Clearly, his persistence was only because of her refusal to talk to him. If only he wasn’t so funny.
* * *
Voicemail, a few days later:
“Lucy, Brantley again. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. You can call me at work. (615) 298-2719. It doesn’t ring straight to me. Melba—my assistant—answers. She’s the one who really runs Kincaid Architectural Design and Restoration. Just ask her. Anyway, tell her you want me dead or alive and she’ll put you through. That, or she’ll give me a message if I’m out. I’m going to play racquet ball tonight but if you get my voicemail, leave a message and tell me when would be a good time, and I’ll call you back. I don’t have a landline at home. I mean, why would I? Counting my phone at work, I’ve already got two numbers. Why would I need more phones than I’ve got ears? Anyway, bye. Call me.”
Text message, two days later:
Happy Halloween, Lucy Mead!
Voicemail, later that day, 4:30 P.M.:
“I’m just getting ready to leave work. I’ve got a whole bucketful of Snickers and M&Ms so I’m ready. I guess I should say packs of M&Ms. You can’t just give loose M&Ms to kids. Or homemade stuff. That’s against the rules. I told Lily—Lily cleans and fetches for me when it suits her—anyway, I told her she needed to make me some popcorn balls and she informed me that you couldn’t give popcorn balls for Trick or Treat. I told her I know that. They are for my own personal use. I might fire her if she doesn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve got plain and peanut M&Ms. I’m going to let them pick, which will take time, but will make me popular. Plus, I’ll give them a Snickers. Not one of those two bite Snickers, either—a whole Snickers. Those two bite candy bars are like airplane drinks. They give you a little plastic cup that’s gone before they move up the aisle. I want a whole Coke all to myself. I know why they don’t want you to have it. It’s because they don’t want you to go to the bathroom. Well, I’ve opened an inappropriate subject so I’ll leave it. Did you know that you can call the florist and they will carve you some Jack-O-Lanterns, bring them right to your front step, and then send you a bill? I am not dressing up for Halloween. When a grown man starts dressing up for Halloween, the next thing you know, he’s volunteering at the art museum and booking a tour of wine country. That can’t be me. But I think you should dress up. I know you already have the Richie Sambora outfit, but I’m not sure kids would know who that is. How about that harem girl from the Disney movie? Jasmine? That would be an attractive look for you.”
* * *
He hadn’t asked her to return the call this time. What did that mean? Did he just want to call and hold forth on the life and philosophy of Brantley Kincaid, as pertains to Halloween candy and airplane drinks? Like some oral history blog?
That night, per Missy’s direction, Lucy and the other book club girls dressed as characters from Alice in Wonderland, with Missy as Alice, Tolly as the Queen of Hearts, Lanie as the Mad Hatter, and Lucy as the Cheshire Cat. Along with the spouses, they took the children Trick or Treating and then went back to Missy’s for chili and football watching. It was a loud fun chaotic night.
There was no reason to feel alone. But she did.
The Cheshire Cat was a far cry from Jasmine.
Brantley did not call again for a week.
* * *
Voice mail, a week after Halloween:
“Hey, Lucy. I got a dog. My golf buddy got a divorce, and started acting a little crazy. Then he got a girlfriend who was too young for him, as divorced, crazy-acting, golf buddies will do. This girl was not so young that she wasn’t legal but she had no sense. So she had acquired a dog as a fashion accessory. Except you can’t hang a dog on a peg like a hat, so I took the dog. It wasn’t hard. I told her if she didn’t give me that dog that I’d call her daddy and tell him she wasn’t staying in that fancy apartment he is paying for. I guess it never occurred to her that I don’t even know her daddy’s name, much less his phone number. Speaking of phone numbers, dial mine, why don’t you?”
Voicemail, the next day:
“Lucy, this is Brantley. I have faced that you apparently do not want to talk to me. I don’t really understand why, but I can take a hint—though it took me long enough. I thought we had a really nice time when I was in Merritt for the Follies. But maybe you’re seeing someone. I’ll be honest . . . if you’re not, I’d still like to hear from you.” He laughed a little. “Hell, I’d like to hear from you, anyway. I might be able to take you from him. But unless I hear from you, I won’t bother you again. I don’t want to turn into stalker man, though it may be too late for that. But cut me some slack, Lucy. I like you. Maybe you could just call and tell me you don’t want to talk to me. Or text me.”
* * *
But she couldn’t do that. To say she didn’t want to talk to him would be a lie and if she called, they’d end up talking and she’d end up—well, somewhere she could not be. So she didn’t call and that was that—what she had been trying to accomplish. It was for the best. She wondered if she really had heard the last of him, but when the days stretched to a week and then two, it was clear he had given up.
She wondered how close her voicemail box was to being full and how long she could save his messages.
* * *
At 7:05 A.M. two Saturdays before Thanksgiving, the ringing of Lucy’s cell phone woke her. Who could be calling this early on a weekend? A beep signaled that she had a voicemail. She reached for the phone to listen.
“Lucy Mead, I have decided that I am not really accepting of not hearing from you. I deserve to hear from you face to face that you don’t want to talk to me. Wait. I don’t. I don’t deserve that. But I want it and it feels like the same thing to me. So I am on my way to see you. I’ll call when I get there.”
* * *
She jumped straight out of bed. Oh, hell. Double hell! Where was he? Why couldn’t he have said how far away he was? She might have several hours but who knew? He could be five miles away. But surely not. Surely he did not leave Nashville at four o’clock in the morning.
Still, she couldn’t chance it. If those phone messages had almost done her in, seeing him would be her complete undoing. She could not be Brantley Kincaid’s distraction while he decided what he wanted out of life.
She had to get out of here. Where to go, where to go? It didn’t have to be for long—just until tomorrow night. He’d give up by then. He had to go to work on Monday, after all, and so did she. She’d go to Oxford, Mississippi, to her parents’ house. They were on sabbatical from Ole Miss. There was a doctoral candidate house sitting while they were in Tibet, but it was still their house, therefore hers. She’d call the girl on the way. She’d say—well, it didn’t matter what she’d say. She didn’t have to say anything, explain anything. She had a key and a right to be there.
First, she needed to dress. She’d laid out her clothes for the gym—yoga pants, sports bra, and a t-shirt. And a hoody because it was cold in the mornings now. That would do. Shit. She needed to pee and there was so little time. She threw on the clothes and ran to the bathroom, socks and cross trainers in hand. The toilet was as good a place as any to sit while putting on shoes and socks. She should have thought of that little time saver years ago.
Okay. Calm. She’d need some things. Not much, but some. Her luggage was in the attic. No time for that but there was a canvas boat bag in the closet. She grabbed it and headed for her vanity.
Toiletries first. Where was that cosmetic bag? Here, but what did it matter? A handful of this, a handful of that. Underwear. Socks. The shoes she had on would do. Okay. Real clothes. One outfit was plenty. She’d be back tomorrow night. A pair of jeans and that lightweight red cotton sweater should be fine. If not, she had the hoody and the t-shirt she was wearing. It didn’t matter if she wore them twice. All that mattered was getting out of town before he got here.
Almost to the finish line. Cell phone. Purse. Did she have cash? Not much, but plenty of credit cards. Her phone started to ring. She crammed it in her h
oody pocket and threw open the front door—where she ran right into Brantley. He held a dog leash in one hand and his phone to his ear with the other.
The phone in Lucy’s pocket went to voicemail.
Brantley said, “Hello, Lucy Mead.” Then he turned off his phone and hers beeped, signaling that she had a message.
Chapter Four
Lucy knew there was very little chance of remaining collected in this situation, but she intended to try.
“Hello, Brantley. How are you this morning?” she said as if she ran across him on her porch every morning of the week, as if he had made no attempt to contact her since he was last in Merritt.
He was wearing faded jeans, white running shoes, and a luxurious cotton knit shirt the color of a caramel apple. The shirt hit him at mid hipbone and there was a short, heavy brass zipper at the neck, unzipped just enough to show his collarbones. He had to know how good he looked—no one with hair and eyes like his could wear that color and not know.
He pushed up the sleeves.
“How am I? Ignored. That’s what I am.” He smiled and leaned on the doorframe. A ball of fur no bigger than a softball peeped out between his shoes. “Meet Eller. Her name evolved from L.R., short for Lab Rat. It’s a better name than Blanchfleur, which she never even answered to.”
The dog was solid white with red bows in its hair, one over each ear. It could not have weighed more than two pounds. Where was the golden retriever, the bulldog, the Doberman pinscher? Where was the dog that a man who refused to say sofa should have? Pit bull, beagle, Irish setter. Cocker spaniel, even.
“That is not the dog I would have expected you to have,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, well, she’s not the dog I expected to have either, especially with those bows the groomer put in her hair. On the other hand, I see her as living, breathing evidence that I have no insecurities about my manhood. Though I admit you have taken me down a peg or two in that department. And I can’t help but wonder why.”
She briefly considered pretending she had changed cell phone providers and hadn’t gotten his messages but discarded the idea.
“I’ve been very busy,” she said.
Eller sniffed at Lucy’s white Adidas and Brantley looked her up and down. “Off to the gym?”
“Uh, no.” She ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t even combed it. Ever since she’d let it grow, it was wild under the best of circumstances. These were not the best of circumstances. “I have to be somewhere.”
“Do you?” He took her arm and gently propelled her back though the door. “You don’t mind if Eller and I come in for just a minute, do you?”
“Uh, no. Please do.”
Brantley walked around, taking in her living room. Lucy had worked very hard to make the treasures her parents had given her from their travels work with her traditional pieces. Finally, she’d struck the right balance, making a comfortable, interesting room. Brantley stopped in front of the three-foot tall gong from China.
“I’ve got a great idea for a game,” he said, picking up the hammer. “I’ll ring this gong. You go put on your Jasmine outfit and run in here and say, ‘Yes, master!’”
Anger coursed through her—at him, at herself, maybe even at that poor excuse for a dog, who was sniffing at her camel saddle ottoman. Calm. She must remain calm. He was smiling that flirtatious smile but there was something more in his face—not quite anger, but maybe a challenge. Yes. He was gauging her response to see if she had listened to his Halloween voicemail all the way through, to see if she understood the reference to the Jasmine costume. She could feign confusion, but why? She didn’t want him to think that his messages had affected her in such a way that she could not listen to them through to the end. At the same time, she did not want him to know she had listened multiple times.
Finally, she said simply, “I don’t have a Jasmine outfit.”
“Too bad. I bet we can get you one from eBay. Where’s your computer?” He looked around the room.
“As much as I would like to peruse eBay with you for fantasy attire, I have somewhere I have to be.” After all, she didn’t have to say where. She didn’t have to justify herself for leaving town. She held up her boat bag as proof that she was leaving.
“Do you?” He took the bag from her. He didn’t grab it or wretch it from her hand; he hadn’t had to. She had stupidly held it out. “Since you are ill prepared for the Jasmine and master game, let’s play a different one. It’s called ‘Brantley looks at what Lucy’s packed and guesses what she’s up to.’”
“No, I don’t think—” She reached for the bag. “That’s my property and you have no right.”
“Wait, wait. No.” He drew the bag away from her grasp. “If I don’t win right away, I’ll let you be on your way. And it is your property. I’ll give you that. But it is also evidence to prove that you are lying to me. Because unless I miss my guess—” He opened the bag and looked in. “Lucy Mead! What a mess! Some people live in a mess. They do. But the order in this house does not match up with the mess in this bag.”
“I am messy. I’m a huge mess. All the time. Just look at my hair. This house is only orderly because the maid was here yesterday.” In case he asked, what could her maid be named? Thelma Lou. Yeah.
“Now let’s see.” He reached in the bag. “Hmmm . . . blue jeans.” He held them up. “And a red shirt.” To her horror, he plucked out of the bag not the simple red sweater she thought she’d reached for, but the silk beaded top she’d bought last week to wear with black velvet pants to the Flower Guild Christmas party. Shit. “The question is, are you going to a tractor pull?” He held up the jeans and then the top. “Or the opera? Or maybe the Junior League is having a combined tractor pull and opera for a fundraiser.” He laughed. “If not, you should suggest it. I’d pay money to see that.”
“I packed in a hurry and made a mistake.” She held her head high.
“Clearly. Let’s see what else there is.”
“Brantley—”
“Four pairs of white socks and a thong.” He held up the red lacy wisp of elastic and satin. She expected him to make a comment about the thong but he said instead, “Lucy Mead, how many feet do you have?”
She folded her arms over her chest and said nothing.
“Let’s see what else. Empty cosmetic bag and a landfill of health and beauty aides. Big bottle of shampoo. I usually like a small one for a one-thong adventure. Eyeliner, sparkle lotion, and two lipsticks—Kiss Pink and Brandy Wine. I don’t see any mascara and I know what store women set by their mascara—at least women with eyes as big and brown as yours. I don’t see any deodorant, nightclothes, or a comb. No phone charger, though you could have one of those in your car. Less likely for the nightie and deodorant. Now some people like to sleep naked and enjoy their own personal musk but I just don’t see it for you, Lucy Mead.”
Plainly, he was pushing her and he didn’t care who knew it. But even in the face of all this, his charm was coming through, broadcasting like Times Square on New Years Eve night. She needed a weapon and anger was the only one handy.
She went there. Easily.
“You don’t know anything about me.” She had been itching to say that for years. It felt good—so good!
“I know you don’t call me back—and I know I will win this game. Because I know where you’re going.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere—or at least you weren’t going anywhere until thirty seconds after you got my stalker voicemail this morning. What I am thinking is you listened to my message, jumped up, and put on the first thing you laid your hands on. I’ll bet your bed isn’t made and I don’t smell coffee. Disappointing, that. I could use some. A doughnut wouldn’t be amiss, either. I’m hungry. I’ve been awake for a while. “
“You didn’t have to be. You could be in your bed right now.”
“Don’t distract me by making me think about beds. After dressing, you packed this orderly, sensible bag for your orderly, planned trip.” He went and
sat on the sofa. “When I pack, I like a tidy bag and a list helps that happen. I don’t strike you as a list maker, do I? Well, I am. That’s why I was named Young Historical Architect of the Year last year. People give me a chance because I’m funny and likable, but they trust me because I give good results—superior results. Funny and likable does not get results. Smart and detail oriented does—which I am. Plus, I’ve got that list-making thing going for me. If there were an award for Packer of the Year—or of the decade even, I would win that award too.
“Lucy Mead, you would not. I could help you out with that, though. It all goes back to the list. For my list making, I like an old fashioned DayRunner. I tried a PDA for a while but it’s just not the same. And then there’s the iPhone, the Swiss Army knife of communication and organization. Trouble is, there are no margins for doodling. I get some of my best ideas doodling. Besides, I like the satisfaction of a good pen on real paper. DayRunner refills are not as easy to find as they used to be, but I manage. I already have mine for the new year. Melba knows just where to get them. I’ll get her to get you some.”
“I don’t want—” What didn’t she want? A DayRunner? Him here? For him to continue this maddening, witty, bossy banter?
To want him? She hesitated and it cost her.
“Back to the list,” he interrupted. “See, you have a master basic packing list for things you always need when you travel, like toothpaste and phone charger. Then there is a variable section for things like ski jackets and swimsuits. For instance, if we were making a list for you to visit me on Halloween, we would include things like thongs and deodorant in the basic list. In the variables, we’d have your Jasmine suit. If you were so minded, you might also write, ‘Bring Brantley some real barbecue because God knows they don’t have any anywhere but Merritt.’”
Her mouth was dry, arid even. “I am not coming to visit you for Halloween and I already told you I don’t have a Jasmine suit.”
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