The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend)

by Liz Talley

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JOHN SAT AT the table sipping coffee that could strip furniture, wondering if Shelby would emerge from the bedroom. He glanced at his watch: 10:00 a.m. If she didn’t hurry, he’d be late for church. He’d invited her to attend services at his father’s church last night despite the anger and regret that still spun in his gut.

  She’d poked him with a stick, saying hard things. Mean things. He hadn’t wanted to hear them, but she didn’t seem to take that into consideration.

  So different from Rebecca.

  His wife and his new roommate weren’t merely polar opposites physically—their personalities were night and day.

  Rebecca’s rebukes had been like Novocain. She’d carefully place the criticism and give it time to work. Her gentle corrections likely came from her interaction with children who had special needs, but Shelby struck hard and fast with her accusations. She was the Bruce Lee of argument.

  Yet Shelby had been breathtaking to behold—blue eyes narrowed, lush mouth pressed into a stubborn line and those magnificent breasts heaving. Even if his first inclination was to smack her silly for the hateful words she’d thrown at him, his next inclination was to slam her up against the oak tree, rip off her blouse that hinted at puckered nipples and shut her up in the most delicious of ways. She infuriated him. She tempted him. She made him feel.

  Church probably wasn’t a good place for him at the moment.

  Her footfalls on the back stairs, which led directly into the kitchen, jarred him from his thoughts. Anticipation fluttered in his gut.

  First came bare feet, then the curve of her gorgeous legs, and then a fluffy pink robe. Finally, a mussed and makeup-free Shelby alighted in the kitchen. “Oh, you’re still here,” she said.

  “I take it you’re not going to church with me?”

  “You take it right,” she said, opening a cabinet before closing it and opening another.

  “Why not?”

  “If you must know, I need some space.”

  “Space,” he repeated, relieved it wasn’t about church. John wasn’t a Bible thumper and had spent a year blaming God for what had happened to Rebecca, but he was also the quintessential preacher’s kid, a streak of rebellion twined around beliefs instilled when he was knee-high.

  “Besides I’m not feeling so hot this morning,” she said, frowning at the cabinets. “Where are the mugs?”

  He stood so quickly his own coffee sloshed. “Are you okay? Are you bleeding again?”

  She pressed a hand toward him. “Sit. I’m fine. I’m just really, really tired. Since I’m starting at St. George’s tomorrow as a substitute, I wanted to sleep in. Feel like I have a sleep hangover is all.”

  “Oh,” he said, sinking back into the chair. “Mugs are over the coffeemaker.”

  “Makes sense,” she said, starting the kettle, presumably for tea. She leaned against the sink, watching him the way a blackbird would regard a scarecrow.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, just became very aware of how pretty she looked barefoot and pregnant. Her breasts strained against the robe, and her curvy hips were magnified by the tight belt at her waist. With her golden hair and lips stained pink from the lipstick she’d worn last night, she looked like Marilyn Monroe. And God help him, but he wanted to pick her up, take her upstairs and go back to bed. And not sleep.

  She kept the stare steady and it made him uncomfortable.

  “What?” he said finally.

  “You look nice,” she said, turning and digging out another expired tea bag from the Orchard tea tin.

  He wore a Southern Tide gingham plaid shirt, a navy sweater vest and khaki trousers with oxford bucks peeking out from the cuff. Little too frat boy, but his mother always shopped at Perlis in Uptown New Orleans when she shopped at Christmas. Rebecca had always rolled her eyes at the preppiness of his dress clothes. “Thank you.”

  “Like a Southern planter,” she said, not quite smiling.

  “If the bucks fit,” he said, wiggling a foot before rising. “I’ll be back later. We always have Sunday lunch at my parents and then I’ll have to go back out in the fields this afternoon.”

  “I don’t want to go to lunch. I told you—I need space.”

  “Shelby, I don’t want things to be awkward between us. Last night I—” He stopped because he didn’t know what to say. She’d gotten pissed when he apologized to her, so he couldn’t come out and say he was sorry for ruining everything between them by being horny.

  Shelby watched him struggle. “Hard to come up with something other than I’m sorry, isn’t it?”

  He made a face.

  “Here’s the deal, John. You and I are two people who are in limbo right now. You’re coming out of something I can’t imagine going through, and I’m coming off getting dumped. We’re attracted to one another and about to become parents, so I think we should give each other a break for not knowing what to say sometimes. So don’t sweat it, but also know this—”

  He swallowed because he knew what she was going to say.

  “Don’t touch me, don’t kiss me, don’t screw me again until you can do so without apologizing for it. I’m worth more than that.”

  Not what he thought she was going to say.

  She turned around, effectively dismissing him, humming “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.”

  For a few seconds he stood there like an idiot, watching her, wondering if he should respond to that particular statement.

  Did that mean she wanted him to touch her? Kiss her? Rip her clothes off and do it right this time?

  Swallowing, he picked up his Bible, looked at the gilded words and tucked it beneath his arm, hoping smoke didn’t erupt when it touched his skin.

  You already messed up that night at Boots, John. Let’s not go any further with this. You can control your passions. You can control your feelings. Shelby is a friend and not a sex object. Shelby is the mother of your child, and you feel nothing for her other than the care and concern you would feel for any fellow human being.

  He scooted the chair back underneath the table and picked up his keys. “I’ll bring you a plate from Mama’s.”

  “Okay,” she said, tossing the tea bag into the trash and petting Bart, who’d finally risen from his foam bed in the corner.

  Thou shall not lie echoed in his head as he pushed out the back door.

  Yeah, he was a big ol’ fat liar because he could profess all he wanted to himself, but fact was he wanted Shelby in a most carnal way and no good intentions would take that away.

  Either way—lust or lie—John Beauchamp was a Sunday sinner.

  * * *

  SHELBY TOOK A long hot shower, scrubbing her body with a loofah she found in a drawer. By the time she got out she was the color of a Louisiana crawfish and smelled like lilacs. After pulling on her nightgown because she wasn’t ready to get dressed yet, she sank onto the bed and tried to leaf through the magazines she’d already looked through the day John brought them to her. Maybe she should have gone to church with John.

  No, she wasn’t ready to make that sort of commitment. Staying with John seemed intimate enough, but insinuating herself into his faith, into the very fabric of his life, was too much too fast.

  Sighing, she tossed the People magazine onto the soft quilt folded at the foot of the bed and looked around the room. Soft blush paint covered the walls, and an old window twined with grapevine hung above the bed. It had a mid-1990s feel, a sort of folksy shabby chic rather than clean lines, but it suited the house with its high ceilings and warm honey hardwood floors. But the best part of the room was the window seat with an overstuffed blue ticking cushion and plump pillows. A stack of books sat forgotten in one corner.

  Shelby went over and sat, tilting back so the sunshine warmed her shoulders. Tucking her bare feet under one
pillow, she riffled through the books. The top one was a book of Emily Dickinson poems, which didn’t interest her at all. Love, death and birds. Blah. The next book made her lift her eyebrows. Kama Sutra? She scanned it to see if there were any pages marked—there weren’t—and then set it aside separate from the poetry. She went through the rest quickly, relegating the literary books along with self-help and Bible study books into the not-interested pile. When she finished, all that was left in her pile was the Kama Sutra and a journal.

  She picked up the journal with the beautiful tan leather, bound with a braided cord that wrapped around a silver vintage button. Unwrapping the cord, she opened it to the first page.

  To my sweet Rebecca. May you find yourself in these pages and may you chart the journey of a lifetime. Love, Mother.

  Shelby flipped to the first page, which bore the date January 1, 2002. She read the first page written in sloping, almost boyish cursive.

  So my mother says I should keep a journal of my thoughts the way she did as a new bride. She says it will help me understand who I am and mark the way I change as I grow into the woman I’m meant to be. So first question—are mothers always right?

  Shelby closed the journal quick as a cat, the snap echoing in the silence of the house where the woman who’d penned those words had lived, loved and then surrendered to death. Sudden tears pricked Shelby’s eyes.

  These were Rebecca Beauchamp’s private thoughts. No, not just her thoughts, but her dreams, her doubts, her very essence. So did John know his wife’s journal sat among a random stack of books? If he had, wouldn’t he have tucked it away somewhere, someplace in his room away from random prying eyes?

  Shelby stroked the cover before winding the leather strap around the pretty button. She wanted to read more, but knew it wasn’t right to pry into the intimate thoughts of John’s dead wife.

  But it was so very tempting.

  In between the covers was the key to knowing the enigmatic man who ran hot one moment, but cold the next. If she read Rebecca’s words, she might know how to better handle the situation she found herself in, but that would be totally, emphatically wrong.

  As soon as John got home, she’d address the issue with him.

  Her phone vibrated on the antique dresser and Shelby scooped it up.

  Her own mother.

  “Hello,” Shelby said, wondering what fresh hell she’d invited by answering the call.

  “Shelby?”

  “Yes, Mother. You dialed my number.”

  “Didn’t sound like you. Good heavens, you’ve already picked up a Southern accent.” Marilyn Mackey didn’t sound amused. Rather critical.

  “Not yet,” Shelby said, setting the journal back on top of the stack she’d separated as poor reading material. The lonely Kama Sutra stared back at her, reminding her it was a rather kinky reading choice for a woman who had the hots for the man down the hall.

  “Good,” Marilyn said. In the background Shelby could hear her mother leafing through some papers. She glanced at her watch and realized it was eight o’clock in Seattle. Her mother had slept in, and after reading the paper, would head to the club for a light brunch and a round of golf with Shelby’s father. Sunday was their together day. “Now tell me why you requested Carol send your things? I thought you planned to stay in Seattle while Darby completed his MBA?”

  “I never said Darby was going to get his MBA.”

  “So why are you staying in Mississippi?”

  “Louisiana.”

  “Yes. Wherever.”

  “I like it here, and there is nothing to keep me in Seattle.”

  “Other than your family and the fact this is your home.”

  Shelby wanted to say something snide like “Really?” but didn’t because being a smart-ass never worked with her mother. The woman dealt with egocentric male executives all day long and never blinked. A pissy daughter was a piece of cake. “I’ve always enjoyed traveling, Mother, and I never planned on living in Washington State. I’m going to stay here for a while.” With a man I met in a bar. Oh, and by the way, I’m pregnant.

  She didn’t say that, of course.

  Maybe she should. Then her mother would cut ties and turn the “Shelby is such a disappointment” into “Shelby? Who is she?”

  “Well, do what you wish. We missed you for Thanksgiving. Uncle Thad flew in from Glasgow and you missed seeing him.”

  “Oh, sorry to have missed him.”

  “So what about Darby?”

  “What about him?”

  The silence hung, answer enough.

  Shelby sighed. “Okay. Fine. I didn’t come down here to spend the holiday with him. We’re no longer together.”

  “Oh?”

  She just couldn’t say it. Telling her mother Darby had been married made her feel like the stupid girl who’d given her heart and virginity away years before. Fool me once and all that. “Time apart didn’t make us fonder.”

  “So why are you in Louisiana?”

  Shelby heard the turn of the page and wondered how much attention her mother gave her. “I had some unfinished business here. That’s all.”

  Silence again. Was her mother waiting for an explanation?

  “I’m actually taking a temporary teaching job. A school needs a sub for Algebra.”

  “You’re interviewing for jobs down there? Why in the world would you be interested if you and Darby are no longer together? Doesn’t compute.” Her mother’s voice didn’t hold displeasure, merely befuddlement.

  “Sometimes decisions don’t compute, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be made. I’m not making any definitive decisions. Just weighing options.”

  “Well, your father’s waiting on me to dress. The Carlisles are meeting us for brunch. Their son Carter is home for the next few weeks while he applies for residencies. You always liked Carter.”

  “Sure. He’s a nice guy.” If a gal was into dudes who picked their noses when they thought no one was looking and argued about things he knew nothing about. Oh, and liked to talk about skin disease, but that could be because he’d always wanted to be a dermatologist.

  “I heard his mother mention you as a possible date for Christmas Around the Clock...if you were here.” Shelby heard no more rustling of papers and knew her mother had folded the New York Times and placed it on the glass table next to her chair in the morning room. Yes, her mother called it the morning room.

  “I’m not interested in Carter or a snooty charity ball for that matter. Besides he’s too young for me. I babysat him once.”

  “He’s four years younger...and a doctor,” her mother said.

  “That doesn’t make him any more appetizing. Degrees don’t matter to me, remember?” Shelby said, tossing back the words her mother had thrown at her more than twice in her life.

  Elaborate sigh. “Fine, Shelby, it’s your life. You’ve always made it crystal clear you will go your own way. I wish you the best even if living thousands of miles away and teaching Algebra is what you choose for yourself.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Have to run now. Let me know if you will be home for Christmas. I have to give the caterers a head count.”

  “What about Mosa?”

  “Saved her vacation time so she could go home to South Africa for a month. At the worst time of the year, too.”

  Of course her mother would see Mosa wanting to be with her family at Christmas for the first time in twenty years an inconvenience. Shelby started to point out how incredibly selfish it was to resent their housekeeper for taking the vacation she more than earned looking after the Mackeys for two decades. But she didn’t. Instead, the devil prodded her to do something awfully immature. Something almost evil for a Sunday morning. “Oh, by the way, I meant to tell you I’m pregnant. You’ll be a grandmother in J
une. Tell Daddy I said hello. The Carlisles, too.”

  “Ah,” her mother said. “Ah, what? Did you—”

  “Gotta go,” Shelby chirped. “Talk to you next Sunday.”

  She pressed the end button.

  “Oh, my God,” she said into the empty room. Then she tossed the phone on the bed and flopped down beside it, causing the do-not-read stack of books to landslide toward her. Rebecca’s journal landed on her stomach.

  Her phone vibrated insistently.

  Shelby giggled, pressing her hand over her mouth. Yep, in true Shelby fashion she’d shocked her mom right out of her Gucci slippers. And no matter what, she wasn’t going to answer the ringing phone.

  But then her phone chirped.

  Holy cow poop. Her mother had texted her. Marilyn never texted because she considered it tasteless as a form of conversation.

  Call me back. Now.

  Not on your life, Mother.

  Shelby picked up the journal and studied it against the bright light haloing her hands. The phone on the bed stopped vibrating, magnifying the stillness of the house. Running a finger around the slightly frayed edge of the leather, Shelby laid the journal on her chest.

  Looking up, she could see the ceiling fan needed dusting, but she could also picture Rebecca as a girl lying on the bed, looking up at the same gray ceiling trimmed with white molding. What had Rebecca dreamed about?

  John?

  Or had she dreamed of being a fashion designer? Or maybe she’d prayed to make cheerleader? Or hoped to get the prized solo in the choir? Dreams, prayers, hopes...that’s what being a girl entailed.

  A sudden warmth grew in Shelby’s stomach, radiating throughout her body. She often received the same sort of peaceful intuitiveness when she practiced Shavasana in her yoga class, when she connected to herself. Strange to feel so reflective and at peace after a difficult conversation with her mother.