Simple Gone South gs-3

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  She stood in the corner, not minding one bit being a wallflower at her own party. Her husband wasn’t beside her and she didn’t mind that either—especially since he was playing the piano so everyone could continue to dance while the musicians took a break.

  Lucy had not understood the significance of the piano playing until late last spring when he had nonchalantly strolled to the piano at Miss Caroline’s and started to play. There had been tears, first from Miss Caroline, then Charles, and finally, Lucy, once she understood what a hurdle he had crossed. But Brantley hadn’t cried. He’d just smiled and continued on with his rusty rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl.”

  It had not always been easy. He’d made progress, had setbacks, but he had not run. He’d wanted to a few times, especially the night they had their first argument—something that was also progress but sure hadn’t felt that way at the time. She’d never meant to bring up Savannah, never meant to make a snide remark about how he’d rejected her, but it had been hot, she was tired, and he was being an ass about something. She couldn’t even remember what now.

  But the words came out and he was not one bit humble or apologetic. He claimed he’d done the honorable thing, the right thing, and he stood his ground, never backing down one inch, until they went around and around about it for over an hour.

  Then one of them laughed and they made up in the most miraculous way. It was in the sweet moments after making love that he told her that he had finally been able to have a disagreement without thinking someone was going to die because of it.

  His therapist would be pleased.

  If she had had any doubt that he was going to heal, she would have known better when in June he finally came to her, as he said, “on bended knee.” The ring he presented to her was not the platinum and diamond one that he had pulled out of his pocket all those months ago at the parade party.

  No. It was antique rose gold, set with rubies and diamonds—his mother’s ring. And just hours ago at the same altar where he’d been baptized and laid his mother and grandfather to rest, Brantley had slipped Eva’s wide wedding band on her finger.

  Now, she ran her finger over the rings and sent out a promise and a prayer.

  “Hello, baby girl.” She looked up to see Charles, handsome in his black tie attire. “Admiring your rings? I sure love seeing them on your hand.”

  She tried to swallow her tears and failed miserably. “Just making someone a promise that I’ll do my best to love her baby the way she would want him to be loved.”

  “Oh, I think she knows that. We all do.” He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes. “But no tears tonight. There’s too much happy here for that.”

  And there was. She looked out on the dance floor, where her three best friends and bridesmaids were dancing with their husbands to the beat of Brantley’s questionable rendition of “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?” No broken hearts there. Her parents were drinking Champagne with Annelle, Lou Anne, and Miss Caroline. Tiptoe Watkins danced in a circle of three with Emma and Beau. And though Evelyn was a guest at the wedding, she was tidying the buffet and seemed to be giving the caterers a piece of her mind. And, oh, look! Arabelle, who, to Lucy’s delight, had come for the wedding, was letting Will Garrett lead her onto the dance floor.

  Brantley hit a sour note, but never slowed down and neither did the dancers.

  Charles and Lucy laughed together.

  “He never was very good,” Charles said.

  “Yet he plays on,” Lucy said.

  Just then Brantley ended with a flourish and called across the room. “I’ve got time for one more before those hired musicians run me off this fine instrument that my dad bought for this room. But I can’t play this next one without my bride sitting with me on this bench.” He patted the place beside him and gave her a wink and smile.

  Then he broke into “My Girl” as she wove her way through the crowd to him.

  About the Authors

  Before they began writing as Alicia Hunter Pace, Stephanie Jones and Jean Hovey were friends—not just friends, but the finish each other’s sentences and swap shoes on the sidewalk kind of friends.

  They had no idea their writing styles would be so different but, upon reflection, they could have looked at their travel styles for a clue. Jean once got off a plane in London with eight dollars, an ATM card, no reservations of any kind, and a vague idea that she wanted to go to the Victoria and Albert museum. When Stephanie travels, she arrives with a detailed concrete plan written in a notebook that she carries in a coordinating tote bag that matches her calendar and her shoes.

  There’s something to be said for both philosophies. Traveling by the seat of one’s pants—whether in a foreign country or on the printed page—can lead to adventures never recorded in a guide book, but it seems to work out better if there is a plotter along with her hand on the rudder.

  Writing with a partner—most people wouldn’t do it; most people shouldn’t do it. It could easily lead to hair pulling, lawsuits, and funeral food.

  But it works for them.

  Stephanie lives in Jasper, Alabama, where she teaches third grade and wishes for a bigger bookstore. She is a native Alabamian who likes football, civil war history, and people who follow the rules. She is happy to provide a list of said rules to anyone who needs them.

  Jean, a former public librarian, lives in Decatur, Alabama, with her husband in a 100-year-old house that always wants something from her. She likes to cook but has discovered the joy of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets since becoming a writer.

  Stephanie and Jean are both active members of the fabulous Heart of Dixie Chapter of Romantic Writers of America.

  Simple Gone South is the third book in the Gone South series.

  For Luke and Lanie’s story, check out Sweet Gone South.

  For Nathan and Tolly’s story, check out Scrimmage Gone South

  Visit them at their website, http://aliciahunterpace.com/

  Like them at: www.facebook.com/pages/Alicia-Hunter-Pace/176839952372867

  Follow them at: twitter.com/AliciaHPace

  More from This Author

  (From Scrimmage Gone South by Alicia Pace Hunter)

  Tolly Lee parked her Mercedes in front of the house that was the shining star on a rundown street. She lifted the baked ham from her trunk and made sure the card that read, With Sympathy, Bragg and Lee, Attorneys at Law was firmly attached to the aluminum foil. For the life of her, Tolly could not understand what good a ham was going to do. She’d wanted to bring a gallon of martinis but her cousin’s wife, Missy Bragg, had said that would be in bad taste. The deceased, Eula Lawson, had been the biggest teetotaler to ever live and die in Merritt, Alabama. Everybody knew that.

  Well. Everybody seemed to always know a lot of things that Tolly didn’t.

  Eula’s marigolds hadn’t gotten the news that it was October. They framed the neat little shingled house as if they had the most important job in the world.

  The front door was standing open so Tolly balanced the ham on her hip and let herself in the screen door. The tiny living room was choking with people.

  “Right through here, honey.” A plump woman wearing an apron, who was obviously in charge of people bearing food, led her down a short hallway to a neat utilitarian kitchen. “Now, do we need to put your name on your plate so we can get it back to you?” She took the ham but Tolly couldn’t imagine where she was going to put it. The counters and table were already filled with cakes, pies, deviled eggs, and casseroles.

  “No. It’s in a disposable pan.” There were a half dozen matronly women milling around, some who had clearly been crying.

  “That’s so thoughtful. Could we offer you some coffee? Or some iced tea?” The woman set the ham on the stovetop beside a platter of fried chicken.

  “No, thank you,” Tolly answered. “I am so sorry about Miss Eula. Was she related to you?”

  “Only by love,” the ringleader said, wiping her eyes with the edge of apron. “S
he was in our mission group at Wesley Methodist.”

  “Well. I am sorry.” What was she supposed to do now? If only Missy had come with her. Or Harris. They always knew what to do. But Harris was in court and Missy had to take three-year-old Beau to the doctor.

  One of the other women seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped forward. “You’re Tolly Lee, aren’t you? The lawyer that Kirby works for?”

  “Yes. Kirby started working for my cousin Harris and me last summer.” He was smart and good at his job, though lately he was only able to come in for an hour a day during his free period at school. She would be glad when football season was over.

  “He’s in the living room if you’d like to speak to him.”

  Yes. That was the thing to do. Speak to Kirby. After all, he was the reason she was here. As she exited the kitchen, Tolly heard one of the women say, “What is that boy going to do now that his grandmother is gone?”

  Good question, but not hers to answer. Kirby’s parents had been killed when he was two, and he had gone to live with his grandparents. Miss Eula’s husband had died a few years later and it had been just her and Kirby ever since.

  A wailing woman wearing an orange sweater two sizes too small dominated the sofa and, really, the whole living room. This must be the daughter from Ohio, Kirby’s aunt, and maybe, new guardian. A bored looking man dressed in a tank top and jeans sat to her right, drinking a beer. That would be her husband. The Methodist minister, Dr. James Carlyle, sat to the woman’s left, offering comfort. Tolly had written Dr. Carlyle’s will last year after he had a heart scare that turned out to be indigestion, which proved that tamales could be good for business. He met Tolly’s eye and inclined his head toward the back of the room. She looked over the sea of mostly gray heads and saw the shaggy dark haired one she was looking for.

  Kirby Lawson stood against the wall next to a console television, perfectly erect and perfectly alone. He wore pressed khakis, a blue oxford cloth shirt, and navy blue tie. At seventeen, he was poised beyond his years. Poise was a byproduct of grief, she supposed.

  “Kirby,” she said quietly.

  He swung his red rimmed eyes, which were the color of faded denim, to meet hers. They were wild with fear and grief. Eula had died unexpectedly while making a cake and Kirby had found her when he’d come home from football practice yesterday.

  “Oh, Miss Tolly! Hello. I won’t be able to come to work tomorrow. I hate to let you down. But the funeral — ”

  Tolly laid her hand on his arm. “Oh, honey. Of course, not. And don’t you even think about coming today either. Harris and I won’t be there tomorrow afternoon, anyway. We’re closing the office to come to your grandmother’s funeral.”

  “You are?” His eyes filled but he quickly blinked the tears away and Tolly pretended not to notice.

  “Of course, we are. And Harris said to tell you he’d be here right now but he had to go to court. He’ll be by later.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.” He looked at the floor.

  What to say now? Tolly had never had anyone close to her die but she’d heard it was good to make the bereaved think of something happy. And Kirby Lawson was a good boy. He deserved to think of something happy.

  “Kirby, your grandmother was a wonderful woman. I bet there’s not a person in Merritt who hasn’t had her cake on at least one birthday.” Eula had baked special occasion cakes to supplement their income. Kirby had brought Eula’s famous red velvet cake to the office on Tolly’s birthday in June.

  Kirby grinned. “The McGowan twins.”

  “Pardon?” Tolly asked.

  “The McGowan twins. They never had her cake. Their birthday is in January, the same day as mine. Mrs. McGowan kept asking, but Granna always said she only baked one cake on that day and it was for me.” His grin became a full fledged smile, though it was a little sad around the edges. “To tell the truth, that suited me fine. I never liked them.”

  “Why, Kirby Lawson.” Tolly patted his hand and gave him the best smile she could come up with. And if anyone needed a little wink, Kirby did, so she supplied that too. “I believe that’s the first negative thing I’ve ever heard you say about anyone.”

  His smile faded and his mouth went hard. “I could fill your ear full of plenty of bad right now.” He looked toward the sofa where his aunt continued to wail and his uncle had opened another beer.

  “Go right ahead, honey. Say anything you need to and I won’t tell a soul. Even if it’s not fair. You don’t have to give out fair today.”

  “Well.” He inclined his head to her ear. “My aunt. She never hardly even called Granna. And now she’s acting like she doesn’t know how she’s going to keep living. It’s been like that ever since they got in from Ohio at four o’clock this morning. Plus my cousins Randy and Carlene didn’t even come. I guess they couldn’t be bothered.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tolly took his hand in hers.

  “And, Miss Tolly — ” He swallowed and this time didn’t try to hide his filling eyes.

  “What, baby? Tell me.”

  “Granna was fixing a cake for a baby shower. It was nearly done when she — ” He closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure.

  “Yes, Kirby. I’d heard that.”

  “And they — ” He cast a murderous look toward the sofa. “You won’t believe what they did. I came in here this morning and they were eating that cake. I took it from them and told them they had no manners and no feelings. I’m not their favorite person right now. Was that bad of me?” His face that had looked so much like a man’s a bare second ago was now a child’s.

  “Oh, honey. No.” Tolly held out her arms and he came into them. He had to bend over to lay his head against her shoulder.

  Tolly sensed that someone had walked up behind her. She felt a hand clamp around her upper arm, just above the elbow. She would have known that hand anywhere, even through the silk of her blouse, even after all this time. She tried to shake loose but the grip just got tighter. It was not a grip of affection.

  “Coach.” Kirby raised his head from Tolly’s shoulder and stepped out of her embrace.

  “Seven.”

  Seven. Ah, she had almost forgotten that football people often called each other by their jersey numbers. Would it have killed Nathan Scott to call Kirby by his name today, of all days? Harris and Nathan had played college ball together and they still occasionally called each other twelve and eighty-five — especially if they had a few beers in them.

  “You doing all right, son?” Nathan did not look at Tolly but neither did he loosen his death grip on her arm. She tried to free herself without attracting attention, but he only clamped down harder. Too bad they were in a house of bereavement. She’d bet everything she owned that he would let go if she bit him. Her jaws ached to make him bleed all over his white polo shirt. She could do it too, provided she didn’t break her teeth on his arm — which was a real possibility since he was as muscular as he’d been in his college playing days, when she had first met him. And he was just as good looking as he’d been then, probably more so. His straight caramel blond hair was variegated with white sun streaks and, suddenly, she remembered how silky it had felt. She tried to jerk away again and, though he still did not look at her, his jaw tightened right along with his hand.

  “I’m okay, Coach,” Kirby said. “Doing pretty good.” Did Kirby believe that? Did Nathan?

  “Yeah? That’s good.” Apparently Nathan did believe him. Wasn’t that just like a man? Asked and answered, move on.

  “Coach, do you know Miss Tolly?”

  “Oh, yeah, Seven. I know Miss Tolly.” Nathan employed the tactic they’d both used since his arrival in town last January. Though they often found themselves in social situations together, they never spoke one word directly to each other. They both liked it that way, so why wouldn’t he let go of her? She tried again, and failed, to break away. What the hell? Clearly, he didn’t want her to get away, but why? All they had done since landing in the
same town was walk away from each other. Crap almighty, she should have never moved to Merritt after graduating law school, and she wouldn’t have if there had been any indication that Nathan would ever return to his hometown. But Missy was from here, and Harris had followed her. Four years later, she had followed Harris to practice with him. And here she was.

  No one ever noticed the iciness between her and Nathan because they spoke at and around each other and no one, not even Harris, had any idea they had ever met before Nathan moved back to Merritt. Last summer, when they’d been goaded into dancing together at Luke and Lanie Avery’s wedding, they’d brought down the house but they’d not broken the icy crystal silence. And that’s how Tolly liked it.

  Tolly drew Kirby into her gaze and smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll be at practice this afternoon, Coach,” Kirby said.

  “Yeah?” At least Nathan had the good grace to frown a little. “Is that what you want to do?”

  Kirby looked across the room to where his aunt had launched herself into the arms of one of the kitchen ladies.

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I want.”

  Nathan’s brown eyes followed the path that Kirby’s had blazed and then looked back at Kirby. “All right, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You need anything, Seven? Anything I can do for you? Short of committing murder, that is.” Nathan glanced at the aunt again.

  “No, sir.” A little smile played with Kirby’s mouth.

  “Then we are going to go now.” Nathan increased the pressure on Tolly’s arm, just in case she didn’t know what we meant.

  “Kirby, honey,” Tolly said, “call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk. I mean it. Call me at the office or at home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

  “Bye, Seven.”

  And before Tolly could speak another word, Nathan propelled her in front of him and drove her through the crowd like she was a trolling motor on a bass boat.