“Hold up there, Eager Pocket Knife Man.” I pulled against him just as we were breaking through the bathroom door. “Let’s think this through. First, what am I going to wear when you free me from the confines of The Thing?”
Boone’s face flattened with realization right before his mouth pulled into a crooked smile.
“And you can just delete that image from your depraved mind right now.” I flicked his temple, not sure why knowing he was thinking of me in my underwear made me feel that strange stomach phenomenon. The one where it felt like it’d been invaded by a nest of hummingbirds extra high on nectar. I hadn’t felt that feeling in a long time. So long I’d forgotten what it felt like. “Not to mention my sister will lose her shit if we sprinkle peach silk confetti into her lap and this is, after all, her special week.”
Boone rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.
“And I’m not just wearing this because I couldn’t take it off by the conventional, non-pocket-knife-required, means. I’m wearing it because, like you, I’m sick of them making me feel like a puppet they can toy with whenever and however they choose.” I was able to just barely shrug. “I’m tired of them sticking it to me—to us—just because they can and I’ve let them. This is my weird way of sticking it back.”
Boone was silent for a moment, watching me like he was reading some sort of manual. He didn’t stop staring until Charlotte’s shrill, staccato laugh broke through the room. He cringed. “So we’re sticking it to them together tonight? Have I got it?”
“You’ve got it.” I pulled at the collar of the dress to let some air in. The restaurant was nice and cool, but it didn’t seem to matter. The material didn’t seem to breathe, and I was swathed in it from neck to ankle. “But quick question first, before we go make spectacles of ourselves in front of Charleston’s finest . . .”
Boone pulled at his collar and bow tie and rubbed at the skin behind it. Even for formal dances, Boone hadn’t worn a tie or buttoned his collar. He’d claimed back then that he didn’t like anything around his neck and that collars were for dogs, so for him to be suffering through this, he must have been really trying to make a point.
“You came out of the bathroom in your regular clothes. You’d changed for dinner. Why did you change back into this when you’d already spent all day in it, sticking it to them, and are fortunate enough to not be trapped in it like I am in mine?” I tried not to grin when I noticed the argyle socks, but it was impossible. I doubted if Boone had let anything argyle come within a ten-foot radius of him up until today. “You had a choice tonight. Why choose this?”
He stalled for a moment, letting go of the door and letting it close behind us. He glanced at the main part of the restaurant, looking like he’d rather be there than standing in front of me with that question hanging between us.
“You didn’t have a choice,” he said at last, one of his shoulders lifting. “That’s why I made my choice.”
I felt my eyebrows come together. “So because I didn’t have a choice when it came to This Thing, that made you choose to go change back into Your Thing?” They came together tighter. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Boone’s eyes stayed focused over my shoulder. “We’re a team in this, Clara. Like I told you last night, when it comes to you and your family, I’m always on your side. I’ll always have your back, no matter what has or will go down between us.”
I got it. It suddenly made sense . . . but this wasn’t the Boone of present tense I’d gotten to know. This was the Boone of past tense I remembered. The one who seemed selfish to the rest of the world, but I knew was the least selfish one out there. The one who would give anything, and do anything, for the few people he loved.
That realization startled me more than the confines of the dress wanted to allow.
“You’re doing this so I wouldn’t be the only lightning rod for pointing and laughter, aren’t you?” I asked, my voice having grown quiet.
“I just didn’t want you to be the only spectacle and have all the fun tonight.” He started to smile. “That’s all.”
For the first time since passing into the county, I felt so close to exhaling I could feel my lungs starting to contract. However, that was something else the dress wouldn’t allow. Not without ripping the seams at least.
“Well? Should we get this over with?” I turned toward the main dining room.
“No.” Boone shook his head as he came up beside me. “We should get this party started.” Holding out his elbow, he waited for me to weave my arm around it before he led us into the restaurant.
“In case you were wondering, lavender’s a good color on you.” I nudged him as we walked. “It really brings out the feminine in your character.”
He adjusted his bow tie so it was more crooked than straight. “Watch it there, peach cream puff, before I decide to call the debutante society and tell them you stole one of their gowns. From 1982.”
“You weren’t even alive in the eighties.”
“I’ve seen Madonna videos. Close enough,” he said as he climbed a couple of stairs before stepping foot in the lion’s den. Also called the dining room.
I’d been right in my estimation of close to one hundred guests. Some of them were milling about the room with their cocktails in hand, some were staggered around tables and chowing down on the seafood buffet, and some were making their way to the dance floor where a jazz band was playing a Sinatra tune. They were all dressed in varying degrees of semi-formal wear that was fitting given the event.
Boone and I were the only ones not in some version of a suit and tie or cocktail dress.
That might have been the reason why everyone was staring at us like we’d gotten the wrong address. When we continued to move through the room, playing ignorant to the blatant points and stares, guests’ gazes shifted in my dad’s direction, waiting to see what Quincy Abbott would do about the party crashers.
My dad just stood there, continuing to carry on his conversation with the guy who’d been mayor when I’d been in high school and pretending like Boone and his daughter walking arm-in-arm through a roomful of his esteemed guests wasn’t about to send him through the roof. I knew better. I could tell by the way he was clutching his glass of bourbon so tightly it looked like it was about to shatter.
“Looks like you and my dad made some progress in the growing-to-like-each-other department.”
“Oh, tons.” Boone twisted his index and middle finger together. “We’re like this now.”
“You and Ford too apparently.” I nodded at the table where Ford was sitting with a crowd of his friends. Most of them were moving on from gaping at us to getting back to their drinks and bullshitting, but Ford was still staring at us, his mouth looking like he’d just bitten into a wedge of lemon.
“He was the one who informed me of the club policy regarding course attire, a fact he only brought up once we were there, and he’s the same one who had some jackass in the pro shop lay out this getup for me in the dressing room.”
I returned Ford’s glare for a second before getting back to ignoring him. “You guys always were best friends.”
Boone snorted, weaving us through clusters of guests toward the dance floor. “Always. But at least he footed the bill for this stuff. Someone would have had to pay me to take this stuff off of their hands, but I wasn’t going to let them get rid of me so easily. I don’t think they figured I’d call their bluff today. You should have seen their faces when I stepped out onto the green in this.” Boone chuckled. “Priceless.”
“And you golfed all eighteen holes too?” The few people who had been on the dance floor promptly left it when they noticed Boone and me heading there.
“Every last one.”
“How did that go?”
Boone huffed. “How grown men can justify wasting five hours smacking a tiny speckled ball with a piece of over-priced metal while trying to get it into a tight little hole is a hint that they aren’t getting laid enough. Or well enough when they do.”
A burst of laughter shot from my mouth. The heads that were starting to turn away flew back.
“It’s all making so much more sense now. I never understood the appeal with golf, but I get it now. It’s a bunch of sexually frustrated men whacking out their aggression on some innocent ball before trying to get it in the hole. The universe makes sense again.” I continued laughing, and Boone joined me. “So how did you do out there?”
“Terrible.”
“I’m sorry for your terrible performance,” I said as we came to a stop in front of the band.
“Why? I don’t need golf as a substitute for other urges because unlike the guys who might have gotten an under-par score today”—Boone’s head tipped in Ford’s direction—“I’m getting my urges appropriately and sufficiently met.”
“And thank you for that memo, but sharing time is over, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
I put on a smile and tried not to think about what he meant by that. Was he banging half of the single female population? Maybe a handful of the not-so-single as well? Or was it someone else, someone serious, he was getting all of those “urges” so well met with? I should have let it rest, or saved it for a better time, but apparently I thought hovering on the dance floor of The Half Shell while Louis Armstrong blared a few feet away was the best time.
“So you’re really not seeing anyone? Not even casually?” I asked, shouting above the music. When he gave me an odd look, I added, “Just so I know if I should keep my eyes open for some ticked-off kinda-girlfriend pulling out my hair in clumps if she sees us together.”
“That implies I wouldn’t have already told this kinda-girlfriend about our arrangement.”
Boone’s hand went to my wrist, and he moved us just far enough to the side of the band that I didn’t feel like my eardrums were vibrating. It also made it easier to talk to each other instead of shout at each other.
“I wouldn’t do that to someone I cared about,” he continued. “I wouldn’t go behind their back with someone else, whether it was a real or pretend relationship. I know what it feels like to be on the bad side of something like that, and I’d never do it to someone I cared about.”
I stepped back from him, feeling too close given the accusation in his voice. “I never said you would.”
“No, you just implied it.”
I closed my eyes. “Boone—”
“Clara, there’s no one. So you can quit with the interrogation already. I’ve already had enough of those to last me a few lifetimes.”
“But you just said—”
“I know what I just said,” he snapped.
When I noticed a group of Charlotte’s old friends from high school pointing at me and laughing, I did a small spin followed by a stiff curtsy. They got back to their fruity drinks real quick after that.
“Then if you’re not getting those urges met by someone, that means they’re getting met by someones.” I paused long enough to let him either corroborate or argue my conclusion. He stayed quiet. “Am I right?”
He crossed his arms and looked away. He could try all he wanted, but looking tough in that outfit was a futile pursuit. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s definitely none of your business.”
“You’re my plus one for my sister’s wedding. I’d say it’s my business to know just which cocktail waitress or hair stylist is going to give me the evil eyes because I’m ‘with’ her booty call.”
“Cocktail waitresses and hair stylists?” Boone exhaled through his nose. “Is that what my league is? Are they the only types of women who would lower themselves enough to date the bottom-rung Boone Cavanaugh?” He shook his head and stepped away from me too. “You might pretend you’re not one of them, Clara, but you’re as Abbott as they get.” He continued backing away, rubbing his hands in a washing sort of motion. “You can dance by yourself. I don’t really feel like it anymore.” Then he turned his back and powered away, the folds of his pantaloons brushing past guests as he wove though them.
My shoulders sagged as I sighed. I couldn’t say or do much right when it came to Boone anymore. Not that he could say or do much right when it came to me either. After a whole day apart, we couldn’t make it ten minutes without pissing each other off. What had we been thinking as kids pretending we could chase forever?
Stupid. That’s what we’d been.
I left the dance floor and headed to where I’d wanted to go in the first place—the table with the crab legs. Before they were all gone. Weaving through the crowd this time was much more intimidating. Instead of sharing the stares with Boone, I bore them all. Instead of feeling my head held high, I felt it wanting to lower.
When I heard Ford calling my name, I pretended I couldn’t hear him. I wasn’t in the mood for him or my sister or anyone. I wanted to be alone for two minutes to forget about everything Charleston-related. I wanted to surgically remove that part of my life, albeit temporarily.
“Clara Belle, wait up there turbo jets.” Ford had jogged up beside me by the time I made my way to the food table.
Most everyone who was planning on eating was already done at the buffet—a.k.a. the people who weren’t my sister, Mom, and friends of a like-minded policy when it came to eating . . . or the avoidance of it—and thankfully there were still plenty of crab legs.
“What is it, Ford?” I said impatiently, snagging a plate from a tower of them. I grabbed another because why the hell not? I was having a rough week, a day from hell, and there was nothing like drowning my sorrows in crab meat dripping in garlic butter. Whoever said emotional eating wasn’t an acceptable method of coping could just kiss my dimpled butt.
“Wow, ease up. I’m not your enemy.” He held out his arms, clutching what looked like a mojito.
“No? You’re just marrying the woman who is, right?”
“Charlotte’s not your enemy, Clara Belle.”
“Those who’ve spent the night gaping at the dress I’m presently stuck in might have a different opinion on that matter.” I powered up to the ice baths of crab legs and piled them onto my first plate. When it was full, I thrust it into Ford’s empty hand before filling my second plate.
“The dress is nice.” Ford’s voice was a key too high. “What’s the problem?”
“No, this dress is Hitler reincarnated. It must be destroyed. And the problem, Ford, is that I don’t like this town, and I don’t like these people.” I waved the tongs around the room as I scanned the table for the garlic butter. “And I don’t like the weather. And I don’t like coming back and feeling like I’ve been transported back in time two hundred years. And I don’t like this restaurant . . .” Which clearly had neglected to supply butter with the crab legs, probably at my mom’s request since she knew of my love affair with crab meat and butter. “And I don’t like when I can’t find the melted butter when I’ve got two plates of crab claws ready to be eaten.”
Ford’s face was blank. From the look of it, it had been that way for a while. Probably from the start of my spiel. Nice, Clara. Way to act the part of the crazy person wearing the crazy dress. Way to really step into the role.
While I worked on calming down my heartbeat, Ford pointed with his mojito at the table. “The butter’s right there, Clara Belle. Crisis averted. The world’s not going to end.” Backing away with my crab legs still in hand, he nodded when I reached for the plate. “You need a drink. I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t need a drink. I need my crab legs. That’s it.”
Ford continued toward the bar, ignoring me. “Coming right up.”
Keeping a tight clutch on my plate of crab and bowl of butter, I headed for the outside dining area that just overlooked the water. I’d barely shoved through the door and felt the fresh air wash over my face, and I was already feeling better.
I sat in the first chair at the first table I walked by and was just breaking into my first crab leg when the door flew open and someone else stepped outside.
“A person generally isolates themselves like this because they wa
nt to be a-lone,” I said, circling my finger around the empty outdoor area.
Ford let the door close behind him, and he moved toward me, clearly not grasping the whole concept of a-lone.
“Here, have this, and tell me if you’re feeling less loner’ish after.” Ford slid a fresh mojito in front of me before setting my second plate of crab legs next to my first. “Don’t isolate. Intoxicate.” Ford winked at me before pulling out the chair beside me and sitting.
“That sounds like a policy just screaming for twelve-step help.” I scooted my chair over, not sure I wanted to be this close to Ford with no one else around. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be talking to him after what he’d said and done over the past twenty-four hours.
“What’s going on with you, Clara Belle? Now that it’s just you and me, you can sell me straight.” Ford waved his finger between us like we were tight with a capital T. “What’s the deal with Cavanaugh being back in your life? What’s the deal with your business going national? What’s the deal with you sitting out here when the party’s inside?” Ford slid a flask from the inside of his coat jacket. “What’s the deal with Cavanaugh?”
“You already said that,” I said before pulling a piece of crab meat free and dipping it into the butter.
“I repeated it because you haven’t answered it.” He unscrewed the cap and brought the flask to his lips, peaking a brow at me before taking a drink.
“Why does everyone keep asking me the same questions? Why is everyone so concerned with my life these days?” I tossed the crab into my mouth, closed my eyes, and chewed. The night was instantly going better. Looking up.
“We’ve always been concerned about your life. All of us who really care about you.”
I was pulling another chunk of meat free before I’d finished chewing my first. “No, you all have always been concerned about certain parts of my life. Not all of it as a whole. Nice try.”
Ford rubbed the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Why do you make things so difficult? Why do you act like you despise me?”
The Fable of Us Page 12
