An uneasy silence settled over the room and Shelby felt her cheeks warm under his gaze.
“Come in, please sit down. I just need to wash my hands,” she said, rushing into the kitchen.
“I brought you something,” he called through the living room at her departing form.
She scrubbed her hands, then swiped a towel and stepped back through the doorway. Ransom unwrapped the brown butcher paper, revealing a small, wooden easel, the right size for a table top. Its simple design complemented the smooth wood, varnished to a warm glow.
“An easel. Tansy mentioned you liked to paint.” His voice was nonchalant but his eyes betrayed him. He watched anxiously, waiting for her response.
“An easel?” She froze, the towel suspended in her hands.
He turned it over, showing her the whorls and patterns. “A monster storm last spring split an oak at Collier House. It was over two hundred years old. My aunt called in an arborist but it couldn’t be saved.”
“Two hundred years old?” She suddenly realized she was repeating herself and tucked the towel under her arm.
“I understand the usual hostess gift is wine or flowers, but I know you don’t drink and I didn’t know what kind of flowers.”
“Tulips, I like tulips.”
“Ah, I see. Well, next time-
“I love it. It’s beautiful. I don’t know what to say,” she said in an uncertain voice. She took it carefully from Ransom, fighting an irrational urge to hug it to her chest.
A brilliant smile broke over his features, completely changing his countenance . “It’s a copy of an antique desktop easel used by Thomas Nast.”
“How long did it take you to do this? I invited you on Monday.” Shelby couldn’t help stroking the smooth sides, her slim fingers traced over the pattern in the wood.
“About five hours, not as long as some projects. And a great exchange for some fine southern cooking.”
“But I’ve only been cooking about an hour, that leaves me four hours in your debt!”
“In that case, we should count all the time I spent watching the shellac dry. That must be about another six.” He pretended to solemnly calculate in his head.
His mouth quirked up on one side and Shelby found herself mesmerized by his lips. She wondered if they were warm and unconsciously moistened her lower lip, her tongue darting out. Her eyes were unfocused. She was lost, pondering the possibilities.
Ransom was standing very near her, as close as when he had handed her the easel. He softly cleared his throat and reached out to turn it over. His hands were warm where they brushed her fingers and Shelby fought to focus on his words. “See here, I inscribed it to you, the date, and my initials. Would have put something better, like the Gettysburg Address but it wouldn’t fit. Also would have taken hours since I was using my grandfather’s hand tools.”
“It’s really lovely. I can’t thank you enough. What a thoughtful gift.” Shelby leaned toward him, almost without thinking, then checked herself. At least give the poor man something to eat before throwing yourself in his arms. She glanced down at the easel and made a decision.
“I was going to wait until later. But since we’re exchanging gifts, I think I should give you yours.”
“Mine?”
“Just a thank you for the diary. I finished my paper on Susanna Caldwell that night and sent it over to Arthur Cavendish on Tuesday. He called a few hours ago and they’re publishing it next quarter,” she said.
“That’s great news!” he said, grinning.
“That’s not all. I told my friend Brooks about the diary and I had two calls from some friends of his, producers at the History Channel, and they want to me to be the consultant on a documentary of her life. Things are moving so quickly, after all that time spent looking for her name.”
“I knew you could do it,” he said, softly, eyes dark with emotion.
Shelby swallowed. “There’s no way to really say thank you, but I have something,” she said as she popped back to the bedroom.
“What’s this?” he asked, when she returned and placed the small package in his hands.
“You ask too many questions. Just open it.” She grinned and waited for him to unfold the tissue paper.
Inside was a small square framed in dark wood. He held it up, his face registering surprise, the wonder.
“My grandfather’s greenhouse. That’s the little Russian olive tree near the corner. And you can even see the wisteria vines along the roof.” He looked up, eyes searching her face. “How did you find this?”
“I drove over there on Thursday. They let me set up a spot where I could paint.” She felt a blush start to creep up her cheeks. “I wanted to give you something that had meaning. I... I hope you like it.” Now she knew what he had felt as she stammered over his easel.
“It’s wonderful. And look, they go perfectly together.” He gently placed her small painting on the tabletop easel. They gazed at it in silence for a moment, admiring the pair. “You know what they say about great minds,” he laughed.
The sound melted her tenuous resolve and she wished with all her heart that dinner was over, that they could skip to the goodnight kiss.
She struggled to get the conversation back on track. “Can I get you anything to drink? I’m just finishing the biscuits and the chicken is in the warming drawer. My grandmama had the best recipe for fried chicken. You have to let it rest in the buttermilk overnight. And the breading has some cayenne pepper in it for a little extra kick.” She knew the words were tumbling out but the alternative was to throw herself in his arms.
Ransom watched her walk away, his blue eyes deep and steady. “Anything is fine. And that sounds like a delicious recipe.”
She slipped into the kitchen and leaned her head against the stainless steel fridge. Her cheeks felt flushed and her hands trembled. She was never going to make it through. This was a big mistake. He was going to think she was some sort of unstable person, babbling and running to the kitchen every few minutes.
She raised her head and straightened her shoulders. Putting her feelings aside she turned around in time to see Ransom poke his head into the little kitchen.
“Do you mind if I help? I promise not to burn down the house.” Again the quirky smile. She focused on his collar, which was unbuttoned at the top. His smooth, tanned skin looked like he had been on vacation, rather than holed up in an office with ancient diaries. His jaw was freshly shaved, but the dark shadow of his beard was still visible.
Quickly changing tack and gazing at his right ear, she nodded and motioned to the biscuit dough. “I was going to roll that out and cut the biscuits next.”
He crossed to the porcelain double sink and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were dusted with dark hair, the thick muscles moved under his skin as he soaped and rinsed. Shelby envisioned the hours he spent shaving strips of wood with a centuries old lathe, the smell of fresh sawdust in the air.
The pretty tiled kitchen seemed much smaller with Ransom in it. Shelby pinched a handful of flour from the tin. As she sprinkled it on the cutting board, she wondered how she was ever going to finish making the dinner with him so near.
He leaned against the counter, his posture relaxed and friendly. “My mother told me a funny story once about forgetting the baking soda. She was so embarrassed that she threw the biscuits in the trash without saying anything, but our little dog stole them out again. My dad found him chewing his heart out on what looked like a pile of tan rocks.”
She laughed, surprised. “I promise I remembered the baking soda,” she said, as she rolled and smoothed the dough.“My grandpa told me that one year at the farmhouse the cook had put up some peaches but they didn’t seal right so she threw them out for the turkeys to eat. The next morning when she looked out, the turkeys were laying all over the pen, dead. She was fit to be tied, thinking of how much waste it was, losing all the turkeys at once. She brought them into the kitchen and started plucking. She got through two turkeys when they woke
up. They were just intoxicated from the bad peaches. There were naked turkeys in the kitchen that winter.”
Ransom’s eyes watered from laughter. “I can just see it. They probably woke up thinking, ‘I’m never going to get drunk again, ever!”
She shook her head. “You’d think someone could have knitted them some long underwear at least. But he said he remembers them as naked and mean, acting like they owned the kitchen,” she said. “Can you get the butter? It’s on the middle shelf. I’ve got to grease the sheet.”
Ransom’s head disappeared from view for a moment. “You keep a stocked fridge.”
“Rebecca would live on brownies and Jolly Ranchers if she could, but I love to cook.” Shelby spread the butter in quick swipes, and cut out the biscuits with easy movements.
Ransom moved forward and gently transferred a biscuit to the sheet. They worked silently now, laying the off-white circles in even rows. Their shoulders brushed as they moved around the cutting board.
“Now, into the oven. I’ll make the honey butter right before we eat.” Shelby slid the sheet into the hot oven and brushed her hair back from her brow with the back of her hand.
He grabbed a paper towel, ran it under the water and wiped down the cutting board.
“Just leave the dishes, please. I’ll do them all at once later.” Shelby protested as he reached for the bowl and mixing spoon. Somebody trained this boy well.
“However you like. I’m not afraid of washing dishes. I spent a good many evenings scrubbing pots as a kid.”
“I can’t believe you did many dishes at BellePointe, somehow,” Shelby said, teasingly.
“Oh, but you didn’t know my father. He felt that bed without supper was a poor punishment. He liked to send me down to peel potatoes or scrub the dinner pots. Mrs. Torrinio, our cook, loved him for that. She had plenty of help, but she enjoyed putting me to work best of all,” he said.
“Smart man. I think kids are happier when they have some work to do. I can’t imagine growing up without anything but my own entertainment to focus on.”
He nodded. “You know, when Tasha was younger, she wasn’t so bad. Maybe a little silly. But I think her parents let her spend all her time amusing herself,” he said and lifted his shoulders slightly.
Shelby opened a drawer and withdrew a linen tablecloth. “No, I understand.” She didn’t mind talking about Tasha now, and even felt a little sympathy for her. She headed for the table and he followed.
“I was really glad to hear you thought we were engaged,” he said softly from behind her.
Shelby stumbled, recovered herself and said, “Why?”
He didn’t answer for a moment as he carefully lifted the centerpiece off the table and set it on the floor. Then he placed the easel and painting beside it. Shelby spread the table cloth at one end and he reached to grab the other.
“Well, I noticed something. You never looked at me. We could have a whole conversation and you would only barely glance at me once or twice.” He chuckled and shook his head, dark hair falling over his brow. “I was convinced you hated my guts. And the more I tried to talk to you, the worse it was.”
Shelby forced a laugh and it came out pitched higher than she intended. She straightened the cloth and bent down to retrieve the easel, her mind whirling.
“I was so relieved to know it wasn’t me,” he said, setting the centerpiece back in its place. There was a long pause. Then he said, his voice low and full of a dawning realization, “But you’re not looking at me now, either.”
He stepped into her line of sight and she glanced up, straight into those intense blue eyes, felt her mind start to go blank and dropped her gaze. Shelby’s heart was pounding so loudly she thought he must hear it. All those times she’d tried not to look at him because she didn’t want to feel the things he made her feel.
He groaned. “I’m an idiot. Since Monday, I’ve been telling myself you disliked me because of Tasha. But that’s not it, is it?” His shoulders sagged and he seemed to come to a decision. “You know, the dinner isn’t necessary. I was happy to give you the diary, to help in any way I could. And I’ll always be grateful for what you helped me understand, to accept, about my wife’s death.”
He picked up the painting, regret and something indefinable in his eyes.
“You’re an incredible woman, Shelby.” He seemed to want to say more but turned to the door.
“I can show myself out.”
“Elizabeth... now forced herself to speak.”
-Pride and Prejudice
Chapter Thirty Eight
Shelby stood with her hands still on the table cloth, mouth open. She tried to speak but nothing came out. How had this happened? One minute they were discussing naked turkeys and the next he was half way out the door, convinced she hated him.
“Wait!” The word came out so loudly, so suddenly that he whirled around.
“Ransom, please. Please stop.” She took a deep breath and grabbed hold of her courage with both hands. She took a step forward and then another. “I need to explain. But I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression.”
His expression lifted just a little but he didn’t take his hand from the doorknob.
“You’re right. I do- I did- try to avoid looking at you. But not because I couldn’t stand the sight of you.” Just the thought of it made her laugh. She wanted to memorize his every expression, every line when he smiled. “It’s just that when I’m thinking,” she took a step nearer, holding his gaze “and I see your face, I forget what I want to say. Everything sort of fades away, like fog in the sun.”
She was a few steps away from him now. Hope flared in his eyes but he stayed silent. “If you ask me a question and I’m trying to answer, all I can think of is this.” She reached up and touched the shadow along his jaw. His eyes went half-closed. “And this.” She touched his lips lightly, outlining them with her thumb. They were firm and warm, she couldn’t raise her eyes past them. He sucked in a breath.
“And this.” She was inches away. Her head swam with the smell of him, clean and woodsy. Standing on her tiptoes she pressed her lips to his, softly. He was perfectly still for a moment, then suddenly his lips parted under hers with a groan and one strong arm wrapped around her waist.
One kiss slid into another and Shelby threaded her fingers through the thick hair over his collar. He cupped the back of her head with his hand and crushed her to him. She was lost in his touch, drinking him in with all her might. All those times she’d wished she could touch him, wished she could taste his skin, came together. Time seemed to slow, and then stop all together.
Sirocco wrapped herself around Shelby’s legs, meowing.
“Go... away...,” she groaned, nudging the insistent cat.
“Jealous” he said, voice muffled by her hair.
His lips found hers again and Shelby clung to him, eyes closed, her senses on fire.
Sirocco stood against the back of her legs, paws kneading Shelby’s thighs.
“Ow! Dumb cat...” She stepped closer to Ransom, if possible, and gasped as he trailed light kisses down her neck. Her arms were covered with goose bumps, her heart was pounding so she couldn’t hear anything except her own breathing... and a faint beeping.
Ransom flinched and made a sharp noise in the back of his throat but didn’t raise his head from Shelby’s skin. “Your cat just sunk her claws into my calf,” he growled against her neck.
Shelby reluctantly opened her eyes and thought for a moment she had gone blind from happiness because the light from the windows had gone gray. And foggy. Smoke!
“Ransom!” Shelby gasped, putting her hands on his shoulders.
He mumbled incoherently against her ear. The fire alarm sounded shrilly and his head jerked up. “What on earth?”
“The biscuits!” She disentangled herself from his arms and ran to the kitchen, Ransom following right behind her. She pulled open the oven door and withdrew a smoking sheet of blackened rocks.
He swiftly opened the back door for her and she set the mess on the cement step.
Shelby grabbed a towel and waved it at the shrieking smoke alarm but it continued its ear-splitting wail. Ransom stepped behind her and reaching up, flipped open the plastic cover and removed the battery with a quick twist. The instant silence was almost as deafening.
“Well.” Ransom rubbed his face with his hand and grinned. “That was quite a first kiss.”
Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside and Shelby laughed until she had to wipe tears from her eyes. She leaned against him and giggled into his shirt front. “I’m telling you,” she gasped “when you’re around I lose my mind. I didn’t hear the oven beep once.”
“Now we know that your cat is also useful for preventing death by smoke inhalation,” he said, nuzzling the top of her head. “I thought she was just good for keeping warm during an ice storm.”
“She’s a genius,” Shelby agreed, letting herself be pulled back into his arms.
Her cell phone sounded the first few bars of a fight song. Shelby turned her head and frowned. “That’s my dad. He never calls my cell. Do you mind?” But Ransom was already letting her go with a tender touch on the cheek.
Shelby flipped open the phone, her heart sinking in her chest.
“Shelby, honey?” His voice was muted, hoarse.
“Daddy?” Shelby gripped the counter behind her.
“Shelby, it’s your aunt. She... She’s had a stroke. Bessy Arbogast came over this morning and found in her in the kitchen. She was in her nightgown but we don’t know if it happened this morning or..” His voice trailed off. Or if she had lain there all night. He didn’t need to say the words.
Pride, Prejudice, and Cheese Grits (Austen Takes the South) Page 22
