All I Need (Hearts of the South)

by Linda Winfree

  She didn’t like waking up without him, without his arm across her waist and his thighs under hers. She’d gotten addicted to the smell and feel of him.

  Sheet clutched to her chest, she sat up. The house lay quiet around her, with none of his usual music-streaming reaching her ears. The rich scent of coffee lingered in the air, so he probably wasn’t far away.

  This need for him was crazy. A holdover from earlier in the week, those awful hours when she’d had to worry about him. She didn’t need him in order to do every day, but she needed him.

  Maybe instead of “I think I love you,” she should have said, “I need you” the other morning. It was more accurate, made more sense, and didn’t scare the hell out of her. She pushed the sheets aside and swung out of bed.

  The house was indeed empty, his phone and wallet gone, but the truck in the drive next to her car. The coffee pot was full, thanks to its preprogramming. She poured a cup and took it out to the back deck. A hint of coolness touched the air, and with her robe tucked around her, she curled into one of the Adirondack chairs. Birds chattered to life in the trees, and the heavy murmur of the river carried up the bank. She sipped at her coffee and soaked in the stillness, the sense of home.

  Footsteps thudded on the side stairs, and she smiled into her mug. That had to be the other half of home. Sure enough, the French door behind her swung open moments later.

  “Hey.” He leaned over the back of the chair, enveloping her in scents of morning mist, pine, and sweat as he kissed her. His skin was damp under her touch, and his hair stuck out from his head in crazy spikes.

  “Have you been running?” If so, she was going to kill him. The key idea was to rest until those bruises healed. She held on to his nape with one hand, wanting to keep him near.

  “Biking with Clark.” He made a disparaging noise in his throat and kissed her again. “He doesn’t run unless something is chasing him.”

  She released him without comment. At least it was low-impact exercise, and the bruises were slowly healing, turning to shades of darker purple and yellowing at the edges. Besides, keeping him completely contained appeared an impossible task; it seemed he’d saved up months of energy from his recuperation. He dropped into the chair next to hers and reached for her mug to take a sip. She hugged the sweet normalcy of the moment to her.

  Pulling one knee to her chest, she trailed her finger along his wrist. “So if you’re up for biking, I assume that means you’re up for tailgating at Rob and Amy’s this afternoon?”

  “It’s Georgia-Auburn weekend. Of course I’m up for it, even though we’re going to lose.” He frowned, brows drawing together and forehead wrinkling. “How obnoxious is Bennett when Auburn wins?”

  She laughed. “Not very because he wins either way.”

  Emmett’s frown deepened. “What?”

  “They make sex bets on the game.”

  His mouth parted. “That is brilliant. There’s only one problem.”

  She smiled. “We root for the same team.”

  “Yeah.” He rotated his wrist under her hand to link their fingers. “Give me some time to think about it and I’ll figure out a way to make it work for us.”

  “Go for it.” She aligned her palm to his, enjoying the warmth. She loved the light teasing, but beneath, she still sensed hints of the insecurity he’d brought home with him the night of the shooting. He loved her, she needed him, they were basically living together…and somehow it wasn’t enough to make him trust her. She didn’t know how to give him what he needed.

  So she avoided the hell out of confronting the disconnect, out of fear that doing so would break the fragile bonds between them. She didn’t want to lose him.

  “What’s on your agenda for the day?” She rubbed her fingertips over his knuckles.

  “Locking myself in the office and finishing that leadership paper so I can go tailgating with you later. Sorry, babe, but I have to get it done so I can run it through the writing center before it’s due.”

  “No problem. I understand completely, believe me. Amy says they didn’t see me for days when I was studying for boards.”

  The day passed quietly. He did indeed closet himself in the office, emerging only to grab a sandwich at lunch. Savannah caught up on several loads of laundry, read a handful of journal articles, and dozed through an action movie.

  The roar of an enraged alien startled her from light slumber. She blinked at the television and fingered the edge of the warm throw draped over her shoulders. She smiled—Emmett had obviously emerged at some point to cover her while she napped. From the office behind her, he sang along quietly with Sidewalk Prophets, accompanied by the hushed clicking of his laptop keyboard.

  This was the kind of Saturday she wanted forever, simply doing ordinary life and being wrapped up in the security of his loving her.

  She sat up and stretched. His crooning grew closer, and he appeared from the office, empty tumbler in hand. He smiled. “Hey, you’re awake. Want something to drink?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” She watched him walk into the kitchen, the music and warmth of his presence wrapping around her in a swirl of long-forgotten happiness. “Are you making progress?”

  “One section and the works cited left.” He joined her on the couch and set his half-full tumbler aside. He laid his arm along the back of the sofa and toyed with her hair. “I don’t care if I ever see an APA handbook again.”

  She slid her hands under his T-shirt to rest at his waist, beneath the compression bandage. “How’s your back?”

  “Sore as hell.” He grimaced. “That’s the only reason I took a break. Needed to move. I did figure out that whole rooting-for-the-same-team issue, though.”

  “Really?” She leaned in to press a kiss to his throat. “Do tell.”

  He stroked his palm along her outer thigh. “We bet on the point spread.”

  “That works.” She laughed into the curve of his shoulder. They were so good together, and he made it so easy to love him that she—

  She stilled and pulled back so she could see his eyes. He stiffened, his own gaze shuttering at whatever he saw in her face. That lost expression, the tension invading his body as if preparing for a blow, broke her heart.

  “Em.” His name fell from her lips on a shattered whisper.

  “Savannah.” A hint of desperation shook his voice. “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

  God, she’d been so selfish. She’d refused to see that what he needed and she refused to give him was the very thing she was taking from him. Instead, she’d let him love her while she’d clung to the ridiculous false safety of wanting and needing, all the while pretending that he wasn’t the love in the new life she’d made with him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, taking his face in her hands. “I love you, Emmett.”

  “I know.” He cringed, a pained groan strangling in his throat, and closed his eyes. “I saw it in your face the night of the shooting.”

  And he thought it was the end, that this meant she would run out on him once she realized that love herself. He believed she would choose protecting herself before she chose him. Her loving him looked more like a curse than a gift to him, and she had no one to blame for that but herself.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” She smoothed her fingers down his jaw. “Em, please, let me love you.”

  His lashes lifted, revealing confusion and fear lingering in his blue eyes.

  “I don’t know what to do, what to say, to make you believe,” she whispered, her gaze locked on his. She couldn’t make him any promises because he of all people knew how empty those could be. “If I do every day with you, love you every day, then will you believe?”

  He tangled one hand in her hair and pressed her face to the curve between his neck and shoulder. “I want to believe, Savannah, I do. God help me, you don’t know how much. I don’t know how.”

  Fine tremors shook him, and she rested her palms against his shoulder blades. She turned her face into his neck an
d inhaled, letting him invade all of her senses. “We’ll do today, then we’ll do tomorrow. And then we’ll see where we are.”

  * * * * *

  “I really think people would understand if you backed out.” Savannah eyed Emmett from the passenger seat. He pulled the truck into a spot to the side of the red brick church as if it were reserved for him.

  “Savannah, I’m good. It’s one song.” He killed the engine and smiled at her. “The old ladies love me, and I’d like to keep it that way. The board of deacons only think they wield the power.”

  “The old ladies don’t have anything to say about your church attire?” She loved the way he looked, neat and casual in jeans, Reefs, and a white ironed buttondown, the cuffs turned back and the shirt left untucked, but she could see how some traditional churchgoers would object to that level of casual. A little unsure about going to church with him for the first time, she’d defaulted to a simple black skirt and teal top, paired with the heels he loved and the opal earrings he’d given her.

  “The old-lady brigade knows it matters more what’s in my heart than what’s on my body when I walk through the door. Some of our deacons haven’t learned that yet.”

  On that note, he slid from the driver’s seat and walked around to open her door. Well-worn Bible in one hand, he took her hand with the other and laced their fingers together. They walked across the paved lot toward glossy white front doors. She searched for a hint of nervousness, but found only peace, a sweet surety that she was in the right place with the right man.

  Yesterday had been football and finding their way through a new paradigm. Today was worshipping together. Tomorrow would be ordinary life again, and somehow, she knew on one of those tomorrows, he’d find his faith in them.

  Inside the foyer, people mingled in small groups, laughter and light chatter filling the space. A handful greeted them along the way to the sanctuary.

  “I think you might have exaggerated the whole they-won’t-let-us-in-church-on-Sunday angle.” She murmured the words near his ear as he held the sanctuary door for her.

  “Maybe a little.” He smiled, his palm resting at the small of her back. “Clark and I are here most Sundays.”

  They were regulars enough that they had a spot, third-row pew to the left of the pulpit. One arm laid casually along the back of the pew, Clark studied the bulletin. He glanced up at their approach and, without comment, slid down to make room for Savannah. Moments later, he moved again as Landra entered the pew from the opposite end to sit between him and Emmett. She didn’t relax, her expression tense and unhappy, one palm curved over the slight swell of her stomach. Emmett linked their hands and squeezed. She caught his eye and smiled, some of her tension draining away.

  The service unfolded in a more laid-back manner than Savannah expected, totally removed from the formal, structured services her father preferred. A handful of members took the stage to lead the congregation in a blend of contemporary worship music and traditional hymns. After, a young man took the mike to pray and welcome members and visitors alike before inviting the audience to greet one another.

  Amused, Savannah eyed the dozen or so older women who flocked to Emmett and Clark. Both got their necks hugged multiple times, Emmett wincing a little at the strength in some of those hugs. When he bent to hug an elderly woman with impossibly white, fluffy curls, Savannah and Landra shared an indulgent smile behind his back.

  He caught Savannah’s hand as the adoring flock clucked away. Savannah nudged his side. “Women love you wherever you go, don’t they?”

  Smiling, he bent his head to murmur in her ear. “Yeah, but you’re the only one that matters.”

  Her breath caught at the unspoken admission that he recognized her love for him. When he straightened, he tensed, fingers tightening about hers. Savannah frowned and glanced around. “What?”

  “My parents.” He ground out the words, the skin about his mouth pale and taut.

  “Emmett.” Affection colored his name, and the older woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Landra leaned over the pew to wrap her arms about his neck. She pulled back to gaze into his face, worry drawing her brows together. “Landra says you aren’t seriously hurt. Are you really all right?”

  “Mama, I’m fine.” No way his jaw could get any tighter. He looked everywhere but at the older man who was nearly his height and had stamped him with his good looks.

  “Son.” His father reached to embrace him, but Emmett stiffened, obviously doing no more than suffering through the awkward hug. He kept his gaze trained on the stained-glass window over the baptistery, but Savannah caught the flash of longing and loss in his father’s eyes, mingled with a hint of remorse.

  Congregants drifted to their seats. From their left, Pantone rose from her pew and moved toward the stage. Emmett disentangled himself from his father’s easy hold and gestured at Clark. “We have to go.”

  They let him go without protest and returned to their seats a few pews back. Clark sat at the piano as the other musicians took up their spots again, and Emmett and Pantone each removed a mike from its stand. Emmett toed out of his Reefs to stand barefoot on the stage. His lashes fell as Clark began to play. A teenager joined in, picking out the melody on a guitar.

  Pantone lifted her mike and sang the first few bars alone, before Emmett joined her, their voices blending seamlessly in the song of prayer and worship. Clark crooned the chorus into the microphone at the piano. Quiet and peace spread through the sanctuary, and the music faded away.

  Head bent, Emmett brought the mike to his mouth to offer a quiet prayer of thanksgiving. His voice cracked over the words, and Savannah blinked hard. Returning the mike to the stand, he slipped his feet into his Reefs and descended the steps with Clark, Pantone, and the musicians returning to their seats. Savannah stepped out of the pew to let him and Clark slide in, and Landra slipped over, so Clark sat next to Emmett.

  The pastor took the stage. “I think, with it being homecoming Sunday for us, that focusing on a well-known homecoming in Scripture would be appropriate.”

  He launched into a sermon focused on the parable of the prodigal son, painting a picture of love and forgiveness, of a father running to meet his remorseful son. Emmett dropped his head, elbows on his thighs. As the sermon progressed, he didn’t raise his head, and Clark rested a hand on his knee.

  Drawing the message to a close, the pastor opened an invitation to the altar as the congregation rose for the closing song. Head still bent, Emmett pushed to his feet. With gentle hands, he edged Savannah to one side and stepped from the pew to approach the altar. Savannah hesitated a moment, her chest aching. She followed to kneel with him on the carpeted steps and laced her fingers with his. His low murmured prayer curled between them, the words indistinct except to him, and he tightened his hand around hers. Long moments later, he rose and swiped his wrist across damp eyes before they returned to the pew.

  * * * * *

  Emmett was raw, rawer than he’d ever been. His and Clark’s resident fan club, the older women who’d practically raised them from the church nursery on, wanted to feed him and meet Savannah, not necessarily in that order. In the fellowship hall, he ended up with a plate piled high with fried chicken, pear salad, macaroni, and other assorted homemade delicacies.

  He couldn’t stomach any of it, not even Miss Maureen’s incredible blackberry cobbler.

  The last thing he wanted was to engage with his father, to forgive him, but a small still voice whispered that there’d be no real peace until he did.

  With his fork, he pushed a stray shred of cheddar around the edge of his plate, half-listening while Miss Ella asked Savannah about what it was like to work in the ER.

  “Emmett.”

  He stiffened at his father’s familiar voice. Under the table, Savannah’s hand fluttered over his knee, and he laid his fork down with extreme precision before he looked up to meet his father’s gaze. “Sir?”

  “Can I talk to you a minute, son?”

  He hated it
when his father called him son, like it meant anything, and the old anger wanted to whisper a denial. He’d left his pride and arrogance back on that altar, though. With a nod, he pushed back his chair and rose. “Yes, sir.”

  Aware of the attention focused on them from multiple tables, he followed his father from the fellowship hall, the skin on the back of his neck prickly and hot. The hallway connecting the multipurpose room to the main sanctuary held a small couch flanked by two tables, and his father indicated the sofa with a silent gesture.

  Emmett took the seat next to his father and rested his elbows on his thighs, hands between his knees, and his gaze fixed on the blue-mauve patterned carpet. He was pretty sure they’d sat just like this when he was seventeen, that one time his mama hadn’t been the one who’d had to show up at school because he’d been suspended for fighting again.

  His father cleared his throat. “I’ve not been the father or husband I should be, Emmett.”

  What was he supposed to say to that? He’d heard variations on that theme all his life. Having a broken heart and knowing he had to attempt to forgive didn’t mean he wasn’t wary.

  “I’m asking for your forgiveness, son.” The words cracked on a pulse of emotion. That was new. “For a second chance to be what I should have been all along.”

  Emmett expelled a long breath. He understood the concept of forgiving seven times seventy, but he didn’t have to like it. And if he was being brutally honest, he had to admit this really was time number one. He closed his eyes and took a step that felt more like a leap, like looking in Savannah’s eyes when she realized she loved him, like maybe letting himself believe she meant what she said when she said she’d never leave.

  “Forgiveness is a process, Dad. It doesn’t happen overnight.” He clasped his hands between his knees and rotated his thumbs over one another in a slow circle. “And I don’t think I can do this without some boundaries.”