Replacing Gentry

by Julie N. Ford

  “That you’d singlehandedly sabotage your marriage to Daniel,” he said like it was a simple detail I’d idly missed.

  I gave him a dreary look. “And who are ‘they,’ exactly? Cooper? Paul?”

  A devilish grin pushed a dimple into the right side of his cheek. “Probably,” he said giving me the impression it hadn’t previously occurred to him to include Daniel’s sister and advisor.

  “Who then?”

  “Oh, you know, darlin’.” He leaned close like he had a secret to tell. “They. The same ‘they’ who say, ‘working out before you eat will burn more calories’ . . . ‘A glass a wine a day will prevent cancer—’”

  “Heart disease,” I corrected though he was so close now I was afraid to move or we’d be touching.

  “Sure, that too,” he agreed in a stirring whisper. “And that a little harmless indiscretion here and there keeps the excitement alive in a marriage.”

  The scruff on his cheek brushed against the smoothness of mine, showering sparks of desire to my fingertips. But I doused the tiny embers with memories of this morning and the undeniable pleasure of my husband’s touch.

  “What makes you think my marriage needs any more excitement?” Sure, Daniel and I still needed to work on our communication; but passion, we pretty well had that down to a perfect science.

  Johnny leaned his lips to within a breath of mine. “Because, right now, you want very badly to kiss me.”

  My gaze fell to his parted lips, full and so very close to mine, then up to his eyes where instead of heat, I saw only mockery. Fire leapt from my belly to burn my cheeks. I shoved him away. “You are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met!”

  He laughed, a pleased with himself kind of laugh. “I know, darlin’, it’s part of my charm,” he said with another wink.

  Why did he always have to wink at me? Why did I have to like it so much? With a roll of my eyes, I sat back against the desk. “You just keep telling yourself that.” Re-crossing my arms, I looked away.

  “All right then.” His smile lingered as he dragged the back of his finger down my arm. A string of chill bumps followed the trail of his stroke. “And, you just keep tellin’ yourself that you don’t like me,” he added, before disappearing as silently as he’d come.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Tennessee Vital Records Office sat tucked back at the base of a downtown high-rise encased like an Egyptian tomb in slabs of fabricated marble. Appropriate for those of us seeking death records, unnerving for those wanting a less ominous document like a birth or marriage certificate. As it turned out, I couldn’t request or even view a death certificate online, but the State of Tennessee’s website amicably invited me to come to their offices, apply in person, and have the records retrieved while I waited.

  Easy-peasy. Only now I found myself waiting in a line that didn’t appear to get shorter, although every so often the lucky person standing at the front would move away.

  Twenty agonizing minutes later, it was my turn at the window. I stepped up to the clerk and thought about what Cooper had said yesterday at the restaurant regarding my tendency toward bluntness. Sliding forward my application, I donned a sweet smile and appraised the woman on the other side of the counter for a conversation starter.

  I decided on her eyewear. “What a fun pair of glasses.” The red, white, and blue bedazzled reading glasses featuring a scrolling Ole Miss on each arm and were clearly not my taste, but they looked good on her. The name on the tag hanging from her Rebel lanyard read Gladys.

  Gladys pursed her lips into a modest smile. “Why thank you.” She gave the frames a slight adjustment with the tips of her fingers. “I just love things that sparkle.”

  “Well, you wear it well,” I said, forcing a banter that didn’t come naturally to me.

  Still, I was confident that I’d successfully taken my first step to becoming a hospitable Southerner. It’s not that I wasn’t a friendly person, I just wasn’t used to making idle conversation. In California, people don’t converse unnecessarily with one another. Not because we’re mean or uncaring, it just doesn’t make sense to take the time to connect with a person one will never see again.

  Instead of reaching for my form, Gladys got a faraway look in her eye. “Yes, well my sister and I, we just love everythin’ Ole Miss, you know. Neither of us went to school there but, our daddy, he was a huge fan. Growin’ up, he would load us all into the station wagon and haul the entire family off to wherever the Rebels were a-playin’ . . .” She continued on about how in those days a family could afford to get tickets, the lines were shorter, and so on.

  As I listened, my smile growing tighter by the second, all I could think about were the pervasive eyes of those poor souls in line behind me cursing the back of my head for striking up a conversation that would inevitably lead to further delay. Gladys stopped talking and gave me an expectant look. It was my turn to speak, but I was in uncharted waters; not to mention that I hadn’t really been listening and was now under pressure to say something with a perky spin.

  My eyes betrayed my struggle to remain cordial by stealing a quick regard over my shoulder at the solemn faces behind me. “Yes, lines can be very inconvenient,” I agreed, trying unsuccessfully to loosen the tightness in my smile.

  Gladys’s right brow jerked, the warmth of our brief exchange evaporating into the stagnate air. Oops! Like always, it seemed, I’d taken one step forward only to stumble right back. She looked over my application, scowling down at all the lines I’d left empty. I’d been able to answer the first few questions: Date and Number of Copies. On the line over Name of the Deceased I’d written “Unidentified Woman 1.” The inquiries regarding, Age at Death, Place of Death, Location of Funeral Home, Relationship to the Deceased, I had to leave blank. Under Purpose of Copy, I almost used Daniel’s excuse . . . Do I need a reason? But I left it blank as well. Under Date of Death I had written in the month and year coinciding to four years ago.

  I was, however, able to place a very enthusiastic check in the box next to Do You Want the Certificate to Show Cause of Death?

  “Do you have ID, Ms. Evans?” Gladys asked over the sharp edge of her glasses.

  I slid my ID badge across the counter. “Here you go,” I said, my palms suddenly sticky.

  The line at the bottom of the application referring to the unlawfulness of willfully and knowingly making false statements suddenly stood out to me in warning. I’d decided to use my California Department of Corrections credential for two reasons. First, it had my maiden name so that no references to Cannon would be necessary. Second, if the clerk wondered why I needed a certificate for Unidentified Woman 1, I could say I was in Nashville on unrelated business and had been asked by a superior back in California to do a quick check. (I would elaborate more, but my inquiry was part of an ongoing investigation and I’m sure she would understand my need to keep the details to a minimum.)

  Two false statements, which only an hour ago seemed harmless, now had me wondering who I’d make my one phone call to from the jail conveniently located only a block down the street.

  She glanced over my ID badge and compared the signatures. “That’ll be seven dollars.” I handed her a five and two ones—all undercover transactions, I assumed, were made in cash—and she passed back my ID. “Wait over there, and we’ll call your name.”

  Having spent my entire life in California, I was expecting the process to be much more laborious. Back home, any type of official request made by a private citizen to a state-run office would first require the navigation of copious unnecessary hoops, proceeded by a lengthy wait and a hefty fee.

  “That’s it?” I squeaked out.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said giving my form an angry time stamp.

  An hour later, my focus was beginning to blur from staring too long at my iPhone, when the tapping motion of a black boot a few seats down stole my attention. I had seen those black Ostrich boots before.

  Trailing my eyes up the legs of his jeans and on t
o a cowboy-styled shirt, my gaze met his under the brim of a well-worn University of Alabama baseball cap. The brim of the hat shaded an olive complexion and dark eyes. An instant of recognition passed between us before he looked away and slid from his seat, striding with a cowboy sort of gait around the corner.

  Black boots, plaid shirt, SEC baseball cap? There wasn’t anything uncommon here in Tennessee about his look, or how he moved. Still, something didn’t feel right. His cap was UA, a direct rival with the UT hat I remembered from the cemetery. But the memory of the man who’d walked around his blue Jeep to pay his respects the day before crossed over the man I was staring at right now like two identical transparencies laid atop one another.

  On my feet, numb from too much time in one position, I hobbled a couple of steps while the blood returned to my legs, and then I beat a direct path after him. At the doorway I stopped, peeked around the corner and caught sight of him as he rounded the next turn at the end of the hall. He was moving much faster now. Having no idea what I would say once I caught up, I started out after him. But just as I cleared the entrance from the waiting room to the corridor, a voice rang out in the distance.

  “Marlie Evans!”

  My steps halted as I considered which matter was more urgent. Following a stranger who I may, or may not, have seen somewhere before, or retrieving the first clue to why Daniel had visited an unmarked grave? I gave my head a little shake for clarity. Even if the cowboy was the same man, seeing him again, here, didn’t mean anything. We’d both been in a cemetery, and now we were both seeking death records. What was so strange about that?

  At the retrieval counter, I gave the balding clerk an expectant smile. “I’m Marlie Evans,” I said. This was it. I was about to hold my first real clue!

  He swiped a rag over the droplets of perspiration glistening atop his shorn head. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t seem to have that record.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my tone climbing an octave. “I mean, I don’t know if the date is correct. Can you check the dates a few months before and after?” I’d come too far to walk away empty handed.

  “Already did,” he said in a flat, discussion-over tone. “Our protocol dictates that we search the years prior and proceeding if the record isn’t found the first time, but that wasn’t the problem.”

  Confusion contorted my face. “Then, what was the problem?”

  His gaze slid from side to side before he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The records indicate the death and burial of this woman—but the actual death certificate seems to have gone missing.”

  An untoward feeling settled in around me. “What do you mean?” I softened my pitch though inside I wanted to scream.

  “Hard to say, but let me assure you, ma’am,” he said in a business-like voice, “this never happens.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We’re turning fifteen, not five, Marlie,” Bridger reminded me as he shifted his weight to the right. He made a hook with one hand, sweeping the other around to follow the graphic image of a woman in yoga attire on the TV screen.

  The boys had been asking me to teach them Tai Chi, but given that we couldn’t get through a practice with any significant degree of seriousness, I’d opted to let an interactive video game (the one thing capable of capturing their full attention) lead us through the steps instead.

  “I bet you were planning to have a big cake in the shape of a baseball too,” he mocked as he settled easily down into The Snake Hold.

  I straightened into a wide stance, rolling my arms from one side to the other, making imaginary clouds. Usually, I found this motion soothing, but today I felt nothing but frustration and disappointment. I’d always dreamed of having children and throwing grand birthday parties with balloons and cleverly planned games, where sugar-charged children ran through the yard chanting, “This is the best party ever!”

  I’d put all things pertaining to missing records and unmarked graves on hold so I could focus on planning this party. And yet, all my ideas had been repeatedly shot to smithereens—dashed against the boy’s hard-earned reputations as two of the cool kids.

  Reaching my hands forward with rounded arms, I pulled energy toward my core and stepped one foot behind me as the yin repelled the yang, separating my arms so I could reach out and gather more.

  “What about a theme party?” I offered. “Casino Royale or something. Fake gambling and virgin martinis? That could be cool, right?”

  “Yeah right. The only virgin around here is Bodie,” Bridger scoffed.

  I dropped my arms and turned to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means Bridger’s a butthead,” Bodie answered, his rounded arms tightening, along with his jaw. He pivoted to the side and directed a crude gesture at his brother. “You better shut your dumb-ass trap before I shove this ball of energy down your throat,” he threatened.

  A come-get-me look crossed Bridger’s face an instant before I decided to intervene.

  “Bodie, watch your language,” I reminded him in a stern voice. “And your ball of energy is a source of inner strength; it’s not a weapon.”

  “Says who,” Bodie grumbled, aiming another warring look at Bridger.

  Bridger returned Bodie’s cavalier stare, then turned back to me. “No theme, no fuss. The only reason we’re letting you throw a party at all is because you’re holding our learner’s permits hostage until after the party. We just want to have a few friends over to swim and hang out. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, Marlie, don’t get distracted from the true purpose of this birthday,” Bodie added. He turned his imaginary ball into a steering wheel. “Too bad our father didn’t buy you a cooler car.”

  Bridger sneered at his brother. “Just remember, I’m older which means I get to drive first.”

  Bodie stepped forward, forcefully bringing his fists together high over his head. “Marlie, if Tai Chi is supposed to be so peaceful, why do we jab, block, and slice?” he asked, executing a well-aimed strike to the tiger’s ears.

  “Good question,” I said, disappointed that my planning an over-the-top celebration had officially been scratched. “I suppose it’s meant to be ironic, just like everything else in life.”

  Beads of sweat pooled on my upper lip and under my hairline. I’d already turned the temperature setting on the thermostat down twice, but I could swear the air conditioner was pushing heat through the vents instead of cool air. I scrambled to put the finishing touches on the food for the boy’s party. Even though they had forbidden me to plan a fun themed party, their guests still needed to eat.

  It was Electra’s night off, which was no accident since I wanted to do this myself. She guarded the kitchen with pit-bull efficiency, and if she’d been home, I had no doubt I’d be out back with the kids instead of in the kitchen making a complete mess of things.

  The center island was littered with the platters and bowls holding what I’d anticipated was going to be awesome party food. Except, the only avocados I could find for the guacamole were not entirely ripe, and thus tasteless and impossible to smash. The cold cut tray I’d tried to creatively arrange with leaf lettuce, olives, and cherry tomatoes looked tawdry. The cake I’d spent all afternoon decorating with fondant and frosting was slouching to one side. The writing I scrolled over the top looked like a first-grader had written it.

  That woman on the HGTV party show I had devotedly watched the last few weeks made it all look so easy. But then she wasn’t cooking in the South, in the middle of June. Making a mental note to delete that program from the TiVo list, I blew a breath onto my hot forehead and went back to work squeezing out the final few frosting shells. I was wiping the perspiration from my forehead with the back of my hand when I caught sight of someone letting himself in through the back door.

  “I heard there was a party here tonight,” Johnny said, pushing his hands down into the pockets of his khaki shorts, his bare feet in loafers shuffling along the wood floor as he came closer.

>   I glanced over his shoulder, hoping Daniel was right behind him. Of course he wasn’t. Great. Just what I needed when I was already feeling like a failure. Johnny Hutchinson had come to reaffirm my assumptions. And Daniel would not be happy if he walked in and found me alone with the one man he’d forbidden me to socialize with. Could this night get any more complicated?

  Yanking up on the scoop of my Bebe t-shirt to cover the cleavage Johnny was staring at, I huffed, “You heard right, but unless you’re trying to pass yourself off as a teenager, you weren’t invited. And your affinity for under-aged females doesn’t count.”

  He breathed out a laugh. “Daniel around?”

  “No, he was supposed to be home hours ago, but I haven’t seen or talked to him since this morning,” I said, transferring sour cream from the tub to a ceramic bowl.

  “I see.” He rested a hip against the counter while eyeballing the cake with a curious look. “So you haven’t heard then?”

  The smell of something burning drifted across the kitchen to take its turn at mocking my efforts.

  “Heard what?” I hurried over to throw the oven door open. Shooing black plumes of smoke away with one hot pad, I yanked a cookie sheet of taquitos, blackened on the ends, from the oven with the other.

  “Nothin’, it can wait,” he said with a smile. “Looks like your hands are full already.”

  I knocked the oven door closed hard with my heel. Something inside the oven made a clanging sound.

  “Don’t the Cannons usually hire this kind of thing out?” Johnny added.

  I narrowed my gaze at him and dropped the pan onto a cooling rack. Cooper had already given me enough grief for not hiring her party planner, but how could I take the credit for throwing a fabulous party if someone else had done it all? Plus, I was still having a hard time seeing myself as the kind of person who outsourced tasks I could do myself.

  Of course, if I were really trying to fit into my new life, I would have taken credit for a spectacular event although I hadn’t lifted a finger except to write the check.