Simple Gone South

had nothing to do with the spring night or the music.

It was sex waiting to happen.

She wasn’t practiced but she was determined that he would not be sorry, that she would make him feel as good as he was making her feel. It was easy to mimic him—to touch him and kiss him where he was touching and kissing her. She was a quick study and it was easy to tell from his moans when and where to let her hand linger.

She thought she would be shy about touching his penis, but when he reached to stroke between her legs it felt so amazing that she only wanted to give him the same feeling. Besides, this was Brantley—finally Brantley—in her arms, in her bed, and soon to be inside her as no one else had ever been.

So she stroked, lightly at first, and harder at his urging. She was rewarded with his moans of pleasure, and if she could do nothing but please this man for the rest of her life, she wouldn’t care about anything else—not chocolate, not antique silk brocade, not warm socks on a winter night.

She’d go to Istanbul, if he wanted her to.

“God, that’s good, yes,” he whispered in her ear and she felt his fingers parting and probing in a new place—the place. She willed herself to relax and open up to him. He continued to probe but he became a little tentative. She raised her hips to meet his exploring hand and he pressed again.

Then he went still. And stopped.

She knew something was wrong before he spoke.

“Lucy,” he said sweetly. “Lucy. Are you a virgin?”

Hell and double hell. She had not wanted him to know, had not wanted it to matter. Maybe it didn’t have to. He wanted her badly. The evidence of that was in her hands.

“Yes.” Her voice came out scared. Something told her to remove her hands from where they were and to put them on his cheeks. “But I want to. I want it to be you.”

“Oh, honey.” His voice was filled with regretful tenderness and in that instant everything changed. He wasn’t looking at her anymore like a man who desired a woman. He was looking at her like he had in the days when he would come into the shop to tease her and bring her a piece of candy from Heavenly Confections, like he had the night of the summer cotillion.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and bent his forehead to hers for a moment. “I am so sorry,” he said. “This is not right.”

“I don’t know why not,” she said. “I made a decision. All on my own.”

He briefly touched her face. Then he sat on the side of the bed, pulled his clothes on, and tucked the sheet around her.

“You would be sorry in the morning,” he said and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

And he left, leaving her with nothing but her longing and humiliation.

She was sure she would hear from him the next day and she did not know how she could face him. Turned out, that wasn’t something she needed to worry about.

As was her custom, Missy called on her way to class. “Did Brantley ever call you?” she asked. “Did you see him before he left?”

He had gone? That couldn’t be. “Left? The seminar doesn’t start until today.”

“Yeah. When I called him a few minutes ago, he was at the airport. He didn’t have time to talk. They were boarding his plane. He had to go back to Nashville. Something about a fraternity brother’s mother dying.”

He had run.

And two weeks later, so did Lucy, in her own way. She finally said yes to a boy in her drawing class who had been asking her out for weeks. Ridding herself of her virginity was a messy, unpleasant business, but she got it done.

* * *

She must have been sleeping lightly because the quiet tone announcing that she had a text message wakened her.

On the heels of sleep and her memories, it was a little disorienting to see her phone announce that the message was from Brantley Kincaid. But she opened it and the present caught up and settled around her.

Are you awake? Call me if you are, it said.

She almost didn’t call, but why wouldn’t she? Nothing had changed since before she lay down. It was all in the past. She and Brantley did not have a future, so why should the past matter?

“I want to bring you something to eat,” he said. “I know you’ve had a hard day. Do you want some of these Thanksgiving leftovers or should I pick up something else?”

Her stomach growled for food and her heart cried out for him. “Actually, I’d like to order a pizza,” she said. Pizza was a rare treat, but she’d had nothing today. She could afford it. “But I’d love it if you’d come over and share it.”

“Best offer I’ve had today. I’ll pick up some beer.” It was the present day Brantley who spoke, the one who desired her.

And she was the present day Lucy, the one who didn’t expect magic and happy endings, the one who had decided to just enjoy what she had right now, no matter how much she loved him.

Chapter Nineteen

Saturday after Thanksgiving—Game Day. The Iron Bowl was as much of a part of the holiday weekend as the turkey and the jellied cranberry sauce with the ridges from the can. Lucy had seen evidence of the great pilgrimage to Tuscaloosa when she’d gone to the Bake Shop earlier to pick up the brownies she would take to Missy’s party.

Missy had two rules: First, you had to arrive at least an hour before kickoff and get your visiting done so you could settle down and shut up at the appropriate time. Second, you had to wear your colors.

Of course, those were the official rules. There were others; there always were with Missy.

She would play the hostess until kickoff—which was two P.M. this year—and then you were on your own, because she was going to watch the game—preferably with the sound turned down because she knew football and didn’t need an announcer to tell her what was going on, thank you very much. She especially disliked announcers who would suddenly start in about the history of helmets and who had the best uniforms.

After kickoff, if you wanted food, you got up and got it. If you wanted beer, there were two kegs on the back porch. At halftime, Missy would pick up the dirty dishes, freshen up the food, and replenish the baskets of snacks scattered around.

Last year, Brantley had shown up to the party late and unannounced. He hadn’t even gotten to town until almost time for kickoff. Lucy had fled, giving some lame excuse about having to go to New Orleans to look at a tea service. This year was so different. The thought of next year made her a little sad, but maybe she and Brantley could end things in a way that they could be at the same place without awkwardness.

Of course, he could have always done that.

Last night, when she had been so tired, he had been so sweet—and sweet scared her; it scared her to death. She’d kept nodding off on his shoulder and he had stroked her hair and dropped a kiss on her head from time to time. Sex, for real or almost, had not been an option.

The warm Indian summer weather continued to smile on them so Lucy dressed in knee length khaki shorts, a crisp white oxford cloth shirt, and her headband with ROLL TIDE stitched across the top. No matter what Missy said, Lucy thought—since she was not alum of the University or even a native of the state—that was enough of a declaration.

When she opened the door to Brantley, her jaw dropped mentally, if not physically. He was wearing houndstooth shorts, an Alabama t-shirt, and a Crimson Tide baseball cap.

“Those are some shorts,” she said.

“Like ’em?” He turned to give her a look from behind.

If there was a bottom in Alabama that ought to be sporting houndstooth, it was his.

“All you’ve got left to do is paint yourself crimson.” She stepped aside to let him in.