Making Waves (39 page)

Once I'm outside, I'm surprised to find the sidewalks still crowded with shoppers and sightseers, which is unusual for early fall. Anxious to get away from the coffee shop, I mutter my apologies as I make my way through, wondering if there's a tour bus in town. Although off the beaten path, Fairhope is becoming more and more of a tourist attraction, and it's not unusual to have several tour buses in town during the summer, but not this time of year. In an effort to avoid a cluster of people blocking the sidewalk in front of one of the street's many art galleries, I cut through a group of charming and colorful little shops that make up the area known as the French Quarter. And that's where I run into Rye Ballenger, quite literally. If I hadn't been hugging the bakery box so close, carrot cake would have gone flying.

“Clare!” he exclaims at the same time I gasp, “Rye!”Then both of us say together, “What are you doing here?”

I link an arm into his and continue my walk, pulling Rye along with me down the brick-paved lane. Out of the corner of my mouth, I say to him in a low voice, “I'm trying to get far enough away from the coffee shop so I won't be seen by a certain person who just walked in.”

Rye plays along with me, matching my stride. “Who is it?” he whispers dramatically, looking around in mock terror. “An ex-husband of one of your clients?”

“Actually, you're close,” I say with a groan. “It's Son.”

“Son!” Rye comes to such an abrupt halt that I almost trip over a protruding brick. “Did he say anything to you? Tell me the truth.”

“He didn't see me, thank God. I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. Something tells me I'm not on his list of favorite people right now.”

With a frown, Rye studies my face. He disengages my arm in order to take my hand in both of his and squeeze it tight. “Why don't you go back and confront him, sweetheart? I'll go with you, by God. I don't like the idea of him bullying you, and he needs to hear that.”

“Your problem is, you're much too gallant,” I say with an affectionate smile. “Charging in on your white horse and defending the honor of the poor maiden.”

He snorts with indignation, his color high. “I've never been on a horse in my life, and have no intention of ever doing so. But I hate missing the chance to give Son Rodgers a piece of my mind.”

“All I want to do is avoid him,” I assure him. “I'm not interested in a confrontation at this point. Especially now, with him and Dory back together.”

“Still no idea how that miraculous event came about?” Rye asks, watching me curiously.

I shrug. “None whatsoever. But I'll see Dory tomorrow at the group meeting, and she's promised me that we'll talk beforehand. Have you—”

Before I realize what's happening, Rye has grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me out of the way of a large gray-haired woman who barges past us, then turns back to scowl at us for blocking the sidewalk. As we watch her walk away, I send up a thank-you to whatever gods were responsible for sending Rye strolling through the French Quarter at the very moment I turned the corner. From the first day I arrived in Fairhope, the sardonic and irreverent Rye Ballenger has been one of my dearest friends, and there's no one I'd rather see now, after the near miss with Son. Certainly no one else understands my history with Son better than Rye does.

He and I move to stand under the jasmine-entwined arbor of a café, then Rye leans toward me to whisper in my ear, “Lord God Almighty, would you look at that! How ghastly.” He nods toward the retreating woman, who's clad in a hot-pink T-shirt with flowered capri pants stretched way too tight across her very ample rear end. “I can promise you that she hails from north of the Mason-Dixon line.”

“What gives her away?” I ask with a grin, pushing my sunglasses on top of my head. “The camera hanging around her neck or the Gulf Shores T-shirt?”

Brow furrowed, Rye shudders and says, “Come on, Clare. No self-respecting Southern belle would be caught dead wearing white socks with sandals, and you know it. It's a disgrace, that's what it is. If they are going to run us off our lovely streets, the least they could do is dress properly.”

“You're such a snob,” I say fondly. “But you know what? I think you love it. You work hard at being the biggest snob in Baldwin County, don't you?”

Pretending to be offended, he pulls back and drawls in his melodious, honey-toned voice, “I just happen to have my standards, is all.”

When I first met the courtly Ryman Ballenger, a cousin of my former husband's, I thought he had to be putting me on. He has the most pronounced Southern accent I've ever heard, and on the Eastern Shore of Alabama, that's saying a lot. It suits him, though, just another of his many charms. In addition to being the most breathtakingly handsome man I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, Rye is also the most elegant. He's always seemed out of place in this offbeat, artsy little town. He should be strolling the lavish grounds of an English estate instead, trailed by a bevy of manservants and Cavalier King Charles spaniels.

“It's strange that I ran into you just as I was running out of the coffee shop,” I say, gazing up at him. Rye is one of those people I enjoy just looking at, in the same way I might stop by an art gallery and admire a painting. “Don't tell me you walked to town.” In all the years I've known him, I've never seen him walk anywhere. He'll get into his big old silver Mercedes to drive a block.

He looks at me as though I've lost my mind. “Me walk to town? In this heat? I should hope not.” With a nod, he indicates a place across the street. “My car's over there. I almost never found a parking place in this damn mob.” He points out a small shop on the corner. “I came down to pick up a print that Lou framed for me. But the mat didn't suit me, so I had her redo it.”

“Not up to your standards, huh?” I tease him.

Rye studies me through long dark lashes, and his fine gray eyes go soft. “I can't tell you how happy I am to see you. I called your cell phone not five minutes ago.”

With a grimace, I admit that I turned it off when I left the office. “You know how hard it is for me to close shop on Friday afternoons. Etta had to stand in the door to keep me from returning for some unfinished paperwork. If I'd kept my cell turned on and one of my clients called, having a crisis, I would've had to go running back to meet them there.”

He clucks his tongue in reproach. “Ah, Clare, what am I going to do with you? You promised me that you'd stop giving your private numbers to your clients!”

“I know …” My voice trails off, and I look up at him helplessly.

He places a hand on my shoulder. “When you didn't answer your cell, I got concerned about you, after what happened this morning.”

“You concerned about
me
? That's a switch, since I'm officially the one who gets to worry about everybody else. It's in my job description.”

“You can worry your pretty head off about whomever you want, my dear Clare, but I'm in charge of you.”

“How very touching,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I assume you're referring to a certain letter in this morning's paper?”

“So you've seen it?”With a worried frown, Rye reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clipping. “I have it with me, so if anyone dares to say anything about it, I can tell them what a bunch of hogwash it is.”

“I've seen it,” I tell him dismally. I arrived at my office early this morning, bringing the local paper to read while waiting for my first client. Like most weeklies,
The Fairhoper
is the perfect antidote to the grim headlines of the national news. Unless we've had one of our infamous hurricanes, the articles are full of small-town dramas that can be heartwarming but are more often unintentionally comic. Dory and I will call each other to read some of the more priceless ones aloud. Her favorite remains the obituary written about a certain Mr. McMillan, who is said to have died in his sleep so peacefully that it didn't wake him or Mrs. McMillan, either one. The human interest stories are usually pretty good, but last month I was embarrassed to find myself named Fairhope's Citizen of the Month. To my further embarrassment, one of this morning's letters to the editor, which I read in dismay, referred to my award:

This letter is written to protest your choice of August's Citizen of the Month, a self-proclaimed divorce “coach.”The honor was based on the national attention that has come this woman's way, praising her innovative methods of divorce recovery. I have to wonder if those retreats of hers, held right here in our own conference center, actually do more to promote divorces than to help people get over them. Surely if folks were encouraged to work on their marriages instead, the disgracefully high divorce rates in our country would go down. I hope next month's choice will better reflect the ideals of our community and country
. The letter was signed by Oscar T. Allen, a “concerned” citizen whom I'd not had the pleasure of meeting, fortunately.

Rye stands with his hands on his hips, scowling. “I can't tell you how furious I am. And you've got to be, too, though you won't let on. I know how you operate. In spite of all your degrees, you hide your feelings like the rest of us.”

“You know better than that.” I can't resist adding with a sly smile, “I'd never hide my feelings from you.”

“Ha!” he scoffs. “You could've fooled me.”

“You've lived here all your life, and you know everyone in town, so tell me who Oscar T. Allen is.”

“He's a damned nitwit, that's who he is. The good thing is, no one will take him seriously, because we all know he's batty.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Well, I have to say I'm glad to hear that he's a crackpot. It could've been a pretty damaging indictment otherwise. The reference to the conference center makes my work sound sleazy, like those fly-by-night operations that breeze into town and rent a seminar room at the Holiday Inn. Calling me a divorce coach, which I've
never
been, implies that I find confused, unhappy women and teach them the secrets of pulling off a successful divorce, feathering my nest in the process.”

“It's ridiculous,” Rye agrees, his eyes blazing. “But don't even think about it harming you professionally. You're too highly respected for that. The newspaper allowing the letter to be printed is what made me so mad.”

“To tell you the truth, I'm surprised that this is the first attack I've had.”

“I don't like anyone going after my girl,” he says gently. “As soon as I read the paper, I called Clyde Ayers and gave him a piece of my mind. I'm sick of him giving voice to every ignorant Bible thumper who picks up a pen. Clyde proceeded to lecture me on First Amendment rights. Me! Can you imagine? I reminded him that I have a law degree from Ole Miss, then hung up on him.”

“Oh, Rye.” Frowning, I put a hand on his arm. “You and Clyde Ayers have been buddies forever. I don't want you losing any friends on my account. It's not that big a deal.”

“Just as I thought. You're trying to blow it off.”

“I'm not!” I tell him, giving his arm a shake. “As soon as I ran into you, so to speak, I knew you'd make me feel better, and you already have.”

He regards me for a long moment, then says in a soft voice, “You know I'd do anything for you.”

“You're such a dear friend.” It's difficult to meet his gaze without blushing like a fool. In addition to everything else that went on this past summer, Rye and I had a rather unsettling evening that neither of us has mentioned since. We need to discuss it at some point, but I chicken out every time I see him.

“And then there was the other thing, in Miss Dingbat's column,” Rye goes on. “I can only imagine what your reaction was to that one.”

“After the letter, I didn't read any further,” I admit. “What's she done this time?” The society column, “Fairhope's Fairest,” is penned by a woman who uses the moniker Ernestine Hemingway, apparently with no idea that it makes her sound like a drag queen. Guess she figures it gives her more literary credibility than her real name, Ima June Hicks.

“Oh, her column was worse than usual.” He glances around before taking my arm and pulling me closer to the shelter of the little café. “While Dory and Son were in Europe, he sent a postcard to Ernestine, and she quoted it in her column. It was all about Fairhope's favorite couple spending the month of August on a second honeymoon in France. Ernestine went on to say that they were taking in the sights but mostly gazing into each other's eyes. It was beyond nauseating.”

“Oh, Lord!” I wail. “It's pure propaganda on Son's part. No, I take that back. ‘Propaganda' is much too long a word for his vocabulary.”

Rye regards me sternly, his head tilted to the side. “I've told you, Clare, that Son will get the best of you if you keep dismissing him by claiming he's not very bright. It's all a part of his good-old-boy act. He's crazy like a fox. Have you seen Dory since they got back?” When I shake my head, he lowers his voice conspiratorially and says, “I ran into the happy couple last night, having dinner at the Yacht Club, and she seemed fine, in spite of all he put her through last year. She looked more beautiful than ever.” His gray eyes are suddenly dreamy. “But Dory always does, doesn't she?”