Simple Gone South gs-3

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Brantley and Charles sat down again as she clicked away on her little leather flats. Damn. They were going to eat at the dining table. Something was up.

  Brantley met his father’s eyes and almost asked.

  Charles looked toward the golf course and then his watch. “I believe we have time to play nine before the Crimson Tide kicks off. What about it, Son?”

  “Sure,” Brantley said. “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  Brantley slid into a seat on the back row of Merritt Community Playhouse with no time to spare. He had been given a show program that contained ads, thanks, corporate sponsors, and a spread on Junior League projects—Hospice, Habitat for Humanity, Children’s Hospital. There was a list of the performers in the order of appearance, but not the acts. Missy and Lucy were about halfway into the show. It was only then that it occurred to him to wonder just what it was they were performing.

  Most of the acts turned out to be immediately recognizable and predictable—Janis Joplin, Faith Hill, Carole King, a dressed to the nines Dolly Parton, that kind of thing. There were a few show tunes, a la Liza Minnelli and Barbra Streisand. Junior League women weren’t known for embarrassing themselves by having shoddy trappings, so the props and costumes were good. He tried to guess who Missy and Lucy would be portraying but couldn’t think of many female duos, and none that seemed likely. He just could not see them as the Judds.

  But there was nothing on this earth that would have prepared him for those two women walking on that stage dressed as Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora. And not just any Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora. Oh, no. These were not the men of the new millennium who had kids and gave money to the homeless. These were the bad boys from the ’80s. Missy had not been kidding about those tight pants, though she had not mentioned that they would be leather.

  And the hair. It put him in the mind of hay bales gone bad. Missy, of course, was Bon Jovi. She was wielding a microphone, complete with stand. Lucy, as Sambora, had a guitar. There was a fog machine and a huge backdrop that spelled out “Bon Jovi” in lights. They nodded to each other, in time. The music started and they lip-synced to everyone in that little audience that they “gave love a bad name.” He made a mental note to go back to the table in the lobby where you could order a DVD of the show for $21.95. And that was before Lucy even did her guitar solo.

  They brought down the house. They danced, they gyrated, and they sparkled. Then they told everyone that they were “wanted, dead or alive.”

  Being wanted by Lucy Mead might not be a bad job. The thought startled him.

  He was driving toward the Country Club when he realized that he was sitting there in his new Land Cruiser smiling into the dark. It was when he passed the Publix that he had an idea. They had a bakery, didn’t they?

  He turned the vehicle around.

  * * *

  Lucy got out of the back seat of Harris Bragg’s Lexus SUV and followed Harris and Missy up the steps of the Merritt Country Club. This wasn’t the first time she went there with them, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but she could not imagine a situation where she would ever want to be there less than she did right now.

  Missy said, “Lanie was coming at five today to help set up for the party and she said she’d save us a table for eight.” That was the way of it. They always had a table for eight, because there was no such thing as a table for seven. These days it was always Missy and Harris, Lanie and Luke, Tolly and Nathan, and of course, Fifth Wheel Lucy.

  However, tonight that eighth chair would be filled.

  She could have had a date tonight—she wasn’t that far gone—but letting Mark Phillips squire her around when she had no interest had seeped into the category of wrong. She was tired—bone weary, give me some bourbon and put me to bed tired. That kind of tired is what happened when, by day, you spiffed up houses for people who wanted it done before the holidays, and by night, you were Richie Sambora. She wouldn’t want to go to this party even if Brantley Kincaid wasn’t expected. But he was.

  Hell and double hell.

  Not that Brantley mattered anymore. Hadn’t in a long time, but, if he had to see her, it would have been nice to have looked her best. It was a matter of pride. But he’d seen her first in ratty old clothes and second dressed like a 1980s Richie Sambora.

  At least now she looked pretty good. They had gone to Missy’s right after their performance to wash the gel out of their hair and dress for the party. She’d paid way too much for her dress, not unusual when shopping with Missy, but it was flattering—something that never ceased to amaze her. The burnt orange silk shirtwaist dress had a wide belt and left her arms and knees bare—not cocktail attire, but not suitable for work either.

  Ahead of her, Harris and Missy walked hand-in-hand, both tall, blond, tanned, and athletic.

  “Didn’t mean to run off and leave you,” Harris called from the door, where he and Missy had paused.

  “I’m dawdling,” Lucy said and hurried to catch up.

  Aside from the party committee, they were some of the first to arrive. The food was out but the band was still setting up. Laura Cochran handed them each a list of the items in the silent auction and a bid number. “Show over?” she asked.

  “If it’s not, it’s close,” Missy said. “But we left after our act. We had to go to my house and make Jon and Richie go away.”

  “Where do you think our table is?” Lucy asked because sitting was what she intended to do and right now.

  Missy looked over the white covered tables around the room. “Over by the wall. Good job, Lanie.”

  Harris let out a delighted laugh. “I am sure you instructed her exactly where you wanted to sit.”

  “I might have mentioned something about near the bar and a good distance from the band, preferably against the wall.”

  “Where is Lanie?” Lucy asked, as she settled into her chair.

  “She will be downstairs working the silent auction,” Missy said, studying her list of items. “Tolly, Nathan, and Luke won’t be here until the show’s over. Hmmm . . . they have an electric train in the auction. That might be worth looking at.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Harris rolled his eyes. “It’s not enough that we spent a fortune on Bon Jovi props.”

  “But we had the best ones,” Missy said. “We were the best.”

  “Without a doubt.” Harris picked up Missy’s hand and kissed her wrist. “Always.” Lucy’s stomach turned over. Oh, to have someone look at her like that. Just once. No, once wouldn’t be enough. Once never was. Once was worse than never.

  “I’m going to look at the auction stuff and check on that train. Lucy, you want to come?”

  “No.” And she didn’t. She’d donated four hours of free design consultation and Aunt Annelle had given a chair from the shop. As far as she was concerned, her contribution to the auction was complete. “I want to sit right here and revel in the fact that I don’t have to throw my head back and pretend to bellow.”

  Missy rose and Harris followed suit. “I’m going to get a beer. Wine, ladies?”

  “Sure,” Missy said.

  “Wild Turkey 101,” Lucy said. “Straight.”

  Lucy closed her eyes. Oh, to be able to sleep. To be able to be away from here. Usually, she liked these people, liked these events. It was part of the charm of having a home in a small town. She didn’t like to think that she was letting the impending arrival of Brantley Kincaid ruin it for her. Why should it? If she didn’t live in his hometown, she probably wouldn’t even think about him anymore.

  The band began to warm up with “Mustang Sally.” Where was Harris with her bourbon? That song always made her want to drink. Not that she needed alcohol to face Brantley. It had been a long time ago.

  “Mr. Sambora, I presume?”

  Lucy opened her eyes. And there he was, smiling like he always did and no one else could. If he’d been beautiful this afternoon in his white polo shirt and blue jeans, he was now Adonis in Brooks Brothers. Or
Brooks Brothers coming undone since his tie was a little looser than it had probably started out. Blue blazer, khaki pants, blue oxford shirt that fit like it had been made for him—because it surely had. The burnished silver buttons on his blazer bore a monogram, but not Brantley’s. They were at least four generations old. Lucy didn’t have such things but she knew about them.

  He sidled up to her, tall, broad shouldered, and lean hipped. His thick straight hair looked like moonbeams and sunshine had had a fight, but moonbeams had won. The result was pale blond with enough gold undertones hanging around to make it look warm. Gorgeous hair, and he had enough to toss. That color would have cost a fortune in a salon but Lucy knew it came from the same place he got his tan—the great outdoors. The cut was a different matter. Clearly, he had a stylist who knew how to make straight hair look alive. His driver license would say his eyes were brown, but they were as far from that as they were from blue. Clear dark amber was what they were. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a prehistoric insect trapped there. He had a firm jaw, white teeth, and was clean-shaven. Lucy hated that stubbly male model look—though Brantley Kincaid could have been a model. Always could have been, even before he grew his man’s body and lost the boy softness in his face.

  Sparkle! Say something smart! Save your pride! she told herself. He was waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah, well.” Oh, brilliant! She ran her hand through her hair. “I think I washed Mr. Sambora down the drain.”

  He slid into the chair next to hers. Great. She could feel the heat of his leg against hers.

  “So how did you come to be Mr. Sambora instead of Mr. Bon Jovi?”

  He was kidding, right? Missy be anything less than the star attraction? “Well, Missy is blonde and I am dark. And I’ve been singing backup all my life.”

  “There’s nothing backup about you.” He set a plastic Publix bag between them.

  “You didn’t have to bring food,” Lucy said. “I think they’re having crab dip.”

  “Yeah.” He looked toward the buffet. “Chicken fingers, pickled shrimp, meatballs. The menu never changes.” He opened the bag. “That’s how I knew they wouldn’t have any of this.” He reached into the bag and set in front of her a rich glossy chocolate cake decorated with chocolate curls, strawberries, and nuts.

  “It’s a cake,” she said. More brilliance. Why had Brantley Kincaid brought a cake to the Merritt Country Club? Was Rita May here after all? Was it her birthday? Though Rita May had probably never had a bite of cake in her life—at least that’s how she’d looked in the last music video Lucy had seen her in.

  “Indeed.” He winked and turned to look around the room. He waved and called to one of the club staff. “Miss Mavis!”

  A woman of about sixty with a blazer and clipboard instead of an apron and a water pitcher smiled and moved toward them. “Brantley Kincaid. You just never know when trouble’s going to turn up, do you?”

  He rose, gave her a hug, and turned to Lucy. “Lucy Mead, Miss Mavis saved me from myself more than once during the summers my dad made me caddy here to pay my car insurance.”

  “Hardly hit a lick at a snake the whole time.”

  “Miss Mavis, you wound me! But I want to ask you a little favor.”

  “Didn’t you always?”

  “Does the club still have that set of silver knives and forks that old Mrs. Rogers left in her will?”

  “Unless somebody stole it since I polished it last week.”

  “I need a fork.”

  Miss Mavis shook her head. “There are forks on the buffet.”

  “Yes,” Brantley said. “I can see that. There are. But they are stainless steel forks—not nearly good enough for Lucy Mead.” He laid his hand on Lucy’s cheek. She wanted to jerk away but she was paralyzed for so many reasons that she couldn’t even work out which was chief among them. “You see, Miss Mavis, Lucy put on a performance tonight that all of Merritt will remember. She needs to eat this cake with a silver fork. I want her to have it.”

  Cake! He had brought the cake for her. She couldn’t eat cake!

  “Brantley,” Miss Mavis said, “you know we only use that silver for small parties in the executive dining room. Even if there was enough of it, it would not come out for big parties like this.”

  “I know. And I understand why. The top dogs in this town need to feel like they, and only they, get to use it.” The rich cultured tone of his voice did not match his chosen quirky vernacular, but it was natural sounding and charming, like it had always been. “But I submit to you, Miss Mavis, that unless it is you, there is no one more elite than Lucy Mead. And I don’t need it all. I just need one fork. One. Little. Fork. One.” He leaned toward the older woman and smiled a little wider with each word. Lucy felt like she was in some crazy surreal dream. Had she gone to sleep and dreamed that Brantley turned up with a cake and started demanding silver forks? Or fork. One. All he needed was one.

  Miss Mavis gave a huge sigh. “You’ll get it back to me?”

  “In better condition that it ever was, for having graced the lips of Lucy Mead.”

  As she sighed again and trotted off, Brantley sat down again.

  “You brought this cake for me?” Lucy asked.

  “For you. All for you. Don’t let anyone else have any.”

  “Not Missy?”

  “Especially not Missy. She’s already gotten to be front man and denied you cake today.”

  They were silent, Lucy because she was in utter shock and Brantley because he was busy looking at her and smiling. Miss Mavis stepped up behind him and placed a red cloth napkin beside his hand.

  “One hour, no more. And if you get caught with it, I will swear you stole my keys.”

  Brantley unwrapped his little bundle to reveal an ornate dessert fork, rich with time and patina. He dipped right into the middle of the cake and pulled out a chunk. “Open up, Lucy Mead. I want you to eat enough cake to make you happy and give you the energy to dance with me.” And he brought the cake to her mouth.

  * * *

  Why, why, why had she agreed to let him drive her home? Was she crazy? A magic snatcher—that’s what he was. He dangled his magic in front of you and then snatched it away.

  And after the others had joined them, his magic had just gotten bigger, brighter, and more irresistible.

  She hated herself a little bit right now. She hadn’t intended to dance with him but after washing down the cake that he kept feeding her with bourbon, she had been powerless to stop him from pulling her into his arms when the band struck up “Tupelo Honey.” And there she was, moving in his arms, remembering the chemistry between them, smelling his shampoo, and listening to him sing softly into her ear. He didn’t even sing off key. Was there nothing he couldn’t do? It had been so long since they’d danced together that she’d almost forgotten how he made her a better dancer. And if she had almost forgotten it, he wouldn’t remember at all.

  Brantley turned the car toward the historic district and interrupted her thoughts. “I’m surprised you still live in Miss Annelle’s house.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I adore that house. When I first moved to Merritt from Atlanta I lived in the apartment above the shop but after we renovated it in the Art Deco style, my aunt loved it and we swapped. Aunt Annelle is somewhat of a minimalist.”

  Moving into that house had been so important to her. At first, she’d fought Annelle, not believing that her aunt really wanted to give up the beautiful Victorian cottage on one of the prettiest streets in Merritt. But once convinced that it truly was Annelle’s preference, Lucy was thrilled to have a home that wasn’t a modern high-rise Atlanta apartment or a house piled with artifacts and reference material.

  “I would have figured you for something more sleek and modern,” Brantley said and proved that he knew nothing about her. And she knew everything about him—every building he’d worked on, every vacation he took, every car he bought. Not that she went looking for it. That would be like scheduling a train wreck. Bu
t between Missy and being in the church Flower Guild with Miss Caroline, she was kept very much apprised of the doings of Brantley Kincaid.

  “No,” she said. “My specialty is historic interiors. That’s why I came back to work with Annelle. I was sick of designing hotels and she needed me. She can design anything, but her heart is in modern decor.”

  “Then why were you doing commercial design in the first place?”

  “Not everybody gets their dream job right away,” she said and could have added even if you did.

  Cheap. She’d sold herself for a cake. Hell and double hell.

  “Here we are.” There was one good thing. It never took long to get anywhere in Merritt.

  “Thank you for the ride,” Lucy said but he didn’t hear her. He was already out of the vehicle, coming around to open her door. And now he had her by the arm and was towing her up the sidewalk. Was he going to try to kiss her? Well, she was not going to let that happen. She’d let it happen before and look where it got her. It was not going to happen again. And he definitely was not coming in the house—not for a drink, not to use the bathroom, and definitely not to touch and kiss her. Let him stop at a bar, pee in the bushes, and go to a brothel.

  But he didn’t try to come in or kiss her. What he did was worse. He took her key, unlocked the door, and said, “If you lived anywhere but Merritt, Alabama, crime rate zero, I’d insist on walking in with you. But you look tired.”

  “I am,” she agreed. “Thanks for the hair gel and the ride.” Breezy. That was good. He didn’t want to come in. She was relieved and a little embarrassed that she had assumed he would.

  But then he half closed his golden eyes, smiled a lazy smile, and took her hand. He kissed her palm, taking his time about it without getting sloppy. Then he curled her fingers over the place his lips had been, as if he was bidding her to keep the kiss safe.