Simple Gone South (Crimson Romance) (6 page)

Now this. He was going to call tonight. Or so he said.

And why now? Maybe he was bored. Or, since he was in New Orleans, lonely.

Damn it, she could not go though this again. It wasn’t fair. How dare he? Did he think her heart was up for grabs anytime he turned that golden boy smile her way and led her to a dance floor? Maybe he wouldn’t call; probably he wouldn’t. He’d probably forget.

And if he did call, she wouldn’t answer. That would be for the best. Yes.

• • •

Voicemail, Monday night:

“Here I am in New Orleans. I’m here to look at a plantation house. Know what’s wrong with this house? Well, apart from the fact that someone married into the family in the ’70s who thought it would be a good idea to turn the bottom side gallery into a ceramics studio. Anyway. It’s the name. Riverview. How predictable. If I had a house worth naming—and I might one day, never can tell—I’d name it Lucy Mead’s Laugh. I can’t think of much better. I’d like to hear that laugh tonight. Call me. Oh, and in case you can’t tell, I’ve been drinking. Just a little. If you’ll call me and tell me your shoe size, I will bring you some tall boots.”

• • •

Why now? Why? Why could this not have happened back when she was in love with him? Why now, when she was over it, over him—over, over, over!

She listened to the message every day for a week. She couldn’t help herself. But she did not call back. Not talking to him was the only way to survive him.

Finally, it looked like he’d given up. No doubt, he was back with Rita May by now. She was relieved—and a little sad.

• • •

Voicemail, a week before Halloween:

“Hi, Lucy. I’m back from New Orleans. I did a little consulting but I’m not taking on the project. I ran afoul of an interior designer down there. It’s not the first time. She soundly reprimanded me for saying
couch
instead of
sofa
. I just can’t say
sofa
. A man starts using words like
sofa
, next thing you know, he’s drinking piña coladas and wearing sandals. Would you allow me to say
couch
, Lucy Mead?”

• • •

She laughed and laughed. Then she imagined what she would have said to him if she had been willing to call him back.
We interior designers have to stick together. If we allow people to go around saying
couch
, the next thing we know, they’ll be decorating their pressed wood night stands with lava lamps and plastic flowers.

Maybe she could call. They were friends, sort of. At least they used to be and they had the same friend circle. She put her thumb on the call button.

Then she jerked it away. What was she thinking? No matter what she told herself, if she started talking to him, she would hope. And there wasn’t any hope.

Clearly, his persistence was only because of her refusal to talk to him. If only he wasn’t so funny.

• • •

Voicemail, a few days later:

“Lucy, Brantley again. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. You can call me at work. (615) 298-2719. It doesn’t ring straight to me. Melba—my assistant—answers. She’s the one who really runs Kincaid Architectural Design and Restoration. Just ask her. Anyway, tell her you want me dead or alive and she’ll put you through. That, or she’ll give me a message if I’m out. I’m going to play racquet ball tonight but if you get my voicemail, leave a message and tell me when would be a good time, and I’ll call you back. I don’t have a landline at home. I mean, why would I? Counting my phone at work, I’ve already got two numbers. Why would I need more phones than I’ve got ears? Anyway, bye. Call me.”

Text message, two days later:

Happy Halloween, Lucy Mead!

Voicemail, later that day, 4:30
P.M.
:

“I’m just getting ready to leave work. I’ve got a whole bucketful of Snickers and M&Ms so I’m ready. I guess I should say
packs
of M&Ms. You can’t just give loose M&Ms to kids. Or homemade stuff. That’s against the rules. I told Lily—Lily cleans and fetches for me when it suits her—anyway, I told her she needed to make me some popcorn balls and she informed me that you couldn’t give popcorn balls for Trick or Treat. I told her I know that. They are for my own personal use. I might fire her if she doesn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve got plain and peanut M&Ms. I’m going to let them pick, which will take time, but will make me popular. Plus, I’ll give them a Snickers. Not one of those two bite Snickers, either—a whole Snickers. Those two bite candy bars are like airplane drinks. They give you a little plastic cup that’s gone before they move up the aisle. I want a whole Coke all to myself. I know why they don’t want you to have it. It’s because they don’t want you to go to the bathroom. Well, I’ve opened an inappropriate subject so I’ll leave it. Did you know that you can call the florist and they will carve you some Jack-O-Lanterns, bring them right to your front step, and then send you a bill? I am not dressing up for Halloween. When a grown man starts dressing up for Halloween, the next thing you know, he’s volunteering at the art museum and booking a tour of wine country. That can’t be me. But I think you should dress up. I know you already have the Richie Sambora outfit, but I’m not sure kids would know who that is. How about that harem girl from the Disney movie? Jasmine? That would be an attractive look for you.”

• • •

He hadn’t asked her to return the call this time. What did that mean? Did he just want to call and hold forth on the life and philosophy of Brantley Kincaid, as pertains to Halloween candy and airplane drinks? Like some oral history blog?

That night, per Missy’s direction, Lucy and the other book club girls dressed as characters from Alice in Wonderland, with Missy as Alice, Tolly as the Queen of Hearts, Lanie as the Mad Hatter, and Lucy as the Cheshire Cat. Along with the spouses, they took the children Trick or Treating and then went back to Missy’s for chili and football watching. It was a loud fun chaotic night.

There was no reason to feel alone. But she did.

The Cheshire Cat was a far cry from Jasmine.

Brantley did not call again for a week.

• • •

Voice mail, a week after Halloween:

“Hey, Lucy. I got a dog. My golf buddy got a divorce, and started acting a little crazy. Then he got a girlfriend who was too young for him, as divorced, crazy-acting, golf buddies will do. This girl was not so young that she wasn’t legal but she had no sense. So she had acquired a dog as a fashion accessory. Except you can’t hang a dog on a peg like a hat, so I took the dog. It wasn’t hard. I told her if she didn’t give me that dog that I’d call her daddy and tell him she wasn’t staying in that fancy apartment he is paying for. I guess it never occurred to her that I don’t even know her daddy’s name, much less his phone number. Speaking of phone numbers, dial mine, why don’t you?”

Voicemail, the next day:

“Lucy, this is Brantley. I have faced that you apparently do not want to talk to me. I don’t really understand why, but I can take a hint—though it took me long enough. I thought we had a really nice time when I was in Merritt for the Follies. But maybe you’re seeing someone. I’ll be honest . . . if you’re not, I’d still like to hear from you.” He laughed a little. “Hell, I’d like to hear from you, anyway. I might be able to take you from him. But unless I hear from you, I won’t bother you again. I don’t want to turn into stalker man, though it may be too late for that. But cut me some slack, Lucy. I like you. Maybe you could just call and tell me you don’t want to talk to me. Or text me.”

• • •

But she couldn’t do that. To say she didn’t want to talk to him would be a lie and if she called, they’d end up talking and she’d end up—well, somewhere she could not be. So she didn’t call and that was that—what she had been trying to accomplish. It was for the best. She wondered if she really had heard the last of him, but when the days stretched to a week and then two, it was clear he had given up.

She wondered how close her voicemail box was to being full and how long she could save his messages.

• • •

At 7:05
A.M.
two Saturdays before Thanksgiving, the ringing of Lucy’s cell phone woke her. Who could be calling this early on a weekend? A beep signaled that she had a voicemail. She reached for the phone to listen.

“Lucy Mead, I have decided that I am not really accepting of not hearing from you. I deserve to hear from you face to face that you don’t want to talk to me. Wait. I don’t. I don’t deserve that. But I want it and it feels like the same thing to me. So I am on my way to see you. I’ll call when I get there.”

• • •

She jumped straight out of bed. Oh, hell. Double hell! Where was he? Why couldn’t he have said how far away he was? She might have several hours but who knew? He could be five miles away. But surely not. Surely he did not leave Nashville at four o’clock in the morning.

Still, she couldn’t chance it. If those phone messages had almost done her in, seeing him would be her complete undoing. She could not be Brantley Kincaid’s distraction while he decided what he wanted out of life.

She had to get out of here. Where to go, where to go? It didn’t have to be for long—just until tomorrow night. He’d give up by then. He had to go to work on Monday, after all, and so did she. She’d go to Oxford, Mississippi, to her parents’ house. They were on sabbatical from Ole Miss. There was a doctoral candidate house sitting while they were in Tibet, but it was still their house, therefore hers. She’d call the girl on the way. She’d say—well, it didn’t matter what she’d say. She didn’t have to say anything, explain anything. She had a key and a right to be there.

First, she needed to dress. She’d laid out her clothes for the gym—yoga pants, sports bra, and a t-shirt. And a hoody because it was cold in the mornings now. That would do. Shit. She needed to pee and there was so little time. She threw on the clothes and ran to the bathroom, socks and cross trainers in hand. The toilet was as good a place as any to sit while putting on shoes and socks. She should have thought of that little time saver years ago.

Okay. Calm. She’d need some things. Not much, but some. Her luggage was in the attic. No time for that but there was a canvas boat bag in the closet. She grabbed it and headed for her vanity.

Toiletries first. Where was that cosmetic bag? Here, but what did it matter? A handful of this, a handful of that. Underwear. Socks. The shoes she had on would do. Okay. Real clothes. One outfit was plenty. She’d be back tomorrow night. A pair of jeans and that lightweight red cotton sweater should be fine. If not, she had the hoody and the t-shirt she was wearing. It didn’t matter if she wore them twice. All that mattered was getting out of town before he got here.

Almost to the finish line. Cell phone. Purse. Did she have cash? Not much, but plenty of credit cards. Her phone started to ring. She crammed it in her hoody pocket and threw open the front door—where she ran right into Brantley. He held a dog leash in one hand and his phone to his ear with the other.

The phone in Lucy’s pocket went to voicemail.

Brantley said, “Hello, Lucy Mead.” Then he turned off his phone and hers beeped, signaling that she had a message.

Lucy knew there was very little chance of remaining collected in this situation, but she intended to try.

“Hello, Brantley. How are you this morning?” she said as if she ran across him on her porch every morning of the week, as if he had made no attempt to contact her since he was last in Merritt.

He was wearing faded jeans, white running shoes, and a luxurious cotton knit shirt the color of a caramel apple. The shirt hit him at mid hipbone and there was a short, heavy brass zipper at the neck, unzipped just enough to show his collarbones. He had to know how good he looked—no one with hair and eyes like his could wear that color and not know.

He pushed up the sleeves.

“How am I? Ignored. That’s what I am.” He smiled and leaned on the doorframe. A ball of fur no bigger than a softball peeped out between his shoes. “Meet Eller. Her name evolved from L.R., short for Lab Rat. It’s a better name than Blanchfleur, which she never even answered to.”

The dog was solid white with red bows in its hair, one over each ear. It could not have weighed more than two pounds. Where was the golden retriever, the bulldog, the Doberman pinscher? Where was the dog that a man who refused to say
sofa
should have? Pit bull, beagle, Irish setter. Cocker spaniel, even.

“That is not the dog I would have expected you to have,” Lucy said.

“Yeah, well, she’s not the dog I expected to have either, especially with those bows the groomer put in her hair. On the other hand, I see her as living, breathing evidence that I have no insecurities about my manhood. Though I admit you have taken me down a peg or two in that department. And I can’t help but wonder why.”

She briefly considered pretending she had changed cell phone providers and hadn’t gotten his messages but discarded the idea.

“I’ve been very busy,” she said.

Eller sniffed at Lucy’s white Adidas and Brantley looked her up and down. “Off to the gym?”

“Uh, no.” She ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t even combed it. Ever since she’d let it grow, it was wild under the best of circumstances. These were not the best of circumstances. “I have to be somewhere.”

“Do you?” He took her arm and gently propelled her back though the door. “You don’t mind if Eller and I come in for just a minute, do you?”

“Uh, no. Please do.”

Brantley walked around, taking in her living room. Lucy had worked very hard to make the treasures her parents had given her from their travels work with her traditional pieces. Finally, she’d struck the right balance, making a comfortable, interesting room. Brantley stopped in front of the three-foot tall gong from China.

“I’ve got a great idea for a game,” he said, picking up the hammer. “I’ll ring this gong. You go put on your Jasmine outfit and run in here and say, ‘Yes, master!’”

Anger coursed through her—at him, at herself, maybe even at that poor excuse for a dog, who was sniffing at her camel saddle ottoman.
Calm.
She must remain calm. He was smiling that flirtatious smile but there was something more in his face—not quite anger, but maybe a challenge. Yes. He was gauging her response to see if she had listened to his Halloween voicemail all the way through, to see if she understood the reference to the Jasmine costume. She could feign confusion, but why? She didn’t want him to think that his messages had affected her in such a way that she could not listen to them through to the end. At the same time, she did not want him to know she had listened multiple times.