you to wake up alone on Christmas morning.”
“I promise,” Lucy lied. She’d figure out something to get out of it or she’d leave town. But one thing at a time. “Please tell that to Tolly and Lanie. They have holiday stuff to do too and I want them to do it. I want you all to.”
“All right,” Missy said reluctantly. “But, Lucy, as stupid as it was for Brantley to pull that stunt in public, this has a simple fix. You know that, right? Because you really are perfect for each other.”
Brantley slept until almost noon. He woke with a stiff neck and no idea where he was.
Then he remembered. He jumped up to check his phone, hoping that Lucy had called. He knew better than to try to call her. She wouldn’t answer unless she wanted to talk to him and if she wanted to talk, she’d call.
Then he remembered. He had no phone. When he’d come back downstairs last night, Rita May had left but his phone was in pieces on the kitchen floor. And the Christmas tree had been overturned.
Yep, she’d gone out like she’d come in. Causing trouble. But he didn’t have time to think about that. He needed to use that fancy for-show soap he’d seen in the upstairs shower, dry himself with one of those two inch thick towels, and put his dirty clothes back on—the clothes he’d been wearing when Lucy ran away from him.
He sighed. It would be a luxury to wallow in his gloom and the last thing he wanted to do was go shopping —especially with two shopping days left until Christmas. But he had to have a phone, some food, and some bourbon. The clean clothes seemed less important than they had last night but he’d get that too.
Apart for having to go out in the mayhem, for once he was thankful for Christmas. He’d have two days when he wasn’t expected to do anything.
And maybe she would call. Probably not. Still, getting a phone would be his first order of business.
Determined to eat something healthy and low calorie to make up for her breakfast, Lucy opened the refrigerator about noon. She reached for the lettuce to make a salad and found it to be brown and slimy. The low fat cheese was hard and the bread was molded.
She and Brantley had been eating out a lot. That, and eating with Charles and Miss Caroline. She wanted to cry; she needed to cry. But if she did, she’d never stop and she had to have supplies. There was no way to make it until the day after Christmas on a jar of olives, one Lean Cuisine, and half a bag of Eller’s dog food.
Oh, wouldn’t Big Starr be just jolly today, with people—people she knew—buying hams, eggnog, and the stuff to make fudge, ambrosia, and lane cake? Publix would be no better. She was considering driving further afield to the next town, when she remembered that those big gas stations out by the interstate had food. And no one she knew would be shopping there.
Still she put on a hat and sunglasses before driving out there. They didn’t have any yogurt or fresh fruit, but she got instant oatmeal, whole grain bread, skim milk, canned peaches, and a package of turkey lunchmeat—all reasonably good girl foods.
Then she drove through McDonalds again, wondering how early she could finish that bottle of wine.
After she ate, she decided to do something productive so she picked up her coat from where she had flung it on a chair and actually hung it in the coat closet.
It was then she caught sight of a box wrapped in silver paper decorated with snowflakes. The tag said, “For my Lucy.” There was no from. He assumed she knew who would be giving her presents.
If she were the kind who was lying on the sofa refusing to eat, she would not have opened the package. But, as she had proven with not one but two fast food meals in five hours, she was not that person. And once and future fat girls loved to bask in the pain.
So she unwrapped it.
The box contained a sea of ivory silk and lace. She pulled out piece after piece of creamy, lush lingerie until she realized it was a whole ensemble—bustier, garter belt, lace topped stockings, and a pair of exquisite but modest lacy panties. The whole set sparkled with tiny crystal beads and seed pearls.
And there was a card with a handwritten message; wouldn’t there just have to be?
She ran her fingers over the tiny, even, all uppercase letters—the handwriting of an architect. She reminded herself again that she had known what was coming, but that didn’t do one thing to alleviate the pain that was tearing through her like a match on a stream of gasoline.
In that moment, she would have driven to Nashville, and told him yes. No matter what his reasons for wanting her, she would have done it. She’d have married him now, today, this hour.
Except Rita May had answered the phone. She reached for the half empty bottle of wine. How, how, how was she going to live without him?
When she finished the wine, she opened another bottle. She thought of getting a glass this time, but why start that at this point?
Maybe drinking out of the bottle would be her new signature style. Yeah, she wouldn’t do historic restoration and she’d drink out of the bottle. There’d be pictures of famous people in magazines drinking from the bottle in “Lucy Style.” Waterford and Baccarat would try to capitalize on it and start making crystal wine bottles meant to be drunk from. They would send her boxes of them but she wouldn’t use them. No. She would remain true to drinking from the original bottle. Eventually, there would be no wine glasses made. A spokesman from Baccarat would make a statement. “Due to new trends that seem to have become the standard, we are no longer producing wine glasses. Continue to look for the excellence that you expect from Baccarat in our other fine stemware.” Waterford wouldn’t issue a statement. Unlike the French, the Irish were stubborn and didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. They’d just stop making wine glasses. They’d shrug their shoulders, melt down the wine glasses they had, and make them into chandeliers and double old fashions. She knew all about it; she’d been to the Waterford factory. Who knew what Libbey Glassware would do? But then, who cared?
And so it went for the rest of the day and night.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lucy slept until almost ten. The wine bottle was empty this morning but at least she’d made it into flannel pajamas. Dressing for bed was progress, even if she still couldn’t stand the idea of the actual bed. She would make more progress today. First, she wouldn’t eat fast food. Second, she would not cry. And she just might go to Missy’s to spend the night after all. She had to start picking up the pieces some time and Christmas Eve was as good a time as any.
Besides, Missy would serve a really good breakfast and there would be bloody Marys involved. That might make it worth it. Or not.
She considered driving to McDonald’s for coffee but that would mean getting dressed. Maybe. It distressed her how long she actually considered getting in the car in her pajamas. In the end, she made coffee and thought about toast. She didn’t have to decide right now about toast or if she would go to Missy’s. She’d already decided not to cry and to make coffee. That was enough decision making for now. She took her coffee cup and went back to the living room. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantle it almost scared her—dark circles, flyaway hair, and red eyes. She couldn’t do anything about the eyes, but she dragged the front part of her hair back with a ponytail holder. See, she was better. She cared how she looked. Some.
If she went to Missy’s she’d have to do her hair or face an intervention. Then she remembered something else. She had agreed to clear the flowers from the altar after the midnight service at church tonight. Damn, damn, damn. Older members of the flower guild always decorated for the Christmas Eve service and younger ones cleared it away and made smaller arrangements that would be delivered to the hospital on the day after Christmas by middle-aged guild members. That’s how it had always been.
