

  “Yes!” This came from Lucy. “I want some food. I want some cake. And I want it right now. Chocolate.”

  “There will be no cake eating,” Missy said. “Not by you and not by me until this show is over. We have to lie down to zip those pants as it is.”

  “Well.” Brantley had had enough. “I need to go see my dad and grandmother. And I’ll see you both tonight.” He waved and they went back to swapping hats.

  Lucy had looked really good. Had he said anything to her directly? Surely he had. His mama had sent him to Junior Cotillion to see to it that he had good manners.

  Of course, he hadn’t used those manners the one time when they might have made a difference.

  Chapter Two

  Brantley’s grandmother, Caroline Eleanor Hurst Brantley, lived in the historic district in the same Queen Anne Victorian where Brantleys had been living and raising their offspring since it was built in 1889. Brantley loved that house—the turrets, the gingerbread, the nooks and crannies. He had no doubt that it was his happy childhood memories within those old walls that had shaped his passion for restoration and preservation architecture. But they never, as a family, ate a meal or celebrated a holiday in the dining room of that house anymore. Hadn’t in a long time.

  For the most part, they had traded dining rooms for restaurants, with the occasional patio thrown in.

  Today Brantley would be having lunch with his grandmother and father at the house where he had been born to Charles and Eva Brantley Kincaid—though the dining room was off limits there too. When he and his dad occasionally ate at that house it was always on TV trays in front of the television, but Big Mama was not the type to take a meal on a TV tray.

  Sure enough, he found them on the back patio where Charles was grilling steaks and Big Mama was nursing a mint julep and gazing out at the golf course. The wrought iron table was set with a tablecloth and dishes in fall colors. There was even a centerpiece of gourds and Indian corn. That would be Big Mama’s doing. Pull out causal elegant. We can’t bear to eat at other tables, but the boy is coming home. We have to Do Right.

  For a few seconds he watched them, thinking their separate lonely thoughts and living their separate lonely lives. He put on his happy Brantley mask before speaking.

  “Hey,” he said. And he watched two faces swing toward him and morph into pure, unadulterated joy.

  Being the recipient of such undeserved love could be a hard job.

  Big Mama was the first to reach him. She was classy, tall, and gracefully thin with a white chin length bob. She hardly fit the connotation that Big Mama mustered up. She looked more like a Grandmere or Mimi, but Brantley women were always Big Mama to their grandchildren.

  Brantley’s children, if he had any, would not have anyone to call Big Mama.

  “Darling! You look wonderful.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Not so good as you.”

  Then he went from thin reaching arms to strong hands clasping his shoulders. “Let me get you a beer, Son.”

  “Let me get you one.” Brantley untangled himself from them and walked toward the small galvanized tub where beer, soft drinks, and bottled water had been iced down. “You’re doing all the work.”

  “Not all.” Charles turned back to the grill. “Miss Caroline brought stuffed mushrooms, twice baked potatoes, and banana pudding.”

  Of course she would have. All his favorites. “Evelyn made the mushrooms and potatoes but I made the pudding myself,” Big Mama said proudly. Evelyn had worked for Big Mama so long that it was hard to tell who was the boss.

  Brantley removed the caps from the beers and passed one to his father. “Nobody makes banana pudding like you,” he told his grandmother. Too late, he wished he hadn’t said that, because at one time, someone else had. But they were so happy to have Brantley there that they didn’t notice his blunder.

  The three of them talked easily over the meal. Charles and Caroline had a lot to tell—the happenings at Christ Episcopal Church, Kincaid Insurance Company, Rotary, Caroline’s bridge club, and what was going on with the citizens of Merritt. They also had a lot to ask. There was no detail of Brantley’s life that they did not seize like it was the last gold nugget ever mined.

  As they finished their pudding, Big Mama said tentatively, “Darling?” and raised her iced tea glass to her lips.

  Brantley leaned in and raised his eyebrow.

  “You aren’t going back tonight are you?” she asked.

  It was a valid question. It was only a three hour trip from Nashville to Merritt and he’d been known to do a turn around visit in one day a couple of times. Okay, more than a couple; he’d done the turn around trip more times than he’d spent the night.

  “No, not this time. It seems I am to dance attention on Missy not only at the actual Follies but at some big to-do at the club after. I thought I’d spend the night.” He looked at his father. “If that’s okay, D
ad.”

  Charles Kincaid smiled so gratefully that Brantley could have wept, if he was a weeper, which he was not. “I think I can endure your presence for a day or so,” he said lightly.

  “Well.” Big Mama folded her linen napkin and placed it beside her plate. That’s when Brantley knew she was nervous. Nervous was not easily recognizable in a woman with a steel spine, but betraying etiquette was a sure sign. One did not remove one’s napkin from one’s lap until arising from the table—of course unless you had to clean food off your person that someone had thrown at you. Which wasn’t likely to happen here. “Do you plan to go to church?” she asked.

  Ah, that’s why she was nervous. There had been a time when he would not go—could not go—into Christ Episcopal and kneel for communion at the same altar where those coffins had sat. But he’d gotten past that—more or less.

  “Sure,” he said. “If I don’t spill on my good clothes tonight.” Though that wasn’t really a factor. Brantley and Charles were exactly the same size. In fact, apart from a few gray hairs mixed with the blond and a slight softening around Charles’s jaw brought on by age, they looked pretty much the same.

  Big Mama and Dad laughed a little, not because Brantley had said anything funny, but because they delighted in everything that came out of his mouth. His head began to pound.

  “Good.” Big Mama looked at her napkin, unfolded it, and put it back in her lap. “How do you feel about going to early service and having brunch after?”

  “Sounds fine,” Brantley said. “Too bad Lou Anne is closed on Sundays. I could use some diner food.”

  “Actually,” Big Mama said, “Evelyn’s nephew went to the coast this weekend and I asked him to bring back some fresh shrimp. She said she would make us some shrimp and grits.”

  Shrimp and grits—also one of Brantley’s favorites. Made by Big Mama’s housekeeper of forty years. But that meant—

  “Good!” Big Mama rose and Brantley and Charles jumped to their feet. “Don’t get up, darlings,” she said, not meaning a word of it. “I hate to eat and run, but I have errands and I know you two want some time together.” She delivered cheek kisses to her son-in-law and grandson. “I’ll see y’all at church and back at my house after.”