Simple Gone South

time. Back when it happened, the day right after the funeral, they packed us up and we went to Ireland for two weeks. When we got back, we flew right into Nashville and they took me straight to Vandy. We didn’t even come back to get all the stuff Mama had been collecting up for my dorm room. They just went to the mall and bought more. And for all intents and purposes I have not been back. Oh, a day or two here and there. Summers, when I was in college and grad school, I took more classes and did internships. Sometimes the three of us travel somewhere for Christmas. It’s hard to make a confession in Jamaica on December 25. I can hear you now. ‘Boy! Do what’s right. And only you can figure out what that is.’ I know what’s right, but if I tell Dad and Big Mama—. Well, there is no if—I will tell them. They have a right to know that wreck was my fault. I will just have to take what comes with it. When the time is right, I will do it.

“And it looks like we are going to have some time. Maybe.”

Suddenly, he had to get out. Out. He couldn’t think about this anymore. He didn’t bother with the elevator. Instead, he took the stairs, two at a time. It was easy. People had gotten progressively taller over time and, consequently, modern steps were deeper. But these steps were old and shallow. Taking two at a time was easy, three maybe a possibility.

But wait. He was out of steps and out the door. The history of steps had done him a good turn, given him something to occupy this mind. Now he needed something else. He leaned against the building to catch his breath. What was that psychobabble phrase?

Go to your happy place.

And suddenly, without thinking, without trying to decide where his happy place might be, he was there. Happy. He was at the country club lifting a forkful of chocolate cake to Lucy Mead’s lips and she was refusing to open her mouth until the last second. She was looking at him fighting a smile, her brown eyes wide, but eventually laughing and pushing her hair off her face. And, finally, he was dancing to “Tupelo Honey” with her in his arms, smelling her scent of chocolate and bourbon.

Who would have thought it? Lucy—after all these years, after that debacle in Savannah so long ago. Relief washed over him. It was like looking at a snarled, complicated maze but realizing the correct path was direct and simple.

It might not be for forever, but what was forever, anyway? Was there even any such thing?

But there was Lucy Mead and she was on his mind.

Chapter Three

Text message to Lucy Mead, the Sunday after the Follies, 4:01P.M.:

Brantley here. It was fun seeing you. Headed back to Nashville.

Voicemail, Sunday night, 9:15 P.M.:

“Lucy Mead! This is Brantley. You may be wondering how I got your number. Turns out, it was right in the Christ Episcopal Church Directory, which was right by the phone in the kitchen at Chez Kincaid. Anyway, I’m back in Nashville. Give me a call.”

Text message. Monday, 10 A.M.:

At the airport. Headed to NOLA. Phone will be off. I really enjoyed seeing you this weekend. I’d like to talk to you. I’ll call you later.

* * *

After reading that last text, Lucy’s stomach went into a tailspin. She threw a paint chip sampler wheel against her office wall. Why was he doing this to her? Confusing her? He wasn’t supposed to text, wasn’t supposed to call, wasn’t supposed to say he’d enjoyed seeing her. He was supposed to take his ass back to Nashville, reconcile with Rita May, and forget her like he had always forgotten her.

She hadn’t answered the first text because it hadn’t called for an answer. In fact, it could be interrupted as a kiss-off message. After all, in a fit of flirtation, he’d said she’d hear from him. That text was hearing from him, fulfilling a promise. Done; move on. She had been sure she wouldn’t hear from him again—then he’d called. She hadn’t answered because, exhausted from the weekend, she’d gone to sleep early.

Now this. He was going to call tonight. Or so he said.

And why now? Maybe he was bored. Or, since he was in New Orleans, lonely.

Damn it, she could not go though this again. It wasn’t fair. How dare he? Did he think her heart was up for grabs anytime he turned that golden boy smile her way and led her to a dance floor? Maybe he wouldn’t call; probably he wouldn’t. He’d probably forget.

And if he did call, she wouldn’t answer. That would be for the best. Yes.

* * *

Voicemail, Monday night:

“Here I am in New Orleans. I’m here to look at a plantation house. Know what’s wrong with this house? Well, apart from the fact that someone married into the family in the ’70s who thought it would be a good idea to turn the bottom side gallery into a ceramics studio. Anyway. It’s the name. Riverview. How predictable. If I had a house worth naming—and I might one day, never can tell—I’d name it Lucy Mead’s Laugh. I can’t think of much better. I’d like to hear that laugh tonight. Call me. Oh, and in case you can’t tell, I’ve been drinking. Just a little. If you’ll call me and tell me your shoe size, I will bring you some tall boots.”

* * *

Why now? Why? Why could this not have happened back when she was in love with him? Why now, when she was over it, over him—over, over, over!

She listened to the message every day for a week. She couldn’t help herself. But she did not call back. Not talking to him was the only way to survive him.

Finally, it looked like he’d given up. No doubt, he was back with Rita May by now. She was relieved—and a little sad.

* * *

Voicemail, a week before Halloween:

“Hi, Lucy. I’m back from New Orleans. I did a little consulting but I’m not taking on the project. I ran afoul of an interior designer down there. It’s not the first time. She soundly reprimanded me for saying couch instead of sofa. I just can’t say sofa. A man starts using words like sofa, next thing you know, he’s drinking pina coladas and wearing sandals. Would you allow me to say couch, Lucy Mead?”

* * *

She laughed and laughed. Then she imagined what she would have said to him if she had been willing to call him back. We interior designers have to stick together. If we allow people to go around saying couch, the next thing we know, they’ll be decorating their pressed wood night stands with lava lamps and plastic flowers.

Maybe she could call. They were friends, sort of. At least they used to be and they had the same friend circle. She put her thumb on the call button.

Then she jerked it away. What was she thinking? No matter what she told herself, if she started talking to him, she would hope. And there wasn’t any hope.

Clearly, his persistence was only because of her refusal to talk to him. If only he wasn’t so funny.

* * *

Voicemail, a few days later:

“Lucy, Brantley again. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. You can call me at work. (615) 298-2719. It doesn’t ring straight to me. Melba—my assistant—answers. She’s the one who really runs Kincaid Architectural Design and Restoration. Just ask her. Anyway, tell her you want me dead or alive and she’ll put you through. That, or she’ll give me a message if I’m out. I’m going to play racquet ball tonight but if you get my voicemail, leave a message and tell me when would be a good time, and I’ll call you back. I don’t have a landline at home. I mean, why would I? Counting my phone at work, I’ve already got two numbers. Why would I need more phones than I’ve got ears? Anyway, bye. Call me.”