No one ever noticed the iciness between her and Nathan because they spoke at and around each other and no one, not even Harris, had any idea they had ever met before Nathan moved back to Merritt. Last summer, when they’d been goaded into dancing together at Luke and Lanie Avery’s wedding, they’d brought down the house but they’d not broken the icy crystal silence. And that’s how Tolly liked it.
Tolly drew Kirby into her gaze and smiled and nodded.
“I’ll be at practice this afternoon, Coach,” Kirby said.
“Yeah?” At least Nathan had the good grace to frown a little. “Is that what you want to do?”
Kirby looked across the room to where his aunt had launched herself into the arms of one of the kitchen ladies.
“Yes, sir. That’s what I want.”
Nathan’s brown eyes followed the path that Kirby’s had blazed and then looked back at Kirby. “All right, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need anything, Seven? Anything I can do for you? Short of committing murder, that is.” Nathan glanced at the aunt again.
“No, sir.” A little smile played with Kirby’s mouth.
“Then we are going to go now.” Nathan increased the pressure on Tolly’s arm, just in case she didn’t know what we meant.
“Kirby, honey,” Tolly said, “call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk. I mean it. Call me at the office or at home.”
“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.”
“Bye, Seven.”
And before Tolly could speak another word, Nathan propelled her in front of him and drove her through the crowd like she was a trolling motor on a bass boat.
Once on the front porch, she spoke the first words she’d said to him in over a decade — thirteen years to be exact, almost to the day.
“Nathan, let me go!”
And for the first time in as many years, he answered her. “Townshend, you are coming with me.”
Townshend. She’d almost forgotten that he used to call her by her real name, not the baby name that four-year-old Harris had christened her with because he couldn’t say Townshend. No one, not even teachers, had ever called her anything but Tolly — no one but Nathan. He had called her that because that was how she’d introduced herself that night so long ago when she’d wanted to be daring and do something unexpected, instead of being the eternal good girl.
“Where do you think you’re taking me?” she demanded.
“I don’t think anything. I know we’re going to sit in my truck and have a little chat.” He pulled her down the steps, none too slow and none too gently. She stumbled and he caught her.
“Hey. Stilettos here,” she said through gritted teeth.
“That’ll teach you to wear shoes that won’t take you where you need to go.”
“I don’t need to go anywhere with you.”
He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “The day is done when I care what you need. What you are going to do is march yourself over to my pickup truck and climb in. I’ve got some things to say to you.” He pointed down the block to where his big black truck was parked.
So, finally, after all this time. She had half expected this when he had first moved back here to replace the recently fired Merritt High head football coach. But he’d remained silent and she’d relaxed — apparently too soon.
“My car is closer,” she offered.
“So it is.” He made to move her toward his truck but she planted her feet.
She could refuse. A carload of Methodists had just pulled up and were unloading casserole dishes. Dr. Carlyle was emerging from the house. They would save her, even though she was Episcopalian. She was sure of it.
“Townshend,” Nathan said. It was only then that she noticed just how far beyond angry he was — he was shaking livid. “Get your butt down that street and into my truck or I will make a scene that will get me fired and land us both in jail. I swear I will do it.”
She believed him. And a scene was the last thing she wanted. Airing her dirty linen in public — especially this dirty linen — would be the worst thing in Bad City. If the people of Merritt found out what she’d done, what she had cost their hometown hero, life here would be over.
But why the confrontation now? Until today, he’d seemed as eager as she to keep their past a secret. And why was he, all of a sudden, so mad? He’d been mad thirteen years ago, sure. But since, there had only been cold distance. Maybe it was the ham she’d brought that set him off. Maybe he thought pot roast was a more appropriate bereavement food. That made as much sense as anything.
She let him guide her down the street. He slowed down, though whether it was in deference to her high heels or because of his bad knee, she couldn’t say.
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For more Alicia Pace Hunter titles, try Sweet Gone South and Take Me Out