Alicia Pace - Simple Gone South

“Hardly hit a lick at a snake the whole time.”

“Miss Mavis, you wound me! But I want to ask you a little favor.”

“Didn’t you always?”

“Does the club still have that set of silver knives and forks that old Mrs. Rogers left in her will?”

“Unless somebody stole it since I polished it last week.”

“I need a fork.”

Miss Mavis shook her head. “There are forks on the buffet.”

“Yes,” Brantley said. “I can see that. There are. But they are stainless steel forks—not nearly good enough for Lucy Mead.” He laid his hand on Lucy’s cheek. She wanted to jerk away but she was paralyzed for so many reasons that she couldn’t even work out which was chief among them. “You see, Miss Mavis, Lucy put on a performance tonight that all of Merritt will remember. She needs to eat this cake with a silver fork. I want her to have it.”

Cake! He had brought the cake for her. She couldn’t eat cake!

“Brantley,” Miss Mavis said, “you know we only use that silver for small parties in the executive dining room. Even if there was enough of it, it would not come out for big parties like this.”

“I know. And I understand why. The top dogs in this town need to feel like they, and only they, get to use it.” The rich cultured tone of his voice did not match his chosen quirky vernacular, but it was natural sounding and charming, like it had always been. “But I submit to you, Miss Mavis, that unless it is you, there is no one more elite than Lucy Mead. And I don’t need it all. I just need one fork. One. Little. Fork. One.” He leaned toward the older woman and smiled a little wider with each word. Lucy felt like she was in some crazy surreal dream. Had she gone to sleep and dreamed that Brantley turned up with a cake and started demanding silver forks? Or fork. One. All he needed was one.

Miss Mavis gave a huge sigh. “You’ll get it back to me?”

“In better condition that it ever was, for having graced the lips of Lucy Mead.”

As she sighed again and trotted off, Brantley sat down again.

“You brought this cake for me?” Lucy asked.

“For you. All for you. Don’t let anyone else have any.”

“Not Missy?”

“Especially not Missy. She’s already gotten to be front man and denied you cake today.”

They were silent, Lucy because she was in utter shock and Brantley because he was busy looking at her and smiling. Miss Mavis stepped up behind him and placed a red cloth napkin beside his hand.

“One hour, no more. And if you get caught with it, I will swear you stole my keys.”

Brantley unwrapped his little bundle to reveal an ornate dessert fork, rich with time and patina. He dipped right into the middle of the cake and pulled out a chunk. “Open up, Lucy Mead. I want you to eat enough cake to make you happy and give you the energy to dance with me.” And he brought the cake to her mouth.

Why, why, why had she agreed to let him drive her home? Was she crazy? A magic snatcher—that’s what he was. He dangled his magic in front of you and then snatched it away.

And after the others had joined them, his magic had just gotten bigger, brighter, and more irresistible.

She hated herself a little bit right now. She hadn’t intended to dance with him but after washing down the cake that he kept feeding her with bourbon, she had been powerless to stop him from pulling her into his arms when the band struck up “Tupelo Honey . ” And there she was, moving in his arms, remembering the chemistry between them, smelling his shampoo, and listening to him sing softly into her ear. He didn’t even sing off key. Was there nothing he couldn’t do? It had been so long since they’d danced together that she’d almost forgotten how he made her a better dancer. And if she had almost forgotten it, he wouldn’t remember at all.

Brantley turned the car toward the historic district and interrupted her thoughts. “I’m surprised you still live in Miss Annelle’s house.”

“Why?” she asked. “I adore that house. When I first moved to Merritt from Atlanta I lived in the apartment above the shop but after we renovated it in the Art Deco style, my aunt loved it and we swapped. Aunt Annelle is somewhat of a minimalist.”

Moving into that house had been so important to her. At first, she’d fought Annelle, not believing that her aunt really wanted to give up the beautiful Victorian cottage on one of the prettiest streets in Merritt. But once convinced that it truly was Annelle’s preference, Lucy was thrilled to have a home that wasn’t a modern high-rise Atlanta apartment or a house piled with artifacts and reference material.

“I would have figured you for something more sleek and modern,” Brantley said and proved that he knew nothing about her. And she knew everything about him—every building he’d worked on, every vacation he took, every car he bought. Not that she went looking for it. That would be like scheduling a train wreck. But between Missy and being in the church Flower Guild with Miss Caroline, she was kept very much apprised of the doings of Brantley Kincaid.

“No,” she said. “My specialty is historic interiors. That’s why I came back to work with Annelle. I was sick of designing hotels and she needed me. She can design anything, but her heart is in modern decor.”

“Then why were you doing commercial design in the first place?”

“Not everybody gets their dream job right away,” she said and could have added even if you did.

Cheap. She’d sold herself for a cake. Hell and double hell.

“Here we are.” There was one good thing. It never took long to get anywhere in Merritt.

“Thank you for the ride,” Lucy said but he didn’t hear her. He was already out of the vehicle, coming around to open her door. And now he had her by the arm and was towing her up the sidewalk. Was he going to try to kiss her? Well, she was not going to let that happen. She’d let it happen before and look where it got her. It was not going to happen again. And he definitely was not coming in the house—not for a drink, not to use the bathroom, and definitely not to touch and kiss her. Let him stop at a bar, pee in the bushes, and go to a brothel.

But he didn’t try to come in or kiss her. What he did was worse. He took her key, unlocked the door, and said, “If you lived anywhere but Merritt, Alabama, crime rate zero, I’d insist on walking in with you. But you look tired.”

“I am,” she agreed. “Thanks for the hair gel and the ride.” Breezy. That was good. He didn’t want to come in. She was relieved and a little embarrassed that she had assumed he would.

But then he half closed his golden eyes, smiled a lazy smile, and took her hand. He kissed her palm, taking his time about it without getting sloppy. Then he curled her fingers over the place his lips had been, as if he was bidding her to keep the kiss safe.

“Lucy Mead, you are going to hear from me.” He said it like it was her eighth birthday and he was presenting her with a white pony, all decked out with silver bells and pink ribbons.

Walking away from such a pony would have been hard for any eight-year-old.

But she did.

Big Mama’s house was bursting with the aroma of shrimp and grits, but underneath that were all the old smells—furniture wax, lemon, and yeast bread. Brantley fancied that he caught a whiff of pipe tobacco, but that wasn’t possible, not after all this time.

“Evelyn had to leave,” Big Mama said. “But she left everything on the sideboard for us.” They were all trying to be casual, but walking into that dining room where there had been so much good food, laughter, and love was like climbing a mountain. No—a mountain that someone had set fire to. The last time there had been food served out of the room no one had sat at the table, and the food had been the casseroles, cakes, and platters that always arrived in bad times.