Leave the Night On

by Laura Trentham

“That would be great. I live on—”

  “I know where you live. I dropped you off this morning, remember?”

  “Of course you did.” Her laugh was brittle, but at least it wasn’t tears. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “You need anything?”

  “I don’t suppose you have a DeLorean tricked out as a time machine under one of those tarps in your barn?” A dry humor laced her voice and the rigid set of his back relaxed. Making jokes was a good sign. Or a sign she was close to a nervous breakdown.

  “Afraid not.”

  “A dump truck of chocolate to bury my troubles under?”

  “I might be able to scrounge something up.”

  “I’ll see you soon, then?”

  “You can count on me.”

  She disconnected, and he stared at the phone, his restlessness appeased for the moment. He had a mission and headed to the Hornet with a spring in his step, refusing to examine his change in mood. The car’s body curved like a femme fatale, and he skimmed a hand over the smooth metal of the hood on his way to the driver’s side.

  The garage sat well outside of town on a two-lane parish road that didn’t see much traffic. Bad for business, but good for the soul. Clouds wisped across the sky, haloing the almost full moon and casting an eerie light. The hum of cicadas and the call of night birds filled the heart of summer, and lightning bugs flashed in the trees along the side of the road.

  He took a deep breath, the loamy air tinged with salt and wood smoke. It was a perfect night for a bonfire and a little trouble. He slid into the seat of his car and ran his fingertips over the leather stitching of the steering wheel.

  He cranked the engine and closed his eyes, enjoying the sound, but also listening intently for any knocks or skips. He heard none. Good thing, since he’d added her to the list of cars to take to next month’s auction. He’d invest the profit into another project. He’d driven the Hornet a good six months, which was a long time for him. Time to move on. He enjoyed the car, but he wasn’t in love.

  He flipped on the headlights, popped the clutch, and coasted onto the road. Crossing the river took him into Mississippi. The dividing line of their town and fortunes.

  Sixty-plus years earlier, Cottonbloom had been one town. With the opening of the college, the Mississippi side had attracted the doctors and lawyers and professionals, while the crawfish industry and manufacturing ruled the Louisiana side, bringing good blue-collar jobs to the parish.

  The economic and social rift grew after WWII, and then sometime in the fifties, the town broke over fishing rights on the river. While there was no push to reunite the towns of Cottonbloom—state loyalties had been bred into the new generations—the divisiveness that marked the last sixty years had eased since the inception of the shared yearly Labor Day festival.

  That didn’t mean the sides weren’t still competitive. The high school football rivalry meant nothing in terms of state titles, and everything in terms of pride. Cottonbloom Park, sitting on the Louisiana side, had been revamped, and a baseball league had restarted and become a major social outlet for both sides.

  The divide hadn’t affected Wyatt growing up. He’d been happy in Louisiana, in his family, in the garage. His life was complete and whole and happy. Except for the recent troubles with Ford. And that vague restlessness he’d been touched by of late.

  He made a pit stop at Glenda’s Diner. She had the best pies and cobblers on either side of the river, and he got two slices of lemon meringue to go. He parked in front of Sutton’s house, grabbed the carton, and headed to her front door, his stomach flopping like a bullfrog trying to escape a gig. Why was he nervous? This was nothing approaching a date, it was a mission of lemon meringue mercy.

  She opened the door before he made it to the front porch steps. Her hair was back in a ponytail, and she was barefoot and in tight black pants that hugged her curves, her toe nails a glittery, bright purple. The playfulness of the choice surprised him.

  Her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly swollen, but she smiled, and although it was strained, her eyes had an echo of the sparkle he’d noted that morning before the shit hit the fan.

  “Thanks for coming.” She gestured, her movements jerky as if she too were nervous, and led him into a den with bookcases and a wall-mounted TV. The ceilings were low, but instead of feeling closed-in, the room felt cozy.

  “I brought two slices of Glenda’s famous lemon meringue. Are you game?” He held them out.

  She pressed one hand against her stomach and took the carton with the other. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast. Pie sounds perfect. I’ll brew some decaf.”

  Once she’d disappeared into the kitchen, he moved toward the bookcases. His heel knocked against something, shifting it. A bolt of gauzy dark blue fabric slipped off a stack tucked to the side of the bookcase, unrolling on its fall. He picked it up and did his best to rewrap the slippery fabric, making a mess of it. Hidden partially behind a chair several more bolts were propped against the wall. The fabric stacked on the floor consisted of delicate looking laces and more gauze.

  She turned the corner and stopped short. “What are you doing?” Her voice pitched high.

  “Sorry. Knocked it over. What’s all the fabric for?” He waved a finger over the cache.

  She didn’t return his smile, marching over to clutch the bolt to her chest as if he’d threatened to drop a baby over a balcony. “It’s for nothing.”

  “It’s obviously for something.”

  “A stupid hobby is all.” Her half-shouldered shrug and the way she said it made him think she was repeating someone else. Maybe her parents. Maybe Tarwater.

  “I doubt that. Knowing you, it’s something very professional and pretty awesome.” He might not have gone to college, but he could add two and two. She sold clothes, so why wouldn’t she make them too? “Do you design stuff for your shop?”

  She shifted the bolt back against the wall into the shadows and chewed her lip, her gaze darting toward him. Running her hand over the fabric in a caress, she said, “Not to sell. I’m not good enough.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do. I’m not trained or anything, I taught myself. Trial and error.”

  “That’s how I learned to take an engine apart and put it back together. Nothing wrong with the method.” He looked around. “You do your sewing here or at the shop?”

  “Here. I turned a spare bedroom into a work area.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Why would you want to see it?” Suspicion slowed her words.

  Why did he want to see it? Maybe because he wanted to know what she was passionate about. What she cared about.

  “Curiosity?” When she continued to examine him as if he’d asked to see her medical records, he added in a sing-song voice, “I brought you pie.”

  “Okay, fine.” She led him halfway down the narrow hallway and stopped with her hand on a doorknob. “You’re not allowed to laugh.”

  The moment had taken on an importance that outweighed a simple show and tell, and he wondered if Tarwater had dismissed her design aspirations. He put a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

  He held his breath while she took a deep one. Finally, she pushed the door open and flipped the light on. A mechanical marvel of a sewing machine sat under the window. A worktable with a ruled edge was covered in fabrics, and white paper cut in different sized panels were scattered around. In the midst of the chaos, a black dress hung on a headless torso.

  The only experience he had with women’s clothing was removing it, but even he could tell the dress would be at home in a magazine spread. “You made this?”

  “Designed it from scratch.” Through the uncertainty and nerves was pride. He recognized the same spark when he finished an engine rebuild.

  “I’d bet you’d have women beating down the door at Abigail’s for it.”

  “I couldn’t display this next to a Vera Wang. Who would buy it?”

  He had no clue what a
Vera Wang was so couldn’t argue the point. “You’ll never know unless you take a chance. You could hang it with the other fancy dresses and see if it sells on its own merit.”

  She fingered the edge of the sleeve that hung limply on the form. “Just hang it up and see if it catches anyone’s eye?”

  “What else are you going to do with it? Stick it in the back of your closet? Seems a shame.”

  He could see the seed sprout even though she didn’t respond. She nudged her head toward the door. “Coffee should be perked.”

  She led him into a kitchen that had been refurbished but retained a quaint, fifties style charm. Black-and-white subway tile supplied the backsplash over dark grey granite countertops. A window over the farmhouse-style sink was framed by blue and white checked curtains.

  Their talk turned small and innocuous. They both agreed Rufus’s had the best barbeque, but the best pizza was the place just off the river on the Mississippi side.

  She moved the slices of pie from the carton onto small white plates in front of bar stools at the high counter next to napkins and forks and poured them both coffee in delicate-looking cups with matching saucers. The contrast with the loft’s galley-style kitchen, which was stocked with the finest paper plates and plastic silverware, was telling.

  They sat side-by-side and ate the first few bites in silence. About halfway through her piece, she wiped her mouth, cleared her throat, and fiddled with her fork, an air of expectation making him shift toward her.

  “I asked you over because”—she took a breath and said on the exhale—“we need to talk.”

  Even though they weren’t involved beyond sharing a handful of childhood memories, one terrible morning, and a piece of pie, the dreaded words ricocheted around his stomach, demolishing his appetite. He put his napkin and fork back by his plate. “Okay.”

  “I’ve done something ill-advised.” She slipped off the seat and paced on the other side of the counter. “No, I should call a turnip a turnip. I’ve done something dumb.”

  “Is this about Tarwater’s Camaro?”

  “No, but it does have to do with Andrew and Bree.” She rubbed her forehead. “You were right that Bree suspected something was up. They both showed up not long after you dropped me off.”

  “That was bold.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too. Honestly, I got mad. Really mad.” She sounded embarrassed about a perfectly normal reaction considering the circumstances.

  “Good for you. Did you break something over Tarwater’s head?”

  No hint of amusement broke through her solemn expression. “I wanted to hurt them—him—and I sort-of, kind-of involved you. I’m so incredibly sorry.” The last spurt out on what might have been a sob, but her eyes were dry and huge and her hands covered her mouth. Horror. She was horrified.

  Had she killed them and needed help disposing their bodies? He tried a weak laugh. “Am I supposed to be dueling Tarwater at dawn or something?”

  “Nothing so chivalrous. I told Andrew and Bree that you and I were involved. Romantically.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sexually.”

  “Well, now.” It wasn’t often something shocked him. The state left him at a loss for a casual quip.

  “I don’t think Andrew believed me, but I guess Bree did. Or wants to anyway. I got a couple of calls this evening from friends”—she imbued the word with sarcasm—“asking about you and me in a very roundabout way, and I realized things had already spun out of control. I didn’t want you to hear from someone else. Please, don’t hate me.”

  She was back to covering her mouth. This time her eyes shimmered with tears, but not because her fiancé had cheated on her with her best friend. No, she was upset and worried about how the rumor might affect him.

  “You think a little talk about the two of us together would make me mad?”

  “I don’t even know if you have a girlfriend. She might—”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He picked up his fork and took another bite of pie, his appetite fully restored. In fact, he felt downright jolly all of a sudden. “I don’t mind you using me as a shield, if that’s the kind of help you need.”

  “But I told them we’d been involved for a while.”

  He shrugged and took another bite, her worry over his reaction tipping him to the edge of laughter, although he was careful to hide it. “How does Glenda get her crust to taste so good, do you think?”

  Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Finally, she said, “A heap of Crisco and some lemon zest, I would guess.”

  He hummed, scraping up the crumbs. “I might take up baking if I can charm the recipe out of her. What are my chances, do you think?”

  “Wyatt.” Her firm tone had him looking up. “Do you understand what I’ve done? I’ve told a lie that now involves you, and if everyone isn’t already talking about us, they will be tomorrow.”

  “You make it sound like this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He made a scoffing sound.

  Her eyes flared wider, her lips pinched, and she gave a tiny shake of her head.

  “Good Lord. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done, isn’t it?” A smile defeated his best efforts to keep his amusement at bay.

  She took up pacing again, her thrumming angry-tinged energy hypnotic. “Bree stood there and told me they were in love. In love. It was humiliating and embarrassing, and I was so mad. Your card was in my pocket, and I just … gah!” She stuck her tongue out and made a gagging sound.

  Now he did laugh. “For a minute there, I thought you’d killed them and needed help dumping their bodies out in the swamps.”

  “You thought I had murdered them in a fit of jealousy?” Her laugh was throaty and unexpectedly sexy. “You underestimate my pathetic niceness.”

  Her self-depreciating summation gave him pause, but before he could delve further, the doorbell chimed followed by a quick rap on the front door. Sutton froze, her laughter silenced, her smile pulling into a grimace.

  “You expecting company?” He slid off the barstool and brushed his hands together.

  She shook her head.

  “Let’s really give them something to talk about, shall we?” Wyatt waggled his eyebrows and stepped toward the door. She caught his wrist as he reached the foyer. Although he could easily pull out of her grasp, he paused and she grabbed onto both his arms.

  “It could be my mother. Or father. Or even Andrew.”

  A shadow was visible through the window, the street light giving it monster-like proportions. Wyatt bristled with aggression. Even though his knuckles were sore from his earlier round with the punching bag, he wouldn’t mind teaching Tarwater a lesson in basic human decency in the most primal way.

  “One can hope,” he said darkly. “My car’s parked in your driveway. Won’t be hard to connect the dots from it to me, but I’ll slip out the back if you want.”

  Her hands tightened on his arms, the foyer too dim to make out her expression, but her voice was strong. “No, I want you to stay.”

  He went for the doorknob, wrapped a steadying arm around her waist, pasted on the smile that had charmed more than one woman home with him, and opened the door.

  Bree Randall stood on the other side, wearing the same clothes from that morning, but looking unkempt. Her blouse was untucked, her mascara had smudged around her eyes, and her hair looked like she’d driven over with her head stuck out of the window.

  Sutton tensed. He squeezed her waist, and she took the signal, letting her weight fall into him.

  Bree’s astonishment was projected clearly by her darting eyes. “You weren’t lying?”

  Chapter Five

  Sutton’s senses went into overdrive. The feel of Wyatt’s soft cotton shirt under her fingertips and the hard planes of his chest under that. His scent of clean laundry and the pine she’d noted earlier in his loft. Was it an aftershave or cologne, or had he absorbed the magic of the pine trees around the barn?

  His hair was a smidge too long to be classifi
ed as neat, and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. With his black T-shirt half-tucked, his broken-in jeans, and scuffed boots, he skated on the edge of sloppy but somehow managed to fall into the category of sexily rumpled. So different from Andrew, who kept himself well-groomed. Metrosexual, she’d once joked. Only once, because he’d taken offense at the term.

  Wyatt was a few inches taller than she was, but not so tall as to cause a crick in her neck. She stared at his profile and the way his dark hair curled a little at the ends. He was saying something. Like a radio dialing into a station, his words registered out of the static of her brain. “… lying. What kind of person poaches her best friend’s fiancé?”

  “It’s not like she’s all good and innocent like she wants everyone to believe, considering…” Bree waved her hand around. Her dismissive huff was more defensive than insulting, but her next words fell between them like flint to dynamite. “I sure never expected her to hook up over the river with someone like you, though.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sutton turned and put herself between Wyatt and Bree, her back to his front. Tension wound Wyatt’s muscles tight with static energy, ready to explode.

  Bree’s gaze met hers, and Sutton could see the arrow being drawn. “You’ve always acted like you’re better than the rest of us. Holier than thou. You”—Bree flicked her gaze over Sutton’s shoulder to touch Wyatt before it returned with another arrow notched—“are not his type. He’ll get bored with you soon enough. Like Andrew did.”

  Her words landed like a physical blow. “Have you always hated me?”

  Bree’s face changed, and she deflated, her body curling in on itself. One of her red-tipped nails, the formerly perfect manicure chipped, found its way between her teeth. “I don’t hate you. I didn’t mean any of that. Not really. I came here to talk.”

  “Fine.” Sutton gave a sharp nod. Bree stepped forward but Sutton put her hand on the doorjamb, blocking any path inside. “Say your piece out here.”

  Wyatt hadn’t moved, a solid wall that gave her strength. She reached behind her, finding his hand, and he laced their fingers. The strangeness of the situation wasn’t lost on Sutton, but she didn’t have to time to examine the implications.