Page 10 of Heart of Dixie
Dixie
After a single visit with the funeral director I had a printed checklist—a to-do list that I eagerly accepted. So far, I was making good progress. In my work, lists and spreadsheets were the engine that kept me moving forward. Who knew getting Cooter buried would be so easy?
It seemed there’d been a procession streaming in to volunteer as pall bearers.Huh?Most of the other decisions were made while I was busy wrapping my brain around that. The funeral parlor provided appropriate music. Did I care for a photographer?Seriously?How about a video?Oh, hell no!
By the end of our two-hour meeting, all that remained was for me to provide a casket and an outfit to bury the man in. I was okay with him wearing the blue jeans and Braves T-shirt he died in—since when was he a baseball fan, anyway?—but the frown I received seemed to indicate that wasn’t acceptable. I gathered up my checklist. Looked as though I’d be making another trip to Cooter’s house, where hopefully there was something suitable hanging in his closet.
With the bulk of my day thankfully behind me, I pulled out the page Deke scribbled his directions on and followed the highway to the turnoff marked by an oversized rural mailbox. The long driveway to his home led through a stand of trees so thick it nearly blocked the sun overhead. Deke had never been one to yearn for privacy the way I had. Nor had he been a big nature lover; he much preferred his studies to any outdoor adventure. So why he chose to live alone and isolated was beyond me. The area was beautiful, though. Peaceful.
The woods opened to an expanse of shrubbery-lined lawn that stretched before me for acres. Enormous trees dotted the lawn as I drew closer to the house, concealing the structure from view as I approached. I circled a gurgling fountain as I neared and arrived beneath aportecocherewide enough to house at least three cars. From there I simply stared in awe.
There were log cabins and there were log cabins, but there was nothingLittle House on the Prairieabout Deke’s house. Absolutely nothing. The multi-level, multi-decked home spread out before me would start a bidding war among celebrities if it were for sale in say, either Aspen or Sun Valley.
So how did a guy who gave up the lucrative rat race to move back to Tennessee and teach high school afford this kind of high life? And why? I got out of the car and followed the stone path to the front door. Inquiring minds had to know.
Deke himself answered on my first knock, pulling the door open as if he’d been watching for me from the other side.
A quick smile tilted the corners of his lips as he widened the door so I could enter. “Hi, Dixie. You have any trouble finding me?”
A uniformed maid would have shocked the hell out of me, yet somehow better fit the picture in this grand foyer than this hunk of manliness all freshly scrubbed and pressed in khakishorts and a plaid button down. Or maybe that was simply me channeling my mother.
“No problem at all. There’s a spot just down the road where I used to hang out. I think you were there with me a few times. Maybe you forgot.” The scent of his aftershave as I brushed his cheek with a kiss wound its way through my senses and had my pulse jumping. The scruff on his face seemed neater than at the market this morning. Had he taken the time to trim it?
“Hmm.” He shrugged and the ends of his hair brushed against one broad shoulder. “I made a pitcher of margaritas.” He turned to lead the way. “We can have it on the back porch while dinner’s finishing up. Did you get a chance to rest?”
“A little.” I checked into the lodge earlier and lay down, certain sleep would be instantaneous. But fatigue worked against me, and rather than let me nap, my mind raced with memories of Deke—and of me and Deke together. I had done a good job of suppressing them since I moved away, but in the dark, quiet room it was safe to remember that Deke played a major role in my leaving. It wasn’t a subject I wanted to dredge up during my short return.
A margarita sounded good. Refreshing. But I could only imagine that exhaustion mixed with alcohol was likely to cause . . . complications.
Maybe I should have passed on dinner after all.
From the entry hall, I got an impression of high ceilings and massive spaces. “Your house is beautiful. How long have you lived here?”
“Only a few months. Most of the rooms are still empty.” He motioned for me to follow, then started walking and my attention was caught on the casual way his khaki shorts hung from his hips and how his muscular thighs tapered to firm calves. It would be so easy to wrap my arm around his waist and pull him close the way I did easily once upon a time.
I folded my hands behind my back to resist the urge.
“When Shane’s wife died I moved in with them to help with his son, Cody. They were both in pretty bad shape back then.” He lifted a framed photograph as we passed a built-in bookshelf. “Here he is.”
He passed me the picture and I took a glance at the dark-haired toddler before I replaced it on the shelf. “Cute kid.” He seemed to live alone, and I’d wondered—well, of course I had. Beth hadn’t mentioned a wife or kids, but then, she hadn’t mentioned the extra four inches in height or the sculpted biceps I was tempted to wrap my hands around to see if they were as firm as they appeared, either.
“Here we are.” I’d followed him through the rooms to where a wall of glass overlooked an expansive deck and partially wooded lawn beyond. In the distance the creek wandered along the tree line.
“Wow, what a great view!”
He led the way through open French doors. The perimeter of the railed deck was fitted with planter boxes, all overflowing with hanging blossoms. My hand absently lifted a stem as I passed and its heady scent filled the air, along with the aroma of something mouthwatering coming from the grill. I briefly met Deke’s eyes. “What made you decide to get your own place?”
His hands were occupied with filling tinted umbrella glasses with pale lime slush. “Too many roosters in the coop, I guess.” He gave me another of his shrugs. “When Shane first brought Cody back home he bought the Wilkerson place just up the road. You remember them, Ada Jo and Mort? Sure you do.” He set down the pitcher and pushed back his glorious hair before he lifted the salt rimmed glasses and carried them over. “Anyway, they moved out west when their daughter had her second baby. Colorado, I think.”
Untethered, his hair hung straight and framed his face in silky strands, as though it would just pour through my fingers. I liked it. “When we started to get on each other’s nerves, Shane offered to sell me part of his land. He had eighty acres; too much for him, even with his veterinary practice out there and a growing boy roaming around. I took twenty.”
“And decided to build.”
He handed me a glass and cast a sweeping glance over the area beyond. “I decided to build.” Our glassesclinkedwhen he touched his rim against mine, then he took a sip and set his drink on the glass-topped table. Moving to the barbeque, he transferred ribs from the grate to a sturdy stoneware platter.
The water in the creek shimmered in the early evening light. “Is the water deep here? Do you fish? Swim?” I generally avoided asking personal questions. That way I didn’t feel obligated to offer information of my own. But Deke already knew where my skeletons were stashed.
He glanced up from his work at the grill with a wide smile. “Both, actually. Cody has this little Spider-Man fishing pole he likes to bring over. The water’s always moving so it stays cool, even during the warmest days. Maybe you’d like to come by one afternoon before you leave.”
