Sweet Talking Man

by Liz Talley

  “Spying on people is a crime. It’s called being a Peeping Tom…at worst, stalking.”

  “I wasn’t stalking. Just, uh, looking a little. I didn’t intend to spy,” Birdie said, not moving another inch up the walk.

  “All you have to do is apologize. Don’t worry. No beatings or stringing up by the toenails will commence.”

  Birdie shook her head. “Don’t make me. He doesn’t even know.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact your actions were wrong. You have to apologize, Birdie.”

  “Stop calling me that ridiculous child’s name.”

  Abigail sighed. “It’s not a child’s name. It’s cute.”

  Birdie burned her with a laser glare. “I don’t do cute, Mom.”

  No, she didn’t. Not anymore. Birdie had gone from fluffy tutus and sparkly shoes to skinny jeans and a black hoodie. The one thing that hadn’t changed was her size. Birdie may have been in the seventh grade, but she looked like a fourth grader. Slim, small and defiant, she had gone from funny Birdie to brooding Brigitte.

  “Fine, Brigitte. Let’s go apologize to Mr. Lively.”

  Birdie gave a short puff of aggravation. “Dad said I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to.”

  “Oh, did he? Well, since he’s failed to be a parent for the past five years and doesn’t even live in the state, his insight into the situation isn’t va—”

  At that moment the door swung open and there he was. Leif Lively himself…or, as Abigail had dubbed him, resident cuckoo bird. Okay, sexy cuckoo bird was a more accurate descriptor. The head of the art department at St. George’s Episcopal School had flaxen hair that fell to his shoulders, bright blue Nordic eyes, a chiseled jaw and a body that made half the women in town salivate. He probably could make the other half salivate, too, but some women had principles and sense.

  Like Abigail. She snapped her mouth closed and gave him her committee smile—the one that got things done.

  “Ah, my neighbors,” Leif said with a warm smile that touched those pretty eyes. “I don’t see any casseroles in hand so I’m guessing you’re not welcoming me to the neighborhood?”

  He said it like a joke. He knew, of course, that Abigail would be the last person to welcome him to Laurel Creek, the new subdivision that had opened behind her historic Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast in the small Louisiana town of Magnolia Bend. Abigail had vehemently protested the development behind her place of business. Laurel Woods, a plantation that had been around since before the Civil War, had always been surrounded by lush woods. The solitary, serene location was a main selling point for Abigail’s business. But a planned patio community had taken away a third of the pines and hardwoods that lent peace to the bed-and-breakfast. Abigail hated the subdivision with every fiber of her being, but she hadn’t been able to stop Bartholomew Harvey from selling the acreage to a developer.

  She’d lost that battle, but she wasn’t conceding to the hotness standing in front of her.

  Wait. No. Not hotness.

  She refused to think of the local artist as a sexual being…even if he made it difficult not to.

  Chasing those thoughts felt too, well, dangerous.

  And just why were those thoughts even in her mind anyway? She’d encountered Leif many times at St. George’s and, though she appreciated his good looks and easy charm, she didn’t consider him a prospect for anything other than an art teacher. In his eyes she’d seen what he thought of her as she organized wrapping-paper drives and delivered muffins to the teachers’ lounge. Her dedication to being the PTA president amused him. He probably thought she was totally lame. Or at least she’d convinced herself that’s what he thought of her. Either way, this man was on the other end of the spectrum from her.

  “You’ve been living here for three or four months so I think the welcome period is over. I’m here on another matter entirely, Mr. Lively,” she said.

  “Call me Leif, and I’m just saying a casserole would have been delish,” he teased, padding barefoot down the freshly painted steps, stopping way too near her.

  He wore baggy cotton pants that gathered in at his waist. His bare torso belonged in an ad for suntan lotion, all bronze and free of chest hair. He looked like a man too comfortable in his own skin. Abigail swallowed, but refused to step back. “I thought you were a vegan anyway.”

  “Word gets around, huh? Well, vegans like casseroles,” he said with another smile, craning his head around her to spy Birdie standing stock-still on the walk. “Hey, Birdie.”

  Abigail glanced at her daughter. The child’s face was the color of the camellias blooming by the white picket fence. Good gravy.

  “Hi, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said.

  “So what can I do for you?” Leif asked.

  A naughty thought popped into Abigail’s mind. Really naughty. But she flicked it away and cleared her throat. “Birdie has something to say to you.”

  “Oh.” Leif’s gaze swept down Abigail’s body, taking in the clothes she’d donned for the open house held at St. George’s Episcopal School earlier that day. She’d aimed for professional but suspected she looked overly conservative. But who cared? Besides it was winter, for Christ’s sake. Leif needed to put on a shirt. What kind of man answered the door in such dishabille? Not any man she knew, that’s for sure.

  Abigail smoothed the wool slacks against her thighs before she could catch herself and turned toward her daughter with an arched eyebrow.

  Birdie just stood there, looking scared.

  “I hope you’re coming to tell me you want to take the art class I’m offering at the community college next semester,” Leif said, his eyebrows lifted expectantly. “I’m looking forward to having a talented artist in my class at school this semester, but it would be awesome to have you in the enrichment class, too, Birdie.”

  “Brigitte,” her daughter said.

  “Oh, of course. Brigitte, very French,” Leif said, with another sweet smile.

  Christ, why did he have to be so nice?

  “Uh, I’m thinking about taking the course. Uh, if my mom will let me.” Birdie turned pleading eyes on Abigail. Eyes that nearly swayed Abigail into scrapping the plan to make Birdie apologize. Abigail could always make up something about a dead branch on her property threatening Leif’s back fence.

  Wait. No.

  She’d told Birdie she had to apologize. Children needed consistency. Every mother knew that. Still something pinged in her heart. Maybe if she bent just a little, Birdie would toss a piece of sunshine she hid somewhere beneath that awful hoodie Abigail’s way. Maybe it would be a starting point to discuss why her daughter had spied on Leif in the first place. Obviously Birdie had questions about men, their differences and perhaps even—Abigail swallowed—sex.

  “Mom?” Birdie waited for her to speak.

  “We’ll talk about art class later,” Abigail said, giving Birdie the “go ahead” nod.

  “Uh, I’m here because, uh—” Birdie dug the toe of her sneaker against the concrete walk. “Well, you see, I used to like to climb trees. For sketching. Uh, Audubon once stayed at our house and, well, there are a lot of birds and stuff. I like to draw them and the best place to get a bird’s-eye view is the old sycamore out back.”

  Leif held up a fist. “Mad props to our boy John James Audubon. He’s one of a kind.”

  Birdie fist-bumped him. “Yeah, we have some originals. Two to be exact.”

  “You’re kidding. I’d love to see them.”

  “Come over anytime,” Birdie said.

  Abigail started to shake her head, then caught herself. To be stingy with the original John J. Audubon watercolors would not do. Abigail had always welcomed anyone who wanted to take a peek at the tufted crane and the brown pelican the famed woodsman had created almost two hundred years ago. Leif Lively was no exception just because something about him made her…

  Okay, fine. Abigail had a weird attraction to Leif that she’d never wanted to admit even to herself. When she dropped in at the school, she fou
nd her gaze hanging on him. And she hated herself for it. After all, she wasn’t one of those women who fluttered, starry-eyed over the handsome artist. She wasn’t like other room moms who cracked ribald jokes about Leif’s ass.

  Fawning wasn’t something she did. Ever.

  “I’d love to see the Audubon pieces,” Leif said with another smile at Birdie…and then at her. Christ, he smiled a lot. The Ryan Seacrest of Magnolia Bend.

  Abigail nodded. “Sure, drop by anytime and Birdie can show you.”

  “Anytime? I could come now. It’s about suppertime and I heard you’re a good cook.”

  “Are you hungry?” Abigail had been knitted together with a strong thread of Southern hospitality so guilt pecked at her for not welcoming Leif and the other Laurel Creek residents with banana bread or cookies. But she was not inviting him for supper. The thought made her feel too warm…too nervous.

  “I’m just joking, Abigail. You seem a little tense.” His gaze moved over her once again.

  Abigail tugged her cardigan closed and gave him the smile she usually reserved for her brothers. “I’m not tense. It just didn’t sound like a joke. I grew up with three brothers—I know jokes.”

  “Well, I’ll be more careful around you, then. Might end up popping open a can of snakes or sitting on a whoopee cushion.” Leif’s eyes danced, and even though she wanted to smile, she didn’t. She held on to prickliness like a cape protecting her from being silly. She’d tucked away being lighthearted. Hadn’t worked out for her. Besides the hot weirdo who strummed a ukulele at the local coffee shop and practiced tai chi in his yard wasn’t the kind of guy to let her guard down with. Too different from her.

  “Don’t worry. I’m an adult and no longer put crickets in my brothers’ trucks.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame.” He said it like he was truly sorry for her. Why? Because she didn’t do asinine things anymore? Because she didn’t crack jokes? Or wear flowers in her hair? She crossed her arms as he added, “I like your cardigan, by the way. Angora?”

  “Are you making fun of me?” Abigail asked, a dart of hurt nicking her.

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Because I’m wearing… Because I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

  Birdie closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”

  Leif’s eyes widened. “I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

  Abigail opened her mouth, then shut it. Silence as comfortable as a prostate exam descended. Not that she knew about prostate exams…but she could imagine.

  Just as she was about to prod Birdie again, the squeal of tires sounded. All three turned their heads to see a bright red Mustang hurtling down the street. Another squeal of tires and the vehicle swung into Leif’s driveway, halting with another screech.

  “What the—” Leif muttered as the tinted driver’s window rolled down to reveal a pretty brunette who looked…worried. Abigail tugged Birdie back, but her daughter pulled away, obviously engrossed in the frantic pantomiming of the driver.

  “Sorry about this, Leif,” the driver said as the passenger door opened and a ball of white fluffy tulle emerged. “Marcie made me do it. I was supposed to be her maid of honor. I guess it’s, like, an obligation.”

  Maid of honor?

  Abigail glanced at Leif; he looked gobsmacked, blinking his eyes a couple times before repeating, “Maid of honor?”

  And that’s when the fluffy ball flipped over her veil and sneered. “Yeah, maid of frickin’ honor. Today was supposed to be our wedding day, asshole.”

  *

  LEIF’S MIND WHIRRED, random numbers lining up like on a slot machine. December sixteenth. Today would have been his and Marcie’s wedding day.

  Oh, shit.

  Marcie’s veil was pinned to heavily sprayed blond tresses and one side had fallen down to wag against her sweaty face. Mascara ran beneath her eyes, reminding him of something he’d once seen in a horror movie.

  “Marcie—” He couldn’t even figure out how to ask why his ex-fiancée had put on a wedding dress and tracked him all the way to Magnolia Bend. They’d ended their engagement five months ago, and he hadn’t heard a peep from her until now…when his very proper neighbor stood on his front walk, no doubt looking on with disapproval.

  This might make the Magnolia Bend Herald…or, at the very least, the Facebook hall of fame.

  “Ohhh,” Marcie slurred, wriggling around the car in the tight mermaid gown she’d raved about for weeks last summer, nearly tumbling to the ground despite hiking up the dress. “You remember my name. Ain’t you sweet?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t think I’d find ya, did ya?” she asked, shoving a finger in his face. “My daddy knows a lot of people in this state. You can’t hide, you no-good bastard.”

  Leif inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to figure out how a dude handled something like this. He felt caught in some crazy docudrama or a Maury Povich special. “I wasn’t trying to hide from you.” Much.

  “Bullshith.” Marcie teetered as she tried to square her shoulders. “You were runnin’ like a damn…uh, something I can’t think of right now.”

  He glanced at Marcie’s best friend, Rachel, who still sat in the Mustang looking guilty as hell. “How much did she drink, Rach?”

  She held up a half-empty bottle of Crown Royal. “She started last night. I’m sorry. I couldn’t talk her out of it and I couldn’t let her drive herself. She’s loaded.”

  Good Lord. Marcie swayed, her blue eyes still locked on him. Abigail had edged onto the grass and he could only imagine the censure in the woman’s eyes. He’d seen her around St. George’s, hovering over the school like a blimp or like that character in Monsters, Inc. Always watching. Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron seemed to be the perfect mother, business owner and citizen—always going the extra mile. She was the kind of woman who made him twitchy.

  “Okay, look, Marcie, this isn’t the time or place to talk about what happened between us. Things didn’t work out, honey. One day you’ll see breaking off the wedding was the right decision for both of us.” Leif placed a hand on her elbow, mostly so she wouldn’t fall, and turned her toward the car. “Now go back with Rachel. It’s crazy to show up here like this. When you sober up, you’re going to feel—”

  “Don’t tell me what I feel. I waited all my life to wear this dress. See what you’ve done to me,” Marcie said, wrenching her arm away and catching sight of Abigail. She dragged her drunken gaze from his neighbor’s head to her loafers. “Wait. Who’s that?”

  “Uh, nobody,” Leif answered before Abigail could open her mouth. Somehow it made him sound guilty. Marcie narrowed her glazed eyes.

  “Wait, are you sleeping with her? Her? She’s not your type. She’s, like, old. My mom wears shoes like hers.”

  Abigail looked at her sensible loafers, then at Marcie. It was like watching Courtney Love go toe-to-toe with Katie Couric. “For your information, I’m his neighbor, and every woman should have a good pair of loafers—even rude, inebriated women.”

  Marcie’s brow crinkled. “Inevreated?”

  “Drunk,” Abigail clarified.

  “Well, that’s his fault,” Marcie said, pointing to Leif. “But I’m sorry I said that. Still, my mom totally has those shoes. Guess you shop at Talbots, too.”

  Abigail turned to the waiflike preteen staring at him and Marcie with eyes as big as dinner plates. “Come on, Birdie. We’ll do this later. Mr. Lively has his hands full.”

  Birdie stood agog, not budging. “Okay.”

  “Wait.” Marcie held up a finger. “I got something for you, Leif.”

  Oh, God. Please don’t let it be a shotgun. Surely Rachel didn’t let her bring a weapon. But then again, Rachel wasn’t the most sensible of girls. She’d brought a drunk, bridal-gown-wearing Marcie from New Orleans.

  “Now, Birdie. Come on.” Abigail’s voice sounded more urgent.

  Leif glanced at Abigail, then worriedly at the rump of Marcie. The rest of her had disappeared into the car. “You
guys don’t have to go. It’s fine.”

  But it was not fine.

  The fluffy veil swayed as Marcie wriggled out, lunging toward Leif.

  Whew. No shotgun or pistol or machete.

  Just a plate. With a huge hunk of cake.

  “This is for you,” she said, scooping a hunk of white iced cake off the plate. “Thought you might like a piece since you insisted on almond buttercream for the wedding cake.”

  And then she smashed the entire piece right between his eyes.

  He didn’t try to stop her because he knew he had it coming. He was the one who’d broken off the engagement. He was the one who’d broken her heart…or at the very least ruined her grand New Orleans wedding, complete with the vows at Saint Louis Cathedral, a carriage ride through the Quarter and a honeymoon in Tahiti.

  “There,” Marcie crowed, twisting her hand, grinding the cake in good. He felt the icing slip down his face and tasted the sweet buttercream frosting. “Hope you like it.”

  He swiped the cake from his eyes in time to see Marcie rake her icing-covered hand down her gown and spin on a heel, nearly falling onto the hood of the still purring Mustang. She marched to the open passenger door, spit out some of the netting that had gotten into her mouth and glared at Leif. “And now you can go screw yourself.”

  Except she didn’t say screw. She said the other word, making him glance over at Abigail, who had earmuffed Birdie. Too late, of course.

  Leif scraped off some cake and flung it to the ground, then swiped a finger through the icing, sliding it into his mouth. “Mmm. Almond buttercream was the best choice.”

  Marcie growled at him before giving him the finger and crawling into the car. “Get me the hell away from him.”

  And with that last directive, Rachel reversed the car out of the driveway. With a small regretful wave, she aimed the shiny Mustang toward the bricked gate of the subdivision. Leif waved, then took another swipe of icing and sucked it off his finger. The cake really was excellent. He wondered if Marcie had been obligated to pay for the wedding cake she’d hemmed and hawed over for a month. Or maybe she’d picked up a random white cake and played it off as the wedding cake. He wouldn’t put it past the pretty drama queen.