Sugar on Top (18 page)

“Funny, since I’m her dad and this is the first I’m hearing about it.” Although if he were being honest, Payton had brought it up in passing several times. But not a word about it from his ex. “You should have been talking to me, Tawny. Not going behind my back to get a dress so I have to either say yes or be the bad guy who wrecks Payton’s world.”

“Then don’t wreck her world,” she said as though she knew he was going to cave. And normally he would, but not this time. Not with her canceling two weeks in a row and then showing up late to the most important night of his daughter’s sophomore year. “This means a lot to her. To both of us and she was afraid you wouldn’t understand that.”

All he understood was that once again his ex had manipulated the situation. And sure, he might not understand the finer points of makeup or what was so important about a pageant that Payton would feel the need to lie to him, but he made sure that he was always there for her. He showed up, took an interest, and listened because that’s what good parents did for their kids.

“
Tonight
meant a lot to her, Tawny.” More than a dress, Cal thought, pulling onto the gravel road to his house. “She was looking forward to spending time with you, showing her mom off to her friends, and now she is crying in the bathroom. What could be more important than you showing up for that? And don’t give me the traffic bull you told Payton.”

Silence filled the cab of his truck, every second pressing farther down on his shoulders. Tawny only got silent when she was about to drop a bomb, and the last time he’d felt this kind of weighted silence was when she told him she was filing for divorce.

“I’m not coming from home. I’m coming from the airport and my plane from Houston was delayed so I landed two hours late.” She exhaled—hard. Which had his heart thumping against his rib cage. “Randal wasn’t interviewing a perspective client; he was interviewing for lead council and he got the job.”

Cal parked his car by the front porch and rested his head against the steering wheel. Payton was going to be crushed by the news. She barely saw her mom as it was and they only lived a few hours away. Four states between them was going to take their relationship from strained to more of a rotating-holidays one, and she deserved more.

“How long does Randal have to make his decision?”

“It’s an incredible opportunity for us,” she said, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d just turned Payton’s world upside down. “Why would he wait?”

“I don’t know, maybe to talk to your daughter, see how she felt about her mother living in a different state.” What had he ever seen in her? “Did you even stop to consider how hard this might be on her?”

“Of course I did,” she snapped. “Which is why Randal and I want to ask her to come with us. I was going to bring it up at dinner tonight.”

“Jesus, Tawny.” Cal’s heart stopped—right there in his chest. “What about talking to me about this first?”

“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Only because I called.” She went quiet, a clear sign that she had planned on railroading him tonight at dinner. His ears went hot, a clear sign that he was about to lose it. “You know what, the dress, your stupid games, none of it matters because it’s not going to work, Tawny. Payton lives here. In Sugar. Her family, her friends, her life, everything is here.”

He wanted to point out that he was there, too, and Payton
was
his life.

“I’m her family, too, and she only lives in Sugar because that’s where you chose to live.” He didn’t choose but whatever, the second Payton came along, he settled in for the long haul to give his daughter roots and stability. “She has no idea what else is out there.”

“And you’re going to show her that? You can’t even handle being a parent every other weekend, and you want me to believe you can handle it full time?”

“It’s not about what you want anymore, it’s about what Payton wants.” Easy to say when armed with a pageant dress and a designer house on the Gulf. “She is fourteen now, old enough to choose. And I’m not saying she’ll choose to come with me, but I hope she does.”

Cal’s phone buzzed. It was Brett. “I gotta go, we’ll talk about this later.”

“Tell Payton I’ll be there in time for the start of the game.”

Cal disconnected without a good-bye and clicked over. “I just pulled up.”

“Thank God,” Brett said, his voice clipped with the same panic Cal felt coursing through every cell of his body. “I convinced Payton to open the door, but I gotta warn you, I don’t think even a pink convertible will be enough to fix this.”

Back in the Saddle Night at the Saddle Rack was always held on the fourth Friday of the month—and it was always packed. The only two-step social in three counties that recognized senior discounted cocktails, it was a Sunday boots mandatory, dentures optional kind of crowd where Hank Williams ruled the jukebox, Bengay was applied in advance, and bathtub gin and mint juleps were the drinks of choice.

The theme changed weekly, the crowd was always the same, and since tonight was Bootleggin’ Days—and the staff had to dress accordingly—Glory was wearing a silver beaded drop-waist dress, vintage cowgirl boots, and had a flask strapped to her inner thigh.

“Hey, Miss Glory,” Skeeter hollered over the elevated cheers as the first notes of “Hey, Good Lookin’” filled the room. “Pretty crowded tonight.”

Crowded? A good portion of the town’s retired sector was already there and the Senior Shuttle was doing a steady pickup and drop-off every fifteen minutes. In fact, the next one was due to arrive anytime, and if it was as packed as the last, it would keep her too busy to obsess over confusing sexy single fathers.

“Sorry about the wait, we’re a little understaffed tonight.”

She was the only staff. The cocktail waitress and hushpuppy runner was a no-show. Not that Glory was surprised. Stella was twenty-two, twice-divorced, and had already missed two nights that week alone, citing “personal problems.”

“What can I get you?” Glory asked, thankful Skeeter would say something from the tap and not a drink that would require a shaker, blender, two hands, or way too much time. Skeeter came in every week, parked his spare tire in the same stool at the bar, then watched everyone socialize while he nursed his Lone Star. “The usual?”

He did a little shuffle in his chair, cleared his throat, and even smoothed all seven hairs on his head over to the side. “How about something a little more educated?”

“Educated?”

“Yeah, cultured, like one of them martinis.” Glory blinked, long and slow. “But I don’t like green things in my drink. Do I have to have the green things in it?”

“I could do a lemon instead of olives.”

“Then yeah, one of them.” Skeeter leaned in and lowered his voice. “And a mint julep.”

“Mint julep?” Glory raised a brow but poured the vermouth and gin in a clean shaker. “Those are some pretty fancy drinks.” The official drink of choice by Sugar Peaches everywhere. “You trying to impress someone?”

Glory meant it as a joke. Everyone in town knew that Skeeter had a thing for Etta Jayne; not that he’d acted on it. When courting a woman who used to castrate bulls for a living, timing and delivery were important. Which was why Skeeter hadn’t done more than tip his hat in Etta Jayne’s direction since his wife passed away nearly twenty years ago. But he hesitated, for just a moment, his mouth going a little slack. Glory’s mouth, on the other hand, fell open.

Now that she thought about it, Skeeter was dressed for church, even left his hat at home, and he looked a little sweaty and a whole lot nervous. Like he might just pass out.

Glory leaned in and lowered her voice. “Are you on a date, Skeeter?”

“No,” he sputtered, not sounding all that convincing. “I’m here alone. But…” Skeeter glanced over his shoulder at the front door and pulled at the collar of his shirt. “I’m hoping to make an impression on someone. A real class act and nothing says high class like a julep. And sweets.”

He set a pink and white metal tin on the bar. Inside were six handmade truffles, each in a red paper cup and tied with a pink bow. If there was one thing Etta Jayne wasn’t, it was a pink kind of lady.

“That is very sweet of you,” Glory said, a ridiculous smile forming when she thought about Cal showing up for her the other day. He’d helped take her proposal from amateur to front runner in one afternoon—and brought her a meatloaf sandwich with a cookie.

“Sweet?” Skeeter looked horrified. “Ah, hell, it is, isn’t it?” He wiped the sweat off his brow with the cuff of his shirt. “You know what, just make it a Lone Star and skip the julep. Don’t know what I was thinking. She’s not here yet so I bet she won’t even show.”

Tension pinched between her shoulders as Glory looked down the length of the bar. It was already three people deep, nearly every table was full, and through the window she could see the next shuttle pulling up. Or maybe what was pricking her wrong was that Skeeter was going to give up—and Glory wanted someone to win in the game of love.

“But she might,” Glory said. “And when she does, you’ll need a drink in hand for your classy lady. Who knows, she might even let you take her for a spin around the dance floor.”

“Or she might tell me where to shove it.”

Etta Jayne was more a woman of action than words, so he should be more worried about where she’d stick it. “At least the wondering would be over and you wouldn’t come in here week after week, sitting and watching and wondering.”

Something Glory knew all too well. She’s been sitting and watching Cal for years, and now that she knew what he tasted like, she had to admit that all of her wondering didn’t even come close to the reality.

Cal McGraw was about as perfect as a man could get—and instead of ignoring her, he wanted to be her friend. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

“When did I start paying my employees to stand around and flap their gums?” Etta Jayne asked, making her way through the crowd and sliding behind the bar.

“I thought it was your night off and you were coming here with the girls,” Glory asked, emptying Skeeter’s drink from the shaker to a martini glass, sliding a lemon on the rim, and going to work on the mint julep.

“And I thought you were handling business. Mable Facebooked that she’d been waiting so long to get her drink she’d died of old age and if someone could notify her son in Tampa to come retrieve the body.” She held up her phone as proof. “Plus, Jelly Lou wanted me to tell you that you have to sit Road Kill this weekend.”

“This weekend?” The last time she’d been left to sit Road Kill, the grannies had been kicked out of Atlantic City for counting cards and Road Kill had eaten a hole in every single pair of Glory’s underwear. “I thought you ladies had choir practice tomorrow morning.”

“Plans change.”

“Please don’t tell me your plans have anything to do with Ms. Kitty and the Prowler.” Because that was all Glory needed right now, some Green E15 added to the fire.

“Then I won’t tell you.” She looked at Skeeter, who was looking back like a man in love, and her hands dug into her pudgy hips. “You had too much to drink already, Skeeter? Or you having a stroke?”

“No, ma’am, just not used to seeing your knees bare is all,” Skeeter said, reaching up to tip his hat—only to realize he wasn’t wearing one.

Etta Jayne stopped, her face going red as a Falcons’ jersey, then sputtered. Skeeter, looking confused and a little bit terrified, did some sputtering of his own.

With a sigh, Glory stepped in. “You’re right, Skeeter. Etta Jayne is looking pretty tonight.”

Etta Jayne was in a knee-length dress. Mourning black with a matching organza church hat. Her boots were ankle high and steel toed, and her expression was dialed to “Can I get a witness,” but she was showing leg and wearing lipstick.

“And you’re looking like you’re one shuttle arrival from going under.” The older woman tied a beer-stained apron around her round middle and looked at the drink in front of Skeeter. “You want an umbrella with that, Skeeter?”

The poor guy swallowed hard but silently shook his head.

“Would hate to think you’d gone soft.” She grabbed the shaker from Glory’s hand, took a sniff, and narrowed her eyes. “Or that you’d be courting some society pearl.”

“Not me, Etta Jayne,” Skeeter said and, leaving his drink on the bar, got up and left in a flurry.

“Mint julep,” Etta Jayne muttered as she poured the drink into a mason jar, added a mint sprig, and slid it down the bar to Mable.

“I was afraid I was going to die of dehydration,” Mable said, patting a bony hand to her chest.

“You’ll suffocate from running your lips long before that,” Etta Jayne hollered back.

Grabbing a rack of mason jars, and all the ingredients in her pudgy hands, she looked at Glory. “Give me a dozen gin and tonics using that bathtub gin we found at Letty’s place, and a dozen of those juleps everyone seems to be so big on. Unless it comes in a bottle or out of a tap, this is all we’re serving tonight.”

“You didn’t have to scare off Skeeter like that,” Glory chided. “You know that drink was for you.”

“Are you offering me dating tips?” Etta Jayne laughed, and Glory zipped it. She hadn’t gone on a date since the unregulated raising of Leon’s flagpole. “That’s what I thought. Now, I got an hour before the girls and I head out, and Stella’s not coming till nine, so go get me some limes.”

Glory kissed her boss on the cheek and whispered, “Don’t be snappy just because a man got you flustered,” then made her way to the other end of the bar.

“Poor Skeeter,” Glory mumbled, pulling out a handful of limes.

“I don’t know, at least he’s one step closer,” Charlotte said, sitting primly on a barstool in an adorable yellow and white polka-dotted dress with a white belt and matching clutch. “How about you, Glory? You going to take your own advice or just dish it out?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Gaze on the cutting board, knife moving at the speed of light, Glory efficiently wedged the limes—and avoided eye contact. Because she knew. And Charlotte knew that she knew.

There was a full beat of silence but Glory stood firm. Charlotte wasn’t one to let things go and her teeth were sunk so far into this conversation, Glory could feel the pricking at her neck. “So then you don’t want to talk about you and Cal?”