Southern Comfort (16 page)

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Like it mattered now. He knew all her secrets. He knew more about her than anyone, and he didn’t even know it.

“I—” she started, but her voice caught on a sob.

He shushed her as her tears fell harder. His arms wound around her and he held her close, his warmth giving her the strength and comfort she so desperately needed. She leaned into him, needing as much of that strength as she could get.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Again his voice was gentle, caring and soft. It only made her want to cry harder.

“It doesn’t matter,” she blubbered into the crook of his neck. “Nothing matters now.” With his arms around her, Newland turned her. He leaned against the hood of her car, cradling her in his arms as he nestled her between his thighs.

“Really,” he said. “There’s no need. There’s no need for tears.”

“You don’t understand. You didn’t just—” She gestured wildly toward the apartment door, but the words stuck in her throat. He had been with her every step of the way, every heart-pounding, sexy inch they had gone. But what did it matter to him?

“I didn’t just what?” His voice was once again gentle and caring.

“I don’t—” She hiccupped. “I don’t lose control.”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling, but she was thankful that he didn’t laugh at her. That was something she wouldn’t have been able to stand. “Maybe it’s time you did.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. Everyone depends on me. You don’t understand. Everybody doesn’t depend on you. And now Gerald—”

The twinkle in his eyes was quickly replaced with clouds. “Yeah, him.”

Natalie shook her head. “I need him.”

“But you don’t love him.”

“I need him,” she said again, the emphasis even stronger. “He’s everything I need.”

“So because you need somebody to help you babysit your family, you’re willing to marry a guy who’s—”

“Careful,” she warned.

“— too conservative for his own good.”

“You don’t understand. You don’t have people depending on you.”

His arms dropped back to his sides, and he nodded in her direction. “You’re right about that. I don’t have people depending on me. I can do whatever I want whenever I want to do it. And it sucks. You know that? It sucks.” He spun away from her. Natalie was chilled as his warmth moved away.

“Where are you going?”

He shook his head. “Somewhere else.”

“How will you get back to my aunt’s house?” That wasn’t what she should have said. She should’ve asked him to come back. Told him that she would take him to Aunt Bitty’s. Apologize for creating that pain in his eyes. But it seemed it was her night for royally messing up.

He stalked across the dark parking lot, not even bothering to turn around as he waved a dismissive hand in her direction. “It’s a small town. I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

• • •

As best he could figure, it was about five miles back to Bitty’s. Turtle Creek wasn’t that big, but he didn’t want to go back to the house. He wanted to stay with Natalie, make love again, give it one more chance. Take his time, make her scream his name. She’d only
thought
she had lost control tonight. He wanted to truly see her lose control of it all. He grew hard at the thought.

It was ridiculous. What did he care if she kept her life in control? What did it matter to him? She had everything all in order, all planned out. All he needed was a story, and he was out of here. He would leave Little Miss Perfect, I’m-In-Such-Control behind, and she could worry all she wanted about appearances and clothes and Harvey Johnson’s hound dog.

It was getting late, he knew, but it was still Friday night in a small town. He heard the music before he saw it. Some little honky-tonk squatting between an insurance agency and the Dairy Queen. It looked something like a log cabin stuck in the middle of town and lit with multi-colored Christmas lights. A flashing neon Bud Light sign declared they were open, as if the loud music spilling from the crack in the door wasn’t enough.

Distraction. Just what he needed.

Newland pushed his way inside, immediately enveloped in the smells of beer, stale cigarette smoke, and Pine-Sol. It was a brutal combination, but he suspected after ten minutes and a shot of whiskey he wouldn’t care.

He wound his way through the pool tables tossed at odd angles in the front section of the building, toward the back where tables only big enough for two or four people were scattered around. A bar ran the length of the room, with swivel top seats on the stools in front and rows of bottles reflected in the mirror behind.

He slid onto one of the stools, rapped his knuckles against the wood bar, and waited for the barkeep to notice him. Either way it didn’t matter. He had gotten away from Natalie and her poison attitude about control.

Didn’t she know she had no control over life? He’d had no control when his parents were killed. He had no control when his uncle had taken him in. And he had no control in the years that had followed. He’d just recently felt like he had any control over his life only to be smacked down by falling in love with the wrong woman.

“What’ll it be?” the dark-haired bartender asked. He had a mean look like he’d just stepped out of an alley in New York City, and he seemed to be the antithesis of all things Turtle Creek.

“Dewars on the rocks.” It wasn’t something he drank all the time. But today was a special occasion. Or maybe he just needed it. “Make it a double.”

The bartender gave him a quick nod then moved away to fill his request.

Newland couldn’t say that he’d fallen in love with the wrong woman. Every day that came between then and now seemed to add to his quick healing. He’d only thought himself in love with Roxanne. He just wanted to help her. Help her get over a bad divorce, a bad marriage, and all the other little things that seemed to hang around her like streamers of tragedy. She had a good heart, a good soul, and she deserved better than how she came to him. Broken, vacant-eyed, determined to be everything that her family didn’t want her to be.

Now she was happily married and living in Tennessee, no more than an hour from where he sat at this very moment. But she belonged to another now.

A sense of well-being at Roxanne’s happiness descended upon him.

The barkeep stopped a few stools down, poured his double, then slid the glass to him.

Newland caught it in one hand, then lifted it in salute to Roxanne.

To Roxanne and Malcolm. And the happiness they deserved.

He took a sip, enjoying the burn as the whiskey slid down his throat. Yes, they deserved happiness. But so did the woman he’d just left.

Natalie Coleman.

What a piece of work. So wrapped up in making everything perfect that she couldn’t even enjoy the life that she had.

You don’t need to save her.
He could tell himself that a million and one times. But something in him wanted him to save her, wanted to show her how to appreciate the things she had.

Oh, not the money. Anybody could get money. Money could come and go just like a snap of the fingers. But her wonderful aunt who liked to play poker and drink moonshine. Her brother the mayor and all the other little eccentric players in this crazy town. That was what she needed to embrace. The people and the love around her. But she was so consumed with everything being perfect she couldn’t see that she was missing out on the greatest life anybody could have.

He braced his elbows on the bar and took another sip.

Why did he care if Natalie was consumed with perfection? It was no skin off his nose the things that she did. And yet tonight …

Never. Never in his life had it been like that. He wasn’t a player, but he wasn’t a monk either. He’d had his fair share of women, good times, and great sex. But tonight was on a different level completely. Just remembering her cries of passion made him shift in his seat uncomfortably. She had so much passion stored down inside, pushed way down deep inside so it couldn’t ever see the light of day. Because passion meant lack of control, and lack of control for Natalie Coleman was detrimental to her peace of mind. But lack of control was what she needed to experience most. She needed to lose control of her life now and then. See what was right in front of her.

Stay out of it
, he told himself.
It’s none of your concern
. He took another sip, movement down the bar catching his attention.

It took him a minute through the haze and smoke to recognize the two men talking to the bartender. Gilbert and Darrell Hughes, resident mountains and sneakers into the cemeteries after dark. What were they doing here?

He shook his head. This whole place was making him paranoid. It wasn’t like it was Friday night in what was most likely the only honky-tonk in the area. Where else would they go to let off steam on the weekend?

He turned away, but his eyes kept straying back to that corner of the bar where the three men stood. They seemed to be discussing something in great earnest, and Newland had the feeling it wasn’t how the Braves were doing this year. Not that he kept up with baseball, but he knew enough to know that their season was tanking out. No, this was something much more important.

Like it mattered. Small-town drama was not his style. And he had already experienced way too much of it since being in Turtle Creek. Right now he just needed to count down the days till next Thursday when he could check on this ghost of Bitty Duncan’s and head out of town. Hopefully with a great story under his belt. And if not, he still had enough information that he could make up the rest of the details and sell the story to somebody. It might not make a fortune, but it would help him make rent this month.

The three men seemed to have reached some sort of agreement. At least they were all nodding their heads and shaking hands. An envelope appeared out of nowhere. Gilbert went to tuck it in his pocket, but Darrell took it away. Or was that the other way around? It didn’t matter. It was sealed and no one opened it.

Newland’s reporter instincts kicked into high gear. An envelope like that could only contain money. A payoff?

The guy next to him sighed. “Women.”

Newland nodded in commiseration. “Ain’t that the truth?”

The man stuck his hand out for Newland to shake. “Jack Russell.”

“Like the d— never mind. Newland Tran,” he said in return.

“Hey, aren’t you that reporter who’s supposed to check on Miss Bitty’s ghost?”

Newland laughed. The town really was too small for words. He gave a quick nod. “That would be me.”

Jack shook his head. “It’s the damnedest thing. She swears that it only comes on the last Thursday of the month. But I tell you there’s something else going on there.”

Thankfully Newland had limited himself to one double whiskey. His ears perked up. “You know about the ghost then?”

“Yeah, not much. I’m not even sure there is one. But there’s definitely something weird going on in that cemetery come the end of the month.”

“Like what?”

“All sorts of moving around, noises, big trucks coming in and out.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I live across the street. Not on Bitty’s block, but on the other side. Across the street from the gate.”

Newland almost gave himself a V-8 smack on the head. He talked to everyone on Bitty’s block but hadn’t even thought about asking the homeowner across the street from the cemetery.

“Big trucks, you say?”

“Like clockwork.”

“What about those two?” He nodded his head toward Darrell and Gilbert as they disappeared into the back room behind the bartender.

After all, Newland had seen them out in the cemetery looking for something just before he and Natalie had discovered the cufflink with the C on it. One trip to the library had told him that it wasn’t an old cufflink. But who in this town had enough money to wear French cuffs? Gerald Davenport, that was who. Except that Newland didn’t know if the man actually wore French cuffs. If that was the case, why was he wearing them in the cemetery? And why would he be wearing a letter C? None of it made sense.

Jack looked toward the darkened doorway. “Aww, they’re practically harmless. Small timers, you know.”

“No, I don’t think I do. Small-time what?”

“Bootleggers.” He said the one word as if it was so apparently obvious, and that he was surprised Newland hadn’t known it before he hit the town limits.

“You don’t say? Moonshine, right?”

“Yeah. They have a pretty good product here.” He slid his glass closer to Newland. The clear liquid seemed innocent enough, almost like water.

Newland looked back into Jack’s eyes. “That’s moonshine?” He pointed to the drink.

“Some of the best this county has to offer.”

Newland looked from the drink back to Jack again. “And those two guys made it?”

“Yup.”

“Darrell and Gilbert Hughes made the moonshine in that glass right there?”

Jack nodded. “Go on, get a snort of it. But just a little one. That stuff is lethal.”

Newland lifted the glass, taking a cautious sniff. “Why are they selling this in a bar?” he asked.

Jack shrugged. “Because they can, I guess.”

“And without paying taxes on it.”

Jack shrugged again.

Newland lifted the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip. It was smooth, with a hint of fruit and a burn that he was certain took half the hair off his chest. If he went bald anytime in the near future he would blame that glass of moonshine right there.

“Whoa,” he said. “That’s got some bite.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, it does. Take one more sip and you won’t care.”

Newland was sure that what Jack said was right. But he didn’t plan on drinking any more of that stuff. Not tonight. “So Gilbert and Darrell make this and then they bring it here to sell to the bartender?” He was reeling. Real life bootleggers right here in Mississippi. “What’s the sheriff have to say about that?”

Jack laughed. “He’s their best customer.”

• • •

Natalie paced across the freshly painted foyer, waiting on Newland to return. She should’ve never let him walk away from her in the parking lot of her duplex, but she had. She hadn’t been in the right state of mind to realize how many of her secrets he now carried with him. Secrets she didn’t want anyone to know.