Let It Go

by James, Brooklyn

  Chapter Twelve

  Several blocks down at the most distinguished art gallery in town, a completely different scene plays out. Everyone who is anyone in Savannah attends. Savannah waits for Jac, her ‘other’ from Brody’s invitation, outside the gallery.

  Jac, uncustomary yet boldly sports a short dress—the sassy red, black and white ensemble somewhere between punk and rockabilly. Savannah drawls out a favorable whistle at the sight of her primary role model. The tall, athletic older sister always setting the bar. “You look H-O-T…HOT! Check out those gams,” Savannah catcalls at her.

  Jac hands her keys off to the salivating valet attendant, her focus settling on her baby sister. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” she dismisses, quite uncomfortable with attention. “Well, how’d it go?” she references Savannah’s meeting with Jack and his new girlfriend, her sisterly guardianship kicking in.

  Savannah nods her head, her pressed expression giving Jac all the answer required. “Just like you said it would.”

  “You stay away from him and tell him to do the same, you got it.” Jac grows agitated by the bitter ex’s game playing.

  “I think it actually did help in some sort of twisted way,” Savannah hunts for the silver lining.

  Jac tilts her head, her eyes and mouth perturbed and blatantly disbelieving, as if to say, Really?

  “Yeah,” Savannah answers Jac’s internal question, the two avidly reading each other since adolescence. “Seeing him. With her. Like that. All lovey-dovey and handsy. Referring to themselves as we. Calling each other babe.”

  Jac rolls her eyes, symbolizing she’d much rather be gagged with a spoon than to sit with any ex and watch such a self-substantiating display.

  “I know. It was really weird at first,” Savannah admits. “Not that I still want him or anything. It’s just strange seeing someone you used to be affectionate with in the affection of another.”

  “That would bother anyone, Savannah,” Jac eases her mixed emotions. Douchebag. The term runs through her mind in conjunction with Jack and the obnoxious actions.

  “But that’s the thing!” Savannah grows excited. “After I got over the initial awkwardness, I was fine with it. It didn’t make me want him back. And the fact that he could do that in front of me, made me realize he’s not as in love with me as he claims he is. You wouldn’t do that to someone you love.” Savannah thumps her hand over her heart, continuing, “I wouldn’t do that to Jack. And I’m not in love with him. Say Brody and I were a thing. I surely wouldn’t invite Jack to dinner with the two of us, then paw all over Brody in front of him. It’s like when a dog pees on the floor and you rub his nose in it, right? I just wouldn’t do that.”

  “That’s because you wouldn’t need to, Savannah. When you’re confident and secure with yourself and your decisions, you have no need to show off. You know it…inside.” Jac turns her toward the gallery, continuing their conversation as they approach the line to be checked in. “Some folks, men specifically, are not that secure with themselves. Other things…trophies…make them feel worthy. What better way for Jack to prove you wrong than to show up for drinks with some ego-stroking bimbo on his arm.” Jac gives in to a chuckle before exhausting, “A real catch, huh.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter what his true intentions were. Whether he was trying to make me jealous, her jealous, himself look good…whatever. He did me a favor.” Taking note of Jac’s raised, skeptical eyebrow, Savannah continues. “After seeing him with another woman, all affectionate. Moving in with her and moving on with his life. I don’t have to feel bad or guilty about moving on with mine.” They inch closer to the maître d’. “He let me off the hook, really. Whether he meant to or not. And it feels pretty damn good, Jac.”

  Jac laughs, happy to see her little sister’s load lighten, a real change taking place inside her as the baggage of her divorce moves one step closer to extinction.

  “Name?” the maître d’ inquires as they approach.

  “Bondurant. Savannah and Jacqueline,” Savannah reports.

  The maitre d’ looks to the bouncer at the main door, pointing out Jac and Savannah, he nods his head. The bouncer waves them on to the front of the line, removing the velvet rope for them to enter.

  “Ooh, fancy,” Jac jokes at their VIP treatment. “I think I like this Brody already.” Savannah giggles at her sister’s supportive approval. Upon entering, Jac grows uncomfortable. The anti-establishment feminist considers Savannah’s high-society a crowd worth avoiding at all costs. “What’s Brody’s last name?”

  “McAlister,” Savannah answers, looking around the gallery, Brody’s rustic yet exquisite woodwork displayed everywhere.

  “McAlister,” Jac mumbles, the name out of place among Savannah’s elite families. “How did he land this gig? What’s a woodworker doing setting up shop here?” Jac grows suspicious.

  “Most of his customers are A-listers in Savannah. Rustic is the new chic.” Savannah rolls her eyes playfully. “Wooten. I think that’s the name. Candida Wooten. She’s one of his clients. She and her husband are sponsoring the event. Something like that.”

  “Candida ‘Candy’ Wooten,” Jac informs, shaking her head. “Husband is a banker. A lawyer. A real estate guru. And pretty much everything else that equates to money. That Candy Wooten?”

  “I think so,” Savannah responds, half paying attention, as she spots Brody across the grand room standing amongst a pack of eager art-goers. She waves back at him as he motions them over.

  “Uh-Uh,” Jac nixes that momentum. Looping her arm through Savannah’s, she guides her away from Brody’s trajectory to the outside walls of the gallery.

  “But Brody’s over there. We should at least go say hello.” Savannah balks.

  “He can come to you,” Jac says. “Besides, I want to get a glimpse of him and all those blood-suckers.” Coyly pulling Savannah to a piece on the wall where they are out of Brody’s view but he remains in theirs, Jac explains, “You see that woman? Next to Brody.” Jac assumes he is the one towering a head above everyone else, per Savannah’s indulgent description.

  “Yeah,” Savannah whispers, feeling as though she is amidst a covert operation. “The one who appears to be serving bubbling breasts with a side of silicone?” Savannah mutters at the woman’s unnatural and gravity defying bosoms jutting out just under her chin, surprised at the little green monster rearing its ugly head in the pit of her abdomen.

  “Uh-huh.” Jac’s eyebrow rises suspiciously. “That would be Candy Wooten. The most infamous cougar this side of the river.”

  “Shut up,” Savannah whispers, watching the attractive, presumably late-forties, Mrs. Wooten and her avid attention to Brody. “OMGosh…are you suggesting…you think Brody’s some kind of artsy gigolo?”

  “Now, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jac says, swallowing a soft giggle at Savannah’s conclusion. “I just think it’s odd that he’s hooked up with this crowd. These people don’t exactly do things out of the kindness of their hearts.”

  “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,” Savannah exhausts, the slang for extracurricular sex. “I knew he had to be too good to be true.”

  “Savannah!” a familiar voice sounds.

  “Hey Tami Lynn!” Savannah returns her excitement, a welcome distraction from the daunting gigolo revelation.

  Tami Lynn approaches, dressed to impress in a black, lacy, haute goth ensemble, hanging on Larry’s arm. Savannah manages to impede her surprise at Scary Larry’s attendance, taking in his appearance, something between a rocker and The Dark Knight. He sports black leather skinny pants with matching combat-style boots and a long coat resembling a cape. His dark hair stylishly spiked, accentuating his alabaster skin.

  “This is Larry,” Tami Lynn introduces, stressing Larry without the Scary, “from the office.” She gleams bashfully at Savannah.

  Savannah nods at him, a smile surfacing, content with the enthusiasm his presence offers to Tami Lynn. “I’m glad y’all could make it.” She quickly acq
uaints Jac.

  “I love your outfit,” Tami Lynn eyes Jac’s rebellious style. Larry holds fast to her hand, his apprehension surfacing in the noisy crowd. He whispers into Tami Lynn’s ear, his glance settling on Jac. “No way!” Tami Lynn exclaims at his disclosure. “Are you a derby girl?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” Jac affirms, a grin forming at the thought someone would recognize her as such. “I’m a blocker with The Pulverizing Peaches.”

  “Jac-You-Up,” Larry expels, looking at her awestruck. The pitch of his soft baritone voice surprising Savannah, certainly not what she expected to come out of him. She looks to Tami Lynn, affirmation in her delighted expression.

  “You a derby fan?” Jac attempts to draw Larry out of his seemingly obscure shell.

  He nods his head, a sheepish smile forming. “I have season tickets. Suicide seats,” he says proudly, affluently speaking derby terminology for the best seats in the house. The most dangerous seats at only ten feet from the outside of the track, giving the advantageous fans opportunity to become part of the derby brawl as players fly and crash into them after a hard hit or block.

  “Thanks for the support.” Jac finds herself growing demure, a rare and strange occurrence. “We don’t exactly draw a large crowd.” She ponders their small fanbase.

  “Maybe you can get an autograph. At the next meet,” Tami Lynn encourages Larry. “Is that what you call it? A meet?” Tami Lynn giggles.

  “A bout,” Jac and Larry respond in unison. Larry retracts, clutching tighter to Tami Lynn, suddenly aware of, and agonizing over, his conversational boldness.

  “Jac has a bout next week. Y’all should come. Get your picture taken with the team,” Savannah advocates, proud of her big sister’s notoriety.

  “We could do that?” Tami Lynn looks to Jac, who exhibits animated confirmation. “You want to do that?” she turns to Larry.

  “Well, yeah,” he whispers his eager participation.

  “Can I help you?” Jac asks agitated, turning to the man standing closely to her left among the packed house. Her attempt to ignore his casual recurrent contact in the form of accidentally bumping into her has stirred her dander.

  “My bad,” he excuses, happy with the conversation starter. “Must be the electricity in the air.” He flashes her a flirty, handsome grin, alluding to the crowd and the energy, inadvertently pulling him in her direction. He looks around the grand room, eyeing the bountiful and beautiful crowd. “I always gravitate toward the best-looking girl in the room.” He winks.

  Jac’s infamous leery eyebrow ascends, inspecting him. The man is well built and attractive with his sandy blond surfer boy hair, his light eyes bright and confident, his full smiling mouth and jaw surely inviting. His complimentary pickup line quite possibly attractive to a more eager woman does not impress Jacqueline Bondurant. Having to look down at him in her four-inch heels giving the already lanky femme paramount height, she simply turns back around to the company of Savannah, Tami Lynn and Larry. Savannah giggles at Jac’s communicative non-reply.

  “We’re going to have a look around,” Tami Lynn excuses herself and Larry. “He’s got some really cool pieces.” Her eyes dart about the room at the primitive displays.

  “Sounds good,” Savannah says, her attention pulled to the man at Jac’s left. Refusing to be brushed off, he awaits another opportunity to engage her big sister.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” the man interjects, awaiting Jac’s reply. “I’m Gavin McAlister.” His last name enough to provoke her curiosity.

  “You’re related to the artist?” Jac says, her investigatory urge kicking in. What better way to get the dish on Brody than through his family.

  “I’m Savannah Bondurant. This is my sister Jacqueline,” Savannah comes to Gavin’s aid, knowing Jac will only continue to allow him to make a fool of himself should he be so inclined.

  “You’re Savannah.” Gavin connects his middle finger and thumb, placing them to his lips giving in to an unsophisticated whistle in Brody’s direction. Making a total scene, he points to Savannah, causing Brody to break free of the crowd huddled around him and head in her direction.

  “Ooh.” Savannah ducks, uncomfortable with the attention. “Really, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Gavin ensures. “He told me to be on the lookout for you.”

  “Go,” Jac prompts her to meet Brody. Not quite ready to meet him, she has some groundwork to do.

  “You want to come with me?” Savannah asks, wary of leaving her ‘date’ unattended.

  “I’m good. You go.” Jac gives her a nudge in Brody’s direction.

  Realigning herself from the big shove off, Savannah meets Brody halfway. He sweeps her off her feet, literally, embracing her tightly to his frame. “Ooh!” she giggles at his enthusiasm. “Must be a successful show,” she says as he lowers her sparkly silver heels back to the floor.

  Brody’s head swivels at all of the SOLD signs aligning his pieces. “More successful than I thought it would be.” He beams, his kind eyes and warm smile brilliant. “Almost sold out and have quite a few back orders.”

  Jac watches from a distance, taking notes from her conversation with Gavin. She notices how Candy Wooten watches, too. The cougar’s eyes trailing after Brody and his interaction with Savannah. “You better not be sizing up my sister, huntress,” Jac mutters.

  “Huh?” Gavin inquires.

  “Nothing,” Jac says. “You were saying?” She encourages Gavin to continue with his McAlister family history, all the while her eyes tracking the goings-on across the room.

  “You’re gorgeous,” Brody compliments Savannah, his hand encircling hers. He holds her arm out to her side, spinning her around slowly, enjoying the full three-sixty of her exquisite frame. Stopping momentarily at a hundred and eighty degrees to take in his favorite asset, he whispers sexily, “Da da-da da dah.” Returning her front to him, he bends to kiss her upturned lips. Savannah offers up her cheek instead, a mixture of bashfulness at the crowd and her gigolo concerns.

  “You’re not so bad yourself.” Savannah nibbles at her bottom lip, scanning his massive physique in a downplayed black suit, black undershirt and black tie. His matching dark hair and five o’clock shadow giving prominence to his steel blues, peeping through equally matched dark curled up lashes. “A regular GQ cover,” she adds.

  Brody eyes her suspiciously, his steel blues searching, wondering why she gave him the cheek when it was her lips he was after. Another time, McAlister, he coaches. “I’ve got some people I want you to meet.” He takes her hand, leading the way.

  “Not Candy Wooten?” Savannah blurts out, completely disinterested in meeting the socialite prowler.

  “No.” Brody answers, completely off guard. “My parents. I want you to meet my parents. Why would I want you to meet Candida Wooten?” he uses her formal title.

  “Oh, so you don’t want me to meet her?” Savannah’s wheels turn as if he would purposely avoid introducing the two women.

  “What?” he says, his confusion growing.

  “Is this the young lady you’ve been telling us about?” His stepmother, Annelle McAlister, interrupts, happily making Savannah’s acquaintance and quickly introducing her to Brody’s father, Chance McAlister.

  Annelle is a page right out of the Old South, her attire impeccable and appropriate, her drawl deep and generational. Brody’s lineage is clear in Chance’s eyes and facial structure, his frame still quite formidable. He wriggles uncomfortably in his stifling suit top accompanied by Wranglers and ostrich quill boots, sporting a felt cowboy hat to match. Savannah feels as though she’s in the presence of the elusive and handsomely-aged Marlboro Man.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” Annelle continues. “I’ve taken up following your column in the paper,” she whispers to Savannah, knowing her earthly husband has no interest in such trivial natures.

  “Oh,” Savannah blushes, quickly pondering her latest journalistic entries, her tendency for direct, intimate
chat now causing her some concern. “The pleasure is mine.” She retreats, attempting to make the visibly agonizing Chance McAlister at ease by including him into the conversation. “Did you teach Brody how to do all of this?” She points at the stellar woodwork.

  “I started him out,” Chance replies, the tone of his rich deep voice dead-on with Brody’s. “He grew up in Texas, you know. Well, part of his childhood. We had a ranch. I thought he ought to be self-sufficient. Any man that can use his own hands to create, he’s a step above the rest.”

  “The most self-employed man I’ve ever known,” Brody compliments his father, his arm squeezing around Chance’s back, gripping his shoulder firmly. “Whatever you want. He can build it from the ground up.”

  “Ah, thank you, Son,” Chance dismisses, his arm reciprocally squeezing around Brody’s lower back, pressing his cheek to his son’s heart momentarily, as he is a bit shorter than Brody.

  Savannah enjoys the ease with which the men display a familiar affection, both secure enough within themselves to do so, unbridled by such macho stigmas. Aw, she expels internally, the action causing the strings of her heart to tighten a bit. Each exposure to Brody’s emotional dimensions pulls her deeper into her own affection for him. Oh, get a grip, Savannah.

  Breaking their hold, Chance continues, “I never did anything quite like this though.” He looks around the room, pride resonating in his eyes and in his heart at his son’s achievement.

  “Now that’s not true,” Annelle says. “Just last week he built me a cherry wood wine cabinet. With a hanging rack for my stemware. One side’s room temperature. The other side is refrigerated. It has wheels and everything. It’s just the most beautiful thing. We’ll have to have you over sometime, Savannah. So you can see it.”

  “I’d like that,” Savannah responds to Annelle’s effortless warmth, having trouble taking in all the open familial stimulation. Her own family a bit closed in comparison.