The Dirty South

by Penelope King

  Surprisingly, I’m actually starting to enjoy my job. I get to listen to whatever music I want, and the tedious work forces me to focus my mind on other things. And that makes the days pass quickly. Sheldon is the sweetest guy ever. He’s so genuinely grateful for everything I do for him, it makes me want to do even more. It feels good to be appreciated. And I’m not just wasting my time doing something any old idiot could do. I know I’m coming up with good ways of filing and streamlining his cases so they’ll be more accessible to him. I won’t be here forever, and I want him to be in good shape for the future.

  After I finish eating my brisket and steamed vegetables, I retrieve a small box from the takeout bag. I open it up, then carefully remove the piece of pie and set it on a plate, along with a fork. I make my way outside, through the small garden, and over to the blue and white bungalow next door. Willie had told me the other day that Key lime was his absolute favorite thing, so I thought I’d go say hello and surprise him with some.

  He’s not on his porch, so I gently tap on his front door. It’s just barely past seven thirty, and hopefully he doesn’t go to sleep early.

  The door swings open, but it’s not Willie’s sweet face I see, it’s Colton’s apprehensive one.

  “Uh… hi,” I say, momentarily taken off guard.

  He looks at me, and then glances down at my plate.

  “I brought this for Willie,” I add lamely, holding it out. “He told me he likes it.”

  “Is that Miss Cady I hear out there?” Willie’s gravelly voice sounds from inside.

  “Hi, Willie. Yes, it’s me,” I call to him. I can feel Colton’s eyes burning through me. “I brought you some Key lime pie.”

  “Key lime? Now we’re talkin’! Show her in, would ya, son?”

  Colton’s face tenses in a faint grimace. “Come on in, Miss Cady,” he says under his breath, stepping back so I can enter.

  I steady myself and brush past him into the main living area where Willie is sitting in an easy chair near the window. He has a big smile on his crinkled face.

  “What do I owe the pleasure, Miss Cady?” he asks. “I know it ain’t my birthday!” His eyes are hidden behind his dark glasses, but can I see the genuine delight in his face.

  I take a seat on the small couch directly across from him. “I just happened to have an extra piece of pie lying around that I couldn’t possibly eat, and I didn’t want it to go to waste. Was hoping you could maybe help me out with it.”

  He laughs and leans back in his chair. “Oh, Miss Cady, you don’t fool me one bit. But you’re an angel, you really are. I was just thinkin’ about pie earlier.”

  I carefully hand him the plate and the fork, and he turns to where Colton is still standing over by the door.

  “Well, come on, son… I can eat and listen at the same time. I’m sure Miss Cady won’t mind. You’ll stay with me while I enjoy this, won’t you, dear?”

  I nod. “Sure…”

  Willie grins and takes a bite, which is followed by some appreciative noises. Colton is still standing at the door, and I wonder why he doesn’t come sit down. Then I realize… is it because the only empty place is right beside me?

  “Colton’s just reading me my stories now,” Willie says between bites. I see an open newspaper on the coffee table, and next to it the book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

  Colton just stares at me. “Willie likes getting his news from the actual newspaper.”

  “I don’t trust those TV reporters!” Willie interjects, and Colton almost smiles.

  “And we just started that last week.” Colton nods toward the book.

  “I read it myself a few years ago,” I say quietly. “It’s amazing. Superbly written. Made me want to visit Savannah more than anything, just based on the author’s lush descriptions.”

  “It’s a beautiful town,” Colton agrees. He still sounds detached, but not quite as cold as he did earlier. Surely this can’t be just because I saw him without his shirt on. I’m sure plenty of women in this town have seen him half-naked… or more.

  Willie smiles and spoons in another mouthful of pie. “Still waitin’,” he says.

  I sense Colton’s reluctance, but he comes over and sits down next to me. He takes a sip of water, opens the book, and begins to read out loud.

  His voice is smooth. He doesn’t falter over words, and speaks with an eloquent confidence. I could listen to him all night long. Willie sits there in respectful silence, listening and eating his pie. Occasionally he nods at some parts, and I can tell he’s entirely swept up in the story.

  Again I wonder at the contradictions. On the one hand Colton is all cocky and abrasive, with the obvious tough-guy look. But then on the other, he can be considerate and caring, as he was that night in my bedroom. And now he reads to the blind as well?

  Lord, help me.

  I take a deep breath. What difference does it make anyways? I don’t care if he’s Mother freakin’ Theresa reincarnated in Channing Tatum’s body. No way will I ever let myself be attracted to this guy. No way, no how. No thank you. I’ll never be suckered ever again. Enough already.

  Colton continues to read, and Willie and I continue to listen, until suddenly I hear soft snores coming from Willie’s direction.

  Colton gently closes the book and sets it on the table. “That’s our cue,” he says quietly. We both stand up, and I find myself looking straight into his chest. I step back and almost trip over the end of the table. He reaches out to steady me… again. He must think I’m the clumsiest person ever.

  His grip is firm, but gentle. I pull away, and nod at Willie sleeping in the chair. “What about him?” I whisper.

  “He’s fine. Falls asleep like that every night. He’ll wake up at some point and go to bed.”

  Outside, I pause at the bottom of the front steps while Colton closes up. As he turns back toward me, the moon casts a soft glow on his face.

  “How does he manage living by himself with his eyesight so poor?” I ask.

  We’ve reached the end of Willie’s walkway. Colton takes a step in the direction of his place, then stops and turns back. “He can see some things… he’s not completely blind. He can make out shapes well enough to move around, and he’s actually quite independent. But I help him whenever I can, and so does Della Mae.”

  I’d met the sweet older woman just the other evening as she was closing up the main house after the Sunday afternoon tours. She was five foot nothing of pure sass and spunk and had the thickest Southern accent I’ve ever heard.

  “Why does he live here alone?” I continue. “Doesn’t he have any family, or –”

  Colton’s expression suddenly closes up again. “No,” he says abruptly, and turns to walk away.

  “Wait—” I jog a few steps and grab his arm, shocked at my own boldness. He looks down at me, and I’m so taken aback by the intense look on his face, I almost chicken out and turn away. But I hate this weirdness between us. I have to say something to clear the air. I can’t avoid him, and the kitchen, forever.

  “I-I’m sorry for the other morning when you were running… I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

  He stares at me for several long moments, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

  “Nothing to apologize for,” he replies gruffly. “I just wasn’t expecting you.”

  He turns and walks away again. And this time I let him go.

  Chapter 12.

  Before I know it the weekend is here, and it just so happens to be the weekend of the annual Strawberry Festival and Bake Sale. I’d never even heard of a Strawberry Festival before, let alone been to one. But apparently it raises a lot of money for local charities. Everyone in Sweet Oak is going, and even people from the neighboring towns. It really is quite the big deal.

  Vivi had told me all about it when I was eating at The Dirty a few days ago. I’ve been taking my lunches there after the noontime rush has passed, so she usually has some time to stop by my booth and chat for a few. She�
��d said that her fiancé, Freddy, had to work and suggested we go to the festivities together.

  She’s so sweet, and I’m really looking forward to going. I’m even entering some cookies in the dessert category for the bake-off. It’s one of the few recipes actually passed down through my family, and whenever I made them back home, Brandon and Stacia would go over the moon about them.

  I sigh. But I will not allow the thought of my asshole ex, or missing my beloved bff, to dampen my spirits today. I’m in a good mood for the first time in what seems like forever. I’m finally getting adjusted and settled in here, and I’m ready to have some fun… experience some local flavor. And maybe become even better friends with Vivi.

  After I get in a quick morning yoga session—in my own living quarters this time—I throw on some cut-off denim shorts and a pale pink tank top, and weave my hair into a single loose braid. Then I grab the bags of groceries I picked up after work last night and start heading through the gardens toward the main house. No way can I make this dessert in my tiny kitchenette.

  Besides, the Manor’s kitchen is amazing… an incredible blend of old-fashioned meets state-of-the-art. It’s open and spacious, with exposed brick walls and hardwood flooring. And the massive cabinets have every appliance and utensil imaginable. An entire wall of windows overlooks the colorful gardens and floods the room with gorgeous natural lighting.

  There are not one but two ovens, which is great because I’m baking several dozen cookies at least. I need one batch to enter in the dessert competition, and a bunch more to sell later at the bake sale.

  It’s just after 9 a.m. when I get there and the kitchen is empty, as I hoped it would be. I haven’t seen Colton since that night at Willie’s a few evenings ago, and while I don’t think things are necessarily bad between us, they’re not all that great, either. He’s just so damn touchy. First he gets irritated at me when I’m minding my own business doing yoga, then later when I’m simply asking about Willie’s well-being.

  Whatever.

  I open the cream cheese to let it soften, then spread out all my supplies and get everything organized. As the oven is heating up, I open the bag with all the fresh-picked strawberries I’d gotten from the local farmer’s market. There are thirteen pints, each individual carton loaded to the brim. That’s a whole lot of strawberries to wash and chop.

  I quickly rinse them off in the colander, then fill up a couple of big bowls with some water. I add just a dash of white vinegar to clean the berries and enhance the flavor to maximum sweetness, and dump them all in to soak.

  I’m just measuring out the dry ingredients when the kitchen door suddenly swings open. Startled, I jump and spill a bunch of sugar on the floor.

  “Crap,” I mutter under my breath as the tiny white crystals scatter everywhere.

  I look up and see Colton’s surprised face. Apparently I’ve caught him off-guard again. He’s obviously been running; he has on a tight gray workout tank and some black baggy running pants. He’s sweaty and disheveled, but in a manly, sexy kind of way.

  “Oh, hey,” he finally mutters. He doesn’t sound all that thrilled.

  “Hey.”

  He makes his way over to the sink, then stops and looks over his shoulder at me.

  “Oh, sorry, let me get those out of your way.” I hurry around the center island where I’ve set up my station, grab the bowls of soaking strawberries, and move them onto the counter.

  Colton washes his hands and dries them. Then he turns and eyes the spread in the kitchen. I watch him warily.

  “What’s all this?” he asks.

  “I’m making cookies for the festival and bake sale.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “You’re baking for the Sweet Oak Strawberry Festival?”

  Why does he say it like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard?

  I don’t answer him, I just turn and start searching for something to sweep up the mess with.

  “What’re you looking for?”

  “Dustpan,” I mumble.

  He reaches beneath the sink, pulls out a dustpan that has an attached brush, and hands it to me with a tight smile. But his eyes are softer than they were.

  “Thank you,” I murmur and quickly brush the sugar into the pan. I glance around again.

  “Trash can is in there,” he says, pointing to the cabinet at the end of the center island.

  “Thanks,” I mumble again. I dump it and return the dustpan beneath the sink. Then I start to measure out the sugar again. I look up when I feel his eyes on me. “What?”

  “Do you mind if I make my breakfast? I don’t want to get in the way of anything you have going on here.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. It’s a huge kitchen. Plenty of room.” So why does it suddenly feel so small with him in it?

  “Cool.” He opens the fridge and takes out some eggs. “Aw, shit. Forgot I was running low,” he says when he pops open the container to see only one egg left.

  I motion to one of the cartons on the counter. “Have some of mine. I’ll have extra.”

  “Thanks.” He comes over and stands next to me, and I hope he can’t see the slight tremble in my hand as I level off the sugar in the measuring cup.

  “So what exactly are you making?” he asks, his voice low. He cracks an egg into a bowl, then two more.

  “Cream cheese strawberry cookies with white chocolate chips.”

  His eyes widen slightly. “Jesus Christ, you just listed three of my favorite foods. I’m definitely going to have to have a taste of those cookies when you’re done.”

  “Sure… might be a while, though. I just got started.”

  He walks over to the stove and pulls out a cast iron skillet, and I notice he doesn’t have an ounce of excess body fat on him anywhere. So not fair. I’ll probably gain three pounds just from looking at all this butter and sugar today.

  We each continue working in silence, but I’m keenly aware of his presence. I’m dying to ask him about his scars. And it’s not just morbid curiosity… it’s the way he looked at me when I saw him. Angry… angry that I had seen them,

  What secret is he hiding?

  “How’s the truck?” he asks, as he starts buttering up a slice of whole grain toast.

  I look up from my mixing bowls. “Huh?”

  He flashes a quick grin, and immediately my heart does a weird flip.

  “The truck… the loaner. Giving you any problems?”

  “Oh—” I shake my head and continue to measure out the salt and baking powder. “Not at all. Was kind of weird to drive it at first, but I’m getting used to it now.” I look up to meet his steady gaze. “I’m actually starting to like it.” My face suddenly feels flushed.

  He moves over to a small table in the corner and sits down. He layers some of the ham and the scrambled eggs on his toast and takes a big bite.

  “That’s good to hear,” he says a minute later after he’s done chewing. “But don’t get too attached. I’ll be needing her back pretty soon.”

  “Oh, yeah… sure. Sorry I kept it for so long. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll get a rental or something—”

  “Nah, I have another one you can use, no problem. The parts I’ve been waiting for came in, and I’m ready to start work on it is all.”

  “Oh. What are you going to do to it?”

  He shrugs and takes another big bite. “Fix her up better than new,” he finally says. “It’s something I like to do.”

  “That’s cool,” I murmur. I glance at the clock. I’d better get moving.

  Colton finishes eating and stands up, wiping his mouth on one of the paper napkins in the holder sitting on the table. “Need any help with that?”

  What? Did Colton Lassiter really just offer to help me make cookies?

  I stare at him. “Um… no, I’m okay…thanks.”

  He ambles over to the sink and rinses off his plate. Then he glances over at the bowls of strawberries. “What are you doing with all those?”

  “Rinsing them. Drying
them. Removing the stems and chopping them up.”

  “Tell you what…” He looks back at me with a charming half-grin. “I’ll take one of these and get to work, while you tell me what a fancy city girl with a law degree is doing hiding out in Sweet Oak, South Carolina.”

  I stop what I’m doing and stare at him. “I’m not hiding… And I’m not fancy. And I can do the strawberries myself.”

  He shakes his head as he picks up one of the bowls. “Sure seems like you’re running from something, or someone.”

  I continue to stare at him. “Why would you think that?”

  He carefully tips the strawberries into a strainer and holds them under some running water. Then he pours them back into the empty bowl and carries it, together with a small paring knife and some paper towels, back over to the table.

  “Why else would you be here?”

  I look at him narrowly. “It’s a nice town. And I had a good job offer.”

  He cocks an eyebrow and starts quickly removing the stems. “Bullshit. It is a nice town, I agree there. Just strikes me a little peculiar that you’d come all this way just to stay in someone’s guest house and work as an assistant in a small law office. You don’t know anyone here, you don’t have any family…”

  He takes a slow bite from the strawberry in his hand and lets the sentence hang, expecting me to answer. As if I owe him some sort of explanation.

  I shrug and try to act causal. “Is it really so weird that I’d just want to live somewhere new for a while?’

  “Actually… yeah. It is. In my experience, people don’t just land somewhere for no reason. They’re either running to something, or they’re running away from something. And you don’t appear to be running to something.”

  I flash him a dirty look. “I’m not running from anything. I just wanted a place where I could be by myself while I get some things sorted out. An opportunity came up here, so I took it.”

  Why the hell is he digging?