I let out a huge sigh. She flops down on the last step, and even with the filtered light from the streetlight outside, I have a clear view down her tank top.
She leans to the side. “What are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
Andie leans forward, and I reach out to keep her from face-planting onto the floor. I shouldn’t have made contact with her. This is not going to end well.
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
I hold out a hand for her to take. After two attempts, she latches on, and I help her stand. There she goes with the leaning thing again. I take her by the shoulders and aim her in the direction of the stairs. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”
She’s putting me in a difficult position. If I keep this from her attorney, I could lose my reputation in the community. But if I let him know, she’ll lose her money, and I’ll lose a chance with her.
Her left foot goes up, then her right foot goes up on the same step. Then she sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. I prop her up, and together, we attempt another step. With each step, she leans more and more on me, and before I know it, she’s dead weight on my arm.
“Damn, girl. You’re heavy when you’re drunk.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Andie swings around so fast, I almost lose my balance. With her on the step above me, I can almost see her squinty eyes.
“Are you saying I’m fat?”
Oh boy. Even when she’s drunk, she’s as cute as all get-out, and I can’t help but laugh. “No, sugar, you’re not fat. Never mind.”
She points a crooked finger and sways. I catch her before she sends us both tumbling down the steps. “‘Cause if you think I’m fat, I can show you someone who’s fat. Peggy Shiflitt down at the Piggly Wiggly. Now she’s fat.” She wags her head, confirming her assessment of poor Peggy. “Peggy, Piggy.” She laughs at her own joke and snorts. “And for that matter, here’s proof that I’m not fat.” She crosses her arms and grabs the hem of her tank top then pulls it up over her belly button.
I quickly stop her. I’ve daydreamed about her doing this for me, but not on the steps and definitely not inebriated.
“Hey now. I believe you. This isn’t necessary.”
“Pffft.” Okay, that confirms the as-drunk-as-a-skunk assumption I had. I need to get her up to her room fast and make her brush her teeth. She misses a step and tumbles into her living room, crashing into the couch. At least we made it.
This is a bad idea, but I sit on the couch next to her, anyway. “You’re not supposed to do this, or you’ll lose all the money.”
Andie stares off, and when she looks me in the eye, I can see how glassy her eyes are. “Oops.” She laughs, which turns into a whimper, then a full-blown crying jag. She slumps down, rests her head on my shoulder, and pats my thigh. That feels too perfect.
“What’s the matter?”
After a beat of silence, she asks, “Do you think I’m lonely?”
Well, yes, I do, but she doesn’t want to hear that right now. “I don’t know. I don’t know you very well.”
She rubs her cheek on my shoulder, back and forth as though she’s trying to find the right spot. Her bottom lip sticks out. “Mrs. Cavanaugh thinks I’m lonely and that’s why I drink.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh is wise. “Is it?”
She bolts up and stumbles to the bathroom. With a toothbrush in her mouth, she mumbles, “I got lots of friends in Boston. Already made some here too.”
She spits in the sink, grabs a crumpled piece of paper off the kitchen table, and tumbles back into the living room. When she sits next to me, she melts into my side, and before I can stop myself, I put my arm around her and lean back on the couch. She snuggles in with me. It feels right, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before.
“You can still be lonely.”
She rests her head back, and all I want to do is kiss her neck. It’s there for the taking. Apparently, she can’t see what she does to me.
“Is that answer listed in the city manual?” she asks.
Andie makes me laugh, and I kiss her silky, fruity-smelling hair. I shouldn’t have done that. She should push me away because I want to do it again and again. “But it’s true.”
She shrugs and flips her hair off her shoulder, exposing more of her delectable neck. Crap. “Maybe she’s right, but until she started harassing me, I didn’t care. Can you arrest her for harassment?”
“No, sweetie, I can’t. But why do you care now?”
“Because when all my ‘acquaintances’...” She makes air quotes with her fingers and leans more into me then places a hand on my upper thigh. Jesus. “They’ll find out about the money; they will all want to be best buddies with me.” She turns abruptly, and her resting hand moves way too close to my groin. “When I needed a job, were they around? Nope. When I needed a loan, were they around? Nope.”
“And you don’t want to share with them.”
Andie runs her hand down the side of my face. I clear my throat.
“I don’t want to waste it on them.”
As much as I don’t want to, I take her hand away from my face and hold both of them. That seems to be the best place to have them so they don’t get any closer to my fun zone. She’s drunk, and I’m not going there again with any girl. “You could do something worthwhile with it.”
She groans and focuses on the floor. Then she wipes a tear from her face and licks her lips. “I don’t even like the taste of alcohol anymore.” All of a sudden, she doesn’t sound drunk. She sounds completely with it. She sniffles and holds up the wadded piece of paper with a pink gingham-checked border. “See what I found in one of Granny’s photo albums?” She smooths out the wrinkles and hands it to me. “A note from me to Granny.” She pokes at the page. “By the date on it, I would have been in middle school.” She shoves it toward me. “Go on. Read it.”
I clear my throat. “Granny, I don’t know why you hate my mother so much, but leave us alone. She doesn’t want to hear from you again, and neither do I.” I peek over at Andie, who works her teeth over her bottom lip. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. But there’s one little fly in the ointment. That’s the stationery Granny sent me one year for my birthday, but this note is typed, and the scribbled signature is not mine.”
“No way.”
She snatches it away from me and wads it into a ball. “Thinking back, that’s about the time Mom told me Granny was dead. She lied to us both.”
My heart breaks for Andie. She missed out on a chance to have a real relationship with her grandmother. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. I’m angry with a person I’ve never met. I’m sad for Miss Mary Grace because she wanted to know her granddaughter in the worst way. And this selfish act, for whatever reason, ruined it for everyone.
“I’m sorry.”
Andie snorts. “Not your fault.” She stares off into the corner of the room and, for the longest time, stays silent. Then she takes a deep breath and turns back to me. “I am so lonely.”
She curls into me, and her bare leg brushes mine. I can’t hold back anymore. I cup her face in my hands and raise it until she’s peering into my eyes. I wipe a tear off her cheek.
Leaning in, I whisper, “You don’t have to be. I’m right here.” At first, my lips barely touch hers. It’s not nearly enough. My hands roam down her arms and rest on her waist. I slide a hand under her tank top to feel her burning-hot skin. She lets out a sigh and runs her hands up my chest. When she kisses me, it’s just another light, feathery peck. I can’t take it anymore, so I run my hands higher and pull her closer to me. My lips press against hers, and she moves with me. Suddenly, a skimpy tank top and panties are way too much clothing for me. My lips leave a trail down her neck, and I curse the days I’ve lost thinking about this moment. But it’s not supposed to be this way. She’s not supposed to be drunk.
Then I get a vision of her waving
goodbye, leaving town with her convertible loaded down. Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I push her away from me. Both of us breathe as if we’ve been running a marathon, and her lips are so perfectly swollen. Her hair is a gorgeous mess.
“We shouldn’t do this.” I stand up to put some distance between us. “Uh, we shouldn’t do this.” I pace the living room, trying to find the words, trying to keep myself from diving back in and pressing her into the couch with me on top of her.
She plays with a loose string on her tank top. “I’m sorry.”
It’s not a great idea to touch her again, but I hold out a hand to help her stand. “I’m not sorry in the least. It’s not the right time. That’s all.”
She bows her head and wipes another stray tear away. “You don’t want me like that, do you? You’re so perfect, and I’m a hot mess. I bet you’ve never even gotten a parking ticket.”
Her words make me freeze. She has no idea how imperfect I am. I turn around and hold her face in my hands again then give her one last kiss on the lips. Dammit, I shouldn’t have done that. “You are not a hot mess. And if your blood-alcohol level wasn’t so high, I would show you how not sorry I am.”
She chews on her lip. I wish I were doing that.
“I won’t tell anyone about your little slipup, especially your attorney. We all mess up sometimes.”
Some more than others.
I kiss her cheek. I have to touch her and kiss her. Leaving is harder than I thought it would be. “I’ll lock your door on my way out.”
She blows out a breath.
“See you soon, sugar?”
She clears her throat and paints on that fake, beauty-pageant smile. “Of course.”
I wave and jog down the stairs. If I don’t leave now, I’ll still be here in the morning, and that tank top will be ripped to shreds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Andie
Every time I close my eyes, I see Gunnar’s beautiful face, feel his breath on my neck, and taste his lips. In my dreams, he kisses me everywhere, and I let him. But when my dreams turn to me breaking his heart, I bolt up in bed, causing my head to pound. This isn’t my plan. He’s not supposed to be so yummy.
Damn it to hell. If I hadn’t been drunk last night, he might have carried me up the stairs, and my dreams would have become a reality. He thinks I was too drunk, or so he said. I wasn’t so sloppy drunk that I don’t remember every detail this morning. But a few more shots, and I would have been there.
Tired of tossing and turning and getting turned on with thoughts of his lips on mine, I throw the covers off, do a quick spit bath, and head downstairs to study that damn recipe card. Mrs. Cavanaugh won’t darken the door for another couple of hours, so I’m going to attempt another batch. Something tells me this recipe is the one I’m supposed to use. There’s something about that missing ingredient.
The open Jack Daniel’s bottle I left on the counter last night taunts me as if to say, “Come to Mama,” but I’m not going to do it. Last night was it, and it’s not because of the money, and it’s not because Gunnar saw me wasted. The more time I spend in this town and in Granny’s home, the more I know she was trying to protect me from myself. Yes, this is a test, but one I plan to pass with flying colors.
I should have never gone in search of clues about my mother because all I found was the bottle of Tennessee’s finest whiskey. I bet Granny never intended for me to find that tucked neatly away in a box labeled “country crafts.” Or maybe she did, and it was a test of willpower, one that I failed miserably. But finding that letter sent me spiraling out of control, especially when my mother made Granny think I didn’t care. Needless to say, I reacted to unsettling news in my normal fashion—drinking enough booze to suppress the hurt.
“Here goes nothing.” I drag out all my ingredients and place them on the counter by the stove. My shiny saucepan I bought at the department store welcomes me like a new friend, and it begs me not to ruin it. While the strawberries simmer on the stove, my eyes wander back to the whiskey bottle. The amber liquid sloshes around when I tap it with my wooden spoon.
Only a few people in the city have even cared enough to text me after I didn’t show up at my old haunt. But even they don’t keep in contact anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Like I told Gunnar, they don’t care. They would care enough to help me wash my money down their throats with the finest liquor it can buy, but when the cash ran out, they would be on to the next person. Tinsley is the only person who keeps in touch, but I think it is part of the agreement he made with Gunnar more than his concern for me.
It has been so long since I’ve had someone I could talk to. I never understood why my mother was so angry with Granny, and she always took it out on me. “You’re exactly like her. One day, you will be grown up and make mistakes, and I’m going to be there to throw it in your face.” Those were the last words she said to me as I packed my bags and moved out after I graduated college. I never heard from her again until I got the call two years later that she had ended her life. I was bound and determined not to make the same mistakes she did, whatever they were.
I pick up the bottle and take a quick scan around to see if anyone is snooping in the windows. It would be so easy to toss it back where I found it and forget about my messed-up life. No one cares about me, anyway. This town with these nice people only like me for one reason and one reason only—money. Once I’m out of their lives, they won’t remember me.
Maybe I should let the church have all the money and run away. I could take the advance Mr. Christian gave me and start over somewhere new. My faux friends would never be able to find me. Or I could drain this bottle dry in hopes that I wouldn’t see another day.
The bottle calls my name, begging me to wrap my lips around it. It tells me it is the only one that understands and the only thing that can give me relief. I raise the bottle, and right before it touches my mouth, my eyes land on Granny’s picture. This is not what she would want for me. I jostle the bottle over and over, and some of the contents spills on my hands.
“No! No. You are not going to win.”
The bottle slides out of my hand and lands in the saucepan, the rest of its contents spilling into my latest jam attempt. “Shit.” I scoop it out with my wooden spoon, grab it with a dish towel, and toss it in the trash. In case the Jackson sisters saunter in, I bury it deep under other trash. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at the bubbling strawberry and Jack Daniel’s concoction. Hmm. I wonder.
Before I know what I’m doing, I dip the wooden spoon in the saucepan and scoop out a glob. I blow on it so I don’t burn the roof of my mouth and count to ten. It’s still steaming hot, so I take a tentative bite. With an open mouth, I breathe in and out, trying to cool the burning, congealing glop in my mouth.
I cock my head to the side and lift one eyebrow. “Not bad.”
My phone buzzes, notifying me of an incoming text. Tinsley’s message reads, “Hope you’re doing well. Have you found your twang?”
I giggle as I reply. “Yep. I’ll call you later.”
The bell chimes over the door, and I place my phone on the counter.
“Morning,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says. She goes through her daily routine of hanging up her purse, sliding on her apron, and dragging items out to start on breakfast.
“Morning, Mrs. Cavanaugh.” I get out a clean spoon and scoop another spoonful of my latest jam for her to taste. When I wave it under her nose, she tries to swat my hand away.
“Oh, come on. Please try it. I think I’m getting the hang of this.”
She backs away from me. “I’m in no mood for food poisoning.”
Maybe if I whine, she’ll try it. “Please? Pretty please with sugar on top?”
She lets out her typical huff, knowing she’s not going to win, and opens her mouth. I grin, hoping my positive attitude will help her be open-minded about this batch. She takes a bite and smacks her lips. That’s more than I’ve gotten out of her in the past.
�
�Well? What do you think?”
She wags her head back and forth as though she’s trying to find the right words. “Not bad.”
Hallelujah. I give Mrs. Cavanaugh a big hug and plant a kiss her on the cheek. “Woo-hoo! Oh yeah, oh yeah.” I strut around the kitchen like the chickens that roam Main Street.
Mrs. Cavanaugh giggles. “It tastes pretty much like Mary Grace’s. What did you do this time?” She cracks eggs into a bowl without even glancing my way. I’m still mesmerized at how she can do that. Her arthritic hands don’t seem agile enough, but they are.
“Uh... I followed the recipe.” I shrug. “The only other thing I did was not burn it to hell.”
She dumps flour into the bowl and pours milk into the well she’s created. While she mixes the muffin batter, she says, “I guess you figured out the secret ingredient.”
I shrug and try my best to conceal my surprise at what exactly that ingredient was. “I didn’t do anything different, except...”
Mrs. Cavanaugh stops her work and stares at me. “What?”
“Nothing. I need to write down my steps so I can replicate what I did.” I turn my back to her and focus on the recipe card. I peer at the tiny writing on that one line with the missing ingredient. Since it’s in faint pencil, I can barely make it out, but I’m sure of it now. It says, “1CJD.” One cup of Jack Daniel’s. I gasp.
Mrs. Cavanaugh studies me. “Something wrong?”
“Not at all.” I do a happy dance in the middle of the store, boogying with a broom. Granny, you little souse. Mama did say we were a lot alike. If I can submit this to the county fair, I can check one more item off my “get out of hell free” card. I’ll be kissing this small town goodbye faster than a hot knife slices through butter. So long, hillbillies.
The bells above the door chime, and my happy dance is interrupted by Gunnar, the one sexy fly in the ointment. Dang it.
In a Jam Page 15
