by Liz Talley
Birdie’s lips flatlined. “Why do you treat me like a baby? I can carry on a conversation with Uncle Jake. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“It’s not that,” Jake said, pulling a hank of Birdie’s hair. “I need to discuss something private with your mom, ’kay?”
“Is it about sex? ’Cause I know you have sex with a bunch of women.”
“Birdie!” Abigail shouted.
“What? I know about sex, Mom, so you don’t have to have your little talk with me. Geesh.”
Abigail opened her mouth, then snapped it closed. How much did Birdie really know about sex? Yeah that “talk” thing breathed down her neck. She’d bought a few books to help her discuss the birds and the bees with her daughter, but until Birdie had forced her hand, she’d been too chicken to broach the subject.
Another parenting fail.
Jake laughed. “Man, I love coming by here.”
“What?” Birdie said, with a lift of her shoulder. “Maddie Free told me all about sex last year. She brought one of her brother’s Hustler magazines to a slumber party. The pictures were really perverted, but then we read about sex and stuff in her mother’s Cosmopolitan so I know how it works.”
“Hustler?” Abigail said weakly. She looked around for the stool she’d shoved out of the way earlier and sank onto it.
Jake popped up, grabbed the wine Abigail had opened and poured a glass. Setting it in front of her, he said, “Drink.”
Abigail lifted the wine, seeing her brother distorted though the glass. He looked like a wicked jack-o’-lantern. She took a long draw and caught Birdie with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. The little shit. After two more gulps, Abigail set down the glass. “Birdie, Uncle Jake isn’t here to talk about his sex life, and I’m disappointed you took your lessons about sexual intercourse from a disgusting magazine. We’ll talk about this later. Gather your things and get upstairs.”
Birdie glared at her. “I didn’t like the disgusting pictures in case you’re worried. Man, you have some crazy sex hang-ups. You should really start subscribing to Cosmo. They have all kinds of articles on things like the G-spot and how to—”
“Birdie!” Abigail could feel the heat in her cheeks. Birdie smirked, knowing exactly what she’d done. “Upstairs now, missy.”
Her daughter slammed her book shut and stalked toward the door.
“’Bye, Birdie,” Jake called.
“I’m going by Brigitte now. ’Bye,” she said, pushing out the door with a swish of dark hair.
“Holy shit,” Jake said, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Oh, shut up.” Abigail ran a hand over her face, grappling with the fact that she now had to correct the information her daughter had gleaned from a porno mag. She drained her glass, almost wishing it had been Cal who’d dropped in rather than her brother. Birdie would never have dropped that bomb on her dad.
“So what’s up with her…besides now knowing what the G-spot is?” Jake asked.
“Oh, God,” Abigail said, shaking her head.
“It’s okay, Abi. Don’t you remember your National Geographic collection and finding that copy of The Joy of Sex? It’s natural.”
“Maybe so, but Birdie’s mad at me because I told her that I wouldn’t entertain the thought of her father living with us. That was her way to get back at me.”
“Does Cal want to reconcile?”
Abigail shrugged. “Probably. He hinted about making things up to me.”
Jake’s eyebrows lifted.
“Yeah, but that ship sailed…to California with Morgan. He’s not coming home. At least not to me.”
“Cal’s an ass.”
“Understatement of the year,” Abigail said, pouring another glass of wine. “You want some?”
“No. I’m meeting Kate over at Ray Ray’s in thirty minutes.”
“Is she the stripper?”
“No. She’s a librarian.”
“Oh, sorry. So what’s up?”
“Well, it’s ironic you already mentioned it, but I came by to warn you about Cal. I overheard him talking to Merv at the general store and he said something about finishing the work on the cabins.”
“My cabins?”
“I’m assuming. It was so strange. Like going back five years. To hear him tell it, he was already living here. He even made a nagging wife joke about you.”
“He what?”
“He said, ‘Better get going on this before the wife calls a contractor.’”
Abigail didn’t have the words. The nerve of that man, thinking he could step into his old life and no one would say boo about it, much less her. “He’s lost his marbles.”
“Or is just being Cal. The man’s so full of bullshit, I have to wipe my boots after standing next to him.”
“I thought he’d get the message the night he turned up like a bad penny.”
“He doesn’t operate that way.” Jake strolled over to the scones. “I just thought you ought to know. He’s going to push this. Be prepared.”
“First, I find out my child got her sexual education from Hustler and now Cal’s going around town acting like he’s still my husband. The hits just keep on coming.” She might have to open a new bottle of wine.
“You have a lot going on. I’m sorry.” Jake shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Thanks. I’ll talk to Cal. And Birdie. And if there’s anyone else who needs some counseling, send them on over.”
“I may need some counseling on finding the G-spot…but I can ask Birdie about that.”
“You are evil,” Abigail said, throwing a dish towel at him.
“Of course.” Jake caught it and wiggled his eyebrows before tossing the dish towel toward the sink. “Oh, I’m bringing Kate to John and Shelby’s wedding. Kinda had to with them choosing to have it on Valentine’s Day.”
“They’re getting married in three weeks?”
“Wait, you didn’t know? You mean, I know something before you?” He performed a victory dance.
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Jake. You’d think you won a gold medal.”
“I did. The gold medal of one-upping my sister.” Jake moved toward the door, scooping up a few scones to take with him.
“So, are they getting married at the church? I can host the reception. Let me grab my reservation book and—”
“Relax, Mom said she’s hosting a small reception at her house.”
“But I have all this—”
“Don’t,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.
“What?”
“Don’t run roughshod over everyone. Mom can give a reception without you taking over. Handle Birdie. Handle Cal. Take a bubble bath. Go to a movie. But don’t try and take over every aspect of every person’s life.”
“I don’t.”
Jake snorted. “You don’t know how to relax. Your picture’s next to the antonym for chill in the dictionary.”
Abigail picked up a second bottle of wine, annoyed that Jake knew her so well. She waggled it. “I can chill.”
“That’s a start but don’t use getting wasted as a replacement for relaxing. One drink’s good for you, five will land you passed out in the kitchen with burned scones.” Jake pointed to the oven as he waltzed out the door.
“Oh, crap,” Abigail said, grabbing an oven mitt and rescuing the scones from getting burned. She huffed out a breath, suddenly feeling messy and out of control. The thought of Cal acting like he was still her husband made her stomach hurt. Stubborn man.
Well, it was time to put things in order. Do as she’d always done when faced with unmade beds, unbalanced checkbooks and people who didn’t fall into line.
If she could just make everything…
She tossed the mitt onto the counter. She didn’t deal well with feeling out of control. She wore a girdle on her life, holding in the bad stuff even though it pinched. It was just easier that way…and the same reason why she couldn’t complicate her life by seeing Leif on a personal level.
Leif felt m
essy, like something that couldn’t be pinned down. He laughed too loudly, smiled too much and didn’t care what anyone in Magnolia Bend thought about him. He couldn’t be cinched into her world even if he made her feel something she never thought she would again.
Not desire. This was more than her girl parts going zing. Leif brought light into the dark places inside her, into the places that had long gone dead. He made her wonder…what if?
And that was dangerous.
Not that she hadn’t gone on dates before. She’d even managed a three-month relationship with a home builder who lived in Baton Rouge. He’d been her rebound relationship, scratching an itch, until they decided the distance was too hard, code for things were getting boring. So it wasn’t as though she hadn’t had some kind of a life as a single woman. Just nothing worth bragging about.
But Leif was bragworthy with his disarming smile, hard body and oozing sex appeal.
So why was he interested in her?
She’d never won any beauty prizes, although she knew she wasn’t homely. Her eyes were her best feature, her stubborn silver swath of hair her most dramatic and thanks to good DNA she had remained slim and athletic. But other than those things, she was a normal forty-year-old woman fighting crow’s-feet and sagging boobs and contemplating reading glasses. She wasn’t like the other single moms who haunted the halls of St. George’s carrying cupcakes, splashing around smiles, wiggling in tight jeans and sending unstated invitations over top gravity-defiant breasts. Those women knew what to say, how to seduce and play those games that Leif was no doubt very good at playing.
Abigail didn’t play games, especially footsie. Not when she’d spent the past few years being the referee, keeping order between the lines.
She had no business letting herself go with Leif Lively.
No business at all.
CHAPTER NINE
LEIF WALKED BESIDE Hilda and her French bulldog, who wore an absurd striped pink sweater.
“Come on, Clyde. Do your business so I can take Leif over to the mercantile,” Hilda said to the dog, who merely looked up with an adoring grin and promptly lifted his leg on the tire of Leif’s car. “That’s a boy.”
Leif frowned at the dog, but he supposed he’d had worse on his tire than dog pee so he kept walking. “Isn’t it closed?”
“Of course it is, dear. It’s Sunday and everything closes in Magnolia Bend on Sunday. Except the Short Stop. People still need gas.”
Leif remained silent as they walked toward the middle of downtown. Surrounding them were yards tired of winter, some clinging to ragged pansies and the occasional snapdragon. The large houses on Hilda’s street gave way to smaller Arts and Crafts–style houses. Magnolia Bend was a pretty town with a white gazebo in the main square and an imposing courthouse with a history that included an infamous hanging judge. Quintessential small-town USA with Creole zest.
“Now over there is where they strung up a poor man before civil rights.” She pointed to a huge oak tree. “Such violent history here in Louisiana. Seems so long ago but it wasn’t all that many years really.”
Leif inhaled, letting his breath go slowly as he stopped at the tree of twisted darkness, sunshine streaking through, dappling the rich soil where the roots fought to emerge. “I never knew Magnolia Bend had that sort of past.”
“Oh, yes. All up and down this river. Started with the Native Americans. That’s what they call them these days. When I was young, we called them Indians. Took away their land. Many of them hid in the bayous with the pirates and runaway slaves. We’ve endured slave revolts, the War of Northern Aggression.” She laughed. “People still think of it that way. Can you imagine? But along this river, such hardship and such beauty. I hate that past, but I love this land. Thought about moving back to New Orleans, but my people have lived and loved here for so long. It’s in my blood, you know?”
“I can’t imagine feeling that way. I feel like I’m from nowhere, yet everywhere.”
Hilda stopped. “Why are you here, Leif?”
“Is that why you asked me to brunch? To get at my secrets,” he teased, even as fear nattered away at his gut. The Harveys were still part of this community and Southerners seemed to hold grudges.
“That or have my wicked way with you. Of course, my sciatica has been terrible and the arthritis just as bad, so I’d say you’re safe…though I must say, your loss.”
Leif choked down a laugh. “Indeed.”
Hilda started walking again. “Over there is where my husband’s grandmother lived. Eloisa Rigaud Burnside. She was quite a lady. Some even suspected her of voodoo.”
“Voodoo?”
“Heavens, yes. Her family came from Saint-Domingue after the slave revolt and settled in New Orleans. Her mother had been a slave, her father a soldier in the French military. Her grand-mère was a mambo—that’s a priestess—and it’s said Eloisa inherited her knowledge from her.”
“Wow.” Leif enjoyed the sun on his shoulders as much as Hilda’s tour of Magnolia Bend. She prattled on about her kinfolk, all of whom had owned land—including one who’d had a brothel outside of New Orleans—and he listened because it was required of a guest.
He supposed he was a guest. He’d been surprised by her phone call that morning, which had woken him from a dead sleep. When he’d arrived at her house, still longing for the comfort of his bed but not willing to miss an opportunity to ask about his mother, she’d suggested a walk before they dined.
“So, have you made progress with the button-popping? I’m not one to look out windows or anything, but I’m sensing a promising direction.”
“You sneak,” he said, nearly tripping over uneven pavement. “So this is about Abigail?”
“Of course it’s about Abigail. She’s my cousin.”
“Why are you so vested in my screwing your cousin? Not that I have or am. It’s odd.”
“Oh, hush. Sex is sex. Nothing odd about it.” Hilda jerked Clyde’s leash a bit too hard and the dog stumbled over a large rock he’d been sniffing on the edge of a driveway. “But that hound dog Calhoun Orgeron is sniffing around, trying to stake his territory.”
“And you think I can dissuade him?”
“Yes, and give Abigail a good time in the process.”
“You know I’m a person, not a tool.”
Hilda stopped and patted his cheek. “Of course you are. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, but the timing is so good. And I could see plain as day that you made her uncomfortable. And you watched her like a hungry man.”
“So?”
“So, no one makes Abi uncomfortable. I could see she thinks you’re a hottie.”
Leif snorted.
“That’s what the kids call a man who heats up the blood.”
“I knew what you meant, I merely—” He paused. “Never mind. You were saying?”
“Did you make progress?”
“None of your business,” he said, as they reached the park in the center of town. The area was deserted, probably because most people were in church…or at home sleeping.
“Ah, I see. You are going to be a hard nut to crack…and I mean nut in the most complimentary of ways.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been called a nut most my life. Probably because of what I wear.” He indicated his linen trousers and rugged hemp shirt. He’d elected to wear sneakers, which had been providential, since they’d walked over a mile.
“Very impolite of them. I, personally, would dress you in Hugo Boss or Calvin Klein, but if you prefer to look homeless, so be it. I would never take away your right to be fashion challenged.” She sashayed toward the square in her lululemon yoga pants and matching hoodie. Her fluorescent Asics completed the bold look. Hilda Brunet was a Magnolia Bend fashion plate.
“Thank you, Hilda,” he said with a smile. “If I hired on to be your kept boy, I’d let you dress me in a suit woven by eight-year-old children in Taiwan, but since your sciatica is acting up…”
Hilda pulled her designer sunglasses down her no
se to look at him. “Damn, I do like you.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Such power you have in that smile.” She patted his cheek again. “Employ it on my cousin, will you?”
“Heil, Hilda,” he said, falling into step with her as they crossed the street and headed toward an old-fashioned general store owned by the Burnsides.
“And a sense of humor, too. Lucky Abi,” Hilda said, stopping before the large plate-glass window. “There.”
In the center of the window stood a bronze sculpture of a young boy holding a small bird in his hand. He knew right away that it was his mother’s work. He glanced at Hilda. “You know.”
“That your mother’s Calliope? Yes.”
Leif turned, studying the beauty of the sculpture. “How?”
“You look like her.”
Leif turned away from the display, which showcased the upcoming art festival with the poster Hilda had designed and several other pieces of art the owners of the store must have collected over the years. He walked away to lean against a cast-iron parking meter. “You knew her?”
“Yes. I was on the committee then and Simeon was most insistent that your mother’s work be in the showcase tent. He was enamored of her.”
“Simeon Harvey was in love with my mother?” Leif shook his head as the possibility Simeon was his father poured over him like the hot wax his mother had used in her castings.
“Oh, not the way you think. Simeon was gay, but he loved things of beauty, and your mother was one of the loveliest creatures I’ve even seen. He wanted her like he wanted a Monet. Had nothing to do with romantic love or sex.”
Leif stared at the storefronts across from them. “I don’t understand.”
If Simeon had been gay, he couldn’t be Leif’s father. Or could he? If Simeon was attracted to beauty, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe the man played both ways.
“Simeon loved your mother as a friend. He loved her work, loved her very nature. Calli possessed a quality not many others do—she was a free spirit, very ethereal but at the same time earthy. When she wasn’t creating, her head stayed in the clouds.”
Leif gave a hard laugh. “Yeah, you knew her all right.”
Hilda nodded, jerking her head toward the way they’d come. They fell into step together.