Home Sweet Home (A Southern Comfort Novel) (19 page)

Jake took the opportunity to follow her down into the crowd. He caught sight of the bright purple girl again, dancing gleefully in the arms of an Indian man wearing a purple jacket. The man met Jane in the middle of the line of dancers, bowed, and backed away while the girl clapped and squealed. Using his brilliant skills of deduction, Jake figured the family dancing together in matching outfits must be Jane’s husband and daughter.

He was just congratulating himself on not being a total idiot when he saw her. She was wearing a moss-green gown that was cinched below her breasts and flowed down to the floor. Her hair, that unruly mess she never could seem to control, was pinned up elaborately, with flowers woven through. As he got closer, he noticed that they were the wildflowers that grew in her yard. And he noticed the snug fit of her dress, and how the green color made her eyes pop.

And he was way too close to her for a man who never wanted to talk to her again. At least not tonight. He ducked back into the crowd, but not before receiving a scowl from Henry, who was dancing with her. Jake wanted to tell him not to worry, he wasn’t going to stand in his way. Instead he just stalked off to see whether someone had spiked the punch yet.

“Jake!” Jake was getting really tired of people shouting his name. And if one more person made a comment about his clothes . . .

“Whoa, what’s the face for?” Helen asked. She pushed at his chest and he stepped back. “You’re standing on my dress.” She pulled the long blue and white fabric from under his boot.

“Sorry.”

She smiled at him. He couldn’t help but smile back. Helen’s enthusiasm was always infectious. Jake regretted that if he and Grace were done, he probably wouldn’t be seeing much of Helen, either. That was too bad. He liked her.

“I forgive you, but you can make it up to me by dancing.”

“Oh, no,” Jake said. Dancing meant being far too close to Grace. “I’m not wearing the right clothes.”

Helen shrugged. “I’m wearing a corset. If I have to suffer, you have to suffer. Besides, Mary Beth told me you learned the steps.”

He started to object again—he’d look like an idiot out there in his modern clothes, and he had just about enough of looking like an idiot lately—but Helen just took his hand and pulled him toward the dancing. The music stopped and the partners bowed and curtsied, and Jake thought he was off the hook. But the band immediately picked up another song and there was more bowing and curtsying and jostling new partners and new couples into the line.

“Look who I found!” Helen shouted over the music, squeezing into the space next to Grace. He nodded to Henry, who smirked in response. Jake turned to give a polite nod to Grace, but she was staring at him, her bright eyes clinging to his face. He wanted to pull her aside, ask her what that meant, ask her why she was dancing with Henry, but the music started and they all began to dance.

Grace couldn’t stop staring at Jake. She tried to focus on Henry or on the steps that she was badly messing up, but she couldn’t shake the awareness of Jake, inches from her. If only she could talk to him, explain how she felt, but every time she passed him, Henry was there, grasping her elbow and bringing her back to the dance.

She needed to talk to Jake, and she wanted to do it while they danced. That way he couldn’t get away. She turned to Helen, who gave her a questioning look, but didn’t say anything when Grace pulled her in and switched places with her. Henry started to protest, but Helen just shrugged and circled her new partner.

“Jake,” Grace said in a low voice.

But Jake just shook his head and kept dancing.

Grace didn’t know why he was here after she had been so horrible to him. He wasn’t acting like he wanted her back, but he didn’t run away, either. They passed each other on a turn, their hands connecting briefly, and Grace felt electricity shoot through her gloves.

She was so dumb. She thought she’d explain to him that she still wanted his friendship, and nothing more. But then he touched her and she knew, without a doubt, that she could not settle for that. She loved him. She loved him, and he loved her, and if he would take her back, they could love each other. It was so simple. She was so frustrated with herself and so overwhelmed by her feelings, she couldn’t help the quiet tears that streaked down her cheeks. When she passed Jake next, his eyes widened, but his steps didn’t falter.

“I love you,” she whispered, as their hands connected and they crossed partners. It didn’t hurt nearly as badly as she thought it would. Her hands were sweating and she thought she was having a panic attack, but it wasn’t too bad.

This time he did trip, just a little, but kept dancing.

“Jake, did you hear me?”

Henry, who was moving past just then, shushed her and gave her a look that said, “Focus on the dance.”

Grace tried. Really, she did. But Jake kept passing her and they would touch, just for a moment, and she couldn’t wait.

“I love you for so many reasons,” she started as they passed again. “You’re generous, and thoughtful.” She turned and faced him, then took a step forward. “I love the way your mind works and”—step back and forward—“that you can look at something that’s broken”—step back and forward—“and figure out immediately how to fix it.” She stepped back, but held his gaze. As they circled each other, she continued, “You’re patient. And you teach me things. And you’re handsome. No, you’re hot. That’s not why I love you, that’s just icing, you know?”

Grace had a whole list of Jake’s admirable attributes. But, as always, she was getting lost in his muscles. That wasn’t the important part, though. She took a breath, then took another step toward Jake. She was out of time with the music, but this was important. Jane Austen would forgive her.

“I’m scared. I’m afraid to take this risk, knowing I could lose everything, but you’re worth it. You’re—”

She fumbled for her words, but couldn’t finish. Partly because she couldn’t breathe, he was holding her so tightly, and partly because even Grace couldn’t talk when Jake was kissing her. In front of all these people. Mrs. Wallace was probably having a heart attack, she thought. Then she didn’t care and stopped thinking and just held on to the man she loved as he lifted her off her feet and spun her around.

The sound of thunder had Grace pulling back. But it wasn’t thunder, it was applause. This wasn’t the polite applause she expected at the end of the dance. This was thunderous, boot-stomping, cat-calling, Kentucky applause. And she and Jake were in the middle of it.

He smiled at her, that crooked smile that she had to remember to add to the list of things she loved about him. He pressed his forehead against hers and cupped her face in his hands. “Say it again,” he whispered.

“I love you, Jake. I’ve been such a fool—”

“I don’t care. I forgive you. It doesn’t matter. Oh, Grace.” He kissed her again. And again. And again.

The party lasted well into the night. Marilyn stood on a chair and announced that they had raised the funds to repair the library window, and the whole crowd, Willow Springs townies and Pembroke people alike, let out a cheer and kept dancing. Well, most of the crowd. The owner of the Spinster House was upstairs, showing Jake how much she loved him.

The house tried to settle around them, to give them some peace and quiet, but there were so many people in the yard. These two were impossible. First they hated each other, then they loved each other, then they refused to admit it. The house was exhausted. Maybe one hundred years was enough of matchmaking. Maybe it was time to take its talents in a new direction.

G
race groaned at the persistent nudge at her shoulder.

“Come on, Professor. Rise and shine.”

Then she really groaned. She’d promised Jake that once spring break started, she’d help him tear down the wall between the kitchen and the living room. He was right, it was a good idea and it would open up the space and let some much-needed light into the kitchen. But did they have to do it so early in the morning?

She learned pretty quickly that Jake was an early riser. No matter how late he kept her up—and it was often indecently late—he was up at dawn, ready to tackle the day. And if the day didn’t have enough in it to tackle, he made more. Now that he’d been officially living with her for six months, he was ready to put his mark on the house. And Grace was more than ready to help him with that. Or she would be. Later.

“Can’t we start at noon?” she asked in a voice that she hoped was both plaintive and seductive.

Jake kissed her behind her ear and she squirmed into him. “Nice try,” he breathed into her ear. She shivered.

“Can’t you do that door thing?” she asked, turning into him without opening her eyes. He had taken the kitchen door down yesterday and they rejoiced by running back and forth through the doorway like kids. Then he took the door out to the garage, where he was planning on turning it into a table. She had no idea how he was going to do that; it seemed like a lot of work. Work he could be doing now instead of making her get out of bed to tear down a wall.

“That’s a weekend project,” he scolded. “This is a whole-week project.”

She shimmied further underneath him. “I’ll give you a whole-week project,” she said, and nipped his nose. He kissed her, like she hoped he would, and she pulled him closer and felt his arms wrap around her and his legs tangle with hers.

A crash from downstairs had them pulling apart.

“What was that?” she asked Jake, who had been with her the entire time and could not possibly know what the crash was.

“Mr. Bingley?” he asked, but when they turned, Mr. Bingley was at the foot of the bed, cleaning his ears.

Jake rolled off Grace and out of bed. She groaned and followed him. It had been a suspiciously loud crash, and since the house had been devoid of suspicious destruction since the night of the Jane Austen party, this was probably worth investigating. Jake stepped into a pair of boxers, she grabbed her robe, and he led her out of the room.

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Grace walked into Jake’s back where he had stopped on the landing.

“Holy—” he said, and Grace followed his eyes to the living room. And the kitchen. Which they could now see from the living room because the wall had fallen down.

Grace coughed as a plume of plaster dust made its way to the stairs. “How did that happen?” she asked her expert contractor boyfriend.

“I have no idea,” he said. “I’m just glad that wasn’t a load-bearing wall.”

Because, really, the whole wall was down. It was a mess, plaster chunks everywhere, pieces of the frame wobbling dangerously.

“I guess our demo work is done,” Jake said.

“Does that mean we can go back to bed?” Grace asked, then bolted up the stairs as Jake chased her. She dove onto the bed, and Jake landed next to her. Mr. Bingley fled into the hallway and padded down the stairs, far from the giggles and squeals in the bedroom.

The light from the windows at the front of the house stretched back to reflect off the glass on the kitchen cabinets, sending the plaster dust dancing like fairies. The light would get brighter and stronger as the morning sun rose higher, and then the afternoon sun would reach through the kitchen. The house would be warm and bright and beautiful, the kind of place a person would want to stay in, to build a life in. The kind of place a person wants to stay in forever.

Sarah Title has worked as a barista, a secretary, a furniture painter, and once managed a team of giant walking beans. She currently leads a much more normal life as a librarian in West Virginia. Her first book,
Kentucky Home
, was published in 2012, and a follow-up novella,
Kentucky Christmas
, came out in 2013. Her novella
Full Moon Pie
appeared in the anthology
Delicious,
written with Lori Foster and Lucy Monroe. Visit her online at
www.sarahtitle.com
, where she talks about books and dogs and reality television. It’s a very classy website.

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