Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery) (8 page)

“I don’t know how happiness equates to Disney princesses in your brain, but I
am
thrilled with the opportunity.”

He sits beside me, pulling a fresh water bottle
out of his backpack and downing half of it.

I wrinkle my nose. “You smell.”

“You don’t reek of roses yourself.” Leo cuts a glance at me, his bright blue eyes curious—the most irritating of his emotional settings. “But seriously, how was it out at Drayton?”

I sigh, knowing he won’t shut up until I tell him something. I might as well take advantage of his nosiness to bounce the whole ghost thing
off him. “I saw something. A ghost.”

“Of course you did. That place must be crawling with dead people. Was it a slave? I bet it was a slave. Those Draytons can’t all have been as squeaky clean as history wants you to believe.”

My eyes roll on their own. “No, it was a young girl, and she died pretty recently. Hung herself in the tree out front of the house, according to the papers.”

“Hung herself?
What’s she want from you, then?” He rubs the towel through his black hair, still shorter than when I’d returned but longer than right after he buzzed it in the heat of summer.

“She says she didn’t.” I purse my lips, trying to decide how much to share. “The article I found on her also said she went to school with Beau’s brother—Brick.”

“The asshole attorney?”

I can’t help but smile. “The one
and only.”

“Interesting.”

It’s easy enough to guess that “interesting” to Leo possibly means “bad” for the Drayton family. His feelings toward Beau may have…softened since my boyfriend apologized for what he felt was his responsibility in the whole mess with Lindsay’s prison sentence, but they haven’t changed, really. Maybe guys who grow up in the shadow of peers like the Draytons never can
see them as friends.

“Anyway, I haven’t seen her since so maybe it’s nothing.”

“You should ask Daria.” His smile turns sly. “What did you think of her look today?”

“Thanks a lot for the warning. I think Travis almost lost his eyeballs.”

“That guy could use a little loosening up, you ask me. What was she doing at the police station? What were
you
doing at the police station, outside of a cell?”

“How many times do I have to remind you that you’re not funny, Leo? Even Marcella agrees, and she thinks pretty much everything is funny.” I elbow him, then stand up to stretch my legs. Or just to move, I don’t know. There’s so many parts of my life that aren’t manageable right now, so many unknowns hanging over my head, that sitting still feels like a waste of time. And maybe they’re going to
turn out to be nets of pretty butterflies, but given my track record, those things suspended over me, waiting to fall, are as likely to be buckets of pig’s blood. “We were consulting with Travis on a case.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Detective Stick Up His Ass Travis brought in mediums to consult on a case? I think the real mystery here is who body snatched the lawman.”

“It
is
weird, until you learn
that Amelia suggested it.”

“He’s got a thing for her, huh? I can see it.”

“Everyone can see it. She’s six months pregnant and could still snag any guy who walked into the library.”

“So could you, Gracie. You never could see it.”

The comment, offhand but sincere, takes me aback. My stomach kind of floats into my chest, and it’s a few seconds before I realize my mouth is hanging open a little
and the space between Leo and me has grown uncomfortable in a way it’s never been.

“Oh, shut your mouth. I’m just saying you’re as pretty as your cousin, not that I’m ready to start carrying you around town and fanning you with palmetto branches.”

“I think it’s you actually saying something nice that’s throwing me off,” I manage, getting my feet back under me. It’s not a weird reaction I’m having.
Leo is very handsome, and just about every girl in town would agree with me. That doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it to him. His head would get so big it would break his neck.

“Anyway, why don’t you ask Daria about this new ghost at Drayton Hall? Maybe she can enlighten you as far as why she didn’t follow you home like the others did. Or help you figure out if she’s lying.” He pauses, shoving
the cans of balls and his stinky wristbands into his bag and zipping it up. “What does Mayor Perfect say?”

Now it’s my turn to pause. Knowing Leo, my silence tells him the answer, anyway. “I haven’t told him yet. I wanted to make sure it didn’t have any sensitive connection to his family. Now…”

“You’re not sure because the article mentioned Brick.”

I nod, my heart hurting a little. It’s not
fair to Beau to keep this to myself, but the last thing I need is for him—or his mother—to think I have some kind of negative intention toward their family. Especially not now that they’re also my employer. “I guess if she never shows up again it won’t matter.”

“What was her name? The girl?”

“Nanette Robbins.”

“Never heard of her. It’s weird, kind of, that we didn’t hear about this story when
we were younger. Don’t you think?”

“She’s older than us. We were only ten or so when she died.”

“Even so. That’s the age when we were all morbid little shits.”

It does seem a little strange, now that he’s mentioned it. I shrug, determined to enjoy my evening and take my grandmother’s advice to not borrow trouble. I may never see the ghost of Nanette Robbins again.

“Are you ready?” I ask. “I’ve
got to shower.”

“There’s no arguing that,” Leo smirks, ducking away before I can smack him again.

 
We stride together off the tennis courts and into the parking lot. I unlock the door of my Honda and toss my racket and bag into the backseat, then spin to face my tennis partner-slash-sometimes-cohort-slash-oldest-enemy. “I saw your sister at the library today. She was acting sort of weird.”

“Lindsay’s usually ‘acting sort of weird’ these days. You know, it’s odd, but I think spending years in prison may have some sort of effect on a person’s personality.”

“Ha-ha. It was… I don’t know. Like she wanted to say something to me but kept talking herself out of it.” A nervous laugh bubbles up from my belly. “I can’t decide whether to be thankful or disappointed. Do you have any idea what
that was about?”

Leo’s face shades a little bit red, his blue eyes too blank. Like he’s faking it. I know he’s about to lie. “No idea. But given your recent history I’m guessing you should go with thankful. I’ll see you later. Maybe we can play again on Thursday?”

I nod, distracted by the knot growing in my belly. It’s a little disappointing that he’s keeping something from me, but I know he’d
tell me if it were life or death. I try to remember that as he climbs into his truck, and I slide behind the wheel of my Honda, my mind still distracted. It’s not until I’m halfway home that what’s bugging me comes to light.

It sounded like
Leo
was the one who was thankful his sister hadn’t voiced whatever had been on her mind. And
that
made me sure I wanted to know exactly what it was.

“Why don’t you just tell me where we’re going?” I lament from the passenger’s side of Beau’s luxury sedan. Cars don’t really do anything for me but the cool leather seats take some of the sting out of the late summer.

“I want to surprise my very beautiful girlfriend with a romantic dinner. You will allow me to do so, won’t you, Gracie Anne?” The look he shoots me is part exasperation, part
beseeching, and all adorable. He flashes his dimples to ice the cake.

I heave a put-upon sigh. “I suppose. It better be good, though.”

He doesn’t answer. Both of us know that Beauregard Drayton wouldn’t know how to half-ass something if he tried, so whatever he’s got cooked up, I’m going to love it.

We’ve been on the road about fifteen minutes and when he turns the car onto the lane that leads
to Drayton Hall, my eyebrows shoot up. “You’re taking me to work?”

“Not tonight, gorgeous. Tonight I’m taking you to my very impressive family’s very impressive property along the Ashley River.”

He pulls the car into the empty lot and slides it into park, climbs out, and walks around to open my door. We lose a couple of minutes when his arms go around me, his lips devour mine, and my body melts
into the hard planes of his. It takes me a moment to climb back out of the fog.
 

Beau extracts a basket from the trunk and holds it up. “Picnic?”

“You’re wonderful. I wish you were naked, but a picnic is also excellent.”

He laughs deep, from his middle. Warmth and lust as thick as molasses slows my blood. It’s terrifying, and intoxicating, and oh-so-sweet to be with a man who makes me feel
like more than an accessory. Beau listens when I talk, and wants to hear about even the not-so-normal parts of Gracie. He looks at me as if I’m beautiful, not as though he’s looking for something to criticize
,
and with the setting sun casting a glow around him, with this magnificent house in the background, I realize something: he’s my angel.

I’ve been flicking away the two devils on my shoulders
for months, wondering where the little angel has gone, where the person is who’s supposed to cast life in a brighter light, or supposed to whisper confidence and
good
advice in my ear.
 

It’s Beau. He’s the one who forces me to see all the changes in my life as positives, not potential signs that I’ve gone completely off my nut. He’s the one who makes Heron Creek better. Who makes
me
better.

There are tears in my eyes now, and he sets the basket on the ground, moving toward me and grabbing my hands in his. “What’s wrong? Is it the mosquitoes? I brought candles that claim to work,” he jokes.

“I’m fine. Stupid girl moment,” I sputter, the words all wet with emotion. My arms tighten around his waist and my cheek rubs against the softness of his pea green linen shirt, the one I once mentioned
brings out his eyes. “I just love you. And I still can’t believe I got so lucky.”

“Hey.” He reaches down, tangling his fingers in my hair and tipping my face up to his. The light of passion in his eyes is so intense part of me wants to look away, but then he closes them, catching my lips with his. It’s a different kiss from the one just moments before. Still full of passion and need but with
a deepness to it that leaves me exposed. Vulnerable. But not alone. His tongue sweeps against mine so softly that a shudder grips me as he eases away. He’s still holding me, forcing me to look at him. “I feel that way every day. I want to stop people on the damn street just to say,
Hey, Graciela Harper loves me. Can you believe it?
”

I laugh, letting the weakness in my limbs have its way as he
holds me up. “You’re goofy.”

“I love you.”

“I’m glad.” As hard as it is to accept, it feels true. I guess maybe it will start to feel
real
eventually, also. I pull away after another couple of deep breaths, steadier now. “What’s in your basket, Mr. Mayor? I’m starving.”

“Grab this blanket and follow me.”

I pick up the white quilt from the trunk of the car and traipse across the grounds at
his side. It’s almost strange that Jenna’s not here. Even though I only met her once, she seemed as though she couldn’t exist without this house she loves so much. But she probably lives on campus or somewhere down in Charleston.

To my relief, there’s also no little dead girl running around with a noose trailing behind her like a leash. I’ve never been out here in the evening, and with the sun
setting, spilling oranges and pinks and golds over the bend in the Ashley River, it looks like heaven. The roots of ancient live oaks dig into the marshy bank, hanging low over the slow-moving water and dripping Spanish moss that might as well be straight out of a dream. Or a painting. Something unreal.

“It’s so beautiful,” I breathe, hugging the quilt to my chest.

Beau presses a kiss to my
temple. “So are you. Now spread out that blanket and let’s sit down.”

I do as he says, smoothing the wrinkles before settling on it. Leave it to a man to not only bring a white quilt out for a picnic but to not think to tell his girlfriend that perhaps a dress might not be the best attire for their surprise date. But it doesn’t really matter. Muddy quilts and a dress riding up my thighs can’t
dampen this evening. Nothing can.

He opens the basket, and it kind of shocks me that the contents are homemade; I’d been expecting takeout from The Wreck. Fish tacos are my life, but the fact that he obviously spent most of the day cooking is much sweeter.

He unpacks fried chicken, grits, gravy, okra, and biscuits, opening each container and setting it between us before digging back into the
basket for plates and silverware—real china and forks and knives and spoons.

“Cripes, Beau, you know I’m going to break something.”

“You will not. And if you do, I’ll pretend you didn’t. Just for tonight.”

“You shouldn’t have revealed the fact that you know how to cook more than eggs and pasta. Now my expectations are raised.”

“Fair enough. But I do well with a challenge.”

“That’s the truth.”