Save the Date (18 page)

“It’s not. I’m fine.” But Morgan was right. The upper crust of Charleston made Lucy feel like low-country trash. She was praying about it, but she just couldn’t make herself believe that she had graduated from that tormented child. “I need your support on this,” Lucy said. “It’s important that you understand.”

“I’m going to be there for you, but I don’t think I’m ever going to understand.”

“That’s all I ask for.”

Morgan shook her head. “First headline I see that says you’re pregnant with his love-child triplets, and I’m punching Alex Sinclair in the throat.”

“And that’s why we’re friends.” Lucy hugged Morgan. “It will all be okay.”

“For your sake,” Morgan said. “I hope you’re right.”

Chapter Eighteen

T
he next day Alex stood beside Lucy on the grounds of the beautiful Drayton Hall. Beside him a banner proclaimed the anniversary of the Siege of Charleston. More than two hundred and twenty-five years ago, the British had crossed the Ashley River in a bid to take over the town. Though the celebration usually took place in May, a severe storm front had swept through, and the accompanying hailstorm had cancelled the event. Charlestonians would not be denied their reenactment, however, and today’s sunshine provided the perfect chance to try again—and it gave Alex an ideal opportunity for community outreach with the district’s history-conscious citizens. Though well used during the Revolution and the centuries that followed, Drayton Hall still stood tall and proud on the lush green grounds. But you only had to look at the peeling paint and worn ceiling to see that nothing lasted forever. Not even a grand estate could outrun the brutal hand of time.

Time seemed to have Alex by the throat as well. There had been no word on his brother Will since the eyewitness had come forward with the news of a possible survivor. Alex was afraid to hope but couldn’t make himself completely give up. Every night he went to sleep with a plea to God on his lips. As each day trickled into the next, the election drew closer and the likelihood of Will being alive drifted further away. He and his brother had never had that mystical twin connection and Alex had never wished for it. Until now.

He received updates from the search in pieces and fragments. Even the unreliable ones spurred him on. The call that had interrupted dinner last night had been nothing but a report on a dead end. Sitting next to him, Lucy had overheard, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer her questions. He knew she was concerned. But she would be gone in a matter of months, and there was no point in letting his heart bleed all over her.

His campaign efforts had shown small gains, which almost made all the sixteen-hour days worth it. Between not knowing what to do with the whirling dervish that was Lucy Wiltshire and keeping his mind off Will, it had become easy to pour himself into the work. But as he massaged the stiffness in his neck and stifled a yawn, he knew it was catching up with him. His mother still called him daily, worried if he was getting enough rest and eating his vegetables. Knowing he was the cause of further stress only brought more guilt.

Bands of men in period uniforms marched across the field with plumed hats and imposing muskets. Beside him Lucy pointed to a large group meant to represent the Colonial troops. “You’d look dashing in feathers and tight breeches.”

“Only if you’ll wear a corset.”

Under the shade of a live oak dripping with moss, Alex rested his hand at her hip. He had stopped by Saving Grace this morning and had breakfast with her and Marinell, lingering to help Marinell with history, which had been his college major. Lucy had made the home a welcoming place, and Alex stayed longer every time he visited. As Lucy had sat beside him, he noticed his hand seemed to move toward her as if magnetically pulled. He didn’t even think about it anymore. If she was near, he reached for her.

There were hundreds of Charlestonians here today, and Alex watched his team mingle and pass out buttons and fans with his slogan on it. “A Return to Basics,” had been David’s idea. It was better, he guessed, than “I might be famous with little experience, but I really can do this job,” which apparently wouldn’t fit on a bumper sticker.

Alex had spent the first hour at the reenactment talking to every person on the property. Many wanted his autograph. Most days that was fine, but the closer he got to August, the more he was convinced signing a T-shirt wasn’t going to turn into votes. What did it take to make them see more than a football player?

“Your blog post yesterday was really good,” Lucy said, pulling him from his thoughts. Bringing her along had been a last-minute idea. He found he could relax more when she was at these campaign events. He had dropped by Saving Grace on a whim and, despite her protests, hadn’t given her time to change. She wore skinny black pants that stopped just above her ankles and hot pink strappy sandals that matched her capped-sleeve blouse. Her shoes revealed glitter-painted toes that matched the same polish he’d spied on Marinell. A black flower decorated the headband that held back her raucous hair. He enjoyed seeing her this way—like herself. Occasionally she wore some outfits handpicked by Clare, but he didn’t see how dressing like Laura Bush was helping her one bit. Last night during dinner with some city officials, she’d spilled her water twice and accidentally stuck her hand in John Peterson’s lobster soufflé. Her two-piece business suit, buttoned clear up to her neck, had done nothing to keep her nerves in low gear.

Lucy nudged him in the side. “I liked what you said about helping out senior citizens. Your ideas on nursing homes were really clever. Mrs. Barnes from across the street read it and called to tell me you had her vote.”

“Thanks.” It was weird that Lucy’s opinion meant so much. But it did.

“Though you really should have let me change my clothes.”

“You take too long to get ready.”

“Says the man with the bag of Clinique moisturizers.”

“All for you, babe.” Two weeks ago Lucy had been in a funk so deep, he’d worried she was on the edge of backing out of their deal again. He knew she had been to see that Matt guy. What was it about him anyway? He was black and white, while Lucy was vivid Technicolor.

Her phone buzzed in her purse, and Lucy checked the display. “My neighbor calling. I already told her I don’t want to buy any Avon.” She slipped it back in the compartment. “Unless you needed some more Skin So Soft.”

“Keep it up, blondie, and I’ll tell the press you have the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy memorized.”

“There’s no shame in that.”

“If you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Is this your way of asking to borrow it?”

A leaf fluttered from the branch above, landing right in the tangle of her hair. With gentle fingers he pulled it loose, touching her smooth cheek in the process. Her cotton-candy lips opened as if to say something, but no words came out. He tore his gaze from that showgirl mouth and met her wide eyes. She was supposed to be his girlfriend. Would it hurt if he kissed her just once? After they were engaged, the public would expect it.

Today seemed like a good day for a little dry run.

“Lucy?” His hands moved to her shoulders.

“Yes?” She had yet to so much as blink.

Alex leaned closer until he could smell the exact spot she had sprayed her perfume. His eyes held hers captive. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Her eyes widened, but she made no attempt to step away. “I really don’t think you should.”

His lips curved into a grin. “We have to be convincing.”

He saw her swallow. “We probably shouldn’t.”

“Afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?”

That flustered her. “Because it’s rude . . . to ignore the soldiers.”

“You can kiss them when I’m done.” And he lowered his head those last few inches, cupping her face in his hands. His lips brushed across hers. Just a hint of contact, the lightest of touches. He had thought to simply test the waters, but one taste would not be enough.

Her phone buzzed again, and Lucy jumped from his arms like someone had poked a bayonet in her backside. Her face pink as a flamingo, she grappled with her purse, dropping it on the ground.

Torn between amusement and frustration, Alex bent at the waist and picked up her bag. He would swear her hands were unsteady as she fumbled finding the Blackberry. He reached in the left compartment, his hand sliding over hers, and pulled out her phone. “Is there a problem?”

“Just my neighbor. Again.” She lifted her face to his. “Are you going to tell me about your phone call from last night? I care about what’s happening.”

A cooler of Gatorade over his head couldn’t have squelched the moment more.

“I was right
there
,” she said. “You said Will’s name.”

“It’s nothing.”

She had that disappointed schoolmarm face. “It must be tough being bulletproof all the time.”

His upper-hand advantage was slipping; it was time to show her who was in charge. “I’d be glad to discuss this after you’ve had the guts to talk to Clare Deveraux.”

She gave a little gasp and narrowed those Caribbean ocean eyes. “That’s totally different.”

He ran his finger over the flower on her headband. “How convenient you think so.”

“I
did
go talk to her.”

“You taste-tested her pot roast and ran out of the house.”

“Did she tell you that?” A horn was sounded and the troops began to march on the field. “Don’t try to divert me. At least I tried with Clare. You can’t even be in the same room with your parents without twitching like a—”

“Watch yourself.”

“What are
you
afraid of, Alex? I know why I’m avoiding my supposed family. What about you?”

He would not be baited by a woman who dropped something every time someone stepped on her self-confidence.

“Alex.” His campaign manager chose that moment to appear. “The superintendent of Charleston County schools wants to meet you.” David looked at Lucy, then back to Alex. “Are you coming?”

“Be right there.” Alex waited until David was a few steps away before he turned his attention back to Lucy.

“It’s all about focus. And right now mine is on this election. When I feel there’s something about my brother or family that’s relevant to you, I’ll let you know.”

“Well.” Those pink lips he had barely touched now formed a taut line. “There’s the Alex I remember.”

“Grow up, Lucy.”

“Alex!” David called. “We need you over here.”

Alex stared at the woman who looked like she was ready to light a cannon herself. “I’ll call you later.” He dutifully pressed a kiss to her stiff cheek.

“Don’t bother,” she said as the first rifle fired. “I’m taking the night off.”

Chapter Nineteen

H
e was incorrigible. Insulting. Aggravating. Arrogant.

Lucy slammed her car door and marched up her front walk like Sherman storming Atlanta. Did Alex really think all he had to do was bat those baby browns, pull some moves out of his old trick bag, and she would roll over like every other girl who had stepped foot on Planet Sinclair? How could the same man who had held her after her disastrous day with Matt and Clare be the same one who completely shut her down today?

Twisting the key in the lock, she bumped her hip against the front door and swung it open wide.

And felt her world crumble again.

Water. Everywhere.

The roof of her living room dripped like Noah had just docked in the apartment above her. Her shoes squished in the carpet as she made her way across the room, picking up items and assessing the damage. Her couch—soaked. Her books—limp and curling. Even the pictures along one wall sagged beneath their frames.

“There you are!” Mrs. Bortelli waddled into Lucy’s living room and clucked her tongue. “Oh, such a mess. I
tried
to call you, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

Lucy held back every awful word she wanted to fling her neighbor’s way. “Mrs. Bortelli,
what
happened?”

“A few pipes burst. Old rusty things, you know. There’s been a slow leak upstairs, but we couldn’t seem to locate it.”

Lucy’s eyes shot to her weeping ceiling. “I guess we found it.”

“The landlord said he’ll be by tomorrow to assess the damage.”

“Tomorrow? Are you telling me you haven’t called a plumber?”

Mrs. Bortelli laid a hand over the front of her Florida orange muumuu. “Fred and I are on a fixed income, you know. I mean, I guess we could call someone, but the damage is already done. My sweet man did turn the water off. Some gentleman with a big camera was sitting in your backyard and offered to help. Wasn’t that nice?”

Lucy wanted to collapse into a chair, but a puddle sat in every one.

Mrs. Bortelli’s eyes widened at Lucy’s groan. “Oh. My. I guess Fred doesn’t have to have his heart medicine right now.” Her neighbor picked up a couch cushion and kindly wrung it out. “I suppose we could just wait a few days on his prescription and get someone to take care of the water damage until the landlord steps in.”

Lord, was this how Job felt?
“No.” She would have to go to Morgan’s. Or the Holiday Inn. “I’ll just call the landlord again and see what I can do.” Like yell and scream and tell his wife that he plays the ponies when she goes out of town to see her mother.

Mrs. Bortelli patted Lucy on the back. “I’m sorry about your stuff, dear. It all looks fixable though.” The woman glanced at her silver Timex. “Noon already? Fred will be crowing if I don’t get his bologna sandwich on the table. Plus Sammy’s up to no good on my stories, so it’s important I see what the little snipe’s going to do today. Toodle-loo!”

Clemson Tiger flip-flops smacking her cracked feet, Mrs. Bortelli stepped over a
Dragons and Droids
magazine on the floor and scurried out before Lucy changed her mind and denied Fred his heart pills.

Lucy’s hands shook as she tried to pick up what she could. How could a few pipes cause this much damage? Was the water line directly connected to the Atlantic Ocean?

She reached for that morning’s tea glass, still covered in a sheen of condensation. A flash of movement caught her eye, and she turned to see two paparazzi in the bushes outside her living room window.