Just Kiss Me (5 page)

He’d made her tea and given her his coat. The seemingly thoughtful man across from her was unlike the boy she’d known. Or perhaps he was just being nice out of respect for her mother. The reason didn’t matter. Vivien was grateful to be dry and warm. She’d arrived in Charleston without so much as a cardigan. She’d forgotten her underwear, too, and imagined they were still in a heap where she’d thrown them on her bed. At the moment, though, she had more important concerns than going commando or whether or not Henry had changed or was still a contemptuous jerk. She raised her hands from inside his big coat and rubbed her temples. “What was she doing in the carriage house with your mother?”

“They were tweeting.”

Vivien’s hands fell to the table and a few drops of tea sloshed over the side of the pink teacup. “Did you say they were tweeting?”

“More like feuding, with the United Daughters of the Confederacy.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Something about a shrimp-and-grits recipe. I tried not to listen to either one of them.”

“What? Daughters of the Confederacy?”

“The Georgia chapter, I believe.”

“Wait! My momma died from a twitter war? With the Georgia United Daughters of the Confederacy? Over shrimp and grits? In the carriage house with Nonnie?” The more he explained, the more baffling it all sounded. Like platform sneakers. Or twerking. Or algebra.

“I don’t know precisely what they were doing when Macy Jane passed. I wasn’t there. Mother called me right after she called the ambulance and I drove over.” His solemn eyes stared back at her and his voice lowered, “By the time I got to the carriage house, your momma was on her way to the hospital.”

Vivien might not like Nonnie, but she was relieved and thankful that her mother hadn’t been alone.

“We weren’t too far behind the ambulance, but Macy Jane was gone by the time we got to the emergency room.”

Vivien hooked her finger through the cup handle and raised the tea to her lips. She took a sip and swallowed past the grief rising up her throat. “How did my momma die? What happened?”

“I don’t know. Mother said they were sitting at the kitchen table and Macy Jane just fell from her chair.”

Her hand shook as she lowered the cup and tears stung the backs of her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. Not now. Later when she was alone she would think about her momma falling from a chair. “The medical examiner is supposed to call me when …” she couldn’t finish her sentence. She covered her face with her hands and her voice trailed off. She could do this. Her momma needed Vivien to take care of her one last time. But it was hard. So hard. She counted backward from ten, like she’d been taught by her acting teacher. She imagined herself fading into character. Fading into the role of a strong woman who controlled her emotions. She tried to invasion Hillary Clinton, Condoleezza Rice, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. A strangled sob escaped her lips and she sucked in a breath. Her momma was a good person. It wasn’t fair that she died and bad people lived. People like Charles Manson and the BTK killer and Nonnie Whitley-Shuler.

“Let me take you to the Harborview, Vivien.”

She felt the weight of his big hand on her shoulder. “I want to go home.” She wiped her eyes and looked up at Henry. Up past the mud on his wide chest to his dark eyes beneath darker brows. “I need to go the carriage house.”

“Is your suitcase upstairs?”

“Yes.” She stood and Henry’s hand fell to his side. She never thought she’d ever have a reason to step foot on Whitley-Shuler property again.

“I’ll get it.” He pointed toward the garden. “I’m parked in back.”

Vivien carried her saucer and teacup to the sink. She remembered buying the cups and saucers for her mother’s housewarming party. She rinsed the teapot and set it in the sink to dry. The coat fell from one shoulder and she pulled it tight around her as she moved across the kitchen. Again she caught the scent of his jacket. The thick canvas material had a woodsy top note, a full-bodied middle like wind across warm skin, and an undertone of something definitely swampy. She grabbed her hairbrush and phone from the table. With her thumb, she checked for messages. She had twenty texts and thirty-three e-mails, and ten missed phone calls. None of them from the coroner.

Sunlight broke through the clouds and poured through the drawing-room windows. It cast irregular shadows across the hardwood floor and covered furniture. She slipped her phone into her purse sitting on the sheet protecting the sofa. How did a person plan a funeral? The only funeral that she really remembered was Mamaw Roz’s. She’d been fifteen and remembered going with her momma to pick out a casket and order flowers. Everything else was a blur.

Did a person just Google mortuaries? Her momma had been Episcopalian. Did that make a difference when it came to funeral arrangements and cemetery plots? And what about food? Funeral food was big in the South.

There was so much to do that she didn’t know where to begin, and taking care of her momma wasn’t something she could push on Sarah. Sarah could run out and buy panties and bras for Vivien. Her momma’s funeral was too personal. Something only Vivien could do. Like when she’d been a kid and her momma would depend on her whenever she’d fall into her one of her sad depressions.

Dust tickled her nose and she sneezed. The townhouse was a mess, and her gaze took in the hole above the torn-out fireplace mantel. She’d bought her momma this house, and now it was a wreck. Instead of the pink house where her mother could live happy, it was a real disaster area. Anger bubbled up like lava, and she let it roll through her because it felt a lot better than the burning grief scorching her heart. Her mother had been notoriously gullible, especially when it came to men. It would have been incredibly easy for a crook to convince her that the house needed renovation. A swindler who preyed on vulnerable women. Vulnerable women who owned historic houses that had to have each and every restoration approved, then checked and reapproved by the historical society or preservation society or whatever the heck they called themselves. Vivien looked around at the sanded floor and wiring hanging from an outlet, and her temper rose to thermal nuclear. Every step had to pass inspection and be approved, and a shady contractor could conceivably make this project take years.

“The rain stopped,” Henry said as he walked into the room.

She turned to watch him move through the variegated shadows. Sunlight passed over his hard shoulders and through his dark hair. He held her Louis Vuitton suitcase in one hand and her muddy dress and black straw hat in the other. The strapless bra and panties she’d worn earlier were soaked through with rain, and she’d shoved them into a nylon pocket in the pull along.

“Are you ready?”

Instead of answering, she pointed at the missing mantle. “This house was inspected just two years ago. What the heck happened?”

“The flashing pulled away from the chimney.” With his free hand he pointed to the ceiling, then lowered his finger to the hole in the wall. “Water ran down the brickwork and caused rot in the lathing boards and plaster.”

“Who said?”

“An inspector for one.” He dropped his hand and returned his gaze to hers. “A general contractor and journeyman for another.”

A skeptical frown pulled at her mouth and she folded her arms beneath the big coat. “Water created all that?” She pointed her chin at the wrecked wall.

“Water is the most destructive force on earth,” he said as he walked across the room to the French doors. The sun once again dipped behind clouds and washed the drawing room with deeper shades of gray.

What did he know about home renovation? He was a stockbroker or money manager or something or other to do with banking. Not exactly a job that had anything whatsoever to do with slinging a hammer. “Momma was way too gullible and obviously let some con artist in here to destroy the place.” She grabbed her red handbag and followed behind him. “Crooks who prey on vulnerable women should be run over by a bus.” For good measure she added, “Then shot.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Momma believed everyone and could be talked into anything. Clearly, some sneaky bastard took advantage of her trusting nature.”

“No one took advantage of Macy Jane.”

“How do you know?”

He opened the doors and looked across his shoulder at her. The sun broke free of the clouds and he flashed a bright smile. As if he was a heroic caricature, she could swear she saw a twinkle on his right incisor. “I’m the sneaky bastard who destroyed the place.”