And she did. She threw her pelvis forward so she could be sure he felt those glorious spasms.
And she felt his. Then they dozed in each other’s arms for a half hour and woke up and did it all over again.
* * *
It was sometime around midnight, after he had brought them a meal of the only thing he had in the house—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—and they had had yet another round, that Lucy sat on the side of the bed and reached for her clothes.
“You’ve got to take me home,” she said.
“I do,” he agreed and reached for her. “In the morning.”
Oh, no. That was not happening. It was one thing to lie naked in Caroline Brantley’s grandson’s arms with her sleeping serenely in her house fifty yards away. It was quite another to blatantly priss out the door in front of Miss Caroline, in broad daylight, wearing yesterday’s clothes.
He was way ahead of her. “Stay, Lucy. Stay with me. I know what you’re thinking, but I promise that we will not leave this house until I am more than sure that Big Mama is right and tight in her pew at Christ Episcopal. No one will see us go to the garage. Inasmuch as I am a grown man and make no apologies, I remember something my Papa used tell me.” His expression shifted to bittersweet. “He’d say, ‘Boy, see to it that you don’t present your personal business to the world in a way that will make some busybody report it in to your mama or your big mama. They may or may not care what you’ve been doing. They may or may not think it’s any of their business. But you can be mighty sure they will care a great deal if you are not circumspect and somebody feels the need to tell them about it.’” Then he looked at her imploringly, smiled, and held out his hand. “Stay.”
She hesitated. “I would not be a party to embarrassing Miss Caroline.”
“Nor would I.” He lifted the sheet and fluffed her pillow.
Temping. So temping to lie sweetly and serenely in his arms all night and wake up in the misty autumn light feeling rested and ready to be loved. Again.
But that wasn’t how the night went—at all.
To begin with, he slept right in the middle of the bed and snored, off and on. Though not a loud log sawing snore, it was audibly wheezy and right in the vicinity of her ear. When he wasn’t snoring, he was drooling—on her.
As far as the sleeping in his arms, that happened, and though she wouldn’t deny the sweetness, there was nothing serene about it. He clung to her like a four-year-old, latched onto his mother’s leg on the first day of preschool, taking her with him every time he turned over—which was often.
He talked in his sleep, muttering mostly about football and pumpkin pie. While he talked, he kicked, mostly the covers but sometimes her. He got up twice, presumably to use the bathroom, and both times when he came back to bed he said, “Lucy? Lucy? I didn’t wake you up, did I? Are you warm enough? Do you need anything?” and then promptly—before she had time to answer—fell asleep and proceeded to drool on her chest.
More than once she had to fight for the barest scrap of blanket, either because he’d kicked the covers off or dragged them to his side.
And that sweet, misty awakening had been anything but. During the night, rain and wind moved in, chasing away the magical warm autumn and bringing winter.
It was the best night of her life.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brantley rolled over and pulled Lucy to him. Her bed did not have the sink effect his did, but it was a fine enough bed on its own and mighty fine with her in it. And what they had just done had been beyond fine of any degree.
“I submit to you, Lucy Mead,” he said, “that the people over at Lou Anne’s only think Tuesday’s lunch special is chicken pot pie. No. The ultimate lunch special is Lucy Mead.”
She laughed and ran her hand up his side, and his heart and stomach turned over, circled around each other, and went back to their original positions. Mercy, this woman put everything she had into making love. And since Saturday night, he’d been the recipient of that effort many times in many places: his bed, her bed, couches, showers, a kitchen counter, and—once—in the elevator of the Brantley Building.
“So,” Lucy said with the tail end of laughter still mixed in, “do you want to set up a food cart and sell me on the street for $7.95? Iced tea and cornbread included.”
That should have been funny, but it was not. He didn’t like that picture worth a damn. In fact, it made him a little mad to even think of anyone else touching her.
He laughed anyway. “You are worth selling. I’ll give you that, but I do not believe I am willing to participate in that. Now.” He ran his finger along her jaw bone. “If we could record that laugh and sell it—well. With only a small portion of the profits, we could feed every third world country, buy a sports team, and rid the world of smallpox.” Educate our children in the finest institutions in the country. He didn’t add that part.
“The world is rid of smallpox.” She got out of bed and began to gather her clothes.
Damn. He’d known this was coming. She had to go do something about some curtains for somebody. She hadn’t been kidding about why she couldn’t go to Georgia with him and Will tomorrow. She was frantically trying to finish her projects by the first of the year. Then she’d be his, all his. They’d work on the Brantley Building all day and make love all night. She would be with him 24/7 and he would be safe from thinking about bad things.
Sunday, Lucy had asked Big Mama if she had any old photographs of the interior of the Brantley Building and Big Mama had produced a big box of pictures that was a jumble of everything that had ever happened to them. Big Mama had laughed and explained how she was “no good at keeping picture albums and Alden’s mother hadn’t been any better.” Lucy had opened the box, ooing and ahing like it was a chest of jewels. They never guessed that the sweating and accelerated heart rate had set in or that he had calmed immediately when he laid his hand on Lucy’s shoulder.
Too bad she hadn’t been there last night when he’d been at his old house and Charles had sent him to the bedroom to get batteries for the TV remote. He’d opened the wrong dresser drawer and found his mother’s jewelry.
And too bad she wasn’t going to Georgia with him and Will—though he didn’t so much need her for his sanity on that trip, as for the pleasure of her company. He would be fine away from Merritt. But if Will—who never really seemed to think anything was quite up to par—said this was a great place, Lucy would love it.
He rose up on his elbow for a better look at her bottom as she bent over to retrieve her shoes. “What about tonight? Please tell me you don’t have to work late. I’ve got a hankering for some catfish from that place out by the lake.”
“I don’t have to work late,” she said. “But I suggest you call your dad for company while you satisfy your hankering. I’m going to Lanie’s for book club.”
“What?” Well, damn! That’s why Harris had called and asked if he wanted to come over and re-watch the Iron Bowl with “the guys.” He’d turned him down—thought he’d be with Lucy. “You just had book club!”
“Simmer down, golden boy.” She gave him a sexy little smile over her shoulder. “I’ll call you when I head back. I’ll keep Eller while you’re gone to Georgia. You can go get her and be waiting here for me when I get back.”
Well, that was something. Not enough, but something. “I cannot believe you are going to go gossip and drink with those women when I’m leaving town tomorrow. You could do that while I’m gone.”
“We’re going to eat too. Don’t forget that,” she said glibly. “And I had those women before I had you.” And she went into the bathroom.
And I’ll have them when you’re gone. It hung in the air. She might as well have said it.
Maybe it was time he told her he wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When Lucy rang the doorbell of the Avery family farmhouse, Luke’s sister answered.
“Arabelle! I didn’t know you were still here,” Lucy said, surprised but pleased
.
“It’s somewhat of a miracle,” she said. “I called in several favors and promised to work New Year’s to get a few extra days. Life in a big city hospital.”
“Very different from Merritt,” Lucy said as she followed Arabelle to the kitchen. “And Africa, I would think.”
“Oh, yes,” Arabelle said vaguely.
Five places had been set at the big round kitchen table. On a Lazy Susan sat four fondue pots of simmering cheese, broth, oil, and chocolate. Lanie was arranging bowls containing chunks of bread, raw meat, vegetables, fruit, and cake around the pots.
“Lanie, look what you have done,” Lucy said. She’d have to be careful tonight. Making a meal on tidbits added up really fast. Brantley didn’t seem to mind the spare flesh on her thighs but it could get so much worse so fast.
“I didn’t do it. Arabelle did,” Lanie said.
“It’s the least I can do after camping out here with you for a week and horning in on your book club.”
“Nonsense,” Lanie said as she walked to the marble topped island and poured three glasses of wine. “I’m just sorry Sheridan and David couldn’t stay as long as they planned. It was fun having two babies in the house.”
“Yes,” Arabelle said tightly and took a sip of her wine.
“I thought you were going to ride out here with Missy and Tolly,” Lanie said to Lucy.
Lucy laughed. “I suppose you thought that because that’s what Missy told you and Missy told you that because that’s what she intended to happen. But she did not check with me before she handed down her orders. I wanted my car.”
Lanie nodded. “I understand. Last time I had to leave early because I was with Missy. If she has another Lulu emergency, you and Tolly can stay.”
Actually, Lucy’s reason for driving herself was right the opposite. She wanted to be able to leave early. And get back to Brantley.
“Uh, yes,” Lucy said.
The bell rang. “And there they are.” Lanie exited the kitchen and a moment later squeals of greeting emitted from down the hall.
Arabelle smiled a controlled little smile and took a sip from her glass. “I envy you all this friendship. Always so happy to see each other,” she said.
“We’re not always this excitable,” Lucy explained. “We haven’t seen Tolly since before Thanksgiving. She was gone for days.”
“Days?” Arabelle cocked an eyebrow.
Lucy would have replied but, by then, the others had entered the kitchen and she and Tolly were hugging and dancing around. “How’s Kirby?” “I saw Nathan on TV!” “Wait until you see what I bought!” “Restaurant turkey—the worst!” flew through the air from four directions.
Days. It felt like forever. How much worse would it be when Brantley had been gone for weeks? Surely by the time it was months, she’d be over it.
“So.” Tolly took a sip of the wine Lanie had handed her and zeroed in on Lucy. “What’s this I hear about you having Thanksgiving at Caroline Brantley’s table?”
And Lucy laughed with delight in spite of herself.
* * *
“Lordy, I am stuffed.” Missy held up the long fork used to skewer the food. “I’ll be having some of those pots. And these forks. They would also make great weapons.” She playfully stabbed at Lanie.
“I can’t believe you’ve never had fondue,” Tolly said. “And I think the forks come with the pot.”
“When would I have had fondue?” Missy asked. “When have I been to Switzerland?”
“I haven’t been to Switzerland,” Lanie said. “And neither has Arabelle. But we’ve had fondue at the Melting Pot in Birmingham. Luke and Arabelle’s daddy loves it. If you weren’t such a snob about chain restaurants you could have had it too.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just start buying my candy at some chain instead of your fine establishment,” Missy shot back.
“That’s different,” Lanie said. And they all laughed.
Lucy reached into her purse and brought out a tiny wrapped package. “Before I forget,” she said handing it to Missy. “Here’s Lulu’s birthday present.” Missy, Harris, Tolly, and the kids were leaving the next day to go to Harris’s grandparents’ for Lulu’s first birthday. “It’s a charm for her bracelet. A little birthday cake with a one on it.”
“Oh, how sweet,” Missy said. “I am so glad you started that bracelet for her. I am the only southern woman on the planet who doesn’t have a charm bracelet and I would not have thought of it.”
Lanie said, “Arabelle has a great one. Twice the size of mine.”
Arabelle held up her wrist to show them the heavy charm laden gold bracelet. “It hasn’t grown as rapidly since Mimi died, but Mama still adds a charm occasionally. By the time Emma inherits it, she may need a gurney to haul it around.”
“Oh, Arabelle,” Lanie said. “Don’t say that. You’ll have your own little girl.”
“Maybe,” Arabelle said and got up to pour another round of wine.
“I tried to get Lucy to go with us to celebrate her namesake’s first birthday,” Missy said. “She said she had to work, but I know she doesn’t want to leave Brantley.”
“Not true. I would go, if I could. I do have to work. Besides, Brantley is leaving town tomorrow too. He and Will Garrett are going to a salvage place in Georgia to look at stuff for the Brantley Building.”
“Why aren’t you going with them?” Missy asked.
“Because,” Lucy said and lightly pounded the table for emphasis, “I have to work! I work. Why does no one believe me?”
They laughed. “Well, Lucy,” Lanie said, “you have to admit you were pretty vehement that nothing was going on between you and Brantley and the next thing we know, you’re kneeling at the altar with him for communion and eating Thanksgiving with his family.”
“I wasn’t lying,” Lucy said. “I was mistaken. Besides, don’t read too much into it. It’s early days.”
“I am reading everything into it,” Missy said firmly. “I am counting on it. I’m counting on you to keep him in Merritt and keep him away from Rita May Sanderson.”
At least Missy was honest about what she wanted.
Time to change the subject.
“Missy,” Lucy said. “I want to make a pumpkin pie. Could you send me a recipe?”
Missy looked triumphant and clapped her hands together. “Well, well, well. Could your sudden interest in baking be attributed to Brantley Kincaid and the esteem in which he holds pumpkin pie?”
Tolly and Lanie clapped their hands together, much as Missy had done, and made the sound of the female equivalent of a catcall. Even Arabelle smiled.
“I’ll email you the recipe I use before I leave in the morning. It’s great. I’ve made it a hundred times,” Missy promised.
“I need to talk about the Christmas parade,” Lanie said. “Last summer, when I agreed to donate the lollipops to give to the kids, I didn’t understand that I was also in charge of giving the lollipops out.”
“You don’t ask enough questions,” Missy said.
Lanie picked up her fondue fork and poked Missy’s arm.
“It’s true,” Missy said.
“Well, I’m about to ask you a question and the answer is going to be yes,” Lanie said. “I need y’all to give out lollipops at the Christmas parade.”
“Ride on a float and throw candy?” Missy said. “Sure. I love a float.”
“Well,” Lanie said, “you wouldn’t so much be riding on a float as you would be marching along side a float and handing out the candy. I am making these lollipops. I cannot make enough to throw willy-nilly into the crowd.” Lanie swallowed and looked around. “Besides, it will be more personal. Spread more Christmas cheer. You know.”
“Of course, we will do it for you, Lanie,” Lucy said. “We’ll be happy to. Won’t we, Missy?”
“Uh, sure. Yeah. It won’t be the same as riding on a float but, still, the parade.”
“What,” asked Tolly, who could never be accused of not asking enough que
stions, “will we be wearing?”
“That’s the other thing,” Lanie admitted. “There might be some cute green hats. Some shoes with turned up toes. Bells. Striped stockings.”
It took a second for it to sink in.
“Elves! We have to dress like elves?” That came from Missy.
Lanie shrugged.
Lucy rose and kissed Lanie’s cheek. “I will be proud to dress like an elf for you and give out the finest lollipops ever made. But I’m going to go now.”
Arabelle looked up in surprise. “You’re leaving before the book discussion?”
Missy, Lanie, Tolly, and Lucy exchanged looks and dissolved into laughter.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lucy sat in a front booth at Lou Anne’s eating a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and studying the recipe that had been in her email box that morning.
“Well, hello there, Lucy. I didn’t see you sitting up here.” She looked up to see Charles Kincaid standing beside her table. He had his jacket over his arm and his check in his hand.
She turned the recipe face down. “I didn’t see you either,” she said. “We could have eaten together.” She would have enjoyed Brantley’s father’s company.
“I can sit a minute.” He sat down across from her. “I have the strangest inclination to call you baby girl. Eva’s father called her that until the day they died.”
Lucy didn’t quite know what to do with that. “That’s charming.”
“The judge was a charmer. Does your daddy have a special name for you?”
“He sometimes calls me Lucy Belle.”
Charles laughed. “That sounds like something Alden would have come up with too. Brantley’s very like him.”
“Apart from his eyes, he looks like you,” Lucy said.
“Yes, he does. But I wish you could have known the judge, heard him speak. Brantley sounds like him—the cadence of his voice, his wit, and those odd phrases he comes up with. That’s his grandfather all over again.”
“I’ve wondered about his colorful vernacular.”
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