Simple Gone South

of how he felt and afraid she wouldn’t let him in. So he’d gone all smartass on her—probably not the best move but he was making this up as he went.

But oddly, he took it as a good sign that she wanted to run from him. That proved she had some feelings worth running from.

He had no idea why, after all this time, such strong attraction kicked in. But there was something there— something fiery and fine that made him remember a bourbon-soaked late spring night in Savannah, Georgia when they had danced and laughed and he’d almost committed the unpardonable.

“Don’t poop where you eat, boy,” Papa Brantley had said to him more than once —and he had almost done that. Having a one night stand with a hometown girl from his inner circle would have been bad enough, but taking her virginity would have been the ultimate in mixing pooping and eating. Thankfully, he’d realized before it was too late and remembered who he was.

“Brantley, remember who you are. If you aren’t acting like a gentleman, you need to slow down and think.” More wisdom from Papa.

But that was a long time ago—fourteen years. They’d been kids—though at twenty-one, he hadn’t thought so. That would have made Lucy nineteen. But what had he known? What did he know now? A smile spread over his face. He knew he wanted a little Lucy Mead magic for himself and it didn’t matter why. She wasn’t a kid anymore and he wanted more than a one night stand, though how much more he couldn’t say. He was still working that out.

Things had been so complicated with Rita May. Aside from her temperament, which was enough to make for a hard day for anyone, his family and friends had not liked Rita May. Charles and Big Mama had been as quiet on the subject as Missy had been vocal but there was no doubt that they all lived in fear that he would marry her. How peaceful it would be to rest in that Lucy magic, how simple to embrace something that was accepted and familiar. Plus, he doubted Lucy spent much time throwing stuff at people.

As he pulled into Big Mama’s driveway, his heart beat a little faster and his face suddenly felt hot. She didn’t know he was here. Neither did Charles. He wasn’t really sure why he hadn’t told them he was coming. He’d already emptied out his townhouse and called a realtor. The movers would be arriving Monday with the few things he’d wanted to keep—his workout equipment, his electronics, and some family furniture Big Mama had sent up there when he’d bought the townhouse. Maybe he hadn’t told them he was coming because there had always been a possibility that he might change his mind. But he would say he’d wanted to surprise them. They believed everything he said.

He looked at the house and frowned. He didn’t like the look of that gingerbread bracket under the west eave. It was sagging. He was sure of it.

He’d climb up there and take a look later today. He almost hoped it was a complicated repair that would take hours. He could fix it himself, and he took a lot of pride in that. Not everybody knew he was capable of manual labor. Fact was, he knew enough about how to repair a plaster wall and lay tongue and grove flooring to tell the difference between a craftsman and someone who could just get it done. Just getting it done wasn’t good enough, and he was secretly glad when he had to get his hands dirty from time to time. He’d won the respect of more than one contractor by rolling up his sleeves and pitching in. He’d made some mad too.

He ought to take a look at the rest of the eaves, and the roof too.

Why had he not noticed that sagging gingerbread when he was here last? Because he hadn’t looked closely—couldn’t stand to. And now he was supposed to just walk up on that porch and into that house, like it was his second home—like he used to do.

He got out of the car. It was now or never and it couldn’t be never. The porch was swept and the mechanical twist doorbell, which was original to the house, had been polished recently. Nothing shoddy about the maintenance of Big Mama’s life at eye level. He spun the bell and backed off to inspect the porch ceiling.

The door swung open and he pasted on his happy mask. He spun around to find not his grandmother, but Evelyn.

Evelyn was as broad as she was tall, and the color of milk chocolate. Her hair should have been white years ago, but it had been bright red as long as Brantley could remember. He suspected this was her one indulgence in “foolishness.” Evelyn did not hold with foolishness. The only thing she hated more was debauchery.

She put her hands on her hips to stop herself from hugging him. Evelyn was stingy with her hugs, if not her grits.

“Boy, what are you doing here this time of morning? Does Miss Caroline know you’re here?” She couldn’t quite hide her smile.

“Is that all you’ve got to say to me?” Brantley hugged her in spite of her floundering and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“I asked you a question! Miss Caroline did not tell me you were coming. Of course, you never give any warning. You swoop in here for fifteen minutes, eat, make a mess, and leave.”

He followed her into the house. “Not this time. I’m here to stay. Where is Big Mama?”

“She’s down at the church getting the flowers ready for the altar tomorrow. What do you mean ‘here to stay’?”

“I mean I intend to eat and make a mess for more than fifteen minutes. I am moving into the carriage house. At least I hope I am. Nobody has moved in there since Tolly moved out, have they?” Now that he thought of it, that might have been a good question to have asked before now.

Evelyn shook her head. “Moving in, huh? Well, you aren’t doing it today. That place has got to be cleaned top to bottom. It’s been empty for months now, ever since Tolly and the coach bought the old Patterson house.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No way I can get to it before Tuesday. Miss Caroline’s got her card club coming Monday.”

“I can get a cleaning service. I swear by all that is holy that I do not intend to cause you extra work.”

“Humph.” Evelyn put her hands on her hips again. “Don’t swear to the Lord and don’t lie. You’d get me up to Nashville at high noon on Christmas Day to iron you a shirt if you thought you could.”

“Not anymore. You can iron my shirts here—at least for the time being. I am done with Nashville.”

“Are you now? And that Jezebel, Rita May?”

“Her too. But I do think calling her Jezebel might be going a little rough.”

“Humph. Well, you just plan on staying in this house or out with your daddy till I get that place cleaned up.”

“I have to go to San Francisco in the morning for a few days. My furniture is arriving Monday. But really, Evelyn, I can get someone to clean. You have enough to do.”

“Nobody is cleaning but me.”

He knew better than to argue. This was Evelyn’s turf and she intended to defend it. “Then I will pay you extra.”

“I don’t want your money, Brantley Kincaid. Bring me a t-shirt with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge on it and a magnet for my refrigerator that looks like a street car. That’s all I want out of you.”

Brantley made a mental note to write it in his DayRunner.

“Welcome home,” Evelyn said. “It’ll make your big mama and your daddy happy.”

“Or break their hearts.” He immediately regretted saying it, so he smiled his I’m just joking smile.

“I reckon you won’t have eaten anything,” she said. “I’ll just get in there and make you some breakfast.”

He opened his mouth to speak when, like a ghost riding a tidal wave, piano music blared from the other side of the house. Brantley gasped and plastered his back against the wall as Frankie Valli’s “Walk Like a Man” rocked the floorboards of the old house. He clamped his eyes shut and felt the blood drain from his face.

He was going crazy. Nobody played that piano. No one could play it—except him and Papa. They couldn’t read a note of music but they had played by ear and what they had lacked in skill, they made up for with enthusiasm.

Yes. Crazy.

“Baby?” He felt a warm hand on his arm and when he opened his eyes the concern on Evelyn’s face matched the tone of her voice. “It’s all right, baby. It’s just old Tiptoe Watkins in there. Miss Caroline called him to come tune that piano when she thought you might be coming home.”