But the words came out and he was not one bit humble or apologetic. He claimed he’d done the honorable thing, the right thing, and he stood his ground, never backing down one inch, until they went around and around about it for over an hour.
Then one of them laughed and they made up in the most miraculous way. It was in the sweet moments after making love that he told her that he had finally been able to have a disagreement without thinking someone was going to die because of it.
His therapist would be pleased.
If she had had any doubt that he was going to heal, she would have known better when in June he finally came to her, as he said, “on bended knee.” The ring he presented to her was not the platinum and diamond one that he had pulled out of his pocket all those months ago at the parade party.
No. It was antique rose gold, set with rubies and diamonds—his mother’s ring. And just hours ago at the same altar where he’d been baptized and laid his mother and grandfather to rest, Brantley had slipped Eva’s wide wedding band on her finger.
Now, she ran her finger over the rings and sent out a promise and a prayer.
“Hello, baby girl.” She looked up to see Charles, handsome in his black tie attire. “Admiring your rings? I sure love seeing them on your hand.”
She tried to swallow her tears and failed miserably. “Just making someone a promise that I’ll do my best to love her baby the way she would want him to be loved.”
“Oh, I think she knows that. We all do.” He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes. “But no tears tonight. There’s too much happy here for that.”
And there was. She looked out on the dance floor, where her three best friends and bridesmaids were dancing with their husbands to the beat of Brantley’s questionable rendition of “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?” No broken hearts there. Her parents were drinking Champagne with Annelle, Lou Anne, and Miss Caroline. Tiptoe Watkins danced in a circle of three with Emma and Beau. And though Evelyn was a guest at the wedding, she was tidying the buffet and seemed to be giving the caterers a piece of her mind. And, oh, look! Arabelle, who, to Lucy’s delight, had come for the wedding, was letting Will Garrett lead her onto the dance floor.
Brantley hit a sour note, but never slowed down and neither did the dancers.
Charles and Lucy laughed together.
“He never was very good,” Charles said.
“Yet he plays on,” Lucy said.
Just then Brantley ended with a flourish and called across the room. “I’ve got time for one more before those hired musicians run me off this fine instrument that my dad bought for this room. But I can’t play this next one without my bride sitting with me on this bench.” He patted the place beside him and gave her a wink and smile.
Then he broke into “My Girl” as she wove her way through the crowd to him.
About the Authors
Before they began writing as Alicia Hunter Pace, Stephanie Jones and Jean Hovey were friends—not just friends, but the finish each other’s sentences and swap shoes on the sidewalk kind of friends.
They had no idea their writing styles would be so different but, upon reflection, they could have looked at their travel styles for a clue. Jean once got off a plane in London with eight dollars, an ATM card, no reservations of any kind, and a vague idea that she wanted to go to the Victoria and Albert museum. When Stephanie travels, she arrives with a detailed concrete plan written in a notebook that she carries in a coordinating tote bag that matches her calendar and her shoes.
There’s something to be said for both philosophies. Traveling by the seat of one’s pants—whether in a foreign country or on the printed page—can lead to adventures never recorded in a guide book, but it seems to work out better if there is a plotter along with her hand on the rudder.
Writing with a partner—most people wouldn’t do it; most people shouldn’t do it. It could easily lead to hair pulling, lawsuits, and funeral food.
But it works for them.
Stephanie lives in Jasper, Alabama, where she teaches third grade and wishes for a bigger bookstore. She is a native Alabamian who likes football, civil war history, and people who follow the rules. She is happy to provide a list of said rules to anyone who needs them.
Jean, a former public librarian, lives in Decatur, Alabama, with her husband in a 100-year-old house that always wants something from her. She likes to cook but has discovered the joy of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets since becoming a writer.
Stephanie and Jean are both active members of the fabulous Heart of Dixie Chapter of Romantic Writers of America.
Simple Gone South is the third book in the Gone South series.
For Luke and Lanie’s story, check out Sweet Gone South.
For Nathan and Tolly’s story, check out Scrimmage Gone South
Visit them at their website, http://aliciahunterpace.com/
Like them at: www.facebook.com/pages/Alicia-Hunter-Pace/176839952372867
Follow them at: twitter.com/AliciaHPace
More from This Author
(From Scrimmage Gone South by Alicia Pace Hunter)
Tolly Lee parked her Mercedes in front of the house that was the shining star on a rundown street. She lifted the baked ham from her trunk and made sure the card that read, With Sympathy, Bragg and Lee, Attorneys at Law was firmly attached to the aluminum foil. For the life of her, Tolly could not understand what good a ham was going to do. She’d wanted to bring a gallon of martinis but her cousin’s wife, Missy Bragg, had said that would be in bad taste. The deceased, Eula Lawson, had been the biggest teetotaler to ever live and die in Merritt, Alabama. Everybody knew that.
Well. Everybody seemed to always know a lot of things that Tolly didn’t.
Eula’s marigolds hadn’t gotten the news that it was October. They framed the neat little shingled house as if they had the most important job in the world.
The front door was standing open so Tolly balanced the ham on her hip and let herself in the screen door. The tiny living room was choking with people.
“Right through here, honey.” A plump woman wearing an apron, who was obviously in charge of people bearing food, led her down a short hallway to a neat utilitarian kitchen. “Now, do we need to put your name on your plate so we can get it back to you?” She took the ham but Tolly couldn’t imagine where she was going to put it. The counters and table were already filled with cakes, pies, deviled eggs, and casseroles.
“No. It’s in a disposable pan.” There were a half dozen matronly women milling around, some who had clearly been crying.
“That’s so thoughtful. Could we offer you some coffee? Or some iced tea?” The woman set the ham on the stovetop beside a platter of fried chicken.
“No, thank you,” Tolly answered. “I am so sorry about Miss Eula. Was she related to you?”
“Only by love,” the ringleader said, wiping her eyes with the edge of apron. “She was in our mission group at Wesley Methodist.”
“Well. I am sorry.” What was she supposed to do now? If only Missy had come with her. Or Harris. They always knew what to do. But Harris was in court and Missy had to take three-year-old Beau to the doctor.
One of the other women seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped forward. “You’re Tolly Lee, aren’t you? The lawyer that Kirby works for?”
“Yes. Kirby started working for my cousin Harris and me last summer.” He was smart and good at his job, though lately he was only able to come in for an hour a day during his free period at school. She would be glad when football season was over.