by Molly Harper
Marianne froze. Could he smell the way her panties were going moist? Or was it the goose bumps rising under his fingertips? Or was she giving off some secret signal he’d learned when they were younger? Or was she just a sloppy drunk who was hanging all over her ex- boyfriend like her joints didn’t work?
Dammit, moonshine, you have ruined yet another perfectly good evening.
She tried to make her voice as steady as possible as his mouth drifted closer to hers. She licked her suddenly dry lips and felt the barest impression of his top lip against her tongue. They were millimeters away from kissing, and yet, she said, “Sexually, sure, but I don’t want to date you.”
“Well, sex was never our problem.” He said it in a tone that was fond and smug at the same time. And she was petty and drunk enough not to like that.
“I was seventeen and easily impressed,” she said crisply, pulling out of his grasp.
“Well, I couldn’t have made too much of an impression on you,” he muttered.
“Don’t do that,” she spat, poking him in his chest. His very firm, warm chest, which smelled really nice. “Don’t you act like it was easy for me.”
“You couldn’a sped out of town faster if I’d slapped a motor on your ass.”
“It wasn’t easy for me,” she insisted while the party raged on behind him. “Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done!”
“Aw, hell, Marianne, I knew you were gonna leave. Remember? I told you to go. I wanted you to go to school. I wanted you to have that so you wouldn’t feel like you’d missed out. I didn’t want ya to resent me. What I didn’t get was how you left.”
“It’s been years, Carl. We don’t need to talk about this. We don’t need to drag this up right now.”
“No, we’re gonna talk about this now. ’Cause if I wait, you’ll just find another way to wiggle out of it, and another and another, until it’s time for you to leave again. And yeah, it’s been years. Years I spent wondering what the hell happened. Hell, for the first year, I thought any day now you were gonna send me a letter or an e-mail or something explaining why you ran off like a lunatic. But you never—I didn’t ask Duffy. I didn’t talk to Tootie or Frankie. I kept it to myself, because I knew that’s what you wanted. Now, dammit, I think I’m owed some answers.”
“You were gonna propose!” she hissed.
He frowned and threw his arms up. “Yeah, I was gonna propose!” he yelled. “In three or four years, if we were still together. We’d talked about that.”
“No, you were gonna propose before I left for school!”
He shook his head. “Where in the hell did you get that idea? We weren’t ready to get married yet.”
“So why were you even looking at rings in Dahlonega right before I left?”
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“Sara Lee,” she said, jerking her head toward the fire. “And, yeah, I believed her, because, bless her heart, back then, at least, when she stirred shit up, it was genuine. It was one of her few charms. Her implications that you were dating Jessie are making me reconsider that, just so you know.”
Carl grimaced but nodded.
“So why were you looking at rings if you didn’t plan on proposing?”
“I figured it would take me three or four years to save up for the damn ring! I was trying to work out what kinda damage I was lookin’ at,” he said.
“But you never talked about it with me!”
“Well, you didn’t exactly give me a detailed explanation when you skipped town like your hair was on fire. So I guess neither one of us was really good at communicatin’.”
“So you weren’t going to propose that summer?”
“No!” he exclaimed. “I’d already broken family tradition by graduatin’, there was no way I was gettin’ married right out of the gate.”
“Oh, okay then.” Marianne ran her hands through her hair as her stomach began to churn. “Okay.”
He glared at her, and not in his normal, sexy Eastwoodian fashion. “Whaddaya mean, okay? Like I’m not supposed to be pissed off and insulted that the idea of marryin’ me made you run for the hills? I thought that eventually, that was what we both wanted. But the idea of sharin’ a life with me made you run from your home, your family. That’s not supposed to hurt me all over again? Jesus, Marianne! You broke my heart, for no goddamn reason!”
“I panicked,” she admitted. “It wasn’t you. It was this place.”
“What’s so wrong with Lake Sackett?”
“Nothing!” She wobbled on her heels, the beer clawing its way up her esophagus. “It’s beautiful and clean and I can walk to my car without pattin’ my purse for my Mace. I just— I thought I needed something else.”
“Did you get it?” he demanded.
She thought about her nice, tidy life in Athens, and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well, I hope it makes you happy. Because right now, I don’t want to look at you.”
“Carl, I’m sorry.”
His mouth tensed into a snarl and he pointed one long finger in her face. “Don’t.” And with that, Carl stomped past her, toward the shoreline where the boats were anchored. “Don’t talk to me.”
“Carl!” She watched him untie his boat and jump over the hull without looking back at her. She’d done it again. Somehow, she’d managed to make things even worse with Carl. Oh, and he hadn’t been planning to propose before she left for school, so she’d broken up with him for no reason and could have spent the last four years dating a perfectly nice man instead of wallowing in guilt. She’d thrown away the love of her life because she had all the common sense of a box of hair.
Her stomach seemed to drop through her knees, churning with regret at the sight of Carl’s retreating form. Regret crawled up her throat and burned her mouth.
Nope, that was the moonshine.
She lurched forward, bracing herself against a tree as she threw up the better part of two jars and a can of booze. And everything she’d eaten in the past twenty-four hours. And some things she didn’t remember eating.
“Just like old times,” she wheezed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
6
MARIANNE RESTED HER head on the nice cool laminate counter of the Snack Shack. Even her hair hurt.
“Okay, hon, family hangover cure, comin’ your way,” her aunt Leslie called, far too loudly, from the griddle. Marianne shushed her. “Sorry.”
“How can my head hurt this much?” Marianne whined. “I had three drinks.”
“Yeah, well, I saw how much of my moonshine you used. That’s like twelve frou-frou college girl drinks. Duffy said you spent most of the boat ride home bent over the hull throwin’ up.”
“Not true. I threw up in Duffy’s boat. On purpose.”
“Well, bless your heart.” Leslie slid a breakfast platter and a large ceramic mug next to her head. “All right, dig in. Best cure for a hangover is a big greasy breakfast . . . and Tootie’s Devil’s Due.”
Marianne groaned. Tootie’s homemade hangover concoction, the “Devil’s Due,” was a nasty blend of substances Tootie insisted were vital to helping the body recover from the abuses of the demon alcohol—including garlic, oranges, tuna, and Tabasco sauce. Marianne was pretty sure it was punitive as much as it was curative, but it did work, so . . .
Marianne pinched her nose and tossed most of the contents down her throat.
“Shit-fire,” she gurgled. “I hate everything.”
Leslie cackled. Marianne shuddered and took a huge bite of the buttermilk biscuit layered with fried eggs and bacon and topped with onion jam. She needed the onion jam to chase away the flavor of the smoothie from hell.
“I love you, Aunt Leslie,” she mumbled through the biscuit crumbs.
“Back atcha, shug.” Leslie turned back to the griddle and prepped several more breakfast sandwiches fo
r bagged orders.
Marianne glanced over the counter and saw what looked like a sandwich with a hard, crispy golden shell.
“What is that?”
Leslie shrugged. “I got bored. The grease was already hot. I wanted to see what would happen.”
“Aunt Leslie, did you deep-fry a grilled cheese sandwich?” she asked. “Isn’t that sort of redundant?”
“Not really. It’s formed a nice little crust on the outside, see, but the bread soaked up too much of the oil. Maybe I didn’t have the fryer hot enough.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s the problem.”
“I wonder if I can deep-fry chili,” Leslie gasped, grinning widely.
“This cannot lead anywhere good,” Marianne said.
She buried her sorrows and soreness in the breakfast biscuit. She did not remember much beyond throwing up in Duffy’s boat—intentionally. She’d woken up in her bed at home, in a pair of sensible pajamas, feeling like a concrete pylon was resting on her chest. How had she messed things up so badly with Carl? Sure, she’d been a kid when she’d bolted, with all the emotional maturity and decision-making skills of an eighteen-year-old. But shouldn’t she have known Carl better? Shouldn’t she have trusted him more? What kind of person runs away from someone they love because that person has the nerve to want to marry them?
The worst.
“Have you talked to your daddy yet?”
Marianne turned her head—very carefully—toward the dock and saw her mother bearing down on her. Donna was dressed for a day on the lake: jeans, a McCready’s T-shirt, and a green bandanna tied around her thick auburn curls.
Marianne wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “No, Mama, I haven’t had time.”
Donna frowned at her. “You had time to go out drinkin’ with your cousin and your idiot brother, but you haven’t had time to talk to your daddy?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s summer and the baby boomers around here are droppin’ like flies. Daddy’s busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.”
“Watch your language,” Donna told her, glaring at her over her aviator sunglasses.
“I’ll talk to Daddy when he gets a spare minute,” Marianne promised. “What’s so important, anyway? Is there some sort of problem with my college fund or something? I can take on more of the expenses myself. I’ve been saving.”
“No,” Donna bit out. She cleared her throat. “It’s not like Duffy used his. Your daddy wouldn’t want you to spend your savings. But he’s always appreciated that you’ve offered. Daddy knows it’s not easy for you, to work while you’re studying.”
“Careful, Mama, you’re coming dangerously close to sounding like you’re proud of me,” Marianne muttered into her biscuit.
Donna scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Across the parking lot, Marianne could see Lemm Trinkitt pulling in his flashy Cadillac just behind Burt Beacham’s truck. “Gotta go. Thanks, Aunt Leslie!”
Marianne snagged her breakfast biscuit from the counter and ran across the parking lot as quickly as she could in her sensible pumps. She found Mr. Burt and Lemm Trinkitt arguing in the sales office, again, with E.J.J. standing between the two of them. Roy Trinkitt was hiding off to the side, reading pamphlets about environmentally friendly, biodegradable burial pods, acting as if he wasn’t aware of the screaming match two feet away. Marianne couldn’t blame him. She wanted to pretend she wasn’t there, too, but her headache wouldn’t allow the illusion.
Frankie was leaning against the door frame, frowning as the two men yelled incoherently. To Marianne’s irritation, her resilient cousin did not look nearly as battered as she did.
“What now?”
Frankie tried to swipe Marianne’s biscuit, but her cousin held it out of her reach. “More of the same.”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Marianne grumbled. “I am too hungover for this bullshit.”
“That’s what you get for messin’ with white lightnin’,” Frankie said sagely. “Mama’s cousins are crazy for a reason.”
Just then, Lemm hollered, “I am not going to let my mama be burned in a box!”
“That’s what she wanted!” Burt shouted back. “For once in your life, pull your head out of your own ass—beg pardon, girls—and think about someone besides yourself! Think about your mama!”
“I am thinking about my mama!”
“This is the hamster wheel of arguments.” Marianne sighed. “It’s never gonna be resolved. They just keep sayin’ the same things.”
“Well, they have to come to some decision soon,” Frankie told her. “This is our busy season. We don’t have the storage space.”
Marianne grimaced.
“I went too far, didn’t I?” Frankie asked.
“It was a little dark.”
“Yeah, I’m still working on finding the line. Your dad says humor is one of the biggest challenges in the job.”
“Have you seen my daddy?” Marianne asked. “Mama is all wound up about me talkin’ to him.”
Frankie’s response was cut short by the tinkling of a tiny brass bell Grandpa E.J.J. kept over the front door. They turned to see George Pritchett walk into the reception area.
“Mr. George?” Frankie said, straightening her lab coat over a Jaws T-shirt and leggings printed with tiny sharks. “What are you doing here?”
A quick glance at George’s body language told Marianne that this was not a social call. He was wearing his “professional face.” And professionally speaking, he didn’t look thrilled to be at the funeral home.
“I hired him,” Burt said. “E.J.J., I don’t mean any disrespect, but if you follow through with the burial, I’m gonna have George here file an injunction against you.”
“Aw, hell, Burt, you don’t have to go on and do something like that,” E.J.J. cried.
“What do you expect from the man who led my mama down the path to sin? She didn’t even wait until daddy’s body went cold and she just took up with him.”
“Don’t you talk about your mama that way, boy! She was a good, decent lady!”
E.J.J. pushed Lemm back. “Let’s try to keep this civil!”
“I will if he will,” Burt ground out. And that started up the argument all over again.
“You said the Trinkitt kids would determine the funeral arrangements because the note wasn’t enforceable and they’re next of kin,” Marianne said quietly to George.
He shrugged. “It’s not, but that doesn’t stop Burt from filing an injunction and stalling for time.”
“I don’t like the idea of Mr. Burt spending his money on a pointless legal action,” Marianne said.
“I don’t, either. But I also don’t want him goin’ to some law office outside of town and gettin’ charged three times what I’m billin’ him by someone who won’t do half the work.”
“Are you here to serve anything?” Marianne asked.
“Nothing to serve yet,” he said with a sigh. “Burt just wanted your grandpa to know that he’s prepared to make this official, if he’s pushed.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like Lemm is gonna budge anytime this century,” she muttered.
George raised a sleek gray eyebrow. “Well, maybe he just needs someone to help him see reason?”
“He’s a Trinkitt. He wouldn’t see reason if it fell on his face and whistled Dixie.”
“None of you has any right to be here and you need to get out,” Lemm said.
George responded, “Lemm, do try to be reasonable.”
Lemm scowled. “I don’t have to do shit!”
“Watch your mouth in my place,” E.J.J. told him. “Now, you stay right here and I’m gonna get those contracts for you. But if you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head and behave like an adult, you’re outta here. You can go bury your people at O
akerson’s. I won’t lose any sleep over it.”
“Grandpa,” Frankie whispered mischievously, “Tootie would have your hat if she heard you givin’ business away.”
“Get downstairs, Frances Ann!” E.J.J. barked. “Marianne, watch them and make sure Lemm behaves.”
“That’s not necessary, E.J.J.,” Lemm protested, his cheeks turning red.
“Yes, it is!” E.J.J. yelled, retreating to the relative sanity of Bob’s office.
“Mr. George, could you take Mr. Burt down to the Snack Shack to get some breakfast, on the house?” Marianne asked. “Tell Aunt Leslie to put it on my tab. I’d like to talk to Lemm and Roy.”
“I don’t want them to make any decisions without me around,” Burt said.
“Just give me a minute, Mr. Burt,” Marianne said. “I promise I won’t let anyone sign anything.”
Burt sighed, looking so weary Marianne wanted to hug him. He wrapped his large, paper-skinned hands over hers and squeezed. “Because it’s you, sweetheart.”
Marianne smiled and waited for George to walk Burt out of the room. She turned to the Trinkitt boys, grateful they’d left their foulmouthed sister at home. Laurie just seemed to egg the other two on into bad decisions.
“Could you two sit, please?” She gestured to the chairs near E.J.J.’s desk. The Trinkitts glanced at each other and reluctantly took their seats. Marianne slid into E.J.J.’s luxurious leather club chair, just as comfortable and cushioned as it had been when she’d clambered over it as a child, trying to get butterscotches out of E.J.J.’s desk drawer.
“Lemm, I understand that you’re not comfortable with Mr. Burt—”
“Why do you always call him ‘Mr. Burt,’ but you call me by my first name?” he demanded.
“Tradition. Mr. Burt is older than me, plus—”
“I’m older than you,” Lemm told her.
“Plus, I respect Mr. Burt,” she finished. Lemm’s florid face took on a magenta sheen. “But I also respect your right not to like Mr. Burt. I would like to think it’s because of a loyalty to your father’s memory and not because Mr. Burt’s skin happens to be a few shades darker than yours. Because that would be very disappointing to me, as someone who expects better.”