Simple Gone South (Crimson Romance) (16 page)

His heart began to pound and suddenly he could not get enough air in his lungs. It had been a long time since this had happened, but he knew the signs. The first time, he had thought he was having a heart attack, though eighteen-year-olds rarely had heart attacks.

Thanksgiving was supposed to be a happy time, not something to bring on a panic attack. And it used to be happy—but that was
before
. In the years since, he’d avoided the holiday altogether when he could. Other times, he had eaten with Charles and Caroline in restaurants in other cities.

“Whimsy!” Lucy exclaimed. “That’s exactly what we want.”

“Yes, I think so,” Big Mama was saying. “We tend to dress down on Thanksgiving, so I just couldn’t see—”

They were talking about whimsy and the dress code while he was about to sweat through his shirt. Good thing he could blame that on the weather and his heavy clothes. He took a deep breath to ward off the chest pains that were closing in anyway. God, he hoped he didn’t get dizzy this time. That was the hardest part to hide. He leaned on the doorframe with a practiced casual slouch. Another deep breath. They hadn’t even noticed him yet.

“See?” Lucy moved some more plates around. “You don’t even have to make all the place settings alike. You could use the transferware dinner plate with an ivory and gold salad plate here, and there just the opposite . . . ”

Deep breath.

Funny, he couldn’t remember that last Thanksgiving, at least not precisely. It was just mixed in with the others that were all so alike, with the men frying turkey and drinking beer, while the women did whatever it was they did. Of course, he hadn’t been allowed beer back then, and he had not been allowed around the turkey frying until he was about eight or nine. They’d been afraid he’d get burned. Sometimes it had been just the five of them. Sometimes there were other guests. Always, after lunch, there was a football watching marathon. Always, after a supper of cold turkey sandwiches, he and Papa played Christmas carols on the baby grand. Big Mama and Mama did not allow any talk of Christmas until Thanksgiving was officially over but Papa threatened Christmas music weeks before it was allowed.

Christmas. Oh, God. That was coming too. He couldn’t separate that last Christmas from the others either. He wished he could. Maybe if he tried hard to remember—but not today.

Deep breath, but the chills and heat set in anyway, chasing each other through his body and soul.

He knew what to do.
Don’t be afraid. Show the panic who’s boss. Deep breaths. Don’t give in to the desire to flee the scene or loosen your tie. Act normal. Work through it. Pretend it isn’t happening and pretty soon it won’t be.

They still hadn’t noticed him. He swallowed. Good. He could still swallow. That meant he could probably talk in a normal voice. He cleared his throat.

“Hey.” That sounded normal enough. He smiled as they turned to him. “What color is my pumpkin pie plate going to be? I suggest Chinet white. The contrast between the pumpkin and stark white would be just the thing—whimsical as it were. Plus, you can throw it away once you lick it.”

Big Mama laughed and after a second, Lucy joined in but there was something in her eyes and the set of her mouth that made him think she could see through him. He didn’t like that. She could
not
know he might pass out any second.

“You silly boy!” Big Mama said. “Look what a beautiful job our Lucy did.” She pulled her cell phone from her skirt pocket and began to take pictures of the table.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked Lucy in a perfectly normal voice. He stood up straight, praying he didn’t need the support of the doorframe.

She came toward him with a little wrinkle between her eyes and laid a hand on his arm.

His heart slowed and the tightness in his lungs began to dissipate.

As Big Mama fussed with the little pumpkins and berries on the table, Lucy leaned in and whispered, “I’ll come for Thanksgiving.”

And just like that, complete calm settled in.

• • •

Lucy started to park in front of the Brantley Building. That wasn’t going to work. The press conference was going to be out front on the sidewalk.

“Better park behind the building,” Brantley told her. “We can go in the back door.”

“Oh, right.” She swung the car around, with her hands at ten and two. Ever the rule follower. She pulled right up to the back door, where Papa used to park. Oddly, Brantley was feeling okay. He hadn’t been up to Papa’s old office since the day Big Mama had asked him to take on the project and he hadn’t planned to go there today, but maybe it was time.

They were going to need a place for home base in this building and that office was the only one that didn’t need any major work. He might be taking a foolhardy chance on the heels of what had just happened, but how else was he to show the panic who was boss?

Upon entering the office, his fear evaporated because he immediately became absorbed in Lucy’s delight. She didn’t speak for a long time but she ran her hand over the built in bookshelves, stared up at the original light fixture, and scurried to get a closer look at the sconces. Every once in a while, she would turn and smile at him like she’d found a gold mine. Finally, she knelt in front of the burl desk and touched the twin medallions on the front.

She looked up at him. “Walnut. Early 1900s?”

He shook his head. He didn’t know. It had just always been Papa’s desk. He took a deep breath, not because he needed to, but because he could.

She went to inspect the matching filing cabinets, credenza, and finally the chairs—the one that Papa had sat in, and the two in front of the desk for guests.

“Oh, Brantley!” she said. “A whole matched set.” She swiveled the desk chair. “Even the chair is in perfect condition.” She looked underneath. “Somewhere along the way there must have been some repairs. Had to.”

He didn’t know that either but it was probably true. Back then, nothing had been broken. Everyone’s car was kept in perfect running condition, there were always ironed shirts in everyone’s closet, and laughter at every meal. It was no surprise that an antique chair would get immediate attention at the first sign of disrepair.

Watching Lucy love these things made him wonder if it was possible to have a life again where nothing was broken.

She stretched her arms out and twirled around like Julie Andrews on that mountain in
The Sound of Music
. “Brantley, all this office is going to need is some paint. I’ll want to get the woodwork and floor professionally cleaned.” She looked up. “The light fixtures too. We should get that wiring checked. But then that’s your department, I guess.” She laughed that Lucy Mead laugh.

Warmth erupted inside him, where panic had so recently reigned. He let it come out in his smile.

“Hey. For a girl who’s about to worry herself to death that we’re going to disgrace ourselves in front of the press and the public at large, you’re not too worried about getting down to business.”

“Oh, right.” She picked up her portfolio and walked toward the desk but stopped short. “Is it all right if I open this on the desk?”

“Yes.” He walked toward her, unzipping his own portfolio as he went. “You can do anything you want at this desk.”

Brantley had been right. The press conference went perfectly. As he predicted, Miss Caroline did most of the talking. Lucy had only been asked how she planned to make function meet authenticity, a question she had answered easily. She even had a few sketches.

What had astounded her was Brantley. His presentation boards were works of art, making hers look like something a kindergartner had strung together. She had expected him to be witty and charming, but that he mixed that with such a depth of knowledge was surprising.

After meeting and greeting, and hugging their friends who had come out to support them, Lucy and Brantley hauled their things back upstairs to that wonderful office. Brantley had his jacket and tie off before she had a chance to store her portfolio in the closet.

If he’d looked good before, he was delicious now. She wanted to devour him. Better not.

“You were great,” she said. “I am sorry I thought you didn’t have your act together. I see how hard you worked.”

He put his hands in his pockets and leaned on the edge of the credenza. “Did you think I don’t care about my profession, Lucy?” he asked. “That I don’t care about this project above all others?”

He wasn’t confrontational but, rather, there seemed to be an openness about him that she had never seen. It was like he had a mask that he usually wore—a mask that was real and a genuine part of him, but not the sum of him. Now, it was that previously hidden part of Brantley who was asking this question. She knew her answer was going to be important—just like she had known he had been treading on thin ice in his grandmother’s dining room earlier.

“I didn’t think you
didn’t
care,” she said slowly, “But, Brantley, I have some trouble telling what you care about and how much.”

He nodded. “That’s fair.” He was silent for a moment then he met her eyes. “I care about you, Lucy.” He nodded, like it was news to him. “I do.”

Don’t say that to me. Never say that to me. I can’t take it!
Fear went through her, because it was this new open part of Brantley who was speaking and she had no idea if she could trust him—or herself.

“As much as you care about pumpkin pie?” She was proud of herself for the comeback. Two could play the evade and joke game.

He grinned and closed his eyes, like he was studying the question. “That’s a hard dilemma, Lucy. You see, pumpkin pie and I go back a long time.” He stepped toward her and put his arms around her. “But on the other hand—” And he kissed her, sweet and long, so sweet and long that she was afraid they were going to end up half naked on the oriental rug. She could see that they were moving quickly from half naked to full naked and she was beginning to be more and more all right with that.

But not yet. She pulled away. “I was proud of you today.”

The smile he gave her was not his usual practiced southern boy charm smile, but one of pure radiance. There must be real power in the word
proud
.

“I was proud of you too,” he said.

Yes, power in the word. She felt the effect.

“We are going to do good work here,” he said. “Also, my grandmother is thrilled you are coming for Thanksgiving. She’s going to call your aunt.”

The mention of her agreement to that took Lucy to a place she didn’t want to go—but she had to. She began to worry a button on his shirt.

“Any chance I’m lucky enough that you’re going to undo that button?” he asked.

She smiled at him as best she could. “Maybe later. Brantley, I need to ask you something.”

“You can, but the answer is yes. You can unbutton that button and all the others.” He touched his nose to hers.

She pulled back. “I know being back in town, and especially working on this project, has had to bring up a lot of memories.”

That open part of him began to retreat a bit, and some of the more familiar mask came out.

“Have you ever spoken to anyone about what happened to your family? A professional?”

“No.” He smiled that old smile. “Really, Lucy. It’s been a long time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing a little help.”

The openness retreated completely and the mask snapped fully in place. “All I need is for Lucy Mead to laugh for me and let me come over and watch Monday Night Football tonight.” He tickled her neck with his tongue until she laughed. She knew when to let something go.

“I can’t,” she said. “I have to work with Annelle tonight. Black Friday is almost here and we are assembling the Christmas decorations in the storeroom. She won’t allow them to go up until after Thanksgiving. We have to have them ready to go, so we can fly in there at the crack of dawn Friday and have it all in place by the time we open.”

He groaned. “I never knew that woman was my enemy.”

“Tell you what. You watch football with Harris, Nathan, and Luke tonight. But right now, let’s go to the diner. I’ll buy you a piece of pumpkin pie.”

“A poor substitute,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “But a poor horny guy will take what he can get.”

And so would she.

Until he left town.

Or went back to Rita May.

Or simply changed his mind.

Brantley stepped in through the back door of Big Mama’s house to the sounds of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade blaring from the small television in the kitchen. Evelyn was paused, knife in midair, with her eyes trained on the screen. He had forgotten how Evelyn loved a parade—any parade. Especially the marching bands.

“Well, well, well,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I did not expect to see the woman who has ruined me for all other women this morning. I thought you were going to be with your family.”

“Humph,” Evelyn said and went back to peeling apples. “I just came by to get y’all started. I made my dressing, relishes, and my pecan and pumpkin pies yesterday. But apple pie needs to be baked the day of. And everybody knows you can’t peel potatoes in advance. Plus, I had to get my ham in the oven.”

Evelyn didn’t trust fried turkey and always baked a ham. Of course, there was the year they had gotten distracted and burned the bird up. Had Brantley been fifteen or sixteen? He couldn’t remember, nor could he remember what self-absorbed story he’d been regaling his father and grandfather with, but the ruined turkey had been his fault. Most things were.

“She’s here because she doesn’t trust us.” Big Mama breezed into the kitchen with some kind of silky looking long shirt flapping around her, and smelling expensive. “Good morning, darling.” She gave Brantley a one armed shoulder hug and cheek kiss. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

If she had any apprehension about the holiday, it didn’t show. Brantley got to his feet, and hugged her full on. “Happy Turkey Day to you too.”

Evelyn dried her hands, pulled a plate of bacon and eggs out of the warming oven, and set it in front of Brantley. “I want you to eat every bite of that,” she said. “I know you. You’re going to start drinking when you and Mr. Charles start frying that turkey. Doing it on an empty stomach will just make it worse.” Evelyn did not approve of “whiskey drinking” and as far as she was concerned, all alcohol was whiskey.