CHAPTER TEN
November, present day
Rhett shouldn’t have come to Moonlight. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking when he drove onto that ramp and headed south, but he certainly hadn’t counted on Summer Valentine pushing his buttons, his agent freaking out because he’d couriered papers to the Catskills and now couldn’t locate them, or the fact he’d be driving his grandfather to his doctor’s appointment. But it was too late now. He was locked in.
“You carry the stool sample,” Grampy Pete said, handing him an envelope before thumping out to Rhett’s rental.
Rhett shifted the envelope so he held it pinched between his finger and thumb. “You’re joking, right?”
“Naw, that’s got poop in it. They gotta check my prostate or colon-rectal or something.”
“Uh, I think you’re supposed to mail this somewhere, Grampy.” Rhett didn’t want to stand there holding his grandfather’s poop, and he really didn’t want to drive the old coot to the doctor, but since he had nothing better to do, he couldn’t actually say no. Grampy said Summer usually drove him, but she had to go help her sister at her shop.
“Dr. Meyer will mail it. Stop standin’ around. I gotta be there by ten o’clock.”
“It’s only a little after eight,” Rhett said, unlocking the car, reluctantly climbing in, and setting the envelope on the back seat. “What are we going to do for an hour and a half?”
“All you California types are always in a goll-dang hurry. You’re on Carolina time, boy. We’re going to have some coffee. Etta Washington makes the best.”
Rhett made a face. He wasn’t prepared to go into town. The whole point of coming home to the Nest was to lay up and lick his wounds, figure out what was wrong in his head, and maybe take a few naps. He didn’t want to have people in town staring at him, asking for his autograph. He didn’t want to have to play Rhett Bryan, lovable charmer. “You don’t have to have a blood test or anything? You have to fast for those, you know.”
“Nope,” Grampy said, lowering himself into the passenger’s seat and fumbling for the belt. “Just getting the usual.”
Rhett had no idea what the usual was, but he supposed he was about to find out.
Ten minutes later, Rhett pulled into the downtown parking area. Gulls crisscrossed through stately oaks, looking for tourist leftovers. In the marina, boats bobbed, much too happy for an early Wednesday morning. The taste of the sea greeted Rhett when he stepped from his car and shoved his credit card into the parking meter.
“You could have parked on Third Street for free. Dr. Meyer’s office is not a block away. Spending good money on a parking spot when there’s plenty of free ones.”
“I wanted to park by the water. Haven’t been here in a while,” Rhett said, moving his gaze over the waterfront park. Big front porch–style swings nestled into the lush azaleas that skirted the brick walkway, offering southern hospitality to those who needed to sit a spell and watch the bay for the sight of dolphins. Hardwood trees draped gracefully against the dark-green of the oaks, festooning the gardens with cheerful autumn color. He’d forgotten how pretty and quaint Moonlight was.
“Well, look your fill. I need coffee. And cake,” Grampy said, slamming the door. “Make sure you lock it up. Got my stool sample in there.”
“We wouldn’t want that to walk away, would we?” Rhett drawled, following his grumpy grandfather up the steps toward Front Street, where one could buy antiques, fishing gear, and a great egg salad sandwich at Whetstone’s Deli. A few people moved about, exiting the Knit and Needle shop or entering Bailey’s Barbershop with its traditional barber’s pole spinning red and blue on the corner. Sweet Cheeks Bakery seemed to be Grampy’s destination, so Rhett fell into step and cast occasional furtive glances around the area, hoping like hell no one had leaked his whereabouts.
But he knew that was wishful thinking. Social media pretty much rendered the ability to hide out null and void. If he had to take a guess, he’d bet five or six Moonlight residents had already posted on Facebook that he was in town. Probably ready with cameras. Maybe he was being suspicious . . . or maybe the paranoia was a result of so little sleep.
Last night Rhett had woken in a cold sweat, the screams of someone he couldn’t save ringing in his ears. Every night, he lay awake, praying for a good night’s rest. He watched reruns of shows like The Andy Griffith Show or silly sitcoms like The Simpsons, hoping to escape into dreamless sleep. But peace eluded him, and once his body succumbed to exhausted slumber, he found himself imprisoned in a personal hell. Total catch-22.
“Here we are,” Grampy said, jabbing a bent finger at the bakery on the corner. Sweet Cheeks had a blue-and-white striped awning and curlicue script advertising treats for everyone.
Rhett thought about LA and the pursuit of health and things like tofu and sprouts. Maybe it should say, “Treats for everyone . . . except crazy, narcissistic health nuts.” The thought made him smile . . . mostly ’cause he fit that bill. Even the narcissism. Because being trim, young, and flawless was expected of him.
“Why you smiling?” Grampy said, side-eyeing him suspiciously.
“Because I’m happy,” he lied.
What a load of crap, but if anyone could sell it, it was Rhett Bryan. Welcome to Late Night in LA, motherfuckers. Smile at camera three. Say, “We’ve got a great show for you.” Commercial break.
Grampy frowned. “Right. Sure. You coulda fooled me when you woke up hollering last night.”
Rhett pulled open the door so he didn’t have to respond.
“Looka, here comes my Pete bringing a handsome boy with him,” a large lady called out from behind the counter. She wore a traditional Gullah headdress, had a smile as wide as her bosoms, and huge hoop earrings that brushed her shoulders. Her dark skin looked luminous and smooth. She could have been thirty or seventy.
“Morning, Etta. Brought my grandson.”
“Well, I’ll be. Mr. Rhett Bryan himself coming up in my place. I’m gonna see an uptick in sales now. I’m set.”
Rhett gave his trademark smile. “Hi, nice to meet you . . .”
“Etta,” she said, grabbing a ceramic mug, filling it with coffee, and handing it to his grandfather. “You want coffee, too, Mr. Rhett Bryan?”
“Um, just Rhett. And please.”
“You ain’t sold out of those carrot muffins, are you?” Grampy Pete asked, eyeing the display with the fluffy iced cupcakes, layered napoleons, and large, saucer-size cookies.
“Sure am, but I saved you one, you old goat,” Etta said, fetching a plate.
There were a few others in the bakery, sitting at the cute café tables. Local art adorned the walls, and fresh flowers sat on each table. The overall effect was cute and comfy. Small town at its best.
Grampy shuffled over to a table, and Etta set the coffee and huge muffin down in front of him. Seconds later she brought Rhett’s coffee and lifted an eyebrow. “What you want to eat, Mr. Rhett Bryan?”
“Just coffee is fine.”
“You skinny as a scarecrow. Have a muffin, darlin’.” Etta bustled back to the display case. Rhett figured he was getting a muffin whether he wanted it or not, so he sank down next to his grandfather and tried to pretend the soccer moms in the corner weren’t totally absorbed by him sitting at the table in the middle of Moonlight. He should smile, play the part. But he wouldn’t, because he was tired of playing parts. At least at present.
Etta plopped down a blueberry muffin in front of Rhett and then took a seat with them. “You get your stool sample, Pete?”
“Yep. Thanks for sending me home with some of that high-fiber bread. Took a day but got my sample out in the car.”
“I knew that would work. You gotta take care of yourself. Summer said your cholesterol was too high. Now, you know you gotta eat better than what you’re doing. One carrot muffin a week. That’s it. I’m going to have to cut you off, Pete.”
“The hell you are. It wasn’t that high. Summer’s always exaggerating. When you going dancing with me? I wanna take a good-looking woman out one more time before I die. Plus, I need the exercise. It’s your civic duty.”
“Oh, pshaw, you old rascal. You too old for me.”
“I still got fire in my blood, woman,” Grampy said, taking a big bite of the muffin, washing it down with black coffee.
Rhett sat there, marveling at his grandfather discussing his bathroom business with Etta and then flirting with her. It had been a long time since he’d been in South Carolina, that was damned certain.
“What you doing here, Mr. Rhett Bryan? You taking a break from show business?” Etta didn’t look to be nosing into his business. Just general Wednesday-morning conversation.
“Not really. A little vacation. I haven’t been to Moonlight in a while so . . .” He still didn’t have a good reason for why he was here, but he figured it was okay for everyone to draw their own conclusions.
“Make Pete take you fishing. He’s always catching good eating. That’s the thing about those waters—they’ll give you what you need. Now, me, I like oysters.” Etta eyed the women behind them now tapping on their phones.
“You know what those are good for, don’tcha?” Grampy waggled his eyebrows and then stuffed another hunk of muffin in his mouth.
“You ladies want some more coffee? I made a fresh pot right before Pete came in to harass me,” Etta said to the women behind them.
“That ain’t harassing, that’s flirting. Think you could tell the difference,” Grampy said, giving Etta a wink. The women waved Etta off.
“Lord, Pete, you bad at flirting. Take that stuff down to Garden Park Retirement Center and see if any of those old biddies will bite what you’re throwing out. ’Cause I ain’t.” Etta smiled in spite of her words and rose.
Rhett turned his attention to the delicious muffin while Etta poured coffee and nattered on about the upcoming holiday and the treats she could bake for customers’ Thanksgiving tables.
Thanksgiving was next week. He hadn’t really celebrated the holiday in any other way than a random dinner here or there. Once he’d hosted the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and had turkey with the camera crew before heading to some trendy restaurant in Tribeca for good sushi. Would he be in Moonlight for Thanksgiving?
He glanced at his grandfather, who looked more stooped, more gray, more feeble. Maybe staying awhile longer was a good idea. After all, he had several weeks of forced break. Take some time, Bryan. It’s been a hard end of year for you and the show. The network wants to put some time between you and the event. Come back at the beginning of the year better and stronger.
The chimes pealed and he cast a glance at the door.
Summer.
His gut lurched and the coffee in his empty stomach churned. He’d been an ass a few nights before. Justified but still an ass.
“Morning, sugar,” Etta called out, a wide smile splitting her face. “Pete’s here harassing me again.”
“Well, Etta, you know he can’t resist you. Or those delicious muffins,” Summer teased.
“I refuse to hide my candle under a bushel, so I’ll have to deal with old hound dogs sniffing around for what they can get,” Etta said, pulling out another cup. “You want something to eat, sugar?”
“Nope. Just coffee. Black.”
Summer plopped down into the chair Etta had abandoned. “Pete, I want you to talk to Dr. Meyer about switching your blood pressure medicine. What you’re taking now doesn’t seem to be working as well.”
“And good morning to you, too,” Grampy grumped, shoving another hunk of carrot muffin in his mouth. Crumbs scattered the table and Summer casually swooped them off into her hand, deposited them into the trash can, and reseated herself.
She glanced over at Rhett. “Force of habit.”
“Cleaning up after kids?”
“No, cleaning up after Pete.” She smiled and it punched him in the solar plexus. Damn, but Summer was a pretty woman. He’d always thought her pleasant to look at, even when she was baby fat and uncertain. Both of those traits were gone, leaving behind a square jaw, and soft lips that could narrow into disapproval and exacting questions that made him wriggle. Her eyes held both intelligence and compassion. Something about her tugged at him, the way the moon urged the waves on the oceans.
“How’s your toe?” Summer asked, accepting the coffee from Etta.
“Better.”
Grampy lifted a bushy eyebrow. “What’s wrong with your toe, boy?”
“Nothing. Just stubbed it when I went out to my car Sunday night. I scared Summer to death. Again,” he said, relieved she wasn’t holding a grudge. He knew she’d felt bad about nosing into his affairs. And he felt bad for acting so childish and stomping off.
“He’s making it a habit,” Summer said, accepting her coffee and giving a small wave to one of the women behind them. She refocused on him. “They’re taking your picture.”
“Yeah, I know,” Rhett said, pinching off a piece of muffin and popping it into his mouth. Sinfully good and not what he needed, but he ate it anyway. Part of being home was accepting the comforts it offered. “Hope we don’t get too many amateur photographers around looking to make a quick buck from the rags.”
Grampy leveled dark eyes at Rhett. “I seen them vultures on the television. Won’t leave you alone, will they? Got that little girl’s mother being interviewed. Like they’re wallerin’ in her tears. Those reporters love the tears. And now I hear they’re puttin’ on some kind of race to bring awareness to something or other. What do they think you did? Run her over intentionally?”
His grandfather’s words caused him to flinch, something Summer seemed to notice. A hard flash of pain, awareness of what he’d done, of what everyone now thought of him spun around inside him, chewing him up. “It’s a 5K to bring awareness to inattentive driving. It’s not aimed at me. Just a campaign.”
“Bullshit. That kid ran out in front of you. Plain ol’ accident but folks gotta make it into something. Never an accident, right? Always someone’s fault. They dropped the criminal charges, didn’t they? The goll-danged state knew it was an accident. That family’s just trying to get some money from you with this civil suit. Probably had those buzzard lawyers circling before the ambulance got there.”
Every time he heard an ambulance, he wanted to vomit. Just the thought now made him want to get up and leave. Just run like a fucking coward. Grampy didn’t know how horrible that day had been, how the images seared his memory, clotting into something he couldn’t shrug off. The child’s mother haunted his dreams, nightmares tangled in blood, screams, and an inability to move. “Can we not?”
“Not what?” Grampy barked, warming up to the subject at hand. Grampy loved a soapbox and he’d climbed aboard, creaking knees and all. “Not talk about all the people trying to throw you under the bus on this? Why’s the parents trying to blame you for what their kid did?”
“Grampy, please. I don’t want to talk about this. My attorney is handling it. My publicist, too.” Rhett focused on a painting of a chicken hanging over his grandfather’s shoulder. The composition was off. Something about the eye placement. But of course, he was no expert on art or chickens, so maybe the artist had been correct.
Rhett hated what his attorney and publicist were doing to manipulate public opinion in his civil case. On one hand, he knew this was how the game was played, but on the other, he couldn’t stand smearing the family of the child he’d accidently killed. They were claiming that his inaction during the accident proved complicity. They accused him of speeding, not paying attention. The boy who’d retrieved the soccer ball had been deposed and claimed Rhett had been looking at the radio . . . that he hadn’t even tried to stop. In defense, Rhett’s agent had hired a spin doctor publicist to go after the family with private investigator reports, interviews with neighbors, financial investigators—whatever it took to cast the family in a dubious light and prove parental neglect. His team planned to use the court of public opinion to destroy the Tavares family.
“You know, we should order a pie for Thanksgiving while we’re here,” Summer said, thankfully changing the subject and drawing his thoughts away from his troubles.
Summer wore an embroidered tunic shirt and Birkenstocks. She’d used to wear Birkenstocks back when they were in high school, too. This woman was such a mystery to him. Practical, whimsical, chilled, and intense. Maybe she was like every woman he’d been around . . . or none he’d ever met.
“We gotta have a pecan. That’s my favorite. David’s too,” Grampy said, seemingly giving up on haranguing the people suing Rhett. Thank God.
“David is actually why I came in. Saw y’all from down the street. Maisie has a funeral tomorrow morning and Shelia has to teach Bible study tonight, so I told her I would help out at the shop. I need someone to take David to pitching lessons this afternoon. It’s the only other time the pitching coach can fit him in this week. Hunt can bring David home, but he has a meeting in Hilton Head and won’t be back in time to run him to the field. I was hoping you could do that for me, Pete.”
“I can do it,” Rhett said, surprising himself.
Summer raised her eyebrows. “That’s asking too much of you. You’re visiting.”
Ah, the polite way to say thanks, but no thanks.
“It’s no bother. I have nothing to do this afternoon,” he said, giving her his most direct stare. I’m responsible enough to drive your kid to the ballpark.
She met him with a stare of her own. “Thought you were trying to keep a low profile.”
Rhett swept the café with a gaze. “Too late, don’t you think?”
“Probably. But, I don’t want to impose—”
“I don’t have anything to do.” In other words, I need some damned distraction. If I nap, I dream. If I dream, I wake shaking. Let me have something worthwhile to do.
Grampy brushed the last of the carrot muffin from his finger. “He don’t have anything. Already fixed the railing on the deck. Rhett ain’t forgot how to use a hammer. David got lucky. The kid was supposed to help me over his break, but since he’s gonna be a star pitcher . . .”
“Let’s not give him star pitcher title just yet,” Summer warned Grampy. Then she set those enigmatic hazel eyes on Rhett. “Thank you, Rhett. I’m sure David will grill you about the celebrities you know. He particularly likes Lil Wayne, much to my delight.”
Her words were light, but he knew it was hard for her to give up any control, especially to a virtual stranger. “I’ll let Dwayne know he has another fan, but no problem on taking David. I’m happy to do it. He’s a cool kid.”
“Okay, I have to run. Call me when you’re done, Pete,” Summer said, rising.
“I don’t need to give you a report on my prostate or blood sugar. You already make me eat wheat germ in my oatmeal. I don’t even like oatmeal, neither. Having you around is like being married without the good benefits like biscuits and gravy . . . and sex.”
Summer rolled her eyes. “David needs to be at the field by four thirty.”
As Rhett flashed her a thumbs-up, he caught the soccer moms watching Summer depart with sharklike interest. Sexy, single Summer probably didn’t have many fans among the PTA crowd. She likely drew the eye of husbands and boyfriends alike.
“Is Summer dating someone?” he asked.
Grampy knocked a knuckle on the table. “Nope. Don’t even think about it. She’s not like those women you gad about with. Leave her alone.”
“I didn’t say I was—”
“You don’t have to. I see that spark in your eyes.”
“I’m not interested,” he lied, taking an angry bite of muffin. “I just wondered.”
“She’s new to town and too busy to mess around with the bums around here. Summer’s a good girl, and she deserves better than what she’s had.” Grampy’s gosh-darn demeanor was gone. His grandfather could be as congenial as a little wren, but get his dander up, and he went cold-blooded raptor on a guy. A warning had been delivered.
And received.
Rhett should probably pack up his crap and get the hell out of Moonlight. Wasn’t like the place was a magic pill that took away nightmares and restored calm. To even contemplate dragging someone like Summer into his damaged existence was ridiculous. He had no clue why he had the inclination.
“I’m not into Summer, Gramps. Just merely curious. I’m going to hang with her kid today. Just thought I’d get the lay of the land,” Rhett said, wiping the remains of the muffin from his fingers. He rose and took his plate and cup to the counter, smiling at the soccer moms in their lululemon pants and matching jackets. He had a role to play even in his small hometown. “Morning, ladies.”
“Hi,” one said, smiling broadly. “Welcome home, Rhett.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back in Moonlight.”
But was it?
Rhett hadn’t been part of this life for too long, and being here, while it gave him some measure of comfort, felt like squeezing into a shoe he’d found in the back of his closet. Get out. Go to the spa.
“Let’s get going, boy,” Grampy Pete said, scooting his chair back. “Can’t wait to introduce the doc to my boy. I ain’t much on sentimentality, but I’m glad you came home, Rhett. Don’t worry. We all got your back.”
Maybe he should put that phone call to the spa on hold.
Felt nice for someone to have his back . . . and Gramps wasn’t getting any younger.