Till I Kissed You (29 page)

This time the room erupted while Mr. Holcomb sat back with a smile on his face. Regan tried not to laugh. Rising and clapping her hands, she said, “The festival is a little over a week away. Does anyone have any receipts or last-minute issues we need to discuss?”

Mr. Holcomb raised a hand. “I got an idea. Selling tomatoes is one thing, but we'll have hungry people out there. Old Rufus is going to be on the other side selling barbeque and crayfish po'boys.”

“We'll be selling cotton candy and fritters and such.”

He made a scoffing sound. “That's all well and good for the kiddies, but I promise when people get a whiff of what Rufus'll be cooking up, they'll hightail it over the river. We'll be looking pretty pitiful to those
Heart of Dixie
boys if that happens.”

“You have a suggestion?”

“Got a cousin who is a crayfish harvester down in Macon Parish. How about we offer up some jambalaya? Good use of any overripe or bruised tomatoes that come in too.”

If Mr. Holcomb had come to her with the suggestion two months ago, she would have given him a high five. Not only was she bound by her pinky promise to Sawyer, but serving up crayfish jambalaya would hurt his festival and his feelings. She couldn't do either. Not now.

Several members of the committee spoke up in favor of the idea. Sweat prickled her forehead. “We don't have the space or manpower to pull it off.”

“I'll put my boys in charge of it. We have plenty of propane stoves and pots. All I'd need is some money for the crayfish, but my cousin'll give us a good deal. My granny passed down a mean jambalaya recipe.” He rubbed the mound of the belly that hung over his pants and hummed.

Mr. Holcomb was only trying to be helpful, but that didn't stop Regan from wanting to gag him with one of his suspenders. “I'm not sure we have the budget, but let me review our plans, and I'll get back to you.” She only had to put him off another few days before it would be too late. “Don't forget we have the pizzeria right off River Street.”

Any remaining issues the committee discussed were minor. As long as the weather held, the festival had the potential to be a home run. She made notes in her phone as the meeting broke up. Ms. Beatrice cleared her throat in such an obvious way that Regan glanced up.

Sawyer filled the doorway, staring at her. A tingling awareness of what he'd done to her with his mouth and hands and—she glanced down—other parts of his body had her core tightening.

“Why Commissioner Fournette, here to spy, are you?” Ms. Beatrice held her notebook against the roll of her bosom and favored Sawyer with a glance that would wither most men. “I can assure you, the Cottonbloom tomato festivities will rival any state festival. We will win the
Heart of Dixie
competition. Mark my words.”

“I'm sure your festival will be spectacular, ma'am.” Sawyer inclined his head and prowled farther into the room, his gaze never leaving Regan. His intensity was part sexual and part something she couldn't identify, but that set her knees trembling.

Guilt over nonexistent crayfish jambalaya had her shuffling backward a few steps until the backs of her legs hit a folding chair. The legs squeaked across the shiny, waxed floor, drawing eyes and silencing conversations.

After the awkwardness of the morning, she couldn't imagine why he had tracked her down to the church meeting hall in front of everyone. She had never been more embarrassed in her life than when she'd heard Tally in his house. The magic of the night had been shattered.

Tallulah Fournette did not like her. She didn't like Regan for who she was and what she had done. Rightly so. Regan was still reeling from their confessions of the day before and the intimacy of their night together. The fracturing of their relationship so many years ago had been as much her fault as his. Maybe even more so. She could blame her mother, but she was the one who had let her mother's opinions guide her life instead of making her own decisions.

While she and Sawyer had resolved the truth of the past—if she chose to trust him—they hadn't discussed the future or whether a future was even possible. The sex had been phenomenal, but was it more than that to him? All these questions and more battered around in her head.

Mr. Holcomb took her forearm. “Would you like me to stay, Regan?” He sounded as if he'd enjoy unleashing buckshot into Sawyer right now.

Regan tried on a smile and patted his hand. “I'll be fine. I'm sure Mr. Fournette has festival business to discuss, isn't that right?”

Everything about Sawyer tensed. “Sure. Festival business, Miss Lovell.” Was she imagining the snarky, resigned tone?

Everyone filed out, and she intercepted several curious glances. Silence descended. He ran a hand through his hair as he continued to stare at her. She followed his hand's progress, watching the strands fall through his fingers. Those hands had touched her everywhere last night. He'd been over, under, inside of her. She'd wanted him again … and again. What would have happened if Tally hadn't interrupted them?

She massaged the lump in her throat. What should she say? “Do you want a cookie?”

“No.”

“Lemonade?”

“No.”

“Was there something about the festivals you wanted to talk about?”

“So that's what we're doing?” He propped his hands low on his hips and stepped forward.

She tried to take a step back, but lost her balance and plopped into the chair. He loomed over her, a thunderous expression on his face. Unable to tolerate the unintentional dominance, she rose. Old habits were hard to break, and he was acting like the old, contentious Sawyer.

“I don't know what we're doing,” she finally said, his attitude unsettling.

“I'm here because”—he threw up his hands and again she followed their arc through the air—“Cade and I found your man.”

She opened her mouth and closed it. His statement was unexpected. She had expected them to hash out their relationship, or lack of relationship. She was more confused than ever. Did his avoidance mean their one night was just that—a one-night thing?

Give her a city to run or a council meeting to guide, and she would take charge. Force her to confront an old-new lover, and she was at a loss as to what to say and do.

“Who is it?”

“You were right about Heath Parsons. Ms. Martha is the one who hired him.”

“No,” she whispered and regained her seat, covering her mouth. Even though she'd wondered and suspected, hearing the truth made her stomach feel like a pincushion. Ms. Martha was well-liked and respected and, although they'd had their differences, Regan didn't want to see her behind bars. “Things must be dire with the Quilting Bee. What should we do?”

“Heath swears he'll deny everything if the police ask, although I'm sure we could find some evidence to pin on him. I think we should go talk to Ms. Martha.”

Her mind circled the problem. Something niggled at her. “I showed Ms. Leora and Ms. Effie the letters.”

“And?”

“And they were shocked but not surprised, if that makes any sense.”

“You think they're involved too?”

“I don't know. If not involved, then maybe they had an inkling something was going on.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I think we should talk to Ms. Leora first.”

Sawyer closed his eyes and ran a hand over his jaw. “What am I going to tell Uncle Del if she is involved? He's finally happy.”

Between his frown and his downtrodden tone, he looked defeated. She stood, wanting to hug him, but not sure how he would react. She settled for a brief touch of his arm. “Don't jump to conclusions just yet. She might be able to help us.”

“Fine. Shall we, Miss Lovell?” The formalness of his tone even though no one was around only increased her confusion.

“Sawyer…”

He didn't acknowledge the plea in her voice nor her outstretched hand as he trudged out the door. She caught up with him in the parking lot. “What is your problem?”

“I don't have a problem.” The way he said it insinuated that she was the one with the problem.

“Well, I don't either.” The bald-faced lie sounded like one. She had a crap-ton of problems, including the festival, her mother, and him.

“I'll meet you at Ms. Leora's.” He stalked toward his truck and revved the engine before she even made it behind the wheel of her Bug.

On the drive over, Regan's head spun around the problems of Ms. Martha and Sawyer. She couldn't concentrate on either long enough to draw a logical conclusion.

Nash's truck wasn't there, but Delmar Fournette's was, along with a second gray tanklike sedan that seemed to be standard among the ladies of a certain age. She and Sawyer exchanged a glance on their climb to the porch.

Sawyer rang the doorbell. Before the first tone had faded, the door swung open. His uncle chucked his chin up and pushed the screen door open. “Have a feeling I know why you're here. We were just discussing it ourselves. Come on back to the parlor.”

Sawyer's worry was palpable, but a distance existed between them that had been absent the night before, and he didn't reach for her hand or touch her in any way when he gestured for her to precede him down the dim hallway.

Delmar perched on the arm of the chair Ms. Leora occupied, and Mrs. Vera Carson sat catty-corner from them on the formal-style sofa. Regan had helped Ms. Leora pick out the upholstery the year before and the pillows the month before. She took a seat next to Mrs. Carson.

“The pillows look fabulous,” she said for something to say.

“Yes. You have a good eye, Regan.” Ms. Leora and Mrs. Carson exchanged a glance. “You're here about Martha, aren't you?”

Sawyer, who was pacing in the background, came to rest with his hand on the fireplace mantel. “She's behind the trouble we've been having with the festivals.”

Mrs. Carson smoothed a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “But she couldn't have ransacked poor Regan's shop.”

“Not her.” Sawyer and his uncle held gazes. “She hired Heath Parsons to do the grunt work. She sent Regan the threatening letters, though, and maybe burned the pavilion down by herself.”

Ms. Leora reached for Delmar's hand but kept her gaze directed toward Regan. “Vera and I were afraid something was going on. And, when you showed me those terrible letters…”

Mrs. Carson took up the thread. “We knew then she was up to her eyeballs in trouble. The shop has been barely breaking even and last year she had some medical issues and then with the tax increases … her desperation came to a head and I suppose the festivals were her breaking point.”

“Up to now, no one has been physically harmed, but between my shop and the baskets and the pavilion, several thousand dollars in property damage has been accrued. Even so, I don't want to see her arrested. What do you say, Sawyer?” She glanced over at him.

“I agree. Not exactly the publicity we want a week before a huge magazine rolls into town to cover the festivities.” He left the mantel to take a wingback chair opposite Ms. Leora. “I have the feeling you ladies and my uncle have been cooking up ideas on how to get everyone out of this mess while saving face, am I right?”

“Told you, Leora-darlin'. Sharp as a fishing hook and about the biggest heart this side of the Mississippi.” Delmar grinned in his direction. “Leora was afraid you would want to throw the book at Martha.”

“Look, what she did was wrong and hurtful, but I understand desperation.” He shot Regan a glance she couldn't interpret.

Mrs. Carson folded her hands in her lap and sat up straighter. “I'm going to buy the Quilting Bee.”

Leora gasped. “But Vera—”

“No. It's already in motion. The Quilting Bee has been my haven for more years than I can count. Without the ladies there…” She shook her head and looked toward the window. “Seeing Cottonbloom ripped apart by the actions of our fathers and husbands and brothers could have broken us all apart, but we kept the faith and the peace and have tried to mend this town stitch by stitch.”

“There are plenty on the Mississippi side who'll never see me as more than a Louisiana swamp rat.” The antipathy in Sawyer's voice surprised Regan. She stared at him, willing him to look at her, but he was focused on Mrs. Carson.

“No, but there are plenty who see you just as your uncle does.” Mrs. Carson cast a look toward Regan. “Isn't that right, dear?”

Sawyer cut his hazel eyes toward her, but his face stayed blank. After a bumbling affirmative hum, she said, “Plenty of people. Everybody … loves you.” Her face heated. Why had she said that?

Sawyer's eyes narrowed before he turned to his uncle. “How do we keep the harvesters from pressing charges?”

“They'll be paid out of the profit Martha will be making on the sale,” Mrs. Carson said.

“Even so, they might not be of the forgive-and-forget mentality,” Sawyer added.

“You leave them to me.” Delmar tucked his chin to his chest and crossed his arms. “I might not have much influence over the banks and highfalutin society types over here, but I know those boys on my side. They'll take the money and keep their mouths shut.”

“Obviously, we can count on your discretion, Regan?” Mrs. Carson patted her hand.

“Of course. But, we haven't discussed whether Ms. Martha will even sell. She might dig in and refuse. Go down with the ship.” Regan looked back and forth at the two ladies.

“Don't worry about Martha. You let Vera and me handle her.” Ms. Leora's voice was full of the steel that had always intimidated Regan. She reached over to touch the back of Sawyer's hand, her voice softening. “I appreciate you being so understanding, Commissioner Fournette. My relationship with your family hasn't been the smoothest. Delmar told me you'd understand though.”

“Call me Sawyer, please.” He rose, and Regan took her cue from him, following him to the door.