by Liz Talley
Cal relaxed a little. “We could salvage something—”
“No. I told you I’m not interested in going backward. At all.”
“I just meant that at one point we were friends.”
“I’m not ready to be friends, Cal.”
Cal reached a hand toward her, but she pushed it away. Cal looked at her, his dark eyes swimming with regret. “I wish I could undo it, Abi.”
“Maybe so, but what’s done is done.”
“We had some good times. We had plans, dreams and laughter. Your father is helping me understand why I gave up on my life. I know now I was scared, afraid of being nothing.”
Hurt ripped a path to her gut. “How is being my husband and Birdie’s daddy nothing?”
“I didn’t mean that. I’m trying to explain that giving up on a dream does something to you. When I looked in the mirror every morning, I hated who I saw. I started hating you, the house, my job. Everything. I hated my world.”
Abigail held her tongue. All those years ago, Cal hadn’t bothered to tell her what he shared now. He had merely said he’d made a mistake, didn’t love her and had to leave Magnolia Bend. He’d refused to talk to her or to listen to her pleading. It was as if a light switch tripped, darkening out that part of her life. She’d had no answers and could find no reason for what had happened.
Click.
Her husband gone.
Cal shoved his hands into his pockets. “I hurt you, and for that, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Abigail nodded, tears suddenly clogging her throat as a dam inside her broke. It was what she’d wanted to hear for a long time, but it had come much, much too late. Still, she and Cal had a past, shared a daughter and before he’d broken her, they’d loved each other. “Okay. You’ve apologized and you’re working through some things, making amends. It’s what you have to do and I won’t stand in your way.”
“Thank you, Abi.”
“Abigail. I’m doing it for Birdie, but I’m also doing it for me. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of feeling like a victim.” She brushed past him because she didn’t want him to see any weakness inside her. She’d refused to show the world her pain. She’d stiffened her spine and stuck out her chin for so long that anything softer made her feel odd. Not that she’d forgiven him. Not that the anger had dissipated. But maybe for the first time ever, she had the desire to consider forgiving.
The image of Leif’s blue eyes twinkling at her appeared in her mind.
Maybe Leif hadn’t popped just her buttons. Maybe he’d thawed her, healed her, made her think about wanting more than what she’d settled for—a lonely bed, a hard heart, a facade of practicality and self-sufficiency. What if her heart had been moved only because she was falling in love? Maybe Leif filled her in ways she’d never imagined.
Stop that right now, Abigail Ann. Love and Leif do not go together. Leif is for big-girl—albeit secretive—fun. So keep your mind off forever, sister.
With that in mind, she went to find Birdie. She needed to swing by the grocery store before heading to Laurel Woods. And then maybe later she could finally spend some time with Leif.
Or not.
That was how casual affairs worked—no rules.
And for now that worked for her.
*
LEIF HAD SPENT the past five days without a friend who had really nice benefits. Abigail had a full house due to an early Mardi Gras and her nights were spent tending to a sick Birdie, who had contracted the flu. In lieu of her physical presence, Abigail sent him sexy texts.
She claimed she’d never tried sexting before, but had written something about Cosmo, and wanting to be “with it” had become a mission of hers.
He indulged it because it was a damn sight better than writing lesson plans.
Sunday morning rolled around and, feeling especially lonely, he got down to work tying up all the loose ends for the judging of the Golden Magnolia Award. The Laurel Woods Art Festival was less than three weeks away. He’d procured the judges, booked their hotel rooms and correlated their itineraries with the other events. Everything had to be Hilda-approved. After sending the last email, he saw an email had come in from Bart—he was out of town for the next week and couldn’t meet.
Disappointment filled him.
He hadn’t accomplished much in his quest to find his father—he’d been a little distracted. Of course one distraction was delectable. But that was no excuse. And Abigail hadn’t been over in days.
Glancing at his watch, he made a snap decision. Leif needed to talk to someone who could give him insight into his mother’s life while she was in Magnolia Bend. According to Hilda, there was one person who knew more about the Laurel Woods Guest Artist Program than anyone else—a woman named Carla Stanton.
Picking up his phone, he dialed the number for the woman who had worked as the director of the program and the chair of the festival for over ten years. With any luck, Carla would remember his mother…and maybe the man she loved.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Mrs. Stanton?”
“Yes?”
“This is Leif Lively, I’m a member of the Laurel Woods Art Festival committee. I have a few questions.”
An hour later, Leif stepped into Carla’s patio home south of Baton Rouge. Carla had iron-gray hair, a sad face and a plate of killer oatmeal cookies.
“Gosh, working for Simeon seems so recent. Funny how that is. Years just speed by too fast,” she said, passing him a cup of steaming cinnamon spice tea from an old-fashioned tea cart. They sat in recliners, but Carla seemed determined that social niceties prevailed. “So why exactly did you need to see me?”
“I wanted to get a sense of the past artists—a sort of ‘looking to the past for our future’ direction—in order to set up the exhibition tents for this year’s festival. Since I need exact numbers by the end of next week, I figured I’d talk directly to someone who remembered the last few festivals so I can be better prepared.” God forgive him, but his excuse was a bald-faced lie. He’d already sketched out what he’d like for the space where the entries would be displayed.
“Well. That’s an interesting idea. I like a man who respects tradition,” Carla said, her gaze flitting over him again. He could see what she thought of him: what an untraditional-looking fellow.
“I heard all of this started with a visiting artists program. How did that come about?”
Carla rambled on about how Simeon had gone to Europe and met a guy who sponsored artists. He’d returned determined to try the same thing. Yada yada yada. And finally she came to his mother.
“You know, he was so smitten by one particular artist—a girl named Calliope. Shocked us all because we always suspected him to be a little light in his loafers, if you know what I mean.”
“As in homosexual?”
Carla’s mouth twitched. “We never used that word. So crass.”
Leif never thought of it as crass, but, obviously, in the seventies being homosexual wasn’t something many people around here were open about. “So why this girl?”
“She was beautiful. Coloring just like yours. Very blonde and she had this beautiful way about her, just the way she’d tilt her head or widen her eyes when you told her something. There was this innocence paired with, well, sexiness. She was someone in a song, you know?”
Yeah, he knew. All too well.
His mother had stood out in their commune, too, no matter how hard she tried to blend in. Her art and the very essence of who she was could not be hidden under a bushel. “So…”
“Oh, well, Simeon fancied himself smitten with this girl.”
“Was she into him?”
“Oh, she cared for him. So many people in town didn’t like her. It’s the way people are. She was from out West, pretty as the day is long with buckets of talent. And she dressed like you.” Carla smiled in order to show him she wasn’t trying to be offensive.
“I like comfy clothes.”
“Me, too, but th
at comes with age,” Carla said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “Calli—that’s what we called her—wasn’t in love with Simeon. I think she saw him as an odd older brother, like someone in a family some would be ashamed of, but you love them because they’re quirky and a good person at heart. Calli had fellows buzzing around her like flies on a cow patty. Goodness, even my husband perked up when she entered the room.”
Leif felt something within him tighten and vibrate, like an old-fashioned divining rod. “Like who?”
Carla’s forehead wrinkled. “Hmm, let’s see. It was so long ago. I think she dated George Dominque. His father owned a garage in town and he drove a souped-up Trans Am, the kind with the eagle or whatever on the hood. And then there was Clyde Grommet, who raced motorcycles all over the South. He was a good-looking thing even if he did wear his hair too long,” she said, pinking a bit when she remembered Leif wore his long, too. “Oh, and she dated Everett Orgeron. He’s our state senator and they say he’s in line to run for governor in a few years.”
“Orgeron? As in related to Abigail?”
“No, he’s related to Cal. Everett’s his uncle.”
An uneasiness crept inside him at the thought of anyone related to Cal dating his mother. “Well, with this woman dating so many men, I can see how her reputation wouldn’t be the best.”
“Sure made it easier for the women in town to hate her. But anyway, she ended up killing Simeon and then going on the lam so I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Killing him? You said she liked him.”
“I shouldn’t speculate. No one knows if she pushed Simeon down the staircase or not. No one else was there. We have only Bart’s word for that, and that’s about as good as toilet paper.”
“You don’t like Bart?”
Carla sniffed and crooked a shoulder. “He’s never lost sleep over anyone not liking him. Bart’s a single-minded man. He likes money and to be left alone. It’s a wonder he didn’t figure out a way to get out of paying the prize money for the Golden Magnolia.”
“I met him and he didn’t strike me that way,” Leif said, trying to be fair to Bart, but sensing more and more that Bart was the key to learning what happened that fateful night. Bart had a huge stake in Simeon’s death.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t let my opinion influence yours.” Carla set down her tea and picked up a binder. “I found this from my time as the director of the foundation. I think there’s a list of artists and logistics about the festival. Since the parade grounds haven’t changed, you can do something similar.”
Leif directed his attention to the pages Carla thumbed through. He put aside thoughts of his mother and focused on the information Carla provided. Even though his mission had been to learn more about his mother, he did have a job to do as a committee member.
Later that evening when he left Carla’s, he carried the binder and a mental list of guys he needed to learn more about.
As he pulled away from the curb, his phone buzzed.
He looked down and caught the text message from Abigail.
Birdie is better. Want to move on to zippers tonight?
Did a bear shit in the woods?
He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock.
Pulling over, he grabbed the phone and texted:
I’m talented with zippers. See you in a few.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE DOORBELL RANG.
He frowned. He’d been home for only ten minutes. When he said a few he assumed she understood that as a few hours.
Leif went to the door and opened it, ready to snap his teeth and make a joke about zippers and moving on to hook-and-eye closures.
But Birdie stood there.
“Hey,” she said.
He glanced toward the sidewalk. No Abigail behind her.
“Hey, Brigitte,” he said, trying not to look confused. “What’s up?”
Birdie was dressed in her standard uniform of skinny jeans and vintage rock band T-shirt under a dark hoodie. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail and heavy black eyeliner rimmed her eyes. She had a look going. A little grunge, a little metal, a lot angst. He liked it on her—the perfect combination of vulnerability and tough rocker chick.
“I, uh, wanted to talk to you…if you have a sec.”
“Okay.”
“Can I come in?”
“Probably be better if we talk outside.”
“Whatever,” she said, sinking onto his steps since he had no furniture on the porch. Not bothering with shoes, he closed the door and joined Birdie.
“You okay?” he asked after a few seconds of the girl’s silence. She seemed to be struggling with how to start the conversation.
“Yeah. Uh, are you really dating my mom?”
Okay. How to handle this? “Uh, we’ve been hanging out. We roasted hot dogs on the fire pit out back.”
“But that’s more like a date, right?”
“I guess. We like each other.”
“Why?”
“Because we do.”
“But my mom’s older than you.”
“Not by much. Maybe five years or so. Age doesn’t matter as much when you’re an adult, Bird—Brigitte. Besides we enjoy each other’s company.” He kicked aside the thought of him and Abigail naked, enjoying each other’s company in a very adult way. “You have a problem with that?”
Birdie shrugged. “It’s weird. Y’all don’t go together. You’re, like, cool. And she’s my mom. You know. Kinda old and, like, not very cool.”
“Well, you don’t see her the way I do.”
“Obviously.” Birdie sounded pissed. Man, twelve-year-old girls were hard to understand.
“So because your mom is a mother, I shouldn’t see her?”
“I guess I can’t tell you what to do.”
“Bingo.”
“I just don’t get why you’re into her. She’s not your type.” Her voice was firm as though she could convince him her opinion was valid.
“You know my type? Presumptuous of you.”
“I call ’em like I see ’em,” Birdie said, her delicate face a study in belligerence. “I was here when your bride girlfriend shoved cake in your face. That Marcie chick’s nothing like my mom. I’m not stupid, Leif.”
“Since when did you stop calling me Mr. Lively.”
“Since you told me to at art class weeks ago…and since you started ‘hanging out’—” she made quotation marks with her fingers “—with my mom.”
They both fell silent, staring into the darkening evening. A porch light across the street switched on and a few houses down, old lady McCray dragged her fluffy white dog out to poop on her neighbor’s pristine Saint Augustine lawn.
“It’s just that my dad is back, you know.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Guess it doesn’t, but I think he’s hoping to, you know, make things better with my mom.”
“Oh,” Leif said, understanding dawning on him. Birdie, like so many other children of divorced parents, yearned for reconciliation. She wanted her family to be whole again. He understood. As a kid who had never had a father in his life, he’d spent plenty of afternoons daydreaming about a handsome man driving up, having spent years trying to find Calliope, thrilled to learn he was a father. And then they lived happily ever after.
Unfortunately, life wasn’t a fairy tale…and Birdie had no control over her parents or their hearts.
“So you’re asking me to step aside?”
Birdie turned toward him, her eyes narrowed. “Would you?”
“No.”
The irritation in those green eyes reminded him of her mother. “Why not? He’s my father and you’re just some guy she doesn’t even really know. She only likes you because you’re hot and, like, all the moms like you.”
“So you’re saying your mom is shallow and only likes me for my body?”
Birdie looked at him as though his question were a trap. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. So I’
m only what I appear to be on the outside? All people who are relatively attractive are interchangeable? We don’t have any feelings? Any other worth other than being hot.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Birdie wrapped her arms around her legs. “I just wanted to say something because my dad’s feelings were hurt. He’s sorry about everything he did back then. He wants to make things up to us, but my mom’s all distracted…by you. I can tell by the way she looks at you. Like you’re candy.”
Leif watched as the girl stood, looking a bit lost and at the same time magnificently determined. Damn, she was a remarkable kid, and even though he had no intention of stepping out of the way so Cal could schmooze his way into Abigail’s life, he admired Birdie’s gumption.
“I’m not trying to make you sound like you aren’t a good person, Mr. Lively. I personally think you’re cool. But my mom doesn’t go out with a lot of guys and she’s not like Marcie. She’s normal and, you know…”
“You think I’m using your mom?”
“I read an article about how men don’t really want women over a certain age…but they know they’re desperate so they’re easy pickings.”
“What kind of articles are you reading, Birdie?”
“Brigitte. I know I look young, but I’ll be thirteen soon. I’m tired of everyone treating me like a baby.”
“I don’t treat you like a baby.”
Birdie softened a little. “Not you. You don’t.”
“I’m not looking for hookups. I can have those if I want, but I don’t operate that way. You can’t cover everyone with a blanket assumption. Just because I’m younger than your mom doesn’t mean I’m some gross caricature looking for desperate older chicks so I can get laid. Give me some credit.”
Birdie swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Okay.”
“So?”
“So?”
“I guess you don’t care what I want,” she said.
Leif shook his head, a little zap hitting his heart at this girl standing there asking for the impossible. “You know I care about you, Brigitte, but you’re trying to play God, and that doesn’t work. Whatever happens between your mother and your father is beyond your control. You know that. I’m not in the way. I’m not forcing anything on your mother, and I don’t think the fact your father wants to be in your mother’s life again is reason enough to withdraw my…interest. If your mother tells me differently, then that’s altogether another thing.”