Till I Kissed You

by Laura Trentham

  “Soon as she pays me the last of what she owes me, I’m heading to Naw’leans to find a gym. I’m going to be a star in the UFC, you wait and see.”

  Maybe with his family’s support, Heath Parsons could have turned things around. Cleaned up, found a good woman, worked an honest job, lived an honest life. The summer had stolen that chance. New Orleans would feed his vices and then devour him.

  “You’re going to be nothing, Heath.” Sawyer backed away and joined Cade in the truck.

  The rising dust from his tires on the way out of Country Aire swallowed Heath’s reflection in the doorway of the trailer in his rearview mirror.

  “Ms. Martha’s probably at church unless lightning struck her down,” Cade said.

  Even though none of it had been a surprise, a gloom overcame Sawyer. The desperation of a mother to save her son led to his final corruption. Yet Ms. Martha was a decent woman, driven by her own desperate desire to save her business. An unwelcome guilt settled on his shoulders. The festival competition had been the spark that set everything ablaze.

  Sawyer drove past the Cottonbloom Parish sheriff’s office and headed to the bridge over the river.

  Cade straightened. “Aren’t you handing this over to law enforcement?”

  “Not yet. I need to talk things over with Regan.”

  “The state of your relationship has nothing to do with this.”

  “Not as … lovers.” The word rolled off his tongue with the awkwardness of an elephant performing ballet. He cleared his throat. “But as parish commissioner to mayor. Do you want to see Ms. Martha in jail?”

  “I want her to get what she deserves.”

  Sawyer glanced at his brother who was staring out the windshield, a haunted expression on his face. “What if Chief Thomason had given you what you deserved instead of a second chance?”

  They were silent the rest of the way to Monroe’s. Cade had been gone too long. He had deliberately cut his ties to Cottonbloom, but Sawyer understood the symbiotic relationship between the two sides and between the citizens.

  Cade had the door open as soon as Sawyer pulled to the curb. He turned back with one foot in and one out. “Look, I get that turning Ms. Martha over to the law is hard, but it’s the right thing to do. She hurt innocent people. Our crayfish harvesters deserve to be reimbursed at the very least.”

  Sawyer tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “The Quilting Bee will die.”

  “Then it dies.” Cade rubbed over his jaw, the green of his eyes reminding Sawyer of their mother. “People change. Something has to end for something new to take its place. Maybe something better.”

  Sawyer blinked. Cade’s eyebrows went up, the corner of his mouth quirked, and Sawyer had the distinct feeling they weren’t discussing the Quilting Bee anymore. “Maybe the something new, something better will die too.”

  “Maybe it will. Life is about risk and reward. You won’t reap the reward without risking everything. It’s what I did when I left here and what I did when I came back. I hold no regrets.”

  Cade stepped back and closed the door. Behind him, Monroe stepped onto the porch and waved, the smile on her face brilliant. His brother swept Monroe into a hug as if they’d been separated for weeks instead of hours.

  Everything in Sawyer’s chest ached. He drove by Regan’s house, but her car wasn’t in the driveway. He continued on, past her mama’s house. Mrs. Lovell was in the front yard with gardening gloves and a floppy hat, pruning her roses.

  Without considering it, he pulled to a stop and walked over to her. She was short and curvy where Regan was lean, but their strawberry blonde hair was the same. They also shared the same complicated brown eyes. Eyes that were staring at him with unvarnished hatred.

  “Mrs. Lovell.” Sawyer tipped his head.

  “Mr. Fournette. Or should I say Commissioner Fournette. You’ve made quite a name for yourself over in Louisiana.”

  “Why do you hate me?” The question that popped out shocked them both into a temporary silence.

  Her jaw worked before she turned back to her roses, cutting off a bloom that appeared to still be in its prime. Hot pink fell in the middle of a pile of browning blossoms. “It’s unchristian to hate.”

  “You’ve done everything you can to keep me and Regan apart. I want to know why.”

  She clipped off a dying bloom. “You were a phase. Something I had to suffer through. The two of you weren’t meant to last. I saw you for what you were. A poor boy who wanted to prove something by dating a pretty girl from Mississippi.”

  A nugget of truth lay in her words. He had loved Regan, but a tiny part of himself was ashamed to acknowledge he had been validated by her love. “I’m going to date your daughter whether you want me to or not.”

  The woman laughed and clipped off a browning rose. “What you and my daughter are doing is not dating. You are something she needs to get out of her system before she can move on.”

  “What are you talking about?” In spite of the heat, a numb wave stilled his heart.

  Mrs. Lovell turned and pointed the sharp tip of the clippers at his chest. The first time she’d given him her full attention. “Please. Things ended abruptly years ago. She needs closure. If that consists of sneaking around and reliving some of her wilder moments with you…? Well then, I’ll keep my mouth shut. For now. But don’t for one second think she wants to date you in front of all of Cottonbloom. That’s laughable.”

  Why was he standing in this woman’s yard? Had he expected to receive her blessing? She was petty and cruel, and he was terrified she spoke the truth. He wanted to build something new with Regan. Was all she was doing was reliving their past?

  “It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Lovell.” His bitter, dry tone drew her narrowed gaze, her brown eyes as flat as Regan’s were deep.

  He was almost to his truck when she called out. “I believe my daughter is at a festival meeting, Mr. Fournette. Our festival will make anything you put together look pathetic.”

  The questions reeling through his head dinged his already fragile confidence where Regan was concerned. Nevertheless, he pointed his truck toward Church Street.

  Chapter Twenty

  Regan took a cookie off the doily-covered tray and sipped her glass of lemonade. The festival committee was finalizing plans. While the festival was her baby, she’d enlisted the help of several denizens of Cottonbloom society to spearhead certain functions.

  The Home and Garden tour was in the capable hands of Ms. Beatrice, her seventh-grade English teacher. The farmers’ market, where fresh tomatoes and tomato concoctions like salsa and chutney would be displayed and sold, was headed up by Mr. Holcomb, whose tomatoes rivaled her mother’s. Regan was in charge of entertainment, food, and the general set-up, but kept her fingers in all the pies. It was frankly exhausting to make sure no one went off the rails.

  “I heard-tell someone tried to kill all your dear mother’s tomato plants. Is that true?” Ms. Beatrice’s needle-sharp voice pierced her reverie. Her mind wasn’t on the festival at all but back in Sawyer’s bed. Her face heated as if everyone could read her thoughts.

  “We caught someone lurking around.”

  “If he came around my garden, I’d put a round of buckshot in his butt.” Mr. Holcomb’s voice reverberated in the meeting room typically used for Bible study.

  The tittering of the ladies alternated between outrage and outright laughter. “This is a house of God, Mr. Holcomb.” Ms. Beatrice adjusted the reading glasses on her nose, looking like the disapproving teacher she’d been before retiring. She still intimidated Regan.

  “Didn’t the Lord himself tell David to chop off all the foreskins from the heathen tribes? That’s a sight worse than a little buckshot, if you ask me.”

  This time the room erupted while Mr. Holcomb sat back with a smile on his face. Regan tried not to laugh. Rising and clapping her hands, she said, “The festival is a little over a week away. Does anyone have any receipts or last-minute issues we need to discuss?�
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  Mr. Holcomb raised a hand. “I got an idea. Selling tomatoes is one thing, but we’ll have hungry people out there. Old Rufus is going to be on the other side selling barbeque and crayfish po’boys.”

  “We’ll be selling cotton candy and fritters and such.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “That’s all well and good for the kiddies, but I promise when people get a whiff of what Rufus’ll be cooking up, they’ll hightail it over the river. We’ll be looking pretty pitiful to those Heart of Dixie boys if that happens.”

  “You have a suggestion?”

  “Got a cousin who is a crayfish harvester down in Macon Parish. How about we offer up some jambalaya? Good use of any overripe or bruised tomatoes that come in too.”

  If Mr. Holcomb had come to her with the suggestion two months ago, she would have given him a high five. Not only was she bound by her pinky promise to Sawyer, but serving up crayfish jambalaya would hurt his festival and his feelings. She couldn’t do either. Not now.

  Several members of the committee spoke up in favor of the idea. Sweat prickled her forehead. “We don’t have the space or manpower to pull it off.”

  “I’ll put my boys in charge of it. We have plenty of propane stoves and pots. All I’d need is some money for the crayfish, but my cousin’ll give us a good deal. My granny passed down a mean jambalaya recipe.” He rubbed the mound of the belly that hung over his pants and hummed.

  Mr. Holcomb was only trying to be helpful, but that didn’t stop Regan from wanting to gag him with one of his suspenders. “I’m not sure we have the budget, but let me review our plans, and I’ll get back to you.” She only had to put him off another few days before it would be too late. “Don’t forget we have the pizzeria right off River Street.”

  Any remaining issues the committee discussed were minor. As long as the weather held, the festival had the potential to be a home run. She made notes in her phone as the meeting broke up. Ms. Beatrice cleared her throat in such an obvious way that Regan glanced up.

  Sawyer filled the doorway, staring at her. A tingling awareness of what he’d done to her with his mouth and hands and—she glanced down—other parts of his body had her core tightening.

  “Why Commissioner Fournette, here to spy, are you?” Ms. Beatrice held her notebook against the roll of her bosom and favored Sawyer with a glance that would wither most men. “I can assure you, the Cottonbloom tomato festivities will rival any state festival. We will win the Heart of Dixie competition. Mark my words.”

  “I’m sure your festival will be spectacular, ma’am.” Sawyer inclined his head and prowled farther into the room, his gaze never leaving Regan. His intensity was part sexual and part something she couldn’t identify, but that set her knees trembling.

  Guilt over nonexistent crayfish jambalaya had her shuffling backward a few steps until the backs of her legs hit a folding chair. The legs squeaked across the shiny, waxed floor, drawing eyes and silencing conversations.

  After the awkwardness of the morning, she couldn’t imagine why he had tracked her down to the church meeting hall in front of everyone. She had never been more embarrassed in her life than when she’d heard Tally in his house. The magic of the night had been shattered.

  Tallulah Fournette did not like her. She didn’t like Regan for who she was and what she had done. Rightly so. Regan was still reeling from their confessions of the day before and the intimacy of their night together. The fracturing of their relationship so many years ago had been as much her fault as his. Maybe even more so. She could blame her mother, but she was the one who had let her mother’s opinions guide her life instead of making her own decisions.

  While she and Sawyer had resolved the truth of the past—if she chose to trust him—they hadn’t discussed the future or whether a future was even possible. The sex had been phenomenal, but was it more than that to him? All these questions and more battered around in her head.

  Mr. Holcomb took her forearm. “Would you like me to stay, Regan?” He sounded as if he’d enjoy unleashing buckshot into Sawyer right now.

  Regan tried on a smile and patted his hand. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure Mr. Fournette has festival business to discuss, isn’t that right?”

  Everything about Sawyer tensed. “Sure. Festival business, Miss Lovell.” Was she imagining the snarky, resigned tone?

  Everyone filed out, and she intercepted several curious glances. Silence descended. He ran a hand through his hair as he continued to stare at her. She followed his hand’s progress, watching the strands fall through his fingers. Those hands had touched her everywhere last night. He’d been over, under, inside of her. She’d wanted him again … and again. What would have happened if Tally hadn’t interrupted them?

  She massaged the lump in her throat. What should she say? “Do you want a cookie?”

  “No.”

  “Lemonade?”

  “No.”

  “Was there something about the festivals you wanted to talk about?”

  “So that’s what we’re doing?” He propped his hands low on his hips and stepped forward.

  She tried to take a step back, but lost her balance and plopped into the chair. He loomed over her, a thunderous expression on his face. Unable to tolerate the unintentional dominance, she rose. Old habits were hard to break, and he was acting like the old, contentious Sawyer.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing,” she finally said, his attitude unsettling.

  “I’m here because”—he threw up his hands and again she followed their arc through the air—“Cade and I found your man.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it. His statement was unexpected. She had expected them to hash out their relationship, or lack of relationship. She was more confused than ever. Did his avoidance mean their one night was just that—a one-night thing?

  Give her a city to run or a council meeting to guide, and she would take charge. Force her to confront an old-new lover, and she was at a loss as to what to say and do.

  “Who is it?”

  “You were right about Heath Parsons. Ms. Martha is the one who hired him.”

  “No,” she whispered and regained her seat, covering her mouth. Even though she’d wondered and suspected, hearing the truth made her stomach feel like a pincushion. Ms. Martha was well-liked and respected and, although they’d had their differences, Regan didn’t want to see her behind bars. “Things must be dire with the Quilting Bee. What should we do?”

  “Heath swears he’ll deny everything if the police ask, although I’m sure we could find some evidence to pin on him. I think we should go talk to Ms. Martha.”

  Her mind circled the problem. Something niggled at her. “I showed Ms. Leora and Ms. Effie the letters.”

  “And?”

  “And they were shocked but not surprised, if that makes any sense.”

  “You think they’re involved too?”

  “I don’t know. If not involved, then maybe they had an inkling something was going on.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I think we should talk to Ms. Leora first.”

  Sawyer closed his eyes and ran a hand over his jaw. “What am I going to tell Uncle Del if she is involved? He’s finally happy.”

  Between his frown and his downtrodden tone, he looked defeated. She stood, wanting to hug him, but not sure how he would react. She settled for a brief touch of his arm. “Don’t jump to conclusions just yet. She might be able to help us.”

  “Fine. Shall we, Miss Lovell?” The formalness of his tone even though no one was around only increased her confusion.

  “Sawyer…”

  He didn’t acknowledge the plea in her voice nor her outstretched hand as he trudged out the door. She caught up with him in the parking lot. “What is your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem.” The way he said it insinuated that she was the one with the problem.

  “Well, I don’t either.” The bald-faced lie sounded like one. She had a crap-ton of problems, including the festival, her mother, and
him.

  “I’ll meet you at Ms. Leora’s.” He stalked toward his truck and revved the engine before she even made it behind the wheel of her Bug.

  On the drive over, Regan’s head spun around the problems of Ms. Martha and Sawyer. She couldn’t concentrate on either long enough to draw a logical conclusion.

  Nash’s truck wasn’t there, but Delmar Fournette’s was, along with a second gray tanklike sedan that seemed to be standard among the ladies of a certain age. She and Sawyer exchanged a glance on their climb to the porch.

  Sawyer rang the doorbell. Before the first tone had faded, the door swung open. His uncle chucked his chin up and pushed the screen door open. “Have a feeling I know why you’re here. We were just discussing it ourselves. Come on back to the parlor.”

  Sawyer’s worry was palpable, but a distance existed between them that had been absent the night before, and he didn’t reach for her hand or touch her in any way when he gestured for her to precede him down the dim hallway.

  Delmar perched on the arm of the chair Ms. Leora occupied, and Mrs. Vera Carson sat catty-corner from them on the formal-style sofa. Regan had helped Ms. Leora pick out the upholstery the year before and the pillows the month before. She took a seat next to Mrs. Carson.

  “The pillows look fabulous,” she said for something to say.

  “Yes. You have a good eye, Regan.” Ms. Leora and Mrs. Carson exchanged a glance. “You’re here about Martha, aren’t you?”

  Sawyer, who was pacing in the background, came to rest with his hand on the fireplace mantel. “She’s behind the trouble we’ve been having with the festivals.”

  Mrs. Carson smoothed a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “But she couldn’t have ransacked poor Regan’s shop.”

  “Not her.” Sawyer and his uncle held gazes. “She hired Heath Parsons to do the grunt work. She sent Regan the threatening letters, though, and maybe burned the pavilion down by herself.”

  Ms. Leora reached for Delmar’s hand but kept her gaze directed toward Regan. “Vera and I were afraid something was going on. And, when you showed me those terrible letters…”