The Sweetest September

His brother sobered. “I’m just raggin’ you. Besides if you’re getting some, good for you. You’ve been wearing black for a long time, brother.”

“I’m not wearing black.”

“Figuratively speaking, of course. Later, bro.”

John clicked off the phone and focused on the road in front of him. Part of him wanted to tell Jake about Shelby and the baby. The other part of him wanted to do what he’d been doing for the past year—withdraw and hide in the cave he’d made comfortable for himself.

Disappearing was easy to do when the light in your world was extinguished.

But he didn’t want to think about Rebecca, grieving or even the cane still standing in the fields. He had to decide what to do about Shelby.

He wanted to hate her for riding into his world looking like a sex kitten, making him remember he was a man...not a robot. He wanted to hate her for making him want her. But most of all he wanted to hate her for dropping the bombshell she’d dropped hours ago. His child, the one Rebecca had wanted so badly was housed inside a woman he barely knew. The thought squeezed all the air out of his lungs.

Shortly after Shelby uttered those words, John had felt resentment so intense it had stunned him in its ferocity. But when he’d entered the bathroom and saw the sheer desolation on Shelby’s face, that kernel of hate dissipated. He hadn’t a clue why. If she’d lost the child, everything would be easier. No one would have to know John’s shame. Everything could go on as normal. But one look at the terror in her eyes—at the desire to keep their child in her body—and he’d changed. Hate turned to an odd desire for that child...for the hope he or she represented.

Maybe hate was too strong a word.

He’d never hated Shelby.

Only himself for being so weak.

John turned into the drive he’d turned into every day of the past decade, bumping up to the silent house illuminated by moon glow. Like a ghost, Breezy Hill sat, a relic of happiness. As he stopped and shifted the gear to Park, the old ginger tabby crept out of the small barn located out back.

Damn cat.

Rebecca had loved Freddy even when John threatened to use him as gator bait for sharpening his claws on the seat of the new lawn mower.

“You touch that cat and you better sleep with one eye open, John Miller,” she’d said, brown eyes glittering as she propped her hands on slim hips. Rebecca’s brown hair had always been cut chin-length in something she called a bob. Her mouth was wide and a few freckles scattered across her nose. She’d been cute, but not pretty. But beauty had never mattered to John. He’d loved everything about his wife—the long fingernails she used to scratch his back, the messy office full of travel books on places she’d never go and the way she cried over every present he gave her...even the blender. Beauty hadn’t been a factor.

But Shelby was beautiful.

The first time he’d seen Shelby, he’d liked her because she was so different from Rebecca. Almost as if it was okay to hold her in his arms while they danced because she wasn’t even close to being the woman he’d loved.

Still, like Rebecca, Shelby had made him smile. She was funny, and when she laughed, her blue eyes sparkled. He’d heard that term before—sparkling eyes—but had never seen it until he’d met Shelby. Even now, in the face of this difficult situation, she cracked jokes.

It occurred to him perhaps that was her coping mechanism. Maybe Shelby laughed so she didn’t cry.

The cat wound around his ankles, its meows plaintive in the stillness. John walked to the porch steps and sank onto them, stroking the cat despite his profession of disliking the old thing. He’d fed it every morning, and some nights he sat outside and petted it, as if taking care of Freddy would make up for the fact he’d killed his wife.

Okay, so technically he hadn’t killed his wife—Rebecca had died from an accidental gunshot wound. He hadn’t been home when it happened, hadn’t been the one to leave the round in the chamber. But he’d been the one to accuse her of wanting to leave him. He’d been the one to make her feel guilty, guilty enough to want to please him by stopping by the gunsmith and picking up his repaired shotgun.

He shook his head. No time to think about guilt. No time to dwell on what might have been. He had to decide what to do about Shelby and the baby.

Telling his folks would be hard. The Reverend Beauchamp was a principled man, and also a good man. He’d never turn away one of his flock during times of trouble, including his own son.

But John wasn’t ready to bring any of his family, other than Abigail, into this mess...yet.

First he had to get to know the mother of his child...and convince her he belonged in the child’s life—as more than a check and weekly phone call. Maybe introducing his family to her wasn’t the best way to do that. The Beauchamps were like a straitjacket—the more you fought against them, the tighter the binds got. But there was no way of getting around his family, especially if he took Shelby to dinner on Thursday.

“I’ll think about this later, Freddy,” John said to the cat.

Freddy meowed and rubbed against him insistently.

“Yeah, I’ll do that, too,” John said, and looked at the moon.

* * *

SHELBY WAS BORED to tears. Okay, not real tears, but that didn’t matter. Lying in bed was only wonderful when one had a seven o’clock meeting and had to get up. When given permission to wallow via doctor’s orders, it pretty much sucked.

For one thing, John’s sister had obviously tried to create Old South ambience, and, alas, there was no television hidden in the ornately carved wardrobe.

To which Shelby said a modern version of “I do declare” that would have shocked Aunt Pittypat outta her hoop skirt.

And though cold air piped though vents somewhere in the room, there wasn’t a ceiling fan. And Shelby always slept under a ceiling fan, except for that one time in Girl Scouts when she’d gone camping. Emphasis on the one time.

Fiddle dee damn.

So Shelby stopped counting the folds in the canopy, rose out of bed and ambled around, finding a copy of The Sound and the Fury in the drawer of the secretary. Of course, she’d rather bite her toenails than read Faulkner. She’d never cared for “the classics”—dusty books recommended by English teachers made her break out in hives. Those, along with snotty historical biographies, were what her sister, Sela, read. When Shelby had professed to loving Christian Grey and being tied up, her sister had literally lifted her nose and given her that look.

Made Shelby want to take a paddle to her sister...and not in a kinky way.

So she stared out the window. The Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast was aptly named. Just outside the window, trees knitted together, holding mysterious woodsy secrets. Shelby had stared out, determined to enjoy the rustic peace. So far she’d spied a couple of bright red birds, one frisky squirrel and an ugly buzzard roosting in a huge tree.

Boring.

But then Birdie showed up.

The child wore skinny jeans and a hoodie. Huge binoculars dangled from around her neck. Her brown hair had been scraped back into a messy ponytail, as if she could care less, and on her back swayed a large backpack. Walking intently toward the big tree in which the buzzard sat, she immediately swung up on a lower branch and started climbing. The buzzard took flight, which Birdie didn’t seem to notice. After scampering up half the tree, Birdie plopped down on a thick joint just as casual as she pleased.

Good gracious. If the child fell, she’d break her neck.

Surely, Abigail didn’t allow her daughter to sit in trees without...did they make tree seat belts?

Birdie was partly visible through the half-bare branches. Shelby watched with bated breath as the child pulled off the backpack, sat a sketch pad on her lap and lifted her binoculars, training them on something to Shelby’s right. Adjusting the knob thing on top, the girl grew still and focused.

Shelby sighed and wondered if she should say something to Abigail about the child being so high in the tree. Then again, Abigail seemed to know about her daughter’s daredevil antics.

Turning away, Shelby looked around the room for something to do. Her phone had only 5 percent battery life remaining, and she’d left the charger in the rental car, which was parked at John’s house. No playing on her phone. She glanced at Birdie one last time. The kid still perched, binoculars focused on the distance behind the house. Shelby pressed her face against the window and tried to see what the girl watched, but she couldn’t see beyond the edge of the woods.

Something in the girl’s demeanor nagged at Shelby so she glanced back at Birdie, waiting for the girl to pick up her sketch pad and start working, but she never did. Instead the girl’s mouth fell open in that age-old expression of “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

Shelby wrinkled her nose.

What the devil was Birdie watching that would render her so engrossed?

Any other time and Shelby wouldn’t care. But she was bored out of her gourd. Not to mention, some inner teacher Spidey sense told her this was not about birds.

So she pulled the oversize T-shirt serving as her nightgown over her head and scooped up the dress she’d worn yesterday. Thankfully, the dress was a rayon blend and didn’t wrinkle, but the stained tights were hopeless. She netted three points tossing her balled-up tights into the metal trash bin. The new cotton undies were a bit blousy, but the hot-pink socks featuring a popular boy band logo, which she’d grabbed at the Dollar Store, would work fine for stealth. She left her knee-high boots beside her purse and sneaked out the door.