Heart of Dixie (Moreover #1)

by Ruthie Henrick

  Oh, no! Dinner! “Can we start our girls’ week tomorrow, though?”

  Beth’s eyebrows rose until they were hidden by her bangs.

  “I saw Deke this morning.”

  Her grin was nothing short of devilish. “Yummy, no?”

  “Beth, I was overheating right there in the refrigerator section of the Piggly Wiggly.” I used my palm to fan myself. “Your cryptic description this morning could have been a bit more specific, you know.” I gave her a mock glare, because really, when forced to bump into something as delicious as the updated version of Deke McAllister, how angry could one be? “I was, let’s say . . . unprepared.”

  Beth leaned forward in her seat, all ears. “So, what did you say? Something witty and clever, I bet; you a sophisticated city girl and all.”

  Wasn’t that a wonderful fantasy? I laughed. “I believe I was sharp enough to remember his name. I’m pretty sure I forgot to say hello. He seemed flustered, it all went pretty fast, and before I knew it, I agreed to have dinner with him tonight.”

  “Way to go! Just think, you and Deke, back together and absolutely perfect for each other.” Her voice had risen an octave and she was practically bouncing in her seat.

  Wait a minute! I teed my palms. “Time out, cheerleader Barbie. Deke and Dixie is ancient history. This morning was the first time I’ve spoken to him in person in ten years, and I’m pretty sure he regretted the invitation about point three seconds after it left his lips.”

  “But those lips. Imagine what else he can do with them.” Beth grinned, and dived into her burger.

  I dragged another French fry though the spicy yellow mustard and popped it in my mouth. Its sharp tanginess burst on my taste buds. Sort of the way my imagination had the little bud at the apex of my thighs tingling about now. I squeezed my legs together.

  “As much as my girlie bits would love to take Deke’s lips for a ride for old times’ sake, he is not the reason I’m here.” I pointedly ignored the disappointment brewing in the eyes across the table. “I’ll go to his house, eat dinner with him and hope he plays nice. When it’s all over, I’ll drive myself back to the lodge and climb into bed.” I shot down any optimism Beth may have been conjuring with a hard stare. “And I will be sleeping alone.”

  After a single visit with the funeral director I had a printed checklist—a to-do list that I eagerly accepted. So far, I was making good progress. In my work, lists and spreadsheets were the engine that kept me moving forward. Who knew getting Cooter buried would be so easy?

  It seemed there’d been a procession streaming in to volunteer as pall bearers. Huh? Most of the other decisions were made while I was busy wrapping my brain around that. The funeral parlor provided appropriate music. Did I care for a photographer? Seriously? How about a video? Oh, hell no!

  By the end of our two-hour meeting, all that remained was for me to provide a casket and an outfit to bury the man in. I was okay with him wearing the blue jeans and Braves T-shirt he died in—since when was he a baseball fan, anyway?—but the frown I received seemed to indicate that wasn’t acceptable. I gathered up my checklist. Looked as though I’d be making another trip to Cooter’s house, where hopefully there was something suitable hanging in his closet.

  With the bulk of my day thankfully behind me, I pulled out the page Deke scribbled his directions on and followed the highway to the turnoff marked by an oversized rural mailbox. The long driveway to his home led through a stand of trees so thick it nearly blocked the sun overhead. Deke had never been one to yearn for privacy the way I had. Nor had he been a big nature lover; he much preferred his studies to any outdoor adventure. So why he chose to live alone and isolated was beyond me. The area was beautiful, though. Peaceful.

  The woods opened to an expanse of shrubbery-lined lawn that stretched before me for acres. Enormous trees dotted the lawn as I drew closer to the house, concealing the structure from view as I approached. I circled a gurgling fountain as I neared and arrived beneath a porte cochere wide enough to house at least three cars. From there I simply stared in awe.

  There were log cabins and there were log cabins, but there was nothing Little House on the Prairie about Deke’s house. Absolutely nothing. The multi-level, multi-decked home spread out before me would start a bidding war among celebrities if it were for sale in say, either Aspen or Sun Valley.

  So how did a guy who gave up the lucrative rat race to move back to Tennessee and teach high school afford this kind of high life? And why? I got out of the car and followed the stone path to the front door. Inquiring minds had to know.

  Deke himself answered on my first knock, pulling the door open as if he’d been watching for me from the other side.

  A quick smile tilted the corners of his lips as he widened the door so I could enter. “Hi, Dixie. You have any trouble finding me?”

  A uniformed maid would have shocked the hell out of me, yet somehow better fit the picture in this grand foyer than this hunk of manliness all freshly scrubbed and pressed in khaki shorts and a plaid button down. Or maybe that was simply me channeling my mother.

  “No problem at all. There’s a spot just down the road where I used to hang out. I think you were there with me a few times. Maybe you forgot.” The scent of his aftershave as I brushed his cheek with a kiss wound its way through my senses and had my pulse jumping. The scruff on his face seemed neater than at the market this morning. Had he taken the time to trim it?

  “Hmm.” He shrugged and the ends of his hair brushed against one broad shoulder. “I made a pitcher of margaritas.” He turned to lead the way. “We can have it on the back porch while dinner’s finishing up. Did you get a chance to rest?”

  “A little.” I checked into the lodge earlier and lay down, certain sleep would be instantaneous. But fatigue worked against me, and rather than let me nap, my mind raced with memories of Deke—and of me and Deke together. I had done a good job of suppressing them since I moved away, but in the dark, quiet room it was safe to remember that Deke played a major role in my leaving. It wasn’t a subject I wanted to dredge up during my short return.

  A margarita sounded good. Refreshing. But I could only imagine that exhaustion mixed with alcohol was likely to cause . . . complications.

  Maybe I should have passed on dinner after all.

  From the entry hall, I got an impression of high ceilings and massive spaces. “Your house is beautiful. How long have you lived here?”

  “Only a few months. Most of the rooms are still empty.” He motioned for me to follow, then started walking and my attention was caught on the casual way his khaki shorts hung from his hips and how his muscular thighs tapered to firm calves. It would be so easy to wrap my arm around his waist and pull him close the way I did easily once upon a time.

  I folded my hands behind my back to resist the urge.

  “When Shane’s wife died I moved in with them to help with his son, Cody. They were both in pretty bad shape back then.” He lifted a framed photograph as we passed a built-in bookshelf. “Here he is.”

  He passed me the picture and I took a glance at the dark-haired toddler before I replaced it on the shelf. “Cute kid.” He seemed to live alone, and I’d wondered—well, of course I had. Beth hadn’t mentioned a wife or kids, but then, she hadn’t mentioned the extra four inches in height or the sculpted biceps I was tempted to wrap my hands around to see if they were as firm as they appeared, either.

  “Here we are.” I’d followed him through the rooms to where a wall of glass overlooked an expansive deck and partially wooded lawn beyond. In the distance the creek wandered along the tree line.

  “Wow, what a great view!”

  He led the way through open French doors. The perimeter of the railed deck was fitted with planter boxes, all overflowing with hanging blossoms. My hand absently lifted a stem as I passed and its heady scent filled the air, along with the aroma of something mouthwatering coming from the grill. I briefly met Deke’s eyes. “What made you decide to get your own place?�
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  His hands were occupied with filling tinted umbrella glasses with pale lime slush. “Too many roosters in the coop, I guess.” He gave me another of his shrugs. “When Shane first brought Cody back home he bought the Wilkerson place just up the road. You remember them, Ada Jo and Mort? Sure you do.” He set down the pitcher and pushed back his glorious hair before he lifted the salt rimmed glasses and carried them over. “Anyway, they moved out west when their daughter had her second baby. Colorado, I think.”

  Untethered, his hair hung straight and framed his face in silky strands, as though it would just pour through my fingers. I liked it. “When we started to get on each other’s nerves, Shane offered to sell me part of his land. He had eighty acres; too much for him, even with his veterinary practice out there and a growing boy roaming around. I took twenty.”

  “And decided to build.”

  He handed me a glass and cast a sweeping glance over the area beyond. “I decided to build.” Our glasses clinked when he touched his rim against mine, then he took a sip and set his drink on the glass-topped table. Moving to the barbeque, he transferred ribs from the grate to a sturdy stoneware platter.

  The water in the creek shimmered in the early evening light. “Is the water deep here? Do you fish? Swim?” I generally avoided asking personal questions. That way I didn’t feel obligated to offer information of my own. But Deke already knew where my skeletons were stashed.

  He glanced up from his work at the grill with a wide smile. “Both, actually. Cody has this little Spider-Man fishing pole he likes to bring over. The water’s always moving so it stays cool, even during the warmest days. Maybe you’d like to come by one afternoon before you leave.”

  His signals were mixed, and throwing me off. Was that an invitation? He hadn’t exactly posed it as a question, yet his eyebrow was cocked as if waiting for an answer. Deke McAllister in loose swimming trunks with ripped abs and bare skin glistening with sweat and water. The wonders Mother Nature had wrought to his body had my imagination in overdrive.

  To distract myself, I skipped down the steps to the yard and took in the entire layout. Evergreens and enormous shade trees dotted the lawn leading down to the creek. Their canopies sheltered wooden benches and a pair of bright blue Adirondack chairs. A rectangular building off to one side looked as though it might be a shed or maybe a detached garage; its exterior mirrored the exquisite design of the house. “What’s that over there? Is that your garage?” In California, most were attached to the house.

  His eyes followed the direction of my gaze before turning away. “No, that’s where I work.”

  “Your office? Why a separate space with all those rooms still empty inside? This is an awfully big house for one person, Deke.”

  He set the plate of meat on the table beside the rest of the meal and grinned over the rail. “I don’t plan to live alone forever, Dixie.”

  “Oh. Sure. Right.” That shut me up.

  The evening was warm and sultry. A light breeze fluttered a wisp of hair into my face and I brushed the loose strand away. I pushed back my nearly empty plate—wiped clean except for an embarrassing number of rib bones. “Thank you again for inviting me. I can’t believe I ate so much.”

  Deke had been funny, and entertaining with story after story about small town life and the teenage hijinks of his students. I shared a few details about managing the business lives of celebrity athletes and pop stars, which sometimes felt as though I was dealing with temperamental teenagers. It all made me remember why I’d liked him so much.

  So far we’d managed to ignore the hot pink elephant seated in the chair between us, but the slide-off glances and half-finished sentences had me reaching for my never-empty glass as often as I did my fork. It was time to find a safe, preferably boring, topic of conversation.

  “This morning I heard you’re running for mayor. That’s a bit of a departure for you.” Or it would have been for the introverted Deke I knew. I leveled my breathing and held his gaze. Maybe he was into politics and public adulation now.

  “In the running. Doesn’t mean I’ll win.” I must have appeared unconvinced. He braced his forearms on the table and leaned in. “This town is a great place to live, to raise a family. But it has problems. It needs growth—the right kind of growth—to convince our young people to stay rather than moving off to the big cities. I’d like to think I can help.” Was that a dig at me for leaving? I searched his expression, but it didn’t hold anything except sincere love for his town. I could let a careless slip of the tongue slide.

  “That’s spoken like a true candidate. But you’ll need to earn my vote.”

  He chuckled but his eyes had turned serious. He reached across the table for my hand. His palm was warm and calloused but smooth against mine. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. You have to be a resident to vote, Dixie.”

  Right again. Whatever I thought would never count. “Regardless of my vote, I think you’re a lock. Have you seen all the campaign flyers around town? Everywhere I went today you were plastered in the window. You seem quite popular.”

  Deke’s smile was self-deprecating. “So you hit the two or three places that have my posters hung, huh?”

  Our hands separated as I leaned back in my seat and let my heels clatter to the deck. He’d left a bit of barbeque sauce on the side of my thumb. I lifted my hand to suck it off, and his throat bobbed with a heavy swallow. “Let’s see.” I raised my palm and used my fingers to count. “Nine hand lettered signs at the market. Nine. At one store. I counted them. Then there were the posters at the funeral home, and then at the florist—full color. Somebody laid out some cash for those bad boys.” When I crossed my legs and stretched them out under the table, my bare toes accidentally brushed his calf. The light matting of hair was crisp against the firm muscle of his leg. His thumb began tracing the outline of his lips. Slowly, as though he might be pondering something life-changing, his eyebrows lowered. I was tempted to keep rubbing.

  He lifted his glass and used it to point at me. “So far, you haven’t won your argument. That’s still only three stops. Surely I have more admirers than that.”

  I rolled my eyes; now he was making fun of me. I folded down each finger as I ticked more off my list. “I stopped by Cooter’s lawyer this afternoon. Mr. Jamison made sure I knew he favored you. He was quite effusive in his endorsement.”

  “Tig Jamison, huh? You mean my dad’s golfing partner? Not exactly impartial, now, is he?

  I allowed a smug smile to occupy my face. “While I was in town I also ran by the only realtor I could find. I had to wait in the lobby for the receptionist’s phone to quit ringing before she could help me. Do you realize she answers the telephone by saying ‘McAllister for mayor’?”

  He bolted upright. “She doesn’t.”

  “Hand to God!” I raised my palm. “Like it’s your campaign headquarters.”

  He leaned back against the padded cushion, mirroring my casual posture, his gaze thoughtful. “So, it seems I may not need your vote after all. It also seems you made a bit of progress today. I hope people were helpful.”

  “Oh, like you wouldn’t believe. Everyone has a tale about George.” I picked up my glass for a sip. It was because of George that I was even here. “That reminds me, did you know you can order a funeral by number?”

  He grimaced. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  I nodded. “Sure. You got somebody recently departed? Just swing on by, they’ll hook you up. Offer as many add-ons as you like to the package. Yep, I’ll take a four please, supersized, hold the video.”

  His eyes widened, then narrowed. He covered his mouth with his hand, probably to hide a smirk. “One stop shopping.” The thumb concealing his lips started rubbing across them again. My thoughts took a left turn.

  Would those lips feel the same as they had years ago—tentative, yet appealing? Or had Deke’s kisses matured along with the rest of him? I shook the image away and sputtered out a laugh. “Nearly, anyway.”

  I gulp
ed down the last melted sip of my margarita and waved him off when he reached for the pitcher. I should have stopped long ago, because somewhere over the past two hours the boy I’d loved—the one who still existed in my memories—grew and matured and melded into the man before me. The one who loved his family and cared about his students, and could joke about his community but was concerned about its future.

  And I would leave him. Again.

  His sudden silence seemed nervous, and worried me. If it meant he was contemplating dredging up old times, I’d have to pass. And if that hot gaze meant he wanted to rekindle the fun times, well, I’d have to pass on that, too. But it would be harder.

  “I heard you went by Cooter’s house today.”

  My gaze flew from the fireflies at the edge of the yard and met his. Damn, now I needed another drink. “I did, but how did you—?”

  He shrugged. “Moreover.”

  “Of course.”

  He stacked our plates on the edge of the wide table so there was nothing left between us. It was a nice view. “Was it okay?”

  Was it? I let my head loll to the side as he rubbed circles with his index finger on the glass table. It seemed to captivate him. “It was . . . different. Smaller. Run down, but not trashy the way I expected. The inside was neater than I could have imagined.”

  “Things aren’t always the way we remember them.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I chuckled, which got his attention. “Mrs. Hoffer was there; that was bizarre. Baked me a coffee cake, moved around the house as if she owned the place. Told me to call her Elsie.” I studied Deke from across the table. The flicker of a few chunky candles in the pale evening threw shadows over the sculpted lines of his face. It was tempting to reach across to test its firmness. I’d already decided the film of whiskers must be soft to the touch. The margaritas were making me more curious than brave. I sat forward in my chair. “Do you happen to know if she and Cooter . . . you know?”