Though there for a little while, he’d thought . . .
Well, at least no one could expect him to do Christmas now. Or the Brantley Building. Out of the question. Good thing his townhouse hadn’t sold yet. He’d hole up there for a few days and pretend he wasn’t supposed to be with her. And next week, he’d make some calls and figure out where to go next. The New Orleans job might still be open. Or New England. Or maybe something else. He’d land in a new place, do some new things, and think some new thoughts.
Unless she called. That could still happen, though it hadn’t yet.
As if on cue, his phone rang. He checked the caller ID, like he had every time. Missy, again. He’d lost count of the number of times she’d called. He pressed the ignore button like he’d done numerous times already—for his dad, Big Mama, Luke Avery, and Missy many, many times.
“Melissa,” he said to the empty air of his car. “Did you know that the true meaning of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result? Lots of people know that but not everyone knows Albert Einstein said it.”
The phone rang again. Dad. Not Lucy.
It was after midnight when he pulled into the driveway of his townhouse that still had the realtors’ lock on the front door. It had started to rain and there was sleet mixed in. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. At first he thought he’d wandered into the wrong place but then he remembered that on the advice of his realtor, he’d hired a property stager. She was supposed to make the place look homey, like somewhere you’d want to live.
It looked pretty good, he had to admit. Not as good as it would if Lucy had done it, but way better than when he’d lived here. For one thing, it had furniture. There were magazines on the coffee table and a half knitted something with needles sticking out of it on an ottoman. Hell, there was even a decorated Christmas tree and stockings hung on the mantel.
He wondered if the liquor in those crystal bottles on the bar was real. He took a sniff. No such luck. He shook an elaborately decorated package under the tree. Empty, of course.
His phone rang again. Dad. He would listen to the voicemails tomorrow, but tonight, he just couldn’t. He considered turning the phone off, but she might call. It could happen.
Then something occurred to him. They might be worried about him, as in thinking he was dead.
He picked up the phone and texted Charles. I’m okay. I’m in Nashville. I’ll call you tomorrow.
The response came almost immediately. Thank you, Son. I’ll tell your grandmother. We love you.
They loved him. Oh, yes they did. No question. He took the phone charger from his pocket and plugged it up on the kitchen counter. It was easy to love someone who had never destroyed anything. And now he had no chance of making it up. Unless she called.
He picked up the TV remote and pushed the power button. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Then he looked closer. Not plugged in. No cable. Of course not. People looking at real estate didn’t usually stop to watch TV.
He bet they didn’t eat either. He opened the refrigerator. There was a pot of something in there that smelled like oranges and spices, but it sure didn’t look edible. The realtor must boil it to make people think there was baking going on where there was none. He hadn’t been upstairs yet, but he was willing to bet the beds were made with outstanding looking quilts and such, but no sheets.
He might as well think about getting comfortable on that couch. Sofa, Lucy would call it. There on the end was one of those things that women liked to wrap up in when they watched TV. That would do in this house that was all about show and nothing about real comfort.
Tomorrow—the day before Christmas Eve—he’d go out and get a toothbrush, another set of clothes, and—most important—some bourbon.
He’d just sat down and started to unlace his shoes when the doorbell rang.
It couldn’t be! But maybe it was. It was possible, if she had left right after he had.
He ran to the door and threw it open.
And there stood Rita May Sanderson, dressed in white from head to toe—knee boots, pants, sweater, ski jacket, hat, and mittens. In the eerily lit rain and sleet, she looked like an undead snow queen.
He instinctively stepped back, but she launched herself in the door and into his arms, coming close to lacerating his side with her hipbone.
“You showed up just at the right time!” she said. “My electricity went out. I was afraid the roads might be getting slick from the sleet, so I walked here—all four blocks!”
He peeled her off him. “The roads are not slick, Rita May. It’s forty degrees. And how did you know I was here anyway?”
She threw her jacket off. “I knew you wouldn’t stay in that little Podunk town long. I’ve been tracking you.”
What? Had she installed a tracking device under his skin like a dog, some night while he was asleep? “You have been tracking me? How on God’s green earth?”
“If you took as much interest in your smart phone as you do in that DayRunner, you’d know. The right app, the right know-how. I’ve known where you were every second since you’ve been gone. Before that, even. Well.” She walked over to the mirror and fluffed her hair. “At least every second I wanted to, when I remembered to look.”
He was speechless, something that did not happen often. That was one app he was going to learn all about and outsmart. Damn.
“So my lights went off. I looked at my phone, and guess what? Brantley Kincaid’s come home for Christmas.” She looked around. “This place looks pretty good. You should have had this done before. Do you have any chardonnay?”
He found his voice. “No, I do not. And even if I did, you aren’t staying—not to drink wine, not to fluff your hair, and not to break stuff.”
“Oh, Brantley, come on. I have forgiven you for making me break up with you. We always do this. And we always do this.” She came toward him with her arms outstretched.
“No.” He backed away. “First, you did not break up with me. I broke up with you. I meant it then and I mean it now. Now I find out you have been stalking me. You need to leave.”
“I told you my power is out.”
“Even if that is true, which I doubt, then go somewhere else. Your parents. Your BFF of the moment. Or take one of those candles off the mantle and rough it out at your own place but you are not staying here.”
She pouted but she looked like she might be starting to believe him.
“I don’t have a way. I walked.”
“And you can walk back. This is the safest neighborhood in Nashville.” And it was. This was a gated community.
“I’ve got a blister on my foot,” she whined.
He could have easily driven her, but that would only lead to more whining, more pleading, and more drama. And he was in no mood.
“Rita May, you are leaving, whether by dogsled, spaceship, or on the back of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. It matters not to me.” This was getting dangerously close to arguing. “I am going up those stairs to get me a pillow and when I come back down, you had better be gone, or I will call security. And I’m warning you. Pillow fetching does not take long.”
He was satisfied that she believed him before he mounted the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lucy had not known it was possible to drive around Merritt for so many hours. As she drove, she rehearsed what she would say. She loved him. She wanted him. She wanted to try, try really hard to turn this relationship into something more than temporary. But he needed to face his grief. She would help him; she’d be there every step of the way. She wanted to be his safe place, but she needed him to want her for more than safety. It would all sound very reasonable.