Panty Dropper

by Shawn, Melanie

  “Hey, Reagan.”

  Speak of the devil. I turned to see Cheyenne and held my arms out for a quick hug, which she returned and held for a long moment. When she stepped back, she smiled as she bit her lip anxiously. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  I smiled back, “And I’m even wearing a bra.”

  “So am I!” she chuckled.

  “Miss Shaw will be so proud.”

  When I saw her look around, her eyes brimming with trepidation, I asked, “How are you holding up?”

  She breathed out slowly. “It’s been a little tougher than I expected,” she admitted, then saw what I was standing next to and smiled. “I see you found the guest keg.”

  “I did. I figured that was one of the requests you were telling me about.”

  “Oh, yeah. And there are more. A lot more. Trust me, it’s going to be an interesting day.”

  “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to make this easier for you?”

  “I will.” Cheyenne squeezed my forearm. “Thanks!”

  “Cheyenne!” A woman I didn’t recognize called out to her from across the room. “Come here, sweetie!”

  Her grip tightened. “That’s Mrs. Rhonda. Apparently she was my preschool teacher. She keeps parading me around and introducing me to people like it’s my debutante ball.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, that’s okay. I can handle it. You can go in and find a seat. You’re coming to the reception, though, right?” Her eyes were wide and hopeful.

  I hadn’t planned on it. A service was one thing. I knew I’d be able to keep my distance from Billy here. The reception was a different beast altogether.

  But just like I couldn’t turn Cheyenne down the first time she’d asked me to go to Southern Comfort, I couldn’t say no now.

  “Of course, I am.”

  Relief visibly washed over her and she hugged me again, and when she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes. “Thanks, Reagan. Really. I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.”

  “I’m glad I can help.”

  She nodded and squared her shoulders, all prepared now to head back into battle. She glided across the room with grace and greeted the group that Mrs. Rhonda was standing with warmly. I watched just long enough to make sure she really was okay, then turned my attention back to signing in.

  When I was finished there, I stepped over to the sanctuary doors and took a program from one of the ushers. I caught a glimpse of the cover as I did and was taken aback. The photo on the front was of James Comfort Sr. as a young man, and it was absolutely uncanny how much Billy resembled him.

  I took a seat and skimmed through the program, then stopped and read it more carefully.

  He’d been an army vet. He’d also apparently had a lovely singing voice, played the guitar, and wrote music. Had a penchant for detective novels, and a sly sense of humor.

  Clearly there had been more to the man than his failings as a parent. And wasn’t that true of everyone? We were all more than one thing.

  From my pew midway back, I could see Billy, Hank, and Jimmy standing up front. There was a steady stream of people coming up to them and speaking for a moment before allowing the next group to come up.

  I hadn’t been to many funerals. When Hal passed, he’d requested a private memorial service where my mother and I, along with a few of his close friends and work associates could say goodbye. He’d never liked a big deal being made over him in life, and he hadn’t wanted one to be made over him in death.

  The only ones other ones I’d ever attended was with Blaine when he’d lost a grandparent, and then second cousin. At those, the family were all but sequestered until the reception, and then there was a more formal receiving line for mourners to offer condolences. Clearly, here in Firefly, it was a far less formal affair.

  Of course, considering what Cheyenne had told me about Mr. Comfort’s particular requests, I didn’t know how safe it was to assume that anything that went on here today was indicative of a larger trend.

  Billy’s eyes scanned the congregation and stopped when they met mine. A bolt of pure lightening skittered down my spine at the eye contact and a warmth settled low in my belly at the slow smile that spread across his face as he held that gaze for a long moment.

  Oh, boy. Billy Comfort was one sexy man. It had been a few days since I’d seen him and I’d convinced myself that I’d built him up into something mythical that surely couldn’t exist. But I’d been wrong. His magic was real. I instantly fell back under the spell that he seemed to so effortlessly cast on me. When he looked at me it felt like we were the only two people in the world. No one else existed but us.

  But then, in the blink of an eye, the world came crashing back in around us when an elderly couple approached him. The woman took both of Billy’s hands in hers and spoke with an earnest expression on her wrinkled face. He turned his attention to them. A little reluctantly, I thought. But that could’ve been wishful thinking on my part.

  “Did you see that, Cherry?” The hushed voice came from the pew directly behind me.

  “See what?”

  “Billy Comfort eye f-ing me.”

  I snapped to attention. I glued my eyes to the program, which was still open on my lap, but my ears were one hundred percent tuned to the conversation taking place one row behind me.

  “Donna, sweetie, bless your heart,” came the whispered reply. “I’m sorry, but Billy was looking at me.”

  “Why would he be looking at you?” Donna shot back.

  “Why would he be looking at you?”

  “Remember, we hooked up twice last year. And clearly, he hasn’t forgotten.”

  My jaw dropped as I kept my eyes focused on the program. I could not believe that these women were talking about Billy like this at his father’s funeral. Sure, I’d been thinking about things of that nature, but I’d had the class and good sense to keep those thoughts to myself.

  “A year ago? I was with him six months ago, and it was hotter than a four-alarm fire. So, I guess we know who he was really looking at.”

  Just then I heard a thwacking sound before a familiar voice said, “Y’all better shut your mouths or you’re both headed to a place hotter than a four-alarm fire. We’re in church, for heaven’s sake! Show some respect or I’ll twist the ears off of both of ya, and you know I will.”

  My lips pursed together as I held in the laughter that was doing its best to bubble up inside of me at the image of these two women being on the receiving end of good, old-fashioned ear-twistings. It was everything I could do not to turn around to see the looks on their faces.

  Donna mumbled, “Sorry, Mrs. B.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cherry must suffer from the same verbal tick I did.

  After the short-lived glow of indulging in that junior high school moment of picturing the women being dragged out of the church by their ears, what I was left with was an ice-cold pit in my stomach, and a nagging question in the back of my mind.

  Exactly how many women did a person have to sleep with to earn the nickname Panty Dropper?

  And then how many more to maintain it?

  I’d been down the road of being cheated on before, and that was with someone who’d put a ring on it. Billy and I hadn’t made any commitments to each other, so any extracurricular activities he indulged in wouldn’t be cheating. And those women had said that their encounters had taken place months before. So why did I feel betrayed?

  It was totally irrational. I knew that. I did. I knew it. The problem was, I didn’t feel it. No matter how much logic I applied to the situation, there was no way around how I was feeling.

  “Scoot.” I looked up and saw Mrs. Beasley shooing me with the rolled-up newspaper that for some reason she always had in her hands. She used it to swat her hound dog when he got too “frisky” with the houseguests, and I guessed she also used it to threaten women in church.

  “Hello, Mrs. Beasley.” I smiled and did as she asked,
moving down the pew to make room for her.

  “I told you, dear, it’s Mrs. B.” She sat down beside me and materialized a fan out of nowhere, which she began waving in rhythmic motion in front of her face. “I told the reverend that they needed to set the thermostat to seventy. He insists on keeping it at a boiling seventy-eight. He likes it so hot in here it makes me wonder who he’s really working for.” She pointed down to the ground. “Course, maybe he’s just tryin’ to avoid what happened at poor Earnest Trip’s funeral. I’d never seen so many bosom buttons popping out in my life.”

  Bosom buttons?

  I once again found myself holding in laughter as she turned her head and gave a pointed stare at the ladies she’d just threatened. Now I really wanted to turn around.

  The atmosphere in the sanctuary shifted as a man walked in wearing a designer suit. I heard whispers all around me all asking the same questions.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I can’t believe he’s here?”

  It took me a second to recognize that it was my boss, Jennings Abernathy. I still hadn’t met him face to face, but one of our interviews had been over Skype. From what Nadia had described, him showing up was the equivalent of a Montague showing up at a Capulet’s funeral.

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. B began moving her fan faster as she patted my leg. “Get your popcorn out, sweetie. It’s about to be a show.”

  My eyes shot to Billy and when I saw the look on his face, I almost sprang from the wooden bench to rush to his side. I had to remind myself that his family’s rivalries were none of my business. Billy Comfort was none of my business.

  CHAPTER 25

  Billy

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. That low-down rattlesnake of an asshole Jennings Abernathy was striding down the middle aisle of the church like he owned the place. I half expected him to blow right on past me, hop up on the platform, and preach a sermon like he was the damn minister or something.

  People liked to say that there was “bad blood” between our families. But bad blood didn’t come close to what was between Jennings and Pop. They’d hated each other. I truly believe that they’d wished the other one dead.

  Before he’d even made it a fraction of the way up to the front, my fists were already balled at my sides. He’d never had one civil exchange with my father, and now he had the nerve to come waltzing into his funeral like he belonged here.

  Fuck, no. No way.

  I might’ve given him the benefit of the doubt and entertained the possibility that he was coming here to pay his respects, declare a final truce now that Pop was in the ground. But the cock of the walk way he was strutting around and the cat that ate the canary smile on his face told a different story.

  No. He was here to gloat. That much was clear as day. What wasn’t clear was what in the hell’d made him think he could get away with it.

  I took a single step forward when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder that stopped me in my tracks.

  I recognized that grip from the thousand times it had been laid there in the past just as I was about to do something rash. I turned to look into Hank’s tight face. “Not here, not now,” he growled in a low voice, and even though it went against every primal instinct in my body I stepped back, letting my brother know that the message was received.

  By the time he reached Hank and Jimmy and me, standing there in a cluster, I’d had time to compose myself and put on a stone face. Now that I’d managed to do it, I was determined not to let it slip, no matter what Abernathy said or did. I understood that if he could make me lose my shit and cause a scene at my own father’s funeral, then that meant that he was in control, here. Not me. And there was no way in hell I was gonna let that asshole sit in the driver’s seat.

  He stopped in front of us and bowed his head for a few beats, like he was play acting on a stage, then raised his face to us, a solemn expression pasted on it that was phonier than a three dollar bill.

  “Boys,” he intoned in his deep, rich baritone voice that I was sure had fooled many a juror over the years. “This is a sad day for our community. A truly sad day. Your father and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but in every battle we entered into, he proved himself a worthy opponent. He will be missed.”

  Every word that came out of his mouth was bullshit.

  Hank stuck out his hand and said, “Abernathy,” with a short, clipped nod that made it clear that was the extent of the interaction. I knew that tone and, without even looking at my brother’s face, I knew the expression he wore. It was the one that’d shut me up more times than I cared to remember. Abernathy must at least have some sense in his head because he turned and strode back up the aisle with the same theatrical confidence that he’d had coming down.

  For a crazy moment, I thought he was going to breeze straight back out the doors to the foyer, and then out to the parking lot, leaving me wondering if the last two minutes had just been some kind of hallucination.

  At the last second, though, he detoured and took a seat in the back row. I leaned over to my brothers. “What the hell is he doing here?” I asked, just loud enough for their ears only.

  Jimmy shook his head, Hank stayed stock still staring straight ahead.

  “Fuck him,” Hank advised sagely. “Today’s about Pop.”

  I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “You’re right.”

  Jimmy glanced up at the platform and said, “Come on, fellas. Looks like Reverend Lee is about to head up to the pulpit.”

  We walked over to our reserved seats in the front row and a minute later, Cheyenne sat down next to me. I grabbed her hand and gave it a quick squeeze and she shot me a grateful smile.

  It felt good having her there with us. Our family was complete again.

  So why was I wishin’ that Reagan was up here with us, too?

  The minute I’d spotted Reagan sitting by herself in a pew about halfway back in the sanctuary, I’d been seized by a powerful desire to have her by my side. It wasn’t just because I wanted to sit next to her, although her company would’ve been nice. It was because, as crazy as it sounded, it felt like that’s where she belonged.

  It didn’t matter to me that I’d only known her a few days. She was different. What I felt for her was different. Too bad she didn’t seem to be wrestling with the same feelings.

  As the service got underway, I focused my attention on the podium. People got up and shared their funny memories of Pop. That had been another of his requests: he only wanted funny anecdotes told about him during the service. No “mushy, sentimental crap” (his words), and we had to choose people who had a talent for telling a decent story.

  His reasoning had been that he didn’t know if anybody was gonna cry over him, but dammit, they were gonna laugh.

  As the service went on it became apparent we’d chosen the speakers well. The place was filled with laughter and the occasional groan. But through anecdote after anecdote, funny as they were, a block of ice grew in my belly that was hard as steel and cold as a witch’s tit.

  I tried to figure out what was causing it. Hell, what it even was: Dread? Fear?

  Could it be…grief?

  Yeah. The realization washed over me and gripped my heart painfully. I felt my throat close with emotion as tears drew in my eyes.

  I realized the irony of being so shocked by feeling grief at a funeral—especially your father’s funeral. But I’d been convinced that his passing hadn’t really affected me that much. In my mind, I’d lost him long ago and any grieving I’d had to do, I’d done bit by bit over the years as he disappeared further into the bottle.

  Apparently that wasn’t the case. Apparently there was still some lingering feeling in my heart that hadn’t been wrung dry by years of benign neglect.

  And then Reagan’s words came back to me, “People don’t have to be perfect for you to love them.”

  She was right. And it was even more than that.

  It was the looks on folks’ faces that did it for me, I t
hink, even more than their words. It was realizing that this man was more than just my father—he was a friend, a confidant.

  There were people in this town, a lot of them, who’d cared about him. They hadn’t had the baggage with him that I’d had. They were able to look at him without having to see him through the lens of disappointed expectations.

  And the man they’d seen without that smudged glass in the way had been funny, and caring, and even a little wise.

  My grief was for that man: not only that he was gone now, but that I’d never really known him, even when he was alive.

  “Billy?” Cheyenne leaned toward me and whispered. “Who was that man you were talking to right before you sat down?”

  “He’s no one,” I clipped.

  I didn’t want to waste my breath talking about that piece of shit.

  “Oh.” She nodded and sat back.

  I could feel that she had more to say but I didn’t ask her what. The last person I wanted my sister to be asking about was Jennings Fucking Abernathy.

  CHAPTER 26

  Reagan

  Closed to Celebrate James Comfort Sr.’s Last Call!

  My palms were a little sweaty as I read the chalkboard sign hanging on the door of the bar. I didn’t feel like I belonged here, celebrating the life of a man that I’d only known after his death. If Cheyenne hadn’t asked me to come to the reception, I would’ve been back at the office working on a brief that I needed to file first thing Monday morning.

  Now, I would have to work over the weekend. Which was fine. I liked working. Working kept my mind from wandering down paths that I’d rather not travel.

  Such as what in the world I was doing with my life. I knew that I’d dodged a bullet. If I hadn’t caught Blaine, I would’ve wasted years, if not decades, trying to make a life work that neither of us really wanted. It was for the best that I’d walked in on him, even if it obliterated the life I’d planned on living.

  So what was I left with? I’d come to Firefly to lick my wounds and start fresh, but this town, this job, wasn’t part of my ten, twenty, or fifty year plan. It was temporary. It was a stepping stone. I felt at loose ends, and thanks to my formative years, I hated feeling like that.