The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend) (9 page)

“Thank you,” he said, using the hand he’d pressed into hers to remove the keys from the ignition.

“Now let’s go grab some dumplings. I’m starving,” Shelby said, scooping up her purse, tired of the tangle of her life.

“It’s rare I leave the fields during harvest so let’s do this right,” John said, his face more relaxed.

Yet his words seemed to speak of larger things in their life. Still for that moment, Shelby focused on not overthinking every word John said. He wanted her now, but she’d been in this same position several times before, her heart overruling her head. She needed to proceed carefully because now the stakes weren’t just about her.

They were about the tiny life inside her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HE
NEXT
TWO
days followed a pattern. John rose before the sun, ate oatmeal, drank black coffee and worked till the sun went down. After overseeing the loading of the cane, he showered, shaved and headed to his sister’s place, where Shelby waited.

He couldn’t flatter himself thinking Shelby looked forward to seeing him—she was bored and probably would have welcomed a zombie for company.

Of course, he pretty much fit that description after a day in the fields and a long night of tossing and turning. He’d brought her several magazines about fashion and whatever the Kardashians were up to. Glancing at those covers—at the antics of whoever those people were—made him feel not so bad about the mess he and Shelby had created. He’d also brought her some chewing gum, one clutch of flowers he’d grabbed not knowing if it would say something other than “Feel better soon” and a deck of cards so she could play solitaire. He’d tried to talk her into reading
The Sound and the Fury,
but she’d looked at him like he’d sprouted a horn in the center of his head.

Rebecca had always loved the classics, and the Faulkner book along with a Truman Capote collection had been a gift to Abigail when she’d opened the bed-and-breakfast. Southern authors for a Southern home.

Shelby, however, wasn’t impressed, and when John took a hard look at the books on Rebecca’s shelves in her office, he had to agree with Shelby. Dry words, old times in a glossy new cover.

Each evening he and Shelby faced the cooling darkness of his sister’s porch—her sipping tea, him a longneck. They’d talked about the weather, the Seattle Seahawks’ record and how they’d both loved visiting Cozumel. Inane conversation designed to help each of them gauge how it might work if they were to cohabitate while awaiting the birth of their child.

But today would be the true test for him—Thanksgiving Day at his parents’ house.

Ye gods.

Pulling into the drive of Laurel Woods, John checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. He’d trimmed his own hair because he hadn’t had time to go by Tammy’s in town. It looked okay, though he’d nicked a spot behind his ear. His green eyes looked tired, but they always did at harvest. Not bad but not his best. Been a long time since he was at his best.

Climbing out, he studied the females assembled on the porch. Shelby sat in a rocker, wearing the wrap dress and boots she’d worn Monday. Her hair looked shiny and she wore equally shiny lipstick. Looked like a city girl—a good-looking city girl. His sister wore a long skirt and a dark shirt, which was pretty much standard for her. At one time Abigail had been a bit more frivolous and not so grown-up. Her lousy cheating ex-husband, Calhoun Orgeron, had fixed her good. No more Abi...just serious Abigail. Birdie wore a black hoodie, skintight jeans and a sullen look. Dollar to doughnuts, she’d gotten busted spying on that California nutcase who had moved into The Haven behind Laurel Woods.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he called, climbing the stairs.

“What’s happy about it?” Birdie asked, her tone caustic enough to blister paint.

“That’s enough, missy.” Abigail jabbed a finger at her daughter. “Straighten up. Pawpaw and Fancy don’t want to stare at your sad face all day long.”

Birdie’s narrowed eyes softened. Even if she was miffed, Birdie loved his parents and would never bring any grief to them. “Whatever.”

Shelby watched their interaction, her blue eyes amused at what unfolded. Shifting her gaze to his, she mouthed “busted.”

And just like that, the doubt, the feeling he’d been too rash in asking her to stay, lifted. “Now that’s settled, you gals ready to roll?” he asked.

“We can take the wagon,” Abigail said, with a wave at the staid Volvo station wagon listed in the dictionary as an antonym for
sexy.
“More room and much safer than your old truck. Let me grab the sweet potatoes and the caramel pie first.”

“Why don’t I drive Shelby? She may not want to stay for football and the annual Christmas cookie bake.”

Shelby opened her mouth, likely to disagree, but Abigail beat her to it. “Good idea. I told Mom I’d help her decorate the tree, too, and you know how long that takes. Story behind every flippin’ ornament.” Abigail disappeared into the house. Birdie kicked the railing of the porch and glanced over at Shelby. She wanted to say something, but wasn’t the kind of kid who piped up on her own.

“Birdie, everything cool?” he asked.

“Sure. Punished until the cows come home, and Mom is making me go apologize to Mr. Lively for spying on him. I mean, what did he expect? He swims naked.”

“Mr. Lively? Is he the—”

“Yeah. New art department head at the high school. He’s totally hot and I have to note worth the effort...if you know what I mean,” Birdie said, almost too matter-of-factly.

John tried not to react to the obvious implication about Mr. Lively. Birdie didn’t even manage a blush, just stuck her little chin out like she dared him to say something.

“Okay, I’ll spread the word,” John said, and it made Shelby laugh. Her laugh was nice. Not a tinkling sound like Rebecca’s. More low and velvety.

Shelby smiled at Birdie. “Maybe your mother needs to go with you to apologize. Maybe she needs some Mr. Lively.”

Abigail came out holding two dishes. “Birdie, get the door. Jeez, I would appreciate your helping me sometime. Do you ever think about how much I have to do? Do you ever wonder if I might need some help?”

Birdie took the pie from her mother. “Mom, will you come with me when I apologize to Mr. Lively? Please.” The girl looked over at Shelby and John with a spark in her eye.

“Of course, I’m going with you. Do you think I would allow you to go to that weirdo’s house alone?”

Birdie mouthed “wow” before saying, “It’s not nice to call people who are different names, or so you told me when I went to preschool.”

“Oh, well, I should have said ‘odd’ and not ‘weird.’ Better?” Abigail clipped down the porch steps, balancing the casserole, and turned to wait on them with a crooked eyebrow.

John waited for Shelby to pass. “You look nice, Shelby.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Speaking of weird,” Birdie muttered under her breath, following her mother to the navy Volvo that could dissuade a sex addict from approaching Abigail.

Silently he followed Shelby to the truck he’d left idling in the drive. In the formfitting dress, her backside swayed, and he couldn’t help admire the view. Her pregnancy hadn’t seemed to change her smoking body one iota. He’d have to keep his eye on Jake today...if his brother showed up.

Halfway on the ride into town, Shelby looked over at him. “I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. They’re going to stare a little and wonder a lot, but my family, annoying as they can be, is welcoming. Plus, you already know Abigail and Birdie. My brother Matt and his wife, Mary Jane, will be there, along with their two boys—Wyatt and William. Hopefully, my younger brother, Jake, will show up. And then there’s Aunt Lucy and Uncle Carney, Gram and Mr. Jenkins. That’s probably it.”

“Sounds horrifying,” Shelby said.

“Relax,” he said, turning out of the drive. “So what happened with Birdie?”

“Your sister was dusting the rocker at the end of the hall. Something about the Christmas tree. And she saw what I saw that first morning. Um, Mr. Lively in the buff...and Birdie watching him.”

He tried not to smile. “Interesting. And what about you? Feeling better?”

“Yes, and I appreciate your distracting me from being so nervous that I might hurl.”

John rolled through the Magnolia Bend city limits sign, coming face-to-face with the fact today wasn’t a regular workday. No one sprawled on the porch of his uncle’s store, no cars cluttering lots, even the square where the crumbling courthouse stood had only Mrs. Dryden walking her ancient Italian greyhound. The wind blew at a nice clip, the sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds, and John Beauchamp, the son of the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Magnolia Bend was bringing the girl he knocked up at an infamous roadside bar home to holiday dinner.

“You want to bail on the turkey and dressing?” John asked.

“No. I just wish I had a better answer every time someone, aka your sister, corners me on our relationship. You know everyone is going to sit there eating pie, trying to figure out what’s going on between us.”

“And what would they think?”

“That I’m some bloodsucking parasite trying to get my claws into you.”

He glanced sharply over. “You think that’s what they’ll think?”

Her shoulders sank. “I don’t know what they’ll think. Only that they will.”

“Okay, so maybe that’s the worst thing,” he said, pulling onto Second Street where his parents’ 1800 French Revival sat in the middle of the street surrounded by graceful oaks, looking postcard pretty and very much at home on the street strewn with old homes. “Or maybe they’ll be happy to see me with someone who makes me happier.”

“I make you happier?” Shelby asked, her head snapping around so quickly her hair lifted off her shoulders.

He pulled in the drive next to his uncle Carney’s ’57 restored Chevy truck, surprised at his words, but, yeah, though the past few days had been hard, he’d felt more himself. “Oddly enough, you’ve made me forget how bad this year has been.”

And it was true. For over an entire year, he’d existed in robotic fashion, smiling only when someone cracked a joke, and even then only because it was expected. Otherwise, each day was the same—empty house, hard day and lonely evening with a cat he’d never wanted in the first place. But after he’d conquered the horror over how badly he’d screwed up three months ago, an unexpected protective feeling and burgeoning fondness for Shelby had bloomed. The woman was such an enigma, bringing unexpected laughter in the middle of despair...and she had every reason to be as unsettled as anyone over the fact she was pregnant.

“Only a bit, huh?” she said, eyeing his parents’ home. “This looks like something out of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
In fact I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof. Ouch.”

“It’s been in our family since my great-great-grandfather Earl bought it back from his mistress. I like the irony a preacher lives here.” John killed the engine, climbed out and hurried around to open Shelby’s door, but she’d already climbed out.

Closing the door she turned to him, her blue eyes full of...something. But the moment felt intimate, as if admitting she made him happy had moved them to a new stage...a stage he was afraid of entering. “Thanks for saying that.” She smiled.

Her lips were glossy. Usually he didn’t like kissing women who wore sticky gloss, but at that moment he wondered what she tasted like. He couldn’t remember. Sweet? Spicy? Minty? “For saying what?”

“That your life isn’t worse because of all this.”

“I didn’t say that. I said you made me a bit happier. Key word is
bit,
” he joked.

Yes, he’d actually made a joke. Strange. No, not a joke. Flirting. Shockingly, it felt fantastic.

Her eyes twinkled as she laughed. “Now I remember why I wanted to dance with you, Josh Beauchamp.”

“Who?”

“That’s what I told the private investigator I thought your name was. Josh or Joe.”

Holy crap, they both flirted with each other. “I remembered your name.”

She gave him a smoldering look. “I’m memorable. Sue me.” And then she sauntered off with a little laugh. And he stood there, very, very much aware of Miss Shelby Mackey, the woman he’d invited to live with him.

Damn.

He felt... He couldn’t name the feeling...but he’d felt it before. A long time ago when he’d first met Rebecca Lynn with her subtle smile and surprising wit. It had been at the Dairy Palace. She’d attended school in Baton Rouge up until her junior year of high school so he’d never met her before that day. Once he did, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. This was how it felt at the beginning.

John didn’t want to move in that direction. He wasn’t ready to flirt. But even as part of him dug in his heels, the other part stepped toward this woman carrying his child. Something within him stirred, and it wasn’t just about being a father in less than seven months. It was interest.

In Shelby.

Not a good idea, bud. Things are about as clear as bayou mud.

He grabbed the ice chest he’d strapped down in the back of the truck, lifting it over the scratched edge. He was back to bringing the drinks again à la bachelor. Jake would probably be responsible for the rolls which he’d no doubt bring from Betsy’s Bake Shoppe.

As he headed toward the front door following Miss Fancy Pants, he saw someone he’d not expected on the porch, sitting stock-still regarding him with a stunned look on her face.

Rebecca’s mother.

And Carla Stanton wasn’t happy about what she’d witnessed.

* * *

C
ARLA
W
AGUESPACK
S
TANTON
had seen much in her sixty-nine years. She’d endured her papa driving off into a bayou dead drunk. She’d sat through the funerals of both her parents, her brother who’d perished in Cambodia, her husband and her most precious gift of all—her beautiful daughter. But nothing had ever hurt her more than to see John Beauchamp flirting with the pretty blonde he’d brought to Thanksgiving dinner.

The pain struck hard and fast, and for a moment, she couldn’t manage a breath.

This was it. The day had arrived when John stepped back into a world without Rebecca. He’d made the leap she’d been unable to make. She should be happy for him. But she wasn’t.

Seeing him with that other woman made her daughter’s death all the more horrific.

If only...

So many
if onlys
in regards to what had happened that September day. But none could change the outcome—her baby had died alone, terrified. Carla would never forgive herself for that...and she’d never forgive John, either.

So to watch him laugh with the blonde felt like he’d walked up and slapped her in the face.

When he saw her ensconced in the rocker, the laughter in his face slipped away. His expression went from surprise to shame to dread.