by Liz Talley
Abigail, for one, didn’t ask a single question, as promised, merely ordered a smartly dressed young man to ready the Rose Salon and take up the shopping bag Shelby carried before waving Shelby into the dining room where a carafe of tea sat along with some pecan-studded muffins and perfect tea cakes.
“John, why don’t you fetch some milk for the tea and call Birdie inside? The sun’s about to set and I don’t want her breaking her fool neck in that oak tree,” Abigail said to her brother, dismissing him as she sank onto a velvet flocked chair of crimson. “Sit down and I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
Shelby didn’t want to be there and didn’t want tea, but she sat down anyway. John glanced at her, concerned, but slipped through the swinging door no doubt leading to the kitchen. “You have a lovely place.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said, lifting the steaming pot and pouring the fragrant tea into a delicate cup. Handing it to Shelby, she smiled. “Hibiscus herbal tea. I can’t tolerate caffeine this close to bedtime. Stay awake all night.”
“Thanks,” Shelby said, taking the cup and balancing it on her knee, glad she hadn’t had to ask for decaffeinated.
“Sugar?”
“One spoonful, please.”
Swirling the spoon and clanking it on the lip of the cup, Shelby glanced up to find John’s sister staring at her with a curious expression on her face.
John’s sister looked older than him. She had an elegant silver forelock that swept her inky shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were a clear green, cheekbones high, chin long, mouth generous. Her navy slacks and trim apple-green cardigan portrayed no nonsense and easy sophistication. Soft tan leather ballet flats backed up the impression. Here was a woman who chaired committees, ran a house like a field general and...waited for others to explain themselves.
Silence sat fat between them. Abigail sipped her tea, never wavering in her stare, waiting for someone, presumably Shelby, to clarify the situation.
Shelby shifted in her chair as John reentered carrying a carton of milk and dragging a young girl with tangled hair and a pair of binoculars around her neck.
“Mom, I can’t believe you’re making me come inside. I had just gotten my ’nocs trained on that woodpecker. How am I supposed to draw him in his habitat? This is preposterous,” the tiny girl declared with a stomp of her sneaker.
“Birdie, you’ve been out there for the past hour and still have some reading to complete,” Abigail said, her eye going immediately to the dirt left by the sneaker stomp. “You’re tracking in the house.”
The girl wore glasses that made her blue eyes look impossibly large. The skinny jeans made her more waiflike and the oversize Flash Gordon shirt didn’t help. She looked exactly like her name. “It’s Thanksgiving break, Mom. I’m not reading that stupid AR book over my holiday.”
Abigail’s eyes widened but she said nothing, turning instead back to Shelby. “Shelby, this is my daughter, Eva Brigitte. We call her Birdie.”
“Hi,” Shelby said.
The girl glowered but muttered, “Hey.”
“Now, get cleaned up for dinner. Shelby is one of our guests tonight and doesn’t want to hear our squabbling over homework.” Abigail’s voice brooked no argument.
Birdie flashed her mother a withering look and ran toward the stairs, leaving more zigzag dirt on the polished floor. She may or may not have muttered “whatever” on her escape.
John stared after his niece looking as perplexed as Shelby felt. “Since when has she been fond of sketching woodpeckers?”
“Oh, it’s those Audubon prints scattered all over the inn. She’s so strong willed and—” Abigail waved her hand. “Let’s not do this right now. Birdie is Birdie.”
John’s lips tipped up, softening him. “She’s something else.”
His sister nodded. “That’s one way to put it. So, Shelby, how long will you be with us?”
“I’m not sure. Through Saturday?”
Abigail gave her the “you don’t know?” look and then glanced toward John, the unspoken question in her eyes.
“At least through Saturday. Actually, I’m bringing Shelby to Thanksgiving dinner.”
Abigail’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “Really?”
Shelby swallowed, wondering if she should correct him or merely accept the fact she was stuck with John in Magnolia Bend for a week.
“It’ll be nice to have a guest at our table. Friends are always welcome,” Abigail said, sliding another glance to John. The unstated questions literally pulsed in the quietness.
Shelby knew Abigail wanted to grill John, but likely relied on Southern graciousness in order to bite her tongue. Shelby wasn’t from the South so she said, “Just so you know, we’re just friends. Met a few months back.”
“Oh,” Abigail said, her gaze meeting Shelby’s. “I didn’t know John had started dating again.”
“We’re not dating,” John said, settling his hands on his lean hips. “Like Shelby said we’re just friends.”
“Yes,” Shelby agreed. “Just friends.”
“But he’s brought you home to meet his family,” Abigail persisted, unconvinced.
“I had some business to take care of down here,” Shelby said, setting the half-empty cup back on the antique tea cart with a clatter. “Getting to spend time with John is a bonus of sorts. Unfortunately, my health prevents me from flying back to Seattle and spending the holiday with my own family. John volunteered to help me get settled here for a few days, thinking I’d enjoy the small town atmosphere better than the busyness of Baton Rouge.”
“I knew she’d like Laurel Woods...just wasn’t sure you’d have room,” John said.
“I have room until Friday. This weekend the Candy Cane Festival starts, and I’m booked solid for a week. You’re welcome to stay until then. What about your health? Is there anything special I need to know?” Abigail looked worried, as if at any moment she might whip out Lysol and start spraying.
“No, nothing contagious,” Shelby said, almost laughing. Almost. ’Cause there wasn’t anything really funny about being an unwed, unemployed single mother who’d conceived a baby in the bathroom of a roadside honky-tonk that also sold bait and beer during daylight hours. “I appreciate you putting me up on such short notice, but I think I’ll head to my room for a shower and an early night.”
“Can I at least make you a sandwich?” Abigail volunteered. She didn’t look as worried anymore. “Ham? Turkey?”
“If you have peanut butter and jelly, that would be perfect,” Shelby said, rising and scooping up her purse. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Sure,” Abigail said, setting her cup on the cart and standing. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“I’ll walk her up,” John said to Abigail.
Seconds later, they climbed the grand staircase to the second floor. The rooms were all marked by placards, most named after flowers. Shelby withdrew the old-fashioned skeleton key and inserted it in the keyhole, the whirring machinations releasing the lock. Vintage outside, modern inside.
John pushed open the door and Shelby sucked in her breath.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed out.
“Yeah, pretty grand,” John said.
The room had raspberry walls stretching up to a ceiling with insets and heavy crown molding. The huge bed sat on a platform, the green silk canopy gathered in the center, cascading down the sides of the ornately carved bed. Large linen European shams banked the profusion of needlepoint pillows and the plump duvet beckoned weary travelers to lay their burdens down and burrow within the depths. The elegant antique furniture complemented the room and the adjoining door gave a view of an enormous claw-foot tub.
Shelby eyed her bag sitting at the end of the bed. “Well, thank you.”
John stared at her, his face impassive.
“You can go. I’ll be fine. Your sister seems capable of handling most anything.”
At this he snorted. “My parents should have named her Colonel so people would know what to expect when they find themselves facedown in the mud with tank marks on their back.”
“It would be hard for a girl to go through life with the name Colonel. She’d never find a personalized key chain or snow globe,” Shelby cracked, wanting him to go away, wanting him to stay so she wouldn’t feel so alone.
His flash-bang smile surprised her. “That’s the girl I remember from Boots.”
“Yeah, I have a good sense of humor when I’m not hormonal, on the verge of tears or cracking up...though I bet you wish you had never answered that knock-knock joke at the bar.”
“It was funny.”
“Yeah,” she said, walking toward the bed and sinking onto the plush comforter. “So...”
“I’m writing down my number.” He picked up the notepad by the phone. “If you need anything...”
“I won’t.” She hadn’t wanted anything from him in the first place. Her plan had been so simple—tell him about the child and fly back to Seattle. Okay, she hadn’t wanted to fly back to Seattle and face the music with her family...over turkey no less. She’d imagined the scenario several times over the long flight to Louisiana. “Pass the green bean casserole. Oh, and by the way, I’m pregnant.”
How fun was that?
Spotlight on her as she enacted the next installment of “Shelby the Eternal Screwup”—a yearly special airing near the holidays when family members were apt to ask things like “How are you?” And since Shelby prided herself on being honest and relishing the jolt on the faces of her brother, sister and assorted cousins, the answer was always shocking.
“How are you, Shelby?”
“Good, David. I lost my virginity to Dad’s junior partner, who swore he loved me and would marry me when his wife died. How are you?”
Yeah. That’s pretty much how it went. Come to think of it, saying, “I’m pregnant by a man I met at a back-road honky-tonk” sounded tame by comparison. Maybe dropping that doozy over the white-chocolate-cranberry cheesecake wouldn’t be so bad.
“Look, Shelby, I know we’re veritable strangers.”
“Veritable?”
“Virtual?”
“We know each other carnally. That’s pretty much it.”
He lifted both his eyebrows. “And that’s all it took.”
“Touché,” she said.
“My point is that I’m here for you. You aren’t alone.”
Shelby ran her hand over the fine needlework of the velvet lumbar pillow. “It’s been a tough afternoon, and you’ve been pretty damn decent.”
He spread his hands. “What else could I do?”
“You could have done a lot of things that weren’t as nice as what you did. I dropped a tornado on you and you didn’t hide in a cellar.”
“I don’t have a cellar. This is Louisiana.”
Shelby smiled and took time to study him in the golden light of the room. Despite the grimness shadowing his eyes, John Beauchamp was a fine specimen of a man. No pretty boy, he had a ruggedness that called to mind Clint Eastwood in his younger days. Brows that easily gathered into perplexity, a hard jaw that spoke of stubbornness and a sensual mouth that, though often drawn into a line, could curve into a wicked smile.
She remembered his scent, remembered the way his muscled chest felt beneath her fingertips, the way he’d kissed her...like a man starved.
Now that she knew he’d lost his wife over a year ago, she understood the desperation in his kiss, recognized the same need throbbing inside her. After Darby dumped her, her ego had been fragile and she’d been ripe for the plucking...or ripe for the—well, she wasn’t going there. Suffice it to say, she’d been just as desperate as John to feel the touch of another person.
“Time to process all of this would be nice,” he said. “So, I’ll let you rest and say good night.”
She nodded because she still struggled to believe her whole life had been turned on its ear. In six and a half months she’d become a mother...if she didn’t lose the pregnancy. Process? Not a bad idea.
“Good night, John,” she said.
For a moment he looked uncertain, like he wondered if he should extend his hand or offer a hug or something.
Luckily, a knock at the door interrupted the awkwardness, and Abigail hurtled inside, balancing a tray, which she sat on the desk.
“I hope it’s enough,” John’s sister said, arranging the silverware on the napkin. A single yellow chrysanthemum brightened the tray holding a sandwich, fruit and a slice of pecan pie.
“It’s perfect. Thank you,” Shelby said, rising.
“Don’t get up,” John said, lifting the tray and crossing the room, setting it on the bedside table.
“I could have done that,” Abigail said, eyeing her brother with an odd expression.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” John said, glancing down to where Shelby sat, one foot hooked beneath her.
“You’re in the middle of harvest.” Abigail looked as if she’d been tossed in a lake. “You can’t come here tomorrow.”
“I’m not too busy for a friend,” he said.
“Who are you?” Abigail asked.
“A man not that busy.”
“Hmm,” John’s sister muttered before turning to Shelby. “Let me know if you need anything. Extra toiletries are in the bathroom. You wouldn’t believe how many people forget basics.”
“Thank you,” Shelby called as Abigail headed toward the door.
John waited until his sister disappeared. “What about clothes...a, uh, nightgown?”
Shelby pointed to the plastic bag. “That’s why I asked if you’d stop at the store. I nabbed a few things including an oversize shirt to sleep in along with a toothbrush. I can manage.”
“If you’ll give me your hotel info, I’ll send someone to Baton Rouge to gather your things.”
“Don’t bother. Things are scattered all over the room, and I really don’t want a stranger packing my personal items. I can climb out of bed long enough to do that.”
“I’ll drive you, then,” he said.
“No. Just send my rental car over. Besides you looked pretty busy in your fields. Abigail seemed to indicate—”
“I’ll be here at noon,” he interrupted, tone firm. “Besides I need to stop in Baton Rouge for a part Homer needs.”
John Beauchamp was a driven man. Easy for her to recognize since she’d been around driven people all her life. Her entire family was listed under the definition in the Merriam-Webster’s dictionary.
“If you insist,” she said.
“I do. Good night, Shelby.”
“’Night.” The door closed with a soft snick and Shelby fell back on the bed.
Jesus.
At that moment, she wanted someone, anyone, to hold her. To tell her all would be okay. A mother to lean on would have been nice, but Shelby’s mother had never been the type to welcome weakness. Maybe someone like Picou Dufrene, Darby’s mother, would run a careworn hand over Shelby’s brow and help her figure things out, but that thought was insane. Darby didn’t belong to her anymore, if he ever had, so she couldn’t lay claim to anyone in that warm, quirky family. Like always, Shelby was on her own.
Going back to Seattle to her family wouldn’t change it.
Her parents weren’t horrid—they’d never locked her in a closet or even missed any of her important ballet recitals or graduations—but Shelby had always felt they loved her because they were supposed to, ticking off a list on a job description. As for her siblings, Shelby’s brother seemed to equate her with something a seagull vomited, and her older sister hadn’t wanted Shelby in her wedding. Sela had even
joked in front of the bridal party she didn’t deserve a bridesmaid with less than a master’s degree.
Yeah, Sela was a bitch who had required her husband to pack his testicles away the day they wed. What had Shelby expected?
Shelby dashed the moisture from the corner of her eyes, staring at the fabric gathered at the crown of the bed.
Alone.
She placed a hand over her stomach.
Please stay in there, little pea. It’s me and you. We can do this together.
Even if John Beauchamp was the fly in the ointment.
CHAPTER SIX
JOHN JOGGED DOWN the steps of The Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast wishing he could start running and never stop. Like Forrest Gump.
Or maybe he’d head over to Ray-Ray’s and drink until he didn’t give a hot damn about anything anymore.
Of course the last time he’d gotten drunk he’d gotten Shelby pregnant so maybe Forrest Gump had something with that whole cross-country jaunt.
But running wouldn’t work...eventually a man had to stop, and reality would catch up. John climbed into his truck and punched the steering wheel, making the horn beep.
He didn’t want his sister to come out and start asking questions so he started the truck, flipped on the headlights and got the hell out of there.
Jesus H. Christ, what had he gotten himself into?
The truck bounced down the drive, jarring him the same way Shelby had jarred him that afternoon, showing up with that little nugget—I’m pregnant.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he said the words that had been bouncing around inside him since Shelby had uttered those words. “I’m sorry, Becca. I’m so, so sorry.”
Of course his wife wasn’t there to answer...but if she’d been there beside him, she’d have turned to him and said, “Don’t even say it, John Miller Beauchamp. You dug this hole. Now you gotta fill it.”
His Rebecca had been nothing if not tough. She wouldn’t have smiled as she said it, but the forgiveness would have been there in her eyes. He’d never deserved her. Rebecca Lynn Stanton had been his greatest champion...and that’s why disappointing even her memory made him feel like turning the truck into the big tree sitting at the end of the drive.
