Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  “What will happen to Della now?”

  “She’ll be charged with the murder, but I don’t think a jury will be able to give her more than life. She’s well-connected, desperate, and depressed. Issues like that can go a long way in a court of law.”

  “And her baby?” Roxanne hated the crack she heard in her voice. After all these years she shouldn’t be jealous, but damn it, sometimes life was so unfair.

  “I don’t know.” Malcolm’s voice sounded heavy, sad for the innocent life that would be so drastically affected by a mother’s choices. “Della has a sister who lives in Atlanta. I suppose the child will go to her, if she’s willing and capable.”

  “I know this sounds crazy, but I feel sorry for Della. I can understand, you know. That need to have a child.”

  She closed her eyes as the memories rushed over her, facts and images she had put away so long ago. She felt Malcolm’s comforting caress, his gentle fingers stroking her hair, and from the merest touch gained the strength to continue. “It can be so overwhelming, all consuming. After Dane … after I left the hospital, I couldn’t even look at a pregnant woman knowing I could never—”

  “Never?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head. “The birth was bad, traumatic. There was a lot of damage, and things … just don’t work like they should.”

  Malcolm’s arms tightened around her and his strength, his goodness and caring, lent Roxanne a peace she had never known any place but in his embrace.

  They lay in the quiet night, silver-gray moonbeams spilling over them from the uncovered windows.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “What’s this going to do to your bid for the senate?”

  He sighed as if the same thoughts had been running through his head as well. “Hard to say. She’s not my mother. I’ve never shared a residence with her. My opponent may try to use it against me, but in the end, I think he’ll be the one looking bad, not me.”

  She snuggled in a little closer to him, pressing her back deeper into the circle of his arms. His presence seemed to envelope her, protect her. She had never been one to feel like a damsel in distress, tonight her knight in shining armor held her in his arms. And it felt good.

  “Roxanne,” he whispered.

  “Hmmm?”

  He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Goodnight.”

  • • •

  Roxanne’s breathing leveled out and lengthened, and Malcolm knew she was asleep. It felt amazing, holding her in his arms like this. If he had his way, he’d just keep holding her, past the dawn, and on into tomorrow. But this wasn’t only about him and his selfish desires.

  Roxanne had a life in Chicago to go back to. She had a sick father, a twin brother, and an editor who wanted to marry her.

  He had his career to think about. A campaign starting soon, an almost-fiancée, and a law practice. He had promised his father too many years ago to count that one day he would be president. And he would.

  Roxanne’s breaths rose and fell, the arm he’d wrapped around her mimicking the movements. He closed his eyes and soaked in the moment. Her sweet smell, the warmth of her, and her invincible spirit were somehow evident even as she slumbered.

  Tomorrow was coming oh-too-quickly, but he still had right now. He pressed another kiss into her hair, then buried his face in the wildflower scented curls.

  • • •

  Sometime just before the sun came up, Malcolm woke Roxanne with tiny little kisses across the side of her face. She turned in his arms, and they made love in the pink pre-dawn light, without words or apologies. Then they showered and dressed before making their way downstairs.

  Truman and Malcolm appeared no worse for wear, though Roxanne knew she would need to apply an extra bit of concealer to hide the dark circles under eyes. It had been well past midnight before she could finally relax enough to sleep. That, mixed with her and Malcolm’s passion filled night on Saturday, had taken its toll.

  She could tell that Malcolm was hesitant about leaving Truman alone. He’d been through so much, but the older man assured his ward that he’d be fine, and Malcolm promised to stop by later that afternoon. Truman seemed okay with the plan, but Roxanne overheard Malcolm calling Miss Gertie out to sit with the former governor.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go with us? I’m going to take Roxanne over to Len’s for breakfast. Court isn’t until ten.”

  “I’m sure. You young people go, and spend some time alone while you can.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Malcolm protested.

  “I know what it is, son. The question is, do you?”

  Malcolm didn’t reply. “I think it best not to answer the phone right now. All sorts of reporters are going to be calling. As soon as I get Roxanne taken care of, I’ll phone Calvert over in Nashville and have him set up a press conference. We need to control the media instead of letting it control us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Truman replied, his tone cheeky. “You forget what an old dog you’re talking to.”

  “Sorry.” Malcolm actually looked chagrined.

  “Don’t worry, son. I know you’re just looking out for my best interests. Now go get your breakfast. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  They didn’t speak on the short ride back to Magnolia Acres. Roxanne wasn’t sure if Malcolm had too much on his mind to participate in idle chitchat, or if he was simply distancing himself. They had, after all, spent a pretty intimate weekend together, and that time was over. Monday had arrived, bringing with it crushing reality.

  At any rate, she could have used some nervous chatter. Her case was cut and dried, but she still wasn’t off the hook yet.

  Arely, the mechanic from the Gas and Stop, pulled into the driveway of the renovated antebellum just as they got out of Malcolm’s car. “Hey, Mr. Daniels. I got Miss Roxanne’s car ready to go.”

  “Thanks, Arely. Would you mind driving it over to the courthouse for us? We’ll settle the bill then.”

  Arely shook his head. “I don’t mind driving her, but Mr. Silverstone already took care of the bill. In fact, Miss Roxanne, he told me to give you this back too.” He handed her an envelope containing the three hundred dollars she had paid him just a couple of days before.

  Malcolm nodded as if to say, of course he had. That was just the kind of man Truman Silverstone was. His marriage had fallen apart last night. His wife had pulled a gun and declared she was an adulteress and pregnant with another man’s child. Yet he phoned over this morning and took care of her car repairs.

  Malcolm reached into his wallet and handed Arely a twenty. “For your trouble.”

  Arely tipped the brim of his grease-covered, once-upon-a-time blue and white engineer-stripped ball cap and started back for the car.

  “Wait,” Roxanne called. “I need something from the trunk.” Arely waited patiently as Roxanne rummaged around in the densely packed space until she found what she was looking for: her emergency bag.

  She slammed the lid shut, then went around to the driver’s side window already rolled down to combat the building summer heat. “Thanks for fixing my car so fast. I really appreciate it.”

  Arely smiled, his teeth surprisingly white and even. “I fixed the trunk latch too.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured again, the one word seeming so inadequate.

  “It was nothing, Miss Roxanne. You come back and see us some time, you hear?”

  All she could do was nod.

  • • •

  Half an hour later, Malcolm pulled his Mercedes onto the pocked asphalt at Len’s Diner.

  Roxanne smoothed her hands down the sides of her pale gray suit and got out of the car. Malcolm had raised a brow at her choice of attire, but Roxanne figured even with the evidence at hand, she should still make a good impression on the judge. She’d even found a pair of black pumps in her emergency stash and had donned them for the occasion. Malcolm was back to his usual impossibly starched self. Power tie firmly in place, shirt snowy
white, slacks finely creased. That would be how she always remembered him.

  And that was how they entered the diner, a pair of conservative matching bookends.

  “Hey, Malcolm,” Dottie greeted them from behind the counter. “Go ahead and have a seat, hon. I’ll be over there in a few shakes with a menu.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Roxanne called back. “I already know what I want.”

  And he’s sitting right across from me.

  Dottie materialized a few seconds later, with a tray holding two waters, a coffee for Malcolm, and a cherry Coke for her. She set them on the table in front of them and dug out her order pad.

  “You want the usual, sweetie?”

  He nodded.

  Dottie turned her attention to Roxanne. “What about you, the same as last time?”

  Roxanne smiled. “You remember what I had last time?”

  Dottie smacked her gum. “Of course, I do. I got it all right here.” She tapped her temple with the eraser end of her pencil. “Chocolate sop and biscuits with a side order of bacon.”

  The bell over the front door chimed, and Dottie hurried away to turn in their order and greet the newest patron.

  Malcolm pulled his iPhone from the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and thumbed in some vital information of one sort or another. It was amazing that since Jamie Valentine’s murderer had confessed, they didn’t have anything to talk about anymore. Or maybe it wasn’t really amazing. Maybe it was just cold, hard facts. All they’d had holding them together this weekend was incredible sex and a murder mystery. The sex was over and the mystery solved.

  Remembering Truman’s words from the party, Roxanne couldn’t help but ask, “Do you have your goals written in there?”

  Malcolm looked up from his entry. “I use this to plan my activities and duties for the week.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I mean, goals. Like what you’re going to accomplish this year and the next and the next, you know. Long term stuff.”

  He seemed to be debating on how to answer her. “Having a written list of goals is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Not unless they belong to someone else.

  But what did she know? The last goal she had set for herself was to get as far away from real life with its pain and heartaches as she could get. As an added bonus that “goal” sent her father straight through the roof. Yessiree, she had plans all right.

  “Malcolm.”

  They both turned their head as Dottie came out of the kitchen with their breakfasts. “Len said that Della was arrested last night for killing that drifter, any truth in that? Say no, ’cause I got twenty ridin’ on this. I mean, that’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

  “Dottie, when are you going to learn to stop wagering with Len?”

  She smiled, her impossibly pink lips stretching from ear to ear. “Probably never. Besides, I know for a fact that you and Truman bet on football every season.”

  “Never for money.”

  “So what about Della?”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s true. Truman’s going to release a statement to the press later this afternoon.”

  Dottie whistled through her teeth. “For slapping a mule. I felt sure it was that Yankee.” She stopped short, just realizing what she had said. “Sorry. No offense.”

  “None taken.” Roxanne hid her smile behind her straw and took another sip of her cherry Coke.

  Dottie shook her head and went back to the kitchen to gather more orders.

  Malcolm put his phone away, then he picked up his fork and started to eat. Roxanne figured he was preparing what he was going to say to the judge, so she kept her thoughts to herself to allow him time to concentrate.

  In turn, that gave her time to enjoy her last meal in a southern town. She forked off a hunk of the chocolate-covered, light-as-heaven biscuit and savored it. There was nothing like this in Chicago. Nothing that even came close.

  They ate in silence. Roxanne was wiping up the last of the chocolate gravy when Malcolm reached for the bill. “Are you ready to go?”

  She nodded, and took one last sip of her drink.

  He opened his wallet and took out two twenties.

  Roxanne put her hand over his and ignored the sparks of awareness that seemed to go off whenever she was within touching distance of him. “Allow me,” she said. She dug around in her over-large handbag until she found her wallet. Then she pulled out a twenty and laid it on the table with the one Malcolm had put down to cover their breakfast and tip. “Dottie is a single mom with two kids to feed. She can’t afford to lose twenty bucks because of me.”

  Malcolm smiled and escorted her to the car.

  • • •

  “Roxanne Ackerman.” The judge’s voice boomed across the open courtroom. Remarkably enough they were the only ones in attendance save the Assistant D.A. of the Major Comb-Over, the bailiff, and the court reporter. Roxanne supposed since she was no longer a suspect, her fifteen minutes of fame were over.

  She and Malcolm stood along with the state’s attorney.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor started. “At this time the state withdraws the charge of First Degree Murder at the cost of the state.”

  “And the other charges?”

  Malcolm spoke, “I ask the court to suspend the charges as time served.”

  “Dismissed.” The judge banged his gavel, and it was over.

  Roxanne and Malcolm walked through the old-smelling courthouse and out into the southern sunshine. She was free.

  “I got you a present.” He held out papers printed from the internet with specific instructions on how to get back to Chicago.

  “Thanks.” She took them from him and folded them in half. She opened the door to her car and tucked the pages under the driver’s side visor.

  “I didn’t want you to get lost again.”

  “I should be fine. I got my cell phone. Jonas had it turned back on for me.”

  Malcolm nodded. “I’m glad.”

  She tilted her head to one side and fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Where are the pictures of Della and Jamie?”

  “I destroyed them.”

  Roxanne nodded. “Good, I would hate for them to fall into the wrong hands.”

  Malcolm inclined his head in agreement. A moment hung between them. She stood there in the V of her car door, the wind ruffling her hair. All he had to do was ask her to stay, and she would. But she couldn’t offer, because she had nothing to give him except herself. And that wasn’t enough. He had plans, goals, dreams that had been given to him a lifetime ago. Though she had learned the hard way it was best to live your life for yourself, she wouldn’t even try to make Malcolm believe that. And even if she could, she shouldn’t. She was a broken vessel. And he deserved more than that. It was better that he didn’t ask. Better that she left. Better do it now before she chickened out.

  “Goodbye, Malcolm.”

  When she would have turned away and got in her car, he cupped her cheek in his palm, and lowered his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, closed mouth, and to the average person on the street nothing special. To Roxanne it was the cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae, the crowning moment of the weekend. A touch she would carry with her always.

  “Goodbye, Roxanne.”

  He let her go, then turned on his heel and made his way to his own car.

  Roxanne shut Mabel’s door and gripped the familiar cracked steering wheel. “Let’s go home, old girl,” Roxanne said and turned the rusty nose toward the highway. Once she got back to Chicago and got settled in, she was going to take Mabel in for a nice new paint job. Maybe even some new wheel covers. She had been promising the car for more years than she could remember. Now she was going to make good on that vow. Then Roxanne was going to make peace with her father. A long overdue peace. Yeah, once she got back to Chicago, there were a lot of things she was going to do.


  Like learn to live without Malcolm.

  • • •

  Malcolm felt like an idiot sitting in his car in front of the courthouse, watching Roxanne’s brake lights as she turned onto the farm road that would eventually take her to the highway and back to where she came from. The rattle trap she so affectionately called Mabel disappeared, and Malcolm roused himself.

  It was Monday. The weekend was over. He had things to do. He had to go to his office and fax over the reports of that bill to Eric Cameron. After all, a promise was a promise. He had to get the stitches out of his chin. He had to call Calvert like he’d promised Truman he would do.

  And he had to start his life over again.

  Without Roxanne.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Malcolm was on the phone when he heard the door to his office open and then shut. He looked up to find Eric Cameron waiting patiently just inside. It was Wednesday, one of Barbara’s days off, so Malcolm merely nodded in greeting. Motioning for his visitor to find a seat, he mouthed that he’d be with him in a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, after replacing the receiver. He stood to shake the man’s hand. “I’m a one man office staff today. What brings you in, Eric?”

  Cameron shifted from one dirt-crusted work boot to the other. He stared at the floor for a full minute before gathering the guts to raise his gaze. “I just wanted to say I was sorry for decking you at the bar. I’d had a really bad day and—”

  Malcolm raised his hand. “Don’t give it a second thought.” After all, hadn’t he gotten a sexy scar out of the deal?

  “I really appreciate that. It’s mighty kind of you.” He shifted again. “Darla and I are trying to work things out. We’re going to Jackson to see a marriage counselor two days a week starting tomorrow. They say he’s real good.” The big man shrugged.

  Malcolm nodded encouragingly. “I think that’s a fine idea.”

  Cameron gave a stiff nod. “If you see that Yankee reporter again, will you tell her I’m sorry for everything?”