Close to Home

by Jenna Bennett

  Todd, meanwhile, had a marriage and divorce of his own, and ended up back in Sweetwater, where he worked as assistant DA for the county. By now I was twenty seven and Todd twenty nine. And because we were both single again, my mother decided we should get married. Todd agreed. I didn’t.

  I liked Todd. He was everything I’ve been brought up to look for in a mate: healthy, wealthy, and white, with a good job, antecedents that go back to the War Between the States—the Civil War to you Yankees—and enough money to provide for me in the manner to which I have been brought up. I just didn’t feel for him those special feelings a woman should have for the man she plans to spend the rest of her life with.

  Yes, I went to finishing school, as a proper Southern Belle should, and that’s the kind of thing they taught us. I’ve picked up a little verbiage from reading romance novels up through the years too, and the truth was, as the books say, my heart belonged to someone else.

  That someone else was Rafael Collier, and he was pretty much my mother’s worst nightmare. If she could pick the last man on earth she’d want me to get involved with, I’m pretty sure Rafe would top the list.

  Like me and Todd, he grew up in Sweetwater. Mother had known him his whole life. Or at least known about him, because it wasn’t like the Martins and the Colliers associated. Different socio-economic levels. While Dix and I and our sister Catherine grew up in the Martin Mansion, an 1839 antebellum brick home on the north side of town, and Todd’s family owned a nice turn-of-the-twentieth-century foursquare just off the square, Rafe spent his formative years in the Bog, the trailer park on the south side. The Colliers were white trash, and then LaDonna compounded the offense by getting herself in the family way at fourteen by a colored boy. The result is that Rafe has more strikes against him than Derek Jeter, and that’s without mentioning the couple of years he spent in prison or the fact that he knocked me up.

  Yes, I’d fallen into temptation and slept with him. Once. And I’d gotten pregnant. And then I’d lost the baby. And because I hadn’t told him what was going on, and because of a long line of other misunderstandings, I lost Rafe too. He’d left town a few weeks ago, and I hadn’t heard from him since. And on top of that I’d gotten shot. And that’s what Todd was referring to when he told me he was glad I looked better.

  “Thank you, Todd.” I smiled back, although a big part of me wanted to bristle at the patronizing tone of his voice.

  I didn’t let it show. Todd means well. He’s been brought up to be a proper Southern gentleman, and it isn’t his fault that I’ve outgrown being a proper Southern Belle.

  “Are you back to work yet?”

  After divorcing Bradley Ferguson, I stayed in Nashville and got my real estate license. It’s not like I’m setting the world on fire, but I’ve managed to nail down a couple of closings in the five or six months since I started. I’m not getting rich, and the bottom of the savings account is still visible, but I’m staying afloat. And in all fairness, the fact that I keep getting dragged into police investigations hasn’t helped. It’s hard to concentrate on showing houses and negotiating deals while people drop dead all around you.

  But with Rafe out of my life, things had settled down considerably. I nodded. “I’m helping two girlfriends look for a house. Aislynn and Julie.”

  “Your girlfriends?”

  “Each other’s girlfriends,” I said.

  “And they want to buy a house together?” Todd frowned, no doubt pondering the legal ramifications. “What if they have a falling-out? Both wanting the same man, or something?”

  In Todd’s world, every girl wants a man. A man like him.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I said. “When I said they were each other’s girlfriends, I meant they were a couple.”

  “A couple of girls?”

  “Lesbians,” I said, eschewing subtlety. “They’re together. Romantically. A couple.”

  Todd looked shocked. I don’t know why, because although Sweetwater is small and backwards and planted firmly in the middle of the bible belt, there are gay people in town. I’d never met any, true, but there had to be a few. There are gay people everywhere. And Todd had spent years and years in Atlanta. Atlanta is full of alternative lifestyles. So is Nashville. He shouldn’t be shocked at the news.

  “Are you sure you should be helping them, Savannah?”

  I wanted to ask him why not. Their money is just as good as anyone else’s, and I have to pay my bills. How anyone else chooses to live their lives is none of my business. Everyone has the right to go to hell in their own way. And besides, I like them.

  But it wouldn’t do any good to get into a theological discussion with Todd—never argue with a trial lawyer, it’s a waste of breath—so I said simply, “Someone has to. And they’re nice girls.”

  “If you say so,” Todd said. He looked worried. Maybe he was afraid I’d come out of the deal wearing fatigues and a crew cut, and he’d lose all chance of convincing me to marry him.

  He didn’t have to worry about that. I’m one hundred percent heterosexual. I just don’t want to marry Todd. And it isn’t just because of Rafe, since he’s effectively out of the picture at this point. It’s more that the idea of being shackled to Todd for the rest of my life makes me break out in a cold sweat.

  Don’t get me wrong: he’s a nice guy. We have a lot in common, and as long as I squash my baser instincts, we get along just fine. He has a lot going for him, and I don’t mean to sound mercenary, but I was brought up to look at the bottom line. We Southern Belles may appear fluttery and feminine, but we have steel trap minds and calculators under the big hair. Todd would provide for me, love me, and cherish me... but unfortunately he’d also wrap me in cotton wool and put me on a shelf and never, ever let me do anything, because he’d be so afraid something would happen to me.

  A year ago, I would have been fine with that. A year ago, I’d have married him, grateful that he was rescuing me from doing it on my own. Now I wanted more.

  And ‘more’ didn’t mean Rafe. That was over and done with. He’d left me in the hospital to deal with a miscarriage on my own, and I hadn’t heard from him since. Not even when I was shot. If I’d needed a clear sign that he didn’t care about me, either of those would have done it. But the little bit of time I’d spent with him, just a few hours here and there over the past three or four months, had taught me that there are men out there who’ll let their female counterparts get off the shelf occasionally. There are even a few who won’t bother to wrap them up in the first place. Rafe hadn’t just let me do things, he’d actively encouraged me. When I needed help, he’d been there to provide it, but only after I asked. He’d made me feel like an equal in ways Todd never had, and I was comfortable with him in a way I’d never been with anyone else. Todd expected me to be proper and ladylike and demure. Rafe had no expectations. In fact, the further I got from the properly brought up Southern Belle I was supposed to be, the better he seemed to like it.

  There was probably some food for thought in that. Some big revelation about our defunct relationship. But it was something I’d have to think about some other time. Right now Todd was sitting across from me, across this really excellent meal which he was paying for, and if I couldn’t love him and agree to marry him, I could at least be polite and charming while I ate on his dime. So I put a smile on my face and changed the subject. “Have you finished your Christmas shopping yet?”

  Todd smiled back, relieved. “Not quite. It’s hard to know what to do for Dix this year.”

  And just like that, the light atmosphere was gone again.

  My brother Dixon, two years older than me, lost his wife last month. It was during that debacle and the aftermath that I got shot. And now my brother was a widower at thirty. A widower with two small children. I didn’t know what to get him for Christmas either. I’d loaded up on distractions for the girls—Barbies in sparkly dresses, soft fluffy stuffed animals, tiaras and magic wands—but all the rhinestones in the world weren�
��t going to make Dix feel better. The girls were five and three; too young to really understand what had happened. They were taking comfort in the fact that mommy was in heaven with the angels, and they could be diverted with glittery glue and a pad of paper. But Dix was facing his first Christmas without Sheila, and I had no idea what to do for him. Obviously neither did Todd.

  “I think we just have to wait,” I said. “And give him time to grieve. It isn’t easy, getting over something like that.”

  Todd nodded. “Will you come to your mother’s for Christmas this year?”

  Mother has a shindig every Christmas Eve. It brings her children together under one roof, and since the mansion is almost 5,000 square feet, there’s plenty of room for all of us. Dix has two children, and my sister Catherine and her husband have three. The whole family comes, including my Aunt Regina—my dad’s sister—and her husband, and my mother’s best friend Audrey. The others don’t spend the night, of course, since they live in Sweetwater. I do, rather than driving back to Nashville in the middle of the night.

  “I always do,” I said.

  The festivities continue the next day, with Christmas Breakfast and then Christmas Day dinner at one of my siblings’ houses. This year it would be at Catherine’s, since Dix wouldn’t want to, or know how to, cook Christmas dinner for ten or twelve.

  Todd nodded. “I’ll look forward to seeing you there, then.”

  Gah.

  I don’t know why I was surprised. Mother has been carrying on with Todd’s dad for a while now. Pauline died years ago, just like my dad, and mother and Bob have always gotten on well. I only learned about the relationship a few months back, but the others had known for longer. That’s what comes from living an hour away.

  Anyway, it wasn’t strange that she’d want Bob there on Christmas, now that the union was out in the open and everyone knew what was going on. And I suppose she had to invite Todd. He’s divorced and an only child, so it’s not like he has anywhere else to go for Christmas. Dix has been his best friend since childhood. And in spite of the miscarriage and the knowledge that I’d been involved with someone else, mother hasn’t given up on the idea that we’ll end up together.

  Todd looked coy. “What would you like Santa to bring you, Savannah?”

  Rafe, I though, and put the idea out of my mind. He was gone, he wasn’t coming back, he didn’t want me. I smiled. “Nothing. I have everything I need.”

  “Diamonds?” Todd suggested.

  “God, no.” That brought to mind engagement rings, and I couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to turn down another proposal in front of my entire family on Christmas Eve.

  “A puppy?”

  From his expression, it was almost as if he thought a puppy would make up for the baby I’d lost. My baby had been barely bigger than a blueberry when I miscarried, but after all the agonizing I’d done over whether or not to keep it, it had become very real to me. A puppy wouldn’t be the same thing at all.

  “I live in an apartment,” I said. “With a no-pets policy.”

  “I guess a kitten is out of the question too, then.”

  Um, yeah. “You could get me a goldfish. I’m allowed to have those.”

  Todd’s expression lightened. “Do you want a goldfish?”

  “Not really,” I said apologetically. “I was joking. I don’t really need a Christmas present.” There was nothing anyone could give me that I wanted. Especially Todd.

  “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

  No doubt.

  I wondered if I ought to ask him what he wanted for Christmas, but I was afraid of what the answer would be. And I’d bought him a sweater in any case.

  I speared a mushroom with my fork and lifted it to my mouth.

  “Isn’t that Collier?” Todd said, looking over my shoulder.

  I admit it: for a second, my heart skipped a beat and I almost choked. Then I realized two things: 1) he’d probably only said it to get a reaction from me—Todd was suspicious of my feelings for Rafe long before there were any feelings to speak of—and 2) there was no way he could be right.

  I swallowed the mushroom and made sure my voice was steady. “I doubt it. If he were back in town, I’m sure someone would have let me know.”

  And it probably wouldn’t have been Rafe. If he hadn’t stuck around when I lost the baby, and he didn’t get in touch after I was shot, he wouldn’t bother to call to tell me he was back in Nashville.

  I had, however, become friendly with Tamara Grimaldi, homicide detective with the Nashville PD, and she knew Rafe too, and kept tabs on him through her contact in the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations. I trusted her to let me know anything important that happened. Like, if he died. Or if he’d been shot or hospitalized. Or if he’d come back to Nashville. Since I hadn’t heard from her, Rafe couldn’t be here.

  Todd nodded, reassured by my lack of interest, and forked up another piece of veal.

  I continued my internal monologue while I chased mushrooms around my plate. Even if Rafe was back in town and nobody had bothered to tell me, he wouldn’t be here at Fidelio’s. He despises the place. I’ve had dinner with him twice, and both times he treated the fancy cuisine and snobbish waiters with irreverent amusement. He wouldn’t choose to come here unless it was with me. And since we were over and done, he had no business being here. It was probably just someone with a passing resemblance to Rafe. Todd was a little bit paranoid on the subject, so he was probably just seeing things.

  “Are you sure he’s not back in Nashville?” Todd said. “Because that really looks like him. Just the kind of woman I’d expect him to be with, too.”

  Woman?

  I twisted on my chair. “Where? I really don’t think...”

  And then my breath went when I saw that yes, it was indeed Rafael Collier on the other side of the restaurant, being shown to a romantic table for two. A table I had once shared with him, as it happened. And the woman he was with was exactly the kind of woman I would expect him to be with, too.

  A woman very much not like me, I might add.

  Like Rafe, she looked like she might be of mixed race. Long, dark hair fell straight like a waterfall down her back, and she had exotic almond-shaped eyes in a stunning face with flawless caramel skin and red lacquered lips. She was shorter than me, and even in four inch heels she barely came up to his shoulder. Granted, he’s tall—six three, give or take—but she was still on the petite side. And she was poured into a short, tight, Christmas-red dress that clung to every curve she had, and his hand was right there, on the exposed skin of her back. That, more than anything else, hurt. He was touching her. In a sort of intimate way. Skin to skin. The same way he’d touched me.

  I own a red dress too. I’d bought it to coax a proposal from Todd—this was when I thought being engaged to Todd would make me less likely to indulge in my feelings for Rafe—but when he actually came out and proposed, I’d decided I couldn’t say yes. And then I went off to find Rafe instead.

  My dress isn’t as short or as tight—hers looked like lycra; mine’s satin—but it’s also backless, and I could remember disconcertingly well the feeling of his hands on my back, warm and hard and a little rough. I could remember what happened afterwards too, and the thought that they’d be leaving Fidelio’s and going home to make love in his bed—the bed where he’d made love to me—was enough to turn the Chicken Marsala to sawdust in my mouth.

  # # #

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenna Bennett writes the Savannah Martin mystery series, as well as the bestselling Do-It-Yourself home renovation mysteries from Berkley Prime Crime under the pseudonym Jennie Bentley. A former Realtor® and home renovator, she makes her home in Nashville with a husband and two boys, a hyper-active dog, a dive-bombing parakeet, two African dwarf frogs and two goldfish. A native of Norway, she’s spent more than twenty years on US soil and still hasn’t managed to kick her native accent.

  For more information, please visit Jenna’s website: www.Jenn
aBennett.com

  CLOSE TO HOME

  Savannah Martin Mystery #4

  Nook edition

  Copyright © 2011 Bente Gallagher

  All rights reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR