Playing Dead in Dixie Page 7

  "It's a piece of land I've had for a few years. I'm thinking about finally getting around to planting a few things this year. Corn, green beans, tomatoes, maybe some watermelons." He couldn't get too ambitious, since he worked full time for the police department. "Nothing quite like having fresh vegetables you grow yourself."

  "That's what Bonnie says." Carly pulled a small pie platter from the basket. "Ooo, chocolate!"

  "That's Mississippi Mud Cake," Wes told her as she pulled the plastic covering off the chocolate confection.

  She looked at him. "Really? Not quite what I'd pictured."

  He took the platter and served her one of the pre-cut squares on a small plastic plate. "You've never had Mississippi Mudcake?"

  "I've heard of it." Carly picked at the plank of fudge icing crusting the top of the cake. "I had a friend once whose husband would take her out for a piece every time he was in the doghouse. But I've never tried it."

  "I can take or leave chocolate—"

  Carly looked up quickly, feigning a gasp and crossing herself.

  "—but my cousin Beth calls it sin on a platter."

  "That sounds promising." Carly poked at the icing some more, unearthing a marshmallow. "Is this a marshmallow?"

  "Yup."

  "Good. I was afraid maybe it was grits or something." She shuddered. "You people do like your grits around here."

  He grinned. "Culinary cretin."

  "At least you didn't pack any okra. Thanks for that."

  He chuckled, pouring fresh iced tea in her nearly-empty plastic cup. "You're welcome."

  "Who fried the chicken?"

  "Would you believe me if I said I did?"

  She cocked her head, arching one pretty black eyebrow. "Nope."

  "So you are smarter than you look."

  A flicker of some unreadable emotion threaded through her expression, gone almost as soon as it appeared. But whatever it was made his stomach curl into a tight fist, just for a moment. Like he'd been hit in the gut.

  He'd been feeling that way all day. Ever since he talked to his uncle Floyd earlier about Carly's employment.

  He'd thought getting her out here, away from his aunt's house, would make it easier to broach the suspicions swirling in his head, thanks to what his uncle had admitted earlier that day. After all, Wes was a cop. Getting people to talk about things they didn't want to talk about was part of his job. He was good at it.

  Usually.

  "So, spill," Carly interrupted his thoughts. "Who put together the spread?"

  "Maylene Robertson made the chicken, as a thank you for keeping her husband Boyd from driving his tractor drunk when he had too much homebrew at the Independence Day parade." He waved one crispy fried drumstick in front of her nose. "The potato salad was left over from lunch at Charlie's Diner. Charlie's daughter Katie gave it to me as a thank you for writing her a letter of recommendation to the University of Georgia."

  Carly smiled, her face glowing in the light from the gas lantern lighting their picnic. "Whose traffic ticket did you have to fix for the deviled eggs?"

  "Debbie Jo Benefield, and it was the shed in her back yard I fixed, after the storm knocked off the roof this past April."

  "You're just the town hero, aren't you?" She waved the plate of cake at him. "And what about this?"

  "Sharlene Crump made me that." He grinned. "Just because she thinks I'm cute."

  Shooting him an skeptical look, Carly took a tentative bite of the Mississippi Mudcake.

  Wes bit back a grin as her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. "Good, huh?"

  "Sharlene must think you're gorgeous. This is amazing!" She made a low moaning sound of pleasure, deep in her throat, that wiped the grin off his face. Every nerve in his body jumped to attention.

  She took another bite and repeated the low, growly noise. A rivulet of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He shifted to accommodate the sudden tightness of his jeans, half-wishing he'd talked Sharlene into a less decadent dessert and half-thrilled that he hadn't.

  Think of something else, he admonished himself, sliding closer to the side of the truck bed to keep from touching her while his body was threatening to stage a coup and take over his carefully planned evening.

  He had questions he wanted answered. The last thing he needed to do was let his hormones call the shots.

  Carly leaned back against the truck cab and looked up at the sky. "So, when's this light show supposed to happen?"

  Wes glanced at his watch, pressing a button to light up the dial. Almost nine o'clock. "Any minute now." He put out the Coleman lantern, plunging them into darkness.

  They sat quietly in the darkness for a few moments, letting their eyes adjust to the blackness. After a moment, Carly spoke in hushed tones. "Intellectually, I know that there are billions of stars in the sky. I just had no idea you could actually see every single one of them."

  Wes sneaked a look at her. In the pale glow of the crescent moon, the little black tank top showed off her delicate collarbones and the curve of her throat, putting any number of thoughts in his head that he should definitely not act on if he wanted to stay in control.

  Because kissing his way up that long, sweetly-curved throat was not considered an acceptable interrogation method.

  "What's with the cloudy thing?" Carly's brow creased as she peered up at the sky.

  He tore his gaze away from her throat and looked up. Realizing what she was talking about, he laughed. "Those are stars, Jersey."

  "Really?" Carly cut her eyes at him, suspicious.

  "Yeah, really. I guess it's hard to find a place up there in New Jersey where light from the earth doesn't impede the view of so many stars at once."

  "Yeah, it is. I've been other places, of course, but always near a city. Never out in the sticks like this."

  Wes glanced at her. "There are other places where you can see even more stars. It may seem pitch black out here, but there's ambient light from the nearby cities that you can't see. I was in Kaziristan, years ago. Talk about dark nights. You get a feel for just how infinite the sky is in a place like that."

  "What were you doing in Kaziristan?"

  Wes's stomach curled at the memory. "Rescue mission for some Americans trapped there during the civil war. We airlifted them out to safety." The misery he'd seen during his brief days there, prepping for the mission, had never left him. "I wanted to take all of them with us. What the terrorists were doing to the civilians . . ." He took a deep breath, forcing the memories away.

  "You were in the Marines then?"

  He nodded. "I was close to getting out then, although I didn't know it at the time. I thought I was going to re-up when I got back to the States."

  "Then your dad has his stroke," she guessed.

  "Someone had to take care of him."

  She smiled. "And that someone was you, of course."

  "J.B. wouldn't have put up with anyone else." Not that Wes hadn't considered the idea. He'd liked being in the Marines. He'd liked the discipline, the adventure, the exciting uncertainty of what each day would bring.

  But the Marines had kept him away from his father at a time when J.B. had needed him most.

  The doctors had all agreed that J.B. could have avoided the stroke if he'd paid more attention to the warning signs. Nobody ever said it aloud, but Wes had gotten the message loud and clear: if Wes had been home in Bangor, checking up on his old man, J.B. might never have had that stroke. He'd still be walking, still writing with his right hand, still cooking for himself and cleaning for himself and going to church and the V.F.W. lodge and all the places he used to love to go before his body betrayed him.

  Staying in the Marines wasn't an option once J.B. had his stroke. His father needed him.

  So Wes had come home.

  Silence lingered between them for a few moments, oddly comfortable. Then Carly exclaimed, "Ooh, there's a meteor!"

  Wes looked up in time to see another light shoot across the dark sky, quickly followed by another
.

  "How cool!" Carly's voice grew breathless.

  Above them, the night sky filled with dozens of meteors, painting bright streaks across the blackness. He'd seen other meteor showers over the years, most of the time with his father, who'd been the one who'd sparked his interest in the solar system and the science behind it. His father, the accountant who'd wanted more for his boy than a job at a sawmill or behind the desk at some Mom and Pop shop on Main Street in Bangor.

  He'd tried to get J.B. to come with him tonight, to share the meteor shower like they had in the old days, stretched out in the back of the pickup truck, just the two of them. But J.B. had refused to go with him. As usual these days. He had a way of avoiding situations and people who reminded him of the life the stroke had stolen from him.

  Even his son.

  It had been J.B.'s idea to invite Carly instead. "See if that mouthy gal will go with you."

  And once the idea was in Wes's head, it had seemed the perfect way to approach the subject of her past.

  "Look at that one!" Carly pointed at a particularly large and bright meteor racing across the sky.

  "We should see a few more like that one before it's over."

  "How long will it last?"

  "Another hour, maybe." Wes made himself relax back against the pickup's cab.

  "How'd you know about the meteor shower?" Carly asked.

  "We do have television here in nowheresville, you know," he murmured.

  "Bonnie and Floyd don't watch a lot of TV."

  "Yeah, they're more the sit on the porch and talk types."

  "Very Mayberry." Carly nodded. "That's what Steve called Bangor, you know. When he was telling me about it. He said it was Georgia's own little Mayberry." She looked up at him, her nose wrinkling with a smile. "I guess that makes you Sheriff Andy Taylor."

  He answer her smile with a wry grin of his own. "At least you didn't say Barney Fife."

  "Steve was really feeling homesick." Carly's smile faded. "I told your aunt and uncle the truth. I think he was going to come back home. I think he would have done it if it weren't for the bus crash."

  Sadness washed over Wes, catching him by surprise. He thought he'd made his peace with Steve's death at the funeral. "I don't know why he thought he had to leave. He could have found a job in Savannah like the one he had in Richmond."

  "Maybe he didn't think people around here would accept him, you know. Being gay. Maybe it was easier up in Virginia where everyone and his brother didn't know him."

  Wes shrugged. "Maybe. It's not like we don't have gay people around here, though. I suppose they don't flaunt it much, but most everybody knows about them. Folks around here mostly figure live and let live."

  "Maybe he was afraid of Bonnie and Floyd finding out."

  "I think they probably knew."

  "I don't know." Carly shook her head. "They sure jumped on the idea that I was Steve's girlfriend."

  "Well, sure, they would have wanted to think he was straight. It sure would have made life a lot easier for him, even these days. But he was their son, and they loved him no matter what. They'd have adjusted."

  "How about you? How did you react when you found out?"

  "I had mixed feelings at first." He'd never really gotten comfortable with the idea. He'd certainly discouraged Steve from going into too much detail about his love life in the letters they'd exchanged. But it hadn't made him love his cousin any less. "But I adjusted, too. I mean, I'm not going to dress up in spike heels and march in Savannah's Gay Pride parade any time soon. But I'm pretty much a live and let live sort of guy myself. I just wanted him to find someone to make him happy, whoever that was. But he never could seem to find that person, no matter how hard he tried."

  Wes knew the feeling. It was easy enough to find a woman who could kick his sex drive into higher gear. But none of those women ever turned out to be the one person he could see himself loving for the rest of his life.

  Look at his reaction to Carly. Right now, his whole body was practically on fire for her. But her secrets, half-truths and outright lies made her the last woman in the world who could ever make him happy. How could he love a woman who hadn't even told him her real name?

  Then again, loving and wanting were sometimes very different things.

  Carly put her hand on Wes's arm. Hot sparks skittered along his nerve endings and shot straight to his belly, fanning the blaze. He turned to look at her, more aware than ever how close she was sitting. Even in the faint light of the moon, he could see the tiny shadow of her cleft chin, the slight curve of the dimple in her cheek. She was so close he could feel her breath against his throat, warm and sweet like a summer breeze laced with honeysuckle blooms.

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth, as if contemplating the very same thing he was thinking about—kisses, long and lazy, heated and moist. She would taste like chocolate and sweet tea and something dark and deep that belonged to her alone.

  She shifted, moving even closer. Leaning in, lingering within inches, as if poised for him to make the final move that would bring them into contact.

  He opened his mouth, and words spilled out, words he hadn't planned to say yet but would provide the best protection against the runaway feelings bolting through him.

  "What's your real name?"

  WES'S WORDS RATTLED CARLY'S spine, snapping the exquisite tension that held her in its taut embrace. She drew back, gazing up into his narrowed eyes. Dark and deep, they glittered with reflected starlight.

  "Where did that come from?" she asked.

  "I talked to Floyd this afternoon. He said you finally gave him your Social Security information so he could fill out a W-2 form."

  She swallowed hard, trying not to panic. Floyd had assured her that whatever she told him would be just between them.

  "I asked for more information," Wes added when she didn't say anything else.

  "Legally, he's not supposed to give it to you," she said, her voice low and tight with growing panic.

  "He didn't. Which is why I'm asking you."

  Carly laid the uneaten part of her dessert on the blanket next to her. She crossed her arms, shutting him out.

  "He did answer one question," Wes added. "He admitted that Carly Devlin isn't your real name."

  "Carly's a nickname," she said. Short for Carlotta. Not that anyone she knew called her Carly. She'd been Lottie since she was a baby. She'd tried to change her nickname to Carly in high school, thinking it sounded more intriguing and sexy, but it had never caught on.

  That was one of the perks of leaving Atlantic City and starting a new life as somebody else. She could be Carly if she wanted to be.

  "But Devlin's not your surname," Wes said.

  "It's my mother's maiden name." As soon as she said it, she regretted it. Wes Hollingsworth might like to play the part of the hick sheriff, but he wasn't stupid. He'd file that bit of information away, another piece of the puzzle that would eventually tell him exactly who she was if she stayed around here much longer.

  She really needed to get a whole lot better at this cloak and dagger game if she planned to stay alive.

  "Are you running from the law?"

  She slanted her eyes at him. He was good. Managed to make the question sound sympathetic instead of confrontational. Really, he could give Agent Phillips a few lessons. "Would you believe me if I said no?"

  His expression said no. She sighed.

  After a moment's silence, he asked, "Is whatever you're running from going to hurt my aunt and uncle or anybody else in this town?"

  It was a question she'd been asking herself since she arrived in Bangor. Was she putting the Stricklands in danger just by being there? She wasn't sure. Leaving her purse and I.D. behind should have put both the FBI and Dominick Manning off her trail. But how long would they be satisfied if her body never showed up?

  Already Floyd knew her real identity. He'd probably tell Bonnie, since she was part owner of the store. Carly had set things up with Floyd so that he wrote her
checks instead of Sherry, who handled payroll for everybody else, but she didn't trust Sherry not to snoop around just out of nosiness. She was definitely the type.

  How much longer could she safely stay in Bangor, really?

  "I'm not here to stay," she said finally. "And I promise, I would never do anything to hurt Floyd or Bonnie. I'd leave town before I let that happen."

  Her answer didn't seem to ease the anxiety she saw in his eyes. "I'm going to do everything I can to find out the truth about you, Carly. You realize that, don't you?"

  She nodded slowly, her stomach coiling into a hot knot. She should have left town that first night, while she had the chance. Now, that chance had passed her by. She owed things to the Stricklands. Money to Shannon for the clothes she was making. Obligations tied her to Bangor, to these people.

  She felt an invisible noose tightening around her neck. "I should go. Tonight."

  "Where would you go?"

  She pressed her fingers against the hollow of her throat, as if she could loosen the bands of tension starting to strangle her. "There's always another place, isn't there? New town, new faces. I told you, I don't usually have trouble finding a job."

  "I could help you."

  She looked up at him, taken aback. "You could help me find a job somewhere else?"

  "I could help you with whatever you're running from. Whoever you're running from." He looked surprised, as if he hadn't meant to make the offer.

  Whether he had or he hadn't, the kindness in his voice was enough to bring her to the brink of tears.

  She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply, in and out, filling her lungs with the fragrant night air. Slowly, the constriction in her throat eased, the sting behind her eyes faded and her heart settled to a light thud in her breast.

  She could handle her obligations. Fulfill another week or two at the store, shell a few more bowls of peas and mop the kitchen floor for Bonnie a few more times. Another week or two and she'd have earned enough to pay Shannon Burgess for the new clothes. Maybe even enough to hit a local yard sale or two for a few more pieces to round out her wardrobe.

  She could stick it out a couple more weeks.

  Couldn't she?