Sweet Talking Man

by Liz Talley

  Wait.

  Not a true interest. A potential flirtation. Or maybe just good fantasy fodder for cold, lonely nights. Leif wasn’t an actual contender for her affections. That was crazy, premenopausal delusion talking.

  Then she recalled the heat in his gaze when she’d caught him looking at her in art class. So maybe Leif was a contender?

  She wasn’t a big-boobed Marcie, but she wasn’t chopped liver, either. She knew how to kick off her loafers. WD-40 might be in order, but the parts still moved.

  “Well, once you get settled permanently, let me know. You have my phone number.”

  He frowned, pushing off from the counter. “Oh, you’ll see me before then. I thought I might come over tomorrow night and take you and Birdie to dinner.”

  “I can’t leave the bed-and-breakfast two nights in a row. But Birdie will want to spend some quality time with her father. She didn’t see you for Christmas.” Abigail tried to not make her statement an accusation, but it stuck anyway.

  “I couldn’t fly home. Airline prices were crazy and Morgan—” His voice faded. A hurt expression flitted over his face before he regained control. “Things were unsettled.”

  So he’d been trying to save his relationship with the twenty-six-year-old, while putting his daughter on the back burner once again. Morgan wore her South Louisiana roots well with her olive coloring, big brown eyes and soft bayou accent. Lithe and sexy, her voice had a mesmerizing, otherworldly quality. Abigail knew because she’d been the dumb ass who had suggested she and Cal watch Morgan perform with her local zydeco band six years earlier. No doubt, Morgan had now moved on to bigger fish who could further her career.

  “So you said. I suppose the upside to ending your relationship with Morgan is being more present in your daughter’s life.” Abigail walked toward the kitchen door, hoping Cal would get the hint. His appearance at the art class had pulled the rug out from beneath her. Abigail needed to think. And plan. And think some more. She had to be careful with Cal and Birdie, especially since her daughter had been buzzing with excitement, her eyes sparkling at the news that her father was home. The child had been cut adrift when Cal left five years ago and she’d never really recovered.

  “True,” Cal said, following her into the formal parlor with its richly colored carpets, marble fireplace and Audubon painting of a crane standing vigil over the bayou. “I should’ve called you, but I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to surprise Birdie. And you.”

  Again, warning bells sounded. “We’ll figure things out. I’ll tell Birdie you’ll pick her up for dinner tomorrow night. Needs to be early since it’s a school night.”

  “Good,” Cal said, stepping closer to Abigail. She moved back. “I appreciate that, Abi. I mean Abigail.”

  He ducked his head toward her.

  Abigail threw up a hand, hitting his chin. “What are you doing?”

  “Kissing your cheek. Saying good-night.”

  “Don’t.”

  Cal scowled. “Jesus, it’s just a friendly gesture. We can be civil, can’t we?”

  “Sure. As long as it’s not with your lips.”

  “Goddamn, you’re cold,” Cal said in a hurt voice.

  “What did you expect? I’d be the same as I once was?” Abigail opened the front door. “I’ll treat you cordially, Cal, because of Birdie. But if we didn’t have a child, you would have never crossed this threshold.”

  Cal studied her for a moment, saying nothing, before slipping out the door, leaving behind the scent of Brooks Brothers Gentlemen cologne. She watched the taillights of his truck fade before she stepped out into the chilly night. The porch that ran across the front of the house was deep enough for several sets of rocking chairs perfectly centered on the plantation windows. Her breath puffed white as she shuffled toward the swing at the end of the porch. Her body felt brittle, her soul tormented by tonight’s events. Cal was in her life and she had no say about it because they shared Birdie.

  Wonderful, temperamental, soulful Birdie.

  She released a breath.

  “Sounds like you need a drink.”

  Abigail nearly jumped out of her skin as she spun toward the porch railing. Standing in the moonlight, clad in a down-filled jacket, was Leif. He held a liquor bottle and two glasses.

  “You scared me to death.”

  His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “You look alive to me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Checking on you.”

  “Checking on me?” She stiffened, grappling with the idea that Leif cared enough to check on her.

  “And bringing you a drink.”

  “A drink?”

  He climbed the steps, his shoes quiet on the slats as he moved toward her. “You expected something more herbal from me? I’ve heard the rumors, but I don’t smoke weed. I do, however, like a good Scotch.” His blue eyes were sparkling with warmth. He wagged the bottle.

  “I could use a drink.” She sat on the swing and glanced at the spot beside her. If he were anyone else, she would have expected him to sit in the rocker a few feet away, but she wanted to feel him beside her.

  Yeah. She’d gone nuts.

  Leif settled beside her, twisted the lid off the bottle and poured two generous fingers of what looked to be Balvenie. He’d brought the good stuff. Handing her one, he clinked his glass to hers. “I’d make a toast but this isn’t about futures or well wishes. You just need a drink, hon.”

  “No shit.”

  She didn’t bothering sipping. Tonight called for a belt.

  “Whoa. Slow down there, soldier.” Leif leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers.

  Abigail did as he bid and took a demure sip. “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you being nice to me? You don’t know me.”

  He tilted his head. The move made him cuter. “Best way to get to know someone is over a good Scotch.”

  “But why would—”

  He pressed his finger against her lips. “Shh…sometimes it’s enough to be still. Just relax.”

  It was the second time he’d said that to her, and she let the words sink in. She leaned against the swing, folding in on herself like a bouncy castle deflating after a kiddie birthday party. Sweet comfort.

  Leif kicked the swing into motion. The clunk of the bottle hitting the porch was the last sound she heard before the night tucked them into quiet contemplation.

  After several minutes, Abigail released a sigh.

  “Ah, there you go. A good Scotch cures a lot of things.”

  “Tonight sucked.”

  “I know. Feels like getting sideswiped,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Yeah, sideswiped,” she breathed, looking out into the inky darkness as if it could provide a solution to Cal showing up…a solution to her wanting to rest her head on Leif’s shoulder. “You know, you’re a decent guy for a lothario.”

  “Lothario?”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Just because women hurl themselves at you…”

  He stuck a finger to his cheek. “It’s the dimple.”

  She felt her lips twitch before she could stop herself. “Magic, huh?”

  His eyes grew flirty. “Is it working on you?”

  Inside, she stilled much like the darkness around them. Should she laugh it off or tell him the truth? Roll the dice or hold her cards close? “Eh, kind of.”

  “Perfect.”

  He settled back, kicking them into motion again, seeming content to do nothing more than sit beside her, sip liquor and enjoy the intimacy of not having to say a thing.

  An owl hooted and the squeak of the swing created a soothing lullaby as the warm liquor made Abigail feel languid and heavy. After they’d been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour, Abigail stopped the swing. “I should go inside.”

  “It’s late,” he agreed, rising and extending a hand. She took it, almost sighing at the warmth of his skin against her cold hand. God help her, but she wanted to feel his arms a
round her, to give him what she’d denied Cal earlier.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  His eyes stayed soft as he whispered, “That’s what neighbors are for.”

  “Neighbors?”

  “And friends.”

  “Oh.” She glanced away, trying not to feel crushing disappointment. Stupid woman. Leif had been doing what he did best—charming anything in a skirt. Not that she wore a skirt. Too cold for that. But he probably flirted with grocery store cashiers, phlebotomists and anyone he came in contact with—including lonely, pathetic neighbors.

  “And women I want to kiss.”

  Abigail blinked. “You want to kiss me?”

  He brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss on the back of it. His whiskey breath fanned her skin, causing heat to shimmer in her stomach. “Another time, pretty Abigail.”

  Abigail stared at the hand he released before snapping out of the trance he’d put her in. “Oh.”

  “Night.”

  “Good night, Leif. Thank you.”

  He picked up the bottle and lifted a hand as he walked down the steps. “My pleasure.”

  Then he left her with a smile…and a hunger she knew would keep her awake long into the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING Leif skirted the woods behind his house. Laurel Woods sprawled in the middle of twenty acres of pine, hardwoods and scrubby brush that harbored deer, raccoons and pesky squirrels who cut pinecones into his lap pool. Technically, he was trespassing, but since he’d taken Abigail a drink last night, he was sure he could get a pass for traipsing through her woods on an earlymorning hike.

  Of course, his real intent was to poke around the abandoned cabins that sat to the left of the huge white house.

  His mother had lived in one of them.

  Hell, he may have even been conceived in one of them.

  All along he’d intended to get to know the owner of Laurel Woods. But he hadn’t realized the owner was the fusspot PTA president, the kind of woman who made a guy’s fellows shrink to the size of blueberries. His neighbors had told him that Abigail had petitioned against the subdivision, even going as far as to solicit the aid of the Historical Society. She’d lost. And she hadn’t been happy about it, erecting a huge fence to block the development from her sight.

  Leif had practiced patience hoping to eventually befriend the woman. And finally opportunity had plopped in his lap by way of Birdie.

  He glanced at the large Greek revival house standing proud and rebellious in the face of the elements determined to wear away the centuries-old edifice. It was just like its owner—defiant and guarded.

  As he pushed through the bushes that encroached on the trail, he wondered if anything his mother had created remained in the former slave cabins that had been modified forty-five years ago to house traveling artists. He had little hope since the cabins had been shut up for years, but he’d wanted to see where his mother had lived. Perhaps something remained of her, some hint of who she’d been…of whom she’d fallen in love with.

  At the coffeehouse where he sometimes played on Friday nights he’d run into Royal Desadier, the grandson of Simeon Harvey’s former groundskeeper. Royal lived with his grandfather Cletus, who suffered poor health but whose mind was still sharp. Leif asked to visit Cletus because the man had been around when artists populated the grounds.

  Simeon Harvey had brought in artists from all over the world, including Leif’s mother, who had journeyed from her Colorado commune to a studio in one of the cabins. She’d left four short months after arriving amidst allegations of murder, taking with her what she called her one true masterpiece—Leif.

  On his birth certificate, there was a suspicious blank. His mother had refused to discuss the man who’d fathered him anytime Leif brought up the subject. He’d received the last name Lively from a small Colorado town his mother had once visited. For thirty-four years, Leif had made do without a father.

  And for those same thirty-four years, Leif had pretended he didn’t need to know the man who had impregnated his mother. It had been easier to pretend there wasn’t a void in his life. But underneath the happy-go-lucky hippie veneer was a small boy who longed to know who his father was.

  Calliope had died holding fast to his name.

  So Leif had no clue who his biological father was.

  And no one in the small community of Magnolia Bend knew Leif was the son of a murderess.

  Leif emerged into a clearing and saw an older woman pulling weeds in front of the first in a string of cabins.

  Quickly, so as not to be seen, he ducked behind the huge magnolia tree blooming on the edge of the woods. He had no idea who the woman was, but he didn’t feel like explaining why he trespassed.

  Soon he’d have to confide in someone with regard to the search for his roots. Southerners were definitely hospitable but they closed ranks fast if they knew you weren’t one of them. And it had been obvious from his first day in Magnolia Bend that he wasn’t one of them. Maybe Abigail would be the perfect person to reveal his true purpose for being here to. Her family had lived in this area forever and she could provide him with some history and help locate someone who might remember his mother.

  Abigail.

  She was the antithesis of overblown and easy. Her willowy frame harkened back to Jane Austen and buttoned-up dresses. That stubborn chin, dark hair and intellect were reasons to move away from her rather than inch closer. Yet he’d shown up at her house last night, liquor in hand.

  Oh, he’d argued with himself about going, but reason had lost.

  Why?

  She intrigued him. Her edges needed rounding out. Like she needed someone to show her how to freakin’ relax, to let the woman beneath the field sergeant climb out and play.

  He could do that—ply her with pretty words, treat her to a bit of romance and laughter. But why he felt like doing so was as clear as morning on the San Francisco Bay.

  Maybe it was because he knew how she felt when her ex-husband had slammed back into her life. Or maybe there was no good reason. Maybe he was an eternal hopeless dumb ass looking for someone to belong to. Maybe it was a really stupid idea.

  Doubling back toward his house, he tried to talk himself out of any further romantic interactions with Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron. But by the time he stepped onto his porch, he’d decided to not worry so much about the reasons he shouldn’t and embrace the reasons he should.

  If there was one thing Leif always did, it was listen to what the universe told him.

  And the wind whispered her name.

  *

  “JOHN OFFICIALLY PROPOSED to Shelby,” Francesca “Fancy” Beauchamp said, handing Abigail the scissors so she could trim the ribbon on the pillow she held.

  Abigail looked at her mother, eyeing her handiwork critically. Thankfully, the pillows looked custom-made, something she could no longer afford. “I thought he’d already asked her? When did this happen?”

  “Last night. Your brother drove her out to Boots Grocery, got down on a knee in the middle of the bar and told her he was glad he’d gotten drunk and knocked her up in the bathroom. And then he asked her to become his wife. Can you believe it? Our John?”

  “No, the way he grieved Rebecca, I didn’t think it possible.”

  Fancy shrugged. “Me neither, but I’m happy for him. Your father’s a bit appalled at the proposal locale.”

  A bar wasn’t exactly the kind of place Reverend Dan Beauchamp frequented but it was where her brother had met Shelby…and where they’d made a mistake that set fate on its ear. “Well, it’s hard growing up a preacher’s kid. We constantly disappoint.”

  Fancy smacked her hand, making her drop the scissors. “Don’t say that. Your father and I worked hard to raise you as regular kids, to be able to make mistakes without being judged by a ridiculous standard.”

  Abigail picked up the scissors. “I’m not criticizing you and Dad. It’s just how it is. We accept it, but sometimes it’s hard. Take John. Who c
ould have imagined someone so steady would topple head-over-boots for someone like Shelby? Never in a million years would I have put those two together.” She snipped the ragged threads that had not been sewn down. The ribbon made a perfect square in the middle of the flowered fabric. A pretty monogram sat in the center.

  Fancy rose from the breakfast table and carried her empty mug to the sink. The large farmhouse sink anchored a generous slab of marble in the bright kitchen. Her mother’s kitchen reflected her personality—cheerful, with clean lines and purpose. Yes, it was an optimistic kitchen if there were such a thing.

  “I like Shelby, and sometimes a person needs to be balanced out by someone who is their opposite,” Fancy said.

  “I like Shelby, too. But they don’t look like they’d fit.”

  Fancy returned to tug at a wayward thread, rolling it into a ball. “Can’t go on what we see. Scripture tells us man sees what is on the outside, but God sees a man’s heart. Perhaps John—”

  “Oh, you can bet he was attracted to that outside.” Abigail bounced big pretend breasts against her chest.

  “Hush,” Fancy said, but laughing anyway. “Speaking of not judging a book by its cover, how are the art lessons going?”

  Abigail stilled, her mind flipping to the intimacy between her and her instructor the other night. “We’ve only had one lesson. I suck at drawing.”

  “Language,” her mother warned.

  “Oh, please. Suck is a perfectly good word. Don’t act like you don’t use it.”

  “Me? I’d never use language unsuitable for a preacher’s wife,” Fancy said, a twinkle in her eye. Abigail knew very well her mother dropped the occasional curse word, but that was what made Fancy Beauchamp one of Magnolia Bend’s most-liked women. She could bake a mean pie and dance the tango, and believed a well-placed curse word was effective.

  “The class is filled with women.”

  “He’s a good-lookin’ man.”

  “But odd. He wears sandals with pants and has a ponytail.”

  “So did Jesus.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes. “Only you would compare Leif Lively to Jesus.”