Simple Gone South gs-3

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  She came toward him with a little wrinkle between her eyes and laid a hand on his arm.

  His heart slowed and the tightness in his lungs began to dissipate.

  As Big Mama fussed with the little pumpkins and berries on the table, Lucy leaned in and whispered, “I’ll come for Thanksgiving.”

  And just like that, complete calm settled in.

  * * *

  Lucy started to park in front of the Brantley Building. That wasn’t going to work. The press conference was going to be out front on the sidewalk.

  “Better park behind the building,” Brantley told her. “We can go in the back door.”

  “Oh, right.” She swung the car around, with her hands at ten and two. Ever the rule follower. She pulled right up to the back door, where Papa used to park. Oddly, Brantley was feeling okay. He hadn’t been up to Papa’s old office since the day Big Mama had asked him to take on the project and he hadn’t planned to go there today, but maybe it was time.

  They were going to need a place for home base in this building and that office was the only one that didn’t need any major work. He might be taking a foolhardy chance on the heels of what had just happened, but how else was he to show the panic who was boss?

  Upon entering the office, his fear evaporated because he immediately became absorbed in Lucy’s delight. She didn’t speak for a long time but she ran her hand over the built in bookshelves, stared up at the original light fixture, and scurried to get a closer look at the sconces. Every once in a while, she would turn and smile at him like she’d found a gold mine. Finally, she knelt in front of the burl desk and touched the twin medallions on the front.

  She looked up at him. “Walnut. Early 1900s?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t know. It had just always been Papa’s desk. He took a deep breath, not because he needed to, but because he could.

  She went to inspect the matching filing cabinets, credenza, and finally the chairs—the one that Papa had sat in, and the two in front of the desk for guests.

  “Oh, Brantley!” she said. “A whole matched set.” She swiveled the desk chair. “Even the chair is in perfect condition.” She looked underneath. “Somewhere along the way there must have been some repairs. Had to.”

  He didn’t know that either but it was probably true. Back then, nothing had been broken. Everyone’s car was kept in perfect running condition, there were always ironed shirts in everyone’s closet, and laughter at every meal. It was no surprise that an antique chair would get immediate attention at the first sign of disrepair.

  Watching Lucy love these things made him wonder if it was possible to have a life again where nothing was broken.

  She stretched her arms out and twirled around like Julie Andrews on that mountain in The Sound of Music. “Brantley, all this office is going to need is some paint. I’ll want to get the woodwork and floor professionally cleaned.” She looked up. “The light fixtures too. We should get that wiring checked. But then that’s your department, I guess.” She laughed that Lucy Mead laugh.

  Warmth erupted inside him, where panic had so recently reigned. He let it come out in his smile.

  “Hey. For a girl who’s about to worry herself to death that we’re going to disgrace ourselves in front of the press and the public at large, you’re not too worried about getting down to business.”

  “Oh, right.” She picked up her portfolio and walked toward the desk but stopped short. “Is it all right if I open this on the desk?”

  “Yes.” He walked toward her, unzipping his own portfolio as he went. “You can do anything you want at this desk.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brantley had been right. The press conference went perfectly. As he predicted, Miss Caroline did most of the talking. Lucy had only been asked how she planned to make function meet authenticity, a question she had answered easily. She even had a few sketches.

  What had astounded her was Brantley. His presentation boards were works of art, making hers look like something a kindergartner had strung together. She had expected him to be witty and charming, but that he mixed that with such a depth of knowledge was surprising.

  After meeting and greeting, and hugging their friends who had come out to support them, Lucy and Brantley hauled their things back upstairs to that wonderful office. Brantley had his jacket and tie off before she had a chance to store her portfolio in the closet.

  If he’d looked good before, he was delicious now. She wanted to devour him. Better not.

  “You were great,” she said. “I am sorry I thought you didn’t have your act together. I see how hard you worked.”

  He put his hands in his pockets and leaned on the edge of the credenza. “Did you think I don’t care about my profession, Lucy?” he asked. “That I don’t care about this project above all others?”

  He wasn’t confrontational but, rather, there seemed to be an openness about him that she had never seen. It was like he had a mask that he usually wore—a mask that was real and a genuine part of him, but not the sum of him. Now, it was that previously hidden part of Brantley who was asking this question. She knew her answer was going to be important—just like she had known he had been treading on thin ice in his grandmother’s dining room earlier.

  “I didn’t think you didn’t care,” she said slowly, “But, Brantley, I have some trouble telling what you care about and how much.”

  He nodded. “That’s fair.” He was silent for a moment then he met her eyes. “I care about you, Lucy.” He nodded, like it was news to him. “I do.”

  Don’t say that to me. Never say that to me. I can’t take it! Fear went through her, because it was this new open part of Brantley who was speaking and she had no idea if she could trust him—or herself.

  “As much as you care about pumpkin pie?” She was proud of herself for the comeback. Two could play the evade and joke game.

  He grinned and closed his eyes, like he was studying the question. “That’s a hard dilemma, Lucy. You see, pumpkin pie and I go back a long time.” He stepped toward her and put his arms around her. “But on the other hand—” And he kissed her, sweet and long, so sweet and long that she was afraid they were going to end up half naked on the oriental rug. She could see that they were moving quickly from half naked to full naked and she was beginning to be more and more all right with that.

  But not yet. She pulled away. “I was proud of you today.”

  The smile he gave her was not his usual practiced southern boy charm smile, but one of pure radiance. There must be real power in the word proud.

  “I was proud of you too,” he said.

  Yes, power in the word. She felt the effect.

  “We are going to do good work here,” he said. “Also, my grandmother is thrilled you are coming for Thanksgiving. She’s going to call your aunt.”

  The mention of her agreement to that took Lucy to a place she didn’t want to go—but she had to. She began to worry a button on his shirt.

  “Any chance I’m lucky enough that you’re going to undo that button?” he asked.

  She smiled at him as best she could. “Maybe later. Brantley, I need to ask you something.”

  “You can, but the answer is yes. You can unbutton that button and all the others.” He touched his nose to hers.

  She pulled back. “I know being back in town, and especially working on this project, has had to bring up a lot of memories.”

  That open part of him began to retreat a bit, and some of the more familiar mask came out.

  “Have you ever spoken to anyone about what happened to your family? A professional?”

  “No.” He smiled that old smile. “Really, Lucy. It’s been a long time.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with needing a little help.”

  The openness retreated completely and the mask snapped fully in place. “All I need is for Lucy Mead to laugh for me and let me come over and watch Monday Night Football tonight.” He tickled her neck with his tongue until she laughed. She kne
w when to let something go.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have to work with Annelle tonight. Black Friday is almost here and we are assembling the Christmas decorations in the storeroom. She won’t allow them to go up until after Thanksgiving. We have to have them ready to go, so we can fly in there at the crack of dawn Friday and have it all in place by the time we open.”

  He groaned. “I never knew that woman was my enemy.”

  “Tell you what. You watch football with Harris, Nathan, and Luke tonight. But right now, let’s go to the diner. I’ll buy you a piece of pumpkin pie.”

  “A poor substitute,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “But a poor horny guy will take what he can get.”

  And so would she.

  Until he left town.

  Or went back to Rita May.

  Or simply changed his mind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brantley stepped in through the back door of Big Mama’s house to the sounds of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade blaring from the small television in the kitchen. Evelyn was paused, knife in midair, with her eyes trained on the screen. He had forgotten how Evelyn loved a parade—any parade. Especially the marching bands.

  “Well, well, well,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I did not expect to see the woman who has ruined me for all other women this morning. I thought you were going to be with your family.”

  “Humph,” Evelyn said and went back to peeling apples. “I just came by to get y’all started. I made my dressing, relishes, and my pecan and pumpkin pies yesterday. But apple pie needs to be baked the day of. And everybody knows you can’t peel potatoes in advance. Plus, I had to get my ham in the oven.”

  Evelyn didn’t trust fried turkey and always baked a ham. Of course, there was the year they had gotten distracted and burned the bird up. Had Brantley been fifteen or sixteen? He couldn’t remember, nor could he remember what self-absorbed story he’d been regaling his father and grandfather with, but the ruined turkey had been his fault. Most things were.

  “She’s here because she doesn’t trust us.” Big Mama breezed into the kitchen with some kind of silky looking long shirt flapping around her, and smelling expensive. “Good morning, darling.” She gave Brantley a one armed shoulder hug and cheek kiss. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  If she had any apprehension about the holiday, it didn’t show. Brantley got to his feet, and hugged her full on. “Happy Turkey Day to you too.”

  Evelyn dried her hands, pulled a plate of bacon and eggs out of the warming oven, and set it in front of Brantley. “I want you to eat every bite of that,” she said. “I know you. You’re going to start drinking when you and Mr. Charles start frying that turkey. Doing it on an empty stomach will just make it worse.” Evelyn did not approve of “whiskey drinking” and as far as she was concerned, all alcohol was whiskey.

  “Where are my Thanksgiving cinnamon rolls?” The words came out of his mouth before he realized he had forgotten the Thanksgiving tradition of Evelyn’s homemade sweet rolls. His stomach turned over. Papa had loved those rolls. Stop. It will be okay. Lucy is coming. He took a bite of scrambled eggs.

  “Cinnamon rolls are ready and waiting.” Evelyn looked pleased that he had asked. “I want to get some protein in you before you carb up. And liquor up.” She went back to her apples.

  “Evelyn has been watching Dr. Oz,” Big Mama explained as she refilled her coffee cup and Evelyn’s.

  “What does Dr. Oz say about drinking a little red wine?” Brantley didn’t know the answer precisely, but he could make a good guess.

  “Dr. Oz is a smart man but he can’t know everything. Just some things. You’d do well to listen at him. Quit running all over the place all the time, like you got no time. All we’ve got is time, till we don’t.” Evelyn piled the apples in the pie pan and put the crust on top.

  “I’d do better to listen to you.” Brantley got up, rinsed his plate, and put it in the dishwasher.

  “That too.” She covered the unbaked pie with plastic wrap and took off her apron. “Well, that’s it, I guess.” She looked around. “Miss Caroline, you sure you don’t want me to stay? I can.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” Big Mama said. “I’ve got your instructions. I know just what to do.” She picked up a piece of paper from the table where Evelyn had written out a timetable for finishing the meal. “Lucy and Annelle will be here early to help.”

  The sooner the better. Brantley didn’t like the idea of Big Mama being in here alone while he and Charles sat in lawn chairs in the driveway tending to the turkey.

  Evelyn took a plate of cinnamon rolls out of the warming oven and set them on the table between Brantley and Miss Caroline. “Don’t do the dishes. Just put the food in the ice box and leave everything else. I want to get in that china cabinet and clean it good before I put them back up.” Evelyn had said that every holiday that Brantley could remember and probably before. Mama and Big Mama used to laugh about it and say she didn’t trust them with the good china and crystal. But they always obeyed her. “Did I write down that the congealed salad and extra iced tea are in the ice box in the garage?”

  “Right here.” Big Mama showed her the list.

  “All right. I’ll be at my granddaughter’s house. If you need anything, call me on that cell phone Brantley gave me for my birthday. Or send me a text.”

  When she’d gone, Brantley said, “We have to remember to call her and ask a question we know the answer to.”

  “Right.” Big Mama nodded and took a sip of her coffee. “She’s worried about us.”

  So am I. Except Lucy was coming, so it would be okay.

  The sound of a vehicle in the driveway broke the silence. Brantley glanced out the window to see Charles emerging from his pickup truck.

  He jumped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “Time to heat the oil!”

  * * *

  Annelle’s car was already in Miss Caroline’s driveway when Lucy arrived. She carefully lifted her food offering from the back of her vehicle. It looked nice. The burnt orange ceramic casserole dish that she’d had overnighted from Williams-Sonoma was sitting in a basket that she had lined with a linen tea towel printed with autumn leaves. The towel and the basket had also come from Williams-Sonoma. She could never remember stressing so much over what to make.

  Of course, like a good southern woman she had asked Miss Caroline what she could bring. And like a perfect hostess, Miss Caroline had told her, “Not a thing.”

  But they both knew that’s not how it was done. Flowers were out. Most people didn’t understand that taking flowers, especially flowers that had to be arranged, to a festive occasion only made trouble for the hostess. Wine and chocolates would have been good choices, but Annelle had beat her to the draw on that.

  So it had to be food. She had thought of sweet potato casserole. She made a good one, but so did everybody else and the likelihood of it already being on the menu was high. She could make a Coca-Cola cake but from what Brantley had said, his family was pretty committed to pie. Finally, she’d hit on curried fruit. It was pretty, festive, and southern, but not a given for Thanksgiving. If Miss Caroline did not want to serve it with lunch, it would be good cold with turkey sandwiches later.

  And if curried fruit was already on the menu, there was nothing she could do about it. She’d tried.

  She’d tried to dress correctly too, though who knew what “dressing down” meant. She would have liked to have worn a simple dress, but she was too afraid that Brantley had meant what he said about putting his hand up her skirt at the table. Also, a dress was not as conducive to lounging around and watching football, as Brantley expected her to do.

  Finally she had settled on brown leggings and a knee length tunic in fall colors. Might as well admit it. She’d had that outfit overnighted too, from Nordstrom. And the belt, gold jewelry, and bronze flats that went with it.

  She was so new she squeaked. If she’d been taller, thinner, and prettier someone might have ta
ken her for a mannequin in a store window.

  “Lucy Mead.”

  She jumped. Brantley had snuck up behind her.

  “I thought I heard you pull up. Let me have that.” He took the basket, set it on the porch steps, and pulled her to him. “Happy Turkey Day,” he said and kissed her full on the mouth. He tasted like beer and cinnamon.

  “Have you been drinking beer and eating pumpkin pie already?”

  “Would that I had. No pie cutting until after the turkey. I learned that the hard way one year. Though, in my defense, I don’t know what they thought was going to happen with the pies right there on the counter and a step stool behind the door. But anyway, Evelyn’s cinnamon rolls are almost as good.” He slid his hand up her tunic and let it rest on her bottom. “I like this getup you’ve got on. Accessible.”

  She jerked away. What had made her think this outfit was safer than a dress? “We are in the front yard of your grandmother’s house!” she hissed.

  “We could go out back, where my dad is watching the turkey. Or better yet—to the carriage house.”

  Where that scrumptious bed was. “Or we could go inside and make merry.” But she couldn’t help but smile.

  “Or that.” He gave an exaggerated sigh and picked up the basket with the casserole dish. His phone beeped. He pulled it from his pocket and checked. “My father summons. We need to check the turkey. Here.” He handed her the casserole, pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and threw it open. “Go on in. They’re probably in the kitchen. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  “But Brantley! I can’t just walk into Miss Caroline’s house!”

  “Go on,” he said as he bounded down the steps and around the house. “She won’t care. I can’t let that turkey burn!”

  Lucy almost closed the door and rang the bell but how stupid was that? She would simply explain that Brantley had opened the door and told her to go in. Miss Caroline wouldn’t hold it against her.

  She stopped outside the kitchen door and wondered if Brantley had smeared her lipstick when he kissed her. She should put the curried fruit down and check that.