Bayou Born

chapter 11

James walked beside Branna into the cooling evening. “I’m in the parking lot across the street. I’ll drive.”

“Which one is yours?” In a grand flourish, she waved her arms at the parked cars.

“Guess,” he said, grinning. His hand accidently brushed hers as they crossed in the middle of the street. The pulse that radiated each time they touched no longer startled him. It had turned into an anticipation of delight. The familiarity of it was something he could get used to. No doubt about it. Branna Lind charged him up.

A passing truck honked and grabbed his attention. He waved as the driver waved to him.

“I guess I didn’t think of Florida as the south,” Branna said. “At home, we always wave to those passing by. It’s considered polite, even if you don’t know the person.”

“North Florida is still pretty much old south. A rich Florida Cracker has two cars on blocks in the yard in front of his doublewide mobile home.” He chuckled. “Go south, past Ocala, it’s an entirely different culture. There, a lot of people are from out of state.”

“You’re a Florida Cracker?”

“Fifth-generation proud.”

They reached the mostly-empty lot, only six cars left. She walked away from him, pausing to look at the five vehicles on the left. James waited patiently. His hands in his pockets, he rocked back on the heels of his boots and tried not to give anything away.

At the end of the row, she turned around and faced him. “This one?” she asked pointing to a Ford Taurus closest to her.

“Nope. Want to guess again?”

She walked toward him, then stopped two cars away. “The Toyota?”

“Nope. Don’t drive foreign.”

“I drive a Volvo,” she said defensively. “I give up. Which one is yours?”

He turned and pointed to the lone car on the right side of the aisle taking up two spaces.

“Yours? Wow. Nice.” She crossed the distance to the rear of his car. “What year is this? Did you restore it yourself? Great paint job.” Branna stroked the top of the trunk, then the fender of his red Chevy Chevelle.

“1968. The inside isn’t completely finished. Waiting to install the back seat. A friend of mine is doing most of the work. Restoring cars is his winter hobby. I help when I’m able, but can’t take any real credit for the work.”

“It’s spotless. The paint job is flawless.”

The awe in Branna’s voice surprised him. He cocked his head and watched as she walked around, her fingers trailing across the new paint job. Maybe she recognized quality workmanship on the classic. Maybe she saw the Chevelle as more than just an old car.

Maybe there was more to Branna Lind than he first thought.

“Let’s go.” He opened the door for her. When she slipped past him and into the seat, a faint scent of flowers drifted to his nose. Nothing cloyingly sweet or strong, but soft and feminine. As she lifted her feet inside the car, her movements made him think of a dancer. Elegant. The denim skirt and gauzy white top she wore hugged her in all the right places. She even wore denim-trimmed sandals that matched her skirt. Where the heck did a woman find those kinds of shoes?

“You’re probably going to think I’m odd,” Branna said.

“Not odd. Just different,” he teased as he cranked the engine. It rumbled, then purred. The air conditioner blew coolness around them.

“I know it’s warm, but would you mind the windows down?”

“What about your hair?” he asked before he could stop himself. Didn’t women hate the wind-blown look? He happened to love it on a woman.

“We’re going for a drive in the country. I have a brush. You don’t care what I look like, do you?” She shook her head. Short hair swished back and forth, then fell neatly back into place.

The strong urge to touch her caught him off guard. “No,” he answered quickly.

“No, you don’t care what I look like? Or no, you don’t want to roll down the windows?”

James shook his head to clear the confusion. One beer with a plate of nachos wouldn’t raise his blood-alcohol level a point. But could Branna Lind?

“Let’s roll down the windows,” he said, stealing a sideways glance at her as he pulled from the parking lot.

He’d made it to the bar early hoping for a snack to stop the rumbling in his stomach. He had no intention of starving. Earlier, he had wanted to invite Branna for dinner and a drive, however, she seemed to think anything social, like sitting down to a meal, crossed the line away from professional. Luckily, his arrival at the bar came soon enough to save Dave from her claws—which he was surprised she had—and he saved her from more of Dave’s tired come-ons. Before they left, Branna politely thanked Dave for the beer. They shook hands amicably. Dave assured her that he would remember his manners next time or provide his mother’s phone number so Branna could call and complain about how poorly he’d been raised.

“Nice ride,” Branna said. She tilted her head to the open widow and caught more of the passing breeze.

The breeze picked up as he increased their speed. They left town and turned onto the divided highway.

“Would you like to drive her?” James hollered.

“Maybe later. Music?”

“No stereo, yet. Bobbie, my friend doing the work, is still working on that. Hence the reason for the missing back seat.”

They drove in silence for a while. He slowed to make a turn onto a two-lane blacktop with a thirty-five mile-per-hour speed limit.

“The fields are larger the farther we get from town. Mostly soybeans and corn,” he explained. “Not much different than Mississippi, I guess. Except, we don’t grow much cotton in Florida.”

They passed a few houses where only rooftops were visible. Hedges and trees offered privacy and protection from rumbling traffic. As they drove, the scenery changed from wide-open fields to acres of densely planted pines waiting for harvest and marked for the pulp mills in Jacksonville. He caught whiffs of freshly mown grass. He did breathe easier in country air. The tension ratcheted tight in his body began to unwind.

“It smells different here,” Branna said. “No hints of brackish water, like at home.”

She reached her hand out of the window, as if trying to catch the wind. Her eyes were closed, though a half-grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. The rigidness she’d exuded after the incident at the bar had disappeared, and with it went much of her high-maintenance demeanor. Relaxed, she was feminine and too appealing.

His body responded. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What he’d hoped would be a fun night with Branna might challenge all his restraint. The tension that had unwound—Branna just sent soaring.

How long had it been since he’d taken a woman for a drive for no reason other than to explore the countryside? Probably not since high school. Back before Lakeview even had a movie theater. Back when a Saturday night date meant bowling at an alley with only five lanes, and then making out by the Ichetucknee River. Back before Caroline.

“What type of music do you like?” Branna asked, her hands moving to her lap. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Do you mean, if I were stranded on a desert island and could have only one CD, what would it be?”

“Well, let’s go with that.”

“Something jazzy with blues. What about you?”

“Classical.”

“Ahh.”

Branna turned in her seat and faced him. “Ahh—what?”

“It makes sense. You look like the classical-music type.”

“You are beginning to annoy me, Dr. Newbern. I’m getting a little tired of hearing that I’m some sort of a type. Like you’ve figured me out by pigeonholing me into nice neat categories. Is that what type you are? A pigeon-holer?”

He shrugged. “Never thought about it before. Don’t you ever look at someone and size them up? By looking at them, you know exactly their nature. Maybe even their character.” His guard edged back up. Of course she did. She had done that with him the first time they met. She still hadn’t put two-and-two together to realize he was the same redneck she’d met at the Victorian.

“I probably do, but I try hard not to.”

Now he’d hurt her feelings. “Didn’t mean to offend you. But let’s try a different approach. Can you guess what type of music I grew up on?”

Branna rolled her eyes as if she thought the question were ridiculous, or ridiculously simple. He only had to wait for a second for her answer.

“Country, of course.”

“Nope.”

“Country and Western? Is that what they called it way back when?”

“Wrong.”

“Acid Rock? Heavy Metal?”

“Church hymns.”

“You only listened to hymns?” she asked. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“I grew up singing in church. Not just with the choir. I sang at weddings when I was young.”

“Hymns. Really? You make it sound like you’re so old. How old are you?”

Ahead, a caution light flashed stabs of yellow signaling a junction crossroad. Not even a town, just a collection of a half-a-dozen stores.

“See the flashing sign up there? Beyond that caution light is where we’re headed.” He pointed to the spot down the road.

“Are you changing the subject?”

“The subject being what?” he asked.

“Age. How old are you?”

He shook his head. “Are you sure you were raised in the south?”

“Of course,” she snapped. “I’m as ‘true-blue southern belle’ as they come. Have the genealogy to prove it. Why?”

“If I tell you how old I am, are you going to tell me your age? You know a gentleman can never ask a lady about that.”

Branna put her head back and laughed. Her shoulders shook as she continued to giggle. What had she found so funny?

“You are indeed old south, Dr. Newbern. You never ask a lady over the age of thirty how old she is. Under thirty, you have to make sure she’s a lady first. That’s the new rule.”

“And of the two, which one are you?”

Glancing at her, he caught her narrowed eyes aimed at him. “You’re the expert at types. You tell me, Professor.”

He ignored her challenge as he pulled onto the gravel parking lot. Old telephone poles served as markers on the ground, roughing out the lot where spring weeds grew through the rocks. A few cars were there, but mostly pickups filled the spaces. He parked far away from the other vehicles. It would ruin his night if he came back to find a drunk had marred his restored baby. When he started to roll up his window, Branna did the same.

“Thanks,” he said. “Nothing worse than coming back to a car full of bugs.”

He started to step out of the car, but Branna’s touch stopped him. His arm pulsed hot in that spot.

“Exactly, where are we?”

Was that fear he read in her eyes?