The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend) (10 page)

“Carla,” he said as he climbed the steps to his parents’ house, the blonde beside him looking suddenly wary.

Smart girl.

“Hello, John. I suppose your parents didn’t tell you I was invited.”

“No, but I never asked. How are you?”

“Well as can be expected. My hip has been bothering me and Dr. Peevy’s been talking about replacement.” Her eyes shifted to the blonde. “You have a friend.”

He nodded and the girl swallowed, clasping her hands behind her back, forming a smile. “I do. This is Shelby Mackey. She’s a friend of mine from Seattle.”

“Oh?” Carla said, not bothering to rise. She shouldn’t have to be polite to the girl with the diamond earrings and the big tits. Shelby was the intruder here, not Carla, who’d been coming to Thanksgiving dinner at the Beauchamps ever since her daughter had married into the family. “I never knew you had friends in Seattle.”

The girl extended her hand. “How do you do?”

Carla took the hand only because her mama had raised her with manners. Her grasp was warm and firm, which made her even less likable. “Not very well if truth be told.”

“Oh,” Shelby said, casting a glance toward John. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Carla was Rebecca’s mother,” John said.

“No, I
am
her mother. That never changed,” Carla said, eyeballing John with a firm look. Rebecca’s death hadn’t changed who Carla was. She’d always be her baby’s mama.

The blonde dropped her hand, noticeably paling as she cast a startled glance at John. Receiving no help, she mumbled, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yes, well, perhaps so, though if I’m reading things correctly from my viewpoint, you benefit from the cause of that pain.”

The blonde’s eyes widened and she shook her head.

“Carla,” John said, warning in his voice.

“No, it’s true, isn’t it? You two are dating?”

“No, we’re not dating,” John said, his green eyes crackling with more emotion than she’d seen in a while. Change wafted in on the Louisiana breeze. She felt this in her bones as much as she felt the arthritis, and she didn’t like the thought of the world moving on, forgetting what had happened, abandoning her daughter.

Logically she knew life went on, but logic was a piss-poor companion to a brokenhearted woman.

Shelby blinked. The girl had pretty eyes, the kind you saw in Miss America contestants, intentionally guileless, placid on purpose. But then her eyes changed. Shelby wasn’t as dumb as she looked. “He’s right, we’re not dating. I’ll be living with him.”

John’s head jerked toward Shelby.

Carla rose, her hip screaming in protest. “Living with him?” Ice hung off her words even as anger fired deep in her belly. John was out of his mind if he thought he could invite someone to live at Breezy Hill.

“In a technical sense. I’m considering relocating to Louisiana, and John has kindly offered me a place to stay,” Shelby said, her smile pasted on in a most determined manner.

“You’re going to stay at Breezy Hill?” Carla said, shifting her gaze to John as the anger boiled over into fury. They could say whatever they want about being friends. Carla could tell it was more. She wasn’t stupid.

“I’m happy to help out,” John said, his gaze intent.

“You’re happy to help out?” Carla repeated.

“Carla, Shelby’s a friend who needs a place to stay. Don’t turn this into something it’s not,” John said.

Carla shook her head. “No. Not going to happen. That house belonged to my husband’s family and you’re not going to use it for...whatever you think you’re going to use it for. It belongs to the trust.”

And I control the trust.
She didn’t say the words, but John knew the score. Had he even thought about how this would look? His wife not even cold in the ground and he’d replaced her?

“I think you misunderstand the situation, Carla,” John said.

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“This doesn’t have to do with Rebecca.”

“Don’t say her name,” Carla hissed, her control slipping away. Today was Thanksgiving, a day to reflect on blessings. What was she to reflect upon? How empty her life was now? How utterly alone she was?

“Carla,” John intoned, reaching a hand toward her. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? Feel the way I feel? She was my daughter.”

“And she was my wife,” he said, his voice lowering, the hurt still there. Carla hated herself for it, but hearing the pain in John’s voice momentarily satisfied her. She wanted him to still feel that pain, to still feel guilt over Rebecca’s death, because it meant her daughter existed in some small way. Her fingerprints stayed behind.

“I’m leaving. I’m not eating dinner with—” Carla shifted her gaze back to the blonde who stood looking as if she wished to be anywhere other than where she stood in her fancy boots “—your
friend.
”

Carla didn’t wait for either Shelby or John to say anything more, merely pushed past the two of them, noting the expensive scent of Shelby’s perfume, and entered the Beauchamp house. Francesca “Fancy” Beauchamp came around the corner just as Carla bent to scoop her purse off the old church pew sitting in the foyer.

“What’s wrong, Carla?” Fancy asked, waving a wooden spoon in her direction. “Oh, I forgot I had this spoon. You’re not going, are you? We’re about to eat. Waiting on John.”

“I’m not staying, Fancy. Today is too upsetting for me.”

“Too upsetting?” Fancy repeated. “Oh, honey, you don’t need to be alone today. Stay with us. We’re family.”

Carla looked at Fancy in her ruffled apron with her perfect hair and warm smile and wanted to slap her silly. Family? No, she wasn’t family. She was a sad charity case for the Beauchamp family.

Let’s invite poor Carla. She has no one.

“I’m just not feeling up to snuff today, Fancy. No need for me to ruin everyone’s dinner.”

“Oh, Carla, don’t leave. Abigail made the caramel pie you like.”

Like caramel pie would keep her at the table with the woman trying to take her daughter’s place, and, for Christ’s sake,
living
at the Stanton family farm. The thought of Shelby standing in the kitchen where Carla had raised Rebecca made Carla hopping mad. She might do something inappropriate like throw a roll at the woman...or wrap her arthritic fingers around her pretty throat. Or maybe kick her fathead son-in-law in the balls for even thinking about letting another woman live at Breezy Hill.

What was he thinking?

She thought about Shelby with her blond hair, blue eyes and big knockers and knew what he was thinking.

“Sorry, but I’m leaving.” Carla shouldered her purse as John and Shelby entered the front door. Fancy turned toward John, took in Shelby and Carla could see the dawning in her friend’s eyes.

That’s right. John has moved on, and I can’t stand to sit here and watch.

“Carla’s leaving,” Fancy said to John.

“I know,” he said, his expression void of emotion. “I wish she wouldn’t.”

Carla walked past them, trying to keep her eyes on the door and not on the woman standing there looking so put-together, so voluptuous...so damned alive. “Well, we all wish for things we can’t have, don’t we?”

“Carla,” Fancy called, obviously distressed by her antics. She hated to disappoint her friend, but she just couldn’t do it. Every nerve in her body throbbed with anger, and the slightest scrape would send her plummeting toward can’t-take-it-back.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she called back, nearly tripping over the ice chest John had left on the steps...and her tears.

Oh, my sweet Rebecca, I’m so sorry you’re not here. But I’m not going to make it easy for him. I’m not letting him replace you with that stranger. I’ll do whatever it takes.

CHAPTER NINE

S
HELBY
STOOD
IN
the foyer of John’s childhood home, trying not to hyperventilate.

What a shitfest.

For a good ten seconds, she, John and his mother stood looking at one another while the rest of the house moved around them. A kid darted across the hallway yelling about a rubber bracelet, pots and pans clanked in the kitchen somewhere beyond John’s left shoulder. All seemed perfectly normal, but it was far, far, far from normal. Like maybe in the next stratosphere of not normal.

“Well, that was, uh, awkward,” John’s mother said with a rueful shrug, her eyes darting from Shelby to John and then back to Shelby again. “I’m sorry.”

She’d settled sharp eyes on Shelby. “It’s okay,” Shelby said because the woman seemed to be waiting on her to grant her pardon.

“Mom, this is my friend Shelby Mackey. Shelby, this is my mom, Francesca Beauchamp. Everyone calls her Fancy.”

The older woman, who barely came to John’s shoulder, wiped her hand on her apron and extended it. She wore a pink rubber cancer awareness bracelet and a sincere smile. Wispy hair the color of rhubarb stuck out at arranged angles and her eyes were as green as John’s. “Happy to meet you, Shelby. Welcome to our home.”

“Thanks for having me,” Shelby said, taking the slightly damp hand extended.

“There he is,” a booming voice sounded behind her.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad,” John said, accepting the hug and slap on the back given by the man exactly the same height as him. “Dad, this is Shelby Mackey. She’s a friend who will be staying with me for a while.”

The man had sterling hair, a broad tan face and deep brown eyes that crinkled slightly. “Oh? You’re staying in Magnolia Bend for a while, are you? At John’s place?”

Well, hadn’t she just said as much to Rebecca’s mother?

She hadn’t meant to make that commitment. No good reason to stay in Louisiana other than it was far away from her family and their disappointment. She was a stranger here, and bearing the stares of the people in Magnolia Bend would be uncomfortable at a time she’d feel awkward enough.

But John and those few minutes beside his truck earlier had pushed her in his direction. Whether she wished it or not, she felt something for him. She had no clue what that was—maybe some misplaced need to have the father of her child in her life or maybe leftover attraction from that night. Or maybe she wanted someone to take care of her, which was so screwed up. But somehow the words had flown out of her mouth.

“For now,” she said. “I’m thinking of relocating from Seattle.” She extended her hand yet again. “Starting over.”

Starting over wasn’t a bad concept.

But doing it in Magnolia Bend? She liked it fine—except for the mosquitoes—and so far the people had charmed her. The town could be a good place to raise her baby. Plus, John would be nearby so he could take a role in the child’s life. But she wasn’t sure about anything at this point. Only that by summer, God willing, she’d be a mother.

“I’m Reverend Beauchamp, but you can call me Dan. Do you have a place to worship?”

“Really, Dad?” John groaned.

“Hey, it’s my thing,” the older man grinned, slapping his son on the back again. “Come on in the den. The Cowgirls are getting their butts handed to them. Shelby can visit with your mama in the kitchen.”

John cast a questioning look in her direction and Shelby smiled. Part of her didn’t want him to go. Okay, all of her didn’t want him to go, leaving her alone with his mother and God only knew who else. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine. I think.”

“Of course you will,” Fancy said, picking up a wooden spoon from a nearby table. “I need help with the gravy. You cook, Shelby?”

“Um, I can boil water,” she said, making a face. She’d always intended on taking cooking classes, but never had. Her family housekeeper, Mosa, was a fantastic cook and had allowed the lonely Shelby to assist on occasion, but Shelby’s skills were limited. “And stir things.”

“Perfect.” Fancy grinned, motioning her toward the area where seconds earlier pots had clanked.

They swooshed into the large kitchen. Abigail buttered rolls, Birdie squatted on the floor beside an ancient Irish setter and a woman with long blond hair frowned at a layer cake. A huge island created from a worktable sat in the center of the bright blue kitchen. A cat perched on the windowsill watching as if it were maestro of the commotion unfolding.

“Everyone, this is Shelby,” Fancy announced.

“We know. She’s been staying with us,” Birdie said, not bothering to look up. The dog wagged its tail in greeting...or in appreciation of Birdie’s petting.

“Welcome, Shelby,” Abigail drawled, going back to buttering the huge popover rolls.

The other woman lifted her gaze to Shelby. “Hi, I’m Mary Jane, Matt’s wife. We’re glad you’re here. It’s good for John.”

Shelby didn’t know what to say. “Oh, well, I thank you all for letting me tag along.”

Fancy waved a hand. “Enough chitchat, we gotta finish up this dinner. I’m hungry as a bear in spring. Shelby, dear, you come over here and help me with this gravy. Birdie, run out and see if Uncle Matt is done with the turkey.”

Birdie gave an elaborate sigh, but rose and headed toward the back door. The dog followed, tongue lolling, eyes adoring. The cat coldly assessed those gathered, licked its paw and turned, dismissing everyone. Shelby had never had a single pet her entire life and the thought of having them as a part of a family seemed weird...and somewhat unsanitary.

For the next thirty minutes, Shelby, clad in a spare apron, learned how to make gravy from drippings while chatting companionably with the others about the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade and the fact the forecast predicted rain for the upcoming Candy Cane Festival. Shelby didn’t contribute much, just savored being part of a process she’d never experienced before—holiday dinner preparation.

In her family, they gathered in the evening around lit candles to eat the dinner Mosa created with Cornish hen, oyster dressing, a few gourmet side dishes and a sparkling champagne and/or Washington Riesling. It was all so very elegant and civil.

Not so this meal with its macaroni salad, candied yams and green bean casserole made with soup. One-word description—
Southern.

John popped his head inside the kitchen. “Shelby, can you break away?”

She had been filling cups with ice and stared at the job half-done.

“Birdie, take over for Shelby,” Abigail said, oven mitts on both hands.

Requisite huff sounded, Birdie took the stack of cups from Shelby.

“Wash your hands first.” Abigail nodded at the farm sink.

Shelby surrendered her task and followed John out the back door where several men stood staring at a huge pot. A golden turkey hung from a nearby hook, permeating the air with deliciousness. Her stomach growled in response even though she didn’t eat meat.

“You’ve already met my father. This is my brother Matt,” John said, indicating the man who stood an inch taller and several inches wider than him. He looked like a football player or a prison guard. Rough, no-nonsense, more similar to John than not. The other man seemed nothing like John or Matt.

“And this is the baby of the family—Jake.”

Jake was shorter, but very put-together. Auburn strands caught in the sunlight and his blue eyes swept down her body with appreciation and thoroughness. Chiseled pretty face, crinkled blue eyes and white smile. He reminded Shelby of a crocodile, seemingly placid, but ready to gobble at the slightest provocation. His body language screamed “I’m here to serve you but don’t think you’ll catch me.”

“Hi,” Shelby said, donning a smile. “I appreciate your family having me for lunch.”

Jake arched an eyebrow, his eyes amused. “Thanks for sacrificing yourself. We’ll try to make it painless.”

John frowned.

Jake grinned bigger. “What? She just said we can have her for lunch, and you know how I love blondes.”

“See what I deal with?” John said.

Car doors slammed around front.

“Ding dong, the witch is here,” Jake cracked.

“Stop calling your aunt a witch,” Reverend Beauchamp said, scooping up a huge aluminum pan, heading toward the bird.

“If the broom fits...”

John jerked his head toward a path winding toward a small garden. “Walk with me?”

Matt and Jake exchanged knowing looks.

Shelby fell into step with John, and as soon as they were out of earshot, he said, “I’m sorry about what happened with Carla. Mom didn’t say anything about inviting her.”

“You can’t help Mrs. Stanton feeling the way she does.”

“No, but I could have talked to her beforehand. Or we could have skipped coming.”

Shelby caressed the blossom of a yellow rose arching over the path. “I wouldn’t want you to miss this. Your family’s nice.”

“They’re a little too much at times.”

“I like them,” she said, lifting her gaze to his.

“You said you’d stay.”

She nodded. “The devil made me do it. I felt a little defensive and judged by Carla.”

“She’s always been so reasonable,” he murmured, shifting his gaze to the trees swaying behind the house. A small creek ran the length of the backyard, an oddity in the middle of a town.

“Grief changes people...as you are well aware.”

“She wants to stay damaged,” he murmured. “I don’t.”

His words brushed against the reservation she felt at blurting out she’d stay. John wanted to heal...and maybe she could be part of that. He had a good reason for wanting to move into the sunshine of life.

“Maybe so,” she said, “but I understand the way she feels. Breezy Hill was her home and now it’s not. Her daughter was your wife and now she’s not. Bitterness grows like a weed over something like that.”

He nodded. “And now there’ll be a baby. Not going to be easy for her.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll hate my guts.”

“She wouldn’t go that far.”

Shelby didn’t say anything. How could she? She didn’t know Carla, didn’t know anything about her grief...or even her daughter. But something told her Carla would definitely go that far and maybe further. Hadn’t she said something about the trust? Could Carla force John out of the house? Take away the farm?

Maybe her staying wasn’t such a good idea. John shouldn’t have to choose between her and what he loved.

“Thank you, Shelby.”

“For?”

“Staying. I can’t make any promise other than I will be there for you.”

“I never asked for anything, John,” she said, meeting his gaze straight on. She might be down, but she wasn’t out. Shelby didn’t need him. She’d learned over the years how to take care of herself—physically and emotionally. No one had to pick up pieces for her.

“No, you didn’t, and I admire you for your independence as much as I admire you for taking a chance and staying in Magnolia Bend. We’ll have to feel our way around this thing, but I want to do it.”

“Define
it.
”

His forehead crinkled. “Having a baby.”

“That’s already happening,” she said.

“Living with me?”

“You sound confused. And we are talking about a platonic relationship, aren’t we?”

He nodded. “I don’t know if I’m ready for anything beyond friendship.”

“You were ready for something more a night almost three months ago.”

“That was different,” he said.

“Define
that.
” Shelby crossed her arms.

He gave her a hard smile. “Busting my balls today, aren’t you?”

“No,” Shelby said. “I’m setting my parameters. Start with the night we began.”

“I drowned myself in Jack Daniel’s so I didn’t remember. I wanted numbness, but then you walked into Boots and I felt something more than I thought I could feel. I wanted to feel you against me, have someone touch me with something other than compassion.”

His honest words made her stomach flip and her heart ache. She couldn’t fool herself—John Beauchamp still loved his wife. He was as inaccessible as every other man she’d ever been with. This wasn’t anything other than two people making their way through something they’d never thought could happen—parenthood. Love wasn’t part of the equation.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?” he repeated, moving them farther away from the house. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll move into Breezy Hill and give us a chance to know each other, to become a team for our child.”

Relief combined with something she couldn’t pin down reflected in his eyes.

“I have an appointment with Dr. French tomorrow morning. Afterward I’ll arrange to move some things from Seattle.”

“Do I need to take you to the doctor?”

“No, you need to work,” she said with a smile. “I looked up sugarcane farming, and you’ve been generous in taking so much time away. I’m a big girl, used to taking care of myself. No need to put yourself out.”

“Actually it’s been nice to have someone to share my evenings after a long day in the field.”

Shelby smiled at his admission. Oddly enough, she knew what he meant. Living in Spain, she’d dreaded going home. In her classroom, energy hummed, students joked and she had purpose. In her small flat, she’d rambled around lonely as a coot on a winter’s lake. Perhaps that’s why she’d attached herself so firmly to the handsome, warm Darby Dufrene. He’d made her feel not so alone, and he seemed just the sort of man her parents would approve of. Maybe her feelings for Darby hadn’t been love. Maybe she didn’t know what love was. What she did know, however, is things with Darby hadn’t worked out, and she’d looked for comfort elsewhere and ended up pregnant.

She had to deal...and now she had someone to help her.

“Thanks for being my friend and giving me a place to stay until I figure things out.”

John’s gaze lightened. “Not sure I’m being a good friend if I have a selfish motive in wanting you to stay.”

“I know. I understand your motive,” Shelby said, placing a hand on her belly.

John took her hand. “Still, thanks for staying.”

“Let’s see if you say that in a few months when I’m bloated, gassy and cranky.”

His eyes widened.

Shelby withdrew her hand in case she got too used to his touch and wanted more. “Well, that’s what it says in my pregnancy book.”