He owed her professional courtesy, but wondered exactly which virtues Dr. Brown had extolled about him. The older man was blind to all but his better qualities. He wouldn’t want to embarrass Dr. Brown by being less than advertised. Maybe he’d call to invite the good doctor to join them for lunch?
“Beauregard, let’s go. Back inside, boy.”
He waited for Beau to enter and climb the stairs. Following Beau up the stairs, he trudged upward with the phone to his ear.
“Dr. Brown,” he said when the older man answered. “I’m taking Miss Lind to lunch, then for a tour of town. Would you and Vivian like to join us?”
“We’re on the boat on the St. Johns. Maybe next time you’ll join us? Now, take good care of Miss Lind today. We want her to stay for a long while.”
“Got it. Meeting her at one fifteen.”
Walking into the bathroom, he shed his work clothes. Steam rose from the shower as he stepped inside. With hot water sluicing over his body, he contemplated his colleague. That’s how he had to think of her. It was too dangerous otherwise.
What would it take to persuade him to move, as Branna had done? Away from home and family. Or what was she leaving behind and why? Was it to escape?
He dried and dressed quickly. Downstairs, he rubbed Beau behind the ear. “Hey, fella. You’re on guard duty, but I don’t want to find any tail brushing on the wet paint in the room upstairs. I’ll leave the music on to keep you company.”
Hitting the button on the stereo, it sent out strains of Keb ‘Mo picking on a Dobro guitar. Last October, he’d traveled to Austin, Texas to hear the man play. The Dobro had a sound all of its own, at least in the hands a master like Mr. Moore. Locally, country music trumped the blues, but that didn’t matter to him. He’d never been one to follow the pack, preferring a solitary path, yet another reason he never dated anyone from work.
But he’d enjoyed Branna’s company last night.
Was spending more time with her tempting fate?
Chapter 9
Branna arrived early for lunch with James. She parked her car in the lot behind the café and followed a stone path between two brick buildings. Flowerbeds trimmed the buildings’ edges. She pictured a fairy world amongst the lush growing plants. Fragrance from hyacinth blooms tickled her nose. Taking in a deep breath, she allowed the scents of spring to renew her. A gentle breeze ruffled the skirt of her sundress as her flats tapped against the stone. She slipped her hair behind her ears, then adjusted her sunglasses without dropping her clutch. A perfect almost-summer day. She welcomed the new sense of freedom.
Ahead, a large sign loomed on the corner. She paused to read about Main Street’s closure. The city’s re-urbanization project revived the old square by closing the road to vehicle traffic. Brick replaced asphalt, making the historic street a pedestrian mall with old-fashioned gaslights. Aged wooden barrels filled with pink flowers and trailing greenery lined the sidewalks, giving the place an old, country-town feel. The effect was charming.
“Ahh, sweetness.” Aromas of frying dough lifted to her nose and triggered hunger pangs. Her stomach grumbled loudly. Two biscotti and coffee hadn’t lasted very long, but she had fifteen minutes until the scheduled appointment with James. Maybe window-shopping would take her mind off food. Maybe.
Branna gazed down the street. Two-story brick buildings with second-floor wooden balconies covered and shaded the sidewalk below. It gave the town even more of a bygone-era feel, a familiarity after living in an antebellum home.
“Jewelry store. Children’s Shop. Lovely Ladies dress shop.” She recognized the L L logo. “Designer shoes. Bookstore. Donut shop. Bakery. The oldest Drug Store in town,” she itemized aloud. The sign advertised an old-fashioned soda fountain with malts and shakes.
Her mouth watered as her stomach growled like an angry hound. She had no one to blame but herself. She was responsible for selecting the hour of their meeting.
A small milkshake would stay her stomach hound. It was a short walk to the drugstore. She peered inside like she had done as child whenever her mother took her to town, only now she didn’t cup her hands to shade her eyes and push her nose to the glass. An empty counter with evenly spaced stools, bright red seats against shiny chrome, stretched the full length of the long sidewall. A man stood behind an antique cash register wearing an old-fashioned paper hat, a throwback to black and white photographs she’d seen of soda jerks from the fifties.
Across from the counter, three rows of long shelves held twenty-first century sundries. The theme of the store might be vintage, but the items for sale were contemporary. In one of the aisles, a teenaged girl stood in front of a nail polish display with her hands folded in prayer. The earnestness on the young face touched Branna with an aching tenderness. She removed her sunglasses for a better look. Then, looked again.
It was the girl who had run out in front of Meredith. There couldn’t be two girls in town with the thick long braids that bumped their butts, could there? She looked maybe thirteen, fawn-colored hair, peaches and cream complexion, and a pink cupid’s-bow mouth. The girl would grow into a beauty. Her flowered t-shirt hung over an ankle-length faded denim skirt that looked like hand-me-downs from the sixties. Maybe a thrift-store find. Either her parents were old hippies or she wanted to stand out in a crowd. An unusual trait when teenagers usually tried painfully hard to fit in.
The girl unfolded her hands, then glanced around skittishly. She turned and positioned her body with her back to the cash register.
Curious, Branna watched. The girl opened a bottle of blood-red polish, painted a swath on her pinky finger, and then capped the bottle quickly. She reached her hand away to admire her single red nail. Branna looked on with fascination, it was like watching a sweet coming-of-age movie.
The girl looked up. Shocked pale-blue eyes locked with Branna’s. The girl reached into her skirt pocket, yanked out a small white cloth and with a quick swipe, wiped away all evidence of the red polish. Though the girl turned sideways, Branna saw her stuff the small bottle into her pocket. She waited to see what the girl intended next.
The teen moved aimlessly around the store as Branna opened the door to enter. Bells tinkled, announcing her arrival. Branna intended to rescue the girl. If she paid for the polish, maybe that would set an example, and she’d stop an innocent from committing a crime. She’d heard too many times to count, from her mother and family, about how she must set an example.
When she was barely two steps inside the store, the girl pushed past her at a run.
“Wait!” Branna started after her, but the teen turned the corner, vanishing into the alley.
But without her lace-edged hankie.
A smear of brilliant red marred the delicate, pristine white cloth.
Puzzled, Branna picked up the fallen cloth. The girl had stolen the polish. Why? No money? Her parents didn’t allow painted nails? Would the drugstore clerk know the girl? If she asked about her and the polish, would he call the police?
She tucked the lacy cloth into her purse. If she ever found the girl, they’d talk about stealing. But more importantly, did she have a responsibility to tell the girl’s parents what she witnessed? That was something she’d have to think on.
The large clock on the courthouse clicked to one fifteen. She hurried toward the Magnolia Café, half way down the block. James sat on the bench out front looking relaxed in golf shorts, polo shirt, and sneakers. Did he have a tee time later?
“Have you been waiting here long?”
“A minute.”
“Did you see the girl run from the drug store?”
“Yep.”
“Which way did she go?”
“That away.” James pointed in both directions like Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz as a pair of joggers ran in opposite directions in front of them.
“You’re no help. Seriously, this girl was young. Early teenager with braided hair down to her waist.”
“No, didn’t see her.”
Something about the girl and the polish just didn’t sit right, but she couldn’t figure it out. Lakeview wasn’t that big; in time she’d find the girl and have a chat.
“You could’ve hollered at me when you arrived. I was only window shopping.” She sat on the other end of the bench from James hoping he was ready to eat.
“I learned long ago never to interrupt a woman while she shops. Window or otherwise.” He stood and walked to the door. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
She entered first, careful not to touch him, wanting to avoid the wonderfully strange sensations that only heightened the appeal of this man. If she’d met him under different circumstances, she just might risk going wherever the attraction would take them. But new job, new boss, new town, and old entrenched values kept her from reaching for him.
The coziness of the café invited folks to linger over a meal. Some tables had green and white checked tablecloths, others had traditional red and white ones. The lighting, fixtures crafted from antique gaslights, cast a soft glow. On the long windowless wall, a painted mural of a life-size magnolia tree laden with large, white velvety blooms wrapped upward and continued onto the ceiling. The mural created the illusion that diners picnicked outside beneath the tree.
“Please follow me.” A hostess led them toward the back of the half-f café. The low din of chatter seemed to echo downward from the pressed-tin ceiling.
Branna breathed deeply, taking in the aromas. Coffee brewing. Pie. Hot grease frying something. Not exactly the same scents wafting from Greta’s Cajun cooking at home, but comforting all the same. Her mouth watered. When her stomach rumbled, she covered it with her clutch. If it weren’t for the noise in the restaurant, James would have heard. That would be embarrassing.
She slid into the booth where the hostess placed the menus. James sat opposite her. A jean-clad waitress in a pink shirt with a red-and-white-checked apron tied around her waist plunked glasses of water down in front of them.
“Today’s special—fried catfish with cheese grits. Coleslaw. Biscuit or cornbread. What can I bring you to drink?”
“I’m going to need a minute,” Branna said. The waitress raised an eyebrow at James. When he didn’t answer, she stuffed the order pad into her apron pocket and stalked away.
Branna studied the menu. She wanted one of everything. The scents coming from the kitchen made her hungry stomach nibble on her backbone. She was no better than a Pavlovian dog. As Grandfather Lind would say, “her eyes were bigger than her stomach.”
“Never had a bad meal here,” James said, folding his menu closed.
“Good to know. I’ll bring my parents when they visit again.” She continued her perusal of the menu. “Fried chicken. Pork chops. Pot roast. Burgers and sandwiches. Oh, and the list of pies looks...”
“Sara Nell won’t come back until you close your menu.”
“Oh.” She folded the menu closed, mentally running through the list. Deciding would be impossible.
The waitress appeared in an instant. She looked like the perfect candidate to work at a roadhouse. Blond, thin, yet shapely, with cleavage that made most men drool.
“I’ll have the side salad, the garden-salad sandwich and lemonade. Fresh squeezed lemonade. You don’t find that every day.” She looked up into the waitress’ plastic smile, then handed over the menu.
“Garden sandwich?” James asked. “Not the special? Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who only eats rabbit food. Or don’t you eat southern?”
What did he mean by that? “Of course I eat southern cooking. I’m from Mississippi. My daddy’s family is from Loosy-ana. My comfort food may be different than yours—there was no seafood gumbo or jambalaya or stuffed mirlitons on the menu—but I promise you my comfort food is southern. I happen to
like
what the menu says about the specialty sandwich.” She cocked her head, daring him to challenge her decision.
“Mur-la what?” the waitress asked.
“Chayote squash or vegetable pear at the grocery store,” James answered. “I want the fried grouper sandwich with fries, please.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Newbern.” Sara Nell smiled so bright, Branna blinked to cut the glare.
“The Magnolia has the best fries in town. They peel, slice, and then bake the potatoes with a secret seasoning. The seasoning it the trick. That, and no frying.”
“Fries that aren’t fried?” She ran her finger down the side of the water glass, nervously wiping away the condensation. Silly, but she would probably always link condensation with her first meeting with James.
“I do watch what I eat.” She tried not to sound defensive, but at five foot three, most of the world was taller than she, and she had no place to hide extra pounds. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I want dessert. I
can’t
pass up homemade pie. A meal is sometimes made up of a tradeoff of calories.”
For some reason that made him smile. The one that melted her heart. Made it beat more rapidly. When she looked away, James said, “I like to see a woman enjoy her food.”
“Then watch me.”
James raised an eyebrow.
She hadn’t intended her response to sound like a challenge, but there it was.
“So let’s get to the ‘get to know you’ part of this lunch. You went to an SEC school. But not Mississippi State. Why?”
“It’s not where women in my family go.” She hadn’t expected twenty questions. She started to say she didn’t base her educational needs upon whether or not a school was part of the Southeastern Conference. Nor would she mention the scholarship she turned down to another SEC school, the scholarship her mother had squelched with guilt. “I followed in the footsteps of my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. Ole Miss admitted women in 1882.”