“Hey.” That sounded normal enough. He smiled as they turned to him. “What color is my pumpkin pie plate going to be? I suggest Chinet white. The contrast between the pumpkin and stark white would be just the thing—whimsical as it were. Plus, you can throw it away once you lick it.”
Big Mama laughed and after a second, Lucy joined in but there was something in her eyes and the set of her mouth that made him think she could see through him. He didn’t like that. She could not know he might pass out any second.
“You silly boy!” Big Mama said. “Look what a beautiful job our Lucy did.” She pulled her cell phone from her skirt pocket and began to take pictures of the table.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked Lucy in a perfectly normal voice. He stood up straight, praying he didn’t need the support of the doorframe.
She came toward him with a little wrinkle between her eyes and laid a hand on his arm.
His heart slowed and the tightness in his lungs began to dissipate.
As Big Mama fussed with the little pumpkins and berries on the table, Lucy leaned in and whispered, “I’ll come for Thanksgiving.”
And just like that, complete calm settled in.
Lucy started to park in front of the Brantley Building. That wasn’t going to work. The press conference was going to be out front on the sidewalk.
“Better park behind the building,” Brantley told her. “We can go in the back door.”
“Oh, right.” She swung the car around, with her hands at ten and two. Ever the rule follower. She pulled right up to the back door, where Papa used to park. Oddly, Brantley was feeling okay. He hadn’t been up to Papa’s old office since the day Big Mama had asked him to take on the project and he hadn’t planned to go there today, but maybe it was time.
They were going to need a place for home base in this building and that office was the only one that didn’t need any major work. He might be taking a foolhardy chance on the heels of what had just happened, but how else was he to show the panic who was boss?
Upon entering the office, his fear evaporated because he immediately became absorbed in Lucy’s delight. She didn’t speak for a long time but she ran her hand over the built in bookshelves, stared up at the original light fixture, and scurried to get a closer look at the sconces. Every once in a while, she would turn and smile at him like she’d found a gold mine. Finally, she knelt in front of the burl desk and touched the twin medallions on the front.
She looked up at him. “Walnut. Early 1900s?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know. It had just always been Papa’s desk. He took a deep breath, not because he needed to, but because he could.
She went to inspect the matching filing cabinets, credenza, and finally the chairs—the one that Papa had sat in, and the two in front of the desk for guests.
“Oh, Brantley!” she said. “A whole matched set.” She swiveled the desk chair. “Even the chair is in perfect condition.” She looked underneath. “Somewhere along the way there must have been some repairs. Had to.”
He didn’t know that either but it was probably true. Back then, nothing had been broken. Everyone’s car was kept in perfect running condition, there were always ironed shirts in everyone’s closet, and laughter at every meal. It was no surprise that an antique chair would get immediate attention at the first sign of disrepair.
Watching Lucy love these things made him wonder if it was possible to have a life again where nothing was broken.
She stretched her arms out and twirled around like Julie Andrews on that mountain in The Sound of Music. “Brantley, all this office is going to need is some paint. I’ll want to get the woodwork and floor professionally cleaned.” She looked up. “The light fixtures too. We should get that wiring checked. But then that’s your department, I guess.” She laughed that Lucy Mead laugh.
Warmth erupted inside him, where panic had so recently reigned. He let it come out in his smile.
“Hey. For a girl who’s about to worry herself to death that we’re going to disgrace ourselves in front of the press and the public at large, you’re not too worried about getting down to business.”
“Oh, right.” She picked up her portfolio and walked toward the desk but stopped short. “Is it all right if I open this on the desk?”
“Yes.” He walked toward her, unzipping his own portfolio as he went. “You can do anything you want at this desk.”
Chapter Fourteen
Brantley had been right. The press conference went perfectly. As he predicted, Miss Caroline did most of the talking. Lucy had only been asked how she planned to make function meet authenticity, a question she had answered easily. She even had a few sketches.
What had astounded her was Brantley. His presentation boards were works of art, making hers look like something a kindergartner had strung together. She had expected him to be witty and charming, but that he mixed that with such a depth of knowledge was surprising.
After meeting and greeting, and hugging their friends who had come out to support them, Lucy and Brantley hauled their things back upstairs to that wonderful office. Brantley had his jacket and tie off before she had a chance to store her portfolio in the closet.
If he’d looked good before, he was delicious now. She wanted to devour him. Better not.
“You were great,” she said. “I am sorry I thought you didn’t have your act together. I see how hard you worked.”
He put his hands in his pockets and leaned on the edge of the credenza. “Did you think I don’t care about my profession, Lucy?” he asked. “That I don’t care about this project above all others?”
He wasn’t confrontational but, rather, there seemed to be an openness about him that she had never seen. It was like he had a mask that he usually wore—a mask that was real and a genuine part of him, but not the sum of him. Now, it was that previously hidden part of Brantley who was asking this question. She knew her answer was going to be important—just like she had known he had been treading on thin ice in his grandmother’s dining room earlier.
“I didn’t think you didn’t care,” she said slowly, “But, Brantley, I have some trouble telling what you care about and how much.”
He nodded. “That’s fair.” He was silent for a moment then he met her eyes. “I care about you, Lucy.” He nodded, like it was news to him. “I do.”
Don’t say that to me. Never say that to me. I can’t take it! Fear went through her, because it was this new open part of Brantley who was speaking and she had no idea if she could trust him—or herself.
“As much as you care about pumpkin pie?” She was proud of herself for the comeback. Two could play the evade and joke game.
He grinned and closed his eyes, like he was studying the question. “That’s a hard dilemma, Lucy. You see, pumpkin pie and I go back a long time.” He stepped toward her and put his arms around her. “But on the other hand—” And he kissed her, sweet and long, so sweet and long that she was afraid they were going to end up half naked on the oriental rug. She could see that they were moving quickly from half naked to full naked and she was beginning to be more and more all right with that.
But not yet. She pulled away. “I was proud of you today.”
The smile he gave her was not his usual practiced southern boy charm smile, but one of pure radiance. There must be real power in the word proud.
“I was proud of you too,” he said.
Yes, power in the word. She felt the effect.