“So,” Missy went on, “if you haven’t called me by nine, I am coming over there.” Damn. What time was it now? Seven-thirty. “And Lucy, don’t mix me up with those other women. I am not a lady and I am not a hand wringer. I am a spoiled brat with a made up mind. And don’t even think of running somewhere else. I will hunt your ass down like a coon dog at dawn.” Were coon dogs more proficient at dawn than at other times? And what did Missy know about coon dogs anyway? “You know I can and you know I will.” Then there was silence. For a second Lucy thought that Missy had hung up. Then there was a little choking sound. “I love you, Lucy. I need to help you.” Oh, damn. She’d made Missy cry and Missy never cried. More silence and then the old Missy was back. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that moment of weakness has anything to do with my basic personality or present mindset. Nine o’clock, Lucy. Or sooner, if that’s what I decide.”
Better call her. If Missy showed up here, the others were sure to follow, if for no other reason than to try to extract Missy.
She dialed.
“Lucy! What the hell?”
“Is Brantley all right?” Why had she asked that? Of course he was all right. He was with Rita May.
“Brantley all right? I doubt it. Not that he has deigned to answer the phone for me.” Lucy thought of telling Missy that at least Rita May had not answered when she had called but the explosion that would bring forth wasn’t likely to do anybody much good.
“Did you think Brantley would be all right?” Missy asked.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“He texted Charles that he is in Nashville.”
Lucy hesitated. “Are Charles and Miss Caroline very mad at me? Are you?” Because let’s face it, in a contest against Brantley, no one outside of Harris and the kids was going to win with Missy.
“Mad at you? Why would anyone be mad at you?”
“For humiliating him in public.”
“Ha! He did that to himself. What fool proposes in public? What I’m interested in is how you are. And I am on my way there to see for myself.”
No. No. No. “No, Missy. I am fine. I didn’t sleep much and I am going to take a nap. That’s what I need. Besides, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. You have a dozen things to do. You said so yesterday. You need to make cookies, buy stocking stuffers, and go to Birmingham to pick up that doll for Lulu.”
“I don’t have to do any of that. Lulu doesn’t know one doll from another and we have plenty of cookies.”
“Not decorated ones for the kids to leave for Santa. That’s important to you. If I needed you, I would say so. What I need is to be by myself today.” And tomorrow, and the day after, and forever. But she didn’t say that.
“Well.” Missy’s voice wavered. “If that’s what you want. But only if you promise you’ll call if you need me. And only if you promise you’ll come spend the night with us tomorrow night and have Christmas here. I don’t want 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.”
Ha! Tell that to Rita May Sanderson.
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?
Take note of the underpants. I would have gotten some more suited to my own personal taste, which would entail no crotch or maybe some that let that magnificent ass of yours hang out. But I thought these would be better for standing around with a bunch of women waiting to get tricked out to walk down the aisle. Where, I would like to remind you, Lucy Mead, I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be the one smiling.
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.