“You brought this cake for me?” Lucy asked.

“For you. All for you. Don’t let anyone else have any.”

“Not Missy?”

“Especially not Missy. She’s already gotten to be front man and denied you cake today.”

They were silent, Lucy because she was in utter shock and Brantley because he was busy looking at her and smiling. Miss Mavis stepped up behind him and placed a red cloth napkin beside his hand.

“One hour, no more. And if you get caught with it, I will swear you stole my keys.”

Brantley unwrapped his little bundle to reveal an ornate dessert fork, rich with time and patina. He dipped right into the middle of the cake and pulled out a chunk. “Open up, Lucy Mead. I want you to eat enough cake to make you happy and give you the energy to dance with me.” And he brought the cake to her mouth.

* * *

Why, why, why had she agreed to let him drive her home? Was she crazy? A magic snatcher—that’s what he was. He dangled his magic in front of you and then snatched it away.

And after the others had joined them, his magic had just gotten bigger, brighter, and more irresistible.

She hated herself a little bit right now. She hadn’t intended to dance with him but after washing down the cake that he kept feeding her with bourbon, she had been powerless to stop him from pulling her into his arms when the band struck up “Tupelo Honey.” And there she was, moving in his arms, remembering the chemistry between them, smelling his shampoo, and listening to him sing softly into her ear. He didn’t even sing off key. Was there nothing he couldn’t do? It had been so long since they’d danced together that she’d almost forgotten how he made her a better dancer. And if she had almost forgotten it, he wouldn’t remember at all.

Brantley turned the car toward the historic district and interrupted her thoughts. “I’m surprised you still live in Miss Annelle’s house.”

“Why?” she asked. “I adore that house. When I first moved to Merritt from Atlanta I lived in the apartment above the shop but after we renovated it in the Art Deco style, my aunt loved it and we swapped. Aunt Annelle is somewhat of a minimalist.”

Moving into that house had been so important to her. At first, she’d fought Annelle, not believing that her aunt really wanted to give up the beautiful Victorian cottage on one of the prettiest streets in Merritt. But once convinced that it truly was Annelle’s preference, Lucy was thrilled to have a home that wasn’t a modern high-rise Atlanta apartment or a house piled with artifacts and reference material.

“I would have figured you for something more sleek and modern,” Brantley said and proved that he knew nothing about her. And she knew everything about him—every building he’d worked on, every vacation he took, every car he bought. Not that she went looking for it. That would be like scheduling a train wreck. But between Missy and being in the church Flower Guild with Miss Caroline, she was kept very much apprised of the doings of Brantley Kincaid.

“No,” she said. “My specialty is historic interiors. That’s why I came back to work with Annelle. I was sick of designing hotels and she needed me. She can design anything, but her heart is in modern decor.”

“Then why were you doing commercial design in the first place?”

“Not everybody gets their dream job right away,” she said and could have added even if you did.

Cheap. She’d sold herself for a cake. Hell and double hell.

“Here we are.” There was one good thing. It never took long to get anywhere in Merritt.

“Thank you for the ride,” Lucy said but he didn’t hear her. He was already out of the vehicle, coming around to open her door. And now he had her by the arm and was towing her up the sidewalk. Was he going to try to kiss her? Well, she was not going to let that happen. She’d let it happen before and look where it got her. It was not going to happen again. And he definitely was not coming in the house—not for a drink, not to use the bathroom, and definitely not to touch and kiss her. Let him stop at a bar, pee in the bushes, and go to a brothel.

But he didn’t try to come in or kiss her. What he did was worse. He took her key, unlocked the door, and said, “If you lived anywhere but Merritt, Alabama, crime rate zero, I’d insist on walking in with you. But you look tired.”

“I am,” she agreed. “Thanks for the hair gel and the ride.” Breezy. That was good. He didn’t want to come in. She was relieved and a little embarrassed that she had assumed he would.

But then he half closed his golden eyes, smiled a lazy smile, and took her hand. He kissed her palm, taking his time about it without getting sloppy. Then he curled her fingers over the place his lips had been, as if he was bidding her to keep the kiss safe.

“Lucy Mead, you are going to hear from me.” He said it like it was her eighth birthday and he was presenting her with a white pony, all decked out with silver bells and pink ribbons.

Walking away from such a pony would have been hard for any eight-year-old.

But she did.

* * *

Big Mama’s house was bursting with the aroma of shrimp and grits, but underneath that were all the old smells—furniture wax, lemon, and yeast bread. Brantley fancied that he caught a whiff of pipe tobacco, but that wasn’t possible, not after all this time.

“Evelyn had to leave,” Big Mama said. “But she left everything on the sideboard for us.” They were all trying to be casual, but walking into that dining room where there had been so much good food, laughter, and love was like climbing a mountain. No—a mountain that someone had set fire to. The last time there had been food served out of the room no one had sat at the table, and the food had been the casseroles, cakes, and platters that always arrived in bad times.

No one seemed capable of breaking the threshold. Well, he would do it. He was the cause of this and he could at least lead the way.

Brantley marched to the sideboard like he was wading into war. “Just let me pour y’all a drink.” Everything was laid out like it had been for so many holiday and Sunday brunches. Silver coffee service, crystal bowls of fruit, steaming silver chafing dishes. He reached for the pitcher of bloody Marys and poured three.

Big Mama and Charles had scaled the fiery mountain and were at his elbow. Big Mama raised her glass, like she always used to do, though Brantley wondered what she could possibly be glad enough about to toast.

“To Brantley,” she said.

“Indeed,” Dad said.

“Yep, me!” he said, because why not? And they clinked glasses and laughed a little.

Now what? There was one thing that was different. The plates would be on the sideboard ready for filling, but Evelyn had always laid the silver, napkins, and coffee cups on the table. Not so today because she probably didn’t know where they would sit.

“Let’s fill our plates, shall we?” Big Mama turned to the table to set her glass down. She looked barely panicked, but for no more than a split second. Most people wouldn’t have even noticed. One thing for sure, that woman always did what she had to. She set her glass in the place that had always been hers, at the foot of the table.

“Charles,” she said, “As my son, please do me the honor of sitting at the head of my table.” She looked at the place that had always been Brantley’s and gestured. “Brantley, please.”

And he set his glass at the place across from where Mama should have been—where she would have been if not for his asinine behavior seventeen years ago.

So they filled their plates and ate. Brantley related the details of the Follies and party. They dissected the details of the previous day’s Southeastern Conference football games. And yes, the sermon was good this morning. According to Big Mama, Lucy Mead probably wasn’t in church because she attended the eleven o’clock service, the same one that his family usually attended. And wasn’t Missy’s baby beautiful?

Brantley had just begun to think that the point of this meal was simply to get them back into the dining room. Then he saw Dad and Big Mama lock eyes and barely nod to each other.

Charles took a sip of his coffee. “Son, how are things going with your business?”

“Good,” Brantley said. And it was true. The time he’d spent at Hargrove, Smith, and Associates had been valuable and productive but he had not wanted to be an associate anymore. And he had wanted to pick his own jobs. Hanging out his own shingle was the best thing he could have ever done. “You know how I worried that there would be too much time between jobs, but these days it seems like I always have a choice.”

“So you already have a commitment?” Big Mama asked. “Now that the San Francisco job is done?”

“No.” Brantley rose and poured everyone fresh cups of coffee. “Not yet. I’ve got a couple of possibilities. There’s a Federal style town hall in a little town a couple of hours from Boston that is very appealing. They’ve even got all of the funding in place. I would go in a heartbeat but the job will take quite a while and the idea of Massachusetts in the winter . . .” He settled back into his chair.

“And your other possibility?” Dad stirred sugar into his coffee.

“Private residence in New Orleans. I’m going down there next week to look it over. Probably wouldn’t be as much money, but it won’t take as long. I’ve never done a Greek Revival plantation house before. Or any plantation house—not by myself. I worked on one when I was at Hargrove. Let’s hope the money they are paying me to come isn’t all they’ve got and they’re planning on using some Voodoo to get me to do it for free.” Suddenly, a winter in New Orleans seemed very attractive. “I could like it there. Saints games, hurricanes—the drink, not the storm—French Quarter music, and the food.” Maybe if he liked it, he might even move there. There was nothing holding him in Nashville. He could set up shop anywhere.