Healing Beau (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 6)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  She settled back on the sofa and waited. Pretty soon, there were footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on the door. Christian didn’t even smooth her hair. No sense in trying to compete with Taylor Swift.

  She walked over and opened the door just as he was about to knock. With his fist poised in the air, he laughed. “Hello.”

  “Hello, yourself.”

  Would the day ever come when the sight of him did not take her breath away? No matter how recently she had seen him, she always forgot the perfection of his bone structure and the beauty of his mouth. But there was something more tonight. Was it her imagination? He looked a little happier. There was a glimmer of serenity in his eyes.

  “I’ve been wondering where my sweatshirt got to.”

  She stepped aside to let him in. “It’s not your sweatshirt. You left it here and I took it for my own.”

  “Have you eaten?” He held out a paper bag to her. “Gwen sent this. It’s chili.”

  “Gwen’s chili?” She took the bag. It only now occurred to her that she’d had nothing since that Italian wedding soup at String. The more the knots in her stomach dissipated, the more ravenous she became. “Even if I had eaten, I’d eat again. I assume you ate at Beauford Bend.”

  “Yeah. I think there’s come cornbread and pound cake in there, too.” He dropped down on the sofa.

  Christian sat down and unpacked the food on the coffee table. It was still hot. “Do you want anything?” She went into the kitchenette to get flatware and pour a glass of iced tea.

  “No. I’m good.”

  “So was Taylor Swift at dinner?” Christian sat on the sofa and took the lid off the chili.

  “Who?” Beau frowned. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “No reason.” But one could never tell. “Did you notice that it was cold downstairs?”

  “Cold like Beowulf’s hell, but it stands to reason. It’s gotten colder outside. I cut up the thermostat. Is that okay?”

  “Cut away. It won’t do any good. The unit’s broken, and between the holidays and the part being on backorder, it won’t be fixed until after Christmas.” Now was when he was going to say he was going back to Beauford Bend. She’d be breezy and make it easy for him, like it didn’t matter. “So it looks like you have three choices: Sleeping in the cold. The little room up here. Or back to Beauford Bend with you.”

  “Hmm.” He closed his eyes. “If it’s all the same to you, I pick the little room up here. It’s palatial compared to some places I’ve slept.” He winked at her. “Besides, I like the company.”

  “What about climbing the stairs? Isn’t that bad for your back?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t say it’s the most comfortable thing I do all day, but the physical therapist said taking the stairs is good for me. Seems like those medical guys can’t make up their minds. Rest. Exercise. Rest. Exercise. Which is it?”

  His eyes lit up with true amusement, and Christian grew weak with the beauty of him.

  “You know you’re welcome here.” If that wasn’t the biggest understatement in Understatement Land.

  “I might not be after I tell you what I need to tell you.” Was it possible that Beau Beauford actually looked sheepish? It must be really bad.

  “What? What? Did you kill my horse? Dig up my grandmother?”

  His expression went from sheepish to confused. “No.”

  Suddenly, she was embarrassed. She picked up a throw pillow and hugged it to her. “That’s good. The last person who dug up my grandmother”—she swiped her hand through the air—“right out of here.”

  Beau laughed. He was beautiful when he laughed—crinkled eyes, perfect teeth, and a tiny dimple that almost wasn’t.

  “I’ll try to stay away from the Hambrick cemetery.” Then he went serious. “I lied to you about something.”

  Fabulous. Just what she needed to top off this ideal day—lies and confessions from her oldest, best friend.

  “Maybe you’d better tell me about what.”

  “I don’t know woodworking. Or I didn’t. I know a little now.”

  What did that even mean? Then it dawned on her. The day had been so long, and so much had happened, that she’d forgotten about the writing desk.

  He held up a hand. “Don’t worry. Your desk is fixed now. I can’t believe how good it looks. Do you know who Will Garrett is?”

  “The woodworker? Sure. He fixed my desk?”

  Beau shook his head. “No,” he said proudly. “I did. But he helped me. We sent pictures. Jackson set up a web cam and Will talked me through it. The glue needs to dry overnight. Then I’ve got to do a little touch up staining. We had to mix three different stains five times to get it just right, but I swear you won’t be able to tell it was ever broken.”

  “And that’s where you’ve been all this time? Fixing my desk?” The thought of that turned her heart upside down.

  “It took longer than I expected, but it was fun. I was pretty good at it.” Then he looked startled. “Sorry. I guess you don’t want to hear how I had fun fixing it, when it upset you so much that it was broken.”

  Better than having fun with Taylor Swift.

  She smiled. “You want me to break something else? So you can fix it?”

  “Would you?” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked at the floor like he always did when he had something to say, but wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  “Tell me, Beau.”

  He nodded and met her eyes. “The last few weeks have been pretty bad. I know it sounds stupid, but when I was working on that desk, that’s all I thought about—not how everything had changed in a split second, and not about what I’m going to do next. It felt good to be setting something right for someone I care about.”

  She had to swallow tears. “Then I’m glad I broke it. I wish I’d broken it worse. I’ll take an axe to the rocking chair in library first thing tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for not being mad that I lied to you,”

  Interesting. “Why did you lie about that, Beau?”

  He looked startled, like he hadn’t been expecting that. “Well.” He swallowed, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. “You were so upset, and I wanted to make it all right for you.”

  He wanted it make it all right for her. Her upside-down heart melted like a marshmallow on top of hot chocolate.

  “You did that. Thank you.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’re welcome. The patient can come home tomorrow.”

  “Warn her she’ll be cold.” She wanted to squeeze his hand back but couldn’t bring herself to.

  He released her hand. “Hey. Do you want to watch a movie?”

  “Sure. Anything you like.” Anything at all. Everything. Always.

  “Anything?” He grinned. They both knew what that meant. Talladega Nights.

  “Sure. We don’t even have to get it On Demand. I have the Blu-ray.” Of course she did.

  “I know I’ve seen it a hundred times, but I laugh every time.”

  When the movie was on and they’d settled in, he leaned into her and covered them both with the throw from the back of the sofa—just like he’d always done.

  And just like always, it meant nothing to him and everything to her.

  But it was good to be near him and good to hear him laugh. Right now, nothing else mattered.

  Chapter Six

  “Beau, you need to wake up.” The words accompanied rapping on the door.

  He turned over with a groan and reached for his phone. 6:00 a.m. Christmas started early at Beauford Bend. He and Christian were expected at the breakfast table at seven, which was why he’d asked her to wake him. His phone alarm wasn’t much good against a pain pill-induced sleep.

  She knocked harder. “Beau! You said to wake you.”

  He sat up. “I’m up. Come in.”

  He expected a robe-clad-messy-haired Christ
ian, but she was dressed in white wool pants and a fuzzy, soft pink sweater. Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl earrings surrounded by small diamonds. He knew those earrings because his mother had borrowed them from Christian’s mother once to wear to a party. They were always doing that—swapping jewelry, purses, and coats. It was a curse to have a memory like his. What six-year-old boy took note of the earrings his mother wore and remembered it twenty-two years later? Even if he had circled the pearls with this finger when she cuddled him on her lap before leaving?

  Anyway, the earrings were probably Christian’s nod to festivity. She wasn’t one for a lot of flash and dash. But, then, she didn’t need it.

  “You’re pretty,” he blurted out. And it was so true. Not beautiful, not cute, not flamboyant. Just creamy, pretty perfection.

  She blushed and smiled widely. “Thank you.” He could tell she didn’t believe him. “Merry Christmas.” She set a cup of coffee on the bedside table. There was a Christmas tree on the mug.

  Christmas. Great. Surprisingly, Christmas Eve hadn’t been hard at all. He’d wakened feeling better than he had in weeks, physically and mentally. Christian had been amazed and impressed when he’d brought her writing desk home, had sworn she couldn’t tell it had been mended. And it was true. He’d done a great job. Even realizing he needed to go Christmas shopping hadn’t dampened his spirits. Shopping wasn’t his favorite sport, but he didn’t hate it as much as most men did. It was just another task that sometimes had to be done.

  Last year, he hadn’t arrived at Beauford Bend until Christmas Day, so he had not experienced Christmas Eve under the reign of Emory before. To his relief, it had been unlike his childhood Christmas Eves when they had eaten shrimp gumbo and Japanese fruitcake—neither of which he liked—in the formal dining room before going to church. Then there had been the ritual of leaving cookies and milk for Santa before being hustled off to bed.

  But Emory had changed all that. They’d had Gwen’s chicken and dumplings in the family dining room and then settled in to the family room to eat Christmas cookies and watch the A Christmas Story marathon. Emory had insisted that the Yule log had to burn out on its own, and considering what a good year it had been, she wasn’t willing to risk bad luck. There had been a lot of good natured teasing about who was going to sit up with it, because leaving an unattended flame was never going to happen at Beauford Bend.

  Christian had looked so serene and happy with one of Rafe’s twins on her lap that Beau had wanted to draw her into his arms, child and all, and kiss her.

  Then he’d been horrified at the thought—and he was horrified now that she still looked kissable. Their relationship was too important to risk for lust.

  “Tell me again why we have to get up at this ungodly hour?” he asked.

  “You know the Beauford Bend rules. Stockings, breakfast, and then Santa.”

  Yes, he did know. Then there would be lounging around the tree, playing with presents, and entertaining kids until lunchtime in the formal dining room. They would eat ham, turkey, cornbread dressing, and ambrosia on those special dishes with the flowers that some Beauford bride had hidden in the woods during the war. Then more lounging, and Jackson would sing. Someone would turn on a basketball game—only because there was no football on Christmas Day—and someone else would grumble about having to abandon a new video game for basketball. Someone would play Scrabble. Gabe would eat again an hour after lunch. The kids would be put down for naps. Then the ham and turkey would come back out for sandwiches, and there would be more basketball.

  Beau knew all this because that’s how it had been last year. His brothers seemed to take comfort in the familiarity, but not Beau. With the familiarity, came the ghosts of Christmas past, like some Southern gothic Dickens tale. Every single second of it was torture. He vowed last year he wasn’t coming for Christmas this year, but hell had happened, so now he had Christmas hell to endure and the ghosts with it.

  Beau was not so egotistical as to think that his loss had been greater than his brothers’, but they hadn’t been the cause of the deaths. And then there was Aunt Amelia. They had loved her, and he didn’t doubt that they missed her, but in many ways, Beau felt he’d lost two mothers. After the fire, he’d still been young enough for bedtime stories and cuddles, and Aunt Amelia had been there for him. But at least he hadn’t killed her. She’d died just a few years back of a stroke—not surprising, given her age, but that didn’t make it any less painful.

  Beau gave Christian his Charmer smile. “Why don’t we just stay here? We could watch Talladega Nights again and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

  “Sure,” she said cheerfully. “You go ahead and call Jackson and tell him that.”

  He could see it now. There would be helicopters circling Firefly Hall, and Jackson would have a bullhorn. “Surrender to Christmas, now, Beau Beauford! Don’t make me come in there. I’ve got a Japanese fruitcake and I’m not afraid to make you eat it!”

  “Right. I’ll get dressed.”

  Christian nodded but no made no move to leave. They stared at each other for a full thirty seconds. “Well?” she said.

  “Well, what?”

  “Are you getting up or not?”

  He gave her an evil little grin and uncovered a leg. “I will. As long as you understand I sleep naked.”

  “Oh!” She threw up her hands and flew out the door.

  Maybe he should have just gotten up. He fantasized about that for a minute—which was better than thinking about Christmas.

  • • •

  Even though they’d just had breakfast, the aroma of turkey and ham in Beauford Bend’s kitchen was already making a lot of promises. Christian lovingly washed the last Haviland bread plate. Of all the china at Beauford Bend, this was her favorite set.

  After Gwen’s lavish breakfast of shrimp and grits, hot curried fruit, and homemade orange rolls, Neyland and Christian had insisted that the others go entertain the children while they made sure the kitchen was ready for Gwen to finish making lunch later.

  Though the other children were too young to understand that they were about to receive Santa’s bounty, four-year-old Julie had been begging for an hour to go back to her own house to get what she had coming.

  “Do you want me to dry?” Neyland asked.

  “No. We’ll leave them to air dry since we’ll use them again for lunch. The more dishes are handled, the more chance there is that they won’t survive another generation. That’s what Miss Amelia always said.” Beau had always wholeheartedly agreed because he didn’t like to dry dishes.

  Neyland wiped down the counters. “I’m surprised they survived this generation. Of course, they haven’t yet.”

  “Don’t you dare say that!” Christian rinsed the sink and hung the dishrag on the towel rack. “These dishes were some of the first Haviland made in Limoges for the U.S. market. They belonged to Octavia Wilson Beauford, who married Nelson Harris Beauford in 1859. She hid her nice things in the woods when General John M. Schofield paid a visit in November of 1864.”

  Neyland laughed as she set silver mint julep cups on a tray. “You sound like a tour guide.”

  “Every time I came for dinner here, Miss Amelia laid the table with a different set of china. She knew I loved it all as much as she did. She told me stories about the different sets while we washed them.” At the time, Christian had fantasized about presiding over Beauford Bend dinner tables as lady of the house—which was ridiculous, even taking out of the equation that Beau didn’t want her and never would. The line in front of her would have been long.

  Oh, well. She had her own house, her own table, and her own family china, even if most of the people who sat at her table paid to be there. Neyland opened a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and began to pour shots into each cup.

  “Isn’t it a little early for that?” Christian asked.

  Neyland shrugged. “It’s Christmas. We’re Southerners. Why not?”

  Why not indeed? The others were in the fami
ly room waiting on her and Neyland to do Santa and exchange gifts. She could use a little fortification. Something wasn’t right with Beau. Outwardly, he was walking the holiday walk and talking the festive talk, but she could tell it was an act. He was tense and miserable.

  “You have a point.”

  “This is probably the last Christmas we’ll have the luxury of cleaning the kitchen and making festive drinks before Santa,” Neyland said. “Next year the kids will have different ideas.”

  You won’t have the luxury. Next Christmas won’t include me. I’ll be wherever my mother is.

  But she wouldn’t say that, of course. Instead, she went to the refrigerator to search for mint. “You and Gabe have been here the whole time. What about your family?”

  “They’re at Uncle Mac and Aunt Polly’s with Heath and Hope. We were going to divide our time, but Mama said we should spend the whole holiday here, what with Beau being home. Our immediate family will get together tomorrow for gifts and more food. Which, of course, pleases Gabe to no end. He said if he’d realized he’d get two Christmas dinners, he would have gotten married years ago.”

  “That’s Gabe. I could never tell him and Rafe apart unless they were eating.” She went through the crisper again. Asparagus, lemons, lettuce, carrots, oranges. “Neyland, I don’t see any mint.”

  “Why do you need mint?”

  “I don’t. Aren’t you making mint juleps?”

  “No. Gwen’s homemade eggnog. I thought it would look pretty to put it in these cups.” Neyland picked up a pitcher of the foamy, white liquid.

  “Stop!”

  Neyland jumped and almost dropped the pitcher. “What?”

  “You can’t serve eggnog in silver. The egg will turn it black. Never put eggs, mayonnaise, or onions in silver.” She went to the butler’s pantry and pulled down the Waterford Powerscourt 12 Days of Christmas punch cups. “Here. Use these.”

  “I didn’t even know these existed. I’m glad I’m not curator of this place.” Neyland poured the bourbon from the silver cups into the crystal ones.