Leave the Night On

by Laura Trentham

  The disappointment was sharp and unexpected. “I guess that’s my cue to skedaddle.”

  “Thanks for coming with me.”

  “Sure.” If this had been a real date, he would have kissed her. But he had agreed he wouldn’t do that again. He waited for her to suggest another event or date. She didn’t. “I’ll be seeing you around?”

  When all she did was nod and watch him back away, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned, passing under the arbor and toward the cold comfort of his car.

  Chapter Ten

  Sutton crossed her legs and wiggled her foot. Her phone’s blank screen mocked. It was Wednesday, and they hadn’t made another date at the pig picking. She’d held her breath at the end hoping for … something. Not a kiss but at least an invitation somewhere. Or had he been waiting for her to suggest something? Her limited experience didn’t extend to whatever it was they were doing.

  The past four days had been interminable without even the hope she’d see him again. That morning a plan that had been percolating since the pig picking manifested itself into action. While Wyatt had been in conversation with Ford, she had chatted with Mrs. Alfred Knowles, a widow of twenty-odd years who still went by her husband’s name.

  The small talk had consisted mostly of gardening, roses in particular, but when Sutton mentioned who her date was, Mrs. Knowles confessed to having her husband’s old car sitting in her garage. A 1982 LeBaron convertible that hadn’t been driven in over a decade. While the car might not be the classic that Wyatt and his brothers sought, how many other car widows were roaming around Cottonbloom?

  He had invited her to call or text him anytime, and this was as good an excuse as any. Her fingers trembled slightly when she picked up her phone to text him.

  Can you take off early and meet me at Abigail’s?

  She stared at her screen. What if he’d decided she wasn’t worth the trouble and never texted back? What felt like an hour ticked away. She should have contacted him before now or not at all. She banged her head against the glass countertop a couple of times. Her phone pinged, and she made a grab for it.

  Give me 30 to clean up.

  According to her phone, a mere two minutes had passed since she’d sent her text. The self-doubt-induced time warp left her feeling queasy.

  She checked her appearance in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Flared blue and white checked skirt, simple, button-up white blouse, and embellished flip-flops. Nothing she’d designed, but cute. She fluffed her hair and paced the floor, checking the street every few seconds.

  Her sister put the paperback she was reading face down on her lap and propped her chin on her fist. “What’s with the ants in your pants?”

  “I’m waiting for someone.” She side-eyed her sister. Maggie watched her with her dark, permanently curious eyes. If they were closer, Sutton might confess nerves and uncertainty.

  She forced herself still when his car made the turn onto River Street, which meant her pent-up nervous energy was trapped. Her internal organs danced a jig. When he entered, she locked eyes with him, and everything inside of her settled down like a cat finding its favorite spot in the sun.

  She smiled, but he didn’t smile back. Not immediately. His gaze raked her from head to toe with such intensity, her toes curled. For a long moment, she was content to have him in her eyesight.

  “Are you in need of my stellar fashion advice?” The corner of his mouth quirked as he weaved his way through the racks.

  Her smile widened if that was possible, and she closed the distance between them, no longer content to just see him. She allowed her hand to brush lightly against his arm below the black sleeve of his T-shirt.

  “Hey, Mags, you mind if I take Wyatt down to the Quilting Bee?” Sutton asked.

  “No problem. Slow afternoon anyway.” Her sister sounded close to laughter, but Sutton didn’t look away from Wyatt, her gaze hungry after so many days apart.

  He opened the boutique’s door and gestured her through. “Are we going to join a quilting circle?”

  “Not exactly. I had the spark of an idea at the pig picking, and I’m thinking the Quilting Bee is the best place to put out some feelers.”

  “You going to fill me in or let it be a surprise?”

  She stopped under the shady overhang on the sidewalk. “Two words: Car. Widows.”

  He took a deep breath and on the exhale said, “What?”

  “Widows whose husbands passed away and left cars behind. Cars that the wife might not be interested in maintaining. Mrs. Knowles has an ’82 LeBaron sitting in her garage gathering dust.”

  “That’s one of the ugliest cars known to man and a dime a dozen.” He crossed his arms over his chest, emphasizing his biceps.

  She had the urge to trace the bulge of muscle with a fingertip, but tucked her hands between her and the brick wall instead. “But how many neglected cars are sitting in garages around Cottonbloom? Surely one or two will be worth your talents.”

  He considered her before a slow smile spread across his face, crinkling his eyes. “You may be on to something. When we go to trade shows, we target men for the most part. But realistically how many widows are wandering Cottonbloom?”

  “I don’t know, but this is the place to start.” She nodded toward the door. “Are you game?”

  “I’m up for anything you suggest, darling’.”

  His suggestive drawl hit her blood stream like a sugar rush. Was he talking cars or something else entirely? He’d invaded her dreams every night since that first “give ’em something to talk about” kiss on her front porch.

  “Let’s start here and see what happens, shall we?” With him, her flirty tone came naturally, and he responded by propping a hand on the bricks by her head and leaning in. The gleam in his eye made her feel less like a pity project or an agreement and more like a woman.

  Two ladies stepped out of the Quilting Bee and cast them curious looks. Even though being seen was the point of their alliance, this moment didn’t feel like it was for the benefit of stoking the rumors. It felt private and personal.

  Or was it simply the product of her overactive imagination? Her nerve dissolved under the summer sun and threat of an audience. She straightened and slipped out of the cage he’d drawn around her with his body.

  “I’ll introduce you around. If none of the ladies here have cars stashed away, maybe they know of someone who does.” She led the way inside the Quilting Bee before he could question her weirdness.

  Ms. Effie held her arms out but bypassed Sutton for Wyatt. “Wyatt Abbott. I was telling Hyacinth last Sunday that I hadn’t seen you at church in a coon’s age.” Ms. Effie gave him a hug and stepped back, still patting both his arms. “I was getting ready to invent some car problem so I could check up on you boys.”

  “We’re same old, same old. And you don’t have to make anything up. We always have coffee brewed, and I’ll make myself available to share a cup anytime.” Wyatt’s charm was easy and natural and genuine.

  With a hold on Wyatt’s wrist, Ms. Effie leaned toward Sutton as if imparting a secret. “I used to be sweet on their daddy, but his mistress was that dadgum garage. When not even my cupcakes won his heart, I gave up. But I kept a soft spot for these boys. I’m glad to see you two keeping time.”

  Heat flushed through Sutton despite the churning air conditioner. “Yes, well…” she cleared her throat and cast a pleading look toward Wyatt which he answered with only a quirk of his lips.

  “Now, what can I do you for?” Ms. Effie asked. “Interested in a quilt?”

  “Actually, we’re here because I had an idea to help the Abbotts’ garage,” she said.

  “Do tell, but come over here and do it while I straighten the fabric remnants.”

  They followed her to the far corner where quilting squares of all different patterns and shades were stacked in cubbies. She joined Ms. Effie in refolding stacks that had been riffled through by customers.

  Wyatt pulled up a chair and gest
ured with two fingers. “Give me some.”

  While the three of them folded, Sutton explained, encouraged by Ms. Effie’s hums. “I don’t suppose you have an interesting car tucked away somewhere?” Sutton finally asked.

  Ms. Effie gave an unladylike snort. “The only thing my no-good husband left worth keeping was my son, but I might know some ladies who would fit the bill. I certainly don’t mind spreading the word.”

  Sutton clutched a piece of fabric to her chest, wanting to jump up and down and hug someone, preferably Wyatt. “Thank you so much.”

  She and Wyatt stayed to finish the job, and Sutton wasn’t surprised at all to see him lean down to give the old lady a kiss on the cheek. “There’s a coffee cup waiting on you at the garage, you hear?”

  “I’ll be by soon to let you know how I get on.” Ms. Effie waved them off. “You two run along and have fun.”

  Once they were back on the sidewalk, Sutton’s excitement boiled over. She did an impromptu clog she’d learned during her years in dance. “Why aren’t you more excited? This could be huge.”

  “You’re more than enough excited for us both.” His laugh was good-natured, but his next words deflated her balloon of excitement. “If Tarwater taught me anything, it’s not to count my cars until they pull into the garage, and sometimes not even then.”

  “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t help but feel responsible for the predicament she’d left him and his brothers to handle.

  He grabbed her hand and maneuvered her into a narrow cutout between brick storefronts, affording them a modicum of privacy. “Hold up. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “But, if I had—”

  “Gone ahead and married that lying sack?”

  She gave a little laugh. “Not much of an option, huh?”

  He reached out and fingered a piece of her hair. She froze, not even daring to take a breath. “What are you doing this evening?” he asked.

  “N-nothing.” Her date with a pair of sweat pants and her latest design project could wait.

  “Do you want to get a little wild?”

  Her rise to the challenge in his voice was becoming easier. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “There’s a bonfire tonight.”

  “Are we invited?”

  Laughter burst from him, and he was so close, she could feel the vibrations.

  “What’s so funny?” Even though she had a feeling he was laughing at her, she found herself smiling.

  “I’m picturing one of the boys getting formal invitations printed up on flowery stationary. As long as you have a couple of bucks for the keg, then you’re welcome.”

  “Even though I’m not a swamp—” She cut herself off before the derogatory nickname made it completely out.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure there will be some other ’Sips out there slumming it.” His tone remained good-natured.

  “In that case, I’d love to go.” She smoothed her skirt. “Should I change?”

  His gaze skimmed down her body, leaving a path of awareness in its wake. “You look perfect. Let’s grab some food before we head out.”

  While they waited for the sun to go down, they shared a pizza before loading into his Hornet. Two-lane country roads led them into a part of the parish she’d never explored. Her jitters grew with every mile and escalated when he turned off pavement and onto the dirt lane. Rains had gouged twin tire tracks, leaving them muddy. The back wheels of the car spun in a particularly deep rut.

  “Are we stuck?” She clutched the dashboard with both hands.

  “Not for long.” He backed up to gain traction and took a different tack, slipping and sliding and rocking through the ruts. “I probably should have stopped off at the garage for a work truck though.”

  “Because we’re not going to make it?”

  “Because cleaning up the undercarriage of this car is going to take hours.” He shot a smile in her direction and patted her knee. “Even if we did get stuck, we’d get a tow out or a ride home. No worries.”

  His hand remained on her knee, his fingers curling to brush the sensitive underside. Now she was nervous for entirely different reasons. Confusion ran roughshod through her thoughts. No one was there to bear witness to his touch.

  The steering wheel jerked, and he grabbed it with both hands, keeping them moving forward toward the tree line. They left the rain-soaked field behind for higher pine-needle-strewn ground. His headlights glinted off metal and chrome through the trees. He broke through the narrow copse and parked next to a black truck.

  With the engine off, whoops and hollers drifted from the crowd gathered around the bonfire. Jeans and shorts with tank tops or tees were all she saw.

  “You ready?” He had his door open and one foot out.

  She opened up the visor and checked herself in the vanity mirror. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “What? You look fine.”

  “I look fine if I was headed to a church potluck.” The cut of the white blouse and length of the skirt were too prim.

  Surely she could manipulate her clothes into something that said “party” and not “bible study.” She rolled the waistband of her skirt, taking a couple of inches off the length. Next, she popped the top button of her blouse. She thrust her shoulders back and turned to him. “Is that better?”

  * * *

  The cleavage she’d exposed would be considered tame by any normal man’s judgement. Obviously, his judgment was impaired, because the curves inspired a litany of gibberish he barely managed to contain to a grunt.

  “Ohmigod, you’re right. I still look like a Mary-Sue.” With one hand, she popped another button open and shimmied until her chest was exposed to her bra line. “Better?”

  “Better.” If his voice sounded like it had been beaten against river rocks, she didn’t comment on it.

  She pushed the door open. He fumbled with his door handle while trying to coax blood flow from his little brain back to his big one. By the time he emerged, she was waiting and linked her arm through his.

  “To make this look real I should laugh at all your dumb jokes, right?”

  His gaze snagged on lacy edge of her bra, but with brain functions restored, he raised his eyes to safer regions. “You should laugh if you feel like laughing, and what do you mean by dumb jokes? I’m hilarious.”

  “One of your exes tell you that?” In the flickering flames of the bonfire, her eyes twinkled and sparked all different colors.

  “The gauntlet has been thrown. My mission tonight will be to get you to laugh so hard beer comes out of your nose.”

  She made an eww sound and gave him a playful hip bump. The mingling groups of people around them were blurs in his periphery.

  Someone grabbed his upper arm. “Dude, did you not hear me calling?”

  He turned and met the smiling eyes of Jace Abbott, five years his junior and a cousin, once or twice removed. “Hey, man.”

  “It’s been forever since you’ve graced us with your presence.” Jace’s smile was lopsided and had charmed more than one country girl into the bed of his truck to watch the stars come out. It was also aimed at Sutton.

  Wyatt slipped his arm around her shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Jace while making brief introductions. They exchanged pleasantries and small talk, until something his cousin said made Sutton laugh a little too heartily.

  Wyatt beat back the green-tinted splinters that worked themselves into his psyche. Sutton Mize was not his. She was only pretending to be his no matter how convincing her smile and lean into him was.

  Wyatt led her toward the keg at the far edge of the crowd. Because he hadn’t been around as much lately and was with Sutton, friends and family stopped him to chat and get introduced.

  Once he reached the keg, he stuffed a twenty into a red solo cup sitting on a stool and filled two cups from the spout. He handed one to Sutton and drank half his down in one go.

  Delmar Fournette, an old swamp rat with bowed legs and a talent on the mandolin, clapped W
yatt on the shoulder on his way to the stool. He perched on the edge and tuned his instrument.

  Delmar was one of those men whose age was indeterminate, but the impression was one of vast experience yet a feeling he’d be around forever. Wyatt remembered him stopping by the shop to visit with his pop in the evenings, sometimes with his mandolin. The plaintive notes would echo against the concrete of the bays and give a brief, melancholy life to the inanimate nuts and bolts.

  “How’re you doing, old man?” Wyatt asked.

  “Fair to middling. Can’t complain.” He strummed a few chords. “Miss your father.”

  The chords settled into a Cajun-flavored song that had been his pop’s favorite, and Wyatt’s whispered “Me too” was lost in the music.

  More and more lately, he sought a missing part of himself that had nothing to do with drinking a few beers and exchanging laughs. That good-old-boy persona felt like a shirt he’d outgrown. The disquiet had besieged him even before his pop’s death, but the magnitude of that earthquake had forever changed the landscape. The achingly familiar music sent aftershocks through him.

  Sutton’s expression was serious, equal amounts of worry and curiosity on display.

  “You want to walk down to the river?” he asked.

  She would be well within rights to mount a protest. A retreat wasn’t what he’d offered or what she’d signed up for. She’d come for a party. An experience. If she insisted on returning to mix with the crowd, he would paste on a smile and show her a good time.

  “Sure. Let’s go.” She slid her hand into his. “There isn’t a chance we could run across an alligator, is there?”

  “Probably not with all this noise.” He thumbed over his shoulder as they strolled toward the dark, silent tree line.

  “Probably not? Don’t tease me about this, Wyatt. My mother terrified me with stories of little Mississippi girls wandering off and getting dragged all the way across state lines by gators.” Echoes of childish fear pitched her voice high.

  “Sounds to me like your mother spoon-fed you some tall tales. She didn’t want you near the river or Louisiana, if I had to guess.” He didn’t add that while not yet common, as more people built along the coast shrinking their habitat, gators had been spotted along the river on both sides of Cottonbloom.