Secrets Gone South (Crimson Romance)

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2014 by Jean Hovey and Stephanie Jones.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-7239-9

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7239-5

eISBN 10: 1-4405-7240-2

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7240-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123rf.com/Kyrylo Grekov; istock.com/coryz

For Jason. We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t said, “Write me some back story.”

and

For the real book club that’s been there since the beginning.

As we have learned from the Gone South heroines, book club is sometimes comprised of the women who have exemplified in the finest way possible the meaning of lifetime friendship. Among us there is history—some old, some newer—but all equally precious. We’ve stood together at bedsides, gravesides, and shore sides. Together we’ve worn caps and gowns, wedding gowns, ball gowns, and hospital gowns. We have celebrated “I dos” and dried tears through more than one “I can’t anymore.” We understand that a casserole, a bottle of wine, and some righteous indignation doesn’t fix everything, but those things can make a rough road a little easier to walk. We’ve seen each other through the best and worst that life can serve up with love, laughter, and tears.

Along the way, we’ve even read some books and come up with some mighty fine notions.

So for Anna, Angie, Beth, Dayna, Julie, Kim, Kristy, Laura, Lynn, Michelle, Patty, Stephania, Stephanie T., and Wendy, for all the times you said, “Yes, you can,” when we thought we couldn’t anymore—this one’s for y’all.

J.P.H. and S.L.J.

Cynthia Wallen—Many thanks for your encouragement and your knowledge of medical equipment. Having a doctor for a heroine seemed like a great idea until she had to actually do something medical related.

Jason Duffey—Thank you for your knowledge of the practicality and philosophy of fine woodworking. Having an artisan carpenter for a hero seemed like a great idea until he had to actually do some woodworking.

And, as always, thank you Tara, Jess, and Julie. May we have many Crimson days together.

In the strictest sense, just breathing the early morning pig-fat-scented air of Lou Anne’s diner ought to go against the law of vegetarianism, but it didn’t bother Will Garrett. He was a tolerant man. The only laws he had were for himself. It didn’t even offend him that Lou Anne never remembered to leave the bacon off his scrambled egg platter. In fact, he understood. In Lou Anne’s world, men who didn’t eat meat simply could not exist. Life was about choices: he could choose to be glad he existed for Lou Anne or he could ruin his morning because his personal preferences were not utmost on the collective mind of the world at large.

It was an easy choice.

Across the table, Brantley Kincaid slid his plate forward and Will deposited the bacon there. They had done this so many times over so many breakfasts, that they didn’t even remark on it anymore.

Will and Brantley had gotten into the habit of eating together when they’d been working on restoring a historical building, along with Brantley’s girlfriend, Lucy, who was now his wife. The magazine that had done a spread on the building after it won an award of excellence from the Southeastern Preservation and Restoration Association had called Will an “artisan” and a “master craftsman.”

He called himself a carpenter. That was good enough for anybody.

“So,” Brantley said, “I took the job to restore the Italianate Church in Sercey. Just thirty miles from here. Built in 1854. It’s a little gem.”

Brantley was about to try and sell him on a job. It wasn’t the first time. In fact, after relocating Kincaid Architectural Design and Restoration to Merritt, Brantley had tried to talk Will into a partnership—something that would never happen. Brantley was a real professional and took pride in his work. Will respected him, even counted him as a friend. But a partnership meant compromise, and Will did not compromise where his work was concerned. However, he liked working with Brantley and he might be interested in this project—if it felt right.

“It’s got a hand carved altar rail—at least what’s left of it.” Brantley gave him a challenging look. This was the kind of work Will liked best and Brantley knew it. “Their original altar furniture was destroyed in a fire and has never been replaced. They have pictures. Yep. Lots of hand carving. And they have no illusions about what that kind of work costs.”

“I’ll have to see it.” More to the point, he had to touch it, see how the wood felt. He had to walk the property. If it gave out negative feelings, he was out. He also didn’t work for people he didn’t like. He’d once turned down a job worth tens of thousands of dollars because the property owner made his preschool son cry when the boy interrupted their meeting.

Brantley took out his archaic day planner—a small, brown, leather notebook. Worn and weather-beaten, it looked like something Ralph Lauren would take camping to keep up with the firewood.

“How’s next week? Tuesday, January thirteenth?” Brantley asked.

“I can do that.” Will took out his smart phone and keyed it in. Brantley knew from experience that Will would say no more on the subject until he saw the property. He didn’t understand it, but he accepted it. Will had become close with Brantley and Lucy, but not close enough to tell them of his kinship with the wood.

However, there was some information he needed, and there was no doubt that Brantley had said information. Due to his wife being mobbed up with a group of women who seemed to know stuff before it happened, Brantley was an information goldmine. Not that Will usually cared about such things. But he cared about this and it would be easy to get because Brantley was a talker and all you had to do was point him down a path and wind him up.

“How’s Lucy?” Will asked. Lucy was an interior designer and Will had worked with her several times over the past few years.

“Good.” Brantley broke into the smile of a besotted, satisfied, recently married man. Will had been at the August wedding, though it had cost him a little piece of himself. He paid a little bit every time he saw Arabelle Avery. “She’s busy. She’s been redoing Lanie Avery’s old apartment—the one she lived in above her candy shop before she married Luke and they moved to the farm.” A little frown crossed Brantley’s face. “Luke’s sister is moving into the apartment.” This was going to be easier than Will had anticipated. “Do you know Arabelle?”

Will nodded. “We don’t go deep, but we go back.” Or they didn’t go deep, unless you counted that night two and a half years ago. And it couldn’t be counted because both times he’d seen her since, she had turned him down flat when he’d tried to see her again. She wanted nothing to do with him. Not that he had really expected she would. He took a sip of his coffee. “I heard she was in town. I thought it might just be for the holidays.”

“No. She’s here for good, wanted to live near Luke and Lanie, I guess. It had to be a shock—losing her cousin, who was also her best friend, and getting custody of that baby all in one fell swoop. She stayed in Atlanta for a few months after getting the boy but she needed some help. I think it was just a lot, trying to take care of a baby and working as a trauma surgeon in a big hospital.”

“When did that happen?” Will knew the answer to that but this was the part where he was winding Brantley up.

“September,” Brantley said. “Lucy and I had just gotten back from our honeymoon. The cousin, Sheridan, and her husband, David, were flying home from the coast and their little plane went down. For a while, there was a lot of confusion and everyone thought baby Avery was with them, but he was home with the nanny. Everyone was a little surprised that they left the baby to Arabelle but, according to Luke, Sheridan’s parents are not in the best of health and David’s never really warmed to Avery because he’s adopted.”

“Decent of them,” Will said. “Where is Arabelle working?”

“That, I do not know,” Brantley said. “Lucy said she was starting somewhere this week. I assume the hospital.”

“Got to be a lot different in Merritt,” Will said.

“I guess that’s what she was going for. Seems like she’s changing her whole life to take care of her cousin’s little boy.”

“Arabelle’s a good person.” And he meant that. Arabelle’s father was a state senator so growing up, she’d spent most of the year living in Montgomery with her family, only returning to the Avery family farm in Merritt for summers and holidays. Will had known Arabelle from their teen years, when he’d worked at the Merritt Country Club, where she swam and played tennis. She had always been kind and friendly to him, though his job had not been a plum one like caddying or lifeguarding. No. Those jobs went to the offspring of club members who wanted to earn a little extra money. Will had cleaned the pool, mowed grass, and served drinks and food to the poolside privileged. Arabelle had never once tipped him when be brought her a Coke or a chicken salad sandwich. And of all the kindnesses she had shown him, Will considered this the greatest because that tip would have embarrassed him and relegated him to her servant. He knew this to be a kindness rather than a slight because he’d seen her tip the others—though she never smiled at them the way she smiled at him. He’d never forgotten that. Over the years he’d learned it was far more productive to remember kindnesses and forget slights.

An idea began to work across Brantley’s face. “Hey, you ought to ask Arabelle out.”

That was one of the things Will liked best about Brantley. He came from old money and the bluest blood in the south, but he truly did not understand some basics in life. No matter how many magazines called Will an artisan, no matter how much money people were willing to pay for a handmade table, the son of a drunk and a woman who was too worn out to do much parenting did not go calling on a state senator’s daughter.

But he was stoic about all that. No reason not to be. He’d landed in a good life.

“Seriously,” Brantley said. “She could use some fun and you haven’t had a date in over a year.”

“Not that you know of,” Will said. He’d gotten all he was going to get without giving something back. But that was okay. He’d found out what he wanted to know. Arabelle was back in Merritt to stay. He’d even gotten the bonus of learning where she was going to live. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like he’d be knocking on her door.