Secrets Gone South (Crimson Romance)

by Pace, Alicia Hunter

  She traced one of those dimples. “I learned something today when I heard Lanie talking to … to …” She let her eyes leave his to meet Lanie’s. “To her little girl. I know how to tell Avery so he’ll understand.”

  “Is that something we can do together?” Will asked.

  “Yes. We’ll do it regardless of our circumstances. But I hope we’re going to do it together as a family in these magnificent woods of yours, in that house.” She pointed to the house that had become home in her heart. “I don’t know if you can forgive me. I don’t even know when I fell in love with you. But I did.”

  “Oh, Arabelle.” His heart was in his eyes. “There’s nothing left to forgive. And I’ve always been in love with you.”

  And the citizens of Merritt broke into applause.

  “Let’s go get our boy,” Will said, “and go home.”

  • • •

  Later that night, Arabelle curled up on the sofa and watched her husband patiently show their son how to work the pedals of the wooden truck that was his birthday present. Being a smart and artistic child, he caught on quickly, but he preferred to have his daddy push him around. Jiffy rode in the car seat in the back. When Avery fell asleep sitting up in the truck, Will lifted him out.

  “Want to take him up to bed?” he asked.

  She held out her arms. “I think I want to hold him a little while. Will laid him in her arms and threw another log on the fire. Then he came to hold his wife and lay a hand on his son’s cheek.

  “You missed another birthday,” Arabelle said sadly, as they stared down at Avery’s sweet sleeping face.

  “No, I haven’t missed a thing. How could I have, when I’ve got everything?”

  They kissed for a moment, and then a moment more. And then again.

  When Will looked up, he laughed and pointed to the windows that showcased the grove of pines and cedars that was as pretty as any mountain range or ocean on the planet.

  “Arabelle, look! It’s just for you!”

  The grove was all the more beautiful with the scattering of snowflakes glistening in the moonlight. And she laughed with a joy she thought she’d never feel again.

  Epilogue

  Eight years later

  Avery Garrett climbed out of his bedroom window and walked carefully down the catwalk that led to his tree house. He wanted to run so he could feel like Tarzan swinging through the trees but his mom had said if she caught him running one more time, he wouldn’t be allowed to go to his tree house alone—a privilege that had only been granted to him a few months ago when he turned ten. His dad had given him a solemn look that said, Do as she asks, pal. Don’t point out that the guardrails are almost as high as your head. She only asks because she loves you.

  Dad would never say such a thing out loud but he didn’t need to. They understood each other; Avery couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t.

  But there had been a time when he was a baby when they didn’t even know each other. He’d always known that though he didn’t remember it. The way the story went—according to his parents—there had been a short but very sad time when the two of them had gotten lost from each other and lost from him. Even though he knew every part of the story by heart, they still told it pretty often. Sometimes they showed him the pictures of Sheridan and David, who they said had loved him very much and had taken good care of him. Dad always said that Mom hadn’t wanted to let Sheridan and David adopt him but had thought it was best for him back then. And Mom would say Dad had not known about him because there had been some big misunderstandings but he had been so happy when he found out he had a little boy. Then Dad always said there was nothing lost that hadn’t been found.

  Whatever. Avery didn’t care as long as they didn’t get lost from each other again.

  He opened the door to the tree house, which might be just about the best place in the world. It wasn’t just a shaky little box in a tree. His dad was the best builder in America, probably even the whole world, and he’d built the tree house just for Avery. It was like a real house with lights, round windows with shutters, and a sleeping loft with a pole you could slide down. Some TV people wanted to put his little house on a show about tree houses but Dad said it was Avery’s and he was the one who had to decide about that. Avery hadn’t made up his mind yet.

  As much as he liked it, he couldn’t spend much time in his tree house today. There was a party going on for his parents’ anniversary down by the gazebo that Dad had built for Mom. Even though they had never had a divorce, Mom and Dad had had two weddings. Avery didn’t remember either one but he’d seen pictures of both. For the anniversary of the wedding that had been at the farm where Uncle Luke married them, Mom and Dad always took a little trip. This party was to celebrate the wedding they’d had a few months later at the church with Mom wearing the dress that Grandma had gotten married in and all the book club ladies in the wedding. He’d been a ring bearer at that one but instead of carrying a little white pillow, they’d tied the rings around his old pal Jiffy’s neck.

  So he couldn’t hang around up here long. Mom had sent him up here to get the games that they kept in the big wooden box that he and Dad had made together. His part wasn’t very good though his Dad didn’t know that, just like he didn’t know those pictures of his hanging above the fireplace weren’t anything but baby scribbles.

  Once he’d asked Mom why Dad, who seemed to know everything else, didn’t get that.

  She’d hugged him like she loved to do and said, “Blind love, my child, blind love. You don’t have to understand it. Just bask in it.”

  Grownups were really strange sometimes. He could draw way better trees now. He liked to work on wood things because it was fun doing stuff with Dad but he liked drawing better. Hard to say if drawing was as good as playing baseball.

  He filled up the mesh bag he’d brought with balls, bats, and horseshoes but there wasn’t room for the Frisbees or the NERF balls. Looked like he’d have to make at least one more trip. Maybe his cousin John Luke would be here by now and could come back and help him. He opened the shutter of the window and looked out.

  Yep, his cousins were here—Emma, John Luke, and Clarice. He didn’t see his grandparents yet but Uncle Luke and Aunt Lanie were carrying boxes from Heavenly Confections. He hoped she’d brought some fudge.

  Beau and Lulu Bragg were here, too, plus Nichols and Riley Scott, and Eva and Chuck Kincaid.

  For the longest, he’d thought they were his cousins too. Once when he’d tried to get it straight, Mom had laughed and told him not to try too hard. “They’re your cousins by love because their mothers are my sisters by love,” she’d said.

  Grownups. Ha. Coach Nathan and Mr. Brantley were cooking stuff on the big brick grill. Beau and Lulu’s dad was down there, too, but it looked like he was mostly drinking beer and hanging out. Sometimes Avery ate a real burger and sometimes he ate a veggie burger like Dad. He liked both.

  Oh, gross. Mom and Dad were hiding behind a tree kissing. They didn’t know he could see them from up here.

  Two more cars pulled up—his grandparents and who was that? Oh, neat! Nobody told him his Little League coach, Mr. Polo, was coming. His wife, Miss Bailey, worked at his mother’s office and their kids were Allan and Porter. They walked over to say hello to Mr. Tiptoe, Miss Carol Jane, Miss Annelle, and Miss Lou Anne. Mayor Rayford went over to shake Grandpa’s hand and help Grandma with her picnic basket. Avery had learned to stay away from what Grandma brought unless Susie cooked it.

  Eva’s granddaddy, Mr. Charles, had brought Eva’s pony but they’d all be allowed to ride—well, all but Emma, Beau, and Chuck. Chuck was too little but Miss Caroline was holding him up so he could pet the pony’s nose. Of course, Beau and Emma were too big for a pony now. Beau was good at football and baseball. Avery was pretty sure they’d hit some balls later, and maybe Mr. Polo would tell some stories about when he used to play for the Yankees.

  Avery was relieved when he saw his mom go to the table where Aunt
Lanie, Miss Missy, Miss Tolly, and Miss Lucy were putting out the food. That meant she wasn’t kissing anymore. Another car pulled up—it was Kirby and he had a woman with him. Avery didn’t know if it was the same as the last one. He couldn’t keep up with all that.

  Oh, no! His little brother and sister were sneaking toward the food table. Quick as could be, his sister grabbed a pie from the edge and they jumped under the table with it before anyone saw them.

  He’d better get down there. There was no saving that pie but they were sure to go for Miss Missy’s Coca-Cola cake next and that would be a shame.

  Even though he was in a hurry, he stopped and did something he always did when no one was looking. He plucked his old friend out of the front seat of his old wooden pedal truck and gave him a hug. “How’s it going, Jiffy? You know I just keep you out here because my favorite things ought to be in my favorite place. Besides, I can’t let those twins get hold of you. Dad says they could break an anvil.”

  He laughed a little to himself. Silly. But he still gave Jiffy a pat when he put him back in the driver’s seat. “Buckle up and don’t drive too fast, pal,” he said.

  And he ran to join his cousins and save that cake.

  Author Information

  Before they began writing as Alicia Hunter Pace, Stephanie Jones and Jean Hovey were friends—not just friends, but the finish each other’s sentences and swap shoes on the sidewalk kind of friends.

  They had no idea their writing styles would be so different but, upon reflection, they could have looked at their travel styles for a clue. Jean once got off a plane in London with eight dollars, an ATM card, no reservations of any kind, and a vague idea that she wanted to go to the Victoria and Albert museum. When Stephanie travels, she arrives with a detailed, concrete plan written in a notebook that she carries in a coordinating tote bag that matches her calendar and her shoes.

  There’s something to be said for both philosophies. Traveling by the seat of one’s pants—whether in a foreign country or on the printed page—can lead to adventures never recorded in a guide book, but it seems to work out better if there is a plotter along with her hand on the rudder.

  Writing with a partner—most people wouldn't do it; most people shouldn't do it. It could easily lead to hair pulling, lawsuits, and funeral food.

  But it works for them.

  Stephanie lives in Jasper, AL, where she teaches third grade and wishes for a bigger bookstore. She is a native Alabamian who likes football, civil war history, and people who follow the rules. She is happy to provide a list of said rules to anyone who needs them.

  Jean, a former public librarian, lives in Decatur, AL, with her husband in a hundred-year-old house that always wants something from her. She likes to cook but has discovered the joy of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets since becoming a writer.

  Stephanie and Jean are both active members of the fabulous Heart of Dixie Chapter of Romance Writers of America.

  Visit Jean and Stephanie at their website, http://aliciahunterpace.com/

  Subscribe to their newsletter at: http://aliciahunterpace.us3.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=8dee88167294a57b8b340f8e7&id=2054b7cbe8

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  Follow them on Twitter @AliciaHPace

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Simple Gone South by Alicia Hunter Pace)

  Getting hit in the head with a taco will make a man rethink a relationship.

  Brantley Kincaid was at Mateo’s Grill and Cantina with his on-again, off-again girlfriend Rita May Sanderson when she took exception to his lack of enthusiasm for her suggestion that they take a long weekend and go to Paris. And she wasn’t talking about Paris, Texas, either. He had just returned to Nashville from a three-month stint in San Francisco where he’d been consulting on a project to restore a group of Queen Anne row houses. If he had wanted to go anywhere, it would not have been Paris and even if he had wanted that, he damn sure wouldn’t want to do it in three days. He was in no mood for a city as big as Paris and, besides, apart from escargot and oui, he couldn’t speak a word of French. Who wanted to run around for three days dodging cars and bicycles, saying yes, snail? Not him.

  Rita May did not agree.

  So she threw the taco at him. It had guacamole on it, which he normally liked—when it wasn’t being hurled through the air in his direction. It wasn’t the first time. Rita May was a thrower and a breaker—coffee cups, CDs, books, assorted food. He’d seen it all—headed right for his head.

  “Rita May,” he said as he picked lettuce out of his hair and wiped salsa off his ear. “I know how it’s gotten to be kind of our trademark for me to offend you in some way and then for you to throw something at me. And then I apologize for the offending and you apologize for the throwing and for destroying my property, if that has been the case, which it usually has. Then we have sex and go shopping to replace whatever it is you broke, which I pay for. But now you have hit me with a taco in a public place, and I am shutting this freak show down.”

  Having already made short work of the paper napkins, he pulled his handkerchief out and finished cleaning himself up as best he could.

  He’d had enough. This was possibly the twelfth time they had broken up, but it was the first time he’d done the breaking. So it was understandable that she was all surprised with open mouth and big eyes. Her eyes were still the brightest blue he’d ever seen, but not worth it anymore, no matter how many Keith Urban and Jackson Beauford videos she’d been in. He got to his feet and threw a wad of bills on the table. There was a fire fall of cheese down the front of his bespoken shirt that he hadn’t noticed. He brushed it into his plate.

  “But we came in my car. How will you get home?” she asked.

  “You let me worry about that, Tradd.”

  Her face turned red and she said through gritted teeth, “Don’t call me that! Never call me that in public!”

  Time to walk away. This was turning into an argument—and he didn’t argue. Ever. It was one of his rules.

  “I am not calling you anything anymore,” he said pleasantly as he fished steak out of his pocket. Tradd Davenport might be a little too uptown ball gown for her persona of aspiring country music star, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t her real name. No matter.

  As Brantley walked away, the chip basket hit him in the shoulder but he didn’t look back.

  He bought what passed for a barbecue sandwich from a street vendor and walked and ate for four blocks. Ordinarily he would not have chosen barbecue, because God knows they didn’t have any real barbecue in Nashville, Tennessee, but that was all that was available at the moment and he was hungry. Real barbecue came from where you were raised, but he had no plans to return to Merritt, Alabama—not even for the best pulled pork in the south. Maybe he should have taken his fajitas with him, though they would have made for messy walking food. Not that he wasn’t already a mess.

  He flagged down a taxi.

  His townhouse still had that musty, closed up smell. And it still looked like a hotel room. His clients who lauded his “impeccable taste and attention to detail” would be shocked to see how he lived. He had some nice antique furniture because his grandmother had seen to it, but he’d never even bothered to unroll the Oriental rug she’d sent. Who had time? Or inclination? Clean was about all his domicile had going for it and that was because he hired that done. Well, that and his bed. He liked a comfortable bed with a good sink effect. All those extra pillows and gewgaws had cost a lot but the sink effect was excellent.

  He could hardly wait to get in that bed—without Rita May complaining about how he kicked and stole covers. He was surprised at how downright cheerful he was about it.

  Having washed the taco out of his hair, he’d just stepped out of the shower when his cell rang. That would be Rita May, who would have thought of a whole new batch of his shortcomings that she needed to apprise him of. Brantley had no interest in hearing—again—about how he didn’t know
what a relationship was, so he let it go to voicemail.

  It was kind of cold in the house. He had to dig deep to find his favorite flannel pants because he hadn’t worn them yet this year. They had ducks on them. It was the kind of night that called for favorite pants. He had fewer opinions about t-shirts so he didn’t have to dig.

  Finally, he reached for his phone. He was only going to listen to enough of Rita May’s message to enjoy her fury at finally being the one who got dumped. After peeping at the caller ID, Brantley relaxed.

  It was Missy, aka Mrs. Harris Townshend Bragg, III, aka the demon spawn who, at ten months old, had put her hand in his first birthday cake before he got a chance. But apparently they had bonded over that torn up cake because she was his best and oldest friend. Before dialing her back, he settled himself into his leather chair in case it was going to be a long conversation—which was likely. Of course, she might just be calling to tell him a joke or give him an order.

  She didn’t ask after his health, the weather, or any of the things a woman of her social standing and breeding should have. She didn’t even say hello.

  “Brantley!” Missy said his name like she was in charge of it and he needed reminding of that fact. “Listen! I want to talk to you.”

  Clearly, Missy, or you wouldn’t have called.

  “Hello, Missy. This is Brantley.” He always made it a point to greet her and identify himself. It had not rubbed off on her, not in the twenty-odd years since she had been capable of dialing his number. “How is the sainted Harris Bragg? And my godson? And baby Lulu?”

  “Oh, they’re fine.” He could see her waving her hand like she did when she didn’t want to talk about something. Not that she didn’t love her husband and children. At this moment, they just were not her mission. “Listen! I need you to come home next weekend.” From where Missy sat, “home” was still Merritt because that’s where she was. It mattered not to her where he paid taxes, had set up his architectural restoration business, and got dumped. “I’m in the Junior League Follies and I need you to come.”