She thought she was being bad and she expected him to respond in kind.
He’d show her bad.
He grasped her to him and pulled her skirt up. “Are you my naughty girl?” he asked, tangling his hand in her thong. “Oh, a thong too? You aren’t just naughty. You’re all the way to the bad zone, Lucy Mead.”
“I am,” she said and reached for the zipper of his jeans.
She wouldn’t be disappointed with what she found. It had been a long two days. Hmm. What he found showed it had been a long two days for her too. Or maybe it was the excitement of her bad girl boots. Either way, she was ready.
He retrieved the condom from his pocket right before his pants hit the floor.
And she laughed for him.
“Sorry to have to do this,” he said and ripped the thong off her. Then he backed her up against the wall and took her right there.
She came three times.
* * *
Later, they lay on the foyer rug, with Eller sniffing at their heads.
“Do you think she will tell on us?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, probably, but do we care?” He smoothed her hair back and she smiled with what must have been afterglow. Suddenly, he wanted to please her more than he had ever wanted to please anyone. That was saying a lot because he was a pleaser. “What do you say,” he said, “that we go to that Chinese takeout place out by the mall? We’ll get some of that shrimp with walnuts that you like. Then we’ll come back and order up one of those movies with somebody like Jennifer Anniston or Hugh Grant in it. Maybe both, if there is one. We can watch it right in bed while we eat.”
“We can’t,” Lucy said. “I told your grandmother we’d come over and help decorate her Christmas tree.”
And the bottom fell out of what had been shaping up to be a perfectly good day.
He should have seen this coming. But it had been so long since he’d participated in the annual Brantley family tree trimming that he had let himself forget. Let? Hell, he’d willed himself to forget—willed hard.
It had always been the same. Tree already set up in front of the window in the study, right by the piano. Big Mama hired that done. Brantley had always played the piano while Papa and Dad put the lights on the tree. Okay, so something wouldn’t be the same.
On the bar, there would be shrimp bisque in a chafing dish and hot open faced sandwiches—crab melts and broiled tomato and cheese—on a warming tray. The season’s first batches of Christmas cookies and eggnog. Probably wouldn’t be any of that bacon dip this year. Mama had always made that and mostly because he liked it.
His tie was too tight. He reached to loosen it and discovered only the neck of his t-shirt.
The boxes of ornaments would be open and waiting, with the construction paper and pipe cleaner ornaments he’d made wrapped in tissue and kept just as carefully as the blown glass angels that Big Mama’s mother had collected.
He’d broken one of those angels when he was small. Hadn’t meant to. It was pretty and he’d only wanted a closer look—but it had been so thin. He had been positive Santa Claus would definitely not come. Papa had swung him into the air. “What’s all this crying about? We don’t cry over things. Just stuff. That’s all it is. Why, your big mama will love that you liked it enough that you wanted to look at it.” And he’d taken him to the hardware store and let him pick out a new ornament to replace it—a hideous plastic frog wearing a Santa hat. They told the story every year and Mama would claim that if she had broken that ornament as a child, the outcome would have been very different. And right there among the sterling silver stars and crystal snowflakes, Big Mama always hung that frog in a prominent place.
Of course, Brantley wouldn’t be expected to hang any of those ornaments. No, he had to play Christmas carols while all this was going on.
Lucy was sitting up now, smoothing her hair and talking about changing into pants in case she needed to climb on a ladder.
“Aw, Lucy. We don’t want to do that,” he said. He held out his hand and tried to pull her back down. “I’ve been gone forever. We want to stay here. Just you and me. Chinese food. Sappy movie.” He smiled and let his eyes half close. “Maybe order up a bad movie for my bad Lucy.”
She laughed. “We have to go. I said we would. Maybe I’ll put those boots on for you again when we get back.”
“I’m not going,” he said lightly but he meant it. “Not going to do it.”
“They are expecting us.”
She was not giving in. It was time to get down to business.
“No, really, Lucy. I am not going. I have been on the road for the better part of two days. I have rifled through everything in a salvage store—and that includes the attic and basement—for hours. Some of it twice. I have loaded a truck with what I bought. And then I unloaded that truck into Will Garrett’s shop for storage. I am not going to go make merry tonight.”
He stated it all in a calm and pleasant voice. They were good reasons. That should be the end of it.
Except it wasn’t. Lucy Mead did not look delighted. Not at all.
“You don’t have to.” She got to her feet. Excellent! This was the part where she would call Big Mama and beg off. But she went on. “After all, I can’t make promises for you. I shouldn’t have. But I thought since it’s your family—well, never mind. I am going because I can make promises for myself. And I keep my promises.”
Well, here it was. He had not expected it this soon; he had hoped it wouldn’t come at all. This was their first argument. Except he didn’t argue. Ever. Arguing led to death and he would never be a party to that again. That’s why he had walked away from so many relationships. That’s why he had just let Rita May walk away, even in the early days when he’d thought she was sweet and he’d liked her.
It had infuriated Rita May that he wouldn’t argue with her. But he never had. He’d always let her go and, that last time, he’d gone.
But this wasn’t Rita May. This was Lucy—his salvation, his calm. He couldn’t let her walk away.
The time was now. He either had to argue with her and try to get his way or he had to go with her. Or there was a third option. What if he told her the truth, told her that he was not mentally prepared for Kincaid-Brantley Christmas rituals? She would understand; of course she would. And she would fix it for him. But how would he even start? No. Better just to go do it and get through it.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, hell, Lucy Mead. You slay me. After those boots, I just can’t tell you no. Any chance I can get you to go commando? At least give me something fun to think about?”
And she laughed. The moment passed.
Deep breaths. Work though it. Pretend it isn’t happening and it won’t.
* * *
By the time they left Miss Caroline’s house, Lucy was pretty mad at herself. She was also a little mad at Caroline Brantley for making her a party to getting Brantley to that tree trimming party. She sighed as Brantley helped her into the car. On the other hand, it was hard to blame the woman. Clearly, Brantley needed healing and she was trying to make that happen.
And it had been clear, almost from the moment they’d walked in that this was the first time Brantley had participated in this little ritual since his mother and grandfather had died. Miss Caroline was trying to recreate past memories. Brantley was fighting not to panic. Charles was just trying to keep it between the lines for all of them.
Miss Caroline had asked Brantley to play the piano and he had refused in a tone that was respectful but adamant.
Just in case she might press the point, Charles had intervened. “Son, come help me with these lights. Miss Caroline, why don’t you put on a CD?”
After that, things had gone well enough. There had even been some laughter.
“Brantley,” Lucy said as soon as he took his place behind the wheel, “I should not have pressed you to do this thing. I did not realize it was the first time since—”
He cut her off, but not in a hateful way. It was as if
he wanted to stop the words from coming out of her mouth. “I don’t live here anymore. Or I didn’t. When would I have been decorating Christmas trees?” he asked lightly and started the car.
“I don’t know. You come and go. Or you did. Christmas break when you were in college. Sometime. But I am sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said as he drove.
“I guess I just don’t think that ‘I don’t want to,’ is a good enough reason to say no, when someone who loves you asks you to do something. And there’s no denying how much Miss Caroline loves you. It didn’t seem to be such a large thing that she was asking for. But it was. I see that now. Next time, just tell me the real reason for saying no. I promise I’ll be on your side.”
He pulled into Lucy’s driveway and turned to her. “When I said it was okay, Lucy, I meant it. It really was okay.”
“I can see,” she said carefully, “that you are going through fresh grief. You haven’t been back here, living with the memories, since it happened. And, Brantley, it was such an awful time. I was a kid, but even I could see that. I wish you would think about seeing someone.”
“Here’s the thing, Lucy.” He took her hand and his demeanor was so earnest, so different from the usual Brantley. There was that openness again. “It really was okay. It turned out good. I didn’t want to go, but I’m glad I did. And do you know why? Because of you. You ground me, Lucy. You make it all okay. I don’t need to talk to someone. I just need you.”
Wow. That was heady stuff, to be needed by Brantley. But it niggled at her. Even if it was true, she might be able to help him but she couldn’t be the total solution. No one could.
“And it helps everyone to have you there,” he went on. “You make things different and we need some different.”
Maybe. She wasn’t convinced, but this time of year it was so easy to put things off until “after the holidays”—even worrying.
“Are you ready to go inside and have your surprise?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “The boots weren’t my surprise? How could there be anything better?”
“Oh, this is better, way better.” And she led him in the door and straight to the kitchen.
“Lucy Mead, better is in the bedroom, not the kitchen,” he said.
“Wait until you see.” She pulled the pie and the can of whipped cream she’d bought out of the refrigerator. “I made it myself. Last night.” She didn’t plan to tell him it had almost been a lost cause. “Would you like a piece?”
“Well, yes I would!” he said enthusiastically.
She carefully cut a wedge, squirted a few rosettes of cream on it, and reached into the drawer for the silver Francis I fork.
“Open up!” She fed him a bite of the pie, praying it would be good.
If it wasn’t, he gave a good performance, complete with moans and shudders. “Best pie I have ever had. I have eaten pumpkin pie in many establishments, fine and otherwise. And I declare there is no finer than this one.” He let her feed him another bite before he took the plate and fork from her. “But as fine as this pie is, it does not quite come up with those boots.” He set the pie on the counter. “But I know how to even the score a little.”
And, to her surprise, he stripped her to the waist, laid her across the kitchen counter, and placed a dollop of pie and whipped cream on each nipple.
* * *
After lots of messy fun and a trip to the shower, Brantley stood up from where he sat on the side of the bed and snapped his fingers. “I forgot. I brought you something from my little trip.”
“Good.” She looked up from her dressing table where she was sitting combing out her wet hair. “I’ve been needing a shot glass that says Georgia On My Mind. I’ve been needing it for a while. It’ll go great with my San Francisco booty.”
He threw on a t-shirt and some flannel pants. “Be right back.”
The night had been such a roller coaster of good and bad, but was ending so good that she refused to fret about him going to his car wearing sleep clothes.
Soon, he returned and set a square cardboard box on the dressing table. “Salvage stores don’t wrap. Sorry,” he said.
Expecting some cheesy t-shirts and coffee mugs advertising the store, she opened the box.
What was inside took her breath away. Antique glass doorknobs. And there were so many—clear faceted crystal, milk glass, smooth translucent green glass with bubbles, and more crystal in jewel tones—emerald, ruby, amethyst, and sapphire.
And she began to cry—because it was the perfect gift, because he knew her so well and not at all, because he was grieving and broken, because she was almost touching happiness as perfect as this box of beautiful history that so many hands had touched coming, going, coming back, and leaving again.
And for Brantley and her, there would only be leaving.
“Lucy, baby. What’s wrong?” His voice was sweet, his hands on her face gentle.
“Nothing. It’s silly. They are just so beautiful—I’m overwhelmed.”
“That’s the kind of tears I like,” he said. “Come on. You’re tired.” And he led her to bed, turning off lights as he went.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The days of December sped by like pages of a book in the hands of a grand champion speed reader. Lucy was working too much to suit Brantley, but that was winding down. Her clients wanted their work completed for Christmas and Lucy never disappointed.
At least she didn’t disappoint him. Life was great. They had decorated a tree at her house and spent a great deal of time in front of the fire, sometimes clothed, most times not.
He’d had no trouble talking her into spending the holiday with him—the whole kit and caboodle. Potato cheese soup and watching It’s a Wonderful Life before church on Christmas Eve; midnight service at Christ Episcopal; opening one present after church; the whole unwrapping extravaganza and brunch Christmas morning; fancy dinner with some kind of giant piece of cow mid-afternoon, followed by lolling and playing with presents.
Lucy was all in.
He’d thought he’d have to share her with Annelle for at least part of it, but no. Annelle was going to Charleston and Lucy did not want to go. He hoped that at least part of her desire to stay was due to him.
While he still was not looking forward to the holiday, he knew now that he could get through it because she would be there to touch him, smile at him, and laugh for him.
On the other hand, he was looking forward to the week after Christmas. According to Lucy, Annelle always closed the shop from December 23 until January 2. That was not prime time for interior revamping and as far as selling odds and ends, Annelle claimed quality of life meant something and she did not intend to spend her Christmas Eve at the shop in case someone wanted to buy a tablecloth that they should have already bought. That seemed a pretty odd idea for a shop owner, but if it would free up Lucy for him, it was okay by Brantley. That week would be their last chance to play before getting down to serious business on the Brantley Building.
Maybe they would take a little trip. Yes. That would be fun. They’d had fun the day they’d gone to Nashville to Christmas shop and this would be even better. He’d get on planning that—right after he hauled all those boxes and bags of dishes and gewgaws over to the church for Big Mama and Lucy. Tonight was the flower guild Christmas party and, the way he understood it, they decorated tables and there was a prize for the best one. Lucy seemed to be helping Big Mama and when he had asked what about Lucy’s own table, she had laughed. “I don’t have a table. There are only eight and somebody has to die or choose you to take theirs over. I will never have a table of my own.” Big Mama had looked thoughtful and said, “You never know.”
He’d have to go back after the party and haul all that stuff back but, meanwhile, he was going down to Tiptoe Watkins’s barn, where the Rotary Club was building the Santa Claus float for the Christmas parade. Charles had been asking him to come by and Luke, Nathan, and Harris would be there. He wasn’t in Rotary, of course, b
ut he probably would be after he told them he was staying in town. No one knew that yet, not even Lucy.
It might be time to figure out when he was going to do that.
Yeah.
* * *
Three days before Christmas and the morning before the Christmas parade, Brantley entered his grandmother’s house to ask her to make good on a promise. Evelyn, wearing a Christmas sweater with blinking lights, was singing carols to the top of her lungs as she dropped divinity on wax paper. Evelyn loved Christmas. She gave him a piece of still soft divinity sandwiched between two pecan halves and admonished him to “Be sweet.”
That’s exactly what he intended to do.
He found Caroline in the study, sitting beside the Christmas tree, with a notepad and a stack of Christmas cards in her lap.
“Hello, darling.” She lifted her cheek for his kiss. Could she really be as genuinely happy to see him as it seemed? Would she always? He pushed that thought aside. He was not here today for confessions. It might be unfair to ask for what he wanted without confessing, but fair or not, he wasn’t going to do it. Yet. But soon. After he had glued the family back together a little better. “I was just enjoying the tree, reading some cards, and making a list of a few last minute things.”
He sat down in the easy chair opposite hers—the one Papa used to sit in. Usually he avoided that chair but today it felt right.
“I don’t see how you could have anything left to write on a list,” he said. “There’s not room for one more present under that tree or one spot in this house that needs decorating.”
She laughed and laid aside her reading glasses. “There’s always something else to do at Christmas—at least there has been this year.” This year. Yes, because he was here and Lucy had put them back together. Christmases in these past years must have been as empty for Charles and Caroline as they had been for him.
Guilt tried to settle in on him but he turned it away. He couldn’t do anything about it then, but he could now.
“It’s been wonderful this year, hasn’t it?” she said wistfully.
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