Sweet Talk Me

by Kieran Kramer

  He gave her a sideways glance. “You don’t want to know. High enough to keep you in silk lingerie from Bits of Lace for ten lifetimes.”

  “Oh.” She was still a little in shock.

  “And I don’t want you to tell Dubose how much those groomsmen’s gifts really cost,” he said. “I didn’t do it for him.” He looked at her. “I did it for you.”

  True’s heart beat hard with totally inappropriate feelings. And the rest of her body wasn’t far behind. But luckily, her cell phone rang. It was the Realtor, confirming their appointment. They were going to see three beach houses and decide which one they’d choose for Dubose’s fraternity friends.

  “I’ll meet you there, but I can’t stay long,” the Realtor said, “so if you don’t mind, I’ll give you the keys to the second and third houses while we’re in the first. They’re friends of mine and are okay with that. You can just drop them off at the office when you leave.”

  “Great,” said True. It was getting to be lunchtime, and she was hungry. She put her phone away and looked at Harrison, driving as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Are you hungry?”

  “Always.”

  The way he said it left her short of breath. But that was her fault, not his. He couldn’t help being hot, and it was up to her not to notice that he was.

  “Then let’s get the first house out of the way and then walk up the beach to the Windjammer,” she said. “It’s only a few blocks—if you can get away with it.”

  “Have hat, will travel,” he murmured. “Just wish I’d remembered my Speedo.” He looked at her with a naughty-boy smirk.

  Merciful heaven, it just wasn’t fair how many man genes he was given when God passed them out.

  “You mean a ding-a-ling sling?” She folded her arms over her chest, shocked at her daring. He wasn’t the only one who could dish it out.

  He let out a whoop of laughter.

  She looked out her side window. How dare she have so much illicit fun without Dubose? Suddenly she felt stuck up in the worst way. “I’m ready to get out of this car.”

  “Hey, you can’t turn all schoolteacher on me now.”

  “I most certainly can.” She pressed her lips together and felt quivery inside. Upset. Stupid. Like she wanted to cry. “The house is up ahead on the left. It’s got a sailboat mailbox.”

  Focus on Dubose. Focus on the wedding.

  Harrison got very quiet as they glided down the street. And when he pulled over onto the sandy berm behind another car that read ISLAND REALTY on the back window, he said, “I’m sorry. I never should’ve mentioned the Speedo.”

  True lifted one shoulder and let it drop. She still wouldn’t look at him. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, either.”

  The car’s engine ticked in the silence, and a big garbage truck went roaring by. “We’re old friends,” he said gently. “So you don’t need to be shaken up by a little friendly banter. You’re not being disloyal to Dubose.”

  She inhaled a deep breath and finally turned to face him. “Well, I feel that way. Here I am with another man, and we’re talking about … pickle pinchers.”

  She couldn’t help herself.

  Harrison’s brows flew up. “What?”

  “That’s another name for a Speedo.” What was wrong with her? But she had to laugh. It was funny.

  He laughed, too. And when they were both recovered, his face got serious and he pulled a piece of hair off her cheek. “You got nothing to worry about. We go way back, and this is how friends talk—silly, fun—especially right before a wedding. An important event like that causes a lot of nerves to flare, and it’s good to laugh. It’s better than having a panic attack, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, and he rubbed a thumb across her cheek.

  “Thanks for understanding,” she whispered.

  “I get you, True Maybank.”

  He really did. She couldn’t tear her eyes off his. But was this how one felt toward an old friend? Really?

  Luckily, she didn’t have to answer that question because he dropped his hand and unbuckled his seat belt. “Looks like a great place to stay for a wedding.” Yeah. There he went helping her with her wedding again. He was definitely in the old-friend category. “So how many guys are staying here?”

  “Five.” She told herself she was relieved to be on solid ground again. “Three are bringing their wives. Two are single.”

  “All righty then. Let’s check it out.” His thigh muscle strained against his jeans as he levered himself out of the car.

  Great golly, he was a wicked temptation. Was he supposed to be some cosmic test? She waited as he came around to open her door, as if they’d been in the habit for years.

  Just what are you doing, True Maybank? It was as if she were upside down in a swimming pool. She needed her bearings. You’d better follow the bubbles, she told herself when he yanked her up by the hand.

  They’d lead straight to Dubose.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As True walked side by side with Harrison up the impressive front steps of the house, she wondered how Dubose was doing at that moment and tried to stay focused on how happy he’d be when she got his friends a good place to stay.

  At the door the agent didn’t recognize Harrison and treated him with semi-cool professionalism. “And you’re…?”

  “A wayward cousin,” Harrison said. “But I vow not to disrupt the wedding. This time.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

  True smiled. He really was a troublemaker. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  “Of course.” The agent’s back was straight and her expression dignified as she showed them about the house. Not once did she look back at Harrison, and she directed all her comments to True.

  True decided that she needed to treat Harrison the same way, politely yet with indifference. Yes, they were old friends. But they’d been lovers, too, however briefly. As much as she wanted to forget that night, for her sake and Dubose’s, she shouldn’t. She needed to be wary. And if she were feeling vulnerable before the wedding, she’d talk to Carmela. Or Weezie. Or she’d go to her attic studio.

  That was what she really needed to do. If she stayed away too long from her studio, she got antsy. Emotional. A little restless.

  How she felt now.

  The house was stunning. A vacationer’s paradise. And when she found out it was the cheapest of the three, she said, “We don’t even need to bother with the others. This one will do well.”

  “I still think you should see at least the one that’s a block over,” the agent suggested. “It’s only three hundred more for the week—split among five parties, that’s not much more. And it’s truly spectacular.” She held the keys out to True. “Your guests will be impressed by this one but blown away by the other. I promise.”

  True hesitated. Impressed was good enough for her. But for Dubose’s sake, she took the keys. “All right.”

  The agent beamed. “I’ve already turned off the alarms over there. So just lock up when you’re done, run the keys by the office, and we’ll sign the papers.”

  She walked them out onto the back porch overlooking the Atlantic and shook True’s hand firmly. “Have a wonderful wedding weekend.”

  “Thanks.” True smiled politely.

  Harrison held out his hand, too, but the agent pretended not to see him and trotted down the stairs.

  He looked back at True. “Ouch.”

  “It’s your fault.”

  “I kinda like her,” he said, gazing after her as she rounded the corner of the house.

  “Maybe lunch at the Windjammer will take your mind off the fact that she doesn’t like you.”

  “I don’t know,” he said with the sigh of a man who knew full well that if he’d wanted to charm that woman, he could have. Blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back.

  They walked down the private boardwalk to the dunes and took off their shoes. The wind was strong, blowing their hair back from their faces as they
walked south toward the Windjammer. The sand felt good between True’s toes, and the enormity of the ocean helped relieve her of the twisty, strange feelings she’d had all morning. Feelings related to Harrison.

  “So,” she said, “when was the last time you’ve been to the Windjammer?”

  He squinted at the water. “I was a senior in high school, using a fake ID. There was a band I wanted to see. The Hoodlums. Do you remember them?”

  She squinted into the sun. “I think so. They weren’t country, though.”

  “Right. They were alternative. But they could play guitar and harmonize really well. I stayed late and helped them break down their equipment. I got to ask them what it was like being on the road. And I told them it was what I wanted to do.”

  “Were they nice?”

  “Yep. They confirmed for me exactly what I thought—that being on the road and playing music was like being in heaven. It didn’t matter if the place was a dump or the Taj Mahal. When you love music, you do it.”

  They didn’t talk for a minute or two. There was no need. They had the sand. The warm rays of the sun. Breathing that matched the sound of the waves and steps in perfect sync … like the V-formation of pelicans steering themselves on the breeze. Harrison’s feet were wide and tan. Feet that had gone barefoot a lot during the growing-up years.

  It was the most glorious, peaceful, happy couple of minutes True had had in a long time. “I believe you’re meant to be where you are right now,” she said eventually. “Your success wasn’t an accident.”

  “I was determined to get out of Sand Dollar Heaven,” he said, “much as I liked it when I was little.”

  She wanted to take his hand and squeeze it, but she didn’t dare. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you in high school.”

  He shook his head. “I’d rather not talk about the old days. I like to stay here in the present.”

  “Is that why you never came back to Biscuit Creek?”

  “You got it.”

  She looked to her right and saw a sand dollar and picked it up. It was still perfect. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “A memento. But you’ll break it in your luggage. Maybe you can leave it with Gage.”

  “Thanks.” He tucked it in his shirt pocket. They didn’t say anything else. The Windjammer loomed in the distance. True saw a couple of kids playing on the makeshift volleyball court and remembered when she, Harrison, his friends, and Gage had tried to play volleyball without a net at Sand Dollar Heaven.

  Inside the bar, it was cool and dark. But the salt air rushed through, smelling of fun times and laughter. Flirting and Coppertone. They both ordered burgers and cold beers.

  True poured her beer into a frosty mug. “I wish you could take off your hat and sunglasses.”

  Harrison shrugged. “You get used to it.”

  “But it must be hard. It’s almost like you’re in a cage.” She felt instantly sorry for saying that. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” He wiped the beer mustache off her lips with his thumb, then licked the thumb. She supposed she should be annoyed or grossed out, but instead her insides heated up like a steel bar being blowtorched. “I think of it this way—everyone else can have an average day if they don’t recognize me.”

  “But most people don’t want an average day,” True replied. “If they see you, they’ll have a special day.”

  Their burgers came, and she peeled off her pickles and put them on her plate.

  He took a swig of beer. “The most special days in the world are average ones. You don’t realize it until you don’t have them anymore.” He clinked his bottle to her mug. “Here’s to a really average day. Thanks for it.”

  “Cheers,” she responded, a lump in her throat. It was a weird compliment, but she got it. She was glad she helped him have an average day. She remembered average days with her parents and Honey. How she wished she could have those days back.

  A few minutes later, both their plates were clean. Maybe all that walking had worked up their appetites. “You ready to walk some more?” she asked him.

  “You bet,” he said, and left three twenties on the table.

  They both thanked the server and bartender for a great meal.

  “And thank you for lunch,” she told Harrison outside.

  “Hey, you’re covering dinner. It’s the least I can do. What is for dinner, by the way?”

  “Shrimp and grits.”

  “Mmmm.”

  They found their shoes outside and walked back up the beach, past the first house, talking about the development of the island since he’d last been home.

  “It’s changed,” he said.

  “There are a few houses pre-Hugo. But not many. Look at that one.” She pointed to a modest-sized, old-fashioned house on stilts.

  “Ah, that’s a real beach house.”

  “I’ll bet it has cedar-paneled walls,” she said. “And a bright little kitchen.”

  Harrison scanned the seemingly endless line of vacation rentals on either side of it. “These other ones look like hotels. They’re not meant for a family.”

  “Corporations build them and lend them out to their executives for retreats, or they rent them out for family reunions or weddings, like mine and Dubose’s.”

  The wedding. It was really happening. And soon.

  They watched a black dog leap through the waves with his owner. And talked about the turtles that laid eggs in the dunes. And then they arrived at the other beach house recommended by the agent. The pool was gorgeous, with pale-pink-and-gray shell tiles lining silver-gray pool walls. A volleyball net was strung across the middle, and at one end was a separate, in-ground hot tub.

  They dropped their shoes on the pavement near the hot tub, rinsed off their feet, and entered a luxurious great room.

  “Whoa,” Harrison said. “It’s Hamptons style. Done up by a fancy designer, and too perfect to be real. The other house was, too, but this one goes even farther.”

  He was right. There wasn’t a family picture in sight. The house was definitely corporate-owned. But as they walked through the impeccably decorated rooms downstairs, True knew that Dubose would really like it for his friends. It had every luxury they’d need: a big ice maker, a pool table, a movie theater, and beneath the house, a Ping-Pong table with a cool tiki bar. Of course, the outdoor pool area was a huge draw, too, heated in the colder months.

  “Let’s check out the bedrooms,” Harrison said, “starting on the third floor.”

  They were cute, perfect for kids, teens, maids, housekeeping staff. In the middle was a gathering area with a huge flat-screen TV and a game system. The French doors led out to a breathtaking view of the Atlantic and a wide porch perfect for sunbathing.

  The second floor was more luxurious. The first four bedrooms, two with twins, two with queen-sized beds, looked as if they came out of House Beautiful. Harrison was studying a line of books on a shelf in one of the twin rooms facing the street when True moved on to the master bedroom on the ocean side. It was spectacular, with a big fireplace, a king-sized bed stacked with European pillows, and a bathroom larger than True’s bedroom back home.

  “Come look,” she called to him as she marveled at the gigantic marble tub and glassed-in shower with multiple jets on the walls. Her voice echoed in the quiet. Only the sound of the sea, like an endlessly fizzy Coke, broke the silence.

  She exited the bathroom and stood by the four-poster bed, her hand exploring the carving of a rice sheaf on one of the posts. It was beautiful. “Harrison?” she called again. “Come see this. Rice is such a huge part of Charleston’s history.”

  When she looked up, he was in the doorway. And for some reason—maybe it was the oblong block of sunshine illuminating the bed covers, or the sudden gust of wind that made the deck chairs rattle on the porch outside—his curious gaze gave way to something knowing and deep.

  Unbidden thoughts surged in True. There was the quiet, the kind that lulls you into submission. Privacy, made more exotic if the
doors are open to the sun, wind, and sea. An expansive bed to make love on—no one the wiser.

  She felt bewitched by the ephemeral silence that stretched between them. The fact that they were alone together made her dizzy with longing, her legs and arms heavy weights. She looked down at the hardwood floor, red-hot shame turning her mute.

  She wanted him.

  “I’ll see you outside,” he said.

  He knew. She could tell by his serious tone. Maybe he pitied her.

  She closed her eyes and tried to pick up the sound of his bare feet on the stairs, but she couldn’t. The house was too sturdy. Untried. With all its temporary occupants, it didn’t absorb anything and maybe never would.

  Whereas she was broken. Scarred. A permanent home for worry and loss.

  A small hiccuping sigh escaped her. She clutched the bedpost with both hands and laid her forehead on it. “Harrison,” she whispered aloud to break the silence, to mend her guilty conscience, to find her way.

  Not Dubose.

  Just Harrison.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When True walked slowly out of the beach house, she remembered that there was only one time in her life she’d felt beautiful the way she was meant to be beautiful, through her skin and down to her bones and even deeper, to the place where her secret heart’s desires lay.

  It was the night Harrison took her to the very same beach they’d walked on today. That time, too, they’d left their shoes at the public path and walked on the shore—but holding hands, an illicit couple …

  He’d stolen her away from Dubose at the prom.

  They’d known what people were saying. Who was he to do such a thing? She was the homecoming queen. He was the loner. They never talked. They never even looked at each other when they passed in the school hallway.

  Good Lord, he was her daddy’s lawn boy, and Dubose was quarterback on the football team!

  At the time, all True could think was, Why? Why had it taken her six long years to come to her right mind? No wonder she’d been miserable through junior high and high school. Harrison had been off limits. Her best friend had been living right alongside her but leading an entirely separate life.