Southern Hospitality

by Sally Falcon

  “Uh-huh,” he answered, giving her the impression he’d like to deny it. Without another word he tossed his kid leather case, along with his sport coat and cashmere topcoat, into the back of the truck. He only flinched slightly as he noticed the bits of straw and dirt in the truck bed.

  Tory marched around the bulky front end of the truck. She jerked open her door, ignoring the protest of the hinges. Curtiss had driven the truck last, which meant she needed to spend time making up for his neglect. If it didn’t have four legs, an object wasn’t worth her younger brother’s attention, even one of T.L.’s vintage vehicles. Too bad Logan only had two legs, or she could hand him over to Curtiss; however, she’d agreed to be press officer for the rally group. T.L.’s high-handedness, Curtiss’s neglect, and her own stupidity were making this a wonderful afternoon. And the fact that in spite of his good looks, Logan Herrington’s personality almost had less charm than her boorish oldest brother Sanders.

  She barely gave Herrington time to get settled before she slammed the truck into gear. Her raw feelings found solace in controlling the modified engine under the pickup’s hood. Influenced by her temper, she aimed the truck out of the airport drive with less than her usual skill. Maneuvering the vehicle kept her from admitting most of her present troubles were her own fault, and that Logan Herrington made the truck’s cab seem to shrink to half its size.

  “Is the airport always this hectic?” her passenger asked, his tone colored with a superiority managed only by inhabitants of metropolitan areas with populations over a million.

  “It’s never really crowded, Mr. Herrington,” she snapped, making the turn onto the road as sharp as possible when the man failed to mask his snort of disdain. “It was planned that way. Unlike a few well-known, congested airports I’ve been in, this one has the parking traffic separated from the drive-through traffic. That’s what gets the airport emptied so quickly—careful planning.”

  “I see,” Logan responded, then fell silent. Tory was sure he was planning his next negative comment while she accelerated down the road toward the expressway. She couldn’t very well tell him to stick it in his ear, as if he were one of her brothers.

  She gave him a sidelong look, slowing for the entrance ramp. He even had an irritating posture-perfect way of sitting. He certainly didn’t look happy to be here, or maybe he was just naturally disagreeable. His air of sophistication didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in rally racing. She’d learned during her first weekend working on a rally that the conversation could range from Art Deco architecture to yacht racing, as well as driving tactics. Looks meant nothing.

  Today no one would guess she was Victoria Planchet, the owner and creator of Bill of Fare Catering, soon to be Bill of Fare Shoppes. She didn’t appear to be the same business woman who was a Cordon Blue chef, the recipient of numerous rave reviews from food critics, and winner of many cooking awards. No one would recognize her as the same elegant woman who had accepted the Little Rock Chamber of Commerce’s top award just two weeks ago.

  “So, how far was the airport planned from your thriving metropolis, Ms. Planchet?” Logan asked with irritation, ruining the softening of his companion’s mood brought on by her own thoughts.

  “You’ll see it after we get through the woods and the swamp,” she returned, her sweet voice one that would have made Blanche DuBois envious. The wooded scenery on either side of the highway helped her exaggeration, not revealing that they were only a few miles from a city with close to 200,000 people. He was expecting uncivilized surroundings, so why not give them to him? she thought, already forgetting her earlier twinge of remorse.

  “How fascinating,” he replied, his bored tone only confirming her suspicions.

  That goaded her into her next move. Deftly she flipped the tape out of the tapeplayer and reached down into the container on the seat between them. A quick glance at the new tape’s title she’d selected from her brother’s section made her smile in satisfaction. Herrington didn’t need to know she was replacing David Sanborn’s sax with David Allen Coe. Curtiss’s taste for country-western music would add just the right atmosphere to the remainder of the ride. She knew she guessed correctly when her passenger winced the moment Coe began his ultimate country western song, You Never Even Called Me By My Name, that included trucks, trains, prison, booze, lost love, and his mama in the appropriate plaintive voice.

  “Curtiss says you’re here for three months to get human interest material, as well as cover the rallies around the area,” Tory began as the city’s skyline came into view, her tone suggesting he wouldn’t know a human’s interest if he fell over it. She forged on, determined that he wouldn’t be the only one making keen observations. “From my year at Vassar, let me guess at your background.”

  “You went to Vassar in New York?” Logan asked, clearly unable to stop himself. His startled question implied she’d just landed from Mars and wanted to see his leader.

  “Is there another one? I didn’t realize,” she returned, smiling placidly while turning off the expressway. “As I was saying, you must have started at Choate, and like all good, little Massachusetts Ivy Leaguers gone on to Harvard.”

  “Princeton, actually. Herringtons don’t like to follow the masses,” her companion confided. Tory caught the faint ghost of a smile on his lips out of the corner of her eye, but decided it was her imagination.

  “How daring. Princeton it is then, before you followed faithfully in your daddy’s footsteps in the family business,” she finished in triumph. He couldn’t deny he’d joined the Herrington Publishing Group since that was who had sent him here. The touch of humor—no matter how fleeting—almost threw her. There couldn’t be too much humor in anyone who said, awk-too-ally.

  “Only a year at Vassar? Was it the snow?”

  There it was again, that hint of amusement in his voice—a voice that was getting a suspiciously heavier New England accent with every syllable. “I only agreed to go North for a year to my mother’s alma mater. Then I was allowed to go to the school of my choice.”

  “Which was?” he prompted, showing real curiosity at what school she selected over Vassar.

  “The University of Nevada at Las Vegas,” Tory announced proudly with her own touch of superiority before changing gears to scale the steep incline of Cantrell Hill. Herrington wouldn’t guess she’d gone to Nevada to learn hotel management, but became so fascinated with catering and food preparation that she’d developed those special skills. Even T.L. was proud of her select catering service that customer demand was now expanding into three retail stores, specializing in meals for what Trevor called the “Zap and Serve” crowd.

  “That’s certainly an interesting choice,” Logan replied without bothering to hide his skepticism.

  “The climate was so much better for my health, and I didn’t hear how funny I talked three times a day from absolute strangers, who had a distinctive accent of their own,” Tory informed him. She knew she was baiting him, but she just couldn’t seem to help herself. Although she’d made a number of good friends at Vassar, there were also many who treated her as if she’d just learned to wear shoes and eat food with utensils.

  She wasn’t sure if that was why she was being so hateful to Logan, or if it was his similarity to her oldest brother. Sanders tolerated his younger sister and two brothers, but was always critical of anything they said or did. Tory, Trevor, and Curtiss were sure that T.L. had been given the wrong baby at the hospital and got Sanders by mistake. Of course, Sanders wasn’t anywhere near as good-looking as Logan.

  As quickly as the thought came, Tory knew she needed to do something to offset it. “So, was I right, Mr. Herrington? Are you Mr. Ivy League?”

  “I get the impression you’re describing something that crawled out from under a rock,” Logan answered softly, all traces of humor gone from his voice and handsome face.

  Tory knew he gave her a searching look from beneath half-closed eyelids before he turned back to watching the houses they passed. “Let�
�s just say the axiom of East meeting West goes tenfold for me with North and South. The cold climate seems to have a decidedly adverse effect on Yankee development.”

  The silence in the truck’s cab was eloquent as Tory downshifted for a red light. Her hand squeezed the knob of the gearshift tightly as she wondered if she’d gone a tad too far.

  “Well, what now, Miz Scarlet?” inquired Logan, his imitation of her own slight accent coming out with the usual disastrous results when a Yankee attempted a southern drawl of any kind.

  His mimicry grated on her nerves, even without his name calling. She’d give him a little southern lady’s piece of her mind. She snapped her head around to glare at him, whipping off her sunglasses to allow him the full impact of her venomous stare. Her eyes locked with the direct, slate-blue gaze that was much closer than she expected. She wasn’t prepared for the tingle of excitement that skated down her spine. Blinking rapidly she tried to maintain her composure, as well as remember her own name under his mesmerizing gaze. The man was lethal, in spite of the last twenty minutes of aggravation he’d caused. He also knew the effect he was having on her from the way his mouth was beginning to turn up on one side. She had to get him home, fast, before she did something utterly ridiculous, such as test what it would be like to kiss his square-cut lower lip.

  An irate honk from the car behind them saved Tory from any foolishness. What am I doing? she asked herself, steering the truck through the intersection. I almost made a pass at this infuriating man. If he was what I’d expected, a little weasel of man in a bow tie, I’d have pushed him out of the truck before we reached the city limits.

  Neither of them attempted to break the less than companionable silence as Tory drove through the select subdivision that covered the northern heights above the Arkansas River. As they passed the sprawling ranch-style homes and modem Colonials, Tory tried to figure out why Logan was here. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that Logan didn’t want to be here, any more than she wanted him here. When the iron fence that marked the beginning of the Planchet property came into sight, she determined it was time to do a little more probing.

  “You’ll be staying at the big house with T.L. The property has been in the family since the first Planchet came up from Louisiana, and we’ve kept several acres up here tucked among the suburbanites. The house was built in the 1890s, as well as the cottage I live in,” she said in a rush while punching in the security code on the panel. The gate in front of them glided open the minute she touched the final digit. “Although I suppose Curtiss is officially your host.”

  “Curtiss is the rally coordinator for the Arkansas Traveler group, right?”

  “Yes. You’ll be meeting the entire family at dinner tonight,” she said, aware that he’d turned to watch her. “Trevor oversees the control crews as the rally master.”

  “What do they do?”

  “The control crew?” Tory took her eyes from the narrow drive for a moment in her astonishment at his lack of knowledge. Logan met her glance without blinking, giving her an almost indiscernible nod as if he regretted his question. “The control crew times each stage of the race. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

  Logan moved his head from side to side twice. His shoulders had a rigid set to them, almost as though he was bracing himself for her next words. Tory was completely flummoxed. “Have you ever been to a rally?”

  “No. The closest I’ve gotten has been watching a few European events on ESPN and picking up a copy of Rally Driver,” Logan answered, giving her a sheepish look that reminded her of her nephew, Ty Daniel.

  “But—” Tory never formed her question as the elegant facade of her family home came into view. Her usual feeling of warmth at the sight of the double turreted, forest-green Queen-Anne-style Victorian house was absent. The cause for her disgust was framed in the moon-gate arch of the porch that curved around the house. She should have known that T.L. had something up his sleeve.

  If T.L. hadn’t gone into business, he’d probably have made a fortune on the stage. Her daddy was one of the biggest hams she’d ever seen, and he loved to play any role that struck his fancy. One day he’d be the serious, hard-nosed business executive—silk three-piece suit and wing tips—and the next it was overalls and a baseball cap. He also had the talent for selecting the character that would irritate the people he was dealing with the most. He loved to keep everyone off balance while he choreographed every move.

  She almost felt sorry for Logan, unless his uncle had given him fair warning ahead of time. She doubted it. T.L. was something that had to be experienced, and Logan was about to do just that. With his disgruntled mood over being in Little Rock, Logan was a lamb going to slaughter, and she was delivering him to the packing house.

  As Tory suddenly braked to a stop, Logan wondered what caused the look of horror in her maple-colored eyes—eyes that had fascinated him from the moment she took off her sunglasses. Although he much preferred the view that was limited to Tory’s profile, he turned his head to see what caused her alarm.

  A man of about sixty sat contentedly rocking in a chair that was perfectly framed by the graceful lines of the porch entrance. He wasn’t hard to miss because he stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the stately house. Logan was more familiar with Colonial and Federal architecture, but he recognized the Planchet house as a showpiece of its period. A glowing example that didn’t need a man dressed in dirty jeans, a threadbare shirt, and gaudy suspenders marring its splendor.

  With a feeling of dread, Logan knew who the man with the litter of empty beer cans at his feet was. “Is that your father?”

  “Yup, that’s my Paw,” Tory replied through clenched teeth.

  Logan noticed her lilting voice suddenly had a flat, nasal quality. He gave her a sharp look, but she was already scrambling out of the truck, shutting her door with a slam.

  “Well, girl, what took ya so darn long?” T.L. bellowed from the porch as his daughter ate up the ground between them in a straight legged stride. “T’ain’t hardly anyplace further away than a twenty minute jaunt from here.”

  Logan got out of the truck cautiously, his eyes never leaving the pair who were now eye to eye on the porch. He couldn’t hear Tory’s reply because she didn’t attain T.L.’s decibel level. As the two continued their heated discussion, Logan pulled his suitcase and coats out of the back of the truck. As he shook out his coat and jacket, he wondered if Preston would allow him to stay at a hotel during his stay, or even take a temporary apartment. With one twanging sentence, the broad-faced T.L. Planchet had set his teeth on edge. Given three months of the man, Logan knew he would undoubtedly leap off the overhang where the ground fell away on the far side of the house.

  “Well, Mr. Herrington, how was yer trip?” T.L. asked anyone within twenty miles as Logan placed his foot on the first step of the porch.

  “Fine, sir, just fine,” Logan murmured, ascending the seven wooden steps that brought him level with the others. Reluctantly, he put down his suitcase to clasp the hand T.L. stuck out. While Logan had his entire arm pumped by the older man, he looked toward Tory for some help. She stared back at him blandly, only raising her eyebrows in mild inquiry. Her expression gave nothing away as she rocked back and forth from the heels to the balls of her feet, her hands clasped behind her back.

  Logan’s shoulder was saved from being dislocated by a feminine voice from behind the wood-framed screen door. “T.L., is that your company?”

  “Sure is, Arnette. Come on out and meet Pres’s boy,” T.L. bellowed over his shoulder and released his death grip on Logan’s hand.

  Rapid footsteps on a bare wood floor were the only answer to the summons. A slender woman close to T.L.’s age appeared in the doorway. Logan almost heaved a sigh of relief at her appearance as she opened the door. She was dressed in a casual cotton dress of a delicate rose color with an apron in a complimentary, tiny-figured design tied around her waist. Her blond hair was lightly streaked with gray and pulled into
a demure bun.

  “T.L., why are ya’ll standing out here on the porch?” Arnette demanded in a gentle but firm voice, placing her hands on her hips. “What will Mr. Herrington think of our manners, especially with this mess I told you to clean up still here?”

  “Now, Arnette—”

  “Don’t try to sweet talk, Tyrone Lucius,” the lady interrupted, actually admonishing him by shaking one finger at him. The action reminded Logan of Babs scolding Preston for overworking. “I told you I wanted this house spotless with company coming, and the whole family descending on us for dinner. You have no more sense than little Ty Daniel. Now, introduce me to this nice young man.”

  “Arnette Montgomery, this is Logan Herrington, our guest for the next three months,” T.L. said immediately, his voice lowering to a reasonable level. “Arnette is my very own benevolent despot, boy. She’s taken care of this household for almost twenty years.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Montgomery,” Logan responded, trying to suppress a smile at T.L.’s cowed expression. His uncle looked the same after one of Babs’s lectures, and his aunt usually had the same amused gleam of triumph in her eyes as the lady who now graciously shook his hand.

  “You call me Arnette, just like your uncle Pres does,” she said quietly, giving the two Planchets that flanked her a derisive look. “At least I can be assured of a real gentleman with manners to appreciate my work in the next few months. Any relative of Preston Herrington’s knows how to behave.”

  “What room have you prepared for Logan, Arnette?” Tory broke in before Logan could ask just when the older woman had met his uncle. This was the first he’d heard that Preston had ever been in Arkansas.

  “I put him in Trev’s old room in the east turret,” Arnette answered, then glanced at her watch. “Tory, you get Logan settled, then get dressed in something presentable for dinner. T.L., you pick up those cans like I told you, or you can find your dinner out at Curtiss’s stable with his horses. Excuse me now, Logan, I have a cake to get in the oven.”