Simple Gone South (Crimson Romance) (29 page)

“Did you think Brantley
would
be all right?” Missy asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“He texted Charles that he is in Nashville.”

Lucy hesitated. “Are Charles and Miss Caroline very mad at me? Are you?” Because let’s face it, in a contest against Brantley, no one outside of Harris and the kids was going to win with Missy.

“Mad at you? Why would anyone be mad at you?”

“For humiliating him in public.”

“Ha! He did that to himself. What fool proposes in public? What I’m interested in is how you are. And I am on my way there to see for myself.”

No. No. No.
“No, Missy. I am fine. I didn’t sleep much and I am going to take a nap. That’s what I need. Besides, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. You have a dozen things to do. You said so yesterday. You need to make cookies, buy stocking stuffers, and go to Birmingham to pick up that doll for Lulu.”

“I don’t have to do any of that. Lulu doesn’t know one doll from another and we have plenty of cookies.”

“Not decorated ones for the kids to leave for Santa. That’s important to you. If I needed you, I would say so. What I need is to be by myself today.” And tomorrow, and the day after, and forever. But she didn’t say that.

“Well.” Missy’s voice wavered. “If that’s what you want. But only if you promise you’ll call if you need me. And only if you promise you’ll come spend the night with us tomorrow night and have Christmas here. I don’t want you to wake up alone on Christmas morning.”

“I promise,” Lucy lied. She’d figure out something to get out of it or she’d leave town. But one thing at a time. “Please tell that to Tolly and Lanie. They have holiday stuff to do too and I want them to do it. I want you all to.”

“All right,” Missy said reluctantly. “But, Lucy, as stupid as it was for Brantley to pull that stunt in public, this has a simple fix. You know that, right? Because you really are perfect for each other.”

Ha! Tell that to Rita May Sanderson.

• • •

Brantley slept until almost noon. He woke with a stiff neck and no idea where he was.

Then he remembered. He jumped up to check his phone, hoping that Lucy had called. He knew better than to try to call her. She wouldn’t answer unless she wanted to talk to him and if she wanted to talk, she’d call.

Then he remembered. He had no phone. When he’d come back downstairs last night, Rita May had left but his phone was in pieces on the kitchen floor. And the Christmas tree had been overturned.

Yep, she’d gone out like she’d come in. Causing trouble. But he didn’t have time to think about that. He needed to use that fancy for-show soap he’d seen in the upstairs shower, dry himself with one of those two inch thick towels, and put his dirty clothes back on—the clothes he’d been wearing when Lucy ran away from him.

He sighed. It would be a luxury to wallow in his gloom and the last thing he wanted to do was go shopping—especially with two shopping days left until Christmas. But he had to have a phone, some food, and some bourbon. The clean clothes seemed less important than they had last night but he’d get that too.

Apart for having to go out in the mayhem, for once he was thankful for Christmas. He’d have two days when he wasn’t expected to do anything.

And maybe she would call. Probably not. Still, getting a phone would be his first order of business.

• • •

Determined to eat something healthy and low calorie to make up for her breakfast, Lucy opened the refrigerator about noon. She reached for the lettuce to make a salad and found it to be brown and slimy. The low fat cheese was hard and the bread was molded.

She and Brantley had been eating out a lot. That, and eating with Charles and Miss Caroline. She wanted to cry; she needed to cry. But if she did, she’d never stop and she had to have supplies. There was no way to make it until the day after Christmas on a jar of olives, one Lean Cuisine, and half a bag of Eller’s dog food.

Oh, wouldn’t Big Starr be just jolly today, with people—people she knew—buying hams, eggnog, and the stuff to make fudge, ambrosia, and lane cake? Publix would be no better. She was considering driving further afield to the next town, when she remembered that those big gas stations out by the interstate had food. And no one she knew would be shopping there.

Still she put on a hat and sunglasses before driving out there. They didn’t have any yogurt or fresh fruit, but she got instant oatmeal, whole grain bread, skim milk, canned peaches, and a package of turkey lunchmeat—all reasonably good girl foods.

Then she drove through McDonalds again, wondering how early she could finish that bottle of wine.

After she ate, she decided to do something productive so she picked up her coat from where she had flung it on a chair and actually hung it in the coat closet.

It was then she caught sight of a box wrapped in silver paper decorated with snowflakes. The tag said, “For my Lucy.” There was no from. He assumed she knew who would be giving her presents.

If she were the kind who was lying on the sofa refusing to eat, she would not have opened the package. But, as she had proven with not one but two fast food meals in five hours, she was not that person. And once and future fat girls loved to bask in the pain.

So she unwrapped it.

The box contained a sea of ivory silk and lace. She pulled out piece after piece of creamy, lush lingerie until she realized it was a whole ensemble—bustier, garter belt, lace topped stockings, and a pair of exquisite but modest lacy panties. The whole set sparkled with tiny crystal beads and seed pearls.

And there was a card with a handwritten message; wouldn’t there just have to be?

Take note of the underpants. I would have gotten some more suited to my own personal taste, which would entail no crotch or maybe some that let that magnificent ass of yours hang out. But I thought these would be better for standing around with a bunch of women waiting to get tricked out to walk down the aisle. Where, I would like to remind you, Lucy Mead, I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be the one smiling.

She ran her fingers over the tiny, even, all uppercase letters—the handwriting of an architect. She reminded herself again that she had known what was coming, but that didn’t do one thing to alleviate the pain that was tearing through her like a match on a stream of gasoline.

In that moment, she would have driven to Nashville, and told him yes. No matter what his reasons for wanting her, she would have done it. She’d have married him now, today, this hour.

Except Rita May had answered the phone. She reached for the half empty bottle of wine. How, how, how was she going to live without him?

When she finished the wine, she opened another bottle. She thought of getting a glass this time, but why start that at this point?

Maybe drinking out of the bottle would be her new signature style. Yeah, she wouldn’t do historic restoration and she’d drink out of the bottle. There’d be pictures of famous people in magazines drinking from the bottle in “Lucy Style.” Waterford and Baccarat would try to capitalize on it and start making crystal wine bottles meant to be drunk from. They would send her boxes of them but she wouldn’t use them. No. She would remain true to drinking from the original bottle. Eventually, there would be no wine glasses made. A spokesman from Baccarat would make a statement. “Due to new trends that seem to have become the standard, we are no longer producing wine glasses. Continue to look for the excellence that you expect from Baccarat in our other fine stemware.” Waterford wouldn’t issue a statement. Unlike the French, the Irish were stubborn and didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. They’d just stop making wine glasses. They’d shrug their shoulders, melt down the wine glasses they had, and make them into chandeliers and double old fashions. She knew all about it; she’d been to the Waterford factory. Who knew what Libbey Glassware would do? But then, who cared?

And so it went for the rest of the day and night.

Lucy slept until almost ten. The wine bottle was empty this morning but at least she’d made it into flannel pajamas. Dressing for bed was progress, even if she still couldn’t stand the idea of the actual bed. She would make more progress today. First, she wouldn’t eat fast food. Second, she would not cry. And she just might go to Missy’s to spend the night after all. She had to start picking up the pieces some time and Christmas Eve was as good a time as any.

Besides, Missy would serve a really good breakfast and there would be bloody Marys involved. That might make it worth it. Or not.

She considered driving to McDonald’s for coffee but that would mean getting dressed. Maybe. It distressed her how long she actually considered getting in the car in her pajamas. In the end, she made coffee and thought about toast. She didn’t have to decide right now about toast or if she would go to Missy’s. She’d already decided not to cry and to make coffee. That was enough decision making for now. She took her coffee cup and went back to the living room. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantle it almost scared her—dark circles, flyaway hair, and red eyes. She couldn’t do anything about the eyes, but she dragged the front part of her hair back with a ponytail holder. See, she was better. She cared how she looked. Some.

If she went to Missy’s she’d have to do her hair or face an intervention. Then she remembered something else. She had agreed to clear the flowers from the altar after the midnight service at church tonight. Damn, damn, damn. Older members of the flower guild always decorated for the Christmas Eve service and younger ones cleared it away and made smaller arrangements that would be delivered to the hospital on the day after Christmas by middle-aged guild members. That’s how it had always been.

Always.
What a hateful word.

She was pondering how to get out of midnight flower duty when the doorbell rang. She jumped. It wouldn’t be Brantley. That would be too good—and too bad—to be true. Probably Missy, having stood it as long as she could. Maybe Tolly or Lanie. Or it could be the whole damn lot of them. There was nothing to do but let them in.

But it wasn’t any of those people. On the doorstep stood Charles Kincaid with so much kindness on his face that the tears in her eyes escaped with an explosive sob.

“Oh, baby girl.” He caught her in his arms, where she stayed for the barest second before stepping aside to let him in the house.

Much to her embarrassment, Charles picked up the empty wine bottle off the floor and set it on the coffee table.

“It looks like you’ve been passing the time of day the same way my son has. I think we’d better get this worked out before we have a couple of alcoholics on our hands. Though I am pretty sure my boy had himself a bottle of Wild Turkey 101.” Poor man. He had no idea there was nothing to work out. He removed his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. “They’re predicting snow for tonight. I almost believe it.”

“It’s cold enough,” Lucy said, though she had no idea if that was true. She hadn’t seen a weather report in days.

He picked up her coffee cup. “Is there any more of this around here?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Let me—”

“No. You sit down on that couch and curl up under that blanket. If I can’t find a cup of coffee, I’ve got no prayer of doing you any good.”

No prayer of that, regardless of his aptitude for locating coffee. She hoped he didn’t notice her McDonalds wrappers in the trash.

Charles came back, settled her refilled mug in her hand, and settled himself in a chair opposite her. She steeled herself.

“I’m not going to ask you a lot of questions.” He smiled like Brantley. The tears gathered again but this time she swallowed them. “At least I hope I’m not. I haven’t ever involved myself in my son’s love life before so I’m not exactly sure how this is going to go.”

“You can ask me anything you like. I have a lot to answer for.”

“Answer for?” He frowned like he didn’t understand.

“I embarrassed him in public. You can’t be happy about that.”

Charles laughed a little and sipped his coffee. “I am not sure Brantley has ever been embarrassed about anything in his life, but if he is, it’s his own fault. Or maybe mine. But I never imagined as I prepared my son for life that I would need to say to him, ‘Don’t issue marriage proposals in public, especially if you don’t know what the answer will be.’ I would have thought that was a given.”

She rubbed the place between her eyes. “I wish I had handled it differently.”

“Oh?” Charles said. “If you want to change your answer, I’m sure that can be arranged. When I talked to him last night, he was three sheets to the wind and not in the best state of mind.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s where he was always going to end up—back in Nashville with Rita May.”

Genuine surprise passed over Charles’s face. “No. He
is
in Nashville, but I can assure you he is not with Rita May.”

“I called. She answered the phone.”

“You called? That’s encouraging.”

“I was not encouraged.”

“Yes, I can see where you wouldn’t have been.” Charles went silent for a moment. “I think I am putting this together. According to Brantley, she did show up at his door. He told her to leave and went upstairs. When he came back down, his phone was broken. She must have answered it and then smashed it. Brantley has no idea you called.”

That was something. Not enough, but something.

Charles smiled. “So you see, it’s all a misunderstanding. The two of you can work this out.”

And she had thought that was possible too, before Rita May had answered that phone. What had changed? Other than mass consumption of wine and fried food? Apparently, alcohol and grease had made her wiser.

“It’s more than that,” she said.

“Lucy, I know you love my son. I can see it. I know you have been involved for barely a month, but I maintain if you don’t know in a month you never will. I ought to know. Eva was just like Brantley except in high heels and lipstick. I never had a chance.”

“And neither did I,” Lucy admitted. “But Brantley doesn’t love me. He never said that he did.”