“If I had a daughter like you, I would be ashamed to own her!” said Mr. Goldhanger, with real feeling.
GEORGETTE HEYER, The Grand Sophy
Old bitterness curdled in Sugar Beth’s stomach. Intelligent men kept their legitimate children separated from their illegitimate ones, but not Griffin Carey. He’d plunked them both in the same town barely three miles apart and, in his utter selfishness, refused to acknowledge how difficult it would be for Sugar Beth and Winnie to go to school together.
He’d gotten two women pregnant within a year—first Diddie, then Sabrina Davis. Diddie kept her head high, expecting him to outgrow his infatuation with a woman she regarded as a mealymouthed nobody. When he hadn’t, she’d chosen to be philosophical. A great woman learns to rise above, Sugar Beth. Let him have his piece of trash. I have Frenchman’s Bride.
Whenever Sugar Beth raged over being forced to go to school with Winnie, Diddie turned uncharacteristically harsh. Nothing’s worse than other people’s pity. You keep your back straight and remember that someday everything he owns will be yours.
But Diddie had been wrong. In the end, he’d changed his will and left everything to Sabrina and Winnie Davis.
The stylish woman standing before her bore little resemblance to the introverted outcast who used to trip over her feet if anyone spoke to her. The old sense of powerlessness crept through Sugar Beth. As a child, she hadn’t been able to control the behavior of any of the adults in her life, so she’d exerted her power in the only way she knew how—over her father’s illegitimate daughter.
Winnie stood motionless near an old pie chest. “What are you doing here?”
She could never say she’d come looking for a job. “I—I saw the shop. I didn’t know it was yours.”
Winnie regained her composure more quickly. “Are you interested in anything special?”
Where had her poise come from? The Winnie Davis Sugar Beth remembered had turned red when anyone spoke to her.
“N-no. I’m just looking.” Sugar Beth heard the stammer in her voice and knew by the flicker of satisfaction in Winnie’s eyes that she’d heard it, too.
“I just got a new shipment in from Atlanta. There are some wonderful old perfume bottles.” She curled her fingers over the strand of perfectly matched pearls at her neck. Sugar Beth stared at the pearls. They looked so—
“I love perfume bottles, don’t you?”
All the blood rushed from her head. Winnie was wearing Diddie’s pearls . . .
“Whenever I see an old perfume bottle, I always wonder about the woman who owned it.” Her fingers caressed the necklace, the gesture deliberate. Cruel.
Sugar Beth couldn’t do this. She couldn’t stand here and look at Diddie’s pearls around Winnie Davis’s neck.
She turned toward the door, but she moved too quickly and bumped against one of the tables the same way Winnie used to bump against desks at school. A brass candlestick wobbled, then fell and rolled to the edge. She didn’t stop to pick it up.
Dinner’s gonna be nasty tonight, and not just because we’re having steak, which I ree-fuse to eat due to global warming, et cetera, but because of Her. Why can’t she be more like Chelsea’s mom instead of having such a stick up her butt all the time? I’m not anything like her, no matter what Nana Sabrina says. And I’m not a rich bitch, either.
I hate Kelli Willman.
“Gigi, dinner’s ready.”
As her mother called from the bottom of the stairs, Gigi reluctantly closed the spiral notebook that held the secret diary she’d been keeping since last year in seventh grade. She pushed it under her pillow and swung her legs in their baggy corduroys over the side of her bed. She hated her bedroom, which was decorated in this gay Laura Ashley crap her mother luvvved. Gigi wanted to paint the room either black or purple and trade in all the prehistoric antique furniture for some of the awesome stuff she’d seen at Pier One. Since Win-i-fred wouldn’t let her do that, Gigi’d stuck up rock posters everywhere, the nastier the better.
Setting the table was her job, but when she got to the kitchen, she saw that her mother had already done it. “Did you wash your hands?”
“No, madre, I dragged them through the dirt on my way downstairs.”
Her mother’s lips got tight. “Toss the salad, will you?”
Chelsea’s mom wore low-riders, but Gigi’s mom still had on the boring gray slacks and sweater she’d worn to work. She wanted Gigi to keep on dressing like last year in seventh grade, in all kinds of crap from the Bloomingdale’s catalogue. Her mother didn’t understand what it was like to have everybody call you Miss Rich Bitch behind your back. But Gigi had fixed that. Starting last September she wouldn’t wear anything that didn’t come from the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. It drove Win-i-fred nuts. Gigi’d also stopped acting like such a geek at school. And she’d found cool new friends like Chelsea.
“Mrs. Kimble called about your history test. You got a C.”
“C’s okay. I’m not as smart as you used to be.”
Her mom sighed because she knew it wasn’t true, and for a minute, she looked so sad Gigi wanted to tell her she was sorry for being such a brat, and that she’d start working up to her potential again, but she couldn’t say it. Her mom didn’t understand anything.
Gigi hated being thirteen.
Win-i-fred set the last salad plate on the table. They were using the tea leaf ironstone china tonight, probably because her dad was home for dinner for a change. Their oak pedestal table wasn’t nearly as cool as this awesome French farm table Win-i-fred had sold right out from under them, even though Gigi’d loved it and they didn’t need the money. Gigi wished she’d close the store, or at least hire more people to help out so they could eat something decent for dinner once in a while instead of frozen crap. Her mom said if it bothered Gigi so much, she should cook a few meals herself, completely missing the point.
The teak bowl held one of those salads-in-a-bag with nothing except lettuce and some dried-up carrot turds. In the old days, even with all her board meetings, her mom used to make salads with good stuff like fresh tomatoes and Swiss cheese and orzo, which looked like fat grains of rice but was really pasta. She’d even fix croutons from scratch, with lots of garlic, which Gigi adored, even if it made her breath stink.
“I want orzo in it,” Gigi complained.
“I didn’t have time.” Her mom went to the back door and stuck her head out. “Ryan, are the steaks done?”
“On the way.”
Her dad grilled on the patio all year-round. He didn’t like grilling too much, but her mom said meat tasted better that way, and he felt guilty because half the time he didn’t make it home for dinner. He was chief operating officer of CWF, which was a big responsibility. Her Nana Sabrina owned the window factory, but the board of directors ran it, and her dad had worked his way to the top like everybody else, except Gigi heard her mom tell Nana that he worked harder than ten people because he still felt like he had to prove himself. Nana lived in this really cool mansion on Scenic Drive in Pass Christian, down on the Gulf, which her dad said was almost far enough away.
Their finances were complicated. Some stuff like the window factory was Nana’s, but Frenchman’s Bride used to be her mom’s. Her mom wouldn’t live there, though, and it was closed up till Colin bought it. Gigi loved Colin, even when he got all sarcastic because she hadn’t read crap like War and Peace. Two years ago he’d volunteered to coach the high school boys’ soccer team, and last year they’d gone all the way to State.
Gigi dropped the salad bowl on the table. “I’m not eating steak. I told you that.”
“Gigi, I’ve had a long day. Don’t be difficult.”
“Here we go.” Her dad came through the door carrying the steaks on one of the tea leaf ironstone platters, which, even if Gigi liked tea leaf ironstone, which she didn’t, she wouldn’t have let herself get attached to because her mom would sell it right out from under them, too. Her mom was a history nut, which was why she liked the antique store so much.
Her dad winked at her as he set the platter on the brass trivet. He was thirty-three and Win-i-fred was thirty-two. Most of her friends’ parents were a lot older, but Gigi’d been born while her parents were in college. Premature, like, ha-ha, anybody would believe that.
The smell of the steak made her mouth water, so she forced herself to think about all the cow burps that were screwing up the ozone layer and causing global warming. Two weeks ago when she’d decided to become a vegetarian, she’d tried to explain it at lunch, but Chels told her to stop talking like a geek. But that weird Gwen Lu had overheard and wanted to strike up this big intellectual conversation about it. As if Gigi’s reputation could stand being seen talking to Gwen Lu.
“Wine tonight or not?” her dad asked.
“Definitely.” Her mom took some disgusting frozen french fries from the oven and dumped them in a bowl.
Her dad pulled a bottle from the wine rack.
In seventh grade, when Gigi had still been friends with Kelli and everybody, Kelli had said Gigi’s dad looked like Brad Pitt, which was a total lie. For one thing, Brad Pitt was short and old, and his eyes were squished too close together. Also, could anybody honestly imagine her dad going around with his hair messed up all the time and looking like he never shaved? It grossed her out when some of the girls said they thought her dad was hot.
Gigi mainly looked like him, her mouth and the shape of her face. But her hair was dark brown instead of blond, and she didn’t have his goldy-colored eyes. Hers were like her mom’s, light blue and sort of creepy. She wished they were goldy brown like his. No matter what Nana Sabrina said, Gigi was a lot more like her dad than her mom.
She wished he didn’t work so much. Then her mom might not have opened the store. They sure didn’t need the money. Her mom said with Gigi in school and Ryan working such long hours, there wasn’t enough for her to do, even with all her committees. In Gigi’s opinion, she could stay home and make some decent salads.
He carried the wineglasses to the table, and they all sat down. Her mom said grace, then her dad passed the steak platter. “So, Gi, how’s it goin’ at school?”
“Boring.”
Her parents exchanged a look that made Gigi wish she’d kept her big fat mouth shut. They thought one of the reasons her grades were going down was because she wasn’t getting enough intellectual stimulation from her classes, which was true, but that didn’t have anything to do with her grades. Lately she’d started to get scared they might send her away to some boarding school for the gifted like Colby Sneed’s parents had done, and Colby hadn’t been half as smart as her.
“Mainly because of the kids, though,” she said quickly. “Classes this week were very stimulating, and my teachers are excellent.”
Her mom lifted an eyebrow, and her father shook his head. One thing about her parents . . . they weren’t stupid.
He salted his french fries. “Funny that with all that stimulation, you couldn’t do better than a C on your history test.”
Gigi knew she was walking a delicate line. Being the class brain—except for that dorky Gwen Lu—and being the richest girl in town, too, had made everybody hate her, but if she let her grades drop too far, she might find herself in boarding school, and then she’d have to kill herself. “I had a stomachache. I’m sure I’ll do better next time.”
He got that worried look in his eyes she’d been seeing a lot lately. “Why don’t you come to the factory with me on Saturday morning? I won’t be there long, and you can mess around with the computers.”
She rolled her eyes. When she was a kid, she’d loved to go to work with him, but now she thought it was boring. “No, thank you. Me and Chelsea are going over to Shannon’s house.”
“Chelsea and I,” her mother said.
“Are you going to Shannon’s, too?”
“That’s enough, Gi,” her father snapped. “Stop being a smart-ass.”
She scowled, but she didn’t have the nerve to talk back to him like she did her mom because it made him crazy, and she’d only just gotten her telephone privileges back.
Her mom didn’t say much for the rest of the dinner, which was unusual, because usually when her dad showed up to eat, she tried extra hard to be entertaining, being all chirpy and offering stimulating topics of conversation and everything. Tonight, though, she didn’t even seem to be paying attention, and Gigi wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that She Who Must Not Be Named had come back to town.
It made her mad that they still hadn’t said anything. Gigi’d had to hear the news from Chelsea, who heard it from her mom. Gigi’s parents acted like she was still a child, but everybody knew that Nana Sabrina hadn’t married Mom’s dad, Griffin Carey, until Mom was a senior in high school, and he’d had this other family, and, like, who cared? Although Gigi had to admit she was very, very curious.
The phone rang, and she made a dash for it because she knew it’d be Chelsea. “Can I be excused?”
She waited for her mom to say no like she always did, but she didn’t, so Gigi grabbed the phone and raced upstairs. Everything was too weird tonight.
Winnie watched Gigi disappear and wondered what had happened to the little girl who used to love just being with her. This time last year, Gigi had rushed in from school, so eager to share the news of the day that she’d stuttered over her words.
Ryan gazed toward the door. “I wish you didn’t let her hang around with Chelsea so much. That kid looks like an ad for kiddie porn.”
Winnie balled her fist in her lap, but she kept her voice calm. “Exactly how do you expect me to stop her?”
He sighed. “Sorry. Frustration. I keep thinkin’ she’s going to snap out of it, and we’ll have our daughter back.”
She and Ryan hardly ever spoke harshly to each other. They disagreed, but in more than thirteen years of marriage, they’d never done more than exchange a few chilly silences. She didn’t know how couples like Merylinn and Deke could stand it. During one of their fights, Deke had punched a hole in the garage wall, and they’d actually told people about it.
“I couldn’t punch her,” Deke had said, and Merylinn had laughed.
Winnie didn’t think she could tolerate that kind of strain.
Ryan leaned back in his chair. “She looks like a street kid in those clothes.”
Something else that was her fault. Today Gigi’d worn that awful shirt she’d insisted on getting at the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. Winnie should have known Gigi’s pricey wardrobe would eventually make her a target and backed off, but she’d wanted her daughter to feel good about herself, and she’d waited too long.
Winnie tossed her napkin on the table. “You’ll have to talk to her about it this time. She hates me enough as it is.”
How had it come to this? Winnie wondered. She’d been so determined to be the kind of mother to Gigi that she’d wanted so badly for herself when she was growing up. Sabrina had done her best, Winnie supposed, but her mother’s economic survival had depended on Griffin Carey’s goodwill, and Sabrina had devoted all her energy to his comfort, leaving nothing for an emotionally needy daughter. Sabrina had hated Diddie Carey with a passion, and knowing that Diddie had given birth to the dazzling Sugar Beth, while Sabrina had born such an unimpressive child, galled her. Even the fact that Griffin doted on Winnie hadn’t eased her anxiety. Sabrina understood her lover’s fundamentally ruthless nature and kept waiting for him to transfer his affections to his legitimate daughter. But he never had, and Winnie missed him to this day.
“Gigi doesn’t hate you,” Ryan said. “She’s just being a teenager.”
“It’s more than that. I’d like to smack those girls for turning against her last summer. It was simple jealousy.”
“Gigi played into their hands. She’ll work through it.”
Despite his words, Winnie knew he was as worried as she. She rose and began carrying the dishes to the sink. “I only have ice cream for dessert.”
“Maybe later.” Ryan wasn’t particular about food. Half the time he didn’t remember to eat, which was why he stayed so lean, while she had to watch every bite.
She needed to tell him about Sugar Beth coming into the shop. Otherwise, she’d be giving it too much importance. But as she tried to frame the words, the wineglass she’d been rinsing slipped in her fingers and broke in the sink.
“You okay?” He rose and came toward her. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her, but he studied the mess instead.
“I’m fine. Why don’t you make coffee while I clean this up?”
As she tossed the bigger pieces of glass in the trash, she wondered why she didn’t feel more satisfaction about today. The years had taken their toll on Sugar Beth, and for the first time in their lives, Winnie had come out ahead.
She’d begun to bloom her senior year in high school after Sugar Beth and Ryan had left for college. She’d stopped overeating and found the courage to have her hair cut. Inside, she might have been the same awkward teenager, but outside she began to move with a new assurance that only grew more pronounced after Griffin and Sabrina’s marriage. Suddenly, she was the rich girl who lived at Frenchman’s Bride.
Winnie’s fingers crept to the pearls on her throat. The stricken expression on Sugar Beth’s face had been the culmination of every revenge fantasy she’d ever entertained. She should have enjoyed it more.
The past wove its way through the sound of the furnace clicking on and the smell of the coffee beans Ryan was grinding. She was sixteen again, taking a shortcut through the gym when she’d tripped and her algebra notebook had fallen open at Sugar Beth’s feet.
“Give it back!” Winnie’s voice, high and shrill, had bounced off the gym rafters. But Sugar Beth had only stepped higher on the bleachers, the algebra notebook open in her hands. Tall and willowy, blond and beautiful, Sugar Beth had been evil all the way to the bottom of her heart.
“Listen up, y’all. Winnie’s been doin’ a lot more than solving problems in advanced algebra.”
The Seawillows abandoned their chatter. Winnie’s heart was pounding so fast she was afraid it would burst. “Sugar Beth, I’m warning you . . .”
But Sugar Beth just smiled and took another step up into the bleachers. Winnie started after her, but her sneaker caught on the seat. She winced as she stumbled. “Give it to me.”
Sugar Beth smirked. “I don’t know why you’re getting so uptight. It’s just girls.”
Amy touched the gold cross at her neck. “Maybe you shouldn’t read it if Winnie doesn’t want you to.”
Sugar Beth ignored her. “Y’all aren’t going to believe this.”
Winnie blinked furiously against her tears. Just once she’d like to be able to defend herself, but Sugar Beth was too powerful. “That’s private. Give it back right now.”
“Oh, don’t be so immature.” The gold hoops at Sugar Beth’s ears flashed as she flipped her perfect mane of hair. Then she began to read. “He looked at my naked nipples.”
The girls laughed, even Amy, although she touched her cross again. Sweat soaked through the underarms of Winnie’s blouse. She’d started writing her fantasies a few months earlier in a special notebook that she kept hidden in the back of her closet, but today in study hall she’d gotten careless. “Stop it, Sugar Beth.”
“No, don’t stop!” Leeann blasted her bangs with the Aqua Net she kept in her purse, but her eyes stayed glued to Sugar Beth.
Sugar Beth propped one of her metallic flats on the bleacher in front of her. “Next, he slipped his broad, strong hand into my tiny lace panties.” The way Sugar Beth emphasized the word tiny served as a not so subtle reminder that Winnie’s panties weren’t all that small. “I moved my legs farther apart.”
Winnie could never come back to Parrish High.
“He slid his other hand up the inside of my leg . . .” Sugar Beth’s blue eyes widened in fake shock. “Why, Winnie Davis, this is pornography.”
“I like it.” Leeann popped a bubble.
Sugar Beth turned the page. “ ‘I love you, Winnie, with all my abid-ing passion.’ “ She paused, and her eyes raced down over the words, looking for more ammunition to destroy Winnie. It didn’t take her long to find it.
“Ohmigod, y’all listen to this. ‘I spread my legs even farther as his strong fingers started to tiddle me. I gasped out his name . . . ‘ “
Winnie’s ears rang, and the gym began to spin. She made a soft, helpless sound.
“ ‘Oh, my darling, darling—‘ Ryan!”
Winnie’s blood froze.
“Hey, Sugar Beth. What’re you guys doin’?”
Ryan Galantine was coming toward them from the back of the gym, with Deke Jasper and Bobby Jarrow, the three of them in their letter jackets because there was a game that night. Winnie only saw Ryan—tall, blond, and golden, the object of all her fantasies. Horrified, she watched him climb the bleachers.
“Hey, Sugar, I thought you had a meeting.”
“I’m gettin’ there. I’ve been reading something Winnie wrote. It’s really good.”
“Yeah?” He kissed her, ignoring the school’s policy on P.D.A., then looked down at Winnie and gave her the leftover crumbs of his smile. “I want to hear, too.”
Winnie would have to run away from Parrish forever, but as she stepped back, her foot slipped on the bleachers and she fell in an awkward tangle, her hips wedged between the rows of seats.
“Stop it,” Amy said, but like the others, she was a little afraid of Sugar Beth, and she didn’t speak with much authority.
“No, keep reading. I want to hear more.” Leeann popped another bubble.
Sugar Beth’s eyes flicked over Winnie, then returned to the notebook page. “Should I go back to the naked nipples or the tiny panties?”
Ryan laughed and draped a proprietary arm around Sugar Beth’s shoulders. “Hey, this sounds good.”
Sugar Beth looked down at Winnie, her voice syrupy with bad intention. “Or maybe I should start where she calls out her lover’s name?”
Winnie was going to throw up.
“Yes, why don’t I start there. ‘Oh, my darling . . . ‘ “
“That’s quite enough, Sugar Beth.” They all whirled around at the sound of a clipped British accent. Winnie struggled to her feet and watched as Mr. Byrne, her favorite teacher, walked toward the bleachers. He was wearing a gray-and-white-striped vest today over his old black turtleneck, and he had his long hair tied back in a low ponytail.
Even though he was the youngest teacher in the school, almost everybody was afraid of him because he could be so sarcastic. But the kids respected him, too. He didn’t show movies in class, and he expected everybody to work hard. Winnie adored him. He was never sarcastic with her, and he even gave her some of his own books to read because he said she needed to broaden her horizons.
Sugar Beth didn’t look worried or nervous like the other kids would have. Instead, she stared him right in the eye. “Hey, Mr. Byrne. We’re just goofin’ off. Isn’t that right, Winnie?”
Winnie couldn’t make her lips move. She couldn’t do anything.
“Both of you come with me.”
“I have a meeting right now, Mr. Byrne,” Sugar Beth said, all sweet and polite. “Homecoming court. Are you going to be in your room in about an hour?” She sounded exactly like Diddie, who was famous for scheduling the school board meetings around her favorite TV shows.
None of the other teachers ever stood up to Sugar Beth because they didn’t want to get on Diddie’s bad side, but Mr. Byrne still hadn’t figured out how important Diddie was. “I don’t really care what you have planned.”
Sugar Beth shrugged and passed the notebook to Ryan.
“I’ll take that,” Mr. Byrne said.
Winnie’s heart stuck in her throat as Ryan handed it back. First Winnie had been humiliated in front of her classmates, and now even Mr. Byrne would know what a pervert she was. As for Ryan . . . She could never look at him again.
Sugar Beth skipped down the bleachers with the notebook. Winnie couldn’t swallow as she watched it pass from her hand to his.
The buff-colored walls closed in on her as they made their way from the gym to Mr. Byrne’s classroom. Sugar Beth chattered away, not seeming to care that he wasn’t answering back. Winnie trailed behind, her feet dragging.
When they reached the door of his classroom, Mr. Byrne stopped. Winnie stared down at the ugly brown tile floor. He was wearing the old black loafers he always kept polished.
“I believe this is yours, Winnie.”
She looked up at him through her misery and saw the familiar haughtiness in his eyes, along with a kindness no one except her ever seemed to notice. He held out her notebook.
She couldn’t believe he was returning it, and her hand shook as she took it. “T-thank you.”
Sugar Beth gave a light little laugh. “Mr. Byrne, you should read what Winnie wrote first. Everybody knows how smart she is, but I’ll bet you didn’t know that she’s so creative.”
“I’ll see you in class tomorrow, Winnie,” he said without looking at Sugar Beth. “And I’ll expect you to have something scintillating to offer about that dreary Hester Prynne.”
She gave a jerky nod and pulled the notebook to her chest. Just before she turned away, she caught a glimpse of Sugar Beth’s face. Her eyes glittered with the old familiar hatred. Winnie knew exactly why it was there. Why it would never go away. Even though Sugar Beth had everything Winnie didn’t—beauty, popularity, self-confidence, and Ryan Galantine—Winnie had the one thing Sugar Beth most desperately wanted.
Their father loved her the best.
Winnie tossed the last of the broken wine goblet in the trash. Her mind skittered toward the other memory from that year, the one that was infinitely more painful than having her sexual fantasies exposed, but even after all this time, she couldn’t think about it. Instead, she gazed at Ryan, all grown up now. He’d turned the cuffs on his light blue dress shirt. She loved his wrists, the way his bones were formed, the strength in them.
She’d been his rebound girlfriend, there to console him the summer after Sugar Beth had dumped him and married Darren Tharp. Although Winnie might not have transformed herself into a swan while he was away at school, she was no longer an ugly duckling, either, and he’d noticed.
Sex had been her plan, not his, and he’d almost seemed puzzled when he found himself in bed with her one afternoon while his parents were at work. When she’d realized she was pregnant, she’d been terrified to tell him, but he’d put on his game face and married her. He’d even said he loved her, and she’d pretended to believe him. But she’d known then, just as she knew now, that his love for her was only a pale imitation of what he’d felt for Sugar Beth. To this day, he’d never once looked at Winnie the same way.
She pulled two pottery coffee mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “Do you remember . . . when Sugar Beth found my notebook in the gym and tried to read it to everybody?”
Ryan stuck his head in the refrigerator. “Is there any more half-and-half?”
“Behind the orange juice. I’d . . . written a sexual fantasy about the two of us.”
“Yeah?” He straightened, the carton of half-and-half in his hand, and smiled at her. “What kind of sexual fantasy?”
“Didn’t she tell you about it?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” His smile vanished. “That was years ago. You’re way too hung up on what happened in high school.” He closed the refrigerator door just hard enough to rattle the eighteenth-century tea box sitting on top. “I don’t understand why it still bothers you so much. You ended up with everything. Frenchman’s Bride, a few million in your trust. Even the plant’s going to be yours someday. Why would you waste your time thinkin’ about what happened in high school?”
“I don’t.”
It was a lie. Her entire adult life had been shaped by those difficult years: her intellect, her painstaking attention to her appearance, even her social conscience.
The coffeemaker gave its final burp, and Ryan pulled out the carafe. As he filled the mugs, she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. “Sugar Beth came into the store today.”
Only a wife would have noticed the tiny pulse that jumped at the corner of his jaw. He filled the mugs, then replaced the carafe and rested his hips against the edge of the counter. “What did she want?”
“Just looking around, I guess. I don’t think she knew it was my shop.”
He liked half-and-half in his coffee, but he took a sip without opening the carton. “Parrish is a small town. You were bound to run into her sooner or later.”
Winnie began rinsing the dinner plates. “Her sweater was cheap. She looked tired.” She might as well have hung out a sign advertising her own insecurities. “But she’s still beautiful. As thin as ever.”
He shrugged as if he’d lost interest, but he was still drinking his coffee black. She wanted to change the subject, but she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Maybe he felt the same way because he set down his mug and let his eyes drift over her. “So tell me about that sexual fantasy.”
She turned off the faucet and forced a smile. “I was only sixteen, so it was pretty tame. But I could be persuaded to make up something better after Gigi’s asleep.”
He crossed his arms, and the corner of his beautiful mouth curled. “Yeah?”
She loved his smile, but she was tired, jangled, and what she really wanted to do was take a warm bath, then curl up with a book. Instead, she closed the distance between them and slipped her hand between his legs. “Definitely.”
He nuzzled her breast. “Right now I wish we didn’t have a teenager in the house.”
She withdrew her hand and forced her voice to a sultry pitch. “Don’t let me forget where I was, y’hear?”
“Oh, I won’t. Believe me, I won’t.” He gave her a quick kiss. “In the meantime, I’d better go remind Her Highness that kitchen cleanup is her job.”
“Thanks.”
After he disappeared, she wrapped up the leftover piece of steak and stuck it in the refrigerator before Gigi could throw it out. Then she picked up her mug and carried it into the den. She had some paperwork to do for the Community Advancement Association and phone calls she needed to make about the concert, but she wandered over to the window instead.
She was only thirty-two, too young to have lost her libido. She should discuss it with her doctor, but Paul and Ryan had played football in high school.
“How long has lack of desire been a problem, Winnie?”
“A while.”
“Could you be more specific?”
She could lie and say a year. That didn’t sound as bad as three years or maybe four. Five at the outside.
“And have you discussed it with Ryan?”
How could a woman tell the man she loved that she’d been faking it? Ryan would not only be hurt, he’d also be mystified. He was a considerate lover, but they’d started out all wrong. Winnie hadn’t wanted to come in second best to Sugar Beth, so she’d done everything before she was ready. Even though he’d been the more experienced partner, she’d set herself up as the sexual aggressor, and somehow they’d never broken that pattern. She was always available, always responsive. She never pleaded a headache, never made him work for it. She was the pursuer, Ryan the pursued. And as much as she loved him, she resented him for that, too.
Not very much. Not all the time. Just every once in a while.
