The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend) (15 page)

“I’m not interested in Carter or a snooty charity ball for that matter. Besides he’s too young for me. I babysat him once.”

“He’s four years younger...and a doctor,” her mother said.

“That doesn’t make him any more appetizing. Degrees don’t matter to me, remember?” Shelby said, tossing back the words her mother had thrown at her more than twice in her life.

Elaborate sigh. “Fine, Shelby, it’s your life. You’ve always made it crystal clear you will go your own way. I wish you the best even if living thousands of miles away and teaching Algebra is what you choose for yourself.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Have to run now. Let me know if you will be home for Christmas. I have to give the caterers a head count.”

“What about Mosa?”

“Saved her vacation time so she could go home to South Africa for a month. At the worst time of the year, too.”

Of course her mother would see Mosa wanting to be with her family at Christmas for the first time in twenty years an inconvenience. Shelby started to point out how incredibly selfish it was to resent their housekeeper for taking the vacation she more than earned looking after the Mackeys for two decades. But she didn’t. Instead, the devil prodded her to do something awfully immature. Something almost evil for a Sunday morning. “Oh, by the way, I meant to tell you I’m pregnant. You’ll be a grandmother in June. Tell Daddy I said hello. The Carlisles, too.”

“Ah,” her mother said. “Ah, what? Did you—”

“Gotta go,” Shelby chirped. “Talk to you next Sunday.”

She pressed the end button.

“Oh, my God,” she said into the empty room. Then she tossed the phone on the bed and flopped down beside it, causing the do-not-read stack of books to landslide toward her. Rebecca’s journal landed on her stomach.

Her phone vibrated insistently.

Shelby giggled, pressing her hand over her mouth. Yep, in true Shelby fashion she’d shocked her mom right out of her Gucci slippers. And no matter what, she wasn’t going to answer the ringing phone.

But then her phone chirped.

Holy cow poop. Her mother had texted her. Marilyn never texted because she considered it tasteless as a form of conversation.

Call me back. Now.

Not on your life, Mother.

Shelby picked up the journal and studied it against the bright light haloing her hands. The phone on the bed stopped vibrating, magnifying the stillness of the house. Running a finger around the slightly frayed edge of the leather, Shelby laid the journal on her chest.

Looking up, she could see the ceiling fan needed dusting, but she could also picture Rebecca as a girl lying on the bed, looking up at the same gray ceiling trimmed with white molding. What had Rebecca dreamed about?

John?

Or had she dreamed of being a fashion designer? Or maybe she’d prayed to make cheerleader? Or hoped to get the prized solo in the choir? Dreams, prayers, hopes...that’s what being a girl entailed.

A sudden warmth grew in Shelby’s stomach, radiating throughout her body. She often received the same sort of peaceful intuitiveness when she practiced Shavasana in her yoga class, when she connected to herself. Strange to feel so reflective and at peace after a difficult conversation with her mother.

Yet, lying in the small space with nothing but the warm sun shining in and the wind tangling the chimes on the porch, Shelby felt touched by something she couldn’t begin to describe.

Her fingers fanned the pages still held tight between the cover of the journal. Lifting the journal off her chest, she slowly unwound the cord looped round the button and touched the first entry.

Dear journal (or Becca! Ha-ha)

Today I went to Mama and Daddy’s new house to take a few things they left behind. Still can’t believe they let John and me have Breezy Hill all to ourselves. I think it broke Daddy’s heart to leave the place he loves so, but Mama swears it will be good for him to live somewhere else, and she loves their neighborhood with the walking trails and small pond. She said it was time to change the guard and let Daddy rest. I guess she’s right. He’s always worked so hard.

I’ve put away all of our wedding gifts and asked Susi Evans to sew some new curtains for the breakfast nook. Sounds boring, but I’ll be back at work soon. John is already making improvements on the barn. He’s so funny, like a kid in a candy store, picking out this and that. He’s so proud to be running Breezy Hill (though he tries really hard not to show it in front of Daddy.) Tonight I’m making pork chops which is John’s favorite. Maybe an apple pie, too. Or not since he didn’t remember to pick up the dry cleaning.

Maybe I’ll get the hang of this writing stuff and not be so boring. Ha!

Becca

Closing the journal, Shelby set it away from her, knowing she shouldn’t have read any of Rebecca’s thoughts even if she’d felt compelled by some woo-woo moment that felt ordained.

She wasn’t living in a made-for-TV movie where the ghost of John’s wife gave her permission to be nosy so she could send a message from another realm.

Shelby rewrapped the cord and righted the stack of books. “No more snooping, Nancy Drew.”

Turning on her side, Shelby looked out the window at the blue Louisiana sky...and then closed her eyes.

And fell asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“J
OHN
,
WAIT
UP
,”
Matt called across the church parking lot.

John turned and waited on his brother, who jogged toward him in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Matt felt being the headmaster of St. George’s Episcopal called for a certain amount of pomp. The man had rules in his head and he lived by them.

“I have the Algebra teacher’s edition for Shelby in my car along with forms the payroll office will need.”

“I’ll take them to her,” John said. “Where’re Mary Jane and the kids?”

“Just me today. Mary Jane’s taking the boys to her parents’ for the afternoon. Something about going to the zoo. So are you going to Mom’s for lunch?”

John followed his brother to the Chevy Impala. Sturdy car for a sturdy brother. “Not sure.”

“So this Shelby thing? You going to talk about it?”

John didn’t say anything.

“She’s living with you.”

John shook his head. “We’re not sleeping together if that’s what you’re implying.”

Matt waved at someone over John’s shoulder before zeroing in on John. “I’m not implying anything. Just an odd situation. Can’t expect people not to comment.”

“I don’t,” John said, watching as Matt moved his gym bag and lifted the box filled with a binder, book and a folder and passed it to him.

“But you’re not being forthcoming?”

“Do I need to?”

“This isn’t like you.”

Exasperation rose inside John. “Maybe I’m tired of grieving, tired of feeling guilty over the circumstances around Rebecca’s death.” If he said it, maybe he’d believe it. He had to want to heal. He had to give himself a break.

Matt closed the door. “You should be tired of it. Still, this new woman came out of the blue. Mom swears she’s just what you need, but the rest of us are worried. We don’t know Shelby. What if she’s—”

“What? After my money? Then she’ll be disappointed. Almost everything I’ve made these years has been reinvested in the farm.”

“You got insurance money. There are some people who follow that kind of thing and they take advantage.”

John felt like Matt had punched him. No one had asked him about the beneficiary money he received once Rebecca’s death had been ruled an accident. “Are you serious?”

“You know the kind of world we live in.”

“Shelby’s not like that. And so you know, I gave the money to the school.”

“Avondale?”

“Every penny. Rebecca would have wanted something good to have come from something so terrible.”

Matt stared at him, a strange look on his face. “I always wondered.”

“Now you know.” John started for his truck.

“John?”

“What now?”

Matt jogged behind him. “Let me get the truck door.”

“I don’t need help.”

Matt’s hand stopped him, turning him slightly as his brother stepped in front of him. “You never let anyone help you, but if you need me, I’ll be at the fishing camp.”

“The camp?”

His brother made a face. “Thing is, Mary Jane and I are having some issues. Nothing major, just some growing pains in our marriage. For the time being, I’m staying at the camp.” His brother averted his eyes and looked flustered. Embarrassed.

“God, Matt,” John said, shifting the box to his hip and stretching out a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “Is there something I can do?”

“Nah. I’m offering to help you. Don’t worry. Mary Jane and I will be fine. We both need some time to think about what we want.”

“She’s not happy?”

Matt shook his head. “No, and honestly, neither am I. Raising kids is hard, and since I took over as the principal of St. George’s, I’ve been way too busy. And there are other things.”

“Another woman? Or another man?”

“God, no.” Matt looked insulted. “Nothing like that. But remember the stress you faced with Rebecca? All the fertility treatments, hormonal surges and grief? Remember how you left some nights and came over just to get away? It’s that kind of thing.”

“Mary Jane wants another baby?”

“No. The opposite. She wants to move to New Orleans to run an art gallery.” Matt shook his head, staring at the cars filing out of the lot. “I shouldn’t be going into this right now, and I wasn’t trying to make you feel weird about the fact you’re living with... Well, Shelby’s pretty nice to look at.”

Yeah, she was. Everyone seemed to notice her beauty. So if Shelby weren’t hotter than a two-dollar pistol, would people even care they were shacking up? Not that they were shacking up in the literal sense. But if Shelby were unattractive, would anyone doubt the reason John gave Shelby a place to stay? “Yeah, she’s pretty, but that doesn’t figure into it.”

Matt hooked a dark brow.

John sighed.

“Fine,” his brother said, swiping a weary hand over his face. John looked hard at Matt, noting the lines in his face, the worry ringing his gray-green eyes. In the span of a few months, his brother had aged. So how bad were things between him and Mary Jane? Not good if they were no longer living in the same house.

“What time should I tell Shelby to be at school tomorrow?”

“We open the doors at seven o’clock. Since she’ll likely want to settle into the classroom, I’d suggest getting there at that time. Ms. Fox said she marked the chapter they were on and included some handouts. I’m sure she can figure it out, but if there are questions, give her my cell phone number.”

“Okay. Have a good one, Matt. I’m sorry about...the thing.”

His brother nodded, and with a slight wave, walked away, his shoulders heavy as his footfalls.

Damn.

John hadn’t seen trouble between Matt and Mary Jane coming, but then again he’d never seen Shelby coming, either.

John climbed inside his truck and set the box on the passenger seat. He’d spent the past year alone in this truck. Over the past few days, it felt good to have Shelby beside him, someone to point out two deer perched on the side of the road or the old Tomlinson house that had burned down two weeks ago. Not that the house burning was a good thing...it was just nice not to be alone.

He’d wanted her to come to church with him. Stand beside him and sing hymns and smile at the kids when they ran down the aisle for children’s church. He missed having someone beside him. Missed the smell of floral perfume and the clack of high heels. But he understood Shelby’s reluctance to come to First Pres with him. Lots of looky loos in his father’s congregation.

Maybe he could talk her into coming to his parents’ house for lunch. She’d already been there before so it wouldn’t be intimidating, and she could grill Matt about St. George’s and all the school stuff teachers had to deal with. Besides, who passed up a good old-fashioned Sunday dinner?

When he entered the house at Breezy Hill, it was eerily quiet, making his mind jump to the worst possible conclusion. He circled through the downstairs and double-checked that her car still sat in the drive before taking the stairs two at a time calling Shelby’s name. She didn’t answer, but the door to the guest room was slightly ajar.

John’s throat tightened, his mind tripping back to that horrible evening when he stumbled over his wife’s blood-soaked body on the back steps.

Dear God, please let Shelby be okay.

He sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Shelby lay sound asleep on the bed, flopped onto her back, mouth slightly open, lightly snoring. She still wore her nightgown, a short light purple silky thing bunched at the hip, revealing a pair of polka-dot lacy panties. Her blond hair spilled across the bed, and her rather large and quite possibly perfect breasts rose and fell with each breath.

Desire fired straight to his groin, causing an erection to stir in those pressed khaki pants his mother had ordered from J. Crew.

If Shelby had a bow tied around her, she wouldn’t have been any more of a gift.

But she wasn’t his to open, was she?

Her words from the night before still echoed in his mind.
Don’t touch me, don’t kiss me, don’t screw me until you can do so without apologizing.

John wasn’t sure he could do as asked. If he slipped into her bedroom and took what he was certain the sleepy, responsive Shelby would likely give him, after it was over, he’d feel regret. He wasn’t ready to own the desire he had for Shelby. She’d been right—regretting every time he gave in to lust wasn’t fair to her. Making love to Shelby would be pleasurable, but the intimacy would still feel like a betrayal of Rebecca. So waking sweet Shelby with a kiss wouldn’t happen no matter how much he craved sinking inside her, losing himself inside a vortex of desire, owning the craving, marking Shelby as his.

Slowly and carefully, he closed the door.

“John?”

Her voice, raspy with sleep, sounded like pure seduction.

He opened the door enough to pop his head inside and said, “Sorry to wake you.”

Struggling to sit up, Shelby pushed hair out of her eyes, nearly exposing one breast, before righting the gown to cover her absolutely delicious plump flesh. John swallowed and tried to look away as she pushed the hem of the gown past her thighs and stretched. The motion caused her breasts to sway against the material pulled taut. “What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty.” He somehow managed to not squeak.

She rubbed a hand over her face, yawning. “Oh, I’ve been so tired lately. Can’t believe I conked out like that. You called for me?”

“Yeah, and I got worried when you didn’t answer.”

“Oh,” she said, before stiffening as if she realized what her not answering had done to him. “Oh. Sorry I worried you.”

“I came back to see if I could talk you into lunch at my parents’ house,” he said, changing the subject from the fear he’d experienced. He’d hated feeling so helpless, hated the dread knitted inside him.

Swinging her legs over the bed, she stood and the gown slid down her legs, clinging to all the right places. She reached for her robe and her breasts fell forward, the sunlight illuminating her figure within the thin fabric.

Temptation wrapped round him, digging in its fangs. Desire, raw and wicked, invaded. John pulled the door tighter against him. He could control himself. He could. Had to.

Knuckles white, he clung to the door as if it could prevent him from going to her, peeling off that robe, sliding down the straps of the silky gown and then reveling in the healing power of a sexy, hotter-than-hell woman.

She tugged on the robe, tying it emphatically around her waist as if she sensed his thoughts and knew his conflict. “I’d rather stay here. Like I told you before.”

“Of course,” he said, stepping back, pulling the knob to him. “I’ll be back later. Matt sent some stuff for you. I’ll put the box on the kitchen table.”

“Thanks,” she said, withdrawing a book from the top of a stack sitting on the end of the bed. “I found this. It’s a journal your wife kept.” She pushed it toward him.

Tan leather with a silver button, the journal bobbed in her hand. “Rebecca?”

“You didn’t have another wife, did you?” she said with a small smile.

He didn’t want to cross the room because he still had a semierection going. “No. Just put it with the other books. I should have cleaned this room out before I offered it to you.”

“But don’t you want the journal?” she asked, drawing the book back to her, looking at him with puzzlement.

“Sure,” he said, still holding the door between them. “I’ll come back in here at an appointed time and take out the stuff that’s in your way. Carla may want some of the things—I think there are some scrapbooks and even an old doll in the top of the closet.”

Slowly, Shelby turned, setting the journal on the dresser.

“I don’t have to go to my parents’ house. I can stay here and we can watch a movie?”

“I thought you had to work this afternoon.”

“I decided against it. My men like to go to church or sleep in one day a week. We only miss if we’re running way behind.”
Or want to avoid things in our lives.

She shook her head. “Go to your parents’. I need to go through the box your brother sent. I haven’t taught Algebra in a while so I need to get some lesson plans together for the week.”

“Oh, sounds good,” he said, not believing his own words, wishing she would have asked him to stay. Why would she, though? She’d made herself perfectly clear. And shouldn’t he still harbor anger over the way she’d lashed out the night before, saying things she’d had no right to say for a woman who’d known him for only a week? Of course, he likely needed to hear those things—to remember he still lived in a world where others had grieved and moved on to find happiness in life.

“Bye,” she said, watching him stand there like a moron.

“Oh, right. I’ll be back later. Make your—”

“—self at home,” she finished. “Got it.”

He closed the door, wanting to immediately bang his head against it. But he didn’t. He turned toward the stairs intent to soldier on.

Or what had Matt called it? Growing pains?

Living with someone always took time and patience. Even when he and Rebecca first got married, they struggled over space and time constraints, bickering about clothes left in the bathroom or who ate the last protein bar. And they had been emphatically in love with one another.

He and Shelby were still essentially strangers.

Giving her space after their argument last night was necessary. He wanted her to stay, to feel like he could be an asset to her and the baby, so if she wanted to spend the afternoon alone, he’d respect her wish.

Onward, soldier.

* * *

C
ARLA
S
TANTON
LIKED
sleeping in. Her ideal wake-up time was around 9:00 a.m. followed by a half hour of coffee, newspaper and Bible study. She rarely went out before lunch and never without teased hair, painted-on eyebrows and Think Bronze lipstick in place.

But Monday morning she rose before the sun peeked over the river levee. Before
Good Morning America
came on, she was out the door, heading for Magnolia Bend wearing her newest scarf.