Simple Gone South (Crimson Romance) (31 page)

“Dad,” he said carefully, “you are wrong. Nothing was your fault. It was a hard time for all of us.” It was now or never, and it had already been never too long. “And none of it would have happened if it hadn’t been for me. If I hadn’t done what I did, we’d all be in Merritt right now doing what we used to do at Christmas. Nobody would be grieving and nobody would be buried.”

Good; it was out. There was no turning back. Even if Charles never wanted to see him again, at least that would be honest.

Charles looked thoroughly perplexed. “Son, I have no idea what you are talking about. You didn’t do anything.”

In for a penny, in for a whole life. Of course, that life was as fake as everything in this townhouse.

“I should have told you a long time ago. You may never forgive me. And that’s all right; I’ve got it coming.”

“Son, I could never—”

“Don’t say what you could never do, until you hear me out.” He’d started now. On with it. “The morning it happened, Mama had told me twice to take a shower and get dressed. It was going on eleven o’clock. I was playing video games and I kept telling her just a minute. She was pretty aggravated with me to begin with and, I admit, I was tired of her nagging me. I didn’t see what difference it made when I took a shower. So anyway, Papa called to say his car was broken down on the interstate. He’d been down to Birmingham for something. Some early breakfast meeting, I think. He was about thirty miles out of town. Of course, you know that part I guess. Anyway, he wanted me to come get him.

“She came in there where I was and said, ‘Brantley, your grandfather has had car trouble and needs you to come get him. Now, I’ve already told you. Put that remote down and get in that shower. Right now. It’s hot and he’s sitting in his car on the side of the road. You need to get there before the wrecker does.’ Well.” He closed his eyes. “It made me mad. Stupid. I was about to top my high score. I threw the controller down and said, ‘Why do
I
have to do everything?’ Funny. I never really did much of anything. I’ll never forget the look on her face. She put her hand up and said, ‘Pardon me, my little prince. I’ll do it
myself
!’ And she left. And you know what? I was glad. I still didn’t get dressed. I sat there and played that stupid video game until—well, you know that part. That’s what I was doing when you came to tell me. You had to send me to the shower before people starting coming.”

There it was done. Charles’s eyes had never left his and his expression remained neutral the whole time.

“And?” Charles said.

And what? Wasn’t that enough? “Don’t you get it? She left mad. First, if I had gone, it wouldn’t have happened. A minute sooner or later, it wouldn’t have happened. Second, she was so mad at me. If I had not been hateful, if she had not been mad, she would not have had the wreck.”

Charles put his head in his hands. “Oh, Brantley. Oh, Son.”

“Even if we can’t come back from this, even if you never forgive me, it’s a relief that you know. I’m tired of living a lie.”

Charles looked up and met his eyes. “Son, I knew about this. I always knew.”

That could not be true. His father could not know this and not blame him. “But how?” he asked because he could not get the question out about the lack of blame.

“Your mother called me on the way to pick up Alden. She was pretty steamed at you and she ranted for a minute or two. Then we started laughing. We kept saying back and forth to each other,
‘Why do
I
have to do everything?’
It was pretty laughable, considering the extraordinary effort we put into making your life easy. But we decided no video games for the rest of the summer and no taking the Play Station with you to Vandy. And then she said, ‘Oh, Charles, what are we going to do for entertainment when he’s gone?’ I assure you, Brantley, she was not mad at you. You were normally so obliging. You were just lazy that morning and had had a gut load of being told what to do. And you sassed her. That’s what teenagers do, though you not as often as most.”

Brantley was speechless. Or very nearly. There was something else he had to know.

“Big Mama?” It was all he could get out.

“Of course she knew. Your mother called her after she called me. She said we were being too hard on you. ‘He’s a good boy and he works hard!’ That’s what she said every time you needed punishing. Brantley, this is nothing. Please, for the love of God, Son, let this go. I should have talked to you about it at the time, I guess, but I never knew you were feeling guilty. And I was half crazy myself.”

It couldn’t be this simple—free absolution that he didn’t deserve. “Still, if I had gone—”

Charles shook his head. “Brantley, it was an accident. An
accident
. Do you think I haven’t wished a million times that I had told Eva to stop and get me, that I’d ride with her to pick up Alden? Or to let me go instead? The fact is, a semi blew a tire on the interstate and landed in your mother’s lane. It seems outrageous to say, considering what it did to our lives, but what happened isn’t complicated. And we’ve got some life left. We need to live it.”

He would not have welcomed relief even if it had come. “Still. The last thing I ever said to her was mean. Nothing will change that. And you know she told Papa, so the last thing he knew was that I wouldn’t come get him like he asked.”

Charles nodded. “We don’t
know
that she told your papa, but you’re right—she probably did. We’ll never know what they said, but I know this. There has never been a man who loved a grandchild more than Alden Brantley loved you. Besides that, he liked you. He
liked
your company. And I promise you this like I’ve never promised anything before: a silly teenage tantrum is nothing compared to a love like that.”

Charles got up and retrieved a package from the shopping bag he’d brought in. He’d certainly picked an odd time to give out Christmas presents.

“I haven’t seen this but I’ve heard about it. Lucy sent it to you. I want you to open it and have a look.”

Perplexed, Brantley unwrapped the package. Inside was a leather photo album with his initials embossed on the corner. This wasn’t an album with plastic sheets inside to slip pictures in. She had gone to some trouble to get this. The pages were high quality cotton rag and on the first page, she had written in calligraphy, “Brantley Charles Kincaid . . . The Beginning.”

The first picture was of his mother sitting in a hospital bed with him in her arms, and his father and grandparents looking on. Underneath she had written simply the date—but around the photograph, she had drawn the most wonderful fanciful pictures of the sandman, Humpty Dumpty, puppies, Peter Pan, and smiling moons. There was no connection between the little pictures. It was as if she sat and thought about a baby boy and drew what came to mind. And it was perfect.

As was the rest of the book. It told the story of his baby years, childhood, and teen years with photographs and her wonderful drawings. Birthdays, first day of school, Halloween, Little League, with Santa Claus, first communion, proms, in football uniforms and letter jackets. She had not used a lot of photographs—just her little drawings and one perfect picture per event showing one perfect love between a boy and his family.

It must have taken her hours and hours.

The last picture was of his mother and him right before his high school graduation. It was a candid shot that he had never seen, taken, it seemed, between the many pictures he’d posed for. Mama was coming for him with a hairbrush in her hand and he had his hands up, warding her off. He remembered now how she had not been satisfied with how his hair looked under his cap, and kept fussing with it. In the picture, they were laughing and she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that truly mattered.

He wasn’t sure how long it had taken him to go through the book—it seemed a lifetime.

“Now, Brantley,” Charles said, “look at that book and try to tell me that those thirty seconds seventeen years ago defined your relationship with you mother and your grandfather. With any of us.”

And he turned back to the first page. This time he and his dad looked at the book together. They laughed and told stories. There were even a few tears, something neither man would ever admit.

When they got to the end, Charles flipped past that last picture.

“Looks like there are some blank pages in this book, Son. What are you going to fill them with?”

Walking into Christ Episcopal at five minutes before midnight wasn’t as hard as Lucy expected, maybe because she was numb. And she needed numb because she had thought she’d be here with Brantley tonight. That had been the plan, then on to Miss Caroline’s house for eggnog and opening one gift. Instead, she would spend the night in Missy’s guest room.

She slipped into the pew beside Missy and gave a little wave down the line to Luke, Lanie, Tolly, Nathan, and Kirby. Harris was in the choir and everyone’s kids were with grandparents.

Louisa Bennet turned from two rows ahead and gave Lucy a sweet, sympathetic smile. It was only then that it occurred to her that this was her first journey into polite company since the night of the proposal. No one seemed to be pointing and whispering. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that Brantley was alone and hurting.

Only not really alone. Charles and Miss Caroline were with him. But she imagined that he felt as alone as she would feel at Missy’s tomorrow amid all the kids, noise, and extended families.

But she was glad she came tonight. It was soothing—the carols, the candlelight, communion, and the Christmas story. She knew the service by rote and that was comforting. Some things remained the same. That might not always be good, but it was predictable.

When the service was over, there were hugs and Merry Christmases all around but not a word about Brantley or what had happened.

Missy took her hand. “Okay, I’m going to ride with you to your house. Harris will pick us up and we’ll leave your car.”

Missy was still afraid she was going to opt out and spend Christmas alone. Not a bad idea, but not possible.

“I can’t. I’ve got flower guild duty. I’ll be along soon.” Missy looked doubtful and a little anxious. The others were frowning too. Lucy forced a little laugh. “Go home! All of you. Make Christmas happen.” Then she turned to Missy. “I have my bag in the car. I’ll come straight over. Any chance for some of that homemade hot chocolate of yours with the coffee liquor while we wait for Santa?”

“You bet!” Missy smiled and it was clear that she would have walked to Antarctica to get Lucy an icicle if she thought it would make her happy. Unfortunately, the only thing that Lucy wanted, Missy couldn’t get for her. No one could.

“Lucy, do you need help with the flowers?” Lanie asked.

“Sure!” Tolly said. “We’ll all help.”

Lucy smiled at their eagerness. “No. Anna Beth Benson is helping me.” She looked toward the altar. “There she is. She’s already brought the cart from the flower room.”

They all looked at her with expressions that meant they wanted to help her but they didn’t know how.

She laughed again and started passing out a second round of hugs. “Go! And Merry Christmas.”

It took two trips to move the potted poinsettias and the three flower arrangements to the flower room. The poinsettias would be delivered to the hospital as they were, but the three arrangements had to be reworked into ten smaller bouquets. Anna Beth pulled the vases from the cabinet as Lucy began to sort the roses, narcissus, holly berries, and evergreens.

“This won’t take long,” Lucy said.

“I hope not.” Anna Beth began to fill the vases with water and for the first time Lucy noticed she was a little tense.

“What’s wrong, Anna Beth?”

“Everything!” she burst out and looked like she might cry. “You know my kids have gotten to the age where every toy they get needs batteries. They were in bed by ten. Dale’s parents are here and they were asleep even before that. Anyway, the kids’ gifts were hidden in the garage. Our plan was to get batteries in everything, come to church, and then all we’d have to do is put everything under the tree after we got home.” She refilled her pitcher. Her hands were shaking. “So I had the batteries. I counted up how many and what kind we needed, Lucy. I did. I made a list.”

“I believe you,” Lucy said.

“They were in a sack and I put them in the laundry room on top of the drier. But when I went to get them, they weren’t there. We tore the house apart. I told Dale they weren’t in my car, but he looked there anyway. The only thing I can think of is that in the chaos, they got thrown away. Anyway, by then everything was closed. We went everywhere. We didn’t even come to church. I just came in time to do this. Now Dale is driving around to friends’ houses, seeing who might have batteries left after putting together their kids’ stuff.” She teared up a little. “I just hope we can get enough so that
some
of their things will work and they won’t be completely disappointed. I guess we can switch batteries from toy to toy in the morning but what are they going to think about that? What kind of Santa Claus wouldn’t bring enough batteries?”

Anna Beth’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said and answered it.

Another person in Lucy’s position might have been frustrated with Anna Beth, thinking that missing batteries was nothing in the scheme of things. But Lucy’s heart warmed. She longed for a time when she might be upset at the possibility of her children being disappointed.

“No, Dale,” Anna Beth was saying. “Not C.
D
cell. And four won’t do any good. It has to be eight. Okay. Tell Patsy thank you and take them. We might happen on more.”

Lucy couldn’t help Brantley. She couldn’t heal her own broken heart, but this she could solve.

“Anna Beth,” she said once the other woman had hung up the phone. “The big gas stations out by the interstate—they have batteries. You can’t get any yogurt, but they have batteries, all you want. And they don’t close.”

Anna Beth’s mouth formed a perfect O. “We didn’t think. Oh! We are so stupid.”

Lucy stepped around and took the water pitcher from her. “Go, Anna Beth. I’ve got this.”