by Molly Harper
No.
She shook her head.
No.
She’d had this plan since she was a kid. She’d spent years studying, clerking, earning her spot. Everybody in this town knew that she was planning to be a lawyer. What would people think if she didn’t follow through?
Okay, that was also a pretty stupid reason to commit a small fortune to an education when there was a tiny possibility she didn’t want it.
“That’s McBride white lightnin’. Mama gets it from her cousin, Clayton, and you know she only uses it when she has a migraine.”
Marianne turned to see Frankie standing behind her wearing pink-and-orange camouflage pants with a bright pink T-shirt. “Yeah, I’m no medical professional, but I don’t know how smart it is to knock yourself unconscious to avoid a headache.”
“Couldn’t possibly be as dumb as poutin’ your way through a mason jar full of the stuff,” Frankie noted.
“I’m not poutin’. This is my second jar, so there.”
Frankie shuddered. Marianne’s cousin was an acquired taste, like grapefruit juice mixed with a little bit of crazy. Frankie had been diagnosed with a particularly nasty case of leukemia when they were just in elementary school. Marianne didn’t understand everything at the time, of course, just that her daddy told her, very honestly, that Frankie was sick and her parents were afraid that she would never get better.
It was during that time that Frankie started hanging out with Marianne’s dad. Marianne didn’t realize until later that Junior had been introducing Frankie to the concept of death, trying to make it less scary. If anything, he seemed to make it fascinating for her. Frankie went into the hospital a regular little girl who loved My Little Pony, and left wanting to dye her hair Easter-egg purple as it regrew and asking to join her father as he worked in the mortuary.
Sometimes Marianne envied Frankie’s closeness with Junior. Their work was something Marianne would never be able to share. Marianne had wandered downstairs into her dad’s workspace when she was nine, saw poor Kerwin Helms all laid out on the prep table, then promptly screamed herself hoarse and passed out. She’d had nightmares for months and ended up having to talk to a counselor at her school. That was the end of any possible career at the funeral home.
And when Marianne was younger, she’d been jealous. After all, Frankie’s parents both thought the sun and moon set on everything she did. Hell, Uncle Stan went through surgical procedures to keep her alive. Frankie had enough adults who adored her. Why did she need Marianne’s father, too? But eventually she understood that her dad needed someone to pass his skill on to, and it was obvious she wasn’t going to take on the task. And Duffy spent more time out on the water than he did on land. So she stopped being jealous of Frankie, and was just grateful someone in the family was willing to serve as undertaker for another generation.
Frankie plopped down on the wood next to her. “So what’s the bee up your butt?”
“I don’t have a bee up my butt.”
Frankie pointed to her face. “Skeptical.”
Marianne opened her mouth to say she was fine, but Frankie pointed at her face again. “It’s Carl.”
“Of course it is. Somehow that skinny goof Duffy used to bring around for barbecues grew into a magical unicorn.”
Marianne’s brow furrowed, imagining rough, manly Carl in sparkly rainbow coveralls. “I’m sorry, what?”
“He doesn’t drink too much. He’s employed and works hard. He doesn’t have commitment issues, kids, or crazy ex-girlfriends. He doesn’t attach way too much emotion to the outcome of UGA football. He’s a mythical, perfect man, difficult to find. Impossible to capture. A unicorn.”
“Well, that’s a disturbin’ image. And I’m the crazy ex in this scenario. I think I may hate his girlfriend. I mean, she sounds like a nice person, from all accounts, but I sort of want to shave off her eyebrows when I meet her.”
“So this is about Jessie Beele? I wouldn’t get wound up about it. I mean, everybody says they’re datin’, but I don’t think it’s anything serious.”
Marianne pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Ugh, why do I care? It’s none of my business. He should be happy. I shouldn’t want him to be alone so I can be comfortable. I’m not a complete troll.”
“So, really, in the long run, you’d like to be able to see Carl in a casual social settin’ and have a regular, normal conversation. Smile, tell tall tales, all that, right?”
“Sure.” Marianne lifted an eyebrow. “What are you gettin’ at, Frankie?”
“You can’t be mad, you agreed this would be for the best,” Frankie spat out in a rapid-fire delivery. It was at that moment Marianne realized that her back was turned to the dock, and Frankie had spent the entire conversation facing out toward the water. She hadn’t turned toward Marianne, which would have given her a view of the dock.
Oh, no.
A rough burlap sack dropped over her head, scratching her face as it was yanked down her body. “Yipe!”
Marianne was shoved back on the dock so the feed bag could be pulled all the way down to her knees. And she heard the harsh plastic scrape of—
“Are you duct-taping me into this thing?” she howled as the tape was wound around her knees. “What if I can’t breathe?”
“Come on, Manny.” She heard Duffy’s voice through the burlap. “We’re goin’ out. And just take deep breaths.”
“You too, Duffy?” Marianne shouted as her brother lifted and tossed her over his shoulder like, well, a sack of feed. “Why couldn’t you just ask me to go with you like a normal person?”
“Kidnapping suits my sense of whimsy.” Frankie was apparently following behind them, but was smart enough to stay out of kicking range. “We even picked the sorghum feed so you’d smell good all night.”
“I’ll give you whimsy when I get out of this,” Marianne muttered as Duffy stepped onto an unstable surface that bobbed up and down. “Are you putting me on a boat? What in the hell? What if you drop me? You will literally be drowning your sister in a bag like some monster in one of Tootie’s bedtime stories.”
“You’ll thank me later,” Frankie told her as Duffy dropped her into a swiveling seat. She assumed that meant they were on her brother’s bass boat, with the free-standing captain’s chairs.
Marianne huffed, “You couldn’t at least take the bag off for the ride?!”
Duffy yanked the chain on the outboard motor and yelled, “Sorry! Can’t hear you!”
“I’ve been drinking moonshine, you dipstick! I hope I throw up in your stupid boat!”
MARIANNE SPENT MOST OF HER captivity coming up with increasingly creative and violent insults to her brother and cousin. She called Frankie a sociopathic wackaloon and implied that Duffy’s genitalia were merely decorative. She threatened to find Frankie’s favorite childhood bear, Mr. Wizzer, and leave him out for the coyotes. She threatened to tell their parents what really happened the day Duffy claimed a rogue Asian carp somehow destroyed the outboard motor on Donna’s new boat.
While Duffy was frightened into silence, Frankie cackled. Marianne was going to have to brush up on her threatening skills.
The boat slowed to a stop and while he was opening the door, Duffy said, “Now, Marianne, remember I did this because I love you . . . and Frankie thought you would find this much, much funnier.”
“Cut me loose or I will tell Mama what Lana was doing to distract you when you ran her boat aground,” Marianne growled.
Duffy carefully tugged his pocketknife through the duct tape and then ran into the trees. Frankie pulled the bag over her head, leaving Marianne’s hair a frizzy, molasses-scented mess.
Marianne told her, “Run.”
Frankie blew out an amused raspberry sound. “If we hadn’t kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have come with us.”
“What does that tell you?”
“That you’re about as fun as canned potato salad,” Frankie told her.
Marianne realized that the boat was one of a dozen or so docked on an island about the size of a baseball diamond, sparsely populated by spindly live oak trees. A couple of guys Marianne recognized from high school were stoking a healthy bonfire in the center of the little spit of land. Dozens of people from her class were milling around the island, chatting and drinking beer from classic red Coleman coolers. A few of them waved, and Marianne waggled her fingers in return, very aware that she looked like she’d just been rolled out of a feed sack. Because she had.
“Make-Out Island?” Marianne sighed, running her fingers through her dark hair. “You brought me to Make-Out Island?”
“A couple of people heard you were back in town and wanted to celebrate your return with a bonfire.”
“So you delivered me to the birthplace of VD?” Marianne groaned. Make-Out Island probably had a proper name, assigned when the Army Corps of Engineers dammed the Chattahoochee and created Lake Sackett. It was one of several “large enough to walk on, but too small to inhabit” islands dotting the interior of the lake. And this one just happened to be the premier spot for local high school students to experiment with alcohol and various other activities nice Baptist kids weren’t supposed to enjoy.
Marianne wondered if her bra was still hanging from the tree where she and Carl had carved their initials. High winds and woodland nudity were not a good combination.
“Was this really a welcome home party for me, or were y’all just eager to relive your drunken glory days?” Marianne asked as her cousin dragged her toward the fire pit.
“Six of one, half a dozen of th’other,” Frankie said. “Oh, look, Carl’s here.”
Marianne’s head whipped toward Frankie, who was nodding at the tree line. Carl was slowly approaching the party, carrying a six-pack but keeping his right hand free. It was a habit he’d never quite broken, she supposed, wanting to keep his punching hand at the ready as he walked into the unknown. He’d done the same thing on the rare occasion that they’d visited his family’s trailer.
Carl had dressed up for the evening, she noticed. His hair was still damp and his hands were scrubbed. His face was wary but clean of grease. He was wearing dark-wash jeans and a plaid shirt with—gasp—sleeves. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that development.
“Wha—” But Frankie had already disappeared into the crowd, grabbing a beer and screeching at whoever controlled the Blake Shelton on the boom box to “turn it up!”
That was the moment Carl made eye contact with her, and the moment she remembered she was wearing nothing but a white camisole and suit pants, covered in sorghum dust.
“Georgia is a death penalty state. Georgia is a death penalty state. Georgia is a death penalty state,” she muttered, turning on her heel to seek out any form of available booze.
And she ran smack into a dainty figure in a sunshine-colored dress. Jessie Beele was even prettier close up. She had a smooth cameo of a face, naturally rosy lips, big eyes the color of violets. Hell, Marianne wanted to crawl into her lap and ask for a story, which would probably be weird.
“Um, hi,” Marianne said.
A perfect smile lit up Jessie’s face. “I haven’t said this in years, but I don’t think I know you.”
Marianne snorted. “Not since you moved to Lake Sackett?”
Jessie laughed and it sounded like silver bells. Marianne took a fortifying, though smoky, breath and stretched out her hand. “I’m Marianne—”
“McCready!” Jessie cried, throwing her arms around her. “I’m so glad to meet you! Your family has been so excited you’re coming home.”
“O . . . kay.” Marianne patted Jessie’s back. “Thank you.”
Jessie released her from the hug. “Frankie’s told me so much about you. And Duffy. Everybody’s been so sweet to me, trying to make me feel welcome, even though I’m not local.”
“Of course they did,” Marianne said. “So, where are you from?”
“Oh, a tiny little town, almost to the Florida state line. You probably never heard of it.”
“Smaller than Lake Sackett?”
“Well, yeah, y’all have two stoplights.” Jessie’s eyes widened in mock amazement.
Marianne laughed and Jessie grinned, delighted. And for perverse reasons even Marianne didn’t understand, she said, “I think I saw Carl over there, if you’re looking for him.”
Jessie’s pale, smooth brow furrowed. “I’ll be sure to go say hi.”
Marianne frowned. Was Jessie holding back her enthusiasm because she knew Marianne’s history with Carl? Marianne was still uncertain about the whole “shave Jessie’s eyebrows” plan, but she didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
“Jessie!” a female voice shrieked from the other side of the flames.
“I better go,” Jessie said, raising her beer toward the source of that shriek.
“See you around,” Marianne called after her. Jessie winked in response, and it was adorable. Dammit.
Marianne snagged a beer from the nearest cooler and sipped it slowly as she greeted several former classmates. She actively avoided Sara Lee, who was studying her from across the clearing like Marianne was a particularly interesting bug specimen. And she rolled her eyes at the sight of her brother talking to his “on again, off again” wife, Lana. Marianne hadn’t trusted her future sister-in-law in high school, when she’d been a catty, shallow bitch who’d based her beau of the week on who’d bought her something shiny recently. Not much had changed.
While Duffy blindly believed the best of the petite blonde with the guileless Kewpie doll eyes, Marianne saw the way Lana looked at the McCready compound when she visited. Like she expected them to be hiding secret hoards of Civil War gold or something. The McCreadys were an old family. They were a comfortable family. They were not necessarily a rich family. And she’d never liked the way Lana looked at Duffy’s best friend, Paul, for that matter.
“I don’t get it, either.” Carl’s voice was a gravelly rumble at her shoulder. She almost bobbled her beer, but he caught the can before she dropped it and handed it back to her. She’d forgotten that part of Carl’s whole “lurker” package was how damn quietly the man could move. “I don’t get why he doesn’t see who she really is, how he misses all the big ol’ red flags. But I guess men in love are blind and stupid.”
There was more than a little bitterness in his voice, and Marianne hated that she’d put it there. She cleared her throat. “I’ve just met Jessie. She’s very sweet.”
Carl nodded, sipping his beer. “Yep. She’s real nice.”
What was it with people in this town and their frustrating understatement? It left Marianne to infer way too much.
“I can see why you’d want to date her,” Marianne added.
Carl spit a little of his beer down his chin, wiping it off with his sleeve. “We’re not datin’. I mean, people keep trying to set us up. Because they’re nosy and can’t mind their own business. But there’s a reason we never bit. She’s a nice girl and all, but she’s not really my type. And I get the feelin’ she might be more into you than she would be into me.”
Marianne pursed her lips and stared across the bonfire at Jessie, who beamed at her and waved.
“It wouldn’t be the unsexiest thing in the world.” Marianne shrugged, drinking the last of her beer. After a few seconds’ consideration, Carl nodded in agreement.
“So, why are you so interested in whether I’m datin’ somebody?” he asked.
She threw up her hands, a sloshing stream of beer barely missing his feet. “I was tryin’ to be nice. And let you know that I’m okay with you datin’ somebody.”
Carl rolled those green eyes. “Well, that’s real nice of ya.”
“Why are you being such a jackass about this?” Marianne demanded, pinching her
lips when she realized several people were staring. She sighed and walked away, into the trees, away from the fire . . . and out of earshot. And Carl was following her. Fan-flipping-tastic.
“Carl, let’s not do this. I’m sorry. I started drinkin’ before I got here. This isn’t the right time. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
They were well beyond the tree line now, away from the fire’s glow. She could hear the mosquitoes droning and wondered how eaten up she’d be by the time she got off this godforsaken island. Also, maybe she shouldn’t have downed that beer so quickly, because she was a little wobbly in heels on uneven terrain.
“Marianne.”
“Carl, please—”
He caught her arm and spun her around so quickly, she smashed face-first into his cotton-clad chest.
“Why do you care?” he demanded, holding her arms and steadying her.
Marianne blew a short breath through her nostrils. “I don’t.”
“Why do you care?” he asked again, his voice a low, honeyed rasp. She felt caged in by those arms, by the smell of engine oil and spearmint. She wanted those hands on her. She wanted fingerprints of grime streaked down her skin. She wanted . . . she just wanted. Something in Marianne broke, letting loose a torrent of need. She had to rely on his grip to hold her up just a little more than she wanted to admit, because her knees didn’t quite work anymore.
“I don’t,” she spat through gritted teeth.
“You do.” Carl dipped his head, dragging his nose along her hairline. His lips brushed against the curve of her cheek, hardly enough to feel it. She nuzzled against him, remembering the rasp of his beard scruff with a shiver. His breath mingled with hers as he spoke. “You still want me.”