Sweet Talking Man

“Oh, of course. Brigitte, very French,” Leif said, with another sweet smile.

Christ, why did he have to be so nice?

“Uh, I’m thinking about taking the course. Uh, if my mom will let me.” Birdie turned pleading eyes on Abigail. Eyes that nearly swayed Abigail into scrapping the plan to make Birdie apologize. Abigail could always make up something about a dead branch on her property threatening Leif’s back fence.

Wait. No.

She’d told Birdie she had to apologize. Children needed consistency. Every mother knew that. Still something pinged in her heart. Maybe if she bent just a little, Birdie would toss a piece of sunshine she hid somewhere beneath that awful hoodie Abigail’s way. Maybe it would be a starting point to discuss why her daughter had spied on Leif in the first place. Obviously Birdie had questions about men, their differences and perhaps even—Abigail swallowed—sex.

“Mom?” Birdie waited for her to speak.

“We’ll talk about art class later,” Abigail said, giving Birdie the “go ahead” nod.

“Uh, I’m here because, uh—” Birdie dug the toe of her sneaker against the concrete walk. “Well, you see, I used to like to climb trees. For sketching. Uh, Audubon once stayed at our house and, well, there are a lot of birds and stuff. I like to draw them and the best place to get a bird’s-eye view is the old sycamore out back.”

Leif held up a fist. “Mad props to our boy John James Audubon. He’s one of a kind.”

Birdie fist-bumped him. “Yeah, we have some originals. Two to be exact.”

“You’re kidding. I’d love to see them.”

“Come over anytime,” Birdie said.

Abigail started to shake her head, then caught herself. To be stingy with the original John J. Audubon watercolors would not do. Abigail had always welcomed anyone who wanted to take a peek at the tufted crane and the brown pelican the famed woodsman had created almost two hundred years ago. Leif Lively was no exception just because something about him made her...

Okay, fine. Abigail had a weird attraction to Leif that she’d never wanted to admit even to herself. When she dropped in at the school, she found her gaze hanging on him. And she hated herself for it. After all, she wasn’t one of those women who fluttered, starry-eyed over the handsome artist. She wasn’t like other room moms who cracked ribald jokes about Leif’s ass.

Fawning wasn’t something she did. Ever.

“I’d love to see the Audubon pieces,” Leif said with another smile at Birdie...and then at her. Christ, he smiled a lot. The Ryan Seacrest of Magnolia Bend.

Abigail nodded. “Sure, drop by anytime and Birdie can show you.”

“Anytime? I could come now. It’s about suppertime and I heard you’re a good cook.”

“Are you hungry?” Abigail had been knitted together with a strong thread of Southern hospitality so guilt pecked at her for not welcoming Leif and the other Laurel Creek residents with banana bread or cookies. But she was not inviting him for supper. The thought made her feel too warm...too nervous.

“I’m just joking, Abigail. You seem a little tense.” His gaze moved over her once again.

Abigail tugged her cardigan closed and gave him the smile she usually reserved for her brothers. “I’m not tense. It just didn’t sound like a joke. I grew up with three brothers—I know jokes.”

“Well, I’ll be more careful around you, then. Might end up popping open a can of snakes or sitting on a whoopee cushion.” Leif’s eyes danced, and even though she wanted to smile, she didn’t. She held on to prickliness like a cape protecting her from being silly. She’d tucked away being lighthearted. Hadn’t worked out for her. Besides the hot weirdo who strummed a ukulele at the local coffee shop and practiced tai chi in his yard wasn’t the kind of guy to let her guard down with. Too different from her.

“Don’t worry. I’m an adult and no longer put crickets in my brothers’ trucks.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” He said it like he was truly sorry for her. Why? Because she didn’t do asinine things anymore? Because she didn’t crack jokes? Or wear flowers in her hair? She crossed her arms as he added, “I like your cardigan, by the way. Angora?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Abigail asked, a dart of hurt nicking her.

“No. Why would I?”

“Because I’m wearing... Because I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

Birdie closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”

Leif’s eyes widened. “I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

Abigail opened her mouth, then shut it. Silence as comfortable as a prostate exam descended. Not that she knew about prostate exams...but she could imagine.

Just as she was about to prod Birdie again, the squeal of tires sounded. All three turned their heads to see a bright red Mustang hurtling down the street. Another squeal of tires and the vehicle swung into Leif’s driveway, halting with another screech.

“What the—” Leif muttered as the tinted driver’s window rolled down to reveal a pretty brunette who looked...worried. Abigail tugged Birdie back, but her daughter pulled away, obviously engrossed in the frantic pantomiming of the driver.

“Sorry about this, Leif,” the driver said as the passenger door opened and a ball of white fluffy tulle emerged. “Marcie made me do it. I was supposed to be her maid of honor. I guess it’s, like, an obligation.”

Maid of honor?

Abigail glanced at Leif; he looked gobsmacked, blinking his eyes a couple times before repeating, “Maid of honor?”

And that’s when the fluffy ball flipped over her veil and sneered. “Yeah, maid of frickin’ honor. Today was supposed to be our wedding day, asshole.”

* * *

LEIF’S MIND WHIRRED, random numbers lining up like on a slot machine. December sixteenth. Today would have been his and Marcie’s wedding day.

Oh, shit.

Marcie’s veil was pinned to heavily sprayed blond tresses and one side had fallen down to wag against her sweaty face. Mascara ran beneath her eyes, reminding him of something he’d once seen in a horror movie.

“Marcie—” He couldn’t even figure out how to ask why his ex-fiancée had put on a wedding dress and tracked him all the way to Magnolia Bend. They’d ended their engagement five months ago, and he hadn’t heard a peep from her until now...when his very proper neighbor stood on his front walk, no doubt looking on with disapproval.

This might make the Magnolia Bend Herald...or, at the very least, the Facebook hall of fame.

“Ohhh,” Marcie slurred, wriggling around the car in the tight mermaid gown she’d raved about for weeks last summer, nearly tumbling to the ground despite hiking up the dress. “You remember my name. Ain’t you sweet?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t think I’d find ya, did ya?” she asked, shoving a finger in his face. “My daddy knows a lot of people in this state. You can’t hide, you no-good bastard.”

Leif inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to figure out how a dude handled something like this. He felt caught in some crazy docudrama or a Maury Povich special. “I wasn’t trying to hide from you.” Much.

“Bullshith.” Marcie teetered as she tried to square her shoulders. “You were runnin’ like a damn...uh, something I can’t think of right now.”

He glanced at Marcie’s best friend, Rachel, who still sat in the Mustang looking guilty as hell. “How much did she drink, Rach?”

She held up a half-empty bottle of Crown Royal. “She started last night. I’m sorry. I couldn’t talk her out of it and I couldn’t let her drive herself. She’s loaded.”

Good Lord. Marcie swayed, her blue eyes still locked on him. Abigail had edged onto the grass and he could only imagine the censure in the woman’s eyes. He’d seen her around St. George’s, hovering over the school like a blimp or like that character in Monsters, Inc. Always watching. Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron seemed to be the perfect mother, business owner and citizen—always going the extra mile. She was the kind of woman who made him twitchy.

“Okay, look, Marcie, this isn’t the time or place to talk about what happened between us. Things didn’t work out, honey. One day you’ll see breaking off the wedding was the right decision for both of us.” Leif placed a hand on her elbow, mostly so she wouldn’t fall, and turned her toward the car. “Now go back with Rachel. It’s crazy to show up here like this. When you sober up, you’re going to feel—”

“Don’t tell me what I feel. I waited all my life to wear this dress. See what you’ve done to me,” Marcie said, wrenching her arm away and catching sight of Abigail. She dragged her drunken gaze from his neighbor’s head to her loafers. “Wait. Who’s that?”

“Uh, nobody,” Leif answered before Abigail could open her mouth. Somehow it made him sound guilty. Marcie narrowed her glazed eyes.

“Wait, are you sleeping with her? Her? She’s not your type. She’s, like, old. My mom wears shoes like hers.”

Abigail looked at her sensible loafers, then at Marcie. It was like watching Courtney Love go toe-to-toe with Katie Couric. “For your information, I’m his neighbor, and every woman should have a good pair of loafers—even rude, inebriated women.”

Marcie’s brow crinkled. “Inevreated?”

“Drunk,” Abigail clarified.

“Well, that’s his fault,” Marcie said, pointing to Leif. “But I’m sorry I said that. Still, my mom totally has those shoes. Guess you shop at Talbots, too.”

Abigail turned to the waiflike preteen staring at him and Marcie with eyes as big as dinner plates. “Come on, Birdie. We’ll do this later. Mr. Lively has his hands full.”

Birdie stood agog, not budging. “Okay.”

“Wait.” Marcie held up a finger. “I got something for you, Leif.”

Oh, God. Please don’t let it be a shotgun. Surely Rachel didn’t let her bring a weapon. But then again, Rachel wasn’t the most sensible of girls. She’d brought a drunk, bridal-gown-wearing Marcie from New Orleans.

“Now, Birdie. Come on.” Abigail’s voice sounded more urgent.

Leif glanced at Abigail, then worriedly at the rump of Marcie. The rest of her had disappeared into the car. “You guys don’t have to go. It’s fine.”

But it was not fine.

The fluffy veil swayed as Marcie wriggled out, lunging toward Leif.

Whew. No shotgun or pistol or machete.

Just a plate. With a huge hunk of cake.

“This is for you,” she said, scooping a hunk of white iced cake off the plate. “Thought you might like a piece since you insisted on almond buttercream for the wedding cake.”

And then she smashed the entire piece right between his eyes.

He didn’t try to stop her because he knew he had it coming. He was the one who’d broken off the engagement. He was the one who’d broken her heart...or at the very least ruined her grand New Orleans wedding, complete with the vows at Saint Louis Cathedral, a carriage ride through the Quarter and a honeymoon in Tahiti.

“There,” Marcie crowed, twisting her hand, grinding the cake in good. He felt the icing slip down his face and tasted the sweet buttercream frosting. “Hope you like it.”

He swiped the cake from his eyes in time to see Marcie rake her icing-covered hand down her gown and spin on a heel, nearly falling onto the hood of the still purring Mustang. She marched to the open passenger door, spit out some of the netting that had gotten into her mouth and glared at Leif. “And now you can go screw yourself.”

Except she didn’t say screw. She said the other word, making him glance over at Abigail, who had earmuffed Birdie. Too late, of course.

Leif scraped off some cake and flung it to the ground, then swiped a finger through the icing, sliding it into his mouth. “Mmm. Almond buttercream was the best choice.”

Marcie growled at him before giving him the finger and crawling into the car. “Get me the hell away from him.”

And with that last directive, Rachel reversed the car out of the driveway. With a small regretful wave, she aimed the shiny Mustang toward the bricked gate of the subdivision. Leif waved, then took another swipe of icing and sucked it off his finger. The cake really was excellent. He wondered if Marcie had been obligated to pay for the wedding cake she’d hemmed and hawed over for a month. Or maybe she’d picked up a random white cake and played it off as the wedding cake. He wouldn’t put it past the pretty drama queen.

He’d loved that about her.

At one time.

Abigail’s head wagged between him and Birdie.

Leif shrugged. “You know, it really is good cake.”

The too put-together woman’s mouth opened slightly and she stared at him as though he’d grown devil horns...rather than having just gotten cake in the face from a drunken woman wearing a bridal gown.

Birdie shimmied down the driveway, craning her neck to catch a final glimpse of the sports car. As the vehicle roared onto the highway, she spun toward them, a fantastical smile invading her face. “That was awesome.”

CHAPTER THREE

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Leif stepped from the shower and shook his hair, causing droplets to fly and speckle the mirror spanning his bathroom wall. No more buttercream frosting, thank God. Only the lavender and mint of the organic shampoo his friend in Colorado made by hand. The scent comforted him, reminding him who he was, where he came from.

Damn, Marcie.

What kind of woman did something like what she’d just done? So over-the-top. Thank goodness he’d realized what his life would be like with the drama queen of Saint Charles Avenue and gotten the hell out of town. Of course, he probably should have broken things off before she had ordered the cake, but by that time Marcie had turned into a locomotive, bearing down on the planned wedding date full force. Once he’d agreed they should get hitched—a proposal extracted in the middle of some raunchy sex—Marcie had taken the reins and dragged him behind her on her way to New Orleans’s wedding of the century.

Before he could say “maybe this isn’t a good idea,” wedding rings were ordered. Looking at the excitement on Marcie’s face and checking out the emerging crow’s-feet around his eyes, he’d decided marrying the daughter of old New Orleans money wasn’t a bad way to spend the rest of his life. She was good in the sack and pretty as a buttercup. So while Marcie spent the next few months booking reception halls, ordering invitations and analyzing bridesmaids’ dresses, Leif tried to envision a life of...chains.

Because eventually that’s what his impending marriage started to feel like. Prison. His casual proposal spoken in the heat of the moment had turned into a nightmare.

And then his mother passed away, leaving him a cryptic piece of the puzzle to her past, to a life he’d never known existed.

He’d returned to New Orleans a week after the funeral, telling himself that finding out the truth about his past wouldn’t change his future with Marcie. But he’d awoken the next morning beside his future wife and couldn’t breathe. Not literally, but almost. His heart galloped, a crushing weight sat on his chest and his clammy palms curved around the edge of the bed, holding on for dear life.

He just couldn’t do it.

Marcie was a nice girl, but not his soul mate, not the woman he wanted to wake up next to each morning, not the woman he wanted to sit beside in a rocking chair, watching the sun sink over the marshlands of Louisiana. He had never wanted to live in Louisiana. He craved the mountains, thin air and people who appreciated good tofu.

So Leif had broken the engagement three weeks before the first wedding shower. This time he’d not written a Dear John letter and bolted. He’d learned his lesson at the hands of his second former fiancée’s brother and found the balls to pull Marcie out of a gown fitting to tell her he wasn’t going to marry her.

She’d thrown a trash can at him.

That particular action had scared the hell out of the coffee-shop patrons sitting outside enjoying a sweltering day on Magazine Street. The trash can had spilled nasty old coffee on his new trainers, but he hadn’t had time to worry about that. Marcie picked up the nearest plate and hurled it at him, screaming “asshole” over and over. The poor man who didn’t get to finish the bagel that rolled into the street didn’t shout in outrage—he just slunk in the opposite direction.

Leif couldn’t blame him.

He also couldn’t make Marcie listen to reason. She was like a wounded rhino—nothing but a tranquilizer dart would calm her down. She had to burn herself out, and Leif didn’t intend to stick around for the show. Eventually, Marcie would figure out that his ending their relationship would save her greater heartache down the road.

Guess she hadn’t internalized the last words he’d spoken—someday you’ll thank me.

Unless the cake was a belated thank-you gift.

Immediately after the trash-can throwing, Leif had resigned from the art department at Delgado Community College and packed up the small garage apartment he’d rented in the Garden District. Then he’d left New Orleans much the same way he’d entered it—running from a woman.

Yeah, he’d made a bad habit of getting engaged to girls who, on the surface, seemed perfect but underneath weren’t what he needed. The broken engagement prior to Marcie had occurred three weeks before the wedding. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Jenna—she was as sweet as the buttercream frosting he’d just washed off. Her father and brother, however, weren’t as nice. Leif felt lucky to still be walking after they’d caught up with him in Beaumont.

So Leif had regrets...lots of them. He’d escaped the wedding noose three times and regretted hurting the bystanders. But most of all, he hated that his fear of commitment had dragged three innocent women through the mire with him. Hadn’t been fair to them, but he comforted himself with the thought he’d done the right thing.

Leif’s feet couldn’t be nailed down. He wasn’t the kind of guy who stuck...and stayed. Even though he wanted to be someone who belonged somewhere...and to someone.

Arriving in Magnolia Bend had been an accident of fate, but even if he hadn’t gotten lucky with the position as art teacher at St. George’s, he would have come to the town that held the answer to the biggest mystery in his life.

So the time to uncover his past was here. This place held the secrets about why his mother had run...and it held the secret of who Leif’s father was.

Here he began, and here he would hopefully find the answer to the questions that had pricked at him for years. Then maybe he could stop avoiding the ties that bound and find a good spot to settle down.

The doorbell sounded and he grabbed a linen drying towel and hurriedly scrubbed the remaining moisture from his body. Sliding on the hatachigi pants he’d abandoned on the bathroom floor, Leif hurried toward the foyer. The darkening sky had thrown his living area into gloom. Flicking the porch light switch, he opened the door to find Birdie standing on the stoop. Cool air swooshed in, so he grabbed the Patagonia pullover from the nearby hook and tugged it on.

“Birdie,” he said, peering out to see Abigail standing once again at the mailbox. Obviously the two had given him some recovery time before resuming whatever mission they were on. Something about drawing. Maybe Abigail wanted her daughter to have private lessons.

“Hey,” the girl said, shifting nervously in her Converse high-tops. “Mom made me come back to apologize.”

“For...?”

“Uh, two things. First...” She glanced at her mother. Abigail gave her an encouraging nod. “I shouldn’t have said that woman smushing cake in your face was awesome.”

Leif couldn’t stop the laugh. Right after Birdie had declared the awesomeness of Marcie’s actions, Abigail had hustled her daughter away with a quick farewell. She’d nearly dragged Birdie toward the adjacent access walk to the Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast. “Well, it wasn’t awesome for me, but I can understand from your vantage point.”

“Yeah. She was pretty mad at you.”

Leif lifted a shoulder. “Eh, I deserved it.”

“You did?”

From her post Abigail cleared her throat. Loudly.

Annoyance shadowed Birdie’s eyes. “And the second thing I’m sorry for is spying on you.”

“Huh?”

Birdie turned and called to her mother. “There. I told him. Are you happy?”

Abigail gave her daughter the “watch it, missy” look mothers had been giving from the beginning of time.

Leif braced his hands on the door frame, drawing Birdie’s attention. “You’ve been spying on me? Why?”

Birdie swallowed, shifting restlessly before tilting herself closer to him. “It was last month. I accidently spied on you when I climbed a tree...for, uh, some sketching.” She inclined her head toward her mother and dropped her voice to a whisper. “That’s how I get away from her. She stresses me out.”

He could see that. His observation of the buttoned-up Abigail had given him the impression someone needed to release a pressure valve inside the woman. Glancing at her now in her navy sweater, her mouth pressed into a serious line, he figured it was tough to have a mom who carried a label maker and a thick accordion binder of forms, calendars and sanitizing wipes. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

The girl leaned even closer, so that he could smell the apple scent of her shampoo. Her gaze pleaded with him. “I didn’t tell my mom you were naked. Please don’t tell her.”

Whoa.

Leif sucked in air. Dear God. He’d never considered that while swimming his daily laps, someone would see him clad in his birthday suit. His privacy fence topped out at eight feet and he usually did laps in the cloak of darkness. It had grown colder the past few weeks so he’d started swimming at the rec center, but last month he’d been in his pool. “Jeez, Birdie, that’s, uh, not cool.”

The girl rocked back on her heels, tears sheening her eyes. “I didn’t mean to, okay? I didn’t really see anything. Much.”

“Okay, don’t cry. The human body isn’t something to be ashamed of so let’s not make this something skeevy.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No, but you need to tell your mom at some point. Keeping a secret like this isn’t a good idea.” He nearly choked on the last thought. He’d kept a big secret from everyone in the town. He was the son of Calliope—a woman they thought murdered someone. He was also the son of some guy who still lived in Magnolia Bend. He just needed to find out who that guy was.

“She’ll make it into something bad.”

Leif looked at Abigail, who had given up the aggravation and now appeared concerned about the quiet conversation her daughter was having with him. “Curiosity about the opposite sex is natural, Birdie. Not bad. It’s how we’re made. But the deal is I’m a teacher at your school. Things like this can get complicated.”

Birdie squinted her eyes, obviously seeing it from his point of view for the first time. But then her expression grew pleading again. “It was an accident. I won’t do it again, and we don’t have to tell anyone you were naked. This is all my fault. Not yours. I’m the pervert.”

“Is everything okay?” Abigail called.

Leif raised a hand and gave her a flashbulb smile before directing his regard to her child. “Don’t say that. You did what any eleven-year-old would do.”

“I’m twelve.”

“Okay, but even so, you don’t have to be ashamed of being curious. I accept your apology, and I will make sure next time I pull on a suit, okay?”

Birdie nodded, diamond teardrops clinging to her long lashes. “I’m really sorry.”

“Okay. We’ve put this behind us. And you do realize that in some art classes, students sketch unclothed bodies. Artists see things differently, right?”

“Of course,” Birdie said with a nod before easing off his porch. “Thank you, Mr. Lively.”

Leif smiled, even while inside his gut clenched. He would have to tell Abigail about the “secret” he now shared with Birdie. But that would be hard. He could envision Abigail overreacting to her daughter acting on natural curiosity. She’d make it something it wasn’t. Abigail Orgeron wasn’t a helicopter mom—she was a tank who sat on her daughter. Poor kid. Birdie tried to escape someone who wanted control over every aspect of life.