Part 9 (2/2)

”I'm glad. And how wonderful that he takes you out on Sundays. My father always took his older sister to Sunday brunch every week as long as she was alive. Poor thing, it was the only time she ever got out of the house. He was the only way she heard news of the outside world.”

Caroline felt her jaw drop. Lauren just called her an old maid, she was certain of it. So, was she some sort of modern-day Miss Havisham, locked away in her house wearing a tattered wedding gown and only one shoe, with a rotting wedding cake on the table?

”We attend the same church.” It was all she could say and to her horror, she felt her face turn hot in anger.

”How sweet. There's nothing like being with family in a charming Southern church on a summer morning.” Lauren smiled kindly, as if Caroline was the epitome of sweetness. The blush must have confirmed her innocent nature but her thoughts at the moment were far from sweet. They were downright deadly. She'd never liked Lauren, never felt like she was having a conversation that wasn't riddled with nasty undercurrents. But she was decided now. Lauren wasn't worth the trouble of making friends.

”How is the book coming along?” Frank asked.

”Wonderfully. Weeks ahead on the deadline.” Her face had gone tight and she pulled her elbows in to her sides, as if she meant the exact opposite of what she said.

”Can't wait to see the final product,” Frank said.

”Well, I'll make sure you'll be the first.” Something about her tone made Caroline think of secret codes and pig Latin. She glanced at Frank and saw a flash of laughter in his eyes. For a moment, she was absolutely sure they were having a silent conversation right under her nose. But in the next second, it was gone and she wasn't sure if she had seen anything there at all.

”I'll let you two finish your lunch. I'm sure we'll see each other around Th.o.r.n.y Hollow.” Lauren smiled and walked away, her long ponytail swis.h.i.+ng against her back.

”I can't stand that woman,” Frank muttered, reaching for his c.o.ke.

”Because of the traditional versus independent publis.h.i.+ng? I don't see why you two are on opposite sides, honestly. You're not competing in the same market at all. Coffee table books and Manga? Should be enough room for everybody.”

”I'm sure we could have a civil conversation if she wasn't such a sn.o.b. It's everything about her. She's cold, like she grew up in New York City instead of Mississippi.” He shrugged. ”Let's forget about her. We were having such a good time before she showed up.”

Caroline forced a smile. It was terrible to talk about a person the moment her back was turned. She understood what he meant, but a certain unease spread through her as she watched his face. Frank had the ability to make her laugh, to be spontaneous in a way she never was. But there was another side to him that didn't sit well with her, no matter how hard she tried to excuse his behavior.

He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other.

Chapter Twelve.

Brooks settled himself across at the small wooden table and felt a wave of contentment. This is what it should be like every a Monday afternoon: cla.s.ses over, his little brother in town, and a triple shot steaming before him. The Daily Grind bustled with students and the late afternoon sun streamed through the window, setting into bas relief every nick and dent in the old wood. The quintessential campus coffee bar, it had Wi-Fi, free trade coffee and rickety chairs circa 1980 with naugahyde covered seats.

Manning was at the counter, talking to the tall, skinny kid who took the food orders. The kid shrugged, pointing at the menu. Brooks smiled to himself.

Seconds later he was at the table, plopping into the chair. ”I don't get it. If you can make fries, you can make hush puppies.”

”I think they just dump frozen fries into the fryer. Hate to get in the way of your national campaign to reclaim Southern food in public places, but hush puppies require a bit of preparation.”

Manning leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. ”It's not like I'm asking them to outlaw junk food, or to call them Freedom Fries. I just want an even representation of our culture.”

”Starting with fried food?”

”We have to choose our battles.” Manning grinned and jerked a thumb at the counter. ”He said his name is Tater. I can't be mad at a kid named Tater.”

”Agreed. Poor guy, he got the short end of the naming stick, for sure.”

Manning frowned. ”Really? I think it's way better than Joe or Thomas or...”

”Or Manning?”

”Well, no, because that's a family name. But I don't think it's so bad.”

”Are we gonna have a Tater Elliot in the family sometime soon?”

Manning didn't laugh. He sat forward, wrapping his hands around his mug.

”Hey, don't take it so seriously. I was just yanking your chain.” Brooks gave him a light punch to the shoulder, the brotherly equivalent of a hug.

”I'm glad you were free this afternoon.” Manning looked up, eyes serious.

He'd always find time for his brother, no matter the day or time. Something in Manning's expression set off alarm bells. ”It's been a long time since we've just sat down and had some coffee.” It wasn't supposed to be an accusation but it came out abruptly.

Manning glanced up, nodding. ”I know, and I'm sorry for that.”

”I didn't mean-”

”It's okay. I let things go.” Manning stared at his hands, as if searching for words. ”We've had a tough year and it seemed easier to batten down the hatches than to come out looking for help.”

Brooks waited, surprised. He and Debbie Mae had seemed so happy. Maybe their marriage wasn't going as well as everyone thought.

”We wanted to have kids right away but it's not looking like that will happen.” His face was tight with grief.

Brooks took a moment to process his words. ”Have you been to any specialists? Infertility is so common, you should be able to find a doctor to help.”

”No, we're fertile.” His mouth quirked. ”I bet you didn't think you were going to discuss your brother's fertility over coffee, did you?”

Brooks waved a hand. He wasn't squeamish and he wasn't a jock. Modern men could have a discussion about conception without batting an eye.

”I don't understand. If you're fertile, then-” His words broke off as he realized the other alternative. Able to conceive but not carry to birth.

He nodded, eyes cast down again. ”We've been through the wringer three times now and Debbie Mae is ready to take a break. She says she just can't handle the heartbreak anymore.”

Brooks wanted to say there would be time, they could try again later, that maybe the fourth time was the charm, but he knew better than to speak up. The last year had been emotionally savage and Manning didn't need plat.i.tudes.

His brother took a drink of coffee and let out a long breath. New wrinkles between his brows, hair a little grayer at the temples. Brooks hadn't noticed these changes. Of course, he hadn't seen him much the last year or so.

”Tell me what I can do to help,” Brooks said.

He smiled but his eyes remained shadowed with sadness. ”This, what you're doing right now. Not giving me the 'what for' because I've been in a cave since this all started. And you can let me borrow your regimental jacket when we go out to Vicksburg.”

”Ha! This has all been a ploy for sympathy. I sewed that jacket myself. I left it out in the weather for six months straight until it was perfectly aged. Besides, it won't fit you. I'm bigger through the shoulders.”

”It'll look authentic. Tubbs said he's lost another fifteen pounds and he'll look nicely malnourished.” Manning patted his gut with both hands. ”Debbie Mae cooks too well for me to pull off the starving Rebel but in that jacket it will hang real nice. I'll look just like a well-fed man gone off to war who's shrinking away to nothing.”

Brooks laughed but the smile faded from his face. He knew Manning was just trying to lighten the mood. ”If I thought that a jacket from 10th Mississippi Regiment, Company H, Rankin Rifles would help, I'd hand it over in a heartbeat.”

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