Till I Kissed You (28 page)

They settled side by side on a couch, and Sawyer waved off an offer of tea or coffee. “Looks like you're ready for church. We don't want to delay you. Is Heath living here? Could we come by later, perhaps?”

“He's not.” Mr. Parsons bit the words out while Mrs. Parsons gazed off to the side.

“Do you happen to know where he's staying?” Cade asked.

“Don't know and don't care.” Mr. Parsons's voice was cold.

Mrs. Parsons made a small sound of distress. “That's not true. We do care, but things got bad. We're trying tough love with him.”

“What happened?” Sawyer set his elbows on his knees and leaned toward Mrs. Parsons, holding her gaze.

Her chin quivered. “He stole some money from us. Not sure if he's into gambling or drugs or what.”

Mr. Parsons piped up. “Had problems managing his anger. Felt like his life hadn't turned out like he'd expected. Although the boy never wanted to work for anything. Expected things to fall into his lap. I guess for a time things did. Until they didn't.”

“You might ask Bryce. They've always been thick as thieves. Don't know who else he'd turn to. Will you help him?” Mrs. Parsons's eyes pleaded with him. To her, Heath would always be her little boy, the one who'd always need the protection of a mother. Sawyer wanted to pat her shoulder and make promises he'd be unable to keep.

“They're not here to help Heath. Why would they help him?” Mr. Parsons muttered a curse and stormed out of the room.

Mrs. Parsons rose, her cheeks pink. “I apologize for my husband, gentlemen. He's upset about Heath. We're at a loss how to get through to him and steer him back to God's path. I pray about him all the time.”

Sawyer took her hand, not in a shake but in a comforting squeeze. “Sometimes that's all you can do. Thank you for your time.”

Sawyer stepped out of the house and took a deep breath. Once back in the truck, Cade said, “That was depressing as hell.”

“Tell me about it. Makes me want to find Heath and drag him home by the ear to apologize to his poor mama.”

Cade typed on his smartphone. “Bryce lives over in Country Aire on our side.”

Country Aire was a trailer park on a gravel loop off the main parish road. The gentrified spelling of “Aire” had always hit Sawyer with a shot of sad irony. He pulled onto the gravel lane. Any identifying trailer numbers had long been worn away or covered by grime.

“There's Heath's truck,” Cade said darkly.

“How'd you know what he drives?”

“Made it my business to know once I heard he was harassing Tally.”

“Why didn't I know sooner?” Sawyer and Tally had always been close, and he wouldn't lie and say his feelings weren't a little hurt.

“Don't get your shorts in a wad. Tally would rather die than depend on me or you or anyone for that matter. Monroe mentioned it.”

“See, she does tell you things.” Sawyer pulled to a stop in front of the trailer, blocking Heath's truck.

“Let's do this.” Cade hopped out before Sawyer even had the engine off.

Sawyer stepped up behind Cade as the trailer door squeaked open. Heath stood in the narrow space, a pit of darkness behind him, the faint scent of marijuana drifting out. The dark stubble on his face emphasized pale skin and dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

“I ain't talked to Tally in weeks.” His voice rumbled with equal amounts of trepidation and defiance.

“We're not here about our sister.”

“Why then?” He didn't seem inclined to invite them inside.

“We're here about the festivals.”

Heath's eyes widened before he laughed softly. His hand emerged from behind the door with a hand-rolled joint, and he took a drag. It took several seconds for the smoke to emerge out of his smiling mouth, giving him an odd Cheshire Cat vibe. “You boys looking for volunteers?”

“Not hardly.” Disdain and impatience cut Cade's words. “You been messing with the festivals? Cutting traps? Arson? B&E? That kind of stuff isn't child's play. We could have the sheriff down here with a call.”

Heath made a show of looking over their shoulders. “Why ain't he with you, then? You don't have any proof, am I right?”

Cade's upper lip twitched, an old tell that he was ready to lose it.

Sawyer shuffled forward, an answering smile on his face. “We don't want to nail you. We want to know who's been paying you.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.” He took another drag, but his smile had fallen along with his gaze. Sawyer and Cade exchanged a glance.

“You got yourself some money troubles? Have you been working?”

Color flushed into Heath's cheeks. “No, I ain't been working. Got fired from working the harvest and your bitch of a sister banned me from her gym, so my MMA career is on the skids.”

Cade was up the two concrete steps faster than Sawyer could react. He grabbed Heath's dingy T-shirt and slammed him into the doorjamb. “What'd you say about my sister, bub?”

“N-Nothing. Sorry.”

Sawyer didn't intervene. It was time to let bad cop be bad.

“Who is paying you and telling you what to do, 'cuz we all know you're not smart enough to come up with shit on your own.”

“Ms. Martha.” The name came on two short breaths. Cade eased back and let him go. The mangled remnants of the joint were on the ratty welcome mat. Heath massaged his neck and picked it up. He took another drag, the joint shaking between his fingers.

“You expect us to believe Ms. Martha, owner of the Quilting Bee, has been paying you to sabotage the festivals?” Cade asked.

“I don't care whether you believe it or not. It's the truth. She and my mama are in a prayer circle together. I guess Mama's been praying for my soul. That's how Ms. Martha knew I needed money.”

Cade muttered a curse word and walked away.

“If you call the sheriff on me, I'll deny everything.”

Sawyer got in Heath's face, the bitterness and resentment plain to see in the other man's eyes. “You think Ms. Martha is going to cover for you? What are you to her except some meathead she hired to do her dirty work?”

“Soon as she pays me the last of what she owes me, I'm heading to Naw'leans to find a gym. I'm going to be a star in the UFC, you wait and see.”

Maybe with his family's support, Heath Parsons could have turned things around. Cleaned up, found a good woman, worked an honest job, lived an honest life. The summer had stolen that chance. New Orleans would feed his vices and then devour him.

“You're going to be nothing, Heath.” Sawyer backed away and joined Cade in the truck.

The rising dust from his tires on the way out of Country Aire swallowed Heath's reflection in the doorway of the trailer in his rearview mirror.

“Ms. Martha's probably at church unless lightning struck her down,” Cade said.

Even though none of it had been a surprise, a gloom overcame Sawyer. The desperation of a mother to save her son led to his final corruption. Yet Ms. Martha was a decent woman, driven by her own desperate desire to save her business. An unwelcome guilt settled on his shoulders. The festival competition had been the spark that set everything ablaze.

Sawyer drove past the Cottonbloom Parish sheriff's office and headed to the bridge over the river.

Cade straightened. “Aren't you handing this over to law enforcement?”

“Not yet. I need to talk things over with Regan.”

“The state of your relationship has nothing to do with this.”

“Not as … lovers.” The word rolled off his tongue with the awkwardness of an elephant performing ballet. He cleared his throat. “But as parish commissioner to mayor. Do you want to see Ms. Martha in jail?”

“I want her to get what she deserves.”

Sawyer glanced at his brother who was staring out the windshield, a haunted expression on his face. “What if Chief Thomason had given you what you deserved instead of a second chance?”

They were silent the rest of the way to Monroe's. Cade had been gone too long. He had deliberately cut his ties to Cottonbloom, but Sawyer understood the symbiotic relationship between the two sides and between the citizens.

Cade had the door open as soon as Sawyer pulled to the curb. He turned back with one foot in and one out. “Look, I get that turning Ms. Martha over to the law is hard, but it's the right thing to do. She hurt innocent people. Our crayfish harvesters deserve to be reimbursed at the very least.”

Sawyer tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “The Quilting Bee will die.”

“Then it dies.” Cade rubbed over his jaw, the green of his eyes reminding Sawyer of their mother. “People change. Something has to end for something new to take its place. Maybe something better.”

Sawyer blinked. Cade's eyebrows went up, the corner of his mouth quirked, and Sawyer had the distinct feeling they weren't discussing the Quilting Bee anymore. “Maybe the something new, something better will die too.”

“Maybe it will. Life is about risk and reward. You won't reap the reward without risking everything. It's what I did when I left here and what I did when I came back. I hold no regrets.”

Cade stepped back and closed the door. Behind him, Monroe stepped onto the porch and waved, the smile on her face brilliant. His brother swept Monroe into a hug as if they'd been separated for weeks instead of hours.

Everything in Sawyer's chest ached. He drove by Regan's house, but her car wasn't in the driveway. He continued on, past her mama's house. Mrs. Lovell was in the front yard with gardening gloves and a floppy hat, pruning her roses.

Without considering it, he pulled to a stop and walked over to her. She was short and curvy where Regan was lean, but their strawberry blonde hair was the same. They also shared the same complicated brown eyes. Eyes that were staring at him with unvarnished hatred.

“Mrs. Lovell.” Sawyer tipped his head.

“Mr. Fournette. Or should I say Commissioner Fournette. You've made quite a name for yourself over in Louisiana.”

“Why do you hate me?” The question that popped out shocked them both into a temporary silence.

Her jaw worked before she turned back to her roses, cutting off a bloom that appeared to still be in its prime. Hot pink fell in the middle of a pile of browning blossoms. “It's unchristian to hate.”

“You've done everything you can to keep me and Regan apart. I want to know why.”

She clipped off a dying bloom. “You were a phase. Something I had to suffer through. The two of you weren't meant to last. I saw you for what you were. A poor boy who wanted to prove something by dating a pretty girl from Mississippi.”

A nugget of truth lay in her words. He had loved Regan, but a tiny part of himself was ashamed to acknowledge he had been validated by her love. “I'm going to date your daughter whether you want me to or not.”

The woman laughed and clipped off a browning rose. “What you and my daughter are doing is not dating. You are something she needs to get out of her system before she can move on.”

“What are you talking about?” In spite of the heat, a numb wave stilled his heart.

Mrs. Lovell turned and pointed the sharp tip of the clippers at his chest. The first time she'd given him her full attention. “Please. Things ended abruptly years ago. She needs closure. If that consists of sneaking around and reliving some of her wilder moments with you…? Well then, I'll keep my mouth shut. For now. But don't for one second think she wants to date you in front of all of Cottonbloom. That's laughable.”

Why was he standing in this woman's yard? Had he expected to receive her blessing? She was petty and cruel, and he was terrified she spoke the truth. He wanted to build something new with Regan. Was all she was doing was reliving their past?

“It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Lovell.” His bitter, dry tone drew her narrowed gaze, her brown eyes as flat as Regan's were deep.

He was almost to his truck when she called out. “I believe my daughter is at a festival meeting, Mr. Fournette. Our festival will make anything you put together look pathetic.”

The questions reeling through his head dinged his already fragile confidence where Regan was concerned. Nevertheless, he pointed his truck toward Church Street.

 

Chapter Twenty

Regan took a cookie off the doily-covered tray and sipped her glass of lemonade. The festival committee was finalizing plans. While the festival was her baby, she'd enlisted the help of several denizens of Cottonbloom society to spearhead certain functions.

The Home and Garden tour was in the capable hands of Ms. Beatrice, her seventh-grade English teacher. The farmers' market, where fresh tomatoes and tomato concoctions like salsa and chutney would be displayed and sold, was headed up by Mr. Holcomb, whose tomatoes rivaled her mother's. Regan was in charge of entertainment, food, and the general set-up, but kept her fingers in all the pies. It was frankly exhausting to make sure no one went off the rails.

“I heard-tell someone tried to kill all your dear mother's tomato plants. Is that true?” Ms. Beatrice's needle-sharp voice pierced her reverie. Her mind wasn't on the festival at all but back in Sawyer's bed. Her face heated as if everyone could read her thoughts.

“We caught someone lurking around.”

“If he came around my garden, I'd put a round of buckshot in his butt.” Mr. Holcomb's voice reverberated in the meeting room typically used for Bible study.

The tittering of the ladies alternated between outrage and outright laughter. “This is a house of God, Mr. Holcomb.” Ms. Beatrice adjusted the reading glasses on her nose, looking like the disapproving teacher she'd been before retiring. She still intimidated Regan.

“Didn't the Lord himself tell David to chop off all the foreskins from the heathen tribes? That's a sight worse than a little buckshot, if you ask me.”