In that moment, she would have driven to Nashville, and told him yes. No matter what his reasons for wanting her, she would have done it. She’d have married him now, today, this hour.
Except Rita May had answered the phone. She reached for the half empty bottle of wine. How, how, how was she going to live without him?
When she finished the wine, she opened another bottle. She thought of getting a glass this time, but why start that at this point?
Maybe drinking out of the bottle would be her new signature style. Yeah, she wouldn’t do historic restoration and she’d drink out of the bottle. There’d be pictures of famous people in magazines drinking from the bottle in “Lucy Style.” Waterford and Baccarat would try to capitalize on it and start making crystal wine bottles meant to be drunk from. They would send her boxes of them but she wouldn’t use them. No. She would remain true to drinking from the original bottle. Eventually, there would be no wine glasses made. A spokesman from Baccarat would make a statement. “Due to new trends that seem to have become the standard, we are no longer producing wine glasses. Continue to look for the excellence that you expect from Baccarat in our other fine stemware.” Waterford wouldn’t issue a statement. Unlike the French, the Irish were stubborn and didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. They’d just stop making wine glasses. They’d shrug their shoulders, melt down the wine glasses they had, and make them into chandeliers and double old fashions. She knew all about it; she’d been to the Waterford factory. Who knew what Libbey Glassware would do? But then, who cared?
And so it went for the rest of the day and night.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lucy slept until almost ten. The wine bottle was empty this morning but at least she’d made it into flannel pajamas. Dressing for bed was progress, even if she still couldn’t stand the idea of the actual bed. She would make more progress today. First, she wouldn’t eat fast food. Second, she would not cry. And she just might go to Missy’s to spend the night after all. She had to start picking up the pieces some time and Christmas Eve was as good a time as any.
Besides, Missy would serve a really good breakfast and there would be bloody Marys involved. That might make it worth it. Or not.
She considered driving to McDonald’s for coffee but that would mean getting dressed. Maybe. It distressed her how long she actually considered getting in the car in her pajamas. In the end, she made coffee and thought about toast. She didn’t have to decide right now about toast or if she would go to Missy’s. She’d already decided not to cry and to make coffee. That was enough decision making for now. She took her coffee cup and went back to the living room. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantle it almost scared her—dark circles, flyaway hair, and red eyes. She couldn’t do anything about the eyes, but she dragged the front part of her hair back with a ponytail holder. See, she was better. She cared how she looked. Some.
If she went to Missy’s she’d have to do her hair or face an intervention. Then she remembered something else. She had agreed to clear the flowers from the altar after the midnight service at church tonight. Damn, damn, damn. Older members of the flower guild always decorated for the Christmas Eve service and younger ones cleared it away and made smaller arrangements that would be delivered to the hospital on the day after Christmas by middle-aged guild members. That’s how it had always been.
Always. What a hateful word.
She was pondering how to get out of midnight flower duty when the doorbell rang. She jumped. It wouldn’t be Brantley. That would be too good—and too bad—to be true. Probably Missy, having stood it as long as she could. Maybe Tolly or Lanie. Or it could be the whole damn lot of them. There was nothing to do but let them in.
But it wasn’t any of those people. On the doorstep stood Charles Kincaid with so much kindness on his face that the tears in her eyes escaped with an explosive sob.
“Oh, baby girl.” He caught her in his arms, where she stayed for the barest second before stepping aside to let him in the house.
Much to her embarrassment, Charles picked up the empty wine bottle off the floor and set it on the coffee table.
“It looks like you’ve been passing the time of day the same way my son has. I think we’d better get this worked out before we have a couple of alcoholics on our hands. Though I am pretty sure my boy had himself a bottle of Wild Turkey 101.” Poor man. He had no idea there was nothing to work out. He removed his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. “They’re predicting snow for tonight. I almost believe it.”
“It’s cold enough,” Lucy said, though she had no idea if that was true. She hadn’t seen a weather report in days.
He picked up her coffee cup. “Is there any more of this around here?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Let me—”
“No. You sit down on that couch and curl up under that blanket. If I can’t find a cup of coffee, I’ve got no prayer of doing you any good.”
No prayer of that, regardless of his aptitude for locating coffee. She hoped he didn’t notice her McDonalds wrappers in the trash.
Charles came back, settled her refilled mug in her hand, and settled himself in a chair opposite her. She steeled herself.
“I’m not going to ask you a lot of questions.” He smiled like Brantley. The tears gathered again but this time she swallowed them. “At least I hope I’m not. I haven’t ever involved myself in my son’s love life before so I’m not exactly sure how this is going to go.”
“You can ask me anything you like. I have a lot to answer for.”
“Answer for?” He frowned like he didn’t understand.
“I embarrassed him in public. You can’t be happy about that.”
Charles laughed a little and sipped his coffee. “I am not sure Brantley has ever been embarrassed about anything in his life, but if he is, it’s his own fault. Or maybe mine. But I never imagined as I prepared my son for life that I would need to say to him, ‘Don’t issue marriage proposals in public, especially if you don’t know what the answer will be.’ I would have thought that was a given.”
She rubbed the place between her eyes. “I wish I had handled it differently.”
“Oh?” Charles said. “If you want to change your answer, I’m sure that can be arranged. When I talked to him last night, he was three sheets to the wind and not in the best state of mind.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s where he was always going to end up—back in Nashville with Rita May.”
Genuine surprise passed over Charles’s face. “No. He is in Nashville, but I can assure you he is not with Rita May.”
“I called. She answered the phone.”
“You called? That’s encouraging.”
“I was not encouraged.”
“Yes, I can see where you wouldn’t have been.” Charles went silent for a moment. “I think I am putting this together. According to Brantley, she did show up at his door. He told her to leave and went upstairs. When he came back down, his phone was broken. She must have answered it and then smashed it. Brantley has no idea you called.”
That was something. Not enough, but something.
Charles smiled. “So you see, it’s all a misunderstanding. The two of you can work this out.”
And she had thought that was possible too, before Rita May had answered that phone. What had changed? Other than mass consumption of wine and fried food? Apparently, alcohol and grease had made her wiser.