Sweet Talk Me (22 page)

“Good-bye,” the older woman called after her.

“And good luck,” the younger one chimed in.

Of all the nerve!

It took True the full thirty-five-minute drive back to Biscuit Creek to calm down.

She was utterly miserable all afternoon and hid at the public library. She couldn’t go home and face Harrison. She knew he’d have too many questions. And she also didn’t want to talk to Carmela. True didn’t want to bother her at work. She also dreaded hearing what her best friend would say. What if she agreed with those women that eloping was the best thing?

Perhaps it was. She’d already mentioned that as a possibility to Penn. She didn’t mind for herself. But she knew that Penn would think she’d failed. And Dubose … well, he’d be seriously disappointed.

But what could she do?

Nothing.

She needed to call him ASAP. So she gathered her courage and did just that. But all afternoon, his phone went to voice mail.

“Call me when you can,” she told his mailbox recording. “We need to talk about the wedding.” She tried not to inject any panic into her tone.

She couldn’t hide forever from Harrison. Late that afternoon they got ready to drive Weezie to Trident Tech’s evening open house.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Weezie. “You meet all the teachers and tour the place, and then there’s some kind of barbecue afterward.”

“Good,” True said. “We won’t have to worry about dinner.” She looked at Gage. “Carmela said she’s coming by with her special lasagna.”

“She is?” Gage’s brows shot up.

“That’s mighty nice of her,” Harrison said.

It really was. If True didn’t know any better, she’d think Carmela was trying to impress Gage. First a pie, and now a lasagna? She stole a swift glance at Harrison’s brother. He
was
really handsome. But from all accounts, he barely spoke to Carmela at the store. And Carmela had never mentioned him before yesterday. Maybe she had a thing for Harrison and just didn’t want to say so.

“I’m meeting my friends after the tour at the barbecue,” Weezie said. “The people I want to room with. Remember?”

“You’re not rooming with anyone,” True reminded her. “You’re staying with me and Dubose at his mother’s guesthouse while Maybank Hall undergoes some renovations. Then you’ll come back here to live with us.”

“No, I won’t,” said Weezie, a stubborn light in her eyes. “If I have to, I’ll work to make my rent. And I’ll also pay my tuition if you won’t. I’m not your daughter. And Dubose isn’t my father. He’s
your
problem, not mine.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “That’s my final say for today.”

That last part was her latest talk show sign-off. A few weeks ago, it had been:
We got this, Biscuit Creek
, followed by a wink.

True refrained from rolling her eyes. “Can we talk about this later? I was ready to go, but I’ve just now decided I need to wear something a little snazzier to match Harrison.”

He looked justifiably proud. “You do that. But I’m a stickler for being on time. It’s the one OCD trait Gage and I share. So no dawdling. You’d look gorgeous in a paper bag anyway.”

True tried to let her annoyance at his bossiness outweigh the fluttery, flattered sensation she felt at his outrageous compliment, but it was a struggle. When she got back downstairs exactly four minutes and twenty seconds later, Gage was busy straightening the dogs on the porch. They’d been lying in a heap, but now their wet noses—mostly black, although Ed’s looked like a red rubber eraser—were all lined up in a pretty row.

“Whoa,” Harrison said. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” True tried her best not to blush, but she felt the heat creep up her neck.

“Shall we?” He held out his arms—one to each woman—and escorted them to the Maserati.

True didn’t know why she felt as if this were a date. It definitely wasn’t, especially with Weezie in the mix. But she was ready for someone else to take charge for a little while so she could stew in her misery.

Weezie wanted to do something similar. She sat in the backseat with her iPod turned up too high and her earbuds firmly plugged into her ears, her expression a combination of resentment and nerves. Slowly, True noticed in the visor mirror, it gave way to absorption in her music. Thank God. She didn’t know what she was going to do with that girl.

“No way she can live on her own,” she said to Harrison in low tones.

“You think not?” In the confined space of the car he was bursting with more than his usual masculine appeal—which was already huge—in his navy blazer, collared white silk shirt (which he wore open one-button-too-many), chunky cuff links at his wrists, khaki pants, tasseled loafers, and very subtle cologne. It was the southern man’s uniform. Ben Silver had done him right. But that dangerous extra button he’d undone, along with his long hair and new stubble, added an insouciance that proclaimed him his own man.

“I think it would be disastrous,” she said. “Hey, what about your disguise?”

“I
am
disguised,” he said, and pulled a pair of John Lennon wireframes out of his jacket pocket and put them on. “I’m Terence Jones, a man who looks a lot like Harrison Gamble. It’s my out-in-the-open disguise. Risky, but sometimes necessary when large hats and dark sunglasses won’t fly. Terence is gay. So keep that in mind if you try to have your way with me in a broom closet at the open house. It’ll be an epic fail.”

“Aw, shucks,” she said sarcastically, but inside she was still mortified about how obvious she’d been at the beach house, yearning after him like a desperate fan.

He chuckled.

“Well, I hope Terence Jones works for you.” She kept her tone airy so he wouldn’t guess that inside she was still a seething cauldron of feelings for him. “We’ll need to get Weezie in on the act.”

“I already have. When you ran upstairs to change outfits, I talked to her about not giving you a hard time tonight. I also said that if she wants to live on her own, she needs to prove her trustworthiness to you. She totally agreed.”

“Oh?” True could handle Weezie herself. But as she’d asked Harrison to accompany them tonight for moral support, she couldn’t very well complain when he butted in, now, could she? Nevertheless, she was slightly irritated. “By the bye,” she said testily, “your hair looks better than mine.”

“I disagree. Yours is a marvel, all shiny and swingy with that little flip on the end.”

Once more she refused to be flattered, but that silly feeling came back anyway, the one that craved him noticing everything about her—then kissing her senseless.

What was her problem?

“But I’ll pass on the compliment to Biscuit Creek’s own barber, Henry Carter, anyway,” Harrison went on. “He’s never heard the term
hair product
in his life. Which reminds me, I’ve had a good day with the locals. When it comes down to it, not a one of ’em thinks I’m a big deal. And I love it. Old Mrs. Finch, who has enough medical issues to warrant opening a hospital in her honor, made me carry her empty basket while she picked out her ripe tomatoes one by one. Now, that was a good time. I know more about the perils of improper digestion than I ever thought possible. You need to buy more food with fiber, by the way. I did a quick rundown of your cupboards.”

“Fiber’s not my problem.” True sighed. “I still haven’t heard back from Dubose. We’ve got to talk.” And she told Harrison all about Lila and her two friends from Seabrook Island.

“Whoa,” he said. “They should have brought popcorn and candy if they were just coming into town to be entertained by you.”

“I know. But they reminded me of an idea I already had. Dubose and I can elope.”

Harrison frowned. “Is that what you really want to do?”

“I honestly don’t care. This big wedding—that was more for Penn and Dubose than me.”

“But don’t you want your friends there? I hope I’m invited.”

She closed her eyes a second. “Of course, you’re not invited. No offense.”

He made another face. “Why not? I’m in town. I’m not going to cause any trouble.”

“Harrison”—True laid her hand on his arm—“I’m sorry, but Dubose doesn’t like you. You know that.”

“But if
you
do, I should be able to come. Or are you letting him call all the shots?”

“People will talk.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“I don’t know why. It’s not as if we had a big relationship or anything.”

She met his eyes. Behind the John Lennon frames, they were glinting with humor. But there was something else there, too. It would always be there between them, that night at the Isle of Palms. She remembered the insistent beckoning of his rebel’s body to her very proper one, a primal drumbeat she couldn’t resist, calling her to carnal revolution.

She’d become a soldier of love, all right. But the next day, she’d deserted him.

The old pain welled up, and she looked out her passenger-side window, not willing to see even his profile. Not wanting to be ashamed again of her betrayal.

But she’d been so young. So very young. And he’d asked so much,
too
much, as if she were this larger-than-life person who didn’t live in the real world. As if she didn’t have to listen to any rules but those governing her own heart. He’d treated her …

As if she were a painter in the attic who made wild canvases and needed to show them to the world.

She leaned her forehead against her window and watched the asphalt roadway pass on by.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Hi, Terence Jones,” Harrison said as he shook the hand of the provost at Trident Technical College.
Watch out
, he wanted to tell her,
you have a firecracker on your hands. And we expect her to have every opportunity to excel while she’s with you
.

The woman was a looker in her fifties, he guessed. A swirl of blond hair framed sharp eyes and a confident mouth outlined in deep burgundy lipstick. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones. Your daughter—”

“Goddaughter,” he lied equably.

“Your
god
daughter”—the provost kept the handshake going—“is going to love Trident Technical College.”

“She’s got big plans,” he said. “Two years of general ed courses here, and then on to the University of South Carolina’s broadcasting school. We’re hoping the Trident experience will give her the wings she needs to succeed there.”

The provost nodded. “She’ll gain all sorts of know-how and confidence in the program here and blow them away at USC. They love our students. And you tell your goddaughter that if she ever has a problem, she can come straight to my office.”

“Thank you for that.” His knees were almost weak with relief.

“I mean it sincerely.” She angled her head. “Has anyone ever told you…?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He almost winked, but he was still a little rattled from how incredibly emotional he was about Weezie, her plans—hell, her growing up. “I’ve never met the guy, but supposedly we’re distant cousins. On the Jones side. The Aiken branch of the family.”

“No fooling.” She finally let his hand go and leaned close. “Don’t worry, Mr. Gamble,” she murmured. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Shit.

But then he realized he was actually glad that she was so damned on the ball.

“Thanks,” he whispered. He felt really good about this place. He moved on down the line behind Weezie and True, repeating the same Terence Jones story to anyone who asked. There were a few who didn’t—always a relief.

“Terence?” True inquired politely. She reminded him of a daffodil in her pale yellow dress, formfitting until you got to the puffy skirt that ended mid-thigh. Sexy as hell.

“Yeeesss?” he drawled with a little more color than he usually did. Might as well play Terence up, do the fictitious man proud.

“Mrs. Bangor, the head of the culinary department, would like to talk to you.” True smiled prettily at him, but her eyes signaled that she was upset, which meant that she was either secretly begging him to cooperate—or secretly begging him
not
to cooperate.

It was a conundrum for the ages, so he’d go on instinct.

Mrs. Bangor, who was short, round, and fond of large floral prints, grinned broadly at him. “Young man, you’re the spittin’ image of Harrison Gamble.”

He gave her the spiel.

“I don’t care who you really are, Mr. Jones,” she said. “We’re doing a foodie calendar to raise money for the school. Would you be Mr. January? That’s a high honor. We’d want you to pose with some of our students’ desserts. They make a credible homemade MoonPie
and
Twinkie.”

He feigned confusion. “MoonPies and Twinkies?”

“You know,” she said, “there’s a song called ‘Snack on This.’ Harrison Gamble sings it. About people’s favorite snacks. MoonPies and Twinkies are mentioned.”

Harrison scratched his temple. “That’s the connection?” He shrugged. “I’m a fan of opera and baroque music. So I wouldn’t know. But sure, I’ll be glad to pose. I assume you mean discreetly unclothed.”

Mrs. Bangor’s face turned red. “No. No, indeed. You’d wear clothes.” She paused. “But maybe we should reconsider that.”

He winked at her. “You just let me know what you decide, Mrs. Bangor. I’ll be prepared either way. My goddaughter Weezie Maybank can serve as my contact.”

Mrs. Bangor beamed. “Excellent.”

True tugged on his sleeve after they moved past Mrs. Bangor. “What if you’re not here?” she whispered in his ear.

“I’ll fly back in,” he whispered back. “I’ve always wanted to be Mr. January.”

True’s pretty mouth puckered. “Are you ever serious about anything?”

“Not lately,” he said. “Are you ever
not
serious about anything?”

She frowned at him. “This is Weezie’s future we’re talking about.”

“And I just won her major points with the school.”

“With Mrs. Bangor, maybe. But what’s going to happen to Weezie when everyone figures out you really are Harrison Gamble? Because they will eventually.”

He shrugged. “How could that hurt her?”

True blinked. “They won’t treat her like Weezie anymore. She’ll be known as Harrison Gamble’s goddaughter. You’re a celebrity. Whoever hangs out with you is always going to be in your shadow.”