Simple Gone South gs-3

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  He ought to take a look at the rest of the eaves, and the roof too.

  Why had he not noticed that sagging gingerbread when he was here last? Because he hadn’t looked closely—couldn’t stand to. And now he was supposed to just walk up on that porch and into that house, like it was his second home—like he used to do.

  He got out of the car. It was now or never and it couldn’t be never. The porch was swept and the mechanical twist doorbell, which was original to the house, had been polished recently. Nothing shoddy about the maintenance of Big Mama’s life at eye level. He spun the bell and backed off to inspect the porch ceiling.

  The door swung open and he pasted on his happy mask. He spun around to find not his grandmother, but Evelyn.

  Evelyn was as broad as she was tall, and the color of milk chocolate. Her hair should have been white years ago, but it had been bright red as long as Brantley could remember. He suspected this was her one indulgence in “foolishness.” Evelyn did not hold with foolishness. The only thing she hated more was debauchery.

  She put her hands on her hips to stop herself from hugging him. Evelyn was stingy with her hugs, if not her grits.

  “Boy, what are you doing here this time of morning? Does Miss Caroline know you’re here?” She couldn’t quite hide her smile.

  “Is that all you’ve got to say to me?” Brantley hugged her in spite of her floundering and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

  “I asked you a question! Miss Caroline did not tell me you were coming. Of course, you never give any warning. You swoop in here for fifteen minutes, eat, make a mess, and leave.”

  He followed her into the house. “Not this time. I’m here to stay. Where is Big Mama?”

  “She’s down at the church getting the flowers ready for the altar tomorrow. What do you mean ‘here to stay’?”

  “I mean I intend to eat and make a mess for more than fifteen minutes. I am moving into the carriage house. At least I hope I am. Nobody has moved in there since Tolly moved out, have they?” Now that he thought of it, that might have been a good question to have asked before now.

  Evelyn shook her head. “Moving in, huh? Well, you aren’t doing it today. That place has got to be cleaned top to bottom. It’s been empty for months now, ever since Tolly and the coach bought the old Patterson house.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No way I can get to it before Tuesday. Miss Caroline’s got her card club coming Monday.”

  “I can get a cleaning service. I swear by all that is holy that I do not intend to cause you extra work.”

  “Humph.” Evelyn put her hands on her hips again. “Don’t swear to the Lord and don’t lie. You’d get me up to Nashville at high noon on Christmas Day to iron you a shirt if you thought you could.”

  “Not anymore. You can iron my shirts here—at least for the time being. I am done with Nashville.”

  “Are you now? And that Jezebel, Rita May?”

  “Her too. But I do think calling her Jezebel might be going a little rough.”

  “Humph. Well, you just plan on staying in this house or out with your daddy till I get that place cleaned up.”

  “I have to go to San Francisco in the morning for a few days. My furniture is arriving Monday. But really, Evelyn, I can get someone to clean. You have enough to do.”

  “Nobody is cleaning but me.”

  He knew better than to argue. This was Evelyn’s turf and she intended to defend it. “Then I will pay you extra.”

  “I don’t want your money, Brantley Kincaid. Bring me a t-shirt with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge on it and a magnet for my refrigerator that looks like a street car. That’s all I want out of you.”

  Brantley made a mental note to write it in his DayRunner.

  “Welcome home,” Evelyn said. “It’ll make your big mama and your daddy happy.”

  “Or break their hearts.” He immediately regretted saying it, so he smiled his I’m just joking smile.

  “I reckon you won’t have eaten anything,” she said. “I’ll just get in there and make you some breakfast.”

  He opened his mouth to speak when, like a ghost riding a tidal wave, piano music blared from the other side of the house. Brantley gasped and plastered his back against the wall as Frankie Valli’s “Walk Like a Man” rocked the floorboards of the old house. He clamped his eyes shut and felt the blood drain from his face.

  He was going crazy. Nobody played that piano. No one could play it—except him and Papa. They couldn’t read a note of music but they had played by ear and what they had lacked in skill, they made up for with enthusiasm.

  Yes. Crazy.

  “Baby?” He felt a warm hand on his arm and when he opened his eyes the concern on Evelyn’s face matched the tone of her voice. “It’s all right, baby. It’s just old Tiptoe Watkins in there. Miss Caroline called him to come tune that piano when she thought you might be coming home.”

  So not crazy. That was something. He laughed uneasily.

  Evelyn resumed her haughty manner. She knew what he needed. “Go on in there and mind your manners. Ask Tiptoe to stay for breakfast. I’ll get to it.”

  As she walked away, Brantley said, “Evelyn, don’t tell—”

  “Don’t tell what?” she asked without turning around. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Nothing to tell.”

  The last thing Brantley wanted to do was walk toward that room with music spilling out of it, but one did not disobey Evelyn.

  When Tiptoe saw him, he ended the piece with an elaborate flourish and rose from the bench of the baby grand, extending his hand.

  “Brantley Kincaid. You are going to make your grandmother one happy woman.”

  Tiptoe Watkins owned the local cemetery and had more money that Midas. After all, death wasn’t optional. He presented himself as a simple man with cornpone wisdom, but he was Harvard educated and had done the world tour, back when young men did that before settling down.

  He had been one of Papa’s best friends. Who knew why he tuned pianos? Probably for the social aspect and to amuse himself. Tiptoe was a talker.

  “We all live to make Miss Caroline happy,” Brantley said as he shook Tiptoe’s hand.

  “Fine instrument.” Tiptoe laid a hand on the piano. “Got a fine sound now. Want to take her for a spin?”

  That wasn’t happening. It was never happening.

  “Maybe later,” Brantley said. “Evelyn is fixing some breakfast. She said to make sure you stayed.”

  Tiptoe laughed. “I had my Raisin Bran, oh, about six o’clock, but I’ve always thought Frodo and the boys had the right idea.” Tiptoe winked. “Second breakfast. Especially when Evelyn is doing the cooking. Reckon there’ll be cheese grits?”

  “I reckon there will.”

  Brantley motioned for Tiptoe to have a seat on the sofa and he let himself down in the chair across from him.

  “So you’re going to see what you can do with that old building downtown?”

  “My grandmother seems to have spread the word,” Brantley said. “Odd. I thought this was not for public knowledge.”

  “I am not the public,” Tiptoe said. “People tell me things.”

  “Odder still, I have not told my grandmother that I will do the restoration.”

  Tiptoe laughed. “Yet you are going to do what she wants.”

  Brantley nodded. “I am.”

  “See, your grandmother is a wise woman. She knows the secret to getting what she wants—something that works every time.”

  Brantley idly wondered if this elusive mythical secret would work on Lucy.

  “Enlighten me, please. I could use a little magic.”

  “No magic about it.” Tiptoe held up one finger. “First, act like what you want is a done deal. Be confident. Don’t entertain the thought that “no” could even be an option. Second, make everyone else think it’s happening. Perception is everything.”

  Brantley laughed. “Big Mama certainly has that down. How do you think this method would pl
ay if you were trying to make a woman go soft on you?”

  “Cannot fail.” Tiptoe nodded. “Especially if you make yourself dependent on her. Women love to be needed.”

  “You’re a wise man, Tiptoe.” Brantley laughed it off, but he filed away what Tiptoe had said. There might be something to it.

  * * *

  At five o’clock that afternoon Lucy was still wearing what she had thrown on that morning. She was irked that Brantley had not come to get Eller, but not surprised. He might never come back. There was a small part of her that found it heady that, after all this time, he wanted to go out with her, but she wasn’t fooled. He only wanted it because she had refused to return his calls.

  She considered putting Eller in the car and driving around until she found him. But she needed a shower and by the time she finished it would be six, or close to—the time he was supposed to pick her up for their “date.”

  Not that she was going. Oh, no.

  Or maybe she would. She could tell him that it wasn’t a date, but they could get some dinner. She would even pay for her own. That might be just the thing to do if they were going to have to work together—and it looked like they were.

  Lucy showered and changed into brown corduroy pants and a lightweight cotton sweater the color of honey. Not date clothes, but a casual, nice looking, fall weekend outfit. She tamed her hair the best she could and applied the same amount of makeup she would wear to a football game or to the mall.

  At a quarter to six, she walked Eller yet again, who, yet again, did not avail herself of the facility that was the great outdoors.

  “You’ve got my number,” she said to the dog. “You know I can’t tell when you really need to go out or when you just want to see if you can make me take you.”

  Then she went inside and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. Hating herself, she checked to make sure she had not set her phone to silent.

  Eller begged for food and Lucy fed her—again. She’d never had a dog, and had no idea how often a dog was supposed to eat. She checked the time and the clock screamed 6:30 at her. She was a fool. Why had she let herself think he really did want to see her? That he wanted it enough that he would show up on time? If it wasn’t for that dog, she would leave. That way she would be gone if he came and if he didn’t, she would never know. Either would be fine.

  Apparently, he’d gotten a good look at her this morning and decided he’d been too hasty. She would give him until seven and then she was driving Eller straight to Charles Kincaid’s house. She’d take her to Missy, except she didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions about what she was doing with Eller in the first place. She began gathering up the leash and dog food. She would say that Brantley had asked her to watch the dog, but apparently had gotten tied up and she had to be somewhere. And if Brantley was there—well, she hadn’t considered that.

  The doorbell rang. Ten till seven. There he stood with a takeout bag of barbecue, a whole pie, and a six pack of beer. Eller went into fits of rapture.

  Brantley, however, was not rapturous—or even remotely happy. Oh, he had a smile of sorts pasted on his face, but there was gloom in his eyes and a thin layer of sweat on his upper lip. She was right. He didn’t want to take her out, but he’d had to do something, since he’d been so insistent, so he’d brought barbecue. Obviously, this was the last place he wanted to be.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “It was unavoidable.” He didn’t sound sorry. He retrieved a piece of meat from his bag and gave it to Eller.

  It was then that she noticed he had a fresh haircut and was sunburned.

  “I see you got a haircut when you were supposed to be coming to get your dog,” she said as meanly as she could.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Do you think it looks good? It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a real barber shop. Melba always makes my appointments at this place with soft music, where everybody has their own little private room. I can’t believe I let that foolishness go on. I am never going to another place that requires an appointment. I’m going to go right in and sit down and wait my turn like I did today.”

  “Must have taken a while.”

  He ignored her and, though she did not invite him in, he walked around her and took the food right back to the kitchen. And if that wasn’t nervy enough, he started rummaging around in the cabinet for plates.

  Lucy was hot on his trail. “I’m sure you had a great time at the barber shop. You seem to always have a good time. Did you get in a little football watching?”

  “I did not.” He started to unpack the bag. “But the Tide kicks off in a few minutes. Do you allow people to eat on your couch while they watch TV?”

  “I am not eating with you.” He didn’t want to take her out, but thought he could buy her off with barbecue.

  “I cannot imagine why not. I brought pork, chicken, and ribs since I didn’t know what you like.” He smiled that devastating smile. “I got beans, slaw, and potato salad too. And the pie. It’s lemon. Not as good as pumpkin, but it’ll do. They didn’t have pumpkin. We’ve only got four quarters and a half time to eat it all, but I think we can.”

  Was he making fun of her because she used to be fat? She looked him up and down and could find no evidence of it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

  He leaned toward her and gave her a smoldering look and made her stomach flip. “Do you like lemon pie? I could go back and get chocolate if you like that better. I want to make you happy.”

  “Then you need to take your dog and your barbecue and leave.” She folded her arms over her chest.

  He sighed and the gloom in his eyes washed into his face. “Lucy, I am so tired. And hungry. Please just let me eat and watch football here with you. I have to be at the airport before God gets up in the morning.”

  “I guess you should have thought about that before you spent all day on the golf course tiring yourself out and getting sunburned.”

  “I have not been on the golf course,” he said with a sigh. “And I’m sorry I didn’t come get Eller. I was doing some repairs on my grandmother’s house. Time got away from me, and then I got a bad splinter in my hand. I am sorry for being late.”

  He held out his palm to show her a ragged angry gash covered in orange Betadine. Hot shame settled over her and her heart cried out a little. It wasn’t gloom on his face. It was pain. That didn’t mean he wanted to be here, but maybe he did.

  “Nothing would do Caroline Brantley and Charles Kincaid but that they haul me down to the ER where I had no cell phone coverage. To add insult to injury, I got a tetanus shot in my ass. But I should have called when I got out, before I got the barbecue.”

  Softness crept over her. Her heart couldn’t afford softness, but it came anyway.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all that as soon as you got here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “There are two ways of doing things, easy and hard. And I am the grand champion of picking hard. Please, Lucy.” He settled his golden eyes into hers. “I just want to be here with you. That’s what I’ve wanted all day. I wanted to take you out to dinner and then watch the game together, but I was getting fussed over at Merritt General Hospital for no good reason.”

  She believed him. He might not mean it tomorrow or in an hour but, right now, he meant it. She should make him go. It would be better for all concerned, but she couldn’t stop herself or the tenderness that was welling up inside her.

  “Go turn on the game,” she said quietly. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

  Later, after they had eaten, somewhere during the second quarter, he put an arm around her and pulled her to him, and she wasn’t able to stop herself from letting him. She had worked so hard to bury all those old feelings, just like she’d worked to lose those extra pounds. She’d always known fat was right around the corner and, evidently, so was being in love with Brantley again.

  Weak. She was so weak. And she knew all about weakness. She felt it again when t
he game was over.

  He gave her a lazy smile. “Roll Tide.” They’d won the game.

  “Roll Tide,” she responded.

  “Thank you for not throwing me in the street,” he said.

  “It would have been a big mess. You and Eller there in the street with all that barbecue, coleslaw, and lemon pie all over you. I try not to make a mess if I can help it.” But wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now? Sitting here in the crook of his arm, feeling his body heat, and smelling his scent?

  “There are worse things than rolling around in barbecue.” He lifted his injured hand and slid his thumb along her jaw line. “Though I’d rather have you for my rolling partner than Eller.”

  “I don’t know.” Now, her chin was resting in the V between his thumb and index finger. He barely moved his hand against her cheeks as if he was enjoying the feel of her skin and had no desire to bring her face to his own, no desire to kiss her. No, that wasn’t quite right. The desire was there; she could see it in his eyes. He had just chosen to enjoy the moment rather than rush it. “I don’t see the charm of rolling around in barbecue, especially if there is potato salad involved.”

  “No?” He bit his lower lip. “I see the charm in Lucy Mead. Does she see the charm in me? Even a little? Ever?”

  “Sometimes,” she answered. “Though I shouldn’t. You cost too much.”

  He laughed that low sweet laugh and shifted. It might have been an accident that his thigh pressed more firmly against hers.

  “I am free for the taking,” he said.

  She needed to stop this and get him out of here. She captured his wrist in her hand, pulled it away from her face, and looked at his palm “How is your hand? Does it hurt?”

  “No,” he said. He was lying.

  She rose. “Didn’t you say you had to catch a plane before God gets up? Hadn’t you better get some sleep?”