Bittersweet Creek (29 page)

Julian

I
ran up a hill on Bittersweet Creek Road, my sides aching and my feet hurting from my cowboy boots. As I reached the top, a truck came out of a hidden driveway, and I ran right into it.

Now a veteran of being hit by cars, I reached for my hat before it flew off.

“You all right?”

“I'm okay, but could you maybe give me a lift to The Fountain?”

He squinted at me over the top of the driver's-side door. “Yeah. I reckon.”

Once I joined him, Goat Cheese puttered along the road at an old man's pace, and I struggled to keep from slamming an imaginary accelerator into the floorboard in front of me. “Think we could go faster?”

“We could.” The truck, however, did not speed up.

We passed the volunteer fire station and the Long place. I envisioned Romy waiting for me at the bar, her face sad.

“It's important.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Goat Cheese pushed down on the gas, accelerating from thirty miles an hour to a solid forty.

“Quit your finger tapping,” Goat Cheese said around his cigarette. I hadn't even realized what I was doing.

“What do you think of Romy Satterfield?” Where had those words come from? It wasn't any of
his
business.
He
didn't know we were in the middle of a father-son talk.

He snorted. “A girl like that? I think you'd better go kiss the ground she walks on and hope she doesn't leave your sorry ass for that rich guy.”

“Think I could do right by a girl like her?”

“Hell, you're the only McElroy I could ever stand. And I've known a lot of McElroys.”

Goat Cheese pulled into The Fountain's parking lot, having to park at the edge because there were so many people. I jumped out before the truck stopped moving but knocked on the window. He fumbled for the control on the driver's-side door but eventually got it to roll down.

“I owe you one. Oh, and glad we could have this little chat, Dad,” I said.

Goat Cheese's eyes went wide, and he almost choked on his cigarette. I left him to hack up a lung and puzzle it all out while I ran for The Fountain in the hopes I could make things right between Romy and me.

Romy

“L
ast call,” Genie said into the microphone at the DJ's booth. “Bill's kicking us out in ten.”

Good thing I'd only managed to snag one beer, since I was about to drive myself home. Alone.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I pasted on a smile, steeling myself for whichever idiot had the audacity to disturb me when I clearly wanted to nurse a beer by myself.

My heart refused to function at the sight of Julian. I leaned forward from my stool ready to embrace him when the rational part of me remembered just how late he was. No way was I letting him off the hook that easily. “You're late.”

He winced and mumbled something I couldn't hear over Prince's “1999.” “What was that?”

“It was my damned alternator!” he shouted just as the song ended.

I spewed my beer, my heart hammering against my chest.

When I looked back at Julian, he had lowered himself to one knee and was holding out his mamaw's ring. “Rosemary Jane Satterfield, would you do me the honor of being my wife . . . again? The right way, this time?”

At this point the whole bar had stopped what they were doing to see what was going to happen next.

“I don't know,” I said. “What's in it for me?”

“I figure at least ten years of me groveling and some toe-curling sex.” He grinned. I found it hard to breathe.

“Are you going to get rid of that farmer's tan?”

“I guess.” He hadn't expected that question.

“Will you marry me properly over at County Line with
my
minister?”

His grin faded to something more serious. “For you? I'd do anything.”

“Like drive a truck with a reliable alternator? You know, a Ford?”

“Whoa! Let's not get carried away.”

I fought the smile as best I could. “Julian McElroy, I'll keep you, Chevy and all.”

He slipped the ring back on my index finger and stood to give me a kiss that brought whistles from our classmates. “I guess I'd better give you that dance before it's too late.”

He led me to the center of the sawdust-strewn floor. The DJ had started a slow pop song, but he cut it off mid-lyric. I thought we were too late for our long-awaited dance, but then I saw Genie bend over to whisper in his ear. He fumbled with his laptop before going to the microphone. “Ladies and gents, here's our couple who's actually been married longest: Mr. and Mrs. McElroy!”

“You going to correct him about your name?” Julian whispered.

“Are you?”

“Not today, but how would you feel about being a Ledbetter?”

“What?”

“Long story.” He pulled me close as the opening strains of “Islands in the Stream” began to play. Ben and Genie danced together not far away, but there was a hint of space between them. A crowd had gathered around Jim Price, who was giving money to Beulah. It wasn't even her class reunion, but I was glad to see her since I'd heard she was the only one to bet we were going to make it. Price looked up and yelled, “Hey, Romy, did you hit him on purpose the other day?”

“Nope.”

Price swore and stomped his foot. More money exchanged hands.

Shelley Jean appeared at my side, dragging future husband number four to dance beside us. She leaned over to whisper, “Remember what I told you.”

Julian flinched.

I stage-whispered back, “He doesn't have that problem with me.”

She started to say something more, but her partner wisely guided her to another section of the tiny dance floor. Julian leaned in, his voice humming deliciously in my ear. “Are you about done?”

“What fun is a high school reunion if you can't cause a little trouble?”

He gave me that one-sided smirk, and I traced the thin white scar on the bottom of his chin before laying my head on his shoulder. Kenny and Dolly proclaimed they were islands in the stream, and I let myself think only of Julian as we swayed across the floor.

The song faded away and Julian muttered, “Finally!” under his breath.

“Wanna give them something to talk about?” he asked with a grin and a hint of the cocky teenage boy he'd once been.

I took the bait. “Why not?”

He cradled me into his arms so quickly I squeaked. And hoped my underwear wasn't showing. “Julian!”

“Hush, woman. We've got thresholds to cross!”

“My purse!”

Julian whirled me around. Genie handed me the small sequined bag, and I wrapped my arms around his neck.

Over his shoulder, I saw her smile as Ben leaned over to kiss her cheek. As we went out the door, I heard Price calling for bets on how long we'd last this time, but there weren't any takers.

All these years I'd thought we were Romeo and Juliet while wishing we were Beatrice and Benedick. But Julian and I had never been neatly comedy or tragedy. As I twirled his mamaw's ring, it hit me: We were a problem play, more like
All's Well That Ends Well.

And with all that bitter past, I couldn't help but look forward to the sweet.

 

1 pound fresh okra
½ cup cornmeal
½ teaspoon onion powder
teaspoon black pepper
½ cup vegetable oil

 

Cut the stems off the okra and then cut each pod into pieces—about a half inch. Mix cornmeal, onion powder, and black pepper in a bowl that has a lid. Dump okra into the bowl, put the lid on, and shake your groove thing—and the okra—until it's coated. Heat vegetable oil in a skillet—cast iron is always best. Dump the okra, but not the excess breading, into the oil and cook and stir it on medium heat until golden brown, about ten minutes? Fifteen minutes? As my father would say, “Until it's done.” Fish okra out of the oil and put it in a paper towel–lined bowl for serving.

 

 

 

2 cups sifted self-rising flour
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
cup shortening (we usually use vegetable oil)
1½ teaspoons vanilla

 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Mix ingredients. Work enough flour into dough to be able to roll it out. Cut with cookie cutter or the rim of a glass. Bake on greased baking sheet for 6–7 minutes. (I have a note that it took 8 in the electric oven.)

 

Acknowledgments

Time to round up the usual suspects! As always, thanks to my agent, Nikki Terpilowski, of Holloway Lit, and my editor, Peter Senftleben. I could not ask for better folks to take care of me. Thanks to Kensington for yet another gorgeous cover; and to Paula; and to Monique Vescia, for keeping me on my toes with the grammar and the time lines and all the things, really. Special thanks, too, to Alison Law, who helped me with book one and has helped me with many authorly things since.

Thanks and love to the entire Kilpatrick clan, but especially Ryan and the kids for letting me be more Jessica Fletcher than June Cleaver—well, without all the murders to solve. Thanks, kids, I promise to go lighter on the frozen pizza, rotisserie chicken, and sweet potatoes next time. Thanks to Ryan's parents, who are keeping the kids as we speak, and my parents, who will have a turn with the “babies” while I'm at a conference this summer. I wouldn't be able to do what I do without all of you or without your very generous support, and I love you! Oh, and Ryan? Thanks for being my Benedick.

I am also deeply indebted to all of the sharp sets of eyes that have read this story and all of the brilliant minds who have dissected it. Thanks, Tanya Michaels, for reading on even after I decided to make this story alternating first person. Sorry about all those head-desk incidents. Thanks to Romily Bernard and Jenni McQuiston, who, in addition to the usual writing advice, made sure I kept my cows and horses straight. Gratitude to Anna Steffl for many run-throughs and for helping me keep my characters true to their nature. Props to my beta readers: Mom, Janette, Gretchen, Ryan, and Cindy. I think that's everyone. If I missed you, then, in true Fountain tradition, I owe you a cold one.

I need to thank some folks for help with the research side of things. Per usual, if you spot a problem, it's all my fault and not theirs. It's possible I took some liberties for, er, narrative flow. Thanks, Daddy, for your knowledge of husbandry, i.e., answering all sorts of cow questions that you didn't want to hear. Hey, and thanks for giving me my own cow way back when. Rest in peace, Bambi, you were a sweetheart.

Thanks to Steven Salcedo, John Marchese, Jane Kurtz, and Heather Leonard, all of whom have tried their very best to teach me what I need to know about the law and lawyers. They have
tried,
y'all. My poor characters probably need a lawyer on retainer, someone permanently dedicated to their escapades. Alas, neither my characters nor I can afford it.

Thanks to Cinthia Hamer and Cheryl Perlmutter, who both talked me through protocol and treatment of dog bites. No dogs were permanently harmed in the making of this story. Well, except for the tripod beagle, but I'm happy to report she's up and around and perfectly happy.

Speaking of dogs, would it be a first if I thanked a character for taking care of a problem I absolutely agonized over? Thanks, Pete Gates, for taking on those poor, mistreated pit bulls. It wasn't their fault; Curtis made them do it. I feel much better knowing that you're going to rehabilitate them.

A hearty thank you to all of my English teachers and professors, especially those of you who taught me Shakespeare. Ms. Highers gave me
Romeo and Juliet.
Mr. Bryant introduced me to
Julius Caesar,
and Ms. Kelley gave us
Hamlet.
I'm not forgetting you, Ms. Keller. There's a hint of American romanticism, don't you think? I even threw in a little Thoreau reference.

As always, thanks to all my folks in Georgia Romance Writers and my other writer colleagues, too. Thanks also to Suja Kallickal for taking in Her Majesty as one of her own so I can get work sent to those colleagues!

All of my love to West Tennessee and little ol' Chester County. Read between the lines and sometimes on them to see all the things I love about where I grew up. Sure, I had to add some bad guys so we'd have a story, but there's no prettier place than home. And, no, none of these characters are based on real people, although I did borrow a few phrases from James Harvey for Hank.

Finally, but most importantly, thank you to anyone who's picked up one of my books and taken the time to read it. If your to-be-read pile looks anything like mine, I know you have a lot of books to choose from. It means a lot to me that you would choose one of mine. As Flannery O'Connor once said, “Success means being heard.... The act of writing is not complete in itself. It has its end in its audience.”

So, my deepest gratitude to everyone in the audience.