Maybe she should just go with jeans and a cotton sweater. That was safe, probably even in a nice hotel bar.
Then she caught sight of the Lily Pulitzer dress Annelle had bought her last summer. She had never worn it. The cotton poplar dress was a shirtwaist with a full skirt that Annelle had claimed was just right for her curvy body. She’d also said the fuchsia and bright green complimented Lucy’s coloring perfectly, made her eyes shine. But it hit her not much below mid thigh and she felt conspicuous in the tropical print. Worst of all, it was strapless and she didn’t do strapless. She hadn’t even had a strapless bra but Annelle had bought her one of those too.
But it was pretty and spring-like. The tiny bow at the waist was feminine without being babyish. And it would be appropriate, no matter where they went.
Had she even brought the bra? She had.
It might be a moot point. He might not even call. He called.
She put on the dress.
She needn’t have worried about Brantley expecting her to play tour guide. He arrived in charge. Not only did he show up at her dorm in a car—though she had no idea if he had rented, borrowed, or stolen it—he had a plan.
Part of that plan apparently entailed saying, “Wow,” when he saw her.
He probably said wow a lot.
She could have said wow too. He was wearing khaki shorts, topsiders with no socks, and a small pony white Ralph Lauren oxford, untucked, sleeves rolled up. His clothes were fresh and he smelled like soap, which meant he’d showered and changed after dinner, taking himself from budding young professional to fraternity boy personified. Not that Lucy knew that much about fraternity boys. SCAD did not have Greek life.
Without asking directions or so much as hesitating at an intersection, he drove straight to a waterfront bar, but not the same one Lucy had been to. He chatted about the houses he had toured, the soft shell crab he’d eaten for dinner, and how one of his classmates wouldn’t eat seafood. How stupid was that? To be in Savannah and order a hamburger? That was like going to New Orleans and not having beignets. Lucy wouldn’t have known anything about that. She’d never been to New Orleans. She’d been too busy going to Istanbul and Alaska.
He could not have just happened on this bar. He must have asked around. Nobody got that lucky. It was nicer than the place Lucy had been to, but not an older crowd, at least not by much. There was a good mix of college students and young professionals. The band was playing beach music and the whole place had a spring break state of mind, sans wet t-shirt contest.
Brantley settled her at a table and asked, “What can I get you?”
“Club soda. Twist of lime.” She’d never had that but she figured it would look good in her hand.
He smiled. “Have I driven you not to drink, Lucy Mead?”
“The law of the land has driven me not to drink,” she said lightly.
“Oh, that’s right.” He tried to look repentant. It did not happen. “I keep forgetting.” But he did not try to pressure her.
Brantley would have turned twenty-one last September 8, but it was a safe bet he’d been drinking longer than that.
As he returned to the table, Lucy noticed more than one girl appreciating the view of him. He was easy to appreciate.
“So Missy brought her guy of the moment up to Vandy a few weeks ago,” Brantley said, taking a sip of what looked and smelled like bourbon. “Though she says he’s not a guy of the moment. She swears Harris Bragg is the one. Have you met him?”
“I have. I went to Tuscaloosa for the weekend on my way to Mississippi for spring break. I liked him. What did you think?”
“He’ll do,” Brantley said cheerfully. “He’s giving up a chance to play pro football to go to law school. I hope she does marry him. We could use a lawyer in the family.”
Lucy laughed. “Always working the angles, aren’t you? So ready legal advice is more important to you than Missy’s happiness?”
“Oh, Missy’s going to be happy. Don’t you worry yourself about that. No siree. If Missy is not happy, she will knock down whatever is in her way until she is. That is the way of Missy.”
“You are right about that.” Lucy laughed again and sipped her drink.
“You have a great laugh,” Brantley said and covered her hand with his.
And suddenly, there was something electric about the night. The beat of the music, the smell of the water, Brantley’s hand on her. The spring air was warm and fertile. She felt ripe like the buds of the trees and plants that lined the streets of the city.
“We both see Missy on a regular basis. Why don’t we ever see each other?” Brantley asked. “How long has it been?” His eyes clouded. “Four years?”
“About that,” she said, but she knew exactly. From the look on his face, he was figuring it out too, connecting the last time he saw her with the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
The band broke into “Summer Nights.”
She needed to stop that look on his face. What the hell—it was spring, she had on a sexy dress, and if she was ever going to be daring, it was now.
She jumped up and held out her hand. “What does a girl have to do to get a dance?”
His eyes smiled but he pretended to grimace. “Lucy Mead, tell me you do not want to dance to Grease!”
“I do. I wish they’d play the whole soundtrack!” She tried to smile like she’d seen Missy smile at Harris.
He downed the rest of his drink, laughed with a little headshake, and took her to the dance floor.
And they danced, perfectly in sync, as if they had been practicing together for years. They moved from one song to the next, laughing and absorbed in the moment, pausing only now and then for another drink.
If she had felt ripe before, now she was heavy, near to bursting with blooms. She wasn’t thinking anymore, not analyzing. She was just here with Brantley, loving the moment.
Then the band shifted into “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys and Brantley took her in his arms. While they danced, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world when he kissed her lightly on the mouth. He tasted like salt and bourbon and everything she’d ever wanted to taste. If he was a little tipsy, she was completely drunk on the adrenaline from the dancing, the night around her, and him.
She’d been waiting for this night for four years. When they left the bar together with their arms around each other, laughing, they both knew where they were headed.
At the car, he took her hand to help her into the passenger seat, but pulled her to him instead and kissed her like there was no yesterday or tomorrow.
Looking back, he probably shouldn’t have been driving but it never occurred to her nineteen-year-old self to question it. He was a god who could crush mountain ranges, lasso clouds, and ride Bengal tigers. Driving the short distance to her dorm should be no problem, even with his hand on her thigh, even leaning in every so often to kiss her.
But they arrived without incident; after all, the very young and the very stupid have a way of remaining unscathed—up to a point.
Though they were in a hurry, Lucy took the time to enjoy the shocked expressions on the faces of her suitemates sitting in the common area. She had never brought a boy here before, and certainly no one of the caliber of Brantley Kincaid. After all, there was no one else like him.
Behind the closed door of her room, they flew at each other, all hands, mouth, and body heat.
Catching the sight of the second twin bed in the room, Brantley said, “Oh, Christ! Tell me your roommate isn’t coming home.” And he kissed his way up her neck. “Tell me she’s dead.”
Lucy shook her head. “I don’t have one. She had a meltdown after midterm portfolio reviews and left.”
And she unbuttoned his shirt.
In no time, they were a naked tangle on the bed. She now understood that the fertile, heavy, ripe feeling had nothing to do with the spring night or the music.
It was sex waiting to happen.
She wasn’t practiced but she w
as determined that he would not be sorry, that she would make him feel as good as he was making her feel. It was easy to mimic him—to touch him and kiss him where he was touching and kissing her. She was a quick study and it was easy to tell from his moans when and where to let her hand linger.
She thought she would be shy about touching his penis, but when he reached to stroke between her legs it felt so amazing that she only wanted to give him the same feeling. Besides, this was Brantley—finally Brantley—in her arms, in her bed, and soon to be inside her as no one else had ever been.
So she stroked, lightly at first, and harder at his urging. She was rewarded with his moans of pleasure, and if she could do nothing but please this man for the rest of her life, she wouldn’t care about anything else—not chocolate, not antique silk brocade, not warm socks on a winter night.
She’d go to Istanbul, if he wanted her to.
“God, that’s good, yes,” he whispered in her ear and she felt his fingers parting and probing in a new place—the place. She willed herself to relax and open up to him. He continued to probe but he became a little tentative. She raised her hips to meet his exploring hand and he pressed again.
Then he went still. And stopped.
She knew something was wrong before he spoke.
“Lucy,” he said sweetly. “Lucy. Are you a virgin?”
Hell and double hell. She had not wanted him to know, had not wanted it to matter. Maybe it didn’t have to. He wanted her badly. The evidence of that was in her hands.
“Yes.” Her voice came out scared. Something told her to remove her hands from where they were and to put them on his cheeks. “But I want to. I want it to be you.”
“Oh, honey.” His voice was filled with regretful tenderness and in that instant everything changed. He wasn’t looking at her anymore like a man who desired a woman. He was looking at her like he had in the days when he would come into the shop to tease her and bring her a piece of candy from Heavenly Confections, like he had the night of the summer cotillion.
He sighed, closed his eyes, and bent his forehead to hers for a moment. “I am so sorry,” he said. “This is not right.”
“I don’t know why not,” she said. “I made a decision. All on my own.”
He briefly touched her face. Then he sat on the side of the bed, pulled his clothes on, and tucked the sheet around her.
“You would be sorry in the morning,” he said and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
And he left, leaving her with nothing but her longing and humiliation.
She was sure she would hear from him the next day and she did not know how she could face him. Turned out, that wasn’t something she needed to worry about.
As was her custom, Missy called on her way to class. “Did Brantley ever call you?” she asked. “Did you see him before he left?”
He had gone? That couldn’t be. “Left? The seminar doesn’t start until today.”
“Yeah. When I called him a few minutes ago, he was at the airport. He didn’t have time to talk. They were boarding his plane. He had to go back to Nashville. Something about a fraternity brother’s mother dying.”
He had run.
And two weeks later, so did Lucy, in her own way. She finally said yes to a boy in her drawing class who had been asking her out for weeks. Ridding herself of her virginity was a messy, unpleasant business, but she got it done.
* * *
She must have been sleeping lightly because the quiet tone announcing that she had a text message wakened her.
On the heels of sleep and her memories, it was a little disorienting to see her phone announce that the message was from Brantley Kincaid. But she opened it and the present caught up and settled around her.
Are you awake? Call me if you are, it said.
She almost didn’t call, but why wouldn’t she? Nothing had changed since before she lay down. It was all in the past. She and Brantley did not have a future, so why should the past matter?
“I want to bring you something to eat,” he said. “I know you’ve had a hard day. Do you want some of these Thanksgiving leftovers or should I pick up something else?”
Her stomach growled for food and her heart cried out for him. “Actually, I’d like to order a pizza,” she said. Pizza was a rare treat, but she’d had nothing today. She could afford it. “But I’d love it if you’d come over and share it.”
“Best offer I’ve had today. I’ll pick up some beer.” It was the present day Brantley who spoke, the one who desired her.
And she was the present day Lucy, the one who didn’t expect magic and happy endings, the one who had decided to just enjoy what she had right now, no matter how much she loved him.
Chapter Nineteen
Saturday after Thanksgiving—Game Day. The Iron Bowl was as much of a part of the holiday weekend as the turkey and the jellied cranberry sauce with the ridges from the can. Lucy had seen evidence of the great pilgrimage to Tuscaloosa when she’d gone to the Bake Shop earlier to pick up the brownies she would take to Missy’s party.
Missy had two rules: First, you had to arrive at least an hour before kickoff and get your visiting done so you could settle down and shut up at the appropriate time. Second, you had to wear your colors.
Of course, those were the official rules. There were others; there always were with Missy.
She would play the hostess until kickoff—which was two P.M. this year—and then you were on your own, because she was going to watch the game—preferably with the sound turned down because she knew football and didn’t need an announcer to tell her what was going on, thank you very much. She especially disliked announcers who would suddenly start in about the history of helmets and who had the best uniforms.
After kickoff, if you wanted food, you got up and got it. If you wanted beer, there were two kegs on the back porch. At halftime, Missy would pick up the dirty dishes, freshen up the food, and replenish the baskets of snacks scattered around.
Last year, Brantley had shown up to the party late and unannounced. He hadn’t even gotten to town until almost time for kickoff. Lucy had fled, giving some lame excuse about having to go to New Orleans to look at a tea service. This year was so different. The thought of next year made her a little sad, but maybe she and Brantley could end things in a way that they could be at the same place without awkwardness.
Of course, he could have always done that.
Last night, when she had been so tired, he had been so sweet—and sweet scared her; it scared her to death. She’d kept nodding off on his shoulder and he had stroked her hair and dropped a kiss on her head from time to time. Sex, for real or almost, had not been an option.
The warm Indian summer weather continued to smile on them so Lucy dressed in knee length khaki shorts, a crisp white oxford cloth shirt, and her headband with ROLL TIDE stitched across the top. No matter what Missy said, Lucy thought—since she was not alum of the University or even a native of the state—that was enough of a declaration.
When she opened the door to Brantley, her jaw dropped mentally, if not physically. He was wearing houndstooth shorts, an Alabama t-shirt, and a Crimson Tide baseball cap.
“Those are some shorts,” she said.
“Like ’em?” He turned to give her a look from behind.
If there was a bottom in Alabama that ought to be sporting houndstooth, it was his.
“All you’ve got left to do is paint yourself crimson.” She stepped aside to let him in.
“I’ll save that for the BCS Bowl.”
“So you think they will be playing for the National Championship?”
He bent to give her a kiss but stopped.
“Of course I do. I know it. So does everybody else. Don’t you keep up, woman?”
“Lately, I do good to keep up with you.”
“That’s a priority I like.”
She turned to gather her purse and tray of brownies.
“Aren’t you going to get your sweatshirt?” Brantley asked.
“What sweatshirt?” she asked. “It’s warm out. I don’t need a sweatshirt.”
“Your game day sweatshirt.”
“You mean an Alabama sweatshirt? I don’t have one.”
“You are wearing that?” He gestured to her shorts and shirt. “You have no colors. She will kill you dead.”
Lucy bowed her head so he could see the headband. “She never has and this is what I always wear.”
“You can’t even see that. Your curls cover it up.”
“You’re going to have to be satisfied with me and so is Missy. It’s all I’ve got.”
“I can fix that. We’re going to Clayton’s. I’ll get you a t-shirt like mine and a sweatshirt for when it cools off later.” Clayton’s was the sporting goods store over near the country club.
He looked her up and down again. “Why don’t you change out of those topsiders into your Keds? That would be cute.”
“My Keds? Since when to you have an opinion about what I wear on my feet?”
“I’ve got an opinion. I’d like to see you in some really tall boots. Black. With studs.”
“I’ll go to Clayton’s with you, but I believe I’ll keep these shoes on.”
“Well, it won’t be the same, but come on.”
“And I am not wearing a cheerleader uniform.”
“I don’t even want you to. I have bad memories attached to some cheerleaders.”
“We have to be quick,” Lucy said. “I promised Missy I’d come early to help.”
His amber eyes sparkled at her. “Can you spare a moment for a guy to give his girl a kiss?”
Oh, yes, she could spare that. She turned her face up.
* * *
Lucy and Brantley were the first to arrive.
When Missy opened the door, she was wearing blue jeans and a number twelve Alabama football jersey with BRAGG lettered across the back. It had seen better days. It wasn’t usually in Missy’s nature to wear something that wasn’t entirely pristine, but since this shirt had actually seen those better days on Harris’s body on the field of Bryant-Denny Stadium, she made an exception. On Iron Bowl day, she also made an exception about serving only high quality food made from fresh ingredients. Harris had some weird superstition that demanded Chex Mix, pigs in a blanket, and cheese dip made from Velveeta and canned Rotel tomatoes. Missy might wrap Little Smokies in canned biscuit dough and she might serve them, but she was never going to be pleased about it. Of course, these things were just a postscript to the other fabulous food she would serve.
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