Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  “Sure. He’s smart and seems responsible.” He made a turn onto a busy downtown street. “We’ve been playing online chess.”

  “Chess?” The unexpectedness incited a spate of giggles.

  “He’s good. Beat me several times which—not to toot my own horn—doesn’t happen often.” Not a hint of jealousy or animosity colored his expression, and she relaxed into the seat.

  He pulled up to the curb in front of a restaurant with a French name she couldn’t pronounce, much less translate. A valet opened her door and offered his hand, his eyes on her cleavage. She automatically splayed a hand over her chest while Nash handed his keys over.

  Nash chuckled, took her hand in his, and guided her inside the dim, cozy restaurant. A parquet dance floor took up a good amount of space, with a grand piano in the corner. Booths lined the walls and white tablecloth–covered tables dotted the rest of the floor. It was what she imagined a bistro in Paris might look like.

  “This is really nice.” She leaned closer to whisper to him. The faint sound of music overlaid murmured conversations. The atmosphere was hushed like a library or a museum.

  The maître-d’ led them to a booth with a horseshoe-shaped bench. She scooted inside and he joined her from the other side, their knees touching. A menu made of rich, thick paper lay on top of their salad plates.

  Fancy script danced across the page. She didn’t recognize a single word. Panic loomed. Heat whooshed through her body, the skin of her forehead prickling. This was worse than any of her high school tests. She squinted at the words, willing them to make sense. Didn’t help.

  Nash tugged at the menu. She was clamping the sides so tight, the thick paper had wrinkled. “The translation is on the back.”

  “Translation?” She forced her fingers to loosen. He flipped the menu over.

  “Yeah, French into English. Unless you know French?”

  Relief poured over her like a cold shower. “I don’t.” Her relief was short-lived. The translation was written in tiny script as if punishing anyone who dared not know French. She glanced over at Nash. He was running a finger down the French side of the menu. Of course, he could read French.

  She sank back into the buttery leather of the booth and pushed the menu away. “Why don’t you order for me?”

  The candlelight reflected off his lenses, so she couldn’t determine the emotion behind the look he shot her. “You sure?”

  It was either that or eeny, meeny, miny, mo. “Why not?”

  A waiter wearing a stiff-looking tuxedo shirt and black pants returned. He and Nash conversed in French, with Nash pointing at various things on the menu. The waiter nodded, but didn’t write anything down before retreating.

  “You’re fluent in French?” She toyed with the largest of the forks at the side of her plate.

  “Had to learn. Most recorded history in the time I’m interested in was done in French. I’m better at reading it than speaking it though.”

  Of course, he was. Tally bobbled one of the forks, and it landed against the plate with a jarring clank that drew nearby eyes. The same prickling panic heated her body. She slipped her hands under the table and fisted them in her lap.

  The waiter returned with a bottle of wine and sloshed a little in Nash’s glass. Nash tried it and nodded his approval. Once her glass was full, she grabbed it like a lifeline and took two big swallows. It was smooth and delicious and probably expensive.

  “Have you ever sent a bottle back?”

  Nash huffed a laugh while he settled back into the booth and slipped an arm over the back, tickling the hair against her neck. “No. But I’ve seen it happen. When you’re paying a hundred dollars for a bottle—”

  She choked on a sip, performing a classic spit-take. This time the gazes she drew seemed more disapproving than curious. She shouldn’t be allowed to eat anywhere but Rufus’s Meat and Three. They served sweet tea and used plastic plates.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine, fine,” she managed to sputter out between coughs. She pointed at the bottle with a castle on the label. “Was that a hundred dollars?”

  “Enjoy it.”

  That was as good as a yes. “Nash. Seriously. You shouldn’t.”

  “Shouldn’t what? Try to make tonight special? Try to make you feel special?”

  She stared at the wine label not sure how to respond. Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms while the other part wanted to walk out the door and keep on going. Her compromise was to stay exactly where she was.

  The waiter delivered their salads. She picked up the smallest fork—she’d seen enough movies to know which one to go for—and moved the six or so curly lettuce leaves around.

  Their talk after that was small, seemingly unimportant, yet nuances of his character emerged with his funny stories of travelling through Europe or dealing with the politics of universities. Her tension cooled from a boil to a simmer.

  Their entrées arrived and the waiter slid her plate in front of her with a dramatic flourish. She startled and let out a gasp. A fish eyed her—literally. Her stomach turned. She hated fish.

  “I ordered trout for you. If you don’t want it, we can switch.”

  She pressed her lips together. He had a tiny round steak and stack of au gratin potatoes on his plate. Rufus’s Meat and Three was looking better and better.

  A mature, functioning adult would have sent the plate back and asked for something different. No telling what Nash was being forced to pay for the food. Apparently, she didn’t qualify as mature or functioning.

  Fish had been a staple of her diet growing up. Even if his traps stayed empty, Cade always managed to catch a fish to supplement the cans of pork and beans and boxes of mac and cheese from the food bank. Hunger wasn’t an abstract concept for her, and she’d been conditioned to eat whatever was put in front of her. But as soon as she’d left the trailer and had money of her own, she stopped eating fish.

  She flaked off chunks and forced them down with swallows of wine. Halfway through, her head got swimmy from the alcohol. On the plus side, her buzz made the fish more palatable. She managed to eat everything except its head. She spread the napkin over the carcass like she’d seen policemen do to dead people on TV shows. A giggle snuck out.

  “Do you want to try my steak? It’s really good.” He held out a speared piece on his fork. She covered his hand with hers and guided the fork to her mouth. The meat was so tender and delicious she gave a little moan.

  His naughty half smile rearranged her insides and made her feel even more lightheaded. Movement in one corner drew her attention away from him. One man shuffled sheet music on the piano while another settled behind a stand-up bass.

  “Are you ready to get your groove on?” Nash’s smile widened.

  The men launched into the first piece of music. It took a moment to recognize the jazzy version of a Frank Sinatra song.

  “Pretty sure Old Blue Eyes wasn’t on the DJ’s set list for either of our proms.”

  “True. While I’d love to see you shake it, this will be better.” He stood and held out a hand.

  Her gaze darted from his hand to the empty dance floor. “No one else is dancing.”

  “Thought you were wild and reckless. Come on, I dare you.”

  She rolled her eyes, slapped one hand into his, and scooted out of the booth, adjusting her skirt with the other. It felt like every eyeball in the restaurant was focused on them. Her overindulgence of wine was amplified once she was up and walking. Her ankle rolled over once in the heels, but she corrected herself, only feeling a slight twinge.

  Once on the wooden parquet floor, he pulled her close, his chin and cheek smooth against her temple. He skimmed fingertips down the exposed line of her spine leaving a trail of sensation. She closed her eyes to block out the room and tried to relax in his arms, but couldn’t. She didn’t belong in a world of hundred-dollar bottles of wine and fish served unfried and dancing to live music in a pretentious French restaurant.

  Nash
was wrong. She wasn’t wild. She wasn’t brave. She was a coward.

  * * *

  Tally swayed like they were at a middle school dance, her hands on his shoulders, her body stiff. The evening should have been amazing. Special. He’d planned on wooing her back to his bed. As soon as he’d seen her dress, he’d imagined peeling it off her. Instead, an off-key note marred the vibe, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint the source to muffle it. Was it his choice of restaurants or the cost of the wine? Was something wrong with him?

  After two songs, she pulled back. “I’m getting kind of tired. It was a long day at the gym. You mind if we head back.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  She nodded, slipped out of his arms, and headed toward their booth. She sat on the edge of the seat while he settled the bill.

  An awkward silence descended while they waited at the curb for the valet to bring his Defender around. He helped her inside and politely put off the young valet who wanted to ask him questions about the truck.

  The town lights faded, leaving the cab lit only by the dim instrument panel. A half-moon rose above the pines and wispy clouds dashed across the sky.

  “What’s wrong?” He glanced over at her, but she was angled toward the side window, physically and emotionally disengaged from him.

  “Nothing.”

  He might not be a world champion at interpreting women, but when a woman said “nothing” in that vague, distant way, she meant “something is wrong, and I don’t want to talk about it” or maybe “you have royally screwed up, and I never want to see you again.” Either way, he was in trouble.

  He debated. He needed to ease them back into a comfortable, harmonious zone. “So … I stumbled on a box of Aunt Leora’s letters and pictures the other day from fifty plus years ago.”

  “Did you read them?” Her head turned toward him, and she shifted her knees over. A start.

  “Not exactly. She was crying—”

  “Your aunt was crying?” She said it as if he’d informed her he’d seen a pig sprout wings.

  He could almost feel the oddness of the last few hours leak out onto the road as they drew closer to Cottonbloom. Even if he didn’t understand it, he was thankful their old ease was returning. “She’s not a robot. I know she has her prejudices, but deep down she’s a good person.”

  “You’re talking really deep, right? Like dig-a-hole-to-China deep?”

  A hint of tease was back in her voice, and he gave a gusty laugh-sigh. “I didn’t pry too far, but there was a picture of a U.S. serviceman on top. Good-looking guy. Vietnam era. I checked one letter, and it seems my aunt and that man were engaged to be married. He signed the letter D. Aunt Leora said he didn’t make it back.”

  “That’s terrible.” Sadness replaced her earlier tease. “Uncle Delmar served in Vietnam, but he never talks about it.”

  His hands twitched. Delmar.… D. The man in the photograph had awakened a ghost of a memory. His aunt had said the man didn’t return. He assumed that meant he’d died, but maybe not. Truth resonated from the bomb Tally had unintentionally dropped.

  “What if the D in the letter was your uncle? What if Delmar and Aunt Leora were engaged?”

  Her laughter petered out into the silence of the cab. “Are you for real?” She leaned forward. “No freaking way.”

  “I saw a picture, Tally, and now you’ve said it … I think it might be him. Do you remember your parents saying anything about them being together?”

  Her hands were pressed flat on the seat, sending her shoulders to her ears. “Not that I can recall. Mama used to get frustrated with his rambling and lack of stability. I think Daddy was always giving him money, which is the only thing I ever remember them arguing about. Do you think you can get your hands on that picture again?”

  “It would involve me violating my aunt’s privacy, but probably. Or I could come out and ask her.”

  “Will she tell you the truth?”

  At one time he’d assumed his aunt would never lie to him, but now that he was an adult, he could see his aunt was as fraught with human frailty as the rest of them. It’s what drove him to dig past the recorded exploits of historical figures. He’d never failed to uncover events that could be extrapolated to explain their actions years later. It was how history came alive for him.

  “I’ve learned that the more painful the past, the deeper people try to bury it. But there’s always a trail. If my aunt denies it, we can look elsewhere.”

  Silence settled over them for several miles, but it was a different sort of silence this time. Less uncomfortable, more pensive.

  “If they were engaged, and my uncle broke it off … It would explain a lot, don’t you think?” She propped her elbow on the console and looked up at him with her chin on her fist. Her hair swung forward, and he dropped a hand from the steering wheel to play in the loose strands.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her animosity toward me. The Fournettes in general, actually.”

  He muttered a curse. “Makes a strange sort of sense.”

  She hummed and sat back in the seat. He wanted to wrap his hand in her hair and pull her toward him. He didn’t, not sure where he stood with her after the weirdness of the date. She didn’t speak again. They hit the Cottonbloom, Mississippi, limits. Street lights flashed by, illuminating her face. Her eyes were closed.

  With not a small amount of regret, he drove past the street to his aunt’s house and pulled into Tally’s lot. He parked and turned toward her, laying his arm over the back of the seat.

  She was so beautiful, her pale skin and pink lips pronounced. He twirled a piece of her hair around his finger and stroked across her cheekbone with his thumb. She startled awake, her eyes wide and fixed on him.

  “We’re home.”

  She glanced out the window. “This is my place.”

  Confusion had him hesitating. Had he made the wrong call? “You seemed tired.”

  “I am. And a little buzzed to be honest. Too much expensive wine, I guess.” She sent him a tight smile and opened the door.

  “Wait a second—”

  She hopped out. He followed suit and met her at the bumper.

  “Thanks, Nash. This was … fun.” No mistaking the lukewarm compliment.

  He’d screwed up and didn’t even know how to fix it. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Working tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Aunt Leora will probably drag me to church, but I’ll be out working on the gazebo in the afternoon. Monday too probably.”

  She backed up toward the steps to her apartment. “Maybe I’ll see you.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  She turned, climbed the stairs, and disappeared. If he was more confident where she was concerned, he would tramp up the stairs and demand that she talk to him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the truth.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tally pressed her cheek against the sun-warmed bricks of the wall and peeked around. The thwack of the nail gun echoed across the river. Nash was over there, probably shirtless and sweaty and delicious-looking.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  She yelped and spun around. Monroe’s grin and singsong voice was a mixture of joy and tease. Since Cade had returned, Monroe had shed her too-serious earnestness revealing a more playful woman. Not that she wasn’t just as dedicated to her girls at risk program, but optimism had replaced the desperation that she’d carried around for as long as Tally had known her.

  “Taking a break.”

  “In the refreshing ninety-degree-plus afternoon? Or do you mean a beefcake break?”

  Tally chuffed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tally and Nash, sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

  Tally covered Monroe’s mouth with her hand as Mrs. Carson approached them wearing a T-shirt, jogging pants, and white orthopedic tennis shoes. “That was wonderful, Miss Tallulah. I can’t wait to tell everyone about the new class. You’d best prepare yourself for a full
house next time.”

  Tally dropped her hand from Monroe’s mouth but gave her a warning glare before pasting on a smile for Mrs. Carson. “Please, call me Tally. I’m so glad you enjoyed it. I’m looking forward to next week.”

  Mrs. Carson patted her hand on the way by and made her way to the footbridge across the river.

  Monroe leaned against the brick wall in the sliver of shade it offered. “How was last night? Did the dress work its magic?”

  “It was fine. The dress was fine.” Tally stubbed the toe of her tennis shoe against a break in the cement, sending pebbling skittering.

  Tally couldn’t stop herself from leaning out to look across the river. Nash had emerged from the gazebo to chat with Mrs. Carson. He was shirtless. Did he not worry about giving Mrs. Carson a stroke? She was old, but not dead.

  Monroe let out a low whistle. “Was it disappointing? Did he not know how to work that bod?”

  Tally bit the inside of her mouth. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “It didn’t seem like the right time.”

  “Not the right time? The man took you to the nicest restaurant in a hundred-mile radius. You are obviously into him, and he’s into you. You’re both single. What’s the problem?” Tally shrugged, and Monroe rolled her eyes. “Methinks you need to join the girls for a session in self-confidence.”

  Monroe pushed off the wall, and Tally fell into step beside her. “I’m confident.”

  “You appear to be confident, but I have the feeling you’re a mass of gooey insecurities underneath your shell.”

  “Please.” Tally tried to blow off the assessment.

  Monroe pulled an about-face before they got to the door and put her hands on Tally’s shoulders. “I’m not saying I’d take the crown for Miss Confident, but I’ve worked with these young girls for long enough to recognize you’re stuck in the past. You’re judging yourself on high school standards of pass and fail. Life isn’t about being graded, and it’s okay to fail.”