Alicia Pace - Simple Gone South

“I packed in a hurry and made a mistake.” She held her head high.

“Clearly. Let’s see what else there is.”

“Brantley—”

“Four pairs of white socks and a thong.” He held up the red lacy wisp of elastic and satin. She expected him to make a comment about the thong but he said instead, “Lucy Mead, how many feet do you have?”

She folded her arms over her chest and said nothing.

“Let’s see what else. Empty cosmetic bag and a landfill of health and beauty aides. Big bottle of shampoo. I usually like a small one for a one-thong adventure. Eyeliner, sparkle lotion, and two lipsticks—Kiss Pink and Brandy Wine. I don’t see any mascara and I know what store women set by their mascara—at least women with eyes as big and brown as yours. I don’t see any deodorant, nightclothes, or a comb. No phone charger, though you could have one of those in your car. Less likely for the nightie and deodorant. Now some people like to sleep naked and enjoy their own personal musk but I just don’t see it for you, Lucy Mead.”

Plainly, he was pushing her and he didn’t care who knew it. But even in the face of all this, his charm was coming through, broadcasting like Times Square on New Years Eve night. She needed a weapon and anger was the only one handy.

She went there. Easily.

“You don’t know anything about me.” She had been itching to say that for years. It felt good—so good!

“I know you don’t call me back—and I know I will win this game. Because I know where you’re going.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere—or at least you weren’t going anywhere until thirty seconds after you got my stalker voicemail this morning. What I am thinking is you listened to my message, jumped up, and put on the first thing you laid your hands on. I’ll bet your bed isn’t made and I don’t smell coffee. Disappointing, that. I could use some. A doughnut wouldn’t be amiss, either. I’m hungry. I’ve been awake for a while. “

“You didn’t have to be. You could be in your bed right now.”

“Don’t distract me by making me think about beds. After dressing, you packed this orderly, sensible bag for your orderly, planned trip.” He went and sat on the sofa. “When I pack, I like a tidy bag and a list helps that happen. I don’t strike you as a list maker, do I? Well, I am. That’s why I was named Young Historical Architect of the Year last year. People give me a chance because I’m funny and likable, but they trust me because I give good results— superior results. Funny and likable does not get results. Smart and detail oriented does—which I am. Plus, I’ve got that list-making thing going for me. If there were an award for Packer of the Year—or of the decade even, I would win that award too.

“Lucy Mead, you would not. I could help you out with that, though. It all goes back to the list. For my list making, I like an old fashioned DayRunner. I tried a PDA for a while but it’s just not the same. And then there’s the iPhone, the Swiss Army knife of communication and organization. Trouble is, there are no margins for doodling. I get some of my best ideas doodling. Besides, I like the satisfaction of a good pen on real paper. DayRunner refills are not as easy to find as they used to be, but I manage. I already have mine for the new year. Melba knows just where to get them. I’ll get her to get you some.”

“I don’t want—” What didn’t she want? A DayRunner? Him here? For him to continue this maddening, witty, bossy banter?

To want him? She hesitated and it cost her.

“Back to the list,” he interrupted. “See, you have a master basic packing list for things you always need when you travel, like toothpaste and phone charger. Then there is a variable section for things like ski jackets and swimsuits. For instance, if we were making a list for you to visit me on Halloween, we would include things like thongs and deodorant in the basic list. In the variables, we’d have your Jasmine suit. If you were so minded, you might also write, ‘Bring Brantley some real barbecue because God knows they don’t have any anywhere but Merritt.’”

Her mouth was dry, arid even. “I am not coming to visit you for Halloween and I already told you I don’t have a Jasmine suit.”

He ran his hands through his silky thick hair. She wished she didn’t remember what it felt like. “There could be an alternative.” He held up her red thong and beaded top. “These might make an attractive ensemble. If you’d like to put them on so I can help you evaluate, I don’t mind.”

She had thought she’d been angry before. That wasn’t anger compared to what she was feeling now; that had been yoga and a massage all rolled into one. All of a sudden, she knew she was going to say everything that had drifted through her mind and heart since she was fifteen years old. It was going to feel good, better than good. It was going to be like lying naked on a mink blanket. And when she was done, he’d walk out of her house and she’d never hear from him or lay eyes on him again. Good. She wished she was sitting so she could jump to her feet for dramatic effect. During her time as Richie Sambora she’d learned a thing or two about drama. But she’d have to settle for moving in front of him and looking down at him, menacing. Oh, yeah. She could be menacing with the best of them. Dennis, even.

“Listen, here, Mr. Young Architect of the Year. I’ve got some things to say to you and you might want to get your DayRunner out and make a list of it. Number one. I don’t have a Jasmine costume. I am not going to get a Jasmine costume. And while I’m at it, you might as well know Jasmine was not a harem girl. Disney does not make movies about harem girls.” Brantley Kincaid had the audacity to smile, which was like gasoline on a fire. “Number two.” She held up two fingers. “Who do you think you are? You might be the Golden Boy of Merritt, Alabama, and the Prince of Green Hills, Nashville, Tennessee. You might be able to talk somebody out of a silver fork and into carving pumpkins, but you are not going to boss me around. You also might as well know that between my parents moving around from this university to that, and hauling me off to Timbuktu every time I turned around, I’ve lived in about a thousand places. And, Brantley, never, never have I ever heard of a florist who carves Jack-O-Lanterns. I looked it up on the Internet. Florists don’t do that!”

“They did for me.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course, they did! That’s my point. You are in charge of your world. People let you be in charge of them. But you are not in charge of me and I don’t ever have to call you back.”

“You’ve proven that well enough. But about that list where you are laying down the law to me. I’m pretty sure you’ve named about eight things, not two,” Brantley said. “That list making class needs to be sooner rather than later.”

“I’m not done with two yet!” Oh, what a maddening man. “You can’t tell me what to do. I am not some kid you can bribe with a choice of M&Ms and a full size Snickers. I am not your assistant, your housekeeper, your grandmother, or Missy—or any of the other ten thousand women who are just waiting around to try to please you. Most of all, I am not Rita May Sanderson.”

“Yeah.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I can tell that by the way you are not throwing objects at me.”

“What?” He opened his mouth to answer but she carried on. “Never mind. Also, you can’t just—” Waltz in here and break my heart again!

“What number are we on?” he asked and grinned like the devil he was.

She hated him! “Shut up. And isn’t it about time for you to get back together with Rita May?”

“I am not getting back with Rita May. I am done.”