Sweet Gone South (7 page)

“So what about this Eula Lawson? Is she likely to come calling?”

“No. She has been baking special occasion cakes out of her house for as long as you and I have been alive. She’s raised her teenage grandson by herself from the time he was two, when his parents were killed. Maybe you know him. Kirby Lawson. He runs errands for Harris and Tolly. You might remember Miss Eula’s kindness when you get ready to buy a cake on Emma’s birthday.”

“I will.” He leaned against the counter and gestured to the rest of the food. “What about the kindness of the rest of it?”

“Well.” Lanie picked up a pie in a disposable pan. “Not all of it was given in kindness. This one was. Do you know how I know?”

He smiled. It had been a long time since he’d smiled naturally at anyone except Emma. It felt good. “No idea. Tell me.”

“It’s in a disposable pan. Whoever brought it was welcoming you to your new home. It was meant to cause you no trouble. But take this.” She picked up the lasagna she’d inspected earlier and raised it above her head. “Yep. That’s what I thought. It has a name on the bottom. I’d wager all of these non-disposable dishes have names on the bottom. In this case, it’s Jerrilyn Chambers. You have to return the dish, which means you have to go to her house or call her to make arrangements to see her. Neat.” She wiggled her fingers. “All tied up like a pretty little bow. It’s the pie plate mating ritual. Many good men have been felled by it.”

He laughed. She was funny. “That’s quite the trick. Have you ever felled a man with Pyrex?”

“No. I haven’t needed to.” She took another drink of her beer.

“Not even Nathan Scott?” Maybe she would say she wasn’t dating the Merritt High coach anymore. Not that he cared.

“Pyrex wouldn’t work on Nathan. He doesn’t care what he eats. Or much if he eats.” She picked up a fancy covered serving dish with some flowers painted on it. “Ah, look at this. This one really wants your attention. No way that you can keep this.” She lifted the lid and laughed. “My, my, my! What have we here?” She smelled the contents. “Unless I miss my guess, this is shrimp creole from the county club.” She lifted the dish and looked at the bottom. “Why, I do believe that Jill St. Clare took her good china to the club for Chef Michael to fill.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure. It my favorite thing at the club and I know Jill. She’s lazy.”

“It’s your favorite thing? We could call, find out the ingredients. Then we could eat it. You could eat with us.” Had he really said that? And why? He didn’t need any more company. He still needed to figure out something for Emma to wear to church tomorrow and email the Birmingham agency to set up interviews with potential nannies.

“No,” Lanie said. “We can’t eat that.”

“Why not? That is, if it doesn’t have any peanut products?”

“Because it’s shrimp. And you’ve left it out all day.”

He didn’t realize until after Lanie had gone that, for a few minutes, he hadn’t felt alone.

And, somehow, the knowledge that there could be life in a room where there was no Carrie only multiplied the loneliness.

By Monday night, Luke still had not recovered from letting Emma nap until after seven o’clock Saturday night. Lanie had been right. Nothing like a three-year-old revved up and ready to go in the middle of the night. They’d slept through church, and though he’d tried to keep her from taking a nap, when she’d passed out on the grass at the park late in the afternoon, he hadn’t had the heart to wake her. Hard as he’d tried, he’d not been able to get her into bed until after ten last night. And this morning he’d had to get them both up and moving before six because he’d had to speak at the Rotary breakfast meeting.

It had been his plan for Emma to sit quietly while he made his speech but Lanie had run into them in the stairwell and offered to feed Emma and take her to school. He’d been so grateful that he didn’t even stop to think about whether it was a good idea to let Lanie become more involved in their lives. Truth was, though she was certainly more of a free spirit than he was, she wasn’t the train wreck he’d perceived her to be. And he liked having her around a little too much.

It was almost midnight when he slipped on the shorts and t-shirt he planned to sleep in and checked on Emma one last time. He smoothed the covers over her and pulled her thumb from her mouth. It was time for the thumb sucking to stop but he didn’t know how, just like he didn’t know how to toilet train her. Two days ago, when they were in a restaurant, she’d asked to go potty and he’d panicked. It had seemed wrong to take her to the men’s room and he certainly couldn’t take her to the women’s. It had all ended in a diaper change, which he did in the car. His mother and Susie kept telling him not to worry about it, that Emma wasn’t ready yet — despite the fact that she wouldn’t tolerate a less than pristine diaper for fifteen seconds. She sometimes woke him in the middle of the night to change her.

Still, he couldn’t help thinking if Carrie were still alive, everything would be on schedule. Carrie had been organized, efficient and — most of all — sure of herself. She had run a multi-million dollar business, several charities, and their home with seemingly no effort. And all the while she’d loved him, made him laugh, made him smile. He was sinking but there was an end in sight. It wasn’t the perfect end; a mother would be the perfect end. But it was a solution. Wednesday, he was interviewing three prospective nannies.

For once, Luke immediately fell into a deep, restful sleep — so deep that he thought he was dreaming about a ringing bell when the phone rang. He reached for it but didn’t raise his head from the pillow.

“Hello,” he said around a yawn.

“Judge Avery, this is Jack Greer. Sorry to wake you.”

“That’s all right.” And it was. Sherriff Greer was not the kind of man to make a late night call without reason. Luke sat up and glanced at the clock. One o’clock. He’d been asleep less than an hour.

“I need a search warrant,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got a body out here on Route 439. Domestic dispute, we think. We’re pretty sure the suspect’s hiding at his brother’s house but they won’t let us in.”

“Sure.” Luke stood up.

“I can have a deputy at your house in ten minutes.”

“You know I’ve moved?”

“Yeah. Downtown, above the candy store.”

“Tell him to go to the ground floor door around back. I’ll meet him down there.”

Luke pulled a pair of sweatpants over his shorts. This was the first time he’d been called for a warrant in the middle of the night but it was bound to happen. Emma was sleeping soundly but he took the baby monitor with him when he went downstairs to wait.

The doorbell rang sharply and reverberated throughout the entire building, upstairs and down. Damn it all to hell! The officer must have parked the squad car in front and walked around. To be fair, he hadn’t said anything about not ringing the bell, but that’s what he’d wanted to avoid when he’d said he’d be waiting. He punched in the security code, jerked the door open, and held the monitor to his ear. No sound from Emma’s room.

“Judge,” the deputy said, stepping inside.

Luke took the clipboard and looked over the form. “Do you swear that these allegations are true?”

“I do,” the man replied.

“Good luck.” He signed his name and handed the clipboard back to the deputy just as the door to the stairwell flew open and Lanie appeared bleary-eyed, tousle-haired, and half-naked.

Well, maybe not half-naked, but in shorts and a clingy little shirt with some straps that looked like they might not make it through a strong wind. Great idea. He let his eyes feast on her as he closed the door behind the deputy. After a peek at her leg that time, he should have known she would have a body like this, but out of sight, out of mind, and it was definitely out of sight in those baggy chef’s pants and aprons.

She froze in place and crossed her arms over two very pert, very perfect breasts. They were not over large but they were firm and luscious looking. Then she blushed and moved one of her arms to shield her lower torso.

“Sorry.” He found his voice. “I had to sign a warrant. I meant to catch him before he rang the bell.”

“It’s fine. I was afraid something was wrong.”

It is. Lots of wrong out there. Just not in your world.

“Just a day’s work. I’m sorry the doorbell scared you. I’ll be more careful next time.” He dawdled over resetting the alarm and turning off the lights so he wouldn’t have to watch those fabulous legs and bouncing bottom ascend the stairs in front of him. But that didn’t stop him from thinking about it as sleep found him again.

This time when Luke woke, it was with that familiar feeling that something was wrong, though in the abyss between sleep and complete consciousness, he couldn’t remember what. Then came the kick to his gut — not just any kick but a kick delivered by a super hero karate master wearing a ten pound spiked boot. The boot was for Carrie; the spikes were for Jake.

If he had driven them to the airport that day, Carrie would still be alive. Jake would be getting ready for spring training, and Luke would be asleep.

He sat up on the side of the bed and looked at the clock. 2:43
A.M.
He could lie back down but it would be pointless. After this many awakenings and this many kicks to the gut, he knew the drill and he might as well get on with it. First he would go to Emma’s room and make sure she was still breathing. Then he’d make a sandwich or a bowl of cereal, eat two bites, and throw the rest away. Next, he’d flip through the TV channels, surf the net, and try to read. Then it would be time to check on Emma again and pour a glass of milk. He might even drink it.

Eventually he would probably go back to sleep, maybe in his bed, most likely on the sofa, but never on the floor of Emma’s room, tempting as that was. More than anything, he wanted to sleep with his hand on her so he’d know if she stopped breathing, but that was just too far into the crazy zone.

The third and final time Luke woke in less than eight hours, it was from twenty-two pounds landing on his stomach — not an emotional kick this time, but a diaper encased bottom. He opened his eyes just as small hands landed on his cheeks and a tiny nose met his.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, honeybee.” He turned to look at the time on the DVR player. 7:05. Damn. They were going to be late again. Mrs. Benton, Emma’s teacher, was not going to be happy. Last week, she’d taken him aside and told him Emma’s late arrivals disrupted the class and got Emma’s day off to a bad start.

Not that Emma’s days were going that well anyway — good start or not. She was used to structure — breakfast, school, lunch, nap in her own bed, snack, playtime or some activity, dinner, downtime, bath, story, and bed. She wasn’t getting that and it made her tired and grumpy. Since his mother had left town he’d been using a hodgepodge of sitters, accepting play date offers, and taking off early. Daycare was not a good option. Emma was accustomed to quiet unhurried days and if she went straight from preschool to daycare, she’d be in sensory overload by mid-afternoon. She needed someone to get her ready for school, take her there, and pick her up. He needed someone who would do laundry, run errands, and cook dinner. He’d hired a cleaning service to come in once a week but they didn’t do the extras.

He put his arms around her and sat up. “Time to get ready for school.”

“No school. Gonna go ’round and ’round in your chair.” Oh, great. He’d taken her to his office last week for a few hours and she’d loved it — had been begging to go back ever since.

“Not today.” He got up, swung her onto his shoulders, and started toward her room. “You’re going home with Beau after school, remember? You’ll have lunch there, take a nap, and then you’re going to Justin’s birthday party. I’ll pick you up from Justin’s house.” He needed to remember to call Missy Bragg and tell her the present was in Emma’s backpack.

“I go with
you
,” Emma said. “I go in
my
car to the happy birthday.”

“That’s not how it works. School, then party. Here, arms up.” He peeled her nightgown off. Maybe he would take her to school and come back and get himself ready for work. If he did that, she might be on time and, except in his own mind, there was no such thing as late for a judge. He was going to tell that new nanny he needed her here at 6:30 every morning so he could go for a run and be at his desk by eight. He had no illusions about why he was a judge. It was nepotism, pure and simple. People were bound to be watching and he wanted them to see what he knew about himself — that he was hard working and capable. In his view, that didn’t mean dragging into work mid-morning. When he’d been living at the farm, he’d been at his desk every morning by 7:15.

“Let’s potty.” He directed her toward the bathroom and removed her diaper. She’d had a dry night and that was a rarity. Potty training was something else the new nanny was going to have to make happen.

He’d learned right off that it never went well if he asked Emma what she wanted to wear so he dressed her in a pink t-shirt, denim overalls with embroidered pink flowers, and pink tennis shoes. It was one of the outfits his mother had put together for her.

“Hair bow,” Emma said pointing to the hair ribbons hanging over her dresser mirror. Damn. He was going to hide those things tonight after she went to sleep. Like Lanie’s body, out of sight, out of mind. Maybe. Bow tying never went well.

“Let’s get your breakfast and then we’ll fix your hair,” he said. Hair bow aside, it was going all right. He’d fix her breakfast and she could feed herself while he pulled on sweat pants and shoes.
If
she didn’t spill on her clothes,
if
she didn’t balk at brushing her teeth,
if
she forgot the hair bow, they might make it to school on time.

“Cartoons!” Emma yelled gleefully and ran into the living room.

“Okay,” he said, reaching for the remote. “But you know the rule. You can watch until your breakfast is ready but you have to come when I call you.”

She didn’t answer, but put her thumb in her mouth and plopped in the floor too close to the television. Not a battle he had time to fight today — the thumb or the sitting ten inches from the TV. Please, God, let one of these nannies be the one.