He could do that—ply her with pretty words, treat her to a bit of romance and laughter. But why he felt like doing so was as clear as morning on the San Francisco Bay.
Maybe it was because he knew how she felt when her ex-husband had slammed back into her life. Or maybe there was no good reason. Maybe he was an eternal hopeless dumb ass looking for someone to belong to. Maybe it was a really stupid idea.
Doubling back toward his house, he tried to talk himself out of any further romantic interactions with Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron. But by the time he stepped onto his porch, he’d decided to not worry so much about the reasons he shouldn’t and embrace the reasons he should.
If there was one thing Leif always did, it was listen to what the universe told him.
And the wind whispered her name.
* * *
“JOHN OFFICIALLY PROPOSED to Shelby,” Francesca “Fancy” Beauchamp said, handing Abigail the scissors so she could trim the ribbon on the pillow she held.
Abigail looked at her mother, eyeing her handiwork critically. Thankfully, the pillows looked custom-made, something she could no longer afford. “I thought he’d already asked her? When did this happen?”
“Last night. Your brother drove her out to Boots Grocery, got down on a knee in the middle of the bar and told her he was glad he’d gotten drunk and knocked her up in the bathroom. And then he asked her to become his wife. Can you believe it? Our John?”
“No, the way he grieved Rebecca, I didn’t think it possible.”
Fancy shrugged. “Me neither, but I’m happy for him. Your father’s a bit appalled at the proposal locale.”
A bar wasn’t exactly the kind of place Reverend Dan Beauchamp frequented but it was where her brother had met Shelby...and where they’d made a mistake that set fate on its ear. “Well, it’s hard growing up a preacher’s kid. We constantly disappoint.”
Fancy smacked her hand, making her drop the scissors. “Don’t say that. Your father and I worked hard to raise you as regular kids, to be able to make mistakes without being judged by a ridiculous standard.”
Abigail picked up the scissors. “I’m not criticizing you and Dad. It’s just how it is. We accept it, but sometimes it’s hard. Take John. Who could have imagined someone so steady would topple head-over-boots for someone like Shelby? Never in a million years would I have put those two together.” She snipped the ragged threads that had not been sewn down. The ribbon made a perfect square in the middle of the flowered fabric. A pretty monogram sat in the center.
Fancy rose from the breakfast table and carried her empty mug to the sink. The large farmhouse sink anchored a generous slab of marble in the bright kitchen. Her mother’s kitchen reflected her personality—cheerful, with clean lines and purpose. Yes, it was an optimistic kitchen if there were such a thing.
“I like Shelby, and sometimes a person needs to be balanced out by someone who is their opposite,” Fancy said.
“I like Shelby, too. But they don’t look like they’d fit.”
Fancy returned to tug at a wayward thread, rolling it into a ball. “Can’t go on what we see. Scripture tells us man sees what is on the outside, but God sees a man’s heart. Perhaps John—”
“Oh, you can bet he was attracted to that outside.” Abigail bounced big pretend breasts against her chest.
“Hush,” Fancy said, but laughing anyway. “Speaking of not judging a book by its cover, how are the art lessons going?”
Abigail stilled, her mind flipping to the intimacy between her and her instructor the other night. “We’ve only had one lesson. I suck at drawing.”
“Language,” her mother warned.
“Oh, please. Suck is a perfectly good word. Don’t act like you don’t use it.”
“Me? I’d never use language unsuitable for a preacher’s wife,” Fancy said, a twinkle in her eye. Abigail knew very well her mother dropped the occasional curse word, but that was what made Fancy Beauchamp one of Magnolia Bend’s most-liked women. She could bake a mean pie and dance the tango, and believed a well-placed curse word was effective.
“The class is filled with women.”
“He’s a good-lookin’ man.”
“But odd. He wears sandals with pants and has a ponytail.”
“So did Jesus.”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Only you would compare Leif Lively to Jesus.”
“Why not? Both have magnetic personalities and woman kneeling at their feet.”
“Would you be serious?”
Fancy reached out and tweaked Abigail’s nose. “Lighten up, Francis.”
“You’re quoting Stripes? Nice.” Abigail stacked the three pillows at the end of the scarred wooden table. “So are you going to get around to what you really want to ask me?”
“You mean something besides how your art lessons with Mr. Yummy Yoga Pants have been going?”
Abigail couldn’t help herself. She chuckled.
Her mother brushed her wispy red hair from her face. “Now, that’s the Abi I love. Big laugh. Fun girl.”
Abigail snorted. Yeah, right. Her mother remembered things differently than she did. “I still laugh.”
“Not often enough.”
“Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes.”
Fancy sank into the fluffy armchair. “Come sit and tell me about Calhoun.”
Abigail took the opposite chair, releasing a huge sigh. “Well, he’s back. He says he’s home to stay.”
Fancy’s gaze dissected Abigail’s face. “You think he’s serious about staying?”
“He says so. Morgan left him, presumably for another man. Quite frankly I’m surprised she lasted five years with him. She saw him as her ticket out of the bayou, but no one could have told Cal that. He was so certain he’d missed out on the life he was supposed to live.”
“What a dumb ass,” Fancy said.
Abigail trilled, “Language.”
“Yeah, yeah. I grew up a Burnside. My papa could make a sailor blush. Apple, tree and all that. Besides, I say my prayers every night. The Good Lord knows Calhoun is a dumb ass, so forgiveness should be forthcoming.”
“True. So Cal’s living with his parents and says Buster gave him his old job at the plant. That surprised me—Buster was furious at him for abandoning us to go chasing fame and fortune.”
“Time has a way of healing anger for some folks. Buster loves Calhoun and the man isn’t getting any younger. He needs someone to take over the business when he retires.”
“Buster will never retire.”
“Don’t be too sure. Diabetes is tough on the body and he’s been having issues with his legs.” Fancy stared out at the winter-weary branches of the roses she loved to tend. “So what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve known Calhoun Everett Orgeron ever since he drank his first sip of milk. He’s the kind of man who leans on people to get what he wants.” Her mother looked at her, eyes soft and sympathetic.
“What?”
“He wants you back?”
Abigail clutched the arms of the chair, worry clawing her insides.