Sweet Talking Man

“Oh.” She glanced away, trying not to feel crushing disappointment. Stupid woman. Leif had been doing what he did best—charming anything in a skirt. Not that she wore a skirt. Too cold for that. But he probably flirted with grocery store cashiers, phlebotomists and anyone he came in contact with—including lonely, pathetic neighbors.

“And women I want to kiss.”

Abigail blinked. “You want to kiss me?”

He brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss on the back of it. His whiskey breath fanned her skin, causing heat to shimmer in her stomach. “Another time, pretty Abigail.”

Abigail stared at the hand he released before snapping out of the trance he’d put her in. “Oh.”

“Night.”

“Good night, Leif. Thank you.”

He picked up the bottle and lifted a hand as he walked down the steps. “My pleasure.”

Then he left her with a smile...and a hunger she knew would keep her awake long into the night.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_e50719e7-fed1-5d34-81aa-edf2e2578ea8)

THE NEXT MORNING Leif skirted the woods behind his house. Laurel Woods sprawled in the middle of twenty acres of pine, hardwoods and scrubby brush that harbored deer, raccoons and pesky squirrels who cut pinecones into his lap pool. Technically, he was trespassing, but since he’d taken Abigail a drink last night, he was sure he could get a pass for traipsing through her woods on an early-morning hike.

Of course, his real intent was to poke around the abandoned cabins that sat to the left of the huge white house.

His mother had lived in one of them.

Hell, he may have even been conceived in one of them.

All along he’d intended to get to know the owner of Laurel Woods. But he hadn’t realized the owner was the fusspot PTA president, the kind of woman who made a guy’s fellows shrink to the size of blueberries. His neighbors had told him that Abigail had petitioned against the subdivision, even going as far as to solicit the aid of the Historical Society. She’d lost. And she hadn’t been happy about it, erecting a huge fence to block the development from her sight.

Leif had practiced patience hoping to eventually befriend the woman. And finally opportunity had plopped in his lap by way of Birdie.

He glanced at the large Greek revival house standing proud and rebellious in the face of the elements determined to wear away the centuries-old edifice. It was just like its owner—defiant and guarded.

As he pushed through the bushes that encroached on the trail, he wondered if anything his mother had created remained in the former slave cabins that had been modified forty-five years ago to house traveling artists. He had little hope since the cabins had been shut up for years, but he’d wanted to see where his mother had lived. Perhaps something remained of her, some hint of who she’d been...of whom she’d fallen in love with.

At the coffeehouse where he sometimes played on Friday nights he’d run into Royal Desadier, the grandson of Simeon Harvey’s former groundskeeper. Royal lived with his grandfather Cletus, who suffered poor health but whose mind was still sharp. Leif asked to visit Cletus because the man had been around when artists populated the grounds.

Simeon Harvey had brought in artists from all over the world, including Leif’s mother, who had journeyed from her Colorado commune to a studio in one of the cabins. She’d left four short months after arriving amidst allegations of murder, taking with her what she called her one true masterpiece—Leif.

On his birth certificate, there was a suspicious blank. His mother had refused to discuss the man who’d fathered him anytime Leif brought up the subject. He’d received the last name Lively from a small Colorado town his mother had once visited. For thirty-four years, Leif had made do without a father.

And for those same thirty-four years, Leif had pretended he didn’t need to know the man who had impregnated his mother. It had been easier to pretend there wasn’t a void in his life. But underneath the happy-go-lucky hippie veneer was a small boy who longed to know who his father was.

Calliope had died holding fast to his name.

So Leif had no clue who his biological father was.

And no one in the small community of Magnolia Bend knew Leif was the son of a murderess.

Leif emerged into a clearing and saw an older woman pulling weeds in front of the first in a string of cabins.

Quickly, so as not to be seen, he ducked behind the huge magnolia tree blooming on the edge of the woods. He had no idea who the woman was, but he didn’t feel like explaining why he trespassed.

Soon he’d have to confide in someone with regard to the search for his roots. Southerners were definitely hospitable but they closed ranks fast if they knew you weren’t one of them. And it had been obvious from his first day in Magnolia Bend that he wasn’t one of them. Maybe Abigail would be the perfect person to reveal his true purpose for being here to. Her family had lived in this area forever and she could provide him with some history and help locate someone who might remember his mother.

Abigail.

She was the antithesis of overblown and easy. Her willowy frame harkened back to Jane Austen and buttoned-up dresses. That stubborn chin, dark hair and intellect were reasons to move away from her rather than inch closer. Yet he’d shown up at her house last night, liquor in hand.

Oh, he’d argued with himself about going, but reason had lost.

Why?

She intrigued him. Her edges needed rounding out. Like she needed someone to show her how to freakin’ relax, to let the woman beneath the field sergeant climb out and play.

He could do that—ply her with pretty words, treat her to a bit of romance and laughter. But why he felt like doing so was as clear as morning on the San Francisco Bay.

Maybe it was because he knew how she felt when her ex-husband had slammed back into her life. Or maybe there was no good reason. Maybe he was an eternal hopeless dumb ass looking for someone to belong to. Maybe it was a really stupid idea.

Doubling back toward his house, he tried to talk himself out of any further romantic interactions with Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron. But by the time he stepped onto his porch, he’d decided to not worry so much about the reasons he shouldn’t and embrace the reasons he should.

If there was one thing Leif always did, it was listen to what the universe told him.

And the wind whispered her name.

* * *

“JOHN OFFICIALLY PROPOSED to Shelby,” Francesca “Fancy” Beauchamp said, handing Abigail the scissors so she could trim the ribbon on the pillow she held.

Abigail looked at her mother, eyeing her handiwork critically. Thankfully, the pillows looked custom-made, something she could no longer afford. “I thought he’d already asked her? When did this happen?”

“Last night. Your brother drove her out to Boots Grocery, got down on a knee in the middle of the bar and told her he was glad he’d gotten drunk and knocked her up in the bathroom. And then he asked her to become his wife. Can you believe it? Our John?”

“No, the way he grieved Rebecca, I didn’t think it possible.”

Fancy shrugged. “Me neither, but I’m happy for him. Your father’s a bit appalled at the proposal locale.”

A bar wasn’t exactly the kind of place Reverend Dan Beauchamp frequented but it was where her brother had met Shelby...and where they’d made a mistake that set fate on its ear. “Well, it’s hard growing up a preacher’s kid. We constantly disappoint.”

Fancy smacked her hand, making her drop the scissors. “Don’t say that. Your father and I worked hard to raise you as regular kids, to be able to make mistakes without being judged by a ridiculous standard.”

Abigail picked up the scissors. “I’m not criticizing you and Dad. It’s just how it is. We accept it, but sometimes it’s hard. Take John. Who could have imagined someone so steady would topple head-over-boots for someone like Shelby? Never in a million years would I have put those two together.” She snipped the ragged threads that had not been sewn down. The ribbon made a perfect square in the middle of the flowered fabric. A pretty monogram sat in the center.

Fancy rose from the breakfast table and carried her empty mug to the sink. The large farmhouse sink anchored a generous slab of marble in the bright kitchen. Her mother’s kitchen reflected her personality—cheerful, with clean lines and purpose. Yes, it was an optimistic kitchen if there were such a thing.

“I like Shelby, and sometimes a person needs to be balanced out by someone who is their opposite,” Fancy said.

“I like Shelby, too. But they don’t look like they’d fit.”