Sweet Talking Man

“So what can I do for you?” Leif asked.

A naughty thought popped into Abigail’s mind. Really naughty. But she flicked it away and cleared her throat. “Birdie has something to say to you.”

“Oh.” Leif’s gaze swept down Abigail’s body, taking in the clothes she’d donned for the open house held at St. George’s Episcopal School earlier that day. She’d aimed for professional but suspected she looked overly conservative. But who cared? Besides it was winter, for Christ’s sake. Leif needed to put on a shirt. What kind of man answered the door in such dishabille? Not any man she knew, that’s for sure.

Abigail smoothed the wool slacks against her thighs before she could catch herself and turned toward her daughter with an arched eyebrow.

Birdie just stood there, looking scared.

“I hope you’re coming to tell me you want to take the art class I’m offering at the community college next semester,” Leif said, his eyebrows lifted expectantly. “I’m looking forward to having a talented artist in my class at school this semester, but it would be awesome to have you in the enrichment class, too, Birdie.”

“Brigitte,” her daughter said.

“Oh, of course. Brigitte, very French,” Leif said, with another sweet smile.

Christ, why did he have to be so nice?

“Uh, I’m thinking about taking the course. Uh, if my mom will let me.” Birdie turned pleading eyes on Abigail. Eyes that nearly swayed Abigail into scrapping the plan to make Birdie apologize. Abigail could always make up something about a dead branch on her property threatening Leif’s back fence.

Wait. No.

She’d told Birdie she had to apologize. Children needed consistency. Every mother knew that. Still something pinged in her heart. Maybe if she bent just a little, Birdie would toss a piece of sunshine she hid somewhere beneath that awful hoodie Abigail’s way. Maybe it would be a starting point to discuss why her daughter had spied on Leif in the first place. Obviously Birdie had questions about men, their differences and perhaps even—Abigail swallowed—sex.

“Mom?” Birdie waited for her to speak.

“We’ll talk about art class later,” Abigail said, giving Birdie the “go ahead” nod.

“Uh, I’m here because, uh—” Birdie dug the toe of her sneaker against the concrete walk. “Well, you see, I used to like to climb trees. For sketching. Uh, Audubon once stayed at our house and, well, there are a lot of birds and stuff. I like to draw them and the best place to get a bird’s-eye view is the old sycamore out back.”

Leif held up a fist. “Mad props to our boy John James Audubon. He’s one of a kind.”

Birdie fist-bumped him. “Yeah, we have some originals. Two to be exact.”

“You’re kidding. I’d love to see them.”

“Come over anytime,” Birdie said.

Abigail started to shake her head, then caught herself. To be stingy with the original John J. Audubon watercolors would not do. Abigail had always welcomed anyone who wanted to take a peek at the tufted crane and the brown pelican the famed woodsman had created almost two hundred years ago. Leif Lively was no exception just because something about him made her...

Okay, fine. Abigail had a weird attraction to Leif that she’d never wanted to admit even to herself. When she dropped in at the school, she found her gaze hanging on him. And she hated herself for it. After all, she wasn’t one of those women who fluttered, starry-eyed over the handsome artist. She wasn’t like other room moms who cracked ribald jokes about Leif’s ass.

Fawning wasn’t something she did. Ever.

“I’d love to see the Audubon pieces,” Leif said with another smile at Birdie...and then at her. Christ, he smiled a lot. The Ryan Seacrest of Magnolia Bend.

Abigail nodded. “Sure, drop by anytime and Birdie can show you.”

“Anytime? I could come now. It’s about suppertime and I heard you’re a good cook.”

“Are you hungry?” Abigail had been knitted together with a strong thread of Southern hospitality so guilt pecked at her for not welcoming Leif and the other Laurel Creek residents with banana bread or cookies. But she was not inviting him for supper. The thought made her feel too warm...too nervous.

“I’m just joking, Abigail. You seem a little tense.” His gaze moved over her once again.

Abigail tugged her cardigan closed and gave him the smile she usually reserved for her brothers. “I’m not tense. It just didn’t sound like a joke. I grew up with three brothers—I know jokes.”

“Well, I’ll be more careful around you, then. Might end up popping open a can of snakes or sitting on a whoopee cushion.” Leif’s eyes danced, and even though she wanted to smile, she didn’t. She held on to prickliness like a cape protecting her from being silly. She’d tucked away being lighthearted. Hadn’t worked out for her. Besides the hot weirdo who strummed a ukulele at the local coffee shop and practiced tai chi in his yard wasn’t the kind of guy to let her guard down with. Too different from her.

“Don’t worry. I’m an adult and no longer put crickets in my brothers’ trucks.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” He said it like he was truly sorry for her. Why? Because she didn’t do asinine things anymore? Because she didn’t crack jokes? Or wear flowers in her hair? She crossed her arms as he added, “I like your cardigan, by the way. Angora?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Abigail asked, a dart of hurt nicking her.

“No. Why would I?”

“Because I’m wearing... Because I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

Birdie closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”

Leif’s eyes widened. “I don’t frolic in my underwear.”

Abigail opened her mouth, then shut it. Silence as comfortable as a prostate exam descended. Not that she knew about prostate exams...but she could imagine.

Just as she was about to prod Birdie again, the squeal of tires sounded. All three turned their heads to see a bright red Mustang hurtling down the street. Another squeal of tires and the vehicle swung into Leif’s driveway, halting with another screech.

“What the—” Leif muttered as the tinted driver’s window rolled down to reveal a pretty brunette who looked...worried. Abigail tugged Birdie back, but her daughter pulled away, obviously engrossed in the frantic pantomiming of the driver.

“Sorry about this, Leif,” the driver said as the passenger door opened and a ball of white fluffy tulle emerged. “Marcie made me do it. I was supposed to be her maid of honor. I guess it’s, like, an obligation.”

Maid of honor?

Abigail glanced at Leif; he looked gobsmacked, blinking his eyes a couple times before repeating, “Maid of honor?”

And that’s when the fluffy ball flipped over her veil and sneered. “Yeah, maid of frickin’ honor. Today was supposed to be our wedding day, asshole.”

* * *

LEIF’S MIND WHIRRED, random numbers lining up like on a slot machine. December sixteenth. Today would have been his and Marcie’s wedding day.

Oh, shit.

Marcie’s veil was pinned to heavily sprayed blond tresses and one side had fallen down to wag against her sweaty face. Mascara ran beneath her eyes, reminding him of something he’d once seen in a horror movie.

“Marcie—” He couldn’t even figure out how to ask why his ex-fiancée had put on a wedding dress and tracked him all the way to Magnolia Bend. They’d ended their engagement five months ago, and he hadn’t heard a peep from her until now...when his very proper neighbor stood on his front walk, no doubt looking on with disapproval.

This might make the Magnolia Bend Herald...or, at the very least, the Facebook hall of fame.

“Ohhh,” Marcie slurred, wriggling around the car in the tight mermaid gown she’d raved about for weeks last summer, nearly tumbling to the ground despite hiking up the dress. “You remember my name. Ain’t you sweet?”