Sweet Talking Man

“Tonight sucked.”

“I know. Feels like getting sideswiped,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah, sideswiped,” she breathed, looking out into the inky darkness as if it could provide a solution to Cal showing up...a solution to her wanting to rest her head on Leif’s shoulder. “You know, you’re a decent guy for a lothario.”

“Lothario?”

“I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Just because women hurl themselves at you...”

He stuck a finger to his cheek. “It’s the dimple.”

She felt her lips twitch before she could stop herself. “Magic, huh?”

His eyes grew flirty. “Is it working on you?”

Inside, she stilled much like the darkness around them. Should she laugh it off or tell him the truth? Roll the dice or hold her cards close? “Eh, kind of.”

“Perfect.”

He settled back, kicking them into motion again, seeming content to do nothing more than sit beside her, sip liquor and enjoy the intimacy of not having to say a thing.

An owl hooted and the squeak of the swing created a soothing lullaby as the warm liquor made Abigail feel languid and heavy. After they’d been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour, Abigail stopped the swing. “I should go inside.”

“It’s late,” he agreed, rising and extending a hand. She took it, almost sighing at the warmth of his skin against her cold hand. God help her, but she wanted to feel his arms around her, to give him what she’d denied Cal earlier.

“Thank you,” she said.

His eyes stayed soft as he whispered, “That’s what neighbors are for.”

“Neighbors?”

“And friends.”

“Oh.” She glanced away, trying not to feel crushing disappointment. Stupid woman. Leif had been doing what he did best—charming anything in a skirt. Not that she wore a skirt. Too cold for that. But he probably flirted with grocery store cashiers, phlebotomists and anyone he came in contact with—including lonely, pathetic neighbors.

“And women I want to kiss.”

Abigail blinked. “You want to kiss me?”

He brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss on the back of it. His whiskey breath fanned her skin, causing heat to shimmer in her stomach. “Another time, pretty Abigail.”

Abigail stared at the hand he released before snapping out of the trance he’d put her in. “Oh.”

“Night.”

“Good night, Leif. Thank you.”

He picked up the bottle and lifted a hand as he walked down the steps. “My pleasure.”

Then he left her with a smile...and a hunger she knew would keep her awake long into the night.

CHAPTER SIX

THE NEXT MORNING Leif skirted the woods behind his house. Laurel Woods sprawled in the middle of twenty acres of pine, hardwoods and scrubby brush that harbored deer, raccoons and pesky squirrels who cut pinecones into his lap pool. Technically, he was trespassing, but since he’d taken Abigail a drink last night, he was sure he could get a pass for traipsing through her woods on an early-morning hike.

Of course, his real intent was to poke around the abandoned cabins that sat to the left of the huge white house.

His mother had lived in one of them.

Hell, he may have even been conceived in one of them.

All along he’d intended to get to know the owner of Laurel Woods. But he hadn’t realized the owner was the fusspot PTA president, the kind of woman who made a guy’s fellows shrink to the size of blueberries. His neighbors had told him that Abigail had petitioned against the subdivision, even going as far as to solicit the aid of the Historical Society. She’d lost. And she hadn’t been happy about it, erecting a huge fence to block the development from her sight.

Leif had practiced patience hoping to eventually befriend the woman. And finally opportunity had plopped in his lap by way of Birdie.

He glanced at the large Greek revival house standing proud and rebellious in the face of the elements determined to wear away the centuries-old edifice. It was just like its owner—defiant and guarded.

As he pushed through the bushes that encroached on the trail, he wondered if anything his mother had created remained in the former slave cabins that had been modified forty-five years ago to house traveling artists. He had little hope since the cabins had been shut up for years, but he’d wanted to see where his mother had lived. Perhaps something remained of her, some hint of who she’d been...of whom she’d fallen in love with.

At the coffeehouse where he sometimes played on Friday nights he’d run into Royal Desadier, the grandson of Simeon Harvey’s former groundskeeper. Royal lived with his grandfather Cletus, who suffered poor health but whose mind was still sharp. Leif asked to visit Cletus because the man had been around when artists populated the grounds.

Simeon Harvey had brought in artists from all over the world, including Leif’s mother, who had journeyed from her Colorado commune to a studio in one of the cabins. She’d left four short months after arriving amidst allegations of murder, taking with her what she called her one true masterpiece—Leif.

On his birth certificate, there was a suspicious blank. His mother had refused to discuss the man who’d fathered him anytime Leif brought up the subject. He’d received the last name Lively from a small Colorado town his mother had once visited. For thirty-four years, Leif had made do without a father.

And for those same thirty-four years, Leif had pretended he didn’t need to know the man who had impregnated his mother. It had been easier to pretend there wasn’t a void in his life. But underneath the happy-go-lucky hippie veneer was a small boy who longed to know who his father was.

Calliope had died holding fast to his name.

So Leif had no clue who his biological father was.

And no one in the small community of Magnolia Bend knew Leif was the son of a murderess.

Leif emerged into a clearing and saw an older woman pulling weeds in front of the first in a string of cabins.

Quickly, so as not to be seen, he ducked behind the huge magnolia tree blooming on the edge of the woods. He had no idea who the woman was, but he didn’t feel like explaining why he trespassed.

Soon he’d have to confide in someone with regard to the search for his roots. Southerners were definitely hospitable but they closed ranks fast if they knew you weren’t one of them. And it had been obvious from his first day in Magnolia Bend that he wasn’t one of them. Maybe Abigail would be the perfect person to reveal his true purpose for being here to. Her family had lived in this area forever and she could provide him with some history and help locate someone who might remember his mother.

Abigail.

She was the antithesis of overblown and easy. Her willowy frame harkened back to Jane Austen and buttoned-up dresses. That stubborn chin, dark hair and intellect were reasons to move away from her rather than inch closer. Yet he’d shown up at her house last night, liquor in hand.

Oh, he’d argued with himself about going, but reason had lost.

Why?

She intrigued him. Her edges needed rounding out. Like she needed someone to show her how to freakin’ relax, to let the woman beneath the field sergeant climb out and play.

He could do that—ply her with pretty words, treat her to a bit of romance and laughter. But why he felt like doing so was as clear as morning on the San Francisco Bay.

Maybe it was because he knew how she felt when her ex-husband had slammed back into her life. Or maybe there was no good reason. Maybe he was an eternal hopeless dumb ass looking for someone to belong to. Maybe it was a really stupid idea.

Doubling back toward his house, he tried to talk himself out of any further romantic interactions with Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron. But by the time he stepped onto his porch, he’d decided to not worry so much about the reasons he shouldn’t and embrace the reasons he should.

If there was one thing Leif always did, it was listen to what the universe told him.

And the wind whispered her name.

* * *

“JOHN OFFICIALLY PROPOSED to Shelby,” Francesca “Fancy” Beauchamp said, handing Abigail the scissors so she could trim the ribbon on the pillow she held.

Abigail looked at her mother, eyeing her handiwork critically. Thankfully, the pillows looked custom-made, something she could no longer afford. “I thought he’d already asked her? When did this happen?”

“Last night. Your brother drove her out to Boots Grocery, got down on a knee in the middle of the bar and told her he was glad he’d gotten drunk and knocked her up in the bathroom. And then he asked her to become his wife. Can you believe it? Our John?”

“No, the way he grieved Rebecca, I didn’t think it possible.”

Fancy shrugged. “Me neither, but I’m happy for him. Your father’s a bit appalled at the proposal locale.”

A bar wasn’t exactly the kind of place Reverend Dan Beauchamp frequented but it was where her brother had met Shelby...and where they’d made a mistake that set fate on its ear. “Well, it’s hard growing up a preacher’s kid. We constantly disappoint.”

Fancy smacked her hand, making her drop the scissors. “Don’t say that. Your father and I worked hard to raise you as regular kids, to be able to make mistakes without being judged by a ridiculous standard.”

Abigail picked up the scissors. “I’m not criticizing you and Dad. It’s just how it is. We accept it, but sometimes it’s hard. Take John. Who could have imagined someone so steady would topple head-over-boots for someone like Shelby? Never in a million years would I have put those two together.” She snipped the ragged threads that had not been sewn down. The ribbon made a perfect square in the middle of the flowered fabric. A pretty monogram sat in the center.

Fancy rose from the breakfast table and carried her empty mug to the sink. The large farmhouse sink anchored a generous slab of marble in the bright kitchen. Her mother’s kitchen reflected her personality—cheerful, with clean lines and purpose. Yes, it was an optimistic kitchen if there were such a thing.

“I like Shelby, and sometimes a person needs to be balanced out by someone who is their opposite,” Fancy said.

“I like Shelby, too. But they don’t look like they’d fit.”

Fancy returned to tug at a wayward thread, rolling it into a ball. “Can’t go on what we see. Scripture tells us man sees what is on the outside, but God sees a man’s heart. Perhaps John—”

“Oh, you can bet he was attracted to that outside.” Abigail bounced big pretend breasts against her chest.

“Hush,” Fancy said, but laughing anyway. “Speaking of not judging a book by its cover, how are the art lessons going?”

Abigail stilled, her mind flipping to the intimacy between her and her instructor the other night. “We’ve only had one lesson. I suck at drawing.”

“Language,” her mother warned.

“Oh, please. Suck is a perfectly good word. Don’t act like you don’t use it.”

“Me? I’d never use language unsuitable for a preacher’s wife,” Fancy said, a twinkle in her eye. Abigail knew very well her mother dropped the occasional curse word, but that was what made Fancy Beauchamp one of Magnolia Bend’s most-liked women. She could bake a mean pie and dance the tango, and believed a well-placed curse word was effective.

“The class is filled with women.”

“He’s a good-lookin’ man.”

“But odd. He wears sandals with pants and has a ponytail.”

“So did Jesus.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “Only you would compare Leif Lively to Jesus.”

“Why not? Both have magnetic personalities and woman kneeling at their feet.”

“Would you be serious?”

Fancy reached out and tweaked Abigail’s nose. “Lighten up, Francis.”

“You’re quoting Stripes? Nice.” Abigail stacked the three pillows at the end of the scarred wooden table. “So are you going to get around to what you really want to ask me?”

“You mean something besides how your art lessons with Mr. Yummy Yoga Pants have been going?”

Abigail couldn’t help herself. She chuckled.

Her mother brushed her wispy red hair from her face. “Now, that’s the Abi I love. Big laugh. Fun girl.”

Abigail snorted. Yeah, right. Her mother remembered things differently than she did. “I still laugh.”

“Not often enough.”

“Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes.”

Fancy sank into the fluffy armchair. “Come sit and tell me about Calhoun.”

Abigail took the opposite chair, releasing a huge sigh. “Well, he’s back. He says he’s home to stay.”

Fancy’s gaze dissected Abigail’s face. “You think he’s serious about staying?”

“He says so. Morgan left him, presumably for another man. Quite frankly I’m surprised she lasted five years with him. She saw him as her ticket out of the bayou, but no one could have told Cal that. He was so certain he’d missed out on the life he was supposed to live.”

“What a dumb ass,” Fancy said.

Abigail trilled, “Language.”

“Yeah, yeah. I grew up a Burnside. My papa could make a sailor blush. Apple, tree and all that. Besides, I say my prayers every night. The Good Lord knows Calhoun is a dumb ass, so forgiveness should be forthcoming.”

“True. So Cal’s living with his parents and says Buster gave him his old job at the plant. That surprised me—Buster was furious at him for abandoning us to go chasing fame and fortune.”

“Time has a way of healing anger for some folks. Buster loves Calhoun and the man isn’t getting any younger. He needs someone to take over the business when he retires.”

“Buster will never retire.”

“Don’t be too sure. Diabetes is tough on the body and he’s been having issues with his legs.” Fancy stared out at the winter-weary branches of the roses she loved to tend. “So what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve known Calhoun Everett Orgeron ever since he drank his first sip of milk. He’s the kind of man who leans on people to get what he wants.” Her mother looked at her, eyes soft and sympathetic.

“What?”

“He wants you back?”

Abigail clutched the arms of the chair, worry clawing her insides. “Why would you think he wants me back?”

“I just told you. I know Calhoun. He’ll want his old life. He thinks he deserves it because he’s an Orgeron...and because he has a pretty smile. He blew through his savings living in California, played footsie on the beach with a veritable child and now he’s home. He’s not going to sign up for eHarmony, so he’ll be over at Laurel Woods sweet-talkin’ you.”

“Well, he can bark up another tree.”

Fancy reached over and patted her hand. “You never could resist Calhoun.”

“The hell I can’t.” Abigail sat up straight. “He broke my heart. I spent years with my self-worth pancaked, so I’m done with Cal. His smile doesn’t work on me anymore.”

“Good girl. I’ve been worried. I saw Birdie yesterday and I swear that child could not stop talking about Daddy this and Daddy that. She’s going to make it harder to say no to Calhoun. Birdie will want to be a family again.”

“We are a family...just not a family who lives together. Birdie understands that. I just need to come up with some guidelines.”

“It won’t be just Birdie who’ll press this. Be prepared, daughter of mine. Be prepared.”

Abigail nodded as her cell phone rang. The clanging bells signaled the ringtone for St. George’s. “That’s the school. Hope Birdie’s sore throat hasn’t turned into strep again.”

Abigail stood, answering her phone. “Hey, Lelah, don’t tell me Birdie’s running a fever.”

Lelah Carter, the most efficient school secretary this side of the Mississippi said, “Oh, no. She’s good. Just thought you should know Cal checked her out thirty minutes ago. Said he was taking her to the Dairy Maid. He’s on the checkout list so I let her go with him, but after I thought about it, I figured you should know.”

Abigail closed her eyes. This was why she needed to clear her head of fluff and attend to Cal and what his return meant for their lives. “Thanks, Lelah. I don’t want her to miss any instructional time, so I’ll have a word with Cal.” She clicked the end button and collapsed into her chair.

“Everything okay with Birdie?” her mother asked.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Cal checked her out to take her to lunch. The man didn’t even bother to call and tell me. I would have told him no.”

Her mother made a face. “Well, he is her father. But this confirms what I said earlier. Things are about to get complicated.”

“Yeah,” Abigail said in monotone, knowing it was important she sit down with Cal to create some rules regarding Birdie. Having Cal in town, something she’d wanted years ago, felt like being shit on by a bird. She didn’t want him here, throwing her life into chaos. She didn’t need him bribing Birdie with hamburgers and ice cream and suggesting he could make up to her what he’d destroyed so long ago.

She was tempted to call Morgan and beg her to take Cal back...for the good of everyone.

“I’ve been praying for a little excitement in your life, but I don’t think you want Calhoun Orgeron to give it to you,” Fancy said.

“Lord, no,” Abigail said. “It’s like he’s trying to rattle me. Provoke me. That’s not the excitement I need.”

“Calhoun’s a man obsessed with himself, so don’t make this about you. He wanted to spend some time with his daughter today and didn’t think about how it might affect anyone else. He’s all about treats and giggles. Always has been.”

“Maybe he didn’t mean to ruffle my feathers, but it was irresponsible of him. And what is he teaching Birdie? That it’s okay to shirk school for a root-beer float?”

Fancy chuckled. “Oh, come on, Abigail. You’re mad because you didn’t give your permission. I’ve sat by for several years watching you exercise such firm control over your life that wiggle room is nonexistent.”

“Oh, God, Mom. Please don’t start this now. Not when I have to go deal with Cal and Birdie.”

Fancy crossed her legs Buddha-style and shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I mentioned it. Yes, you and Cal need to lay some ground rules, but he hasn’t seen his daughter since last summer. Missing a few hours of school won’t hurt her. Birdie needs you to give her a break every now and then.”

Abigail looked at her mother, at the woman who never let her or her brothers miss school unless vomit or a high fever were involved. As a former teacher, Fancy had declared that personal days were for other people. Beauchamps didn’t miss school for no reason. “Who are you?”

“A woman who has stared cancer in the face and known fear. A woman who realizes that doing the right thing is not always the best thing. A woman who has been watching her daughter hold on tighter and tighter to life, thinking she can control every aspect. Birdie needs breathing room, honey.”

“Why do our conversations always turn to my mothering skills?” Abigail shoved her phone into her purse and gathered up the pillows.

“I’m not trying to be critical.”

“Yeah, you are,” Abigail said, attempting to stuff the damn pillow into the bag it fit in moments before but was now refusing to go in. “Get in.”

“Calm down,” her mother said in that voice that made Abigail feel anything but calm.

Aggravation exploded inside her. Screw everyone. She was doing the best she could to raise Birdie. So she liked schedules and rules. People functioned better when they had them. And one of the rules she had was her ex-husband wasn’t allowed to check their daughter out of school for a cheeseburger. “I know I’m not perfect, but I try really hard to give Birdie parameters. That’s my job. To keep her safe and help her make good decisions.”

“Sure, but—”

“No. No buts, Mother. I have to go. Thanks for the pillows.” Abigail didn’t give her mother the opportunity to say anything further. She headed for the front of the house. Her mother called out to her, but she ignored her.

Fancy had become increasingly meddlesome when it came to Birdie, constantly bringing up the way Abigail parented. Her mother’s well-placed suggestions wore on Abigail. She loved Fancy and certainly valued her mother’s opinion, but that didn’t mean she agreed with her.

“Birdie needs some breathing room,” Abigail mimicked under her breath. “Breathing room, my ass. She needs to straighten the hell up is what she needs to do. And Cal needs to learn there are parameters.”

Abigail tossed the bag with the pillows in the back of her Volvo wagon and climbed inside, aware she’d been muttering to herself like an old woman. As she put the key in the ignition, she glanced at her loafers.

The ones she’d picked up at Talbots.

The ones that were like Marcie’s mother’s.

She pulled down the visor and clicked open the mirror. Her brow had knitted into four lines so that when she relaxed, her forehead remained wrinkled. She rubbed at the lines, noticing the dark circles under her eyes and the ever-present swoop of silver that fell over the right side of her hair. The stripe had appeared almost overnight five years ago—a month after Cal left her.

She wore her life on her face and the look wasn’t becoming. She stared at her hands that gripped the steering wheel. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers, wondering why she held on so tightly. Her insides felt just as tense. As if she might snap any moment.

She glanced into her own green eyes and sighed.

Who had she become?

If she stood back and observed herself, what would she see? A thin woman who wore buttoned-up cardigans with old-lady shoes. A woman who drove the safest car available. A woman who organized her calendar with colored tabs. Who wore dark colors. Who didn’t date because it was too much of a hassle. A woman who hadn’t had sex in one year, four months and a handful of days...with another person, that is. And even going to the trouble of picking up her vibrator had become too big a commitment. She didn’t have the energy for invoking fantasies that turned her on enough to go there.

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