by Liz Talley
Shelby had a point.
But Abigail couldn’t use Leif for fun…or to dissuade Cal. That would be selfish.
“No. That’s silly.” But her voice cracked.
And Shelby heard it. “Is this upsetting you? Bad memories or are you really that put off by Leif?”
Abigail had no clue why she was close to tears. This wasn’t what she did. She was strong, resolute, didn’t cry except in the privacy of her own bedroom. But at that moment she felt so weak. Maybe it was because Birdie had sat with Cal and his parents during church that morning, leaving her alone on the pew. Or maybe it was because she’d just immersed herself in the memory of Cal leaving her. Or maybe because, despite all the roadblocks she’d tossed up, she really wanted to do what Shelby suggested—have some fun with Leif.
“Everyone says I need to get laid.”
Shelby’s baby blues grew as wide as Aunt Lucy’s backside. “Well, that’s obvious. Your butt’s been working button holes for as long as I can remember. You actually scared me when I first met you. John called you the colonel.”
“So I’m a little tightly wound.” Abigail lifted a shoulder. Wasn’t like she could help it. She was who she was. “And where did you learn the saying ‘your butt’s working button holes’?”
“I’m very interested in Southernisms. I’ve been keeping a little list of the ones I like in my purse.” Shelby smiled triumphantly, as if she thought she had a leg up on the imaginary Southern citizenship test.
Abigail stared at her for a full six seconds before she said, “I think I was born this way.”
“Well, you are who you are, but sometimes it’s nice to have our edges smoothed. Leif seems like a guy who could do a bang-up job for you. No pun intended, of course.”
Abigail thought about that. “Yeah, he probably could.”
“What’s stopping you? Uh, is it the church thing? Or is it because Leif’s, well, different? I’m from Washington State and we’re used to his vibe, but people here aren’t so…accepting.”
“No. Not that.” Abigail felt strange about talking this over with Shelby. “I guess I don’t want to be that woman again.”
“What woman?”
“The one a man never stays for.”
Shelby looked as if she wanted to say Abigail was crazy, but she remained silent, waiting.
Abigail swallowed. “I know it sounds weak. I try to be strong, but underneath all my—” She sucked in air and blinked away the emotion.
Shelby grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Ah, honey, I know. Love is scary when you’ve been burned.”
“It’s stupid to be so scared, though.”
“No, it’s not. Everyone is scared of being hurt.”
Abigail looked at their hands. “I wish I was stronger.”
“You don’t have to be strong. You have to be willing to take a chance.”
Abigail sniffed. “I know. But it’s easier said than done. Thing is, Leif’s the wrong guy. He’s not going to stay in Magnolia Bend, and even if he were, he’s commitmentphobic.”
“And you know this how?”
“I saw his ex-fiancée cream him in the face with their wedding cake. Someone at the school told me he said he’s been engaged three times. Three! Who does that? Clearly, he gets cold feet and runs every time things get serious.”
“So why do they have to be serious?”
Abigail stared at Shelby. How could she not understand something so obvious? “Because I can’t carry on a love affair in public.”
“Why not?”
“Because my daddy is a preacher. I’m the PTA president. My family—”
“So this is about what other people think about you?”
“Yeah. I mean, no.” Abigail shut her mouth. All the reasons and rationales, the rules and regulations that guided her every move and that seemed so sound in her head, had vanished. “I can’t just sleep around with Leif like it’s no big deal,” she said finally.
“Jesus, Abigail, people date all the time. We’re not living in the 1920s and I’m fairly sure you won’t be painted a fallen woman if you date someone. What you actually do on your dates is your business.”
Abigail blinked several times, not because she hadn’t thought about that, but because Shelby made it sound so damn reasonable. “But—”
“You’re so much like your brother. Parameters. I’m surprised you don’t have rules painted on every wall,” Shelby said before making a face when she saw the Grandmother’s Rules placard attached to the wall behind Abigail. “Don’t you know, Abigail, that there are no rules, no absolutes and no guarantees when it comes to falling in love? But do it anyway, sister.”
Abigail turned to the sink, pulling the plug on the dirty dishwater. “I’ll think about it. It was good to have someone to talk to.”
At this Shelby grew still. Her blue eyes became suspiciously damp. “It really is, isn’t it?”
The moment sat between them, sweet and achy like listening to an old hymn.
“Better grab John now. I need a nap in the worst way,” Shelby said, tugging off her apron and folding it. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Like on your wedding day?”
“Right.” Shelby turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and, Abigail—you really shouldn’t think in this situation. Just go with it. Give yourself permission to do something for yourself.”
CHAPTER TEN
MONDAY NIGHT, LEIF rang Abigail’s doorbell, but there was no answer.
He’d told her he’d pick her up for their date at five-thirty on the dot. He didn’t wear a watch but the clock in his car said five thirty-two so she should be ready to roll.
The door swung open to reveal an older lady who was definitely not Abigail.
“Hey,” he said.
“Oh, hello,” the lady said, brushing her hands on a spotless apron. “You must be Mr. Marshall. Welcome to Laurel Woods. I’m Alice Ann. I help out the inn’s owner. Come inside and we’ll get you checked in.”
“Uh, thanks, but I’m not Mr. Marshall.”
She looked confused, glancing at the clutch of flowers he held in his hand. “Oh, we were expecting Mr. Marshall sometime this evening. Can I help you with something?”
“I’m Leif,” he said.
She extended a hand. “The art instructor?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, well, Birdie’s dining with her father tonight. Did y’all have a lesson or something?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
For a good ten seconds they stood contemplating each other.
Leif cleared his throat. “I believe Mrs. Orgeron is expecting me.”
“She is?” Alice Ann stepped aside. “Well, she’s out working in the flower beds. You can go on back.”
Leif wondered why Abigail hadn’t mentioned their date to Alice Ann and why she was working in the flower beds. Maybe she’d lost track of time?
He made his way through the pristine lower floor of Laurel Woods with its polished dark woods, shiny crystal chandeliers and impressive art. Even though many of the furnishings and the house itself were centuries old, the place had a fresh feel. He stepped out into a square patio surrounded by thorny roses, some pruned, others still leggy and bare. Abigail stood in the middle of a bed working feverishly to hack a sturdy branch.
Her ponytail flipped as she threw her head back. “Damn it to hell.”
“Does your father know you use those words?”
Abigail spun, accidently dropping the loppers. “Leif.”
“Yeah,” he said, dropping his eyes to the tight, stained T-shirt she wore with a pair of faded yoga pants. The ensemble left little to the imagination—something he could appreciate—but between her hair falling in her face and the camouflage Crocs, he was fairly certain she’d forgotten about their plans.
And that hurt.
He’d thought…well, maybe he’d been totally off on how she felt. The kiss they’d shared Thursday night had advertised an interested woman. But maybe not.
She shook her head, looking guilty. “No, but I’m guessing you didn’t get my message.”
“My internet has been out and I didn’t check my phone this afternoon. I was busy getting the backyard ready for our date.”
“Oh,” she said, pink flooding her cheeks, the cuteness edging out some of the disappointment in his gut. “I’m sorry. I, uh, well, I had said something about not feeling like, uh—”
“You blew me off?”
“No. Not blowing you. I just— I didn’t mean to say blowing you. I meant I didn’t blow you off. Ah, basically it’s just… Here’s the thing. I don’t think I need a new relationship right now.” Abigail had grown even redder over her mix-up of words and her eyes had dipped to take in his worn jeans and tight long-sleeved T-shirt. He’d finger-combed his hair, letting it dry naturally, a softer look thanks to the Louisiana humidity. Her eyes were appreciative.
So what was the deal? Was she still throwing up roadblocks because she was scared? Or maybe he made her feel too reckless?
Yes. Whatever sparked between them was a little out of control, a little wild, and that scared her.
Abigail needed a slight push.
“In case you don’t realize, a date is when two people who might like each other go out to dinner or some other activity to get to know each other better. It’s not a huge commitment. No ring, no prenup, no guaranteed sex. Just some food and conversation. It’s not a relationship.”
“I know what a date is,” she said, stooping to pick up the shears she’d dropped. “But I’m not at a good place for—”
“Pasta?”
“What?”
“I made pasta salad. I don’t even have condoms in the house. You’re totally safe.”
“Wait, you don’t have—” Abigail snapped her mouth closed, before squeezing her eyes shut. She opened them, doing that forehead wrinkle thing she did pretty much all the time. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.”
“Sure you can.”
“I have too much to do. Look at these roses. If I don’t prune them now, they won’t have blooms this spring.”
“Yeah, they will. Double Knock Outs bloom even if not pruned.”
“You know what Knock Out roses are?”
“I know a lot of things. I know how many cups are in a gallon, I know how many pixels are on a sixty-inch TV and I know why clown fish can live safely inside sea anemones.” He walked toward her, lifting the bouquet of flowers. He stopped in front of her. “I also know it takes the average woman seven-point-five minutes to take a shower, but since you, Abigail, are so very efficient, I bet you can do it in less than five minutes.”
“You want me to take a shower?” she asked, staring at his mouth.
“I’d take one with you, but, as previously stated, this is just a date. No big deal.”
She swallowed, ripping her gaze away from his mouth. “But—”
“Uh, uh, uh. No buts. You’re a woman who fritters her time away doing everything that must be done. It’s time someone stepped in and demanded you fritter some time away doing something you never knew needed to be done.”
“What?” she asked, her eyes confused.
“Essentially, you need a little bit of nothing in your life.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes, you need to let go of what has to be done and hold on to nothing. Or me. Either one.”
He set the flowers atop one of the spindly bushes, picked up her gloved hands and set them on his shoulders. He grinned at her, placing his hands about her waist, bringing her to him. She smelled earthy…and a bit like bubble gum.
“Oh,” she breathed as their bodies melded together.
Leif took her left hand in his and swung her about in a waltz.
She actually giggled as they took five steps around the small stacks of thorny branches that littered the patio. “You’re crazy.”
“Yes.” He spun her faster, loving the tinkle in her laughter. He started counting. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”
“Oh, my gosh, stop. What are people going to think?”
“That we’re dancing,” he said, hopping over a branch that had separated from the others, but not stopping as he waltzed her toward the door. “And who gives a damn what anyone thinks? We’re having fun. You need a prescription for fun and I’m writing out the orders.”
Abigail laughed as they continued dancing to the very step that would take her inside the house.
Leif halted, looking at the woman whose cheeks were now pink from exertion. He felt a strange tenderness flood him. Because everything that had happened in the past minute verified his conclusion about Abigail. She needed help. She needed romance and spontaneity. She needed laughter and silliness. “Let’s get these gloves off you. It will be hard to shower with them on.”
She watched as he unbuttoned the right glove, peeling the leather from her hand. He did it slowly, almost sensuously, dropping a small kiss on her wrist before unfurling her palm and grazing it with his lips. He performed the same on the left hand. When he glanced up, her eyes were filled with a mixture of disbelief and desire.
For several seconds she said nothing. Just stared at him.
“Okay, off you go. The shower awaits.”
She glanced at the patio. “But what about the roses? They’re half-done and debris is scattered all over.”
He turned and surveyed the mess. “The other roses can wait, and I’ll take these gloves and deal with those stacks. You shower and—” he ducked his head, brushing a soft kiss against her lips “—don’t bother with makeup. I like you just the way God made you. Beautiful.”
She sucked in her breath. “Is your vision working?”
“Wait,” he said, squinting his eyes, moving his head closer and then away. “You’re not Karen Franklin? I’m… Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry. I got the wrong woman.”
Abigail punched him in the shoulder.
Leif laughed. “Seriously, go shower. I have a fun night planned for us.”
“Fun?”
“Baby oil and Twister.”
Her laughter was sweet reward. “Oh, my Lord. You could talk me into anything.”
“That’s what I’m banking on.”
*
ABIGAIL DRIED HER hair with a round brush, begging the Louisiana humidity to lay off for this one night. Her skin glistened from the shower, her eyes sparkled and her thumb harbored a small thorn she couldn’t quite dig out.
But who cared?
She was going on a date with Leif.
Inside she thrilled at the thought, relieved she’d tossed away her reservations. Last night she’d flipped on the TV and caught a reality show about fortysomething-year-old women relaunching themselves into the dating scene and it had killed the bolstering Shelby had delivered. She’d left Leif a halfhearted message on his voice mail.
But Shelby was right—Abigail needed to stop thinking and start living on the edge a little more.
And the man waiting downstairs made her feel not so much herself.
Or maybe more like herself, like the girl she used to be. Maybe in the face of dealing with Cal’s renewed interest and Birdie’s impudence she needed to remember the girl who’d taken chances, banked on her dreams and didn’t let anyone put her in a box…or a corner.
“What were you so worried about?” she asked her reflection, switching off the dryer. When her reflection didn’t respond, she grinned at being so silly. And that felt good. Surprisingly good.
Monday nights weren’t for dates. They were for organizing the kitchen junk drawer, getting caught up on the ironing or watching a rerun of some police procedural. It was a very odd night to be gussying herself up and taking time for herself. But Monday felt right. Leif wasn’t an ordinary guy.
Despite Leif’s no-makeup request, she dabbed a bit of concealer under her eyes and powdered her nose, rubbing a bit of rouge on her che
ekbones and swiping her mouth with a light lip gloss. Still very natural, but it hid some of her flaws.
Abigail dropped her towel and eyed her nude body in the half mirror. Not bad. Not good, but not bad. Her breasts weren’t full but they’d not been tackled by gravity. Her stomach bore a thin C-section scar and her hips and legs were still firm and varicose vein–free. She picked up her favorite perfume and misted her body with it before tugging on her prettiest bra and panties, ones she’d gotten on a trip to New Orleans with her sister-in-law, Mary Jane. It had been a wasted purchase until now.
Wait.
Just because she wore Belgian lace didn’t mean she was going to sleep with Leif.
Her cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. Scooping it up, she hit the answer button.
“Hey, Mom. Dad and I are on our way home. Since I finished my homework early, we’re going to watch Netflix. We’re getting candy and stuff at the Short Stop. What do you want?” Birdie sounded happy. Not like the sullen girl who’d slunk away from the kitchen table Friday night after embarrassing Abigail in front of her brother.
“Nothing for me,” Abigail said, walking to her closet, thumbing through the depths looking for a shirt with buttons. Why? No clue. But she wanted to please Leif after trying to ditch him and their date.
“Jeez, it’s not going to make you fat,” Birdie said. Abigail could hear some muffled conversation before her daughter said, “Dad says he likes you with a little meat on your bones.”
Abigail twitched in irritation and wanted to say, “I don’t care what he likes,” but she didn’t. Instead she said, “I won’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“I have a date.” Abigail pulled out a plain white shirt with snaps. Would snaps work? She looked at the other meager offerings. Snaps would have to work. She snagged a pair of jeans, and after a flicker of indecision, the nude pumps with the gold nail-head studs around the heel.
“With who?” Birdie sounded shocked.
“Your art teacher,” Abigail said matter-of-factly.
“Mr. Lively? You’re going on a date with him?”
“Don’t act so shocked. I’m not dead, Birdie.”
The phone was absolutely silent. Abigail held it between her head and shoulder as she slipped the shirt off the hanger. A few more seconds ticked by.