Simple Gone South

or so. Not her. She’d gone to sleep with it on her mind and woke with it on her mind. She’d probably dreamed about it. When she sat up, her stomach rolled, not with nausea but hunger. No wonder. She never had gotten around to taking a single bite of the pizza from last night, so she’d had nothing since a salad yesterday at lunch— unless you counted the wine. And how much nutritional value could half a bottle of wine provide?

After showering, she put on a set of ratty old sweats because what she wore did not matter. No clients, no meetings, no Brantley. No Brantley ever again.

But McDonald’s was open, even this early.

She picked up her keys, headed out the door, and drove there. What she really wanted was a quarter pounder with cheese and French fries, but it was too early to get that. And an apple turnover would be just the thing. She hadn’t had one of those in years. Oh, look! She could get that—it was right there on the drive-through breakfast menu. She might get two. Could you get a milkshake this early?

What was wrong with her? She never ate fast food and certainly not for breakfast. She was a good girl, kept right to the good nutrition rules. In the face of all this, why couldn’t she be lying on the sofa nauseated at the very thought of food? That’s how it always was in books. But she was not that person.

Oh, no. She was the once and future fat girl.

Evidently, she was going to eat her grief away, become plump, then fat, then morbidly obese. So what? She was good at her work. She’d throw herself into it—that and eating. Everyone would be clamoring for her to come evaluate their houses, vacation homes, and guest houses—if she could get through the door.

She wouldn’t do historic restoration anymore—only modern and futuristic. That would be her eccentricity. Eccentricities were tolerated from the brilliantly talented. Everyone would whisper about it.

“Why won’t Lucy—” because by then she would be just Lucy, no last name “—do restoration? That used to be her specialty.”

“I heard the White House begged her to restore the Lincoln bedroom but she refused.”

“What? You can’t turn down the White House!”

“Tell that to the First Lady.”

“And there’s that other thing. She always insists on incorporating at least one antique doorknob into her designs. Some critics say the juxtaposition between those knobs and her sparse designs is brilliant; others think it’s just peculiar.”

“I heard she was disappointed in love while working on a restoration project. Some say her lover fell, hit his head on a glass doorknob, and died.”

“That’s why she eats.”

“Take your order, ma’am?” Oh, good God. Could she be any more melodramatic?

She returned home with an Egg McMuffin, hash browns, two apple turnovers, and a large coffee. She sat down at the kitchen table but not before she noticed there were now two messages on her phone. Too bad. She was going to eat first, eat every bite. Well, she might save one of those turnovers until later. It had been defiance that made her get two.

After eating, she felt a little less giddy, if not better. Lucy hit the button for the first voice mail and reached for her coffee. This might take a while.

“Lucy, darling.” It was Annelle. “Just wanted you to know I am safe and sound here at Lawrence and Anna’s. Miss you, but you have a wonderful holiday with Brantley. We’ll talk on Christmas Day. Love you.”

No one had told Annelle of the recent misadventure. That was something.

She played the second message.

“Lucy! Listen!” Missy said, obviously thinking the message was Lucy live. Pause. “All right. Maybe you’re still asleep. So listen to me. I had a little powwow with Tolly, Lanie, and Miss Caroline last night.” Oh, hell. Miss Caroline. Dear God. “There was a lot of hand wringing and talk about respecting your wishes and not pestering you. None of it from me, of course. I have no intention of respecting your wishes if that includes not talking to you. Because, Lucy Mead, you are going to talk to me.” Don’t call me Lucy Mead. He calls me Lucy Mead. Or he did.

She’d done pretty well until now but a tear escaped and landed on her McDonald’s napkin. Why was she so upset? Why was she even surprised? She had known this was coming—except for those few seconds last night right after he announced he was staying in town, but before he’d dropped the proposal bomb. Two seconds of hoping made for a lead heart—and a veracious appetite. She should write that down. Maybe she’d get a DayRunner.

“Now,” Missy went on, “I am going to assume that you are still asleep but you’ve never slept past eight o’clock in your life.”

Wrong. She’d slept until after nine last Saturday. But it had been easy to sleep while Brantley had his arms around her and everything had seemed all right. There were more tears now, and if she was going to be honest, a certain amount of snot. She did not cry prettily. McDonald’s napkins made pretty good handkerchiefs. Miss Caroline wouldn’t approve but there was probably a lot that Miss Caroline didn’t approve of right now, starting with her grandson being publicly humiliated and some family jewelry that just happened to have gone astray. Or she assumed Brantley had absconded with the ring. Who knew? Maybe he’d given it to Rita May by now.

“So,” Missy went on, “if you haven’t called me by nine, I am coming over there.” Damn. What time was it now? Seven-thirty. “And Lucy, don’t mix me up with those other women. I am not a lady and I am not a hand wringer. I am a spoiled brat with a made up mind. And don’t even think of running somewhere else. I will hunt your ass down like a coon dog at dawn.” Were coon dogs more proficient at dawn than at other times? And what did Missy know about coon dogs anyway? “You know I can and you know I will.” Then there was silence. For a second Lucy thought that Missy had hung up. Then there was a little choking sound. “I love you, Lucy. I need to help you.” Oh, damn. She’d made Missy cry and Missy never cried. More silence and then the old Missy was back. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that moment of weakness has anything to do with my basic personality or present mindset. Nine o’clock, Lucy. Or sooner, if that’s what I decide.”

Better call her. If Missy showed up here, the others were sure to follow, if for no other reason than to try to extract Missy.

She dialed.

“Lucy! What the hell?”

“Is Brantley all right?” Why had she asked that? Of course he was all right. He was with Rita May.

“Brantley all right? I doubt it. Not that he has deigned to answer the phone for me.” Lucy thought of telling Missy that at least Rita May had not answered when she had called but the explosion that would bring forth wasn’t likely to do anybody much good.

“Did you think Brantley would be all right?” Missy asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“He texted Charles that he is in Nashville.”

Lucy hesitated. “Are Charles and Miss Caroline very mad at me? Are you?” Because let’s face it, in a contest against Brantley, no one outside of Harris and the kids was going to win with Missy.

“Mad at you? Why would anyone be mad at you?”

“For humiliating him in public.”

“Ha! He did that to himself. What fool proposes in public? What I’m interested in is how you are. And I am on my way there to see for myself.”

No. No. No. “No, Missy. I am fine. I didn’t sleep much and I am going to take a nap. That’s what I need. Besides, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. You have a dozen things to do. You said so yesterday. You need to make cookies, buy stocking stuffers, and go to Birmingham to pick up that doll for Lulu.”

“I don’t have to do any of that. Lulu doesn’t know one doll from another and we have plenty of cookies.”

“Not decorated ones for the kids to leave for Santa. That’s important to you. If I needed you, I would say so. What I need is to be by myself today.” And tomorrow, and the day after, and forever. But she didn’t say that.

“Well.” Missy’s voice wavered. “If that’s what you want. But only if you promise you’ll call if you need me. And only if you promise you’ll come spend the night with us tomorrow night and have Christmas here. I don’t want