Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  Malcolm nodded then took a big swig of the imported beer. “She called me Friday to tell me. I’m happy for her.”

  After spending nearly a month together in Cozumel, Lila and Elliot had returned to Tennessee. She came back to Magnolia Acres to see Malcolm and pack her things. She and the good doctor were setting up house in Memphis. It seemed that Lila had long held the dream of teaching kindergarten, and Elliot Douglas, Miss Gertie’s great nephew from Hattiesburg, wanted to use his skills and talents as a plastic surgeon to help children.

  Malcolm was truly happy for her. He was happy for them both and glad they had found each other.

  He flipped the paper to rights and stared at the bold letters that slashed across the front, “Miracle Baby Born to Happy Mom and Dad.” Something in the article captured his attention. Maybe it was the large letters that made up the title. Maybe it was the picture of the sweet little newborn baby girl. He scanned the article about a couple in Madison County who had tried and tried to conceive. They were told by doctor after doctor that they had a less than slim chance of ever having children even with medical intervention. They gave up and went home and, lo and behold two years later they were the proud parents of a beautiful baby girl.

  Sweet, he thought, but there was something disturbing about the article. Not in a shocking way, but in a tiny niggling in his stomach that made him feel as if all was not right with the world. Like there was something he was missing. Something he should know. Something stored in the corner of his mind, so close but just out of reach.

  He tossed the paper onto the coffee table with a frustrated growl, then picked up the remote and turned on the large screen TV. Ignoring Truman’s inquisitive stare, he flipped through a couple of channels until he found what he was looking for: ESPN SportsCenter. Pretending as if everything was perfectly fine, he pilfered through the bowl of snack mix, rummaging for rye chips and peanuts.

  “Have you heard from Roxanne?” Truman asked.

  “Now why would I hear from her?” The minute the hateful words were out of his mouth he regretted them. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little edgy lately.”

  “Sexual frustration will do that to a man.” Truman nodded sagely as he retrieved the paper and tucked it under his arm.

  Malcolm snorted. “This conversation just lost its appeal.”

  Truman ran a thoughtful finger under his lower lip. “Son, you are as ill as a hornet.” He might have been a prominent figure in Tennessee government and an incomparable speaker, but Truman Silverstone was a southern man first and foremost.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—” Malcolm stopped, not sure how to finish. It’s just that nothing seemed to be going according to his plans. There were just so many could-have-beens staring him in the face. Because of them, he was frustrated, angry, and unsure. There could have been a great tax reform bill in the session next year, if he were going to be there to present it. There could have been something fabulous and long-lasting between him and Roxanne if they had been afforded the time. There could have been … a lot of things.

  “Have you seen the spread I Spy did about the murder?”

  “No.” He wouldn’t let himself even glance at any of the publications that lined the checkouts at the Piggly Wiggly.

  “That’s because there isn’t one.” Truman paused. “Maybe she’s not who you think she is. Maybe there’s more. Maybe you should go talk to her.”

  Malcolm tossed back the peanuts he had foraged out of the snack bowl and used a full mouth as his excuse not to respond.

  Thankfully, Truman took his actions as the not-so-subtle hint they were and let the subject drop between them.

  “Who do you like in the first game?” Truman asked a few minutes later. He sank down into the armchair next to the couch and set his beer on the coffee table.

  “The Chiefs.” Malcolm had been a Kansas City fan from way back and rooted for them every chance he got. Thankfully, they were doing well this year, and his bet on the first game of this October afternoon was a sure win.

  “You positive?”

  Malcolm nodded. “So sure I’ll bet you a case of Heineken.”

  “You’re on.” The two men shook hands to seal their deal. “What about game two? The Chargers v. the Bears.”

  “I’ll take Chicago.”

  “This ought to be good.”

  “What?”

  “The Bears lost last week’s game to Miami.”

  Malcolm waved away his observation. “That doesn’t mean anything.” But he lied. This hadn’t been Chicago’s best season to date, and there was only one reason he favored the Bears over the Chargers: he had Chicago on the brain. And that ratty football jersey Roxanne had been wearing the first time they’d—

  “You sure enough to put your money where your mouth is?” Truman asked.

  “When did the green stuff get involved?”

  “Just an expression,” Truman clarified. “I was thinking about a favor.”

  “Define favor.”

  “Oh,” Truman mused casually. “The usual stuff. Say, if you win I’ll pick up your dry cleaning for a month.”

  “And if you win?”

  Truman smiled. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

  • • •

  “Roxanne? Is that you?”

  “It’s me, Dad.” She sat her beat-up leather bag on the bench just inside the door and kicked off her shoes. Then she followed the sound of his voice until she caught up with her father in the kitchen.

  Her gaze swung around the brightly lit, homey room. Dressed in a navy blue jogging suit, her father stood at the stove where pots and pans bubbled. Carrots, potatoes, and various other vegetables and herbs were scattered across the kitchen counters, some half chopped. It looked as if he were cooking for an army. “Have you been watching Emeril again?”

  He shrugged, then placed the lid back on one of the pots. “Barefoot Contessa.”

  “Just how long have you been up?”

  He smiled at her, that politician’s smile she had seen Malcolm dole out like candy on Halloween. “I feel fine today. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

  “Sorry. I just don’t want you to tire yourself.”

  “And I keep telling you. I’ll never get my strength back if I don’t push myself a little more every day.”

  She didn’t respond. Her father was as stubborn as she was and if he wanted to be up and cooking, then that’s where he would be. She had to admit, though, he looked better. A healthy color was returning to his cheeks, his forehead didn’t seem quite as lined as it had in the past, and overall he looked more relaxed and rested than she had seen him in years. But still she worried. She just didn’t think she could take another scare. After she had returned to Chicago, they had discovered blockage, and the invincible Joseph St. John underwent a triple bypass. Now he was recovering with her—and Nina’s—help.

  Over the last two months, Roxanne had come to terms with the relationship between her father and his secretary. She had spent many hours at the cemetery talking it over with her mother until one day she knew it as clearly as she knew her own name. Her mother would have wanted him to go on. Life is for living. That was what he was doing, and that was exactly what she planned to do as well. Not the existing she’d been doing for the last three years. But real living. Even if she had to do it without Malcolm.

  Since her father needed someone to watch him daily, Roxanne had moved back in with him. After all, she’d resigned from her job at I Spy, and it was really hard to pay the rent with no income. She made a little bit here and there doing some freelance work, but she had been spending most of her time working on her dream.

  “How’d the meeting go?”

  Roxanne snatched a raw piece of carrot off the butcher block and popped it into her mouth. “Good, I think. They seemed to like my idea well enough. They’ll start pitching it to publishers and who knows? Maybe I’ll have a contract soon.”

  “That’s great, baby girl.” Joseph leaned down
and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I take it you approve?” Roxanne sat down at the farmhouse styled table and propped her feet up on the opposite chair. She had meant it when she told Truman she had always wanted to write children’s books when she grew up. Now it was time. To write children’s books. To grow up.

  “Of course I do.” Joseph dumped the diced onion and celery into a skillet of sizzling olive oil and turned to face her. “Listen, Roxanne, I’ve been thinking, and I have something important I need to say to you.”

  She sat up a little straighter in her chair. “This sounds serious.”

  “Serious? Maybe. Long overdue, definitely.” He turned off the gas burner, then pushed her feet out of the chair so he could sit down across the table from her. “Your mother, God love her, was such a dreamer. You are the mirror image of her.” His blue eyes got a hazy, dreamy quality as he spoke, but his tone was heavy, and whenever that happened it was a given that Roxanne would not like what was coming up next.

  “I got your eyes,” she pointed out unnecessarily.

  He shook his head. “You got everything else from her. The way you tilt your head when you talk. That funny little laugh when you stay up too late. And the soul of a dreamer.

  “Roxanne, it’s a man’s world out there. Things come easier to men like Jonas and Pierce. They have drive and ambitions and … ”

  “Dicks?” Roxanne quipped. This conversation was getting way too heavy. Her father had become contemplative since the surgery, reflecting on his life and all he had done so far. It was understandable—after all he had been through—but Roxanne wasn’t comfortable talking about it. She had made her own internal peace with her father and her need to live up to his demands. But it was something else altogether to discuss it with him.

  “Roxanne,” he admonished.

  She made a face and apologized.

  “Because of that, I’ve worried about you your entire life. I’ve always had the best intentions, but I wanted to say … I’m sorry. I think I’ve been too hard on you all these years.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

  “Oh, Daddy, don’t cry.” She stood and made her way around the table and sat in his lap like she used to when she was little. Her own tears started, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. God, she had been such an emotional basket case lately.

  “I didn’t think it was fair for a girl with your brains and ability to be talked into waiting for a prince charming or a knight in shining armor. I wanted you to be able to take care of yourself.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I think I may have gone a little overboard.”

  His words brought back Malcolm. She hadn’t waited for her knight, but she found him anyway. Even then, she couldn’t have him. She’d learned life’s lessons of hard knocks and was living with the results every day.

  “I only wanted to toughen you up. I didn’t want life to throw you anything you couldn’t handle. Then it did anyway.”

  Dane.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”

  Her father had wanted what was best for her. He loved her. And love could make a person do all sorts of crazy things.

  Like wanting to stay in Tennessee despite all the reasons why I shouldn’t.

  “You forgive me?”

  “Of course I do.” How could she not? Despite all of their differences, he was her father, and she loved him. Always had and always would.

  She blinked back fresh tears and gave her father’s neck a quick squeeze. “Now what’s for supper?”

  • • •

  Damned bet.

  Malcolm leaned up against the side panel of the yellow taxi. The chilly northern wind swirled around him, flapping the bottom of his wool dress coat around his calves.

  The Bears had lost, and Truman had demanded his payment by way of one large deep-dish, authentic, Chicago-style pizza. It had taken an entire afternoon, but Malcolm had found a perfectly good place online where he could order one—hot, fresh, and delivered no less. Except the old man would hear nothing of it. So Malcolm had flown to Chicago.

  But instead of ordering a pizza at one of the world famous parlors, he was lurking out in front of Roxanne’s house. Or rather, Roxanne’s father’s house. Damn article about a miracle baby in the newspaper. And damn Truman for putting the damn thing in his damn briefcase so he would find it during the damn flight.

  Just when Malcolm was starting to get along fine, just when he had stopped thinking about Roxanne every minute of every day, Truman had to go and do something like this. One look at that scrap of newspaper and that slight little flutter of doubt had turned into an all-out-knocking around in his heart.

  What if … what if … what if … kept singing through his head.

  Roxanne had said she couldn’t have a baby, but if that couple in Madison County could have a child, then ….

  Never before had he been so careless with another’s future. Or his, for that matter. It was as if he had put all of his sensibilities on hold. He’d forgotten about his career, plans made for him almost before he was born. For once in his life, he’d not thought, he’d felt.

  Malcolm stared at the three story brick and stone Tudor in the upscale Chicago suburb. Why was this so hard? So hard that he’d knocked down a double in the airport bar before he could even crawl in the cab to come here?

  “The meter’s still running, pal.” The cab driver strummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Malcolm didn’t understand why he was in such an all-fired hurry. He was getting paid.

  Yet Malcolm hadn’t come all this way just to gawk at the house, and he shouldn’t leave without at least seeing Roxanne. He had to know. He had to know if their weekend encounter had resulted in a pregnancy.

  And that was really why he came.

  Wasn’t it?

  • • •

  Roxanne heard the doorbell and ignored it. There were three other people in the house right now, including her father’s cleaning lady. Someone would answer the summons. Chances were it was Nina with her hands full and needing someone to let her in because she couldn’t reach her key.

  “Roxanne.”

  Her father’s voice called from the direction of the foyer. She was in Joseph’s home office, her bare feet propped on the coffee table as she brainstormed on the ultra-thin tablet balanced on her lap.

  All right, all right, she was trying to brainstorm and was failing miserably. Because all she could think about was the pregnancy test she had taken yesterday morning almost as a joke, confident it was just some crazy hormonal disorder that caused her period to be late, her breasts tender, and this near uncontrollable craving for cantaloupe. After all, the doctor had said she would never carry a child again.

  Despite what he had told her three years ago, the fact still remained that the little window on the “test” side had shown a pink stripe just like the base side, which meant she was indeed pregnant.

  So she had taken the second test in the box with the same results. Then hands shaking, heart pounding, she had driven to the drugstore on the corner just outside the neighborhood and bought another double test kit and taken both of those just to be sure.

  She was having a baby. Malcolm’s baby.

  It was strange to even think about such a thing. Strange and terrifying and wonderful and unbelievably scary all at the same. But it explained a lot. The crying, the need to settle down, and those insane cravings.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  She saved the file, then sat the computer on the table in front of her. “If it’s Pierce, tell him I died.”

  “It’s not Pierce,” a familiar southern drawl sounded from the doorway.

  She jerked her head toward the voice, squinting as if it would somehow make things clearer.

  He looked the same as she remembered: silk tie, crisp shirt, perfectly creased pants—with the addition of a smart wool overcoat to ward off the chilly Chicago wind. Same old Malcolm.

  She stood, unsure
of how to greet him. She wanted to run to him and throw herself into his arms, yet at the same time she wanted to push him out of the room and lock the door. She wasn’t ready for this … for him. She wasn’t even accustomed to the idea that she was pregnant. Much less ….

  “How—how did you know where to find me?” The address on her police report was the apartment she’d let go in favor of reacquainting with her father and helping in his recovery.

  Malcolm shrugged. “You have a very loquacious ex-landlord.”

  Roxanne nodded when she really wanted to close her eyes and pretend he wasn’t there. Too many things had happened in the last twenty-four hours … she needed time to think. Time to take it all in. Time to figure out how to tell Malcolm that he was going to be a father. “As interesting as that was, I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk to Mr. Tibbins.”

  Malcolm nodded. “I lost a bet.”

  “About me?”

  “Your precious Bears—”

  “Don’t remind me.” She walked over to the window and stared out at the backyard, gathering her thoughts and putting some distance between them. “So you came because you lost a bet.” Why did it hurt so much that he had come here to make good on a wager and not because he missed her and couldn’t live without her?

  “Truman wanted a Chicago pizza, and I thought since I was in the neighborhood … ”

  At the mention of his adoptive father, Roxanne smiled. “How is Truman?”

  “He’s making it day by day.”

  “I’m glad.”

  The moment stretched between them.

  Once again she stared out across her mother’s flower garden and the covered plants of Louise St. John’s prized roses. It beat the hell out of looking at Malcolm and letting him see so clearly how much she’d missed him these last two months.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said. “And I had to be certain you weren’t carrying my child.”

  She whipped around to face him, nearly falling over in her surprise. “You came here to find out if I was pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  She just stared, not knowing how to respond.

  “Is that so wrong of me? To accept responsibility for my actions? We made love five times—”