I was upstairs in my apartment, finishing up the covered dish I was taking to Will’s company picnic when I heard the doorbell ring downstairs in the studio.
“Crap.” I was running late as it was, and the grits for my grits and greens casserole were too runny. I threw another handful of grits in the pot and stirred furiously.
“Hello?” a voice called. “Anybody here?”
I froze. Put down the wooden spoon. Turned off the burner and sat down on the sofa, hoping my unwelcome visitor would give up and leave. I sat, immobile while he moved around downstairs.
“Keeley?” Now he was at the bottom of the stairs. “Come on, Keeley,” he called again. “I know you’re up there. I saw your car outside. You can’t hide from me forever. It’s too small a town.”
He had that right. And dammit, why should I have to hide from A. J. Jernigan? This was my home, and I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I checked on the grits and gave them a final stir. The collard greens had been simmering all morning, with a smoked ham hock, some chopped-up onion, and some red pepper flakes. I poured the greens into the colander in the sink and let them drain.
A.J. was halfway up the stairs looking up, sniffing like a bird dog on point.
“Are you cooking collard greens?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “What do you want?”
He started up toward me, giving me that grin of his. “A mess of those greens would be nice,” he said. “I didn’t know you ever cooked stuff like that.”
“It’s an old family recipe,” I said stiffly. Which was a lie. I’d clipped it out of Southern Living magazine a few years ago, and doctored it up to suit myself. “And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”
“Can I come up and talk to you?” he asked. He was at the top of the landing.
“No. I’m going to a picnic and I’m already late,” I said.
“Just for a minute,” A.J. wheedled. “Please. It’s about Mama.”
“What now?”
He took that as a yes and followed me into my galley kitchen. “Got a beer?” he asked. “It’s already scorching out there. I’ll be glad to see this summer end.” Before I could stop him, he had the refrigerator door open and his head stuck inside it.
I shoved him aside and shut the fridge door, but he’d already helped himself to a Michelob Light.
“What’s the deal with GiGi?” I asked, busying myself with the casserole. There wasn’t that much left to do. I’d already cooked the grits with chicken broth and half and half, and they’d finally thickened up. I took a paper towel and squeezed the rest of the moisture out of the collards, then dumped them into the pot of grits. To this, I added a big handful of parmesan cheese and a healthy dollop of pepper vinegar. I stirred while A.J. talked, glad to have something to do.
“I heard about her stopping you outside the post office the other day,” he said. “Hell, I guess the whole town heard.”
“Oh that,” I said cautiously, stirring while it was no longer necessary. “That was weeks ago. I’d forgotten all about it.” Another lie.
“Well, I haven’t.” He shoved one hand in the front pocket of his jeans and sipped his beer. He looked good. Thinner maybe, and he needed a shave, but he was deeply tanned, and his blue-green eyes glowed with whatever drama he was into. He’d probably been spending a lot of time out at the lake, I told myself, just to be cruel.
“Look,” A.J. said. “I had a long talk with Mama. And I admitted to her exactly what happened that night at the country club. She didn’t wanna hear it, and she sure didn’t want to believe it, but I set her down and told it to her straight. And I told her you had every right to react like you did.”
“How noble of you,” I said. I picked up the pot of grits and tipped it carefully into the greased Pyrex casserole waiting on the kitchen counter. I smoothed the top with the back of my wooden spoon, then dusted more parmesan on top. Over all of that I sprinkled bacon bits.
Before I could slide the casserole into the heated oven, A.J. picked up the spoon I’d just used and dipped it into the grits and greens. He smacked his lips. “Day-yum, woman. That is awesome. Whose picnic are you going to? Anybody I know?”
I put the casserole in the oven. “It’s a client. Will Mahoney.”
“Oh. Him. Mr. Loving Cup. How’s that house of his coming along? I heard you were doing it up big-time.”
“It’s right on schedule,” I said. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the counter. “What’s this visit really about, A.J.? You want me to pat you on the back for coming clean with your mama?”
He took another sip of beer and set it on the counter. I wished this conversation wasn’t happening. I really wished it wasn’t taking place in my tiny, steamy kitchen, where we were standing only a couple feet apart.
“I want you to know that I am not my daddy. I am not like him. Not that way. That night with Paige, it was a one-time deal. I’d do anything if I could take it back. Because that’s not who I am, Keeley. It’s not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I had an idea, but I wanted to hear him say it.
He blushed. “Yeah, I know about Daddy’s other women. I’ve known for a long time. Since I was like, fourteen.”
“He told you he cheated on your mama?”
“No. It was Kyle. It was during my first year at boarding school. He called me one night, bawling like a baby. He’d skipped school and gone out to the shack with some buddies. Caught Daddy red-handed with some little tramp. I don’t guess it was the first time or the last time he had his girlfriends out there. I think that’s why Mama got so she wouldn’t step foot in the place. I don’t know how she knows, but she does.”
“I’m sorry, A. J,” I said. And I meant it. He’d always had a love-hate relationship with his father, but I’d always thought it was because they all worked together at the bank. I’d never realized before how twisted the dynamics of his family were.
He took another sip of beer. “I’m not asking you to take me back right now. I know it’ll take time for you to ever trust me again. But here’s the thing, Keeley. We both have screwed-up families. I never judged you by what your mama did. All I’m asking is, don’t judge me by my daddy and what he’s done. I screwed up, but that’s not me. That’s not who I want to be.”
I reached out and helped myself to a sip of his beer. “Who do you want to be, A.J.?”
He took the beer from me and held my hand. He turned it over and kissed the palm. “I want to be the man who deserves you. Deserves your love. And your trust. That’s all.”
The oven timer buzzed and I jumped. I glanced at the kitchen clock. “God,” I said. “It’s close to one. I’ve still got to get out to Mulberry Hill and make sure all the tables and chairs are set up, and Austin’s flowers have been delivered. And I’ve got to put the plastic runners down in the house. We just had the floors refinished, and I don’t want them getting scratched up.”
A.J. frowned. “Will you think about what I just said?”
“I can’t talk about this now,” I said helplessly. “I’m late.”
“Let me go with you,” A.J. pleaded. He reached in the drawer, got out some potholders, and took the casserole out of the oven and switched it off.
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m working.”
“I can help you,” he said. “Come on, Keeley. It won’t be a date. Just a friend helping a friend. It’s Labor Day, I’ve got nothing to do. I haven’t had anything to do all summer,” he said bitterly.
“What about Paige?”
He busied himself putting foil over the casserole. “Nothing about Paige. She’s moved, you know. Lost her job.”
“So I heard. I also heard it was GiGi who ran her out of town.”
“That’s news to me,” he said. “I haven’t seen Paige. I don’t intend to see her.” He looked up. “Please?”
“I’ve got to go,” I said, snatching up my tote bag.
He picked up the casserole. “I’ll drive. Okay?”
“Go away,” I said faintly. “I do not want this to happen.”
But it already was happening.
Somebody had pinned red, white, and blue bunting to the entry gates at Mulberry Hill. A large banner read WELCOME LOVING CUP ASSOCIATES. Red, white, and blue balloons bobbed in the light breeze.
“Not too shabby,” A.J. said as he drove through the wrought-iron gates. “You design all this?”
“Not the gates,” I said. “That was Will’s design.”
A.J. looked impressed. He made all the appropriate noises as we approached the meadow, whistling when he got the first glimpse of the now gleaming façade of the old Greek Revival mansion.
“Day-yum. The guy must have dropped a bundle on all of this, huh?”
“He likes things done right,” I said. I noticed with gratitude that the rented funeral home tents had been erected in the meadow, and one of the construction workers was busy unfolding the tables and chairs. A makeshift plywood bandstand had been erected, and a group of musicians with fiddles and banjos were setting up instruments. A haze of smoke floated over the meadow, and the sweet smell of roasting pig wafted through the boxwood hedge. The Fleur van was parked at the edge of the meadow, and Austin himself was ferrying cardboard boxes of centerpieces over to the dining tent.
“Oh good,” I murmured. “We’ve got food and flowers. And a bluegrass band, I guess.”
A pickup truck towing a horse trailer came bouncing up the road right behind us. “And ponies. So I guess we’re set.”
I directed A.J. around to the back of the house, where more than a dozen cars and trucks, including the yellow Caddy, were already parked.
Miss Nancy stood in the open back door of the kitchen, leaning on her cane, watching me unpack the sacks containing the linen tablecloths and other last-minute party supplies. A tiny brown dog came zipping out the door, yapping and barking and hurling itself against my ankles. “Hey Erwin,” I said, trying not to trip. “Hey, Miss Nancy,” I called to her.
She glared back at me. “Somebody better get that goddamn dog outta here. And its owner too.”