Love, Alabama (Alabama Series Book 2)

by Susan Sands

  It did smell divine. Maybe not fried shrimp and banana pudding divine, but the potato soup, salad, and French bread came in a close second. Emma was quite familiar with her mother’s talents in the kitchen.

  Mom still had that distracted expression on her face. “Yes. Sure. It’s all there on the stove. Everything’s warm. Bread’s in the oven.” She waved toward the far end of the massive kitchen. It was a catering kitchen that somehow still managed to maintain a cozy family feel, even with the large industrial stove, ovens, sinks, and refrigerator. Everything had been chosen so as not to offend the home’s historical origins. The original kitchen had been about half the size, but the need for extensive food preparation made expansion of the room a necessity. Emma wasn’t certain when the work had been completed, but she thought her parents had taken it on while she’d been in high school, or had it been in middle school? She couldn’t remember.

  As they served plates, her mother’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” All heads turned toward the sound. As much as they tended to fuss and argue, when one of them had a problem, it was everyone’s problem.

  “Oh, hello dear. No, we’re all here now. Is everything alright?” Mom breathed a sigh of obvious relief. “Oh. Okay, I understand. I’ll have Ben send you a recap of everything we discuss. Give Lucy all our love. And tell her not to worry, she’ll do just fine on her history project. I’ll save y’all some chocolate pie. Tell Junior he only gets one piece.” The worried frown was gone, but a slightly puzzled one now replaced it.

  “Lucy have a sudden project?” Emma asked.

  “Apparently she does,” Mom answered.

  “Something Junior couldn’t help her with until Maeve got home?” Jo Jo asked.

  “Would you want Junior to have any input in your project?” Cammie asked Jo Jo. Cammie and Junior, Maeve’s husband, had been in a practical joke war for years.

  “Guess not,” Jo answered.

  “Children, let’s have our supper and discuss wedding details. I wish Maeve could’ve made it, but she can’t. Ben, you’ll take notes, won’t you, dear?”

  Ben nodded. “Sure, Mom.” Ben was an attorney, which designated him the note-taker and detail guy for the family.

  Emma could tell Mom was disappointed that Maeve was absent, but it was obvious that Howard was even more so. His shoulders slumped after they’d received the call that Maeve wasn’t coming. Emma felt suddenly angry with Maeve for skipping out on such an important and exciting time for her mother—and her father now. Maeve would need to get past her hurt and realize they wouldn’t always have these precious opportunities to be together.

  The world and life had a way of changing plans. There wasn’t always forever. Emma realized she might do well to think about that herself. She’d been in a holding pattern for a long time. Her mother’s courage in starting over with a new man and a new chapter in her life, even though she realized it might upset those she loved and cause gossip in such a small town should give Emma courage. Mom was following her heart and trusting her family to do the right thing and stick by her.

  Chapter Six

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  “Baby, I just need a few dollars to tide me over until pay day.” Her raspy tone was as familiar and as unsettling as Matthew’s panic attacks. His mother.

  “Mom, what did you do with your check this month? I sent you money last month, and I don’t mind helping out, but I want to make sure you’re not getting in over your head.” He tried really hard to keep the exasperation out of his tone, because nothing good would come from losing his cool with her.

  “My expenses aren’t your concern, young man.” Her tone was hard.

  This meant she’d gone to the casino in Biloxi and blown it. Again. But he couldn’t let her starve, could he?

  “Your expenses seem to be getting more and more expensive. Mom, I understand you enjoy the slots, but it’s beginning to cause a problem if you can’t pay the bills because of your gambling.” He tried not to sound judgmental, he really did. Maybe he didn’t try as hard as he could’ve, but, damn it, what was he going to do with her?

  “Young man, you are not to judge me. You left here after I nursed you back to health and never looked back—or hardly ever. After all I did for you after you got yourself blown up, the least you could do is come down from New York City and visit your poor mother every now and then.”

  The derision in her tone was deserved, especially since he hadn’t admitted to her that he was living barely two hours away working in Alabama. He was a shit and a bad son to boot. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Look, Mom, this can’t continue. Lately, you’ve been running out of money earlier and earlier. You need to set aside the amount you can afford to lose every month, and no more.”

  Her breath came out in a ragged sob. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to lose the money; it’s just that I’ve been so sad and lonely since your dad left. When I go with my friend, Sarah, to the casino, we have fun, and for a little while, I can forget that I’m unhappy.” Sarah was her best friend at the hardware store where his mom worked.

  He wanted to feel bad for her, really he did. But after what Frank had put them all through, it made Matthew want to put his fist through the wall. “First of all, Mom, Frank isn’t my father. You forced the adoption and I went along with it to make you happy and stop you from begging me to agree.”

  “That’s not fair, he loved you and Lisa—”

  “He wanted the money Dad left for our future, and he got it. Look, I don’t want to discuss Frank, if you don’t mind. He took the money and left you high and dry, whether you want to face it or not.”

  He heard his mother sob again. “It wasn’t like that. There were expenses.”

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll send the money, but this has to stop. You’re still a young enough woman with an education. There’s no reason you can’t pull yourself out of this mess. Please stop behaving like a victim.” He wished his mother could see how pathetic she’d become. She smoked like a chimney, worked a cashier job that she was greatly overqualified for, and spent her spare time gambling.

  “I feel like a victim, even though I believe Frank was a good man. He says you were the reason he left.” Her tone was peevish.

  Matthew couldn’t speak, because if he did right now, the words would be harsh and angry, and damaging. He sat there, gnashing his teeth, wishing for a way to release his boiling anger besides breaking something or roaring at his mother.

  His silence must have spoken for him, because she said, “Fine. Just send the money. I guess I’ll see you at my funeral.” Her tone lacked emotion now.

  Realizing that nothing positive would come from furthering the conversation, he said, “Mom, I’ll talk to you later.” Hanging up, he felt a familiar churning in the pit of his gut. He felt this way every time they spoke. No wonder he’d blown out of there as soon as he’d graduated from college and rarely returned. The military had been the quickest way to get the farthest from Alabama.

  His injuries and recovery lasted the better part of a year, and his mother had cared for him while he’d rehabbed. He’d suffered broken bones and lacerations from being hit by flying debris, but no real burns, thanks to the fact that he’d been outside the building checking in with his commanding officer when the blast occurred. Up ’til then, there’d been no activity in the village. They’d relaxed just enough.

  Broadcasting and cinematography were his majors at Auburn. He’d been fascinated by TV and movies as a kid. Television had been his escape growing up in such a small community, and within his stepdad’s household. Frank hadn’t wanted him around, so Matthew had played any sport where he could ride his bike to practice and go to games either on a bus or with friends. His mom did her best to attend his activities, but Frank always seemed to figure out a way to control her time. He and his younger sister, Lisa, had retreated to the television to escape scrutiny by Frank. Frank was a big critic when it came to them.

  Matthew was stuffing a personal check into an envelope when he heard
a knock at his door. He frowned. He knew very few people here in Ministry, and had made even fewer friends. Surely, it must be somebody trying to sell something or get him to change to a new religion.

  His hair was still damp from the shower. He’d pulled on old jeans and a faded gray Auburn t-shirt and his feet were bare. So, he definitely wasn’t dressed for company. Stubbing his toe, he cursed, then headed from his favorite spot on the sunroom porch through the living area toward the front door.

  Coming from New York, he never opened the door before checking the peephole first, because, well, it was New York, and one never knew. His current front door was old and heavy, made of oiled wood, inset with leaded glass from top to bottom, so as he headed toward it, he could just make out the shape of a man, or a very manly women, he supposed.

  Just before he turned the handle, Matthew found a clear place on the glass to peer through. That spot just happened to be at eyeball level with Mayor Tad Beaumont. “Well, hell,” he muttered under his breath.

  The mayor was smiling widely as Matthew opened the door. “Hello there. Matthew, right?” Beaumont stuck a hand for a too-firm handshake.

  “Yeah. What can I do for you?” How did he know where Matthew lived?

  “I thought I’d swing by and see how you were adjusting here in our fine little town. It must be quite a change from the big city.” The smile never left his lips.

  In fact, Matthew wasn’t sure the man had even blinked or that a hair on his head had moved. He was like a perfect Ken doll.

  “My adjustment has been fine. A few allergies, but I appreciate all the greenery, just the same.” Matthew had the distinct impression the guy wasn’t here to discuss his state of satisfaction or his allergies. There was a glint behind his eyes, and the carefree, relaxed posture was tenser than on first glance. This dude was sizing him up as an opponent, as competition. But, why?

  Matthew held eye contact, causing Tad to break the weird challenging stare first. “Well, alright then, hopefully I’ll be able to make it over to the set and check out the filming y’all have going on over at Cammie and Grey’s house.”

  “Wish I could help you there. It’s a closed set during live shooting. We can’t have people distracting the talent or moving around while we work. But you can set up an after hours tour. Cammie has generously agreed to limited times where she allows small, accompanied groups to come in. My assistant can hook you up.” Matthew reached over to the side table where his wallet lay and pulled out a business card. He handed it to Tad, whose toothpaste commercial smile had slipped into a confused frown, as if he didn’t understand what Matthew meant.

  “But, I’m the mayor of the town. Surely, I could sneak in and observe y’all in action.” He said this in a convincing tone.

  “We’ve already got quite a crew assembled on the set. All of them have a job to do. Sorry, Mayor Beaumont, we can’t allow special treatment. It’s a liability issue—network policy.” He managed to pull off an apologetic face; at least he thought he might have managed it.

  “I’ve never been denied entry to anything happening in my town. That’s unheard of.” Tad’s expression darkened.

  Matthew was so put off by this guy’s puffed up sense of self-importance that he couldn’t help twisting the knife. “No offense, Tad. Can I call you Tad? We just can’t accommodate your request. But do call my assistant, and she’ll set you up with a behind the scenes, after-hours tour.” It was Matthew’s turn to pull out a phony-baloney, dazzling smile.

  Tad Beaumont’s eyes narrowed as his glare dropped to the logo on Matthew’s chest. “Auburn, huh? What year did you graduate?” He pointed to the shirt. “You look a little familiar. I was over at Alabama probably about the same time. Have we met before?”

  Shit. He hadn’t thought about the shirt. The last thing Matthew needed was someone in town getting personal about his past. “No, I don’t think we’ve met. Not that I recall, anyway.” He avoided the question about his graduation year.

  Tad looked thoughtful.

  Then, as if a switch flipped, the big ole mayor smile was back. “Well, it was great to see you, man. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay in Ministry better, just let me know.” He did the handshake again and disappeared out the front door in a flash.

  Matthew shut the door quickly behind Tad on the off chance he changed his mind and decided to step back inside.

  “What a loser,” he whispered.

  Matthew hated guys like Beaumont, and he knew plenty in their business. Egos were in abundance around the television industry. Both behind, and in front of the camera.

  He shook it off and cursed himself once more for forgetting to deep-six the Auburn shirt. It had no place here, where someone might ask questions, just as Tad had. Since most people in town were anti-Auburn, University of Alabama Crimson Tide fans, it would serve as more a ribbing kind of conversation starter, then lead to a local asking if Matthew knew his cousin, so-and-so, who’d gone there. Everybody knew somebody who had attended or was enrolled currently at the rival college, and the two schools were only separated by a two hour and forty-five minute drive. Sometimes, siblings even split loyalties within the families. It was often tough during football season.

  Even though Matthew had shed the football player body and image, he still loved the game. He was a rabid fan for his alma mater, and actively anticipated college football season every year. Wearing his old sweatshirt aptly compared to a toddler’s woobie blanket, he had to admit. It represented something he loved that comforted him, so getting rid of the shirt during football season wasn’t high on his list.

  Today had been a bitch of a day. His head camera guy had been out with a stomach bug, and by lunchtime, half the crew had gone down like bowling pins. They’d had to call it a day, and wiped everything down with antibacterial cleaner. Cammie kept such a clean workspace that Matthew doubted the source of the illness was food-borne. It was more likely some nasty virus brought in by somebody whose kid had picked it up at school.

  The conversation with his mom and the subsequent, strange visit from the town’s narcissistic mayor just put the final lid on the coffin of his gnarly day.

  He grabbed a beer from the fridge, the remote control, and clicked on ESPN. Mindless television usually helped. But for some reason he couldn’t keep a long-legged blonde out of his head. He grabbed another beer and an unopened bag of pretzels. Maybe some junk food would change the direction of his thoughts.

  It didn’t help. In fact, he felt a bit queasy.

  *

  Emma was up at the crack of dawn, as usual. She’d just taken Big Al for his morning amble and sniff around the neighborhood and was preparing to head over to the diner when her cell rang. “Hello?”

  “I’m dying.” It was Cammie and she sounded awful.

  “Oh, dear. What are you dying from?” Cammie wasn’t typically a drama queen, so Emma wondered what was up.

  “My insides coming out. Everybody from the set has some kind of virus or food poisoning.”

  “Oh, yuck. You do sound like total crap, honey. What I can I do for you? Is Grey there? What about Samantha?” Samantha, Grey’s nine-year-old daughter with his first and worst wife, Deb, was now in the process of being adopted by Cammie.

  “Samantha’s at a friend’s house, and Grey’s in Atlanta at a meeting for a couple days. Can you bring me some Gatorade or something? I didn’t want to worry mom.”

  “Sure thing, kiddo. Do you need some Pepto or saltines?”

  “All of it. Anything you can think of. Ugh—gotta go—” The phone clattered to the floor and Emma heard sounds of heaving and retching.

  Poor baby. Cammie rarely got sick. She normally had a stomach of iron. Probably from all the cooking she did. Cammie said everyone on the set was sick. Emma wondered if Matthew had gotten the bug or whatever it was as well.

  It was a fair assumption Emma wouldn’t be helping her sister with makeup since Cammie’s face was in the toilet at present, and likely would be most of the da
y. God bless her.

  Emma detested vomit. Really hated it. But one did what one must for those in need, especially family. She settled Al with a brand new, stuffed toy duck, ready to kill, with the squeaker still intact. It would take him at least an hour to tear all the stuffing out of the lifelike waterfowl, find the source of the sound, and liberate it. Then, he would bask in his success by napping for at least another hour, exhausted.

  She grabbed Big Louie, her siblings’ nickname for her Louis Vuitton purse, and headed out the door. It was a perk of being single and self-sufficient—buying the things she liked. Emma liked nice purses. And shoes. And designer jeans. She was a pageant coach; what would one expect? Maybe she was filling a hole. Who cared? It was her hole to fill.

  She hadn’t taken time to change out of her yoga clothes or shower, which was unusual for Emma. Putting her best foot forward was a habit borne out of pulling up her big girl panties and pasting on a pretty smile. Fake it until you make it, right? Every single day until it had become her normal. Today was an exception. Her sister was ill and required vomit supplies. If Emma raised a few eyebrows in town with no makeup and tennis shoes, so be it.

  As she parked she recognized several cars of women she knew. Of course, all the vultures were at the market.

  “Emma, is that you, sweetie?” A perfectly-coiffed blonde waved a well-manicured hand as she pushed her buggy toward Emma in the bottled water and sports drinks aisle. An assortment of organic foods was on display in her cart.

  “Oh, hey, Bettie Jo.”

  “Why, Emma. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so—natural. Aren’t you sweet?”

  Emma pressed her lips together, barely keeping her smile in place. “It’s always nice to see you, BJ.” Do you know what your initials stand for?

  And BJ had lived up to her initials quite spectacularly in high school as the blowjob queen behind the bleachers. Emma couldn’t help but think nasty thoughts in defense to the unspoken, barely veiled insult.