Sweet Talking Man

by Liz Talley

  And she needed space.

  The night air was crisp, making her breath fog. The bared trees framed both the path and the full moon hovering above. The night was hard—cold edges with silver gilding. Such a contrast from the warmth of the man she’d left behind.

  Good gravy, she’d entered into a FWB relationship like she was a twenty-five-year-old Manhattan salesgirl and not a forty-year-old divorcée soccer mom. And to think last week she hadn’t even known what a FWB was. She’d be proud of herself if she weren’t so nervous about keeping her heart out of the mix. Somehow what she’d shared with Leif seemed not so run-of-the-mill. So how did modern girls keep from growing attached? How did they keep sex and love two separate things?

  Stepping onto her hibernating Saint Augustine lawn, still mulling over the situation, she felt a movement beside her.

  “Oh, crap” she yelped, jumping back and raising her fist in self-defense.

  “Whoa, whoa. It’s just me,” Cal said, throwing both hands up in a nonthreatening posture.

  “Oh, good gravy, you scared me to death.” Her heart sounded in her ears. “Jesus, Cal, is your mouth broken? Next time say something.”

  “Sorry,” he said, showing her the glow of a cigarette. “I was having a smoke. Birdie fell asleep during some animated movie she sang all the words to.”

  “Yeah, once she likes something…” Abigail started moving toward the house. Her hair still felt damp and the cold weather made her chilled. “When did you start smoking? Thought California inspired healthy lifestyles.”

  He fell into step beside her. “Not when you’re working in clubs. Kept me awake and focused when I was playing a set. I don’t smoke much. Just when stress eats at me.”

  She didn’t want to engage Cal but she was curious. “And you’re stressed?”

  “Try living with your parents, relearning a job that’s changed and getting a divorce.”

  “Try being a single parent, remodeling a plantation house and having everyone feel sorry for you. No picnic. Wait, you married Morgan?”

  Hurt flashed across his craggy face. “Last year. A justice-of-the-peace thing.”

  “You never told me. Or Birdie.”

  Cal raised his shoulders in a semishrug. “Didn’t figure you’d want to know. But I shouldn’t have married her. Thought it would keep her with me. Pathetic, huh?” He gave an embarrassed smile far removed from the Calhoun Orgeron who dunked the football through the goalposts after winning the LHSAA-Class 2-A championship his senior year.

  Abigail started toward the porch. “Who you date or marry is none of my business.”

  Cal grabbed her arm and at the same time flicked the cigarette to the ground, putting it out with his boot heel. Abigail frowned at the butt and he wisely stooped to pick it up. “Can I have a sec?”

  “I’m tired,” she said, removing her arm from his grasp. “And it’s cold out here.”

  “Your hair’s wet.”

  She raised a hand to the tangled mess. “Yeah.”

  He waited as though expecting her to explain it, but she didn’t owe Cal anything, especially not an explanation of what she’d done with Leif tonight.

  “Fine.” She jerked her head toward the house, moving quickly. The porch light glowed, promising warmth within. “Did Alice Ann go home?”

  “Yeah, she set the cookies out, but the guests were already in their rooms. One dude came to the library and borrowed a book.”

  Abigail entered the warmth of Laurel Woods, inhaling the scent of the cookies and shivering against the warmth. “Getting cold.”

  “Yeah, look, I know things aren’t good between us, but we need to try harder to be on the same team.”

  “Just exactly what are you talking about?”

  “Birdie’s not happy about how we’ve been treating each other.”

  “For one thing Birdie is a twelve-year-old girl experiencing her first surge of hormones. She’s not happy about much. Second of all, you forfeited your right to play on my team when you left. Understand?” She looked hard at her ex-husband. He’d covered the silver in his hair with dye that was too dark, and he wore a shirt that looked as if it belonged on a twenty-year-old. The rest of him was the same old Cal. She’d once loved him more than she loved herself, but he was unequivocally an asshole of the fifth degree. “Look, for Birdie’s sake, I’m happy you’re back. She’s needed you—”

  “I know. I screwed up. I wasn’t fair to you or her.”

  “You have a chance to make some of that up to her.”

  “But not you?” His voice was soft, almost silky. Warning lights flashed in her head.

  “I’m not part of the equation.”

  He smiled at her. “I get it. You’re playing the ice queen and dating other men to make me jealous. You want me to suffer.”

  “Make you jealous?” Suddenly the chill was replaced by hot anger. “You think I’m playing a game? Dating Leif as part of some way to—”

  “Everyone can see he’s not your type. What else am I to think?”

  Abigail curled her fist and thought about smacking Cal. It would feel so good to finally vent the rage she’d harbored toward him for these past few years. Giving him a smack for every pitying glance she’d received, for every smart-mouthed comment from her daughter, for every time she’d cried herself to sleep wondering what was wrong with her that her husband didn’t love her. That would feel so damn good…for a few measly seconds. Then she’d be angry she’d lost control.

  So she steadied herself inside. “Leif and I are friends,” she said, withholding exactly what kind of friends.

  “He doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy a woman’s just friends with.”

  “I’m no longer your concern.”

  Cal looked as if he might argue but eventually he nodded. “You’re right. Let’s just try to get along better. Not because of Birdie, but because we’re two grown people who can act decently to one another.”

  So now he was going to be a grown-up? He hadn’t worried about doing the responsible thing five years ago. “I’ve been a grown person for a long time, Cal. I was the one pulling the weight of parenthood while you were screwing Morgan on a beach somewhere and masquerading as a musician. You do not get to come home and pretend to be reasonable. You don’t get to play superdad. And you damn sure don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  Cal turned red. “I shouldn’t have suggested anything to you. You like holding on to anger and playing the victim. So don’t put yourself out, Abigail.” He jerked open the door and the cold rushed in, a reminder of what sat between them.

  For a fleeting moment, her heart twisted, the old pain bubbling up and, along with it, the urge to apologize, to smooth things between them. She squashed it all down. Some habits were hard to break. Abigail wasn’t used to hurting people. She liked to please. She’d been easy for Cal to manipulate. “I’ll try to…temper myself. Because as you said, we’re adults.”

  He paused, his gaze taking her in, dropping to her wrinkled shirt. In his expression, she could see the recognition of what she’d been doing earlier. In her anger with Cal, she’d almost forgotten.

  Were her lips swollen from Leif’s kisses? Were her cheeks flushed? Did she look like a woman well-loved?

  From the sudden awareness in his eyes, she figured she did.

  “Thanks.” But he looked hurt, delivering the wounded expression he’d perfected for times when he wanted his way and didn’t get it. It was somewhere between puppy-dog sadness and petulant grumpiness.

  Again she got that prickling feeling he was working her, plying guilt, dropping hints, worming his way into her life. Waiting for that moment she’d welcome him home with open arms.

  “Well, good night, Cal.”

  He stepped outside. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Abigail watched her ex-husband walk away, lifting her hand when he looked over his shoulder at her. And then he was gone.

  She twisted the lock and switched off the lamp in the parlor, leaving the buffe
t lamps on the foyer table lit in case one of her guests decided to go for an earlymorning walk. Then she went upstairs to her room, hair still damp, body replete from making love with Leif, thoughts tumbling with relationship parameters, ex-husbands and the fact she had to go to art class tomorrow night.

  Yawning, she decided to tuck away the guilt and snuggle beneath her down comforter with the next episode of Call the Midwife.

  *

  TUESDAY WAS LEIF’S busy day—after working car pool, he had little more than an hour between the end of one job and the start of his part-time gig at the community college nearly twenty miles away. Just enough time to leaf through the photo album Abigail had let him borrow yesterday while choking down a veggie roll.

  Not many photos of the cabins used by the artists were included, but there were plenty of the grand house before renovations. Notes beneath the photos acknowledged many of the original furnishings had remained—some of which had been restored and were currently used in the bed-and-breakfast. Before renovations, the staircase bore a broken banister and chipped marble, and as Leif studied the structure, he wondered what had really happened the night Simeon had plunged to his death.

  One thing he knew with certainty was his mother was no killer.

  Which meant he needed to talk to Bartholomew Harvey.

  But how did one bring up that sort of conversation without revealing his true intent? Though he’d told both Abigail and Hilda about his mother and the real reason he was in Magnolia Bend, he wasn’t ready for the censure that would likely come when people learned the truth. According to Hilda, many in Magnolia Bend didn’t like Calliope, but that had been over thirty years ago. Surely, many had forgotten.

  But if some townspeople still called the Civil War the War of Northern Aggression, maybe not.

  The South was slow in many ways—both a good and bad thing. Nothing wrong with moseying—a term they used in rotation with lollygagging—but he didn’t care for the way many held on to past prejudice.

  Leif rose from the couch, moving to the sliding glass door. The sun neared the horizon, casting long shadows on his backyard, one ray spotlighting the fire pit where he’d held Abigail.

  She’d felt so good in his arms, and seeing her leave her overactive rationality behind had been rewarding.

  God, she’d been beautiful with the water sluicing off her pale skin, the luminous moon highlighting her curves, shadows darkening the valleys. He loved her unexpected boldness, the passion she’d shown. In the depths of her eyes he’d found a kindred spirit…if only for a few hours.

  But then she’d gone, leaving an empty spot on the cushion while still sitting with him. He’d felt the change. Not necessarily regret, but she’d pulled into herself. Like tugging on a woolen coat for protection. Abigail was like Mr. Rogers in that old children’s TV show. Taking off what the world expected of her in order to play in a world of make-believe, knowing she must return to the person everyone expected when the magic abated.

  The dark lanterns swayed in the wind as the sun took a final bow. His exotic world of make-believe was a darkened set, awaiting another magic moment.

  If only…

  Earlier he’d texted Abigail, feeling a bit clingy but wanting her to know he’d been thinking of her.

  Great first date. You’re welcome to hang out at my house anytime.

  He’d sent it, and then wished he hadn’t. Maybe it was too blatant. Abigail didn’t seem the kind of woman to dial in a booty call…and his text had made it sound like that was what he expected between them.

  Dumb move.

  Or maybe she would see the text for what it was—a tap on the shoulder, a reminder he wanted to see her again. Not in the classroom, but alone, in the privacy they’d shared last night.

  What they’d shared wasn’t just about sex…though that particular activity had been mind-blowing. There was something inside him that craved more. That wanted Abigail to be a part of his life while he stayed in Magnolia Bend.

  If only for a while.

  He sighed and turned toward his austere—aka empty—living room. Maybe he was lonely. Leif wasn’t great at being alone. Oh, he could do it for a while, but it wasn’t his ideal. Underneath his “don’t nail me down” persona was a human being who thirsted for what he’d had in the commune as a child—a place to belong. This needy feeling was what had led to his string of romantic entanglements. He wanted to be that guy—the one with the lifetime commitment—but he simply wasn’t. Each time he approached the final step, each time he faced true commitment, he balked. Ran. Got the hell out of town.

  Speaking of which… He glanced at his watch.

  No more time to ponder what was missing from his life. He had a class to teach, and Abigail would be there.

  How things had changed in a mere week.

  Crazy.

  An hour later he unlocked the classroom door as Peggy appeared at his elbow.

  “Good evening, Leif. I looked up some of your artwork. You are such a talent,” she said, parking a hand on her hip and smiling at him with apple-red lips. She sort of fluttered her eyes, looking a tad unsure at her attempt to engage his attention. At that moment, he felt bad for her. Something akin to loneliness lurked in her eyes.

  “Why thank you, Ms. Peggy. I’m proud of what I’ve been able to do. It’s a joy for me.” He swung the door open and flicked on the lights.

  “You know, I can tell. Shows in your paintings. You sure have traveled around a lot. Me, I’ve only ever been to Florida to visit my late husband’s aunt. I didn’t like her much, but Florida sure was pretty.”

  Leif wasn’t interested in making small talk with the older lady, but he didn’t want to be rude. “Your husband is no longer with you?”

  “Not since last December. Heart attack in the middle of a Saints game. I’m not kidding. He was dead afore he hit the floor.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” He erased the board, turning slightly so he could make eye contact.

  “Yeah, he was a pain in the ass, but he was my pain in the ass.”

  Leif smiled at her comment. He could hear the love in her voice. “He must have been a good guy.”

  “Only the best for me, honey,” she said with a wink.

  Leif waved as several other students came in, including the new student, Mr. Cho, whom he’d met earlier in the office. Then he caught Birdie out of the corner of his eye. He raised his hand to say hello, but she didn’t look up. Just set her pad on the table in the middle of the classroom no one had used last time and sat without even looking at him.

  So that was how it was.

  Abigail hurried in, talking low on her cell phone. She caught his eye but immediately looked away again.

  And something inside him twanged like a string breaking on his ukulele.

  He nodded at Peggy, who had turned her attention to the older black lady whose name he couldn’t seem to remember. Wait, Alba. That was it. Leif shook off the slight and readied his supplies as if Abigail weren’t the woman he’d made love to last night. If Abigail wanted to treat this like a secret, he’d go along with it. But still, the idea felt like shoving his foot into a stiff Oxford dress shoe a size too small.

  Tight fit and not real comfy.

  Fact was he was an instructor, so he shouldn’t emphasize a personal relationship between him and any student. This was a professional setting for him.

  “Okay, everyone, if you’ll get seated, I have a special treat for you tonight,” he said, clearing his throat and holding up his hands in order to get everyone’s attention. The two college girls slipped in late, quickly sliding into their former seats, tugging out their earbuds and pocketing their cell phones with a quick look of acknowledgment at him.

  “Is it one of those life models?” Peggy cracked with a cackle. “’Cause that’s what I took this class for—to sketch a real live hunka, hunka burning love.”

  A few people in the class chuckled, but most, including Abigail, who had gotten off the phone, looked confused.


  “I don’t think you’re quite up for drawing the human body, but I do think you’re ready to learn some technique tonight, including adding perspective to the still life you sketched last time. I’m going to pass back the sketches of the fruit, but I want you to take out several clean sheets of paper to practice some of the techniques I’m about to show you. Giving perspective will help you become a better artist. After we practice, we’re going to re-create the piece of fruit using what you learned. Any questions?”

  Birdie raised her hand. “I did a whole bowl of fruit.”

  “Which was ambitious.”

  The child frowned. “Not what I meant. Can I choose just one item?”

  Yeah, she wasn’t smiling or happy the way she’d been in the last class. He wondered if Birdie knew about him and her mother. “Of course.”

  Abigail caught his gaze then and he could see the apology in her eyes.

  Shoving thoughts of Abigail from his mind, he plunged into the lesson, reminding himself to treat Abigail like any other student. Of course that was easier thought than applied. During the course of the class he couldn’t escape the prickling of awareness every time he passed Abigail. He sucked in the scent of her shampoo like some nutcase, noted the way she tilted her head along with the way her eyes narrowed making four small furrows on her forehead. When she bent to erase a line, her hair swished forward, reminding him of the way it brushed his naked chest when he’d held her.

  Ignoring her didn’t work so well.

  His gaze was too stubborn.

  And damned if Abigail didn’t sense his thoughts. Often her gaze would meet his and suddenly the world fell away. He’d smile at her, forgetting he was her instructor, too lost in the idea he was her lover. On some level it felt very much like junior high—him eyeing the girl across the room, composing poetry in his head, trying to hide the boner he had under his desk.

  Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice…except for Birdie.

  And it must have pissed her off a little because her green eyes became laser beams. Leif was certain if they actually had been laser beams he’d be crawling on the floor hunting his testicles.

  Finally the last few minutes approached.