Alicia Pace - Simple Gone South

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.”

“I’ll bet. I’ve got two big bags of hair stuff and a receipt for an amount you don’t want to know about. She said to bring it to her. Do you know where that would be?”

“Sort of, I guess.” He sighed. Harris Bragg sighed a lot—and for good reason. Missy’s All-American quarterback-turned-lawyer husband was the only man Brantley had ever known who came anywhere close to being able to handle Missy. God love him.

“She and Lucy were going to get their hair done at the mall somewhere. They’ve gone out there.”

“At the mall? At a chain?” It worried Brantley that he knew where Missy ordinarily got her hair done, which was at a shiny little shop downtown.

“You got me.” Harris sounded bewildered. “But that’s what she said. Do you want to bring that stuff to me and let me work it out?”

Tempting. “Don’t you have the kids?”

“They can go to the mall.” Harris’s tone was begging Brantley to say no. He pictured Harris gathering up bags of kid stuff, strollers, and messing with car seats. He didn’t have the heart. Plus, all that would take time, which might get him in trouble with Missy.

“I’ll find her,” he told Harris.

At the mall, it was pure luck that he found them as fast as he did. He went in through Dillard’s, thinking he’d ask someone in there about hair salons. It was when he rounded the corner, trying to get away from the lingerie department, that he heard laughter that rang out like schoolyard magic. He’d ended up in women’s accessories where Missy and Lucy were trying on hat after ugly hat, some large, some small, some with feathers, some plain, and all belonging on heads that answered to the name of Grandmother. He must have stood there a full minute watching them clutch about each other, swap hats, and wipe tears from their eyes. For a second he thought they might be drunk but then he remembered what Harris had said about the lack of sleep and living off coffee. Apparently Missy was enforcing her present lifestyle choices on Lucy because they were in the same giddy boat.

He hadn’t seen Lucy in a while. She’d been out of town the last several times he’d been in Merritt. Her hair was a little longer and she looked good. He let himself enjoy that. Truth was, Brantley loved the look of a girl in shorts and a sweatshirt. You saw that ensemble a lot in the fall and spring in the south when the weather just couldn’t make up its mind. Sweatshirt, khaki knee shorts, and Keds—it was practically a uniform, but one they didn’t like to be caught wearing. Pity.

Missy finally caught sight of him. “Brantley!” She threw herself at him, hat and all.

When he hugged her, he could practically feel her buzzing. “What are you doing at the mall, Missy?”

“We needed some necklaces for tonight and we have to get our hair done here so we were just waiting for you to call.”

“How was I going to do that?”

“What?” She put her hand in her pocket. “No phone?”

“No phone,” he confirmed.

“Then how?”

“I talked to Harris and I used my magic Missy locater.”

“You could have called Lucy’s phone,” she said.

That had never occurred to him. Maybe it should have.

“I have a phone.” Lucy nodded her head seriously and her dark curls bounced around her face. “But you don’t have my number. You’ve never had my number.” Then she burst out laughing. She had a wonderful laugh. Brantley remembered then that he’d always thought that, even when she was a gawky fifteen-year-old and he had been the eighteen-year-old King of Main Street. Not too silly, not too loud, just very easy on the ears. But she was giddy today and her laugh gave way to a giggle—better than most giggles, but still a giggle. Missy joined in.

And snorted.

Oh, man. “Are y’all drunk?”

“No!” they burst out together, and laughed some more.

“Well, I hope I haven’t made you late for your hair appointments.” He was no longer interested in why Missy had lowered herself to interacting with a mall chain hair salon. “I have your stuff.” He held out the bags.

“You are the best! And we have some time; you can buy us some coffee.”

“I think y’all have had enough coffee,” he said. “I’m tempted to take your money away so you can’t buy any either.”

Missy stuck her tongue out at him. “They will give us some while we’re getting our hair done.”

“No, they won’t,” Lucy said. “Not here.” Lucy might know a little bit more about chain beauty parlors than Missy was ever likely to.

“How about some food?” Brantley asked.

“Yes!” This came from Lucy. “I want some food. I want some cake. And I want it right now. Chocolate.”

“There will be no cake eating,” Missy said. “Not by you and not by me until this show is over. We have to lie down to zip those pants as it is.”

“Well.” Brantley had had enough. “I need to go see my dad and grandmother. And I’ll see you both tonight.” He waved and they went back to swapping hats.

Lucy had looked really good. Had he said anything to her directly? Surely he had. His mama had sent him to Junior Cotillion to see to it that he had good manners.

Of course, he hadn’t used those manners the one time when they might have made a difference.

Brantley’s grandmother, Caroline Eleanor Hurst Brantley, lived in the historic district in the same Queen Anne Victorian where Brantleys had been living and raising their offspring since it was built in 1889. Brantley loved that house—the turrets, the gingerbread, the nooks and crannies. He had no doubt that it was his happy childhood memories within those old walls that had shaped his passion for restoration and preservation architecture. But they never, as a family, ate a meal or celebrated a holiday in the dining room of that house anymore. Hadn’t in a long time.