Waking Up in Dixie

by Haywood Smith

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she told them.

  Holly’s and Faith’s faces fell. “Do you need three minutes or four?” Faith asked.

  “Augusta will have a fit,” Elizabeth hedged.

  “She already did, over the house,” Faith reminded her. “So she doesn’t speak to you for another year or so. Would that be a bad thing?”

  Not really. “I thought y’all felt so sorry for me, and here you go, doing this to me,” Elizabeth grumbled.

  Mary spoke up. “Oh, sweetie, we’re not doing it to you. We’re doing it for you. You’ve been under that woman’s thumb too long. It’s high time you stopped being crown princess of Whittington and assumed the throne. I know we’ll all be better for it. And I’m hoping you will be, too.”

  As Howe would say, Damn. “Well, when you put it that way,” she conceded. “Okay.” She raised a staying finger. “But if I need to quit, one of you has to swear you’ll take over for me.”

  Holly and Faith pointed to each other and said in unison, “She’ll do it.”

  Everybody started laughing, and the tension evaporated.

  At least it would give her something to do besides nursemaid Howe twenty-four/seven. Elizabeth lifted her empty glass. “On that note, I’ll have another glass of wine.”

  Mary frowned with concern at such unprecedented excess. “Only if you let me drive you home.”

  “Deal,” Elizabeth agreed. Not that she meant to make a habit of it. But considering what she’d been through in the past six months, and what she’d just agreed to do for the next twelve, getting slightly snockered made a lot of sense. After all, she was among friends.

  Chapter 11

  “I’m home!” arms laden with groceries, Elizabeth entered the kitchen three weeks later to the mouthwatering smell of pot roast. No, something yummier than that. A hint of onion, and . . .

  Howe had taken to cooking lately, an enterprise she’d encouraged, and he was actually getting pretty good at it. He’d even set the little breakfast table with the good china and silver, and cloth napkins.

  She set the groceries on the cracked tile counter. “What’s for lunch?”

  “Shepherd’s pie,” he called from behind the closed door of his study. “With butterbeans, just like you like it.”

  Oh, yum. But if he kept cooking the way he had been for the past week, they’d both end up weighing three hundred pounds.

  She started taking groceries out of the bag. “Smells great,” she called toward the study. When he wasn’t cooking or micromanaging the plumbers and painters, Howe had been spending a lot of time in there with the door closed. Maybe the forced togetherness was finally getting to him. Elizabeth assumed he’d been reading—she’d heard pages turning and the creak of his desk chair. She was just glad to have the rest of the house to herself while he was in there.

  “Leave the groceries,” he called through the study door, his voice accompanied by the rustle of papers and a dull thud from his desk drawer. “I’ll put them away after we eat.”

  “I don’t mind.” She heard his door open as she took the cold things to the refrigerator and started loading them in. Bending to fill the hydrator, she sensed his approach, but jumped when his hands bracketed her fanny.

  “Sorry,” he said, lightly caressing her. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just . . .” She slipped from his grasp as he finished with a wry, “You’re a very sexy woman, Elizabeth. Very, very sexy. And I’m a man. It’s hard keeping my hands off you.”

  They’d been through this half a dozen times. Until he passed that second AIDS test in three months, getting frisky would be an exercise in frustration. Not that she wasn’t tempted. He looked better than he had in decades, his classic features relaxed, his tall stature toned by physical therapy and a personal trainer.

  She wished she could say the same about herself. Her once-impressive bustline had headed for her waistband, requiring her to abandon the sexy bras she used to wear in favor of industrial-strength support. And the ten pounds she’d gained with each of her children had slowly been joined by ten more. She still had her hourglass shape, only now it held an hour and a half.

  Elizabeth abandoned the groceries, stepping safely out of reach to hang her purse by the door to the garage, where it belonged. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

  Who would ever have imagined that a middle-aged woman like her would end up with two men vying for her affections?

  The thought of P.J. made her miss him with surprising intensity. “I’m flattered, Howe,” she told him. “Really I am.” Despite her intention, annoyance crept into the words. “But you promised we’d take it slow.”

  At least P.J. respected her wishes, which was more than she could say for Howe, who kept having little “lapses” like this one.

  “I know,” Howe said. “I know. But slow doesn’t mean we don’t touch each other at all.” When she turned, he was right behind her, and he took advantage of their proximity to pull her close. “We have to start somewhere.”

  Howe’s personality may have changed, but the way he held her brought back how good it had once been between them with surprising clarity.

  He cupped her head to his shoulder, and she felt her tension ebb away. How many years had she longed for this to happen?

  Why couldn’t she just accept what her husband offered, flawed though it might be, and hope for happiness? Forget P.J. and do the right thing. She always did the right thing.

  The trouble was, she didn’t want to do the right thing anymore.

  “Elizabeth, I love you,” Howe said quietly. He drew back to look at her, his blue eyes clouding. “I’m trying to take it easy, but I want you. I want to . . .” Tensing, he let out a heavy sigh, frustration written on his still-handsome face. “If I could only . . .” He focused on her mouth, then bent his head to kiss her, his lips tentative at first, then harder and hungrier. But he didn’t push inside her mouth, just focused all his yearning on her lips, his hands sliding around her to draw her fully to him.

  She meant to pull away, but that chaste kiss awakened, quite abruptly, all she’d put to sleep so long ago. Suddenly, her breasts were breasts again, happy for the hard resistance of his chest.

  Her sides went smooth and hungry underneath his hands. And deep between her legs, a flutter heightened with his escalating heat and heartbeat.

  God help her, she kissed him back and found herself suspended, out of time, catapulted to that place they’d known in the beginning, safe and set apart, abandoned to their flesh.

  For the first time in a generation, she wanted her husband, wanted him inside her. Wanted to see this new Howe, this old Howe, cry with ecstasy above her as he stabbed away the pain and distance they had made. So she kissed him as lover, not as stranger, remembering the way it used to be.

  She might have forgotten all her fears and let him have her, then and there, if the plumber hadn’t barged in, saving her from herself.

  “Ah, uh, hello?” the man said from the dining room doorway, his gaze averted. Elizabeth shied away from Howe like a sixteen-year-old caught in the act by her parents, a zap of humiliation instantly dousing the fire she’d felt.

  Dazed, Howe reached after her with a disappointed groan before they both had the wherewithal to glare at the invader.

  The plumber coughed. “Sorry, but we’ve got to turn off the water for the next hour or so.”

  At least he had the good grace to be embarrassed. He pulled an apologetic face, then backed away with, “So if y’all need to do any flushing, now’s the time.” He motioned toward nothing in particular. “Sorry to barge in, but folks get mad if I don’t warn ’em. We’ll give ya fifteen minutes to take care of business before we cut it off.” He beat a hasty retreat.

  The minute the plumber was safely out of sight, Howe turned and tried to pick up where they’d left off, but Elizabeth would have no more of that. “Don’t even think it,” she said, hurrying to the oven, where she got out the homely but delicious-smelli
ng pie. “Sit down. This smells fabulous. Let’s eat.”

  “To hell with lunch,” Howe said, indignant. “I want to eat you.”

  Elizabeth halted with casserole in hand. “Howell Whittington,” she whispered tightly, “I know I encouraged you, but where in the hell do you get off talking like that? Bite your tongue.”

  He peered at her with frustrated passion, his nostrils flaring. “I’d rather bite your—”

  “Stop it, this minute,” she scolded, slamming the Country French Corning Ware onto the hot pad between their places. “Get a grip on yourself.” She sat and started to dish it up. “We are adults, not horny teenagers, and there are workmen in this house. Bad enough, that fool walked in on us. It’ll be all over town before supper.”

  Howe accepted his serving with a smug smile. “So what if it is? What’s wrong with kissing my wife in my own kitchen?”

  “That wasn’t just a kiss, and you know it.” Elizabeth plopped a glorious blob of ground chuck with onions and gravy, mashed potatoes, and baby butterbeans onto her plate. “If he’d have come in thirty seconds later . . .” She snatched her napkin and unfolded it across her lap with a prim jerk. “We’d never live it down.” She pointed her fork at him. “I am not sleeping with you till you pass that second AIDS test, and that’s that.”

  Howe just grinned, clearly unconvinced.

  Elizabeth shoved a bite of pie into her mouth and promptly scalded the fur off her tongue. “Aaagh. Shit!” Damn. Now he had her cussing. Iced tea!

  Howe winced as she gulped down half a glass. “You okay?”

  She set the goblet firmly on the table, then blotted her mouth with the linen napkin. “Yes,” she grumbled as she fanned her food.

  “Gotta watch out,” he said mildly, lifting a steaming bite. “Might be too hot to handle.” He savored it as if it were the food of the gods.

  Elizabeth exhaled, then changed the subject. “So, what did you do while I was shopping?”

  Howe paused to study her, then ventured, “Talked to Harve. He called about Rotary. Said everybody wants me to come tomorrow.”

  Oh, Lord, no. She bet they did. Talk about a lamb to the slaughter.

  Seeing her reaction, he clamped his lips into a straight line, his face betraying apprehension, deliberation, and assessment. “I’ve decided to go.” He forked up another steaming bite. “The walls are starting to close in on me. I need to get out. Start doing things again. Getting back into life.”

  The thought of him out there, gushing and cussing and exposing their secrets, gave her cold chills, but she managed to keep from reacting with, “No, no, no, no, no!”, which would have been the surest way to make him do the opposite.

  She had to tread carefully, here. His self-control was improving, but he still had a long way to go. And he still cussed like a sailor, just followed it with a reflexive sorry.

  “I see,” she managed to say without betraying her alarm. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  He shot her that same pregnant glance. Then his features cleared. “I prayed about it, and God wants me to go,” he said calmly, as if such a statement were rational.

  Whoa, Nellie! He’d talked about having a come-to-Jesus experience when he woke up from the coma, but this was a new wrinkle. “And exactly how,” she asked as calmly as she could, “did you come to that conclusion?”

  “He told me to go,” he said, clearly aware of her skepticism. “When I was praying.”

  Firm in her personal belief that God was too busy running the universe to supervise the mundane events of our lives, Elizabeth didn’t know whether to call the neurosurgeon, the psychiatrist, or a minister. Not their minister, of course. He was useless.

  “God told you?” she repeated.

  Howe exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “I knew you’d take it like that.” He curled his lower lip over his upper. “Before this all happened, I’d have felt the same way if you told me God spoke to you, but it was real, Elizabeth. And I trust it.”

  Calm. She had to stay calm. “So God wants you to go to Rotary. Not church, but Rotary. Tomorrow.”

  He grinned. “When you put it that way, sounds bat-shit crazy, doesn’t it?” Brows lifted, he let out a chuckle. “But yes, God wants me to go to Rotary. Tomorrow.”

  “He said that?” she pressed. “He said, ‘Howe, I want you to go to Rotary tomorrow’ ”

  “Yep.”

  Where had she put the psychiatrist’s number? “That’s certainly interesting,” she told her husband. “I’m curious. What does God sound like?”

  Howe colored up. “I didn’t mean I actually heard Him out loud, like I’d hear you,” he qualified. He tapped his head. “I heard it inside, in my mind, but it was clear as a bell, and it was definitely God.” He went back to eating.

  The doctor would probably want to know particulars. “Does God sound like anybody we know?”

  Howe narrowed his eyes at the sarcasm that leaked through despite her efforts to the contrary. “Me,” he said around his bite of pie. “My thought-voice.”

  “I see.” Sweet mother of Murgatroyd.

  He chased his food with a sip of tea, his expression clearing. “You think I’m crazy,” he said with amusement, “but I’m not. For the first time in my life, I’m seeing things clearly, and I have God to thank for that.” He wiped his mouth. “But don’t worry, Lillibet,” he said, fork poised. “I promise not to embarrass you. I’ll never do that again.”

  Elizabeth had no idea how frank she should be with someone who was clearly off the tracks, but she had no intention of letting him humiliate their children. “I know you mean that, Howe,” she said. “I’m just not sure you can keep that promise. As the Bible says, ‘the spirit’s willing, but the flesh is weak.’ This town is a very small place, and you’ve stepped on a lot of toes over the years.”

  “Most of them,” he interjected dryly, “but they’ve always been too afraid of me to retaliate. I know where all the bodies are buried.” He sobered. “I’m not proud of that. Or of the other . . . sinful things I’ve done.”

  That kind of candor was as unprecedented as Howe’s hotline to God. Still, she didn’t let herself get sidetracked. “We both know there are plenty of people who would jump at the chance to embarrass you, or our family,” she argued. “I can’t let that happen, Howe. You can’t let that happen. Whatever our shortcomings might be, our children don’t deserve to suffer for our mistakes.”

  He looked away. “The sins of the father.” Then he faced her, regret in his eyes. “I have a lot of amends to make. Foremost, to you and the kids. But also to this town, and it’s time for me to start.”

  Uh-oh. Making amends meant talking to people. About touchy subjects. No, no, no.

  “Don’t you think it would make more sense to try going to church, first?” she proposed. “As a test, to see how you manage. Just in for the service, then out, then home. I’d be there to help you, make sure things didn’t . . .”—how should she put it?—“get out of hand.”

  He regarded her with the same look he used on his mother when she gave him orders, but this time, it was softened by compassion. “God wants me to do this, Elizabeth. He won’t punish me for being obedient. I promise, it’ll be fine.”

  Please. “Maybe you should talk to your counselor, first,” she suggested.

  “Can’t,” Howe said, undaunted. “He’s out of pocket for the next week, and then it will be too late.”

  Frustrated, she argued, “Howe, think of the children. I know you wouldn’t mean to, but surely you don’t want to risk embarrassing them.”

  He chuckled. “We’re their parents,” he countered. “All we have to do to embarrass them is breathe.”

  “I’m not talking about breathing,” Elizabeth countered. “I’m talking about cussing. And crying at babies in commercials. Crying in general. And blurting out . . . inappropriate things.”

  Howe refused to be intimidated. “Why don’t you come with me, then? As my . . . handler.”

  Howe might b
e a changed man, but he was still a man, and he’d clearly made up his mind, whether it was his right mind or not. She briefly considered drugging him, but she didn’t have anything on hand to use, and she didn’t think the psychiatrist would consider Rotary Club enough reason to prescribe barbiturates.

  Damn. “All right. I’ll go. But you have to swear to me, on the Bible, that you will think before you open your mouth.”

  He peered at her in mock challenge. “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll be forced to tie you up and keep you here,” she said, only half joking.

  He refused to take her seriously. “Well, I’m not supposed to swear anymore”—oh, right—“but I must say,” he told her with a glint of lust, “the idea of having you tie me up sounds intriguing. As long as you have your way with me afterward.”

  “As if!” What was she going to do with him? “Stop acting like a sixteen-year-old and eat your dinner.”

  He waggled his brows her way. “Stop acting like my mother and eat yours.”

  Exasperated, Elizabeth sighed and took a big, comforting bite of warm shepherd’s pie and said a prayer of her own. Please, God, if you do care about our ordinary lives, don’t let this Rotary thing go badly. Please, please, please, please, please.

  Maybe she was going batty, too, because she swore she could hear the distant echo of a laugh . . . in her own thought-voice.

  Elizabeth braced herself as they got out of the car at Pappy’s Restaurant. The parking lot was slammed, forcing them to go around back. Not a good sign.

  She’d deliberately made them late so there wouldn’t be time for Howe to circulate before the meal, and he was anxious to be inside. “Come on, Lillibet,” he urged, shooting his cuffs from the sleeves of his Armani suit. “Hitch up your get-along.”

  Hitch up your get-along. “Since when do you speak Hee Haw?” she observed.

  “Since I’m not a stick-in-the-mud anymore,” he responded. He took her elbow and speeded up their pace. “At this rate, the buffet line will be so long, we might not get any stewed corn.”

  Pappy’s stewed corn, deviled eggs, and homegrown tomatoes were the reason the Kiwanis and Rotary clubs put up with the vintage-seventies, cheaply paneled meeting room.