Sweet Talk Me

by Kieran Kramer

  Of course, their doomed little romance was nothing more than a blip on the time line of their lives, especially his. He’d done things. Really big things.

  True opened her door a few inches. “Well, I’m not trying to curry your favor. So you can get that out of your head.”

  “Curry my what?”

  “Your favor. Not everyone’s an adoring fan.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said slow, like molasses. “Thanks for the news flash, Miss Fancy Talk. I guess you can go now. Dan should be here in, oh, I’d say an hour. He drives like an old lady.” He grabbed the dress from the backseat and placed it in her lap.

  “Thank you for the ride,” she said.

  “My distinct pleasure.” He had a voice that could make a girl think twice about turning away from the hot-pink-and-black lace thong in the Victoria’s Secret sale bin.

  A few moments passed, but she didn’t move.

  Neither did he.

  The whine of a screen door swinging open broke the tension. Weezie came out on the front porch, followed by George, Ed, and Striker, their three Labs. Ed was a cinnamon color, Striker was pitch black, and George was pale yellow. Weezie’s best friends. She lowered the open book in her hands, put a palm over her eyes, and stared at the little blue coupe.

  “Aw, she’s all grown up now,” Harrison said. “But somehow she looks exactly the same.”

  “Yes, she does.” Like Anne of Green Gables in the twenty-first century, True always thought. Weezie’s coppery red hair was bound in a tight braid down her back. She wore a Mickey Mouse T-shirt over a white, ruffled mini skirt, and gray Oxford shoes.

  “Mismatched as hell,” Harrison murmured. “Geeky glasses. She’d fit in great in New York or San Francisco, but around here, maybe not so much.”

  “She’s the epitome of the hipster. Not that she’s trying to be, of course.” The irony didn’t amuse True. The world was a big, cold place. And Weezie wore her heart on her sleeve, making her vulnerable—to what, True wasn’t sure. There were too many possibilities, which was why she could never rest easy.

  “She’s how old now?” Harrison asked.

  “Eighteen. She loves TV talk shows. I mean, a lot.”

  “She always was a talker, so I’m not surprised.” He gave a little laugh. “I think she recognizes me.”

  “Of course she does. The whole world does.”

  He shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head and lowered both windows. “Weezie Maybank? Is that you?”

  “Harrison Gamble!” she shouted, her face breaking into a big grin. She dropped her book on their father’s favorite old rocking chair, pushed up her glasses, and trotted down the three brick steps of the porch, the dogs hard at her heels. “It’s been a long time, but I’m so happy to see you,” she shouted as she approached him.

  “You, too, Weezie, darlin’.” She was a doll.

  “Thanks.” Even up close, she didn’t turn down the volume. “Although the fact that you’re sitting in a car with my sister doesn’t bode well.”

  “Why is that?” Harrison asked.

  “Weezie, please don’t say anything you’re going to regret,” True told her.

  Weezie halted for a split second, and True saw it on her face: the Back-Up, her sister’s uncertain expression when she stopped for a second to think. Striker and Ed crashed into the back of her knees.

  “Keep talking.” Harrison put his elbow on the windowsill and waited. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not helping,” True whispered.

  “And you’re being bossy,” he murmured back.

  “Well”—Weezie opened Harrison’s door in a friendly hostess sort of way—“I can’t help predicting conflict. The latest Gallup survey touts you as sex on a stick from the wrong side of the tracks—a womanizer, according to Joan Rivers and Katie Couric both. And True here’s about to marry a conservative attorney with an antebellum home, friends in high places in the criminal justice system, and a barely concealed inferiority complex. This could make for some interesting gossip among the locals.”

  “Weezie.” True’s heart pounded, but she put as much threat into her tone as she possibly could when a body was leaning over a Maserati console and almost cheek-to-cheek with sex on a stick.

  “Frankly,” Weezie went on like a freight train to their guest, “if I didn’t have my own selfish reasons for wanting to see you, I’d tell you to hightail it out of here before the proverbial shit hits the fan.”

  Harrison looked back at True. “Why am I thinking of Jerry Springer right now?” he said low, an amused gleam in his eye.

  “Don’t encourage her,” True said faintly.

  But she wasn’t thinking much about her sister at the moment, or bad TV. She wasn’t thinking at all, as a matter of fact. The song about the Twinkie and the MoonPie flooded her brain like a spring tide.

  Snack on this, girlfriend. Harrison’s mouth. His stubbly chin. His wide shoulders and sinfully flat belly. You’re not married yet.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Harrison had planned to leave Maybank Hall without getting out of the car. He couldn’t hang out with old flames for long. He was too smart for that. Best to escape while he could.

  But then Weezie showed up with that crazy speech of hers. And when she added, “Did True run you off all those years ago? I’ve always wondered, but she doesn’t talk about you,” he changed his mind.

  True never talked about him? A flood of testosterone turned off his brain, and he got out of the car.

  “I’ll meet you inside,” Weezie told him. “I’m making you a mystery drink. I was already working on one.”

  “No, Weezie,” said True. “Harrison’s leaving. I’ve got the couples shower in a few hours.”

  Couples shower? Damn, he was glad he was a bachelor. “Yep. I gotta go, too,” he said. “The Spurs are on in twenty-eight minutes. Sorry, Weezie.”

  “It’ll take me two seconds,” Weezie insisted.

  “No.” True glared at her. “It’s nice of you, but this is a bad time.”

  Weezie stalked back to the house, and the front screen door slammed behind her.

  “She’ll be all right.” True fingered her pearls with her free hand.

  “I hope so.”

  “She’s just being a teenager. You’re lucky you’re the baby of your family. How old is Gage now—thirty-one?”

  “Yes. I hear he has a girlfriend in her mid-forties. Maybe I’ll get to meet her.”

  “Wow. I had no idea. Enjoy your time with him…”

  True’s words trailed off, and her mouth was like a candy heart, soft pink. If Harrison indulged his imagination enough, he could almost see the words BE MINE on it. She had no clue how sexy she was, which exponentially increased her va-va-voom quotient to the nth degree.

  He stuck his hand in his pockets and took a step back, toward the car. “I’ll try. Gage doesn’t seem too excited to see me when we get together. We golf every year at Cocoa Beach. Plan my whole schedule around it. Every once in a while, he’ll say things like, ‘Debit card is an anagram of bad credit,’ and then we go our separate ways.”

  “That’s actually a pretty cool anagram.” True grinned.

  The tide was high, perfect for swimming. He felt an old stirring inside, a spark of nostalgia. “I’m heading out. How about meeting for breakfast tomorrow?” Breakfast with a side order of happiness. It came to him like a song lyric, which meant that someday it would be. “I’ll be gone by tomorrow night.”

  It was a damn fool thing to say. To think. But what the hell. He had visions of her naked in his head. And why not let the fantasy last a little longer?

  True blinked several times. “That’s very nice of you. But…”

  “But what?” Harrison hadn’t heard no in years.

  A crease formed in her brow. “I’m really sorry, but”—she plucked a leaf off a crape myrtle—“I just can’t. You’re nice to offer.”

  The sound of bees buzzing on a nearby azalea bush lent a laziness to the air. Everythi
ng was thick, sweet, slow. Laid out plain as day. But wrapped in comfort and ease. Even the word no. That was the South for you.

  And he was a fool to forget it.

  “Yeah, I can see that Dubose wouldn’t like it,” he said. “You’re both Biscuit Creek royalty. Can’t mess with that dynamic.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”

  “He’s one of the best young attorneys in the state. He’s not a wimp.”

  “Is that so? He sure took his time popping the question. Seems to me that if a man makes up his mind about a woman, he doesn’t dawdle in that department.” Harrison sure hadn’t. It was her loss she’d told him no.

  “I’m done talking about Dubose,” she said with a glorious glare. She excelled at the old southern-belle put-you-in-your-place freeze-out, but he focused on her luscious lips instead.

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.” He put as much fake sincerity into the words as possible.

  “Good-bye. And thank you again for stopping me in Atlanta to say hello. That was awfully kind of you to drive me home.” She’d be polite to the devil if he ever showed up at her door.

  “You’re welcome,” Harrison said lazily, but he was pissed. True brought out the redneck creek boy in him like no one else could.

  The screen door opened again. “Get in here, Harrison!” Weezie yelled out to him. “Your drink’s done.”

  But the Spurs were calling. And True was like the sun. Stay around her too long, and he was gonna burst into flames. “If I value my life, I think I’d better tell you I don’t like mystery drinks,” he called to Weezie, his eyes on True. “Thanks anyway.”

  “That’s exactly why you need to drink one.” Weezie was undeterred. “And while you do, I’m going to tell you all about what’s gone on here the past ten years.”

  “He doesn’t have time for that,” True insisted. “He’s leaving.”

  Aw, screw the Spurs. He’d get to Gage’s by the end of the first quarter. The stubborn mule in him squinted at Weezie. “Are your parents home?”

  “Yes,” she shouted back. “You can pay your respects, drink your drink, and then you can be on your way.”

  “Excellent idea.” After all, what did he really have to do tonight after the game? Talk to Gage? He’d like to, but they didn’t have much to say to each other.

  And face it. He loved messing with True. She looked as riled as he’d ever seen her. Plus, there was the mystery drink. Maybe he really did need to drink one. Nothing surprised him anymore.

  “Get going, Harrison.” True wasn’t messing around now. All that southern cotton that padded her voice earlier was stripped clean away. “You can’t see my parents.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He tapped into his onstage self when he breezed by her. If that meant he walked with a little strut, then so be it. He needed to feel all his oats to avoid falling under her spell. “What kind of man would I be not to say hello? They might not have thought I was worthy of you, but hey—I was great at cutting their hedges. Whoever they’re using now needs a lesson in trimming.”

  He climbed the front steps, and she flew past him, straight to the front door, where she turned to face him.

  “It’s a bad time.” She stretched her arms across the frame.

  More than ever, he saw the desperation in her eyes.

  “I’m going in” was all he said.

  “No, you’re not.” Her eyes flashed fire. “Don’t you remember what happened last time you brought me home?”

  “Your daddy threatened to get out his shotgun and run me off the property.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I wasn’t your prom date. And I brought you home eight hours late. He was a little upset. But I’m sure he’s over it by now, don’t you think?”

  “Let him in,” Weezie called from down the hallway.

  “He’s got to go.” True’s baby blues bored into him. “You drink that drink, Weezie. I suspect I know what it is. And he’s not going to like it.”

  “She’s wrong,” Harrison said loudly, his eyes still on True. “I’m gonna love it.”

  Weezie’s feet clomped down the hall toward him. “Well, if you don’t get it soon, it’s going to melt, and I will have to drink it.”

  “How come your parents aren’t coming to the door?” he murmured to True.

  Her pupils dilated. “They’re occupied.”

  “A Maybank is never too occupied to greet a guest or run off a foe,” he said softly. “I’m going to lift your arm. And then I’m going to walk into your house, invited by your sister. So no complaining about this being a home invasion. A man can only be unfairly accused of that once in his lifetime. Twice, and he just might not go running away. He might stick around and call some people out. Hear?”

  “Over my dead body.” True shut her eyes and pressed herself back against the door.

  Weezie got to the screen. “Move,” she told her sister. “The mystery drink’s melting.” The three dogs whined around her legs, their claws clacking on the wooden floor.

  All Harrison had to do was put his hands on True’s exposed waist—it was slender and strong and his palms cupped it perfectly—and her arms came off the door frame in an instant.

  “No!” she cried.

  Releasing his hold on her body was hell on the primitive part of his brain. But he did what he had to do and was inside the house the next moment. It had the same smell: saltwater breezes, freshly ironed linen, and old wood. The slightly buckled wide-plank floors ran clear through the house to the back.

  “Where are your parents?” he asked Weezie.

  “Daddy’s in the front room.” Weezie snuck a sip out of one of the two red-and-white paper straws she’d stuck in a plastic Charleston River Dogs cup. “Mama’s in the garden.”

  Harrison peeked at the drink. Ah. A strawberry milk shake. He took a sip, too. “Mmmm. That’s good. You grow ’em here?”

  “You betcha,” said Weezie. “We have a whole freezer full.”

  “That’s great.” He walked the few feet to the living room door—the ceilings were fourteen feet high—and peeked inside. There was the old settee covered in butter-gold silk and littered with formal tasseled pillows. A low mahogany table with brass-tipped feet. On top, a blue-and-white china bowl filled with pink flowers. The deeply worn Oriental carpet, frayed at the edges. Old prints of southern aristocracy at play: Hunting. Dancing. Drinking tea. Riding horses. A watercolor of a rice field, a Lowcountry sunset casting golden rays across it.

  But Mr. Maybank wasn’t there, sitting in his usual chair, an overly plump brown leather one fronted by a needlepointed ottoman that displayed the crest of his Virginia boarding school, Woodberry Forest.

  True came up just as Harrison turned around, prepared to go look in the library. Her face was white, and her small sheathed bosom heaved mightily.

  “Stop right there,” she said.

  Stop imagining her perky breasts underneath that dress, or stop walking? “Your sister—”

  “Is drinking your milk shake.” She folded her arms, knowing full well he’d been eyeing her assets.

  “I’ll get over it. And I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.” He walked around her, past a blissful Weezie sucking on his milk shake in the hallway, and headed to the library.

  “He’s not there,” Weezie called after him. “He’s in the front parlor.”

  “No, he’s not.” Harrison kept his voice light. But something was wrong. Very wrong. He hadn’t noticed at first, but the house was too quiet. Mrs. Maybank was always moving around, talking to Ada, who’d cooked, cleaned, and ironed for them for decades. And Mr. Maybank was usually on the phone making business deals or arranging a golf date with his buddies.

  Ada was nowhere to be found.

  “Maybe your daddy’s out back.” Mr. and Mrs. Maybank and Ada, all talking about the weather, the price of gas—or maybe they were helping the customers with their tomatoes. “Excuse me, ladies.”

&
nbsp; Why had the library looked so spare? Where was the old blue Oriental rug and the plaid couch that faced the fireplace? Why were there no papers on Mr. Maybank’s desk?

  “He’s not out back.” True’s voice rang clear and commanding down the hall. “He’s on the mantel in the front parlor. Inside the yacht club racing trophy.”

  Harrison stood stock-still in the hallway.

  “And my mother’s ashes are buried in the garden,” True said, softer now, “below her favorite rosebush.”

  “What the hell?” He looked between the sisters.

  Weezie had quit slurping the milk shake. “Mama and Daddy passed a long time ago,” she said, “in a car crash on Highway 17.” Her tone was somber. “But you never came to their funeral. Honey’s, either. She died of natural causes not long after, but she told me just minutes before she went that she blamed Congress.”

  “She did?” Harrison’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears.

  Weezie nodded. “They frustrated her to death. She made us put that in her obituary. As a result, we got letters of condolence from both our US senators and the Speaker of the House.”

  Harrison’s heart thumped slowly. “Nobody told me.”

  “You never asked,” said True.

  No, he hadn’t, had he?

  “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t believe it. He’d never approved of the Maybanks—as jovial as Mr. Maybank was—because they’d always kept True on such a leash. But the idea of them being gone …

  It was awful.

  “Where’s Ada?” he asked.

  “She’s still here,” True said, “in Biscuit Creek. She works for the Hanahans now.”

  But Ada was old. Even when he’d left, she’d been old. Why hadn’t she simply retired? Hadn’t the Maybanks left her set up with a retirement fund? He wanted to ask, but it wasn’t his business. And he could see on True’s face that she was on shaky ground, telling him this stuff. She hadn’t wanted to, that was for sure.

  “I miss Ada’s fried chicken and Honey’s biscuits,” said Weezie. “And now I have to do all the silver polishing. True makes me do it even though we don’t use it anymore. She bought flatware from Target. It’s night and day from Reed and Barton’s ‘Francis the First.’”