“It’s a tragedy.” Lucy looked at her own menu.
“You got that right. I’m having fried chicken, field peas, broccoli rice casserole, and fried green tomatoes. And I am ordering my pie up front so I don’t get left out if she runs out. How about you?”
She really wanted to have what he was having, but that was way overboard. The trick was to make it appear like she could eat like a normal person who went to the gym—not like she was depriving herself or like a pig that had been saving up all day.
“Meatloaf, green beans, carrots, and fried green tomatoes.” The tomatoes were the splurge and she would have a piece of cornbread.
“Dessert?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” she said as if she didn’t want it.
“Are you sure? I’ll buy you all the pie you want but I’m not giving you a bite of mine. I know what that turns into. I’ve been on the wrong end of Missy Bragg wanting just one bite.”
“I’ll eat first, and then see,” she lied.
Lou Anne brought them iced tea and took their orders. Thankfully, she seemed to have no more time for editorial comment on the fact that they were here together. With any luck she wouldn’t call Missy.
“Don’t come crying to me if there’s no pie left,” Brantley warned.
“I can contain myself.”
“There will be pie at Big Mama’s table on Thanksgiving,” he said with some hesitation. Then he added, “I want you to come.”
She laughed. “To your family Thanksgiving? No.”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He looked at the table, and did his voice shake a little? No. She must have been mistaken. He met her eyes again, all oozing golden smiles and cocky head toss. “My daddy and I are going to fry a turkey, I reckon. Evelyn will make the dressing. Plus, the pumpkin pie. You should come. Sit by me. Let me run my hand up your skirt while we eat cranberry sauce. Let me smear pie on you and lick it off.”
“Brantley!” She looked around. “Be quiet. Someone will hear you.”
“I’ll be quiet if you’ll come to Thanksgiving. We’ll watch football later.”
“No. Aunt Annelle and I have plans. It’s just the two of us this year.”
“Bring her. Aren’t she and Big Mama buddies anyway?”
“Yes. They’re on the church altar guild together, but you can’t just invite people to someone else’s holiday meal.”
“That is where you are wrong, Lucy. I can. I can go break out every inmate in the county jail and march them in to Caroline Brantley’s table and all she would care about was that I was there. I am adored.”
He sounded a little sarcastic. She’d never heard that out of him before. For some reason it made her uncomfortable. Some people could do sarcasm but it was a bad fit with Brantley.
“I cannot come to your family’s Thanksgiving, Brantley,” she said. “Annelle has plans for us.” She was surprised that he looked truly disappointed, maybe even upset. Well, life was full of disappointment. Brantley had not learned that well enough.
“Okay,” he said. And that was all. She could never remember another time when he had uttered a one-word sentence.
Time for a subject change.
“So,” Lucy said. “Miss Caroline called me today. She said the press conference would be Monday afternoon. We need to talk about that.”
“We do not,” Brantley said. “Not tonight. I don’t intend to have any conversations that would allow me to deduct what I spend tonight as a business expense.”
What? She had counted on talking about this.
“You can’t mean that. We need to make a plan. Know what we’re going to say.”
He shrugged. “It won’t be any problem. Big Mama will do most of the talking—about how she’s giving the building to the city and what it’s going to be used for. Where the present tenants are moving. Time frame for the restoration.”
“Brantley! We cannot go in there with nothing.”
“We won’t.” He took a drink of his tea. “I’ve been thinking on this. Got a few sketches. I’ll bet you have too. I’ll round us up an easel. Mount my pictures on a presentation board. If anybody asks any questions, we can answer them. Probably.”
“I do not like probably.” And she did not. She liked assurance. Preparedness. Guarantees.
“No? Lucy Mead, probably is the best life has to offer. There is no more.” His eyes turned upward. “Except this. Here comes our food.” He met her eyes. “Probably.”
If there had been any awkwardness, it melted away as they ate and bantered with each other and the people who stopped by their table to say hello.
It turned into an easy night with easy talk and easy laughter. Simple even. And true to her word, she didn’t order dessert though—in spite of what he’d said—he shared his beloved pumpkin pie.
And later when he took her home, it had been so easy for Lucy go into his arms on the sofa. She had reminded him that she wasn’t ready to sleep with him, and he did not press the issue.
He’d only laughed softly into her ear and whispered, “It can still be a sweet ride, Lucy.”
And it was—a hot, sweet, skin on skin ride, even if they did stop short of the finish line.
* * *
Brantley was seated at the antique drawing board that had been a graduation gift from his father when the carriage house door flew open. In bounded Missy Bragg, with Lulu perched on her hip and a diaper bag hanging off her shoulder.
“Brantley!” She set Lulu on her feet and tossed the bag on the new tweed couch that Lucy had picked out. “I need to talk to you!”
“Well, good morning to you too, Melissa.” He didn’t look up from where he was mounting early photographs of the Brantley Building to foam board. “Imagine my delight when I heard a knock on my door and found you on the other side. Won’t you come in and bring your delightful child?”
Missy waved him off and collapsed into his leather easy chair. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve been up since five o’clock. I’ve already bought groceries, been to the dry cleaners, and taken my car to be washed. And it’s not even ten o’clock.”
Lulu toddled up to him and threw her arms around his leg. “Juice!” she demanded. Like mother, like daughter.
He swiveled his chair around to meet his audience. Might as well.
“Sorry, kid,” he said to Lulu. “All I’ve got is beer. Why don’t you and I have one? We deserve it. Your mama is a hard job.”
“Brantley! Don’t say that to her.” She reached into her bag and brought out a sippy cup. “Lulu, come here. Come to Mama.”
And Lulu did. She already knew Missy had been put on this earth to be obeyed.
“What is it, Missy?” Brantley asked, but he knew.
“It’s all over town! And no one told me. Not you. Certainly not Lucy. In fact, she denied it, said there was nothing going on between the two of you.”
“And what, exactly, is going on?”
“You took her out to eat at the diner last night. Everyone knows.”
“A sure sign that there are ‘goings on.’ My God! The ties that are formed over pie.”
“You kissed her wrist. When y’all left, you were holding hands.”
He let his head drop and shook it in mock defeat. “Guilty. But I must confess the diner mating ritual was not complete. She did not eat from my fork, though I urged her to.”
“Brantley, I am warning you. Do not mess this up. Do not hurt Lucy.”
“I can’t hurt Lucy. I can barely get her to go out with me.”
Eller ran into the room and Lulu went into hysterics. Missy sprang up and snatched her baby into her arms.
“I didn’t know she was afraid of dogs,” Brantley said.
“She’s not. Huge rats are another matter.” She picked up the diaper bag. “I’ve got groceries in the car. I have to go.”
“Are you going to stop by Lucy’s and tell her not to hurt me?”
“Ha!” Missy stopped with one foot out the door and turned back to him
. “Football watching—my house tonight. I’m making chili. Pick up Lucy. Might as well. It’s out of the bag now.”
Brantley nodded, having no idea what he was agreeing to. Not that it mattered. She was gone.
But all that made him ponder what was “going on.” He hadn’t really thought much about it; Lucy had been so resistant to his advances that thinking beyond that was wasted energy.
But in spite of her resistance, she was so easy, so simple. After Rita May, to rest in the calm that was Lucy was beyond appealing. He looked around the room she had decorated. It was so right for him with his drawing board, the new couch, and his leather chair pointed toward the big flat screen. She had even gotten him a lap desk so he could comfortably use his computer while sitting in his chair. How had she known that it hurt his back to sit on the edge of the chair with the laptop on the ottoman?
The rest of the carriage house was nice too. She’d installed his treadmill and lifting bench in the extra room like he’d asked, but she had covered the floor with a rubber mat and added a rack for his golf clubs, a table for his iPod docking station, and a towel rack.
He had not had a bedside table in Nashville but now he had two, and one of them had a charging station for all of his electronics. Throughout the house there were lamps, throws, and pillows. Not one bit of it was feminine either. It was like Lucy’s business was comfort.
That was nice. He couldn’t stay here forever, of course; he wasn’t in the forever business. He did good to deal with right now, and Thanksgiving was going to be a bitch.
He wouldn’t think about that now, but he could get tonight squared away. And maybe he could talk Lucy into getting some lunch today. And tomorrow she would go to church anyway. There wasn’t any reason why he shouldn’t pick her up. That would lead to lunch, and so on.
He picked up the phone.
Chapter Thirteen
The cold snap from last week was gone and November had faded back into Indian summer. It was beautiful, miraculous weather, but a little too warm for the grey wool suit Lucy was wearing.
She didn’t care. She was nervous about this press conference and she would have worn an otter on her head if that had been a good look for her. The suit might have been a little severe on its own, but she had brightened it up with a rich burnt orange silk blouse and a lot of pearls—maybe too many, though Annelle had insisted there was no such thing.
She and Brantley had spent most of the weekend together but she had been unable to coerce him into talking about the press conference, insisting that it would “be fine.” Still, she had insisted that they go over to the Brantley Building two hours early to set up the easels and get their presentation boards in order—if he had a presentation board. He kept saying he had “some pictures” but he was vague and every time she tried to talk about it, he kissed her.
That was a losing battle.
“If you are set on going over there before it’s necessary, you’re going to have to pick me up in that killing machine of yours. My very safe vehicle is in the shop for a tune-up.”
He had agreed to meet her at Miss Caroline’s house and now she mounted the steps, sweating a little bit.
The suit might have been a bad idea after all.
Or not. Brantley opened the door and he looked better than she had ever seen him—and she’d seen him looking good. Today he was wearing a camel hair blazer with navy blue flannel pants and one of those snowy white shirts that had been made for him.
But he looked a little tense. Maybe he was more nervous about this than she thought.
“Come in,” he said. “I just need to get my stuff.”
Miss Caroline popped her head into the foyer. “Lucy? My dear, you look lovely.”
“Thank you. I’m very excited.”
“She is,” Brantley said, folding an easel. “She would have had me down there before breakfast if I’d let her.”
“Lucy, would you mind taking a look at my table with me while Brantley puts his things in your car?”
“Sure.” She handed her keys to Brantley and he picked up a tan leather portfolio, with a rich patina of use. She had certainly been outclassed. Hers was nylon.
Miss Caroline led her to the dining room where the table was set with three different china patterns. Piled in the middle was a bunch of gourds, nuts, bittersweet, and small pumpkins. In addition there were two silver patterns, one heavy and ornate, the other simpler with clean lines, and several crystal goblets in varying degrees of formality.
“I can’t decide about my Thanksgiving table,” she said. “I like an unstructured Thanksgiving centerpiece of these natural things, though not quite this unstructured. I haven’t arranged them at all. I think the colors are good with this rust tablecloth.”
“Very pretty,” Lucy agreed.
“My problem is the china. The brown transferware is a natural for Thanksgiving. It’s what I always used to use, but with the rust, it’s so dark.” She gestured to the jade green set. “The Majolica belonged to Alden’s mother. I’ve never much cared for it; it’s just so green. But it is a fall color so I pulled it out.” She moved to caress an ivory dinner plate with a wide gold band. “This is my wedding china. I love it with the rust. It looks happy, but it’s so formal. I like formal at Christmas, but for Thanksgiving—” Her voice trailed off. Lucy had never seen her so unsure of herself. “I want a happy table.”
It was the longing in Miss Caroline’s voice that made Lucy pause. Could this be the first time she had set a Thanksgiving table since the death of her husband and daughter? Surely not. But come to think of it, since she had lived in Merritt, though Brantley sometimes blew in at some point during the weekend, Lucy could never remember him actually being in town on Thanksgiving Day.
Lucy stepped up to the table and picked up a Majolica salad plate. “Let’s see what we can do.”
* * *
After putting his portfolio and the easels into Lucy’s little SUV, Brantley re-entered the house to find Lucy and Big Mama bent over the table in the dining room. Lucy was moving plates around, stacking them this way and that.
“See? If you mix them, you’ll have some brightness and a casual look all at the same time. And, for contrast, I would definitely use the ornate silver and two kinds of crystal.”
As Lucy’s little hands flew this way and that, Big Mama murmured sounds of approval, uttering things like “oh, perfect,” “would have never thought of that,” and “just the right touch of whimsy.”
His heart began to pound and suddenly he could not get enough air in his lungs. It had been a long time since this had happened, but he knew the signs. The first time, he had thought he was having a heart attack, though eighteen-year-olds rarely had heart attacks.
Thanksgiving was supposed to be a happy time, not something to bring on a panic attack. And it used to be happy—but that was before. In the years since, he’d avoided the holiday altogether when he could. Other times, he had eaten with Charles and Caroline in restaurants in other cities.
“Whimsy!” Lucy exclaimed. “That’s exactly what we want.”
“Yes, I think so,” Big Mama was saying. “We tend to dress down on Thanksgiving, so I just couldn’t see—”
They were talking about whimsy and the dress code while he was about to sweat through his shirt. Good thing he could blame that on the weather and his heavy clothes. He took a deep breath to ward off the chest pains that were closing in anyway. God, he hoped he didn’t get dizzy this time. That was the hardest part to hide. He leaned on the doorframe with a practiced casual slouch. Another deep breath. They hadn’t even noticed him yet.
“See?” Lucy moved some more plates around. “You don’t even have to make all the place settings alike. You could use the transferware dinner plate with an ivory and gold salad plate here, and there just the opposite . . . ”
Deep breath.
Funny, he couldn’t remember that last Thanksgiving, at least not precisely. It was just mixed in with the others that were all so alike
, with the men frying turkey and drinking beer, while the women did whatever it was they did. Of course, he hadn’t been allowed beer back then, and he had not been allowed around the turkey frying until he was about eight or nine. They’d been afraid he’d get burned. Sometimes it had been just the five of them. Sometimes there were other guests. Always, after lunch, there was a football watching marathon. Always, after a supper of cold turkey sandwiches, he and Papa played Christmas carols on the baby grand. Big Mama and Mama did not allow any talk of Christmas until Thanksgiving was officially over but Papa threatened Christmas music weeks before it was allowed.
Christmas. Oh, God. That was coming too. He couldn’t separate that last Christmas from the others either. He wished he could. Maybe if he tried hard to remember—but not today.
Deep breath, but the chills and heat set in anyway, chasing each other through his body and soul.
He knew what to do. Don’t be afraid. Show the panic who’s boss. Deep breaths. Don’t give in to the desire to flee the scene or loosen your tie. Act normal. Work through it. Pretend it isn’t happening and pretty soon it won’t be.
They still hadn’t noticed him. He swallowed. Good. He could still swallow. That meant he could probably talk in a normal voice. He cleared his throat.
“Hey.” That sounded normal enough. He smiled as they turned to him. “What color is my pumpkin pie plate going to be? I suggest Chinet white. The contrast between the pumpkin and stark white would be just the thing—whimsical as it were. Plus, you can throw it away once you lick it.”
Big Mama laughed and after a second, Lucy joined in but there was something in her eyes and the set of her mouth that made him think she could see through him. He didn’t like that. She could not know he might pass out any second.
“You silly boy!” Big Mama said. “Look what a beautiful job our Lucy did.” She pulled her cell phone from her skirt pocket and began to take pictures of the table.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked Lucy in a perfectly normal voice. He stood up straight, praying he didn’t need the support of the doorframe.
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