Love, Alabama (Alabama Series Book 2) Page 7

  “Sorry, BJ, I’ve gotta run. Cammie’s got a stomach virus and needs Gatorade.”

  The woman’s eyes bugged, and her lips pursed, eyes hard and angry. “No one calls me that anymore.”

  “See you later.” Emma didn’t bother to address her comment, but continued on toward the bright yellowish-green liquid that looked almost as awful as what it was supposed to help, leaving her former classmate posed, hands on hips, staring at Emma’s back.

  Emma rarely ruffled feathers in town on purpose. In fact, she typically made a rule of going out of her way to placate and please folks, even if they treated her with barely concealed malice. She took their occasional rudeness as her due; innately understanding the female insecurities and jealousies weren’t her fault, but theirs. She simply refused to take it personally. She credited her mother for teaching her about mean girls early on—and how not to become one within the pageant scene. Emma saw it for what it was—putting another down to feel superior.

  But she’d gone and done it now. BJ would go and tell everybody how rude she’d been and how much she’d resembled a pile of dog shit without makeup and her hair in a ponytail. Emma could hear it now.

  “Emma is that you? It is you. How’s your momma ’n them?” The crinkly face was deceptive, as Emma well knew, as she stood face-to-face with the biddy of all old biddies who ever lived. Mrs. Weed. Mrs. Weed had been the neighborhood babysitter for all the little ones in her area when they were kids. She’d maintained the romper room in her house with the stern discipline and lack of fun like the wicked witch of the west, minus the green skin coloring.

  Emma tried to smile. She really did. “Hello, Mrs. Weed. Mom’s doing well. She’s getting married in a couple weeks, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard.” The thin lips pressed into a white, disapproving line before she sniffed. “I can’t imagine her abandoning her dignity and reputation at her age for a man.” Oh, and Mrs. Weed detested men.

  Emma laughed. “Mrs. Weed, my mother is very happy, I assure you. Howard seems to be a lovely man, and I believe he will be a wonderful husband. We are so excited for them.”

  The thin white lip line was firmly back in place. “Well, I hope it doesn’t hurt her business around town. When people get wind of how she’s gone light-skirt, they might think twice about using her facility for their most important celebrations.”

  Emma really didn’t have time for this kind of attack against her sweet mother. “Mrs. Weed, I’ve known you since I was a little girl, and I’ve never believed you to be hateful or nasty. Our mother has always spoken highly and with respect for you. I hope that you will do the same about her.”

  The old woman lowered her head, then looked back up into Emma’s eyes. “Emma, I’m ashamed. Please forgive a bitter old woman. Your momma is a sweet soul and has a right to be happy. Not all of us had that chance in life. Please give her my best.”

  Before Emma could answer, the old woman shuffled away, leaving Emma stunned for a moment. She realized that she could end up like Mrs. Weed. What a sobering thought.

  Gathering double the supplies, Emma nodded and waved at a couple other familiar residents, one whose eyebrows shot up when she passed Emma, which resulted in Emma smiling extra wide at her.

  *

  Cammie was a mess and so was her house. Emma stocked her fridge with ginger ale, Gatorade in all flavors, and Jell-O. Then, she set up a small section on the countertop of chicken bouillon, saltines, and teabags for when her appetite came back. Having watched their mother attend to the five of them growing up, she remembered all the basics of the stomach bug.

  Emma tidied up the kitchen and wiped everything down with the antibacterial wipes she found under the kitchen sink. She tiptoed into where Cammie was obviously resting in her bedroom. The sight of her vivacious sister, pale and weak, lying in a tangle of bedcovers softened her heart. “Poor sweetie.” Emma had brought a tray in with saltines and a hospital-type plastic mug of ice and ginger ale.

  “Let me die.” Cammie moaned.

  “I would, but your mother would kill me. Remember the bridesmaid dresses we have to wear in a couple weeks.” Emma set the tray down and began straightening up her sister’s bed. Their mother had always done that when they’d been sick. She said it made her feel better to lie in a neatly made bed.

  “Have you stopped throwing up yet?” Emma asked.

  “I think so. It’s been an hour or so since the last time.” Cammie smiled weakly. “Do you mind checking on Matthew? I don’t know if he came down with this, but pretty much everyone else did. I know he doesn’t have any family in town, and I’d hate it if he was home alone without anything or anyone to help him through this.”

  Emma had already had that thought. “I’ll stop by his house and make sure he’s alright. I bought extra supplies just in case.”

  “Thanks, Emma. You’re the best. It’s funny; I called you first. I figured everybody else would be busy with their kids and other stuff. I knew you would come take care of me.”

  “Of course, sweetie. You know good old Emma will come running.” It made her sound like a kinder version of Mrs. Weed.

  “You know I only meant—”

  “You meant you knew I have less on my plate this time of day, generally. I know it wasn’t meant as an insult. You’re not the insulting kind, Cammie-girl.” But the insinuation that her life was so predictably empty still stung, just a tiny bit, even though it was dead-on accurate.

  She tucked the sheets in on her sister’s bed and made sure she had everything she needed, and then washed her hands really well.

  “I have a couple hours until my clients start rolling in this afternoon, so I’ll swing by and check on our Yankee friend. Hopefully, those germs were afraid of him.”

  Cammie grinned. “He is pretty intimidating at times, but I think he’s got a soft spot for you.”

  Emma laughed. “We got off to a rough start, but I think we understand one another well enough now. But I’m not cleaning up any man’s vomit, just to be clear.”

  No response. Emma looked down at her sleeping sister. Poor thing; she was worn slap out from her battle with the bug. Emma tiptoed out and headed to her car. Hopefully, Emma had disinfected things well enough that Grey and Samantha wouldn’t come down with the same illness.

  She glanced behind her at the remaining supplies in the back seat. Her Florence Nightingale instincts warred with minding her own business. Matthew hadn’t asked for help. Maybe he was just fine. But he didn’t have any friends in town that she knew of. Nor was he the type of guy who was likely to reach out even if he was sick and needed assistance—at least that was the impression she’d gotten so far.

  Emma sighed. She couldn’t very well leave him in the same condition as her sister without any saltines or electrolytes, now could she? She certainly couldn’t and feel good about it. Emma just then realized she’d already been driving her car toward his house. She hadn’t needed directions. Everyone in town knew where the new hot, single stranger in town had moved in. Emma was surprised he hadn’t already been the recipient drive-bys of home-baked goods and casseroles tagged with names and phone numbers of female singles in the area.

  Southern women understood the path to a lonely man’s heart might well begin with his taste buds. A good casserole and pecan pie couldn’t hurt as an introduction. Big hair and a sweet smile when they came to pick up momma’s favorite platter worked as a fine follow-up.

  Emma had seen the success of this maneuver many times. Men came around on business of one type or the other—mineral rights or what have you–and found themselves completely leg-shackled before they knew what hit them. Mommas around here taught their girls how to spot and hook a promising catch from the time they were in training bras and learned that more eyeliner and mascara was better than less.

  Emma pulled up behind Matthew’s car and frowned, noticing that his taillight was busted. She got out and pulled the bag of items from the back seat, not giving his car mu
ch more thought.

  Knocking gently on the door, she figured she would leave the bag on the front step if he didn’t answer. He might be sleeping. But what if he’d gotten light-headed, fallen, and hit his head on the bathtub and was knocked-out cold, lying in a pool of his own blood? The thought, while mildly ridiculous, gave her just enough pause to knock again, this time more loudly.

  No answer.

  She rang the bell.

  No answer.

  Now she was concerned. His car was in the drive. He was definitely home. Her heart began to beat in her ears.

  She tried the door.

  Locked. She looked through the leaded glass front door. No movement. Nice house.

  She knocked again.

  Emma still had the bag in her arm. So, she carried it with her around the back of the house to the screened in porch. The screen door was open, so she stepped up onto the pretty porch with the comfy furniture. It appeared that Matthew spent time out here. There were pillows, a rug, a throw, a couple books, and a lamp. Nice.

  She knocked on the back door. No answer. She didn’t see anyone inside.

  She bit her lip and tried the door. It opened. “Hello? Matthew?”

  No answer. She moved inside and let her gaze wander around the room. It was cozy and well decorated for a guy’s place. She noticed the kitchen to the right and headed in that direction. She put her bag on the kitchen counter then headed toward what she knew must be the master bedroom. This house was similar in style to hers.

  She called out to him again. Emma was getting worried now. Why didn’t he answer?

  As she entered the bedroom, she noticed it the blinds were closed and it was rather dark, but she could see no one was in the bed. Then, she realized the shower was running. Against any kind of decent judgment, she moved toward the bathroom door. She couldn’t help herself; she peeked inside. He wasn’t standing in the shower; he was sitting on the floor. She panicked and rushed towards him before her brain informed her to actually speak his name.

  She pulled open the door, certain he was dead before she shrieked, “Matthew, open your damned eyes!”

  He did. Open his damned eyes. Opened them really wide. “Emma? Why are you in my shower stall?”

  She really didn’t have a great answer to that. “Oh, Lord. I thought you were dead.” It was the best she could do.

  He did look nearly dead. He smiled weakly. “I’ve been really sick, so I thought I’d sit here for a little while. But I’m not dead. So, um, could you hand me a towel? Unless, of course, you prefer a shower?”

  Emma then became acutely aware of her position. And his. He was naked. Oh, Lord, was he naked. The most delicious naked she’d ever seen. And now she couldn’t stop staring at his naked. And apparently his naked knew it now. Because it was staring straight up at her, too.

  “Emma—a towel? Because I’m a little more inclined to invite you into my shower now.”

  She raised her eyes beyond his naked to his eyes, horrified. “Uh, a towel. Sure.” Looking around, she grabbed the closest towel she could find, the one hanging on a hook beside the shower. “I thought you were dead,” she said again, as an explanation.

  She was a complete idiot. And now she wanted to jump his sick bones.

  Just as quickly as she heard him turn the water off, he all but shoved her out of his way to get to the toilet and throw up. That was enough motivation for Emma to snap out of it and get the hell out of sick, naked Matthew’s bathroom.

  While he was getting his clothes on, she did the same things she’d done for Cammie. After everything had been sanitized, she brought in a tray with saltines and ginger ale. She found him lying weakly in his bed wishing for death to take him.

  “I’m sorry I invaded your privacy. Cammie asked me to come check on you. She’s sick and wondered if you’d come down with the virus, too. When you didn’t answer, I thought maybe you’d had an accident.”

  He opened one eye. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  She grinned. “Probably. But I’m known for my dramatic flair on occasion. I’m artistic, in case you haven’t heard.” She straightened his bed like she’d done for her sister.

  “Are you mothering me?” he asked.

  “My mother always said you feel better when your bed isn’t a mess.”

  “She’s right. Thanks. Sorry you had to—see that.”

  “That’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” She swished her hand as if waving his words away.

  “Not that. I meant, the throwing up part. I don’t think anyone has seen me bare-assed, hanging over a toilet before. It’s not very manly.”

  “I have an aversion to vomit, so I excused myself from the room as soon as I knew what was happening. Don’t worry, still manly.” She envisioned the other manly part and kept her opinion of that to herself. Holy moly, every bit of him was manly. It was all burned into her brain permanently.

  “I’ve brought saltines, Gatorade, chicken broth, and ginger ale. Call me if you need anything. If it’s a twenty-four hour bug, you should be fine in the morning.”

  “Emma, thanks again. I appreciate your looking out for me.”

  “We really need to find you some friends in town.” She smiled and left the room.

  Her legs were shaky. She could never look at him the same way again—not without mentally undressing him, knowing what lay beneath. She drew another unsteady breath.

  As she passed his car on the way to hers, she again noticed the broken taillight. It made her pause, enough that she stopped, bent down and looked more closely and saw a small pile of broken red clearish plastic—his remaining taillight pieces. There wasn’t a dent on the really nice slick, black Mercedes that she could see. What an odd thing. She’d meant to ask him about it while she’d been inside, but had been a little—uh—distracted by other things a few moments ago.

  Should she go back and say something about this? Did he know? It almost looked like vandalism to her untrained eye. Like someone had come up with a tool or hammer and just tapped hard enough to break the taillight and the little light bulb inside and nothing else. Weird. Pulling out her phone, she snapped a quick picture of both the rear of the car and the little pile of plastic on the ground.

  Avoiding another possible encounter so soon with naked Matthew might be wise, because this time she might just jump his bones whether he puked on her or not. The thought was deeply humiliating, even to herself. But he’d been so naked.

  Oh, my. She was a little hot and bothered.

  Emma climbed inside her car, rolled down the window to get a little air, and made a mental note to call him tomorrow. She’d ask about his broken light then.

  Chapter Seven

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  “Remember, ladies, no one else knows how you feel or what you’re thinking. They only know what they see. If the judges see confidence, fantastic posture, and relaxed, graceful movement, they are sold on you. If your movements are uncertain and you show that you’re not comfortable in your own skin, then you might as well hightail it home.” Emma’s least favorite evening of the week was upon her. The blonde threesome was in the house.

  “I don’t think I’ll have a problem with my confidence.” Judith assured them with a toss of her blonde hair and a smirk.

  The massive eye-roll her sister, Jamie, then performed behind her back surely stretched ligaments within her sockets that weren’t meant to take that sort of strain without damage. Then again, Emma was certain both sisters’ eyes were well exercised over the years of just such behavior.

  Sadie laughed at Jamie’s expression, which made Judith’s head whip around toward her sister. That pulled Judith off her precarious balance in her five-inch, high heels on the studio’s runway, which stood three feet above the regular floor. What happened next, Emma would look back on with a mixture of horror and regret that she hadn’t had a video camera to capture every detail for the retelling of it.

  Judith fell. She didn’t just fall—she more cartwheeled
as she lost her balance, twisted her ankle, and missed solid ground on the way down with a screech and a very loud crash. The others’ expressions were a mixture of shocked surprise. No one moved for a split second.

  “Oh, my Lord! Judith! Are you dead?” Jamie, for once, sounded genuinely concerned for her sister.

  Emma made a dash over to where Judith was lying in a heap, not moving. She’d crashed into a chair on the way down. That chair was now upside down beside her. There was blood.

  “Call 9-1-1.” Emma barked at the other two women.

  One of them pulled out a cell phone and Emma heard Jamie making the call.

  “Judith. Can you hear me?” The woman’s eyes fluttered and she moaned.

  Thank God. She wasn’t dead. But there was an oozing gash on her forehead that was swelling and turning bright purple.

  “Get her some ice out of the freezer, Sadie. There’s a plastic baggie in the drawer beside it.” The other woman shuffled around, obviously following directions.

  Emma thankfully had a refrigerator with a small freezer on top. She always kept ice on hand for any kind of injury. And baggies. Not every young lady was born with the grace of a gazelle. And, God bless ’em, Emma had coached her share. While trying to develop grace, some pretty klutzy things tended to occur.

  Judith moaned again. Her eyes were opened now, but they weren’t focused.

  “Judith, help is on the way. Can you talk to me? Do you know where you are?”

  She winced, then raised a hand toward the injury on her head.

  Emma caught her hand gently. “You’ve got a little bump on your head. We’re getting you some ice.”

  Just then, Judith moved her leg and let out a blood-curdling scream. Emma looked down, toward the injured woman’s legs. And she nearly passed out. Judith’s foot was turned outward in a completely unnatural angle.

  Emma grabbed both of Judith’s wrists then and pinned them down. She put her face right over Judith’s and said very calmly—at least as calmly as she could manage, “Judith, be very still. Your ankle might be broken, so you don’t want to move it.”