Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel (11 page)

“Let me see your phone.” He dropped her arm and held his hand out.

“Why?”

“So I can put my number in it.” She handed it over. His thumbs worked with dexterity, considering how big his hands were. “If you won’t call the police, I want you to call me if you see Heath lurking or if you get scared. You can even give me a call if you get bored or lonely. Promise me.”

He held her phone between two fingers, but when she went to grab it, he jerked it out of her reach. “Promise me.”

“Fine. I promise.” It was a promise she didn’t intend on keeping. She would handle Heath on her own.

His eyes narrowed as if he were actually telepathic, but he let her pull the phone from his fingers. She slid out of the truck and kept her head down on the jog up the stairs to her apartment. He had backed up but idled at the curb. He wouldn’t leave until she was safely inside. Her annoyance disappeared under the flooding warmth.

She unlocked her door and went straight to her front window, peeling the curtains back and waving. After waiting for a few more heartbeats, he drove off and she watched until his taillights disappeared. She stepped back out her front door, walked the few paces across the breezeway, and knocked on the opposite door. A woman in old-school Jane Fonda workout gear answered.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your workout, Ms. Effie.”

“I was finishing up my stretching. Come on in, young lady. I’ll fix us some refreshment.”

Before she could protest, Ms. Effie was off to the kitchen. The woman was a marvel. Seventy-seven and a whirlwind of energy. She was diligent about keeping in shape and taking care of herself. She knew that as soon as she was unable to climb the steps to her apartment, her son would insist she move into a nursing home. He worried about her and wanted her somewhere she would be taken care of. A burden taken off his plate.

She came out of the kitchen balancing a tray with two tall glasses and a plateful of cookies. Nudging her chin toward a flowered couch, she set the tray down on a low-slung coffee table polished to a shine.

Tally sank down onto the springy cushion and took a bite of a cookie. Peanut butter. Her father’s favorite, which meant her mother had made lots of batches of peanut-butter cookies.

“Tell me what’s going on between you and Nash. I didn’t realize the two of you were acquainted.” Waggling her eyebrows, Ms. Effie leaned into the corner of the couch and crossed her legs at the knee, a striped leg warmer bunched around her calf. Tally prayed her legs looked half as good as Ms. Effie’s when she hit seventy.

“He’s an old friend, is all. We grew up on the river together. How do you know Nash?”

“Goodness, I’ve known Nash for ages. His aunt would bring him to quilting circle on occasion. Nose always in a book as a young man as I recall, but so polite. Not like some of the young’uns today.”

Tally hadn’t considered Ms. Effie’s friendship with Nash’s aunt through the Quilting Bee. “His aunt…” She took a bite of cookie.

“Leora’s a character, that’s for certain, but a good woman. Loves Nash like he was her own.” Ms. Effie took a sip of tea and tilted her head as if waiting for something.

“Maybe so, but she doesn’t hold much stock in me. In fact, I think she hates me.”

Ms. Effie made a humming sound. “You can blame your family name for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not my story to tell.”

“But what—”

“I want to hear about Nash. What’s he like now? He dropped Leora off at the Quilting Bee the other morning and had half the ladies reaching for their blood-pressure medicine. The other half needs new glasses.”

A laugh welled up and out, like the top of a pressure cooker releasing steam. The hours of the morning had been packed with a gamut of emotions—all intense.

“Nash is—” How to describe him? One word wouldn’t suffice. She shrugged. “Nice. And funny. And sweet. And smart. And, really, really, really good-looking.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Ms. Effie held her hands up to the heavens revival-style. A grin drew her face into a myriad of crinkles. While she had the body of a fifty-year-old, her face bore the damage of too many years spent sun worshipping. “You’re finally pursuing a man who sounds worthy of you.”

“I’m not pursuing Nash. We’re childhood friends.”

“So this really, really,
really
good-looking guy is just an old friend.”

“Exactly.” Tally pulled at a loose thread at a seam of the couch. “Except he tried to kiss me. Or maybe I tried to kiss him. Either way, it would have been a huge mistake.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. So you wanted him to kiss you?”

Tally rolled her eyes and shoved a cookie into her mouth.

“I’m taking your deflection as a yes. Do you have plans to meet up again as friends?” Ms. Effie air-quoted the last two words.

“We’re going to the Fourth of July block party on River Street. But it’s not a date or anything.” Best not to mention the illicit plans they had for the water tower. Although knowing Ms. Effie, she’d probably want to ride along.

“It’s a start. What about Heath?”

“What about him?”

“He was here.”

Her stomach fell to her knees. “When?”

“Two nights ago. He was banging on your door and hollering loud enough to wake the dead. One of his buddies dragged him back down to a car. I hadn’t seen him in weeks. Thought he’d finally given up on you.”

“He showed up at the Rivershack Tavern that night looking to start trouble. I ended up staying with a friend.” Wanting to downplay her worries, she forced a nonchalance she didn’t feel into her voice. “He was drunk and it was a one-time thing, I’m sure.”

“You need to go to the police. I know you’re independent—believe me, I sympathize—but some things are too big for any one person to handle. Asking for help doesn’t make you look weak.”

“How about stupid for letting him into my life to begin with?” She looked away before Ms. Effie could see too much of the truth in her eyes.

A soft, cool hand took hers and squeezed. “Not stupid either. In fact, you’re probably the first woman to toss him to the curb. He couldn’t keep you under his thumb, and your rejection is stuck in his craw.” Ms. Effie took a sip of tea. “My ex-husband was not a nice man—God rest his soul—and I stayed. I think my son blames me for that. And rightly so.”

Tally sandwiched the woman’s hand between hers, now the one offering comfort. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Effie.”

“I got married out of high school, had a baby nine months later, and pretended to be the happy homemaker. Not only did he make my life miserable, he helped tear this town apart with his pig-headedness. I forgave him for what he did to me, but not to my son and not to this town.”

“I always heard the separation was about fishing rights on the river.” The breaking of the town over the river boundary happened well before she was born. By the time she was old enough to remember the stories, they had grown into outrageous tall tales.

“Aaron was a blustering loudmouth who attracted followers. He got a group of prominent Louisiana men riled up about men from the Mississippi side trolling for crayfish on this side. We always had the better spot for spawning. He made a big hoopla about it, offended the ’Sips and before anyone could make peace, the town split. A bunch of men playing little boys with their toys is what happened.”

“No one could talk sense?”

“We tried. The women would gather at the Quilting Bee and make plans to bring everyone together, but you have to remember the times … the leaders were all men and no one listened to a bunch of biddies who quilted.” Decades-old anger singed Ms. Effie’s words. “We decided to keep meeting in spite of our husbands telling us we shouldn’t. In spite of our differences and in spite of the town splitting, we stayed united.”

“That’s amazing.” A new respect grew for the gathering of women at the Quilting Bee. They were rebels.

“We are pretty darn amazing. Those ladies have gotten me through some hard times. Aaron died not two years after the havoc he caused. Can’t say that I missed him even though I worked my tush off to keep us afloat.”

In all the years she’d known Ms. Effie, Tally had never seen a glimpse of the woman’s past struggles. She seemed the picture of optimism and light. Did everyone have tragedies shoved away in their dark closets?

Ms. Effie pushed a strand of hair behind Tally’s ear in a gesture so motherly that tears rushed to her eyes. “You’ve already been through so much, sweets, seeing you with a peckerhead like Heath broke my heart.”

Tally’s heart stuttered, and she was torn between laughter and crying. “Ms. Effie, what if I’m wrong about Nash? What if he’s not everything I remember him being?”

Ms. Effie’s gleaming eyes flared and a smile tipped her lips. “So you
are
interested in being more than friends?”

Tally poked at the ice in her glass and shrugged.

“Are you worried he’ll hurt you?”

“Not in the same way Heath might have.”

Ms. Effie hummed. “Nash might very well break your heart if you take a chance.”

She waited for more wisdom to pour forth, but Ms. Effie scooted back into the corner of the chair, crossed her legs, and took up her tea glass once more. Tally waved a hand around. “That’s it?”

“I can’t tell you everything will work out, sweets. Part of life is throwing yourself in the fray while praying you find a safe place to land.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

She nodded and pursed her lips. “Oh, it is. It most certainly is.”

Chapter Eight

Tally smoothed a hand over her simple tank top and black shorts, the slap of her flip-flops echoing in the empty gym. Maybe she should have packed a sundress to change into for the Fourth of July block party. No. This wasn’t a date. In fact, a sundress would have been silly, considering what they had planned for later. Even so, she’d left her hair down.

She checked the clock. After six, and still no Nash. What if he’d had second thoughts? She wouldn’t blame him. Painting the water tower was not something adult, upstanding members of society should be doing. Disappointment lurked behind her nervous excitement ready for its cue if he bailed.

Her phone rang, and she answered without looking at the display. “You’re chickening out, aren’t you?”

A moment of silence. “What the hell are you talking about?”

A chill passed through her. Heath’s growly voice used to be a turn-on, but now she recognized his natural intimidation tactic. She hated that it worked. Her hand grew clammy around the phone.

“Quit calling me.” Her lips barely moved, weakening the command.

“I want to know what the hell is up with you and that wimp Nash.”

Anger sizzled like a frayed electric wire helping to unfreeze her tongue. “He more than held his own with you. For your information, he happens to be my”—the word “friend” hung in her head, but something else came out of her mouth—“boyfriend. I’ve moved on and so should you.”

“Quit fuckin’ with me. No way are you dating Nerdy Nash. I asked around. He’s some wonderboy professor up at the college. He’s smart. You two have nothing in common.”

His words were as painful as a physical blow. A familiar ache blossomed in her gut. The same ache she’d battled every day on her way to school, where she was met with condescension and ridicule. Coming after Sawyer, who’d been valedictorian of his class and the captain of the baseball team, had only highlighted her struggles, both academically and socially.

The end of her sophomore year a keen, enthusiastic student teacher had urged the administration to test her for a learning disability. The diagnosis of dyslexia had been both devastating and a relief. She wasn’t technically an idiot, but even with the extra help, school had been a struggle. Her college entrance test scores had been cringeworthy.

“Nash and I have plenty in common.” Deep down she knew she wasn’t dumb. Her voice wavered with uncertainty anyway. Did she and Nash have anything in common except for a finite number of childhood memories? She shook her head, concentrating on Heath. “And even better, he’s not a jerk.”

“You’ll come crawling back to me, sweetheart.” The hint of a threat lurked in his statement.

“If you do not leave me alone, I’m going to the police to get a restraining order. Do you understand me?”

A double beep sounded. He’d disconnected. She stared at the screen, her hand shaking. The emptiness of the gym normally wouldn’t bother her, but she needed to be surrounded by people. She stepped out, locked the front door, and tested it with a strong pull. Someone tapped her shoulder, and she flinched aside, getting her arms up, her hands in fists.

“Whoa there. No hits below the belt, thank you kindly.” With a slight smile and serious eyes, Nash stepped back, his hands up in a picture of surrender.

“Sorry. You caught me off guard.”

“Didn’t think you were ever off guard,” he murmured.

It felt like a dig, but before she could question him, he fingered a piece of hair that had fallen forward. His hand was mere inches from touching her breast. Her body swayed forward before she forced herself back on her heels.

“I forgot how pretty your hair was.”

Teenagelike awkwardness overtook her, and she tucked her hair behind an ear, pulling it out of his hand. “I about gave up on you.”

“I stopped by the Quilting Bee. Aunt Leora and her cronies decided to finish their patriotic quilt-in-progress.”

“That’s serious dedication.”

His hand settled at the small of her back, the heat like a flint to her body. He got them walking side by side toward the river. Discordant notes of several instruments tuning echoed against the bricks. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t prop the door open to enjoy the breeze and the music.”

“Why don’t they come on over? It might be good if everyone could put their differences aside and forget about the festivals for one night. A truce.”

“Some of the other ladies would be game, but Aunt Leora considers herself above such frivolities.” The cadence of his speech took on a foreign lilt that made her wonder if she knew him at all.

A cool front had settled over them in recent days bringing a break from heat and humidity. The night was comfortable and dry, and a northerly breeze lifted her hair. The music kicked off, guiding them to River Street. Sawyer had towed out a parish-owned set of generator-run towered lights usually reserved for roadwork.