Her Passionate Plan B Read online

  And this time she wouldn’t inhale.

  His leather coat was gone, but there was a shirt on the back of a chair and his soft-sided bag was open on the foot of the bed. The three photo albums were stacked neatly on the dresser. She tried not to wonder where he’d gone this time. He was obviously as eager to avoid her as she was him. Good thing one of them still possessed a working brain.

  With Faylene’s help the house was almost ready to close up, the freezer was finally empty and unplugged, the pantry shelves all but bare. Stripping down for a quick shower, Daisy ignored the bath gel and went for the plain, unscented soap. The last thing she needed was to get her hormones in an uproar again.

  She was drying her hair when someone rapped on the bathroom door. She shut off her hair dryer to hear a familiar creamy baritone drawl. “Daisy, you in there?”

  “What do you need?” She’d scarcely seen him since Monday evening when he’d come home all full of himself for having found his dad’s old high school annual.

  “I’m headed down to the place that sells subs and barbecue. Want me to bring you anything?”

  And that was another thing. He knew she was trying to use up all the food on hand, yet he didn’t take it for granted that he was invited to meals. He’d bought a pound of freshly ground Colombian coffee, a box of doughnuts and cereal. Neither of them would be there long enough to use all the coffee. Faylene could have the cereal.

  “Daisy? Did you slip down the drain?”

  “No, look—there’s this box supper thing at the church out on Water Street. Maple Grove? White frame, with a parking lot in front and a picnic area off to one side? You can try your luck there if you don’t want to drive all the way to Barco.”

  “Box supper, hmm? The only box supper I’ve ever seen is the one in that Broadway show, Oklahoma! I’m not much of a dancer and I can’t sing a lick. Does that make me ineligible?”

  Laying aside her hair dryer, she reached for her comb and started unsnarling her hair. He was still out there, she could feel him just on the other side of the door. “Of course not.” Long pause. He was still there. She said, “I didn’t know you liked Broadway musicals.”

  “It was named for my state, so I figured it was my patriotic duty to see it as long as I was in New York for the play-offs, anyway.”

  Snatching her robe off the hook, Daisy rammed her arms in the sleeves and tied the sash around her waist.

  “You ever see any Broadway shows?” he called through the door.

  She wasn’t about to tell him she’d been too busy baby-sitting, pet-walking, dish-washing and going to classes to take time off for anything more frivolous—not to mention more expensive—than an occasional movie. When she didn’t respond, he said, “Well then, I, uh—I guess I’ll see you later. That is, unless you want me to move out now?”

  She did and she didn’t. The weakest part of her didn’t. “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” she called through the door, trying to sound matter-of-fact but sounding breathless instead. If he left in the morning, she could do the last load of laundry and be gone by tomorrow evening.

  “Right. Well, thanks.” Still he didn’t leave. She could picture him just on the other side of the paneled door, those cobalt-blue eyes half closed, one booted ankle crossed over the other one, arms crossed over his chest. He might appear tame, but if ever a man had free-range stamped all over him, it was Kell Magee.

  Finally, he said, “So…I guess I’ll see you later, then. Have fun at your box supper.”

  Daisy’s shoulders drooped as she stared at herself in the steamy mirror. She could think of several interesting ways of spending his last night here, and not one of them involved box suppers.

  Holding a hand mirror, Faylene studied her backside in the full-length mirror on her bathroom door. Truth was, she was disappointed at the way her hair had turned out. She didn’t like it near as much as she liked that buffet-style like Dolly Parton’s, which is what she’d been aiming for, only all them bleaches made her ends break off, so even when she got the color right she didn’t have enough hair left to do nothing with.

  But hair would grow out, and Miss Sasha said the wrench would wash right out if she changed her mind about the color. Leastwise, her roots didn’t show up so much now.

  The pants Miss Marty had bought her fit real good, though, even without her support hose. She didn’t need them to sit at a picnic table eating Miss Daisy’s fried chicken and corn fritters with a new gentleman friend. That might make a certain Mister Somebody set up and take notice, she thought smugly. Oh, she knew what they were up to, these friends of hers. She let them get away with it on account of it suited her just fine.

  Bob Ed would hear about tonight. Yessir, there’d be plenty to tell him that if he wanted to lay claim to Faylene Beasley he’d better hurry up and get in line.

  Zipping on her bronze leather ankle boots, she went over in her mind the list of possible candidates. Once they set their minds to matchmaking, they did it so slick you’d swear they hadn’t had a hand in it. Good thing they hadn’t put Bob Ed on their list. He might not know it yet, but he was already spoken for. That prissy little man down at the bank was single again, too, the one Miss Daisy looked at like she was measuring him for curtains or something. Poor soul, if them three went after him his goose was already stewed.

  The parking lot was nearly full by the time Faylene squeezed in between a long-bed pickup and a muddy SUV. Miss Daisy was parked over in the corner, and there was Miss Sasha’s fancy red convertible, parked right next to the preacher’s minivan. Her and Miss Marty must’ve come together.

  Bob Ed drove a truck he’d built himself practically from scratch. That man could do most anything he set his mind to, she just wished he’d set his mind to marrying himself a wife.

  Several people greeted her as she strode up the front walk and around to the side where the picnic tables were set up. This weren’t her regular church, but she knew most everybody in town by face if not by name. Smiling, she tried not to appear self-conscious in her new outfit, with her hair right out of one of them ladies’ magazines. Pausing at an empty table, she looked around to see who she could spot.

  There was Miss Marty. Faylene waved, and then caught sight of her other two ladies up at the front talking to the auctioneer. The table was stacked full of baskets and boxes, all done up to look pretty. She spotted the one with the purple bow right off, the one that was supposed to be hers. Pinching the creases in her new slacks, she sat down and glanced around just as someone turned the volume down on the boom box that had been blaring out gospel music.

  Folks stopped talking and turned toward the auctioneer. He was holding up the first basket and just getting started with his gabble-de-gook, sounding like a tobacco auctioneer, when the new coach passed right by her table. Was he the one they’d fixed her up with?

  He pretended like he hadn’t seen her, but they must’ve told him which box to bid on. He was new here—he didn’t know many folks yet, so when Sara from the bank called out something to him, he set down with her. Sorry, girl, you’re too late, Faylene thought smugly. The coach has already got his marching orders.

  Just then Miss Marty got up and hurried across to the far side of the picnic grounds. Faylene had to stand to see where she was headed. She frowned. And then her frosted-cherry lips fell open.

  Gus Mathias?

  She tried to remember if Marty had mentioned any car trouble she’d been having lately. But when her employer pointed to the end of the table where the boxes were stacked, it sure looked like she was pointing right at the box with the big purple bow.

  Gus looked at the tableful of boxes, and then he looked straight at where Faylene was sitting. And then he shook his head. Frowning, Marty waved her other two ladies over and the three of them started jabbering up a storm, looking first at her and then back at Gus.

  He kept shaking his head. Then, blamed if he didn’t walk off, skinny little arse, spare tire, beer belly and all. After he passed within ten feet wit
hout so much as a polite “how do” and headed for the parking lot, Faylene turned to glare at her three ladies. The ones she’d thought were her friends. Gabbling like a flock of guinea hens, they were headed her way.

  Rising with all the dignity of an independent, self-supporting woman, she turned up her nose and set off toward the parking lot as fast as she could move. They were still trotting after her, calling for her to wait up, when she slammed her car door shut, cranked up her engine and scratched off, displacing a spray of gravel.

  Damn near rammed into Gus’s tailgate while he waited for a break in the traffic, too. “Serves you right,” she muttered. When he honked at her, she stuck her head out the window and yelled, “Take a good look, buster, ’cause this is as close as you’re ever gonna get to yours truly!” She couldn’t believe they thought Gus Mathias was the best she could do! Some friends. Serve ’em all right if she handed in her notice.

  Kell recognized the car scratching out of the churchyard just as he turned in. It barely missed a pickup truck that was slower to accelerate. He’d intended to pick up some barbecue and then spend his last evening calling around to see if he could get in touch with another of his dad’s old classmates. Trouble was, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but Daisy—about the way she’d come apart in his arms and then tried to pretend it had never happened. For that matter, so had he. Tried and failed.

  And dammit, he knew better, too. He’d always gone for sophisticated women who were out for a good time—women who were no more interested in anything more than a no-fault relationship than he was.

  Daisy, with her bare face, her baggy clothes and her easygoing style, had caught him off guard. He should have been satisfied with what he’d found and headed out yesterday.

  Instead he’d waited too late. He’d called and made reservations to fly out of Norfolk for tomorrow, which meant he’d have to fly back to get his car once he sorted out the situation back home, with Clarice and Moxie and Chief Taylor.

  He had what he’d come for, or as much as he was ever going to get. As for anything else, he’d like to think that by the time he returned he’d have come to his senses. Or at least gained enough perspective to know if this thing they had going between them was all spark and sizzle, or if there was something solid behind it.

  While the very thought of “something solid” scared the hell out of him, he’d never been able to walk away from a challenge. Deliberate or not, Daisy was definitely that.

  The shower had still been steamy when he’d heard her drive off earlier, carrying a stack of boxes, the one with a purple bow on top. He’d been invited, he reasoned—so why drive all the way to Barco when there was food available right here in Muddy Landing?

  By the time he’d located the church and found himself a parking place, he’d made up his mind. If he had to wipe out his entire money-market account to do it, he was going to buy her damned box and spend his last night here with a certain streaky-haired, gray-eyed blonde who smelled like bacon grease and roses. What happened after that was up to her. If he struck out again, at least he’d go down swinging.

  He spotted her right away, in a huddle with the flashy redhead and the woman who looked like Julia Roberts, only with bigger eyes and a smaller mouth. He started to cut through the crowd but decided it might be smarter to wait until he had a legitimate claim to her company. Meanwhile, he’d just keep an eye on that purple bow.

  Kell stood back and watched as the auctioneer held up first one supper box and then another one, reading off a name and fielding the bids.

  “Now, come on, George, you know Miss Tilly’s crab cakes is worth more’n five dollars. Smells like she stuck in a couple of her homemade grape-leaf pickles, too.”

  The bidding had been going on for about ten minutes when the auctioneer held up the box with the purple bow. Recognizing it as one of those Daisy had carried out to her car on top of the stack, Kell raised his hand just as a familiar voice called out a five-dollar bid.

  On the far side of the church grounds, Daisy was wailing, “I can’t believe I worked this hard for nothing. Didn’t I tell you all this was a crazy idea?”

  “Hey, it’s worked before,” Marty reminded her. The box suppers were one of their favorite venues for getting couples together. Marty and Sasha bought the supplies, Daisy did the cooking, making up an extra box. Then the three women would divvy up the other three boxes, dish a little dirt and look around for their next project.

  Sasha checked her shoe heels for mud. “You got the freezer cleaned out, didn’t you? Means you’re that much closer to moving out of that old mausoleum.”

  “I’d be even closer if I’d stayed home and worked instead of wasting a whole evening here,” she grumbled. “Faylene doesn’t want a man, all she wants is a pair of legs that don’t hurt and a raise.”

  “Don’t forget hair like Dolly Parton’s,” observed Sasha.

  “So? She can settle for one out of three and consider herself lucky.”

  “Five dollars, do I hear ten?” came the tinny voice from the loudspeaker.

  Someone called out a bid of seven in a voice that could barely be heard over the sound of children playing tag around the picnic tables.

  “I guess now that Gus is gone, nobody else is going to bid on it,” said Marty. “Raise your hand, Sash.”

  “Ten!” called another voice before the redhead could comply.

  “Fifteen” came the prompt response.

  “That sounds almost like…” Daisy stirred uneasily.

  “Now, that’s right generous of you, sir. Do I hear twenty?”

  He heard twenty-five, followed almost immediately by thirty-five. Not thirty, but thirty-five. Daisy tried to peer over the heads of the crowd. Marty, the tallest of the three women, stood on tiptoe. She whistled softly under her breath and said, “Well, what do you know—maybe this wingding’s not a complete washout after all.”

  “Look, I know y’all were only trying to cheer me up,” said Daisy. She had finally figured it out. “It’s not your fault it didn’t work, but with Faylene gone, whoever buys her box will have to make do without a partner. I’m going home.”

  “So we goofed,” Sasha said airily. “It’s not the first time—probably won’t be the last time, either. Hey, how else can three smart women of a certain age have fun in a place like Muddy Landing? This doesn’t let Gus off the hook, either. Sooner or later we’ll use him, we just have to find him someone a few years younger.”

  Seeing a football tossed her way, Daisy caught it and threw it back. The preacher’s son picked it up and had the good manners to yell, “Thanks, Miss Daisy!”

  Miss Daisy. If she’d needed a reminder that she wasn’t getting any younger, that did it. If Gus thought Faylene was too old for him, how long before someone said the same thing about her?

  “Trouble is, I don’t know if he’ll ever trust us again.” Sasha tugged at the corset top she’d chosen to wear with her harem trousers. “His exact words when he heard who his supper partner was supposed to be were that he wasn’t about to waste time on a prune-faced female old enough to be his mother when he could be watching the Wednesday night Braves game down at the volunteer fire department.”

  “But didn’t you tell him Faylene’s a Braves fan, too?” Marty was hopping around, trying to get a better view of the auctioneer’s table.

  “Didn’t have time, he took off too fast,” Sasha replied. “Who’d have thought his ego would be that touchy?” She shook her head. “Men!”

  Daisy was tired to the point of being irritable. “Who’d he think we were fixing him up with, Madonna?”

  “Too old. Try Britney Spears.”

  It was hardly the first time their plans had failed at the last minute, but all the same, Daisy didn’t need any further frustration. She’d had enough of that already. “Look, if y’all don’t mind, I’m just going to go home, eat a bowl of cereal, finish up the last of the scuppernong wine and go to bed. Whoever buys Faylene’s box, you can either join them
or explain that she had to leave. Make up something, you’re good at it.”

  Gathering her purse and the cardigan she’d brought in case it turned cooler—which it had—Daisy was already on her feet when, in a sudden lull, the auctioneer shouted, “Sold! Sold to the gentleman in the black shirt for one hundred dollars! My saints alive!”

  Sasha’s mouth fell open. “A hundred dollars? Who on earth…?” She climbed up on the picnic bench, grabbed the top of Marty’s head for balance and tried to see over the heads of the crowd.

  Daisy covered her face with both hands when it dawned on her that she knew “who on earth.” Somewhere under all the layers she’d tried to insulate herself with, she had recognized his voice. Peering out the corners of her eyes, she saw the studly gentleman—her rainy-day cowboy—standing just the way he’d stood the first time she’d ever laid eyes on him at Harvey’s funeral. Arms crossed, booted feet spread, he was wearing the look of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t about to go away empty-handed.

  I came, I saw, so what the hell—I conquered.

  Only this time, instead of a dreary rain, the setting sun gilded his angular cheekbones, turning his tan to pure gold. As for his eyes, even from this distance they looked incandescent.

  “Gracious me, if it’s not your cowboy again.” Sasha climbed down and made a show of fanning her ample endowment. “Shall we invite him to eat with us?”

  Daisy forced her gaze past Kell, who was making his way to the auctioneer’s table, in time to see another familiar figure. It was Egbert, and he was headed out to the parking lot. “Egbert?” she wailed softly. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, what else can go wrong?”

  “Who’d you think was bidding against him? I guess it’s time to add Egbert to the list, now that he’s officially out of mourning.” Marty made a show of scratching a name on her palm with her finger.

  “It’s been almost a year,” Sasha said. “Besides, I heard she was thinking about leaving him when she got sick. Sara down at the bank said—”