Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  “How so?” He knew he was pushing her past her comfort zone and rubbed his hands up and down her back to impart support.

  “You make me laugh and protect me and make me feel … normal. I want to be with you. If you’ll still have me.” She bit her bottom lip as if waiting for him to pass judgment.

  He cupped her face. “I’ll have you, if you’ll have me. I’m sorry if I made you feel used or cheap last night, and I’m especially sorry for what I said in the truck. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Yes, you should have. I was running scared.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists and tilted her face toward his.

  Finally, it seemed, they were beginning to understand each other. He half-smiled and leaned in for a kiss, but stopped a hairsbreadth from her lips. “By the way, I love you too, Tallulah.”

  He swooped in before she could do anything but gasp. Their shared memories flavored the kiss, but a sprinkling of something new added a tenderness and a promise of new memories.

  He broke away, breathing hard and wishing they were anywhere but in the middle of town. Preferably somewhere with a bed and air conditioning. He could sense the gazes of five women.

  The devil on his shoulder—strike that, it had set up camp farther south—urged him to text his father to cancel their lunch. He wouldn’t though. His sense of responsibility was strong. He supposed he had his aunt to thank for that.

  He groaned against her temple. “I have to go to Baton Rouge to meet my father.”

  “I’ve taken the day off, I can come with you.”

  “You want to come with me?” He didn’t want a witness to what was sure to be an emasculating, mortifying experience. Please say no, part of him begged.

  “You came to Uncle Del’s. I’m coming.” In her tone was an immovable strength and in that strength, he found comfort.

  “All right. You need anything or can you head from here?”

  She grabbed her purse while he opened the passenger door of the Defender for her. She snaked an arm around his neck and kissed him, her lips firm, the contact too brief. The meaning was clear. He could count on her.

  He tooted the horn and waved at the ladies crowded around the front window of the Quilting Bee. They all waved back, and he suppressed a guffaw.

  Tally scrunched down in the seat. “What will your aunt say?”

  “Actually, she urged me to make things right with you. I was heading out to find you.” He gave her a brief rundown on what his aunt had confessed.

  “Do you think they’ll start dating?” Her small smile was at once hopeful and incredulous.

  “No clue. Aunt Leora actually blushed. And giggled.”

  Tally’s response was laughter. They blew past the Cottonbloom Parish line on the way to Baton Rouge, and his thoughts moved from his aunt to the upcoming meeting.

  His father was a mystery. People on the Louisiana side of the river often asked after him, giving a he’s-a-good-man nod and murmur. Was he a good man? Nash honestly couldn’t judge.

  “How long has it been since you saw him last?”

  “College. Last time we talked on the phone was right before my postdoc in Edinburgh. Otherwise, it’s been sporadic emails.”

  “Family is tough. You know Cade and I hardly spoke for a few years after I graduated high school.”

  “I didn’t know.” The siblings’ bonds had seemed unbreakable. When he’d been small, he’d envied Tally her big, protective brothers. “Why?”

  “Because I refused to go to college. It would have been a waste, and Cade had already sacrificed so much for me and Sawyer.” She shook her head and sighed. “He thought I was rejecting him or what he’d done for us. I had kept my dyslexia a secret for so long, I couldn’t tell him. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t a weirdo.”

  “I like weirdos. In fact, I’m a weirdo too.” He slipped a hand around her shoulders and massaged her neck. She gave a little laugh and laid a kiss on the inside of his elbow. Goose bumps rippled up his arm.

  “Everything is good now. Great, even. Maybe this is your father trying to form a relationship with you.”

  “He and I don’t exactly have many common interests.”

  “I said the same thing about us, if you remember,” she said dryly. “Anyway, you both have the river, right?”

  His chuckle contained more sarcasm than humor. “Not sure how long we can discuss mudbugs.”

  “I’ll be there to diffuse any awkwardness.” Her hand roamed up and down his inner thigh.

  “If you keep that up, we’re going to find another back road and won’t make it to Baton Rouge.”

  Her hand made a quick pass over the front of his pants before retreating to lay primly in her lap. “I’ll try to keep my hands—and mouth—off until tonight.”

  His foot twitched on the accelerator, making them lurch forward. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “You’ll have to wait to find out, Professor.”

  He loved the tease in her voice. It hinted at the ease that was growing between them, and what their relationship could become. Soon enough, he parked the Defender on a side street a block from the restaurant. He grabbed her hand and stepped inside, his gaze pinging off the occupants. He didn’t see his dad.

  They took a booth and sat on the same side, facing the door. Nash checked his phone. No texts. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his dad bailed. In fact, he would welcome the reprieve.

  Tally put her hand over his, stilling his unconscious nervous tapping. “It’s going to be fine. No worries.”

  His father had picked a casual Italian place close to the dock. A good portion of the lunch crowd wore uniformed shirts with their name embroidered on the breast. It seemed this was a gathering place for people getting off or heading in for their shifts.

  The bell over the door tinkled. Cement shot through Nash’s limbs. His father stood inside the door and looked around the room, his gaze brushing over Nash but moving on. He had aged. His hair had thinned and faded from brown to gray, and he looked rangier. He wasn’t wearing the oil company’s uniform, but jeans and a red T-shirt.

  As if it belonged to someone else, Nash’s hand raised and waved, drawing his father’s attention. He was ensnared by his father’s gaze. White noise filled the space between the buzzing conversations and the soft music.

  Tally was on the outside and stood, a smile on her face and her hand outstretched. His father grasped Tally’s hand in a shake, and they exchanged the trite greetings of acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in years. His father didn’t give any indication he was surprised to see her there. Stuck inside the booth, Nash offered his hand next and held his breath.

  In his memories, his father’s hands had been stuff of legend. Huge and wound with strong tendons. Now, his hand was no bigger than Nash’s, his knuckles gnarled and the skin thinner with prominent blue veins. His father slipped to the middle of the bench seat opposite Nash and Tally. Under the table, Nash groped for Tally’s hand. She threaded her fingers through his. Her touch calmed him, made it easier to breathe. He didn’t want to have an asthma attack in front of his father.

  “You look good, Nash.” His father fired first. “Finally got some muscle on you.”

  His lack of athletic prowess as an adolescent had needled his father. He’d wanted a popular, football-playing jock—like him. Instead, he’d gotten a skinny, comic book–reading nerd. That was a history that couldn’t be rewritten.

  “What’s up, Dad?”

  “I was surprised to hear you were back in the States. Figured you were done with us. You’re teaching up at Cottonbloom College?” His father relaxed into the corner of the booth and set his arm along the back, shifting so he didn’t have to make eye contact.

  “Will be in the fall.”

  “Wished you’d emailed me or called or something earlier. A kick to hear about my son from someone else.”

  If Nash had to put an emotion behind the tone, he would’ve have picked hurt. “I didn’t think you’d care
.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed as if he was flinching from a near hit. “What are you doing this summer? Hanging out?”

  “Working on a research paper.” An old defensiveness crept into his voice. His father thought reading books had been a waste of time and studying history even worse. In his father’s eyes, the only worthy work involve copious amounts of blood, sweat, and tears.

  “Nash is being modest, Mr. Hawthorne. He’s going to write a book.” Pride fired Tally’s words. He wanted to lean over and kiss her right then and there.

  “Something exciting or history?”

  Tally huffed. “History is exciting.”

  Nash squeezed her hand hard enough to get her to turn. Not caring what his father thought, he kissed her, a simple brush of his lips over hers.

  “So you two, huh?” His father pointed back and forth between them.

  Nash nodded. “Yep.”

  A silence descended, and Nash wished the server would make an appearance. His father toyed with the knife and fork rolled in a paper napkin.

  Nash chewed on his bottom lip before saying, “How’s life in the Gulf?”

  His father stopped fiddling. “They tell me I’ve gotten too old for the rig. Time to hang up my boots. I’m retiring.” His father delivered the news like a diagnosis of terminal cancer.

  Nash wasn’t sure what was expected of him. Commiseration or congratulations. He settled on logic. “They can’t force you out because of your age.”

  “I made a couple of mistakes. Everyone does sometimes, usually it’s not a big deal, but they documented them, used them against me. It was either take retirement or get fired. Everything is automated now, and they don’t need as many men out there.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. That’s terrible. What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t really know. That rig … after your mother died, it’s all I had left.”

  Nash tried to summon the sympathy his father was after. He tried really hard. Instead, anger welled up from a place he’d hidden from everyone—even himself. He pulled his hand out of Tally’s and leaned over the table.

  “You had me after Mom died. You left three days after her funeral for that goddamn rig. It’s like when Mom died, I died too for all you cared.”

  His father had paled, his face tinged gray, the deep grooves along his mouth standing in relief. The waiter chose that moment to approach their table with a smile pasted on his face. They put in drink orders, but Nash waved him away when he started reeling off the specials. Anything he tried to eat would get stuck in his throat.

  Once the waiter was out of earshot, his father picked the conversation up where they’d left it. “I loved your mother, Nash, I did. She was a sweet woman. Sensitive. I couldn’t watch her die like that … slow and painful. I’ll admit I was a coward to let Leora take care of her. And afterward too. It was easier to let Leora have her way with you. She had more to offer you than I did.”

  Slivers of truth intersected his childish pain, and his next lash was weaker. “When you were on leave, you were always itching to get back to the rig.”

  His father ran a hand through his hair, mussing the neat comb lines and exposing white scalp. Although he turned to face Nash, his gaze was focused somewhere over his shoulder as if looking into the past. “Look, I never meant to get married. Got your mom pregnant on one of my leaves. I did the right thing by her though. Never wanted a kid, but there you were.”

  Words injected like poisoned darts. Unwanted. Mistake.

  His father’s gaze finally slipped to meet his. “But you were sweet like your mama. Hardly ever cried. Smiled all the time. Soon as you could talk, you asked me questions like I had all the answers. But I didn’t. Not hardly. You didn’t have no interest in tossing a ball. Always had your nose in a book.”

  “I was a kid, Dad. You could have taken me for ice cream, taken me to the movies, taken me fishing. It wasn’t complicated.”

  “You were some crazy smart prodigy. And, look at you now, a professor. I don’t know nothing about all those dead folks you’re so interested in. My life has been keeping the oil flowing. And now…”

  Nash sensed his father was at a crossroads and looking for a sign. Part of him wanted to leave his father there, lost and wandering and unwanted. The waiter returned with their drinks.

  “You could come up to Cottonbloom until you figure things out.” The words felt pried from his mouth.

  “You sure?” His father’s eyes sparked. “That would be great. Do you have an extra bed or even a couch I could borrow for a couple of weeks? Just until I can find work.”

  Maybe there was justice in the world. Nash knew his smile contained more than a fair amount of diabolical glee. “Actually, I’m living in Aunt Leora’s guest cottage, but she’s rattling around in that old house of hers. I’m sure she’d be delighted to offer you a room.”

  His father winced, but nodded. “Not sure delight will be her first emotion. I respect her though. She took care of your mama until the end. For a while, I thought she’d be strong enough for the both of them.”

  “Aunt Leora’s getting older and needs more help. That’s one of the reasons I came back to Cottonbloom.”

  His father dropped his gaze to the table and rubbed his hands together. “I guess no one can outrun the years, but I’m not ready to be put to pasture.”

  An awkward silence descended. Tally said, “Nash loves to fly-fish, Mr. Hawthorne. Maybe he could take you out on the river sometime.”

  Nash cast a side-eye glance toward her.

  “I didn’t know you still liked to fish, son. What kind of bait do you use?”

  Now that they had tread into one of man’s sacred subjects, the conversation flowed and the tension ebbed. Nash pulled out his phone to share pictures of one of his fishing trips in Scotland. As he flipped through the pictures, a photo of a crypt under a northern English church flashed.

  His father touched his hand. “What was that?”

  Nash flipped back. “It’s thought to be the final resting place of one of the Knights Templar.” He zoomed in on the stone carving along the lid of the coffin, pointing at various elements and explaining their meaning. Sometime during the lecture, his father had sat back in the booth and crossed his arms.

  “Dang son, you nearly got me excited about some old dead guy. You really love this stuff, huh?”

  “You find pumping oil miles out of the ground exciting. I find dead guys exciting.”

  “All right. Show me more.” The slow nod his father gave seemed to hold a deeper acceptance than a simple affirmative.

  Nash didn’t stop to examine the childlike satisfaction he got from explaining each picture to his father. Maybe his father was humoring him, maybe he was attempting to mend the years of distance, maybe he really was interested. Nash didn’t care.

  By the time he’d finished, their drinks were empty and the waiter was sending them unhappy looks. The three of them slid out of the booth. Nash threw a bigger tip than the waiter earned on the table.

  His father had always seemed larger than life and intimidating as hell. Now, they stood eye to eye, and Nash had at least thirty pounds on him. They walked into a damp inferno and stopped on the sidewalk. Nash took a deep breath of salty air. He preferred the loamy, swampy air of Cottonbloom to the salt. Always had.

  “I should probably give Aunt Leora some warning else she might pass out on the front stoop. When do you want to head up?”

  His father looked in the direction of the ocean, even though it wasn’t visible from where they stood. “Nothing keeping me here. How about I come up tomorrow? That too soon?”

  A frisson of shock rocked through Nash. His father had no one. “Not at all.”

  His father rocked on his feet. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then? Hope I’ll be seeing more of you, Tally.”

  “I’m sure you will, Mr. Hawthorne.” Tally offered her hand, but his father pulled her in for a half hug.

  “Your parents were good people. I
was too lost in my own grieving to offer you much back then, and I’m sorry for it. Call me Jack, please.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  His father stuck his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and smiled, backing away a few steps before turning and walking down the street. Nash stood there until his father disappeared around a corner.

  “Wow, that was interesting.” Tally’s ironically given understatement made him chuckle.

  “Not at all what I expected.”

  “It’s good though, isn’t it?” She weaved their fingers together as they walked to his truck.

  “You think?”

  “It’s a second chance, Nash.”

  They climbed into the truck and he cranked the engine, but didn’t shift immediately into drive. The air conditioning barely made headway through the scorching heat inside. Strangers walked past them, each one with their own stories of heartache to tell or secrets to keep.

  “When your mother died, you lost both your parents, didn’t you? Just like me. I didn’t realize…” She shifted toward him and traced her fingertips over the tattoo on his biceps.

  He caught her hand in his. “He was alive. Out there. I teetered between wanting to make him proud and wanting to give him the finger.”

  “It was nice to offer him a place to stay.”

  “Even if it was with Aunt Leora?”

  Her lips quirked. “Even so. Seems to me she’s softening with the years.”

  “Thanks for coming with me.”

  “It’s what a girlfriend does, right?”

  Something flared between them, something he wasn’t sure he could define, something that instilled fear and joy. He jerked the shifter into drive and got them headed toward home.

  They didn’t talk much on the trip back to Cottonbloom. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t protest when he drove them to his place. They were finally on the same page of the same book.

  She took his hand and pulled him up the stairs to his loft bedroom. She slipped his glasses off and set them aside. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor like a white flag of surrender.