Just Kiss Me (18 page)

“What?” He turned and looked at Spence.

“Where did you take Vivien yesterday after you stole her from me?”

“I didn’t steal her.”

“I was getting somewhere with her when you moved in.”

Henry couldn’t tell if Spence was kidding or not. “We just got some fresh air.” He raised his glass and changed the subject. “What are your plans for employment?” he said before his favorite aged bourbon passed his lips and filled his mouth with smooth, oaky liquor. Until a few months ago, Spence had worked in the regional office of his former father-in-law, Senator Coleman. “I don’t think you’ll have any problem getting a job in local government.”

“I’m not cut out to be a public servant.”

That was news to Henry. He turned his attention to his brother once again. “Since when?”

“Since I graduated from Columbia with a poly sci degree.” Spencer took another drink and sucked scotch from his bottom lip. “I hate politicians.”

Henry laughed. “Mother has her heart set on calling you Governor.”

“Yeah. I know she does, but she also had her heart set on calling you a Wall Street Titan.” The sounds of cicadas and crickets and the creak of Spence’s rocking chair filled his pause. “I guess she’s doomed to disappointments.”

“You haven’t told her?”

“Not yet.”

“Do me a favor and make sure I’m out of town.” Practically from birth, Spence’s life had been plotted out for him, just as Henry’s had. Their mother was going to pitch a fit. “If you’re not planning on being Governor Whitley-Shuler, what are your plans?”

“I have few things in mind.” He rocked his chair a couple of time then said, “I think I’d like to write a novel.”

“A novel?” Henry wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said he wanted to drive a dog sled. “When did you decide this?”

“Aboard the
One and a Tuna.”

“The what?”

“The majestic fishing vessel where I battled mighty tarpon in Key West.”

Henry laughed. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m dead serious. I figure all I need to write like Hemingway is a wooden yacht and a steady supply of mojitos.” Spencer sounded a little wistful when he sang, “Wasting away in Margaritaville.”

He’d lost it. Mixing up Hemmingway and Buffet. “You gonna blow out your flip-flops and raise six-toed cats?”

“No cats.” He rocked the chair for several creaks. “I’m thinking I’ll win a Pulitzer for my insightful portrayal of the human condition and sell the film rights to Hollywood.”

“Sounds like you have it all planned out.” No doubt about it, his brother had lost his fucking mind.

“I’m pulling your leg about portraying the human condition. I’m too big a sinner to preach morality and too superficial to examine the meaning of life.” Spencer laughed like he was real funny. “Maybe I’ll ask Vivien about writing for Hollywood.”

Vivien. Henry was spending too much time thinking about her without his brother bringing up her name.

“When’s she due back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Don’t know,” Henry answered, and he had no intention of finding out. None. Nada. Zippo.

HE WAS BACK
to frowning at her like she’d stolen his basketball and lost it. The first thing Vivien noticed as she walked out of Charleston International the next day, was the downward curve of Henry’s mouth. He stood at the curb next to his truck, his emotions hidden behind sunglasses and his unreadable face. “How are you doing?” he asked, as if she were a stranger. As if she hadn’t had sex with him. As if she couldn’t distinguish the scent of his skin from the smell of hot concrete and car fumes.

“Good.” He tossed her Louis Vuitton suitcases into the back of his truck like they were gym bags. He was as indifferent to her expensive luggage as much as he appeared to be indifferent to her. Clearly he was back to being the Henry she’d known as a child.

No matter how hard she attempted to engage him in conversation, he hardly spoke on the drive from the airport. He dropped her off at the carriage house and set her luggage just inside the door, then he practically burned rubber and squealed his tires in his haste to leave. She might have thought he’d forgotten all about the other night if he hadn’t glanced back at her one last time, his gaze clear and unguarded. For several heartbeats, he’d paused by the driver’s side door of his truck. His dark eyes locked with hers, and for several hot and intense heartbeats, his gaze had been anything but indifferent.

Henry’s moods were too confusing to think about and analyze, and why should she spend her time trying to make sense of him anyway? He wanted to ignore her like he had when they’d been kids. Fine. He probably had a string of women he confused besides her. He probably had a revolving door for a love life, and she needed to focus on the important reasons she was back in Charleston. None of which had anything to do with Butthead Henry.

The inside of the carriage house seemed so empty without her momma. Too quiet and dull. Vivien kicked off her pumps and walked barefoot up the stairs to her old bedroom. She turned on the palmetto ceiling fan and took a step inside. The slight breeze from the fan disturbed the yellow sheers in her old bedroom, and the plantation shutters locked out the afternoon sun.

Her old twin bed sat in the middle of the room, arranged on the yellow polka-dot area rug she and her mother had found at Rug Masters when Vivien was fifteen. That was the year she’d been into polka dots, and the quilt on her bed matched the canopy and the yellow-and-white paper on the far wall.

Vivien moved into the room that still had all her acting awards pinned to a corkboard. She’d spent a lot of time in this room. Lonely days filled with grand dreams and staring into an old cheval mirror, practicing lines and her smile for when she was famous.

The hardwood floor creaked under her feet as she moved to the closet and opened the door. Her organza prom dress was still there, taking up most of the space inside. The huge skirt had made her look like one of those cakes with a Barbie doll stuck in the top. She’d gone to the prom with Levi Morgan, and he’d ended up drinking too many juleps and passing out in his car. She hadn’t minded all that much. She’d been into the dress and the glamour more than she’d been into Levi.

On the shelf above the dress sat boxes and totes filled with her childhood. Everything in the room and the rest of the house had to be looked at and gone through and decisions had to be made. Decisions that only Vivien could make. Looking around, she realized that she’d grossly underestimated the time it would take her to go through everything. There was no way she could settle her momma’s affairs before she needed to leave again.

She thought of Nonnie and Henry and, for the first time in years, the idea of spending time in the carriage house didn’t make her want to run down the driveway screaming like Heather Langenkamp with Freddie Kruger on her tail. Living across the yard from Nonnie didn’t feel like the Nightmare on Elm Street.

The doorbell rang and as if Vivien’s thoughts conjured her up, Nonnie stood in the doorway, a covered dish in one hand and Louisa Deering’s Twinkie loaf in the other. “We’re still cleaning up leftovers from Macy Jane’s funeral reception.” She shoved the dish at Vivien. “Elsa Jean Packard’s Battle of Honey Hill bacon and butter beans.”

“Great.” Vivien took the dish and tried not to grimace.

“While you were gone, I had new locks put on the doors and all the windows.”

“Oh!” Vivien looked at the big shiny deadbolt on the front door. With everything else on her mind, she’d forgotten to mention new locks to Sarah. “Thank you.” She stepped aside and the older woman headed for the kitchen. Nonnie Whitley-Shuler, aka the Mantis, the Wicked Witch, and Cruella de Vil, among others, had given a thought to Vivien and her safety. Such a kind gesture almost brought a tear to her eyes.

“You’re welcome. I had them installed in case those people you attract turn up and show their crazy.”