Simple Gone South

But all that made him ponder what was “going on.” He hadn’t really thought much about it; Lucy had been so resistant to his advances that thinking beyond that was wasted energy.

But in spite of her resistance, she was so easy, so simple. After Rita May, to rest in the calm that was Lucy was beyond appealing. He looked around the room she had decorated. It was so right for him with his drawing board, the new couch, and his leather chair pointed toward the big flat screen. She had even gotten him a lap desk so he could comfortably use his computer while sitting in his chair. How had she known that it hurt his back to sit on the edge of the chair with the laptop on the ottoman?

The rest of the carriage house was nice too. She’d installed his treadmill and lifting bench in the extra room like he’d asked, but she had covered the floor with a rubber mat and added a rack for his golf clubs, a table for his iPod docking station, and a towel rack.

He had not had a bedside table in Nashville but now he had two, and one of them had a charging station for all of his electronics. Throughout the house there were lamps, throws, and pillows. Not one bit of it was feminine either. It was like Lucy’s business was comfort.

That was nice. He couldn’t stay here forever, of course; he wasn’t in the forever business. He did good to deal with right now, and Thanksgiving was going to be a bitch.

He wouldn’t think about that now, but he could get tonight squared away. And maybe he could talk Lucy into getting some lunch today. And tomorrow she would go to church anyway. There wasn’t any reason why he shouldn’t pick her up. That would lead to lunch, and so on.

He picked up the phone.

Chapter Thirteen

The cold snap from last week was gone and November had faded back into Indian summer. It was beautiful, miraculous weather, but a little too warm for the grey wool suit Lucy was wearing.

She didn’t care. She was nervous about this press conference and she would have worn an otter on her head if that had been a good look for her. The suit might have been a little severe on its own, but she had brightened it up with a rich burnt orange silk blouse and a lot of pearls—maybe too many, though Annelle had insisted there was no such thing.

She and Brantley had spent most of the weekend together but she had been unable to coerce him into talking about the press conference, insisting that it would “be fine.” Still, she had insisted that they go over to the Brantley Building two hours early to set up the easels and get their presentation boards in order—if he had a presentation board. He kept saying he had “some pictures” but he was vague and every time she tried to talk about it, he kissed her.

That was a losing battle.

“If you are set on going over there before it’s necessary, you’re going to have to pick me up in that killing machine of yours. My very safe vehicle is in the shop for a tune-up.”

He had agreed to meet her at Miss Caroline’s house and now she mounted the steps, sweating a little bit.

The suit might have been a bad idea after all.

Or not. Brantley opened the door and he looked better than she had ever seen him—and she’d seen him looking good. Today he was wearing a camel hair blazer with navy blue flannel pants and one of those snowy white shirts that had been made for him.

But he looked a little tense. Maybe he was more nervous about this than she thought.

“Come in,” he said. “I just need to get my stuff.”

Miss Caroline popped her head into the foyer. “Lucy? My dear, you look lovely.”

“Thank you. I’m very excited.”

“She is,” Brantley said, folding an easel. “She would have had me down there before breakfast if I’d let her.”

“Lucy, would you mind taking a look at my table with me while Brantley puts his things in your car?”

“Sure.” She handed her keys to Brantley and he picked up a tan leather portfolio, with a rich patina of use. She had certainly been outclassed. Hers was nylon.

Miss Caroline led her to the dining room where the table was set with three different china patterns. Piled in the middle was a bunch of gourds, nuts, bittersweet, and small pumpkins. In addition there were two silver patterns, one heavy and ornate, the other simpler with clean lines, and several crystal goblets in varying degrees of formality.

“I can’t decide about my Thanksgiving table,” she said. “I like an unstructured Thanksgiving centerpiece of these natural things, though not quite this unstructured. I haven’t arranged them at all. I think the colors are good with this rust tablecloth.”

“Very pretty,” Lucy agreed.

“My problem is the china. The brown transferware is a natural for Thanksgiving. It’s what I always used to use, but with the rust, it’s so dark.” She gestured to the jade green set. “The Majolica belonged to Alden’s mother. I’ve never much cared for it; it’s just so green. But it is a fall color so I pulled it out.” She moved to caress an ivory dinner plate with a wide gold band. “This is my wedding china. I love it with the rust. It looks happy, but it’s so formal. I like formal at Christmas, but for Thanksgiving—” Her voice trailed off. Lucy had never seen her so unsure of herself. “I want a happy table.”

It was the longing in Miss Caroline’s voice that made Lucy pause. Could this be the first time she had set a Thanksgiving table since the death of her husband and daughter? Surely not. But come to think of it, since she had lived in Merritt, though Brantley sometimes blew in at some point during the weekend, Lucy could never remember him actually being in town on Thanksgiving Day.

Lucy stepped up to the table and picked up a Majolica salad plate. “Let’s see what we can do.”

* * *

After putting his portfolio and the easels into Lucy’s little SUV, Brantley re-entered the house to find Lucy and Big Mama bent over the table in the dining room. Lucy was moving plates around, stacking them this way and that.

“See? If you mix them, you’ll have some brightness and a casual look all at the same time. And, for contrast, I would definitely use the ornate silver and two kinds of crystal.”

As Lucy’s little hands flew this way and that, Big Mama murmured sounds of approval, uttering things like “oh, perfect,” “would have never thought of that,” and “just the right touch of whimsy.”

His heart began to pound and suddenly he could not get enough air in his lungs. It had been a long time since this had happened, but he knew the signs. The first time, he had thought he was having a heart attack, though eighteen-year-olds rarely had heart attacks.

Thanksgiving was supposed to be a happy time, not something to bring on a panic attack. And it used to be happy—but that was before. In the years since, he’d avoided the holiday altogether when he could. Other times, he had eaten with Charles and Caroline in restaurants in other cities.

“Whimsy!” Lucy exclaimed. “That’s exactly what we want.”

“Yes, I think so,” Big Mama was saying. “We tend to dress down on Thanksgiving, so I just couldn’t see —”

They were talking about whimsy and the dress code while he was about to sweat through his shirt. Good thing he could blame that on the weather and his heavy clothes. He took a deep breath to ward off the chest pains that were closing in anyway. God, he hoped he didn’t get dizzy this time. That was the hardest part to hide. He leaned on the doorframe with a practiced casual slouch. Another deep breath. They hadn’t even noticed him yet.

“See?” Lucy moved some more plates around. “You don’t even have to make all the place settings alike. You could use the transferware dinner plate with an ivory and gold salad plate here, and there just the opposite . . . ”

Deep breath.