Fireflies and Magnolias (7 page)

Even though she wore spiky cowboy boots, she still had to rise on her tippy toes to kiss his cheek. “You make me so proud, Clayton. I love you.”

He hugged her again. “I love you too, Mama.”

“Ask your daddy to send you a sign. He’ll do it. That man never broke a promise.”

With that, she headed off, her heels sinking into the freshly mowed grass.

Left alone, Clayton sank to his haunches and reached for the stationery resting against the grave.

Dear Jimmy Ray,

My husband and me recently celebrated our thirty-fifth anniversary. We met at your concert in Dallas in 1978 and played “Love You Till I Die” at our wedding. It’s still our favorite song. We miss you, but I expect you’re happy in heaven. Tell the Big Guy howdy for us. Hope to see you one day.

Loretta

Pressing his hand to his forehead, he squeezed his eyes shut. His mama didn’t play that song—ever—but of course he’d heard it before. His daddy had written it for the country redhead who’d captured his heart at a honky tonk in Mobile, Alabama. As a teenager, Clayton had secretly listened to the song when he was blue. His daddy’s love for his mama had been poured into every word.

He’d hoped to find that kind of love someday, that kind of a woman.

After Amanda, he’d lost all hope.

But Amelia Ann was bringing back all those messy feelings again, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

If only Daddy was around to give him advice. He could hardly ask his best friend given Amelia Ann’s relationship to Rye.

His mind flashed back to a summer day his family had spent in their cabin in West Virginia a few months before the accident. The beautiful day had ended with his mama making them root beer floats inside while he and Daddy sat on the front porch watching the moon rise over the lake.

Fireflies were twinkling everywhere around them, and Clayton caught one in his hand.

His daddy cupped his little hand and said, “Every time I see a firefly, I think about your mama. She shines so bright, Clayton. Like the fire that lights this little bug, there’s a fire in that woman, sure as God made the heavens. One day, I pray you’ll find a woman who has that same inner fire—a woman who glows in the darkness. When you do, hang on to her.”

“I’m only seven, Daddy. I don’t even like girls.” The firefly took flight then. “Oh, catch it, Daddy. It’s getting away.”

“You can never hold onto a firefly, son. God made them so everyone could marvel at their light.”

“Do people marvel at Mama’s light, Daddy?” he asked, watching the fireflies continue to wink in the darkness. “Is that why she has so many friends?”

Daddy ruffled his hair. “Yes, but more importantly, it’s why we love her.”

He climbed onto his daddy’s lap and hugged him. “Mama is the best mama ever!”

The hands on his little back felt safe and warm. “Yes, she is, son. We’re so lucky she’s ours.”

Two months later Daddy was dead. For a while, Mama’s fire had dimmed from grief, but soon it was as bright as ever, channeled into managing the career of a new country singer.

Up until recently, the only other woman he’d met who possessed that kind of fire was Amanda, but she had betrayed him.

Amelia Ann had fire too—a roaring blaze of it—and his feelings for her scared him to death. As did her continued pursuit of him like a torchbearer in the shadows he’d chosen to inhabit.

He set the fan letter back in place against the headstone and stood.

Ask your daddy for a sign,
his mama had said.

He was a grown man. Signs weren’t something he believed in. Still…

“Daddy, if you’re looking out for me like Mama’s always thought I wouldn’t refuse a sign.” Saying it brought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I’ll watch after Mama, like I’ve always said I would. Of course, her moving to Florida will make it a bit harder, but I’ll do my best, sir.”

He’d made that promise while he was holding his mama’s hand in front of his daddy’s coffin at the funeral home. Everyone had told him he needed to step up as the man of the house, and he’d never shirked that duty.

“I’ll be seeing you next year, Daddy.”

Saying goodbye was always awkward. Even after all these years, he still didn’t know what words to use.

When he walked off, his heart was heavy. For the thousandth time, Clayton couldn’t help but wonder how much easier his life would have been if his daddy hadn’t died that night.

Amelia Ann threw her school satchel in the back of her BMW and decided to head over to Rye’s professional office to see Clayton so she could ask him how much time they could squeeze into the concert for the women’s stories. Though it wasn’t her only reason for wanting to see him, it was critical for her to have that information before talking to her points of contact at the women’s shelters, something she hoped to squeeze in before she drove to the Community Legal Clinic.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she worked from four to seven o’clock, and she worked from two to six on every second Saturday of the month. So far, she’d managed to balance her classes and coursework just fine, and if she wasn’t going out with her friends as often, well, that was a sacrifice she was willing to make. Thankfully Susannah had understood, but once she had a better command of her new schedule, she hoped they could find time to hang out beyond Sunday dinner. For now, it would have to do.

Clayton’s black pickup was in the parking lot of the building that housed Rye’s professional office. Georgia’s silver Cadillac was missing, and Amelia Ann wondered, not for the first time, what effect the woman’s impending retirement would have on her brother and Clayton. Georgia was the toughest woman Amelia Ann had ever come across, save for her tort law teacher, and she’d be lying if she said the redhead with the red-dagger nails and spiky heels didn’t intimidate the hell out of her.

When she walked through the door, June, the secretary, greeted her. “Well, Amelia Ann! It’s good to see you, sugar. Rye told me you were volunteering your time to help out with his charity concert. We’re delighted to have you involved.”

The round woman with soft blond hair meant every word—of that she had no doubt. Clayton could learn something from her enthusiasm.

“I’m so happy to be helping out. I wanted to chat with Clayton about the concert. Is he around?”

“Yes’m. He just came in, the poor boy. It’s the anniversary of his daddy’s death today. God rest his soul. He and his mama go to his gravesite every year. It’s the sweetest thing, if you ask me, especially after all this time.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said, wondering if she should leave. If he was in a funk, she wasn’t sure how he’d react to her presence. But another part of her whispered that she should stay and comfort him if he’d allow it.

“Would it be better if I came back another day?” she asked directly.

“Goodness, no. He’ll be happy to see a friendly face and talk some business. No one works harder around here than that man, save his mama, but with Georgia leaving… Well, they’re big shoes to fill.”

Amelia Ann nodded her head, wondering if Clayton planned to hire a deputy for himself once his mama retired. “Georgia will be missed. That’s for sure.”

“I hear she’s leaving right after Christmas. Plans to spend the holiday with Clayton and then she’s off to the sunny state of Florida. She’ll be in a bikini as soon as the weather warms. She’s not a chicken when it comes to strutting her stuff, that girl.”

Thinking about Georgia in a bikini almost made Amelia Ann laugh. Mrs. Augusta would have had some stern words for any woman nearing sixty who flaunted her stuff in public with nothing on except for a few scraps of fabric. She tried to imagine her mama wearing a bikini. The idea was so ludicrous her shoulders shook from suppressed laughter.

“Who’s wearing a bikini?” Clayton asked, appearing in the hallway.

His eyes slid over her frame, and she knew he was imagining her in one. She let her eyes graze over him too, from his gray cowboy boots, up his black pants, to the white dress shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows.

“Your mama,” the older woman told him, resting her hands under her ample bosom.

He shuddered. “June, I love you to death, but never
ever
put that image in a son’s head. Mine might simply explode.”

“Can’t have that,” the woman sassed back. “Amelia Ann is here, Clayton.”

“I can see that. I heard y’all cackling all the way back in my office.”

Cackling? “I’m sorry we disturbed you,” Amelia Ann said stiffly. “I was hoping to talk with you briefly about the concert.”

“Which one? I’m managing about four new cities on Rye’s summer tour right now.”

She narrowed her eyes. “The one I’m volunteering for, of course. Can we chat for a sec?”

His silver eyes turned frosty. “I can spare you five minutes.”

Walking past him on her way to his office, she flicked a glance over her shoulder. “Then I’ll have to talk fast, won’t I?”
I know you don’t want me here, but too bad.

Clayton’s corner office had masculine appeal with its dark wood and burgundy leather furnishings. A ficus tree shedding leaves stood in the corner, and the mother-in-law’s tongue near his desk reached for the ceiling with its thick, glossy green-striped leaves. June had to be the one keeping the plants alive, she decided.

The caramel-colored leather couch against the wall seemed the coziest place for their conversation, although she suspected he’d prefer they speak at his four-person meeting table in front of the window, which featured a beautiful view of Nashville’s downtown and the Cumberland River.

“Is this to be the beginning of more spontaneous visits to the office by your sweet self?” he asked in a dry tone, leaving the door open. “If so, we’re going to have to schedule them in the future.”

Her patience was fraying like a tattered rug, so she took a deep breath as she set her satchel down on the coffee table. “Clayton, June told me it’s the anniversary of your dad’s death. I’m sorry for coming on a difficult day.”

He looked at the floor to avoid her gaze. “It was years ago. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. No matter how hard he tried to school his expression, she could see how tense his features were today—like the grief over all these years had tightened the muscles in his face to the point of breaking.

Before she knew it, she was off the couch and standing in front of him. “I know you’re hurting, and I’m sorry for it.”

She lifted a hand to his jaw, and for a moment, those stormy gray eyes of his locked with hers. His skin was smooth to the touch, and wanting to comfort, she stepped closer. His fingers curled around her wrist and brought her hand away from his face. He held onto her though, as if he were fighting with himself about whether to reject her touch.

“You’re taking advantage,” he murmured.

Her head slowly shook. “No, I’m only trying to be sweet to you. I don’t like to see you hurting like this.”

He dropped his hold on her and walked across the room to a small mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, then drank deeply from it. That he didn’t offer her a beverage was telling.

Standing across the office from him felt awkward, and she shifted on her feet. “You comforted me when I needed it. I wanted to do the same for you.”

“I don’t want comfort from you or anyone. I told you I was fine. Now, tell me what you need to know. Your five minutes are almost up.”

His hardness was so daunting, and at times like this, she wanted to give up on him, on them, on everything she thought they could be.

“I simply need to know how much time you can schedule into the concert for the women’s stories. I can’t move forward with the arrangements without knowing.”

He set his empty water bottle aside. “I’m sorry I was short with you. Please, sit down.”

The apology soothed her some, but when she resumed her seat on the couch, he didn’t sit beside her. Honestly she wasn’t the least bit surprised. The man always avoided being close to her, almost as if he were afraid of what he might do.

“I think we’ll go with three women’s stories at four minutes apiece. Otherwise, the fans will get itchy. We’ll play them at different intervals in the concert. I need to discuss the timing with Rye.”

The three women she chose would have to represent all the women who had experienced domestic violence. How was she supposed to decide? Well, she just would, that’s all.

“That sounds reasonable. I’ve written up a one pager about what we’re looking for. I assume you want to see it.”

“You assume correctly. Anything related to the concert crosses my desk. Including this.”

She nodded. “Fine. I’ll email it to you when I add the information about the time allotted for the spots. You can add any additions in Track Changes.” Her mouth twitched. “You do know how to use Track Changes, right?”

His eye roll was rather sexy, and she realized she was flirting with him now.

“Like a pro, princess. Now, let’s talk specifics since we didn’t at your brother’s house. Who are you planning to contact, and what’s your process for narrowing the search?”

His questions weren’t unexpected. “As I told you and Rye before, I’ll meet with the heads of the women’s shelters. If you can believe it, there are only four main ones in the Nashville area, which isn’t nearly enough to support the need out there. Clayton, you wouldn’t believe how many women have nowhere to go when they’re being abused.”

“And it breaks your heart,” he said in a soft voice. Somehow she knew he wasn’t making fun of her this time.

“Yes, it does. I wish I could build hundreds of shelters. Every time I see a woman with bruises, all I can think of is Tammy and how I wasn’t there for her when she needed me.” Then she almost slapped her hand to her mouth, fearing she’d given away too much.
Please don’t ask me where I’m seeing women with bruises.

He crossed the room, reluctance clear in his halting step, and sat next to her on the sofa. “She’s safe now, Amelia Ann.”