by Liz Talley
So here she sat at a table in Mississippi with Ida Mae Robinson and a country boy who made her want to drop her panties.
Best-laid plans and all that.
“I could use someone to tote my groceries up three flights,” Frances said finally.
“I’m good at toting groceries,” Clem drawled, his look not so innocent. He made toting groceries sound like foreplay.
“He really is,” said Ida Mae, stabbing a tomato slice.
Clem grinned, then winked at Frances.
The man was a devil.
Clem dabbed some foo-foo water behind his ears. That was what his grandmamma had always called men’s cologne. His grandfather had worn Vetyver by Givenchy, and every now and then Clem would get a whiff of it, taking him back to watching Pappy slide on his old moccasins while nursing a nip of whiskey in his morning coffee. His maternal grandfather had been a man’s man. The kind who could shoot any gun, drink bourbon straight, and hid a box of Playboy magazines from the 1950s in the back of his closet so his esteemed lady couldn’t find them and be offended. Clem had wanted to be his Pappy Vines.
But Clem’s father had wanted him to live up to the paternal name of Aiken. A South Carolina Aiken. A seventeenth-generation Charlestonian Aiken.
Being that kind of an Aiken meant politics, soirees, and marrying the “right” girl. It meant being a Kappa Sigma, donating money so your name was etched in stone, and giving a wink when you shook hands with people who would help you down the road.
Clem despised everything about it.
So he’d dumped being the heir to the throne and pissed his daddy off.
’Cause a man had to be who he was. Clem liked who he was, and he liked living in the small pre-WWII house he’d restored. He liked growing tomatoes out back, taking his lab Murphy out to shoot green-winged teal, and not being a South Carolina Aiken. He liked Mississippi just fine … Still, there were times he wondered if he’d done the right thing striking out on his own. There were times he missed his mama, especially after she’d gotten sick. He had an ever-widening hole inside him but didn’t know how to fill it.
Murphy padded in and sat in the bathroom threshold.
“What’s up, buddy?”
Murphy’s tail thumped a happy rhythm on the newly restored hardwood floor. Then the chocolate lab sighed, sank down, and curled into a comma.
“You wanna go out dancing with me, bud?”
Another thump, thump, thump, but that was it.
“Maybe it’s time to get a woman in here. I’m tired of you not talking back, Murphy.” Clem nudged the dog with his boot as he passed through the bathroom door and down the hall.
A woman.
Clem had spent the past eight years in Morning Glory. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen the town. In college he’d come up to Jackson with some buddies and they’d taken a wrong turn. Didn’t realize it for about fifteen miles, and they’d ended up passing through Morning Glory. They’d lapped the town square, and Clem remembered thinking how pretty it was. It looked like something out of a fifties movie with people clumped together talking, old buildings that had been carefully cared for, and a charm that permeated the hangover he’d had from the party the night before. He remembered asking his buddy where they were and then being equally charmed by the name.
So when his daddy demanded he come home, apply to law school, and stop playing around, Clem had put together an LLC, starting Country Boy Construction, and bought the run-down farmhouse next to Ida Mae. His father had been furious, his mother upset, and his sister amused. He was just Clem being Clem. And that had been good for a while, but here lately he’d started wondering if he really wanted to sleep in the bed he’d made forever. In truth, he’d started feeling a little lonely. And worried that his mama might succumb to cancer again. That he might miss a piece of his life he could never get back simply because he was being stubborn.
Maybe that’s why this city girl had shaken him up. Frances reminded him of the kind of women he used to know. Oh sure, none of his Charleston belles were as abrupt or ballsy as Frances, but that polish, that hunger for wanting more, was something he recognized easily. And liked. Nothing wrong with a woman who knew her mind and wasn’t afraid to say what that was even if it was uncomfortable to hear. And that she had a tight body and lips that begged to be kissed didn’t hurt. Not one bit.
Tonight they were going honky-tonkin.’
When he told Frances she had to learn how to line dance and shoot whiskey, she’d arched a waxed eyebrow and lifted that stubborn chin. “I already know how to shoot whiskey.”
“But can you line dance?” he asked, knowing full well he didn’t know a single line dance.
“I can do the funky chicken,” she said sounding serious. Only the twinkle in her eye gave her away.
“I’ll make sure they play the chicken dance.” Then he’d told her he’d pick her up at eight o’clock the next night. He hoped that after teaching her to fish, gather eggs, fry chicken, and fraternize with the locals at the Iron Bull, she’d see stacked stone and Chihuly glass fixtures were a mistake and settle for the more appropriate mason jars and gingham tablecloths.
Murphy appeared at his feet and pawed his thigh.
“What, boy?”
Murphy chuffed.
“You need to go outside?”
At that query, his dog started jumping up and down.
“Yeah, yeah. You can go out, but no chasing Miss Ida Mae’s chickens through the fence. She says they don’t lay from the stress of you giving them hell. And no roaming tonight. Back on the porch by ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Murphy tilted his head as if to ask for more time.
“Okay. Ten fifteen at the latest.” Clem grabbed the straw cowboy hat from where it hung by the back kitchen door and jammed it on his head. He let Murphy out, knowing the dog wouldn’t go far and would be waiting for him on the stoop when he got back later that night. Murphy was as predictable as heat in July.
Ten minutes later he pulled into the apartments where Sal had been staying for the past month. The lease on the apartment belonged to Jess, Rosemary’s friend who was working temporarily in Florida, but since she wasn’t using it, it had worked perfect for Sal. Clem had just climbed out of the truck when he caught sight of Frances coming toward him.
She looked incredible … and exactly like what she was—a sophisticated, urban woman.
The black strapless dress skimmed her bare thighs, and the towering high heels that were no doubt designer made her legs look a mile long. Her arms were bare save the chunky bracelets clinking at her wrist, and she wore dangling earrings that brushed her satin shoulders. Part of her hair had been secured into a knot and pieces stuck out in what should have looked absurd but instead looked classy. Her makeup was light and her lips were a soft, kissable pink. She looked too fancy for peanut shells on the floor. That was for damn sure.
“Dang, girl, you look too good to mix it up with a bunch of rednecks. You know what you’re going to do to them?”
Frances lifted a shoulder. “What do I care? I’m going for the line dancing.”
“Don’t you have some jeans? Or a gunnysack?” he grumbled, knowing that Frances Genovese was going to be trouble tonight. He’d probably bust his ass in all the drool that would surround her at the Iron Bull.
“Sure I do, but they’re in New York. This was my alternative dress for Sal’s wedding, but my mother told me black was inappropriate. I thought it was perfect myself.”
He pulled open the passenger door and took her elbow as she climbed inside. She shook his hand away and that made him smile. “You don’t think Sal and Rosemary will make it? Or you don’t believe in marriage?”
Frances glanced back at him. “I don’t believe in falling in love two weeks.”
Damn.
Not that he wanted her to fall in love with him. Or vice versa. So far, outside of having some warmish feelings for Eden, he’d managed to escape the lines cast out by women. He loved being with women.
Loved their laughs, the way they smelled, talked, and thought. And he damn sure enjoyed every inch of their soft bodies. But that’s where he drew the line.
Or he had.
The years had smudged one into the other, and lately he wondered if he was over being a good ol’ boy hound dog about town. Maybe he needed to think about his future. Maybe as much as he loved Mississippi his time here was winding down.
There was part of him that missed the salty marsh breezes and the handmade baskets sold on every corner in Charleston. That crumbling city cradled his memories in the crook of its streets and the stately homes cloaked in wrought iron secrets. He’d roamed the avenues as a child, buying Cokes in the corner stores, climbing on the high brick walls to take shortcuts through the neighborhoods, sassing their housekeeper Bev when she tried to make him tie his shoes and put on a clean shirt. Some days he missed the big house he’d grown up in with its smooth bannisters and broken carriages his great-great-grandmother had ridden in. Other days he was happy he’d left all the pressures behind. He couldn’t be the man his father wanted him to be, so why go back to a place that reminded him of how he’d never measure up?
“So is this the only honky-tonk in town?” Frances asked, bringing him back to the present.
“Naw, there’s the Rowdy Rooster out on Highway 70. And Bucky’s draws an older crowd.” He gave her a smile.
“Oh, but this is the place you like to go? Why? Is this where you pick up bimbos?”
“Bimbos?”
“That’s what Rosemary called them. We have more … abrasive words for them in New York,” Frances said, her voice teasing. She seemed to be in a good mood. A determined mood. He wondered what that meant.
“I bet you do. And what’s wrong with a good bimbo? I like bimbos. Not complicated.” He pulled out of the apartment complex and headed north toward the only social event in Morning Glory that evening … unless you counted the poker game at Spud Mattingly’s house or the ceramic class at the Church of Christ.
“I guess that’s true enough.” Frances smiled and watched the scenery speed by.
Ten minutes later they were bellying up to the big bar lined with guys in cowboy boots and women in too-tight clothes. Either direction a person looked, there were plenty of people looking for a cold drink and a warm body to make the night less lonely.
“I’ll have a glass of cabernet,” Frances said when Jason Hall, the best of the bartenders, approached.
Jason studied Frances for a second, then shot a look at Clem. The small twitch of his brow told Clem all he needed to know. His friend was impressed.
“I got some kind of red back here. That’ll have to do. Jim and Coke for you, Clem?” Jason asked.
“Sure.”
Clem paid as Frances sipped the wine. He couldn’t believe she’d let him pay since she’d declared this wasn’t a date. This was a lesson in who and what small town people did on a random weeknight. Her exact words.
“I’ll get the next round,” she said, assessing the people clustered around them. She’d drawn some looks. Wasn’t like that could be helped. First, she was a stranger, but most importantly, she looked like pure class with her fancy frock, angular jaw, and soft lips. She was a rose among wildflowers. Nothing wrong with brown-eyed Susans and Mexican primrose, but still, everyone looked at the rose.
“You play pool?” he asked, wanting to whisk her away from the fellows closing in.
“I grew up in Brooklyn,” she said, heading toward the back where three pool tables stood.
He gathered that should have told him something. Maybe everyone in Brooklyn shot pool? Or maybe she wanted to declare her residency.
Eyes followed them as they made their way to the free table. Clem set his drink on the shelf the owner, Digger Jones, had built for that express purpose and looked for his favorite cue stick. Seeing someone had already snagged it, he settled for his second favorite. Frances cast a discerning eye over the offerings, then finally selected one and chalked up.
“You want to break?” she asked, picking up the goblet of wine she’d set on the corner of the table. Clem saw a few fellows from the Riggs farm mosey closer. The Riggs employed a motley crew, and their leader, Lon Tate, was a horndog with shark instincts.
“How’s it hangin’?” Lon said, his eyes not leaving Frances’s ass as she leaned over to rack the balls.
And that’s when Clem’s appreciation of her dress faded. The hem rose much too high on the back of her thighs. Lon and his boys noticed. Hell, everybody noticed.
“Good. You?”
“Low, brother. Hanging low.” Lon grinned, enjoying his double entendre … or maybe it was a single one. Clem wasn’t an entendre specialist.
What he was, though, was jealous. He didn’t want anyone eyeing Frances. Not that she meant anything to him other than a passing fancy. She was his client’s sister. It was his duty to protect her from weasels like Lon. That was all.
“Who’s this pretty lady?” Lon asked, shit-eating grin fixed on Frances.
“I’m Frances,” she said, not bothering to glance Lon’s way.
Clem almost smiled.
“Frances? Don’t know if I ever met a girl named Frances before,” Lon continued, not getting the hint.
Clem should have stepped in and told Lon to scram, but something told him things were about to get interesting. If anyone could eviscerate the preening farmhand, it was the woman racking the balls across the green felt.
“Well, you must not get around much. I’m named after a saint. Francis of Assisi,” she said, dropping the last ball into the triangle form. “I’m a card-carrying Catholic and not really interested in making small talk right now.”
“I like a girl who doesn’t like small talk,” Lon said, picking up the cue ball and handing it to her. “Small talk gets in the way, I always say.”
“Of what?” Frances asked.
“Now, baby, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about,” Lon purred.
Frances looked at Lon and set the cue ball on the table. “Are you talking about sex?”
Lon laughed. “Damn, you do get down to it.”
“Lon, I believe in being up front about things like sex … and commitment … and making lots of babies because Catholics don’t believe in birth control. How many kids should we have, Lon?”
“What?” Lon asked with an incredulous laugh.
“Children. I’m from a big Italian family, so there are expectations. I’ll need to see your W-2 forms before we get married. I’m not planning on working, and you’ll need to make quite a bit to support our family. Do you have a good job?” Frances moved quickly toward Lon, who looked about as confused as a blonde counting stairs on an escalator. No offense to blondes. Clem happened to love them … and knew plenty of supersmart ones. Like the one who’d told him the joke.
Frances lifted a hand and brushed back the swooping hair Lon flipped around like a frat boy. “And you’re going to have to trim this hair. My father wouldn’t like it, and I’m a daddy’s girl.”
Lon caught her hand. “Come on, baby, I’m just flirtin’ with you. I ain’t nearabouts wanting to get married. I’m wanting a little fun. I’m only twenty-four years old.”
Frances’s brow crinkled. “That’s plenty old enough. When can I meet your mother?”
Lon looked over at Clem. It was totally a “help me out, bro” look. “She’s just jokin,’ ain’t she, Clem?”
Clem shrugged and picked up his drink. “I’m glad you came over. She’s already gone through my mail and gotten Chris Havens to tell her how much I owe on my house. Not to mention, she’s got a mile-long list of baby names in her purse.”
Frances nodded, her face going dreamy. “I really like Francesca Maria for our first girl. That was my mother’s grandmother’s name. Do you like it?” Frances looped her arm through Lon’s and looked up at him.
“Yeah, it’s real pretty. Look, I gotta go use the head,” he said, his eyes panicky. He pulled his arm loose and nearly ran toward the ne
on lights pointing out the facilities in the back of the honky-tonk.
Frances waved good-bye. “Come on back when you’re done. I want to show you the house plans I had drawn up last year. All I need is a man to make it happen.”
Lon never looked back.
“Impressive,” Clem said, taking a draw on his Jim and Coke. “He’ll tell everyone between here and the urinal you’re crazy as hell.”
“Mission accomplished then. Nothing a man hates more than a commitment-minded female.”
“Damn, you’re good.”
“That’s what all the boys say.” She leaned over to practice her shot. “Now, shall I break or do you want to?”
At that moment he felt his heart do a lurching thing. He wasn’t sure if it was the way she bent over or the fact she’d gotten rid of Lon and half the dumb cowboys standing around wanting a crack at the sexy city girl, but something happened inside his chest.
Probably gas.
“You break. I like seeing what you got,” he said, meaning every word.
Frances lifted a bare shoulder and sent the balls spinning across the green felt. “I’m solid.”
And she was solid. Solidly splendid in so many ways.
As they chalked up the cues, letting the smooth wood slide between their fingers, working the pool table, he took note of everything about her he liked. The curve of her ass in the tight dress, the way she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth as she assessed shots, the way she smelled when she slid by him. He liked her finesse, the dirty Navy joke she told him, and the husky laugh when he prevented her from sinking the eight ball.
So, so much to like about the woman who’d initially made him want to punch a wall.
“You have to sink three balls to win the game. No way you manage that,” she said, leaning against the paneling with a confident grin.
“Want to make a bet?” The shots were tough, but he’d made them before.
“I know how your bets work.”
“I want more than a kiss.”
“Come on, Clem. I’m not going there with you. A kiss here and there, no big deal. But I can’t—”
“I didn’t say what I want,” he interrupted.
