Hell and double hell! Not Brantley Kincaid! Anything but that.
“Mmmm,” Lucy said and sipped her water. “I thought he was in San Francisco.” She was surprised at how disinterested she sounded, but she was disinterested. Mostly.
“He’s back. And he’s coming to the Follies and the party. Sans that she devil from hell, Rita May Sanderson. They have broken up again.”
“It won’t last.”
“We can hope.”
You can hope; I don’t care. She couldn’t say that, of course. Not to Missy. Missy had shared a teething ring with Brantley and she’d cheerfully have a street fight with a motorcycle gang for him. It had probably always been so, but after that horrible day when his mother and beloved Papa Brantley were killed in a car crash Missy had appointed herself the one woman Brantley Kincaid Protection Agency.
“Rita May is mean to Brantley,” Missy went on.
“So you say.”
Lou Anne served their half salads and defiantly set a basket of corn muffins, homemade yeast rolls, and butter between them. Oh, God—she had included little packets of honey and strawberry jam. Lucy’s mouth watered. Then she remembered the first time she’d seen Rita May. It had been at the Country Club Father’s Day brunch.
Brantley had stopped by the table where Lucy and Annelle were eating.
“Well, if it’s not Lucy Mead looking like a strawberry cupcake.” The pink eyelet dress had looked so pretty in the store and made her feel so feminine, but now she hated it. He smiled, winked, and laid his hand on her shoulder. Then he introduced her to the tall, model thin, porcelain skinned woman on his arm. Her sleek black linen dress contrasted perfectly with her sleek white blond hair. Rita May Sanderson definitely did not look like a cupcake of any flavor. And she could not have looked more different than Lucy.
Lucy’s maternal grandmother had been Italian and Lucy wore that history on her face—dark brown eyes, full lips, and perpetually tanned skin. The only way to tame her dark curly hair was to keep it cut short, close to her scalp. Put her in a striped t-shirt and she looked like she should be climbing on a Vespa scooter in a 1960s movie. All she needed was a beret and more eyeliner.
And then there were those hips and thighs. Always that.
Lucy pushed the bread basket to the edge of the table.
Missy let out a little whimper. “I might have some skim milk in my coffee later.”
“You weakling.” Lucy grinned with relief that they had moved on from the subject of Brantley Kincaid and his maybe-yes, maybe-no romance.
Maybe-yes, maybe-no. That was Brantley through and through. She had done a pretty good job of avoiding him these last few years. He didn’t come to town often, and when he did she usually had warning and could leave town herself. Of course, there was the odd time or two that he’d showed up unannounced, and a wedding or birthday party here and there that she could not miss. Still, she’d held it together, considering.
What had happened that first summer was one thing. As much as anything, it had been her fault—and that of circumstances. Brantley hadn’t even known how she felt, had never meant to hurt her. But what had happened that time in Savannah was a whole different matter. Not even Missy knew about it, and she never would. It had been at the end of Lucy’s freshman year at the Savannah College of Art and Design, and Brantley had come to town with some other Vandy students for an architectural restoration seminar. That was when she’d learned that Brantley was a runner. When something happened that he couldn’t deal with, he ran. After college she’d worked in Atlanta a few years before moving to Merritt to work with Annelle. Before returning, Lucy had decided that the easiest way to deal with a runner was to run from him.
Only she couldn’t do that this time. The show had to go on. Junior League president Millie Carmichael was entirely capable of hiring a hit man. She had the money and the guts. You had to have those things to be president of Junior League.
Lucy cut her chicken into smaller bites to make it last longer.
“Brantley said—” Missy began.
“Missy,” Lucy cut her off because she could not listen to what Brantley had said, whatever it was. Her news was supposed to be a secret, but it would be common knowledge soon. She could trust Missy and above all else, she had to change the subject.
“What? Tell me. Tell me now!”
No turning back. Missy could always tell when Lucy had a secret—well, almost always.
“I want to tell you something but you cannot tell.”
“Never.” Missy crossed her heart with her index finger like a girl scout making a promise to a bunkmate.
“Speaking of Brantley, his grandmother came to see me this morning.”
“Does she know Brantley’s coming this weekend?” Missy asked.
“I don’t know. We did not discuss Brantley. Miss Caroline told me that the city offered to buy the building where Judge Brantley had his law offices. They want to turn it into a community multi-purpose center.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Missy said. “That’s a great building. Did you know the whole top floor is a ballroom? It hasn’t been used in years but Brantley and I used to play up there when we were kids. After the judge died, they moved his furniture from his chambers at the courthouse back to his old office and locked it up. I know most of the rest of the building is rented out.”
“Here’s the thing. Miss Caroline is going to donate the building, but she wants control of the restoration. She’s offered me the job of restoring the interior.”
“Oh, Lucy, that’s wonderful!”
“She wants it kept quiet for now because she hasn’t notified the tenants yet. Her plan is to have the building vacant and the other details worked out by the first of the year. I am so excited—I still can’t believe she chose me.”
“I am not a bit surprised. I know she and Miss Annelle are friends but everyone knows Miss Annelle’s taste runs more toward art deco style and ultra modern. That wouldn’t work in that building at all.”
“Still, she could have brought someone in. It makes me feel like I am really home now. I mean, if Caroline Brantley accepts you for something so important, you must really belong, right?”
Missy laughed. “Why on earth would you think you don’t belong here? That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You grew up here; you haven’t been jerked all over the globe.”
“I say you belong here. But if you need Miss Caroline’s stamp of approval, I’m glad you’ve got it.”
“I want to do a great job. I don’t want to make her sorry. I want to give this town a beautiful building.”
“You will, Lucy. I know you will. Who else is going to work on the project?”
“No idea. Miss Caroline said she was still ironing that out.”
The streets of Merritt left no doubt that it was October. You couldn’t swing a dead dog without hitting a pile of pumpkins or a scarecrow sitting on a hay bale. There were a respectable number of ghosts and witches too. They would disappear November first but the other autumnal items would linger on until they were replaced by snowmen and Santas.
Brantley had promised he would arrive in the morning and he had—but just barely. Afternoon technically started at one minute after noon, so he had about fourteen minutes to catch up with Missy before he was officially late. He called her cell but it was Harris who answered.
“Hey, Harris, it's Brantley. Did I call the house?” It had happened before. Speed dial will do that to you.
“No, she left her cell here.”
“Missy without her phone?” She’d tried to take it to the delivery room.
“Yeah, I know. She’s crazy right now. Not sleeping much. Living on coffee. I’ll be glad when this is over.”