“Yes, you’re right. But I’m asking you now, in light of what has happened between us, if you’ll reconsider your goal of moving to California. Is there anyway you could see yourself here, in Brody’s Crossing?”
She pulled away, turned and paced to the window. “Working in a small-town salon isn’t my dream. That’s something that hasn’t changed from the day I rode into town on that Christmas tree truck.”
He paused as he felt his heart rip. “Okay, then.” He poured himself a glass of wine, then walked to where Scarlett stood by the window. “I’ll fix dinner now.”
“I can help.”
“Okay. That would be great.” He started to turn away, but she caught his sleeve.
“Even if I can accept the idea that Bastine is to blame, I’m still sorry all this happened.”
“I know. I’m sorry, too.”
He fixed frozen chicken pot pies—one of his favorite comfort foods—and Scarlett mixed a pan of brownies for dessert. As the food baked, they drank another glass of wine and he told her about his meeting with the D.A. after lunch. They’d discovered the connection between Joan Lindell and Milton Bastine. Joan was his former step-daughter. Apparently Bastine was divorced, but Joan didn’t get along with her mother. She sided with her former step-father, whom she saw as a tragic character.
That, combined with many people’s opinion that Joan was just as nutty as Milton, made a very bad situation worse.
James hadn’t told anyone that the whole “naked” part of the accusation was true. That was no one’s business. The only thing he regretted was that they’d been interrupted. He’d never regret making love to Scarlett in the fragrant hay, in the crisp winter air.
If he had the opportunity again, he’d do the same thing. Only this time, if he was interrupted, he’d tell those old biddies to get their trespassing selves off the property, red velvet cake and all.
Chapter Fourteen
They went to bed early and made sweet love, but when he awoke, Scarlett was once again gone. Today, however, he was fairly certain she would be here when he got back home. Tomorrow, he wasn’t so sure…After all, Claude said her car would be ready Thursday, and she’d made it clear that she was leaving as soon as the Benz could make the trip to California.
James had asked her twice to stay. Once, just through the holiday. Last night, he’d asked her to stay in Brody’s Crossing. He would try one more time tonight.
Maybe he hadn’t said the right words. In all the chaos that was his professional and personal life, perhaps he could figure this out while he was away from Scarlett today, because time was running out.
CLARISSA INSISTED that she could take care of most of the planning for their day. Scarlett concentrated on calming herself, putting together the little gifts she’d purchased for the “girls” for their Christmas lunch, and doing the hair of several people.
If she never saw red hair coloring again, it would be too soon. She was going to be a blonde or a brunette as soon as possible. Maybe she’d even change her name.
The weather was mild and breezy. They put the Closed sign in the window of the salon and walked around the corner to the café. Bobbi Jean Maxwell, Ida Bell and even Carolyn Brody were already there, grinning and causing quite a commotion in the restaurant.
As Scarlett looked around, she saw clients and other people she’d met in the past two weeks. They had apparently decided to join the party, wearing hats of all types. Sisters, mothers and daughters, they all looked at her expectantly. Suddenly, she felt tears well in her eyes. And the five little gifts she’d purchased for the immediate lunch group didn’t seem at all adequate to express her feelings for everyone who’d shown up.
BY THE TIME Scarlett and the group left the café, everyone was revved up. They piled into Ida’s van and Clarissa’s sedan and a half-dozen other cars, then made phone calls to some more people who were meeting them in Graham.
Scarlett was on a mission to save the man she loved. It was the least she could do before she left town tomorrow. She would at least know that he’d been shown how much his friends and neighbors cared for him. Once she was gone, he’d have the support and love of all these women and their families. If any small-minded people believed a jealous lawyer—well, they didn’t matter at all.
“EXCUSE ME, MR. BRODY, but did you know that Milton Bastine was holding a press conference at the Confederate memorial at two o’clock this afternoon?”
James looked up at the court secretary. “Press conference? For one thing, what the heck does he need to say? And who gave him the right to use public property for his press conference?”
“I’m not sure if he has a permit. Would you like for me to check?”
“Yes, and tell the police chief that I’d like to speak to him, also, before he does anything.” James had a feeling that Bastine would like nothing more than to have his little press party interrupted by the police, called by James, so he could complain that his freedom of speech was being thwarted.
After a short while, James spoke to the police, who promised to have a few officers on hand. But they wouldn’t stop the press conference unless it went on too long or caused a public nuisance. James sat at his desk, looked out the window at the south end of the courthouse, and wondered what Scarlett was doing.
The vision of her packing invaded his thoughts, and he went back to reading a recent appeals court decision.
At a few minutes before two o’clock, he shrugged into his suit coat, adjusted his tie and checked his cuffs. He used the mirror in the hallway to smooth his hair, which was now tamed and parted as it had been before Scarlett arrived.
He had a strong urge to ruffle it, spike it, do something different. Scarlett’s influence, do doubt.
On the way out the door, he stopped at the secretary’s desk. “Any calls I need to take care of before I go out?”
“No calls.”
“Thanks, Mary.” Steeling himself against showing anger toward Bastine, he went down the worn stone stairs and out the front door.
Bastine was pacing in front of the marble obelisk dedicated to the Confederate dead from the county. He had attracted only a small crowd. The Graham Leader, probably in response to the lunchtime incident yesterday, had a reporter and photographer in attendance. James sincerely hoped this wasn’t going to turn into a circus. The two officers standing off to the side by the parking lot would hopefully see to that.
Bastine started to speak—not very eloquently or professionally, in James’s opinion. The outrageous anger of yesterday was gone. Maybe Milton had taken some medication. In any case, he didn’t seem so crazy today. He said he was an upstanding, long-time member of the community. He was going to run in opposition to the current district judge in the next primary. He had right on his side. Yada, yada, yada. James suppressed a yawn.
Then Bastine claimed he would fight the forces of corruption, in the form of political favors, or even if they entered the county in the form of redheaded Jezebels.
Okay, now he was getting personal.
The reporter from the Leader asked him what he meant by that remark, and Milton began to describe women who tempted even the most respectable men. James clenched his fists and took a step forward.
If that blowhard said one word about Scarlett, he would take him out—cameras, police, reporters or no.
Before Bastine could continue to pontificate, or the reporter could ask more questions, James heard numerous car doors slam from the east side of the square. He looked to his right and blinked.
A group of women, all of them with bright red hair and even brighter clothes, assembled on the sidewalk. As they marched toward him, they raised signs and began to chant, “We love James.”
The reporter turned and watched, and the photographer focused his digital camera, while the police came to attention with their hands on their nightsticks. The women attracted a crowd, who walked behind them as they approached Bastine’s press conference.
One of the redheads, whom James knew wa
s Clarissa, flipped her bright pink feather boa around her neck and spoke directly to Bastine. “We’re all redheaded floozys who love James Brody.”
“Yes, we do!” several more women chorused.
“And we don’t want to hear one more bad word about him cross your lips,” she said, pointing her finger at the shocked, flushed older lawyer. “If we do, we’ll all come over to your place and give you a good spanking.” She turned to the other ladies. “Isn’t that right, girls?”
They all sang out, “Spank, spank, spank.”
Bastine’s face turned even more red. The reporter from the Leader cracked a smile, and even the police officers looked as if they wanted to laugh.
“James is the best man we know,” Myra Hammer said, “even if he won’t sue whoever we want him to sue. If he did, he’d be rich!”
“That’s right! He cares about our town and this county,” Ida Bell added.
“He’s the best!” James’s mother exclaimed. His mother? James looked closer and saw she wore a tight purple sweater and a bright yellow skirt. Had he seen that on a cheerleader once? She’d accessorized with a purple boa and lots of long beads.
“We don’t want to hear one more lie or innuendo about James Brody,” Scarlett—the real Scarlett—said. “If we do, you’ll be subject to another attack of the redheaded floozys.”
The crowd began to laugh, surrounding the women so they could get a better look. Some people took photos of the “floozys” with their cell phone cameras. Bastine tried to speak, tried to get their attention, but no one wanted to hear any more of his nonsense.
In the middle of the group, Scarlett stood as tall as her petite frame would allow. She got lots of hugs and seemed to relish the attention, unlike the time she’d styled Hailey’s hair. Then, she’d run from praise. Now, she accepted it gracefully.
If only she’d be here forever to protect his backside. Was that what she was trying to tell him? Suddenly, he wanted to get her alone, to ask her if she’d changed her mind. But the redheads advanced and enveloped him in hugs until he began to laugh.
The last thing he saw was Milton Bastine slinking off to his car without another comment.
When James looked around for Scarlett, she was gone. He wanted to run find her. What if she’d left for good? He grabbed Clarissa and asked, “Where is she?”
“Hon, she’s fine. She’ll be waiting for you.”
“How do you know for sure? She could be heading for Weatherford to catch a bus right now. Or maybe Claude got her car done and she’s on the road to California.”
“She’s not headed anywhere. For one thing, she knows that car will be ready tomorrow. And just to make sure, I bribed Claude with six months’ worth of haircuts and manicures—and believe me, that was a real sacrifice on my part, if you’ve ever seen his hands—to keep those keys away from Scarlett.”
“Oh. Good thinking.” James wished he’d been that manipulative.
“The thing is, Scarlett needs a real good reason to stay in our little town, now that she feels she’s done everything she had to before she says goodbye.”
Hadn’t he given her a good reason to stay? No, he hadn’t. That was on his to-do list for today: find out where he went wrong when he’d asked her to stay before. And suddenly, James knew what he had to do so she’d never say goodbye.
SCARLETT BUMMED A RIDE back to Brody’s Crossing with Myra Hammer, who declared the post-demonstration too sappy for her. She’d said what she wanted to say, and now she was ready to go home, even though it was only mid-afternoon.
Scarlett hadn’t wanted to stay around to answer questions. Once she knew that James was okay, she felt free to leave. With Myra, of all people!
Myra was one strange woman, but Scarlett was glad that, for all her complaining about James not suing on demand, Myra had stood up for him.
Just like so many other women. And they’d all dyed their hair! Granted, the rinses were temporary, and the color would fade after about four washes, but it was still a huge gesture.
She smiled as she recalled the wild clothes. They’d raided the thrift stores, their daughters’ closets and even the church charity clothing stash. They’d certainly done their best to look like floozys.
“You’re awful cheerful for someone who’s leaving here tomorrow.”
“How do you know that?”
“Claude told my husband Bud at the Burger Barn yesterday. He said your car parts came in. I guess you’ll be on the road, driving away from all of us as fast as you can.”
“It’s not like that, Myra. I have a job to go to.”
“You’ve got a job here!”
“Clarissa gave me a job, and I know she was short one stylist, but that doesn’t mean she wants me permanently.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Of course she does.”
“This job in L.A. is a dream opportunity. I might never get a chance like this again.”
“Oh, pshaw. A job’s a job. When are you gonna find another man like James Brody?”
Scarlett didn’t have an answer for that, at least one that she cared to share. So she gazed out the windshield at the winter-brown landscape, the hills and occasional mesas, with their flat tops and steep sides. They were fascinating and so different from the rocky formations in Georgia. If she thought of them enough, she wouldn’t remember that James would be back in town late this afternoon, expecting an explanation.
“I think you should stay and have James sue that Bastine character. He said all kinds of negative things about you.”
“I’m not sure I can sue someone for expressing an opinion about me.”
“Oh, you sound just like James!”
Scarlett didn’t have anything to say to that comment, so she turned her head as they drove by the retro-style, boarded-up Sweet Dreams Motel and several newer businesses. Then they drove past McCaskie’s, where her Benz was inside the bay, getting repaired.
Myra stopped across from the salon. “If you make the mistake of leaving tomorrow, you have a good trip, and be careful. When that car breaks down, you might not find such nice people again to help you out.”
“Thanks, Myra. I’ll remember that.”
Scarlett trudged across the street. Darn the gloomy old biddy, but she was right. If the Benz had broken down in some other place, Scarlett might have been stranded without friends or a roof over her head.
She let herself into the salon with the key Clarissa had given her. Trusted her with. Without turning on the lights, Scarlett walked to the room she’d used for the past two and a half weeks.
Under different circumstances, she might have been forced to abandon her car, fly to L.A. or, heaven forbid, back to Atlanta. She might have been taken advantage of, attacked or worse. She might have been forced to call her parents, her brother or sister for help.
Instead, she’d been welcomed, given a place to stay, wined and dined by the town’s most eligible bachelor, invited to participate in community activities, and offered friendship by people from all ages and backgrounds.
And she was going to give all that up to move to California to work in Diego’s trendy salon. For the opportunity to perhaps become a popular stylist. For the chance she might work on celebrity clients.
The move was a huge gamble. How many others tried and failed?
But if she didn’t try, wouldn’t she always regret her decision? That’s what career counselors, other stylists and her friends in general told her. “Go for it!” had been the prevailing cheer when she told people about Diego’s job offer.
Besides, James had never said exactly how he felt about her. He’d never told her, for example, that he was madly and passionately in love with her. That he couldn’t live without her. No, he’d just asked her to stay and work here. As if that was enough!
Well, it wasn’t. Life was more than work. Life was…Oh, my God. Life was more than work! She was only moving to California because of work.
But she would only stay for love.
JAMES DROVE BY THE SALON
, which was dark inside except for a light in the back room. A sign said they were closed for the afternoon. Since he’d seen Scarlett’s car at the garage earlier, he knew she hadn’t left town. Reassured that she hadn’t fled, he went to his apartment.
Within a few minutes he’d changed into jeans, a long-sleeved polo and athletic shoes. He hit the stairs at a jog and arrived at the back door of the salon just slightly out of breath, the Christmas gift bag from the store in Graham, plus another one he’d bought at the convenience store, clutched in his hand.
The door was locked, so he knocked, but he didn’t have to wait long for her to open it. She had apparently been in the shower, because she was wrapped in a fluffy spa-type robe with a white towel turban-style around her head.
“Hi,” she said, looking rather shy. Without the wild spikes of red hair and her normal eye makeup, her face appeared so different. Softer, younger, more vulnerable.
“Hi to you,” he replied. “May I come in?”
“Oh, of course.” She moved back and he stepped inside, close enough to smell the soap and shampoo and whatever else she used to soften that beautiful skin.
“I bought you something last week. I knew it would be either a Christmas present or a going away gift. I wasn’t sure which.”
She looked at the bag and nodded. “Would you like to sit down?”
“That might be a good idea.”
They walked to the sofa. She sat on one end and clutched a pillow to her chest, as though she needed to protect her heart. Perhaps she felt as if she did. He hoped the feeling was fleeting.
“The thing is, I decided it wasn’t quite right for you. Especially not after today.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Did it…What happened after I left?”
James smiled. “I suppose you saw Milton Bastine run for his car. After that, Clarissa became the star, giving interviews to the newspaper and telling people a wonderfully romantic story about a stranded young woman who found a place to stay during Christmastime.”
Texan for the Holidays Page 17
