“No doubt you thought I was sadly lacking in manners. You may sit down. At my feet.”
GEORGETTE HEYER, These Old Shades
Sugar Beth didn’t like the butterfly rumpus going on in her stomach as she crossed the damp lawn toward Frenchman’s Bride. Unfortunately, she was already an hour late. After her uncomfortable trip down memory lane last night, she’d slept so badly that she’d turned off her alarm without thinking. Byrne wouldn’t be happy. Tough. Neither was she.
Gordon stopped to sniff a patch of grass, and a mockingbird called out. She had no intention of slinking in the back door, regardless of what he’d said, and she climbed the front steps, but when she got to the top, she saw a note stuck to the knocker. Door locked. Come in the back.
Bastard. The latch didn’t budge, and she turned her wrath on her nearest target. “Now what do you think about your choice of friends, huh? I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Gordon gave her a snotty look, but he stayed with her as she stomped down the stairs, not out of loyalty, but because she hadn’t yet fed him. She followed the flagstone path around the side of the house, then came to a dead stop.
A sleek new addition, invisible from either the street or the carriage house, rose from the space that had once held the unused patio. The addition encompassed a spacious screened-in porch and a sunroom with long, high windows. One more desecration.
She entered through the porch into what had once been the cozy kitchen where Ellie Myers, Diddie’s cook and housekeeper, had reigned supreme. But nothing was the same. Walls had been knocked out, ceilings raised, skylights added, all of it coming together in a state-of-the-art kitchen. She took in the bird’s-eye maple cabinets and stainless steel appliances. A thick, tempered glass eating counter hung suspended over a section of the natural slate countertop. One end curved in a sculptured peninsula that separated it from the sunroom, which was decorated with an Asian flair—light walls and lacquered, oxblood furniture, along with some European pieces. An Adams sofa covered in burnished gold upholstery with brass nail-head trim sat near a decorative Victorian wooden birdcage. A few lacquered bamboo jars and earthenware ceramic pieces held a lush display of houseplants. The muted pagoda print on the chair and ottoman blended with a neighboring chinoiserie chest, which held a pile of books and an abandoned laptop computer.
The house of her childhood was gone, and it took her a moment to work up the energy to slip off her jacket. As she did, she noticed a neatly typed list propped on the slate countertop. She stopped at the first item:
Breakfast in my office: fresh orange juice, blueberry pancakes, sausage, grilled tomatoes, more coffee.
No way did Byrne eat like this every morning, not with that lean body. She knew a test when she saw it, and she gazed down at Gordon. “He thinks I’m not up to the challenge.”
Gordon’s expression indicated he had his doubts, too.
She set to work. It took a while to find the dog food, which she poured into an exquisite Waterford bowl and set on the floor near the porch doors. “Only the best for you, right, champ?”
His mouth was already full, so he didn’t reply.
She was gazing in disgust at the old-fashioned glass juicer when she heard footsteps. She didn’t like the way her stomach plunged. She was accustomed to making men nervous, not the other way around.
Byrne entered the kitchen through a newly constructed archway. As his eyes skimmed over her, she gave herself high marks for her choice of work clothes. Housekeepers were supposed to wear black, weren’t they? And didn’t she just live to please?
Her stretchy black lace crisscross blouse had a plunging V neck, and her ancient black slacks still had enough life in them to hug her hips. He eyed the small turquoise butterfly that dangled from a silver chain in her cleavage. She wished she had a really spectacular rack to shove under his nose. Still, with the right bra anything was possible, and judging from the length of time it took him to move his eyes back to her face, she was doing just fine. Uniform, my ass.
In contrast to her semihooker’s attire, he wore dark slacks, a long-sleeved burgundy silk shirt, and an elegant pair of suspenders. What kind of man dressed like that to work at home? As he looked down his imperious nose at her, she knew for sure he’d been trapped in the wrong century.
“Fresh from your morning trot in Hyde Park, m’lord?” She managed a slight curtsy, although it lost some of its effectiveness, since she was behind the counter, and he couldn’t see her knees bend.
He regarded her cuttingly. “Would it be possible to have my breakfast now, or is that too much of an inconvenience?”
“Almost done.”
He took in the nearly empty countertop. “I can see that.”
“I’m learning the kitchen.”
“You’re an hour late.”
“What do you mean? I got here before eight.”
“You were supposed to be here at seven.”
“I’m positive you said eight. Didn’t he, Gordon?”
Gordon was too busy giving him love to back up her story.
She pulled an orange from a bowl on the counter. “Is it true your parents were members of the British royal family?”
“One step from the throne.” Byrne noted the Waterford dog dish as he made his way into the sunroom, but didn’t comment.
“Liar. You grew up poor.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“So I could irritate you by pointing out the differences in our backgrounds. Yours, humble and squalid. Mine, pampered and privileged. And if you want fresh juice every morning, I’m going to need an automatic juicer.”
“Tough it out.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with blisters on her palms.”
He headed back toward the archway, the book he’d retrieved in his hand, the light from the tall windows sending a sluice of mahogany through his already dramatic hair. “I’ll expect breakfast in my office in twenty minutes.” He disappeared into the hall.
“Good luck,” she muttered.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
She shot around the end of the counter and stuck her head through the archway. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
His chuckle drifted back to her, low and diabolical. “The Cinderella story in reverse. I only wish there were ashes in the fireplace so I could order you to sweep them out. Come along, Gordon.”
She watched in disgust as her turncoat dog slipped after him into the office.
Half an hour later, she’d assembled a semidecent breakfast of two poached eggs on toast, a bowl of old-fashioned oatmeal topped with a mountain of brown sugar, and an admittedly tiny glass of fresh juice. Unfortunately, she was already pushing open the old library door when it occurred to her that she should spit in it.
Like the rest of the house, the library bore no resemblance to the dark, walnut-paneled room she remembered. White plantation shutters, open to the lawn on the west side of the house, let in the light. The hodgepodge of antiques she’d grown up with had been replaced by sleekly styled glass and granite furniture. Gordon lay on the abstract rug not far from Byrne’s feet, along with paper wads that had missed the wastebasket. She set the tray on the end of the desk. Byrne turned away from his computer screen and studied his breakfast through a pair of Richard Gere rimless glasses. “I assumed you could read.”
She was getting more than a little tired of his inferences that she was stupid. “There weren’t any cookbooks in the kitchen, and I don’t seem to have a pancake recipe memorized.”
“Cookbooks are on the top shelf of the pantry.” He studied the oatmeal. “I detest porridge, and where are my grilled tomatoes?”
He pronounced it toe-mah-toes, which sounded pretentious as hell, even coming from a Brit.
“I know you’re technically an American citizen, but if you keep talkin’ like that, you’re goin’ to get your sorry ass kicked right out of Mississippi. And what kind of person wants to eat toe-mah-toes for breakfast? Hell, I can barely get one of those suckers down for dinner.” She pointed to the bowl. “And that, my friend, is good ol’ fashioned Quaker Oats. Nobody over the age of three says porridge.”
“Are you done?”
“I think so.” She grabbed the oatmeal bowl, along with his spoon, and carried it to the couch, where she perched on the arm and dug into the brown sugar. “It’s better with raisins, but I couldn’t find any. Or blueberries, for that matter, so those pancakes were problematic from the beginning.” She rolled the oatmeal on her tongue, savoring its warm, comforting glue. It had been forever since she’d had anything decent to eat, but she never seemed to get around to cooking for herself.
He pulled off the Richard Geres. “Go grocery shopping. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? And did I invite you to sit down?”
She dragged the spoon upside down from her mouth. “We need to discuss my paycheck.”
“We already discussed it.”
“I want a raise.” She gestured toward the poached eggs. “Eat before they get cold. The point is, you get what you pay for, and what you’re paying for right now doesn’t get you much.”
He eyed the half-filled juice glass. “I seem to be getting exactly what you’re worth.”
Just to be mean, she leaned far enough forward to shoot him a view of her well-supported cleavage. “You have no idea what I’m worth, bucko.”
He took his time looking, leaning back in his chair and not even bothering to be subtle about it. In the end, she was the one who got uncomfortable, and she used her oatmeal as an excuse to straighten back up, which he found too darned amusing for words.
“You should be careful how you showcase your wares, Sugar Beth. I might think you want to expand your job duties.”
“You couldn’t be that lucky.”
“Perhaps now is the time to tell you that I have a weakness for agreeable women.”
“Well, that sure does leave me out.”
“Exactly. With agreeable women, I’m unendingly considerate. Gallant even.”
“But with tarts like me, the gloves are off, is that it?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call you a tart. But then, I tend to be broad-minded.”
She suppressed the urge to dump her porridge in his lap.
He turned his attention to his eggs, which gave her a chance to look him over, not exactly hazardous duty. He wasn’t a pretty boy like her first two husbands. Darren had been a dazzler, and Cy had posed for Mr. January in the stuntman calendar. But there was something about Colin Byrne . . .
Lethal cheekbones, lips too carnal for that long blade of a nose. His feet were huge but not clunky, because they were so narrow. She studied his hands. They should have been slender and elegant, but they looked as though they’d been designed to dig ditches. A dangerous bolt of heat shot through her. He might be the demon personified, but he was also too sexy for her peace of mind. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten rid of all her old suicidal instincts when it came to unsuitable men.
Her gaze returned to those blunt, competent fingers. She blinked. “You’re the one who put that chain across my driveway.”
“You knew that.”
“No, I mean you did it yourself. You didn’t hire anyone. You poured the concrete and set the posts.”
“It’s hardly brain surgery.”
“I wasn’t even gone for two hours. And when I saw you afterward, you were wearing Armani.”
“I believe it was Hugo Boss.”
“You actually know how to do manual labor?”
“How do you think I supported myself after I lost my teaching job?”
“With your writing.” If she made it sound like a statement, maybe it would be true.
“I’m afraid my ability to write anything worth reading was put on hold after you had your fun.”
She lost her appetite.
“My father was a bricklayer,” he said. “Irish. And my mother was English. Rather an amusing story. She came from an upper-class family that spent the last of its dwindling fortune making certain their only daughter could make a brilliant marriage. Instead, she fell in love with my father. Tears, threats, disownment. The stuff of great romance.”
“How did it work out?”
“They hated each other within a year.”
She knew what that was like.
“I got my love of literature and the arts from my mother, but I’m more like my father in personality. Mean, unforgiving bastard. Still, he taught me a useful trade.”
“You worked as a bricklayer after you went back to England?”
“In this country, too. The novel I wrote before Last Whistle-stop wasn’t quite the best-seller I’d hoped it would be. Luckily, I enjoy working with my hands, and I had no trouble supporting myself.”
But he shouldn’t have had to do it laying brick, and some of the starch went out of her. “You aren’t ever going to forgive me, are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m in no hurry.” He flicked his hand toward the door. “Run along and find something degrading to do.”
The telephone rang. He reached out, but she was pissed again, so she beat him to it. “Byrne residence.”
“Give me that.”
“A freebie,” she whispered.
“I need to speak with Colin,” the woman at the other end said.
He held out his hand for the phone, clearly expecting the worst from her. It was tempting to give it to him, but she had a point to make, so she turned her back. “Mr. Byrne is working now. May I take a message?”
“Tell him it’s Madeline.” The woman on the other end made no attempt to hide her displeasure at being put off. “I’m sure he’ll take my call.”
“Madeline?” She turned back to Byrne. He vigorously shook his head. She settled back on the arm of the couch and reclaimed her oatmeal, finally beginning to enjoy herself. “I’m sorry, but I have orders not to interrupt him.”
“He won’t mind. I promise you.”
“I’ll make certain to deliver your message.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m Madeline Farr.”
Sugar Beth vaguely recognized the name of a New York socialite and put a little more magnolia into her accent. “Are you really? My, this certainly is an honor. I can’t wait to tell all my friends I’ve spoken with you in person. Let me have your number.”
She took a bite of oatmeal while an irritated Madeline reeled off a telephone number Sugar Beth didn’t bother to write down. “Got it,” she said when the woman paused for breath.
“It’s very important for Colin to call me back by the end of the day.”
“I’ll tell him the minute I see him, but he still has messages backed up from last week, and he’s been working so hard he barely comes out of the office, the poor ol’ sod.” She gave Colin a thumbs-up, making the point that she could talk his lingo anytime she pleased.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Do your best,” the woman snapped.
“I sure will,” she replied. “So lovely talkin’ with you, Ms. Farr.”
She hung up and regarded Byrne with satisfaction. “Note that I didn’t tell her to go screw herself, even though she’s obviously a bitch. I remained polite, fawning almost. At the same time, I didn’t commit you to anything. In case you’re not bright enough to figure it out, there’s a real upside to having a sinner like me answer your phone. I lie, and your conscience stays clear.” She rose from the couch. “Now, about that raise . . .”
He took a sip of coffee, unaffected by her outburst. “I’m having a dinner party in ten days to thank some of the people from the university who helped me with my new book. My agent and editor are flying in. A few others will be here, maybe thirty total, I’ll let you know. The caterer’s phone number is on your list. See what you have to do to get the house ready. And you’ll need to serve, of course. After that, we’ll discuss how much you’re worth.”
“You bet your sweet heinie we will.”
She grabbed her oatmeal and headed out the door.
Colin listened to the taps of her ridiculously inappropriate heels retreating down the hallway. His writer’s imagination could be a blessing or a curse, and right now he was cursed with the image of those tight black slacks hugging her bottom, and that little turquoise butterfly bouncing between her breasts. He needed to look for a uniform company as soon as possible.
It was ironic. When he’d arrived at Parrish High, he’d been twenty-two, in the throes of his own hormonal overload, and it had taken all his self-control to keep his eyes from lingering too long on so many short skirts and supple breasts. But Sugar Beth had never tempted him. So how was it that now, older and infinitely wiser, he found himself bombarded with mental images of her lying naked and feisty in his bed?
He knew better. Painful experience had taught him to keep his sexual relationships uncomplicated, but he still sometimes had to fight that instinctive part of him that was attracted to dramatic women. This was clearly one of those occasions. Still, age had taught him how to control his old weakness, and he wouldn’t let it worry him.
He’d inherited his foolish romanticism from his mother. When he was a boy, it had made him far too caught up in dreams of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses for his father to tolerate, and after a few beatings, Colin had learned to confine that part of himself to the stories he wrote in his head. Still, it had taken his disastrous five-year marriage to a deeply neurotic American poet with raven hair, milky white skin, and haunted eyes to make him understand that he could never again express that secret part of himself anywhere but on paper. He’d loved Lara desperately, but there hadn’t been enough love in the world to satisfy her kind of neediness. One rainy New Orleans night nine years ago, she’d run their car into a concrete abutment, ending her own life and taking the life of their unborn child. It had been the worst time of his life, a black hell that had swallowed him whole for nearly two years. He’d vowed never to put himself through anything like that again.
Once again, he considered the wisdom of having the ultimate high-maintenance female working in his house, but the opportunity for revenge had been too sweet to resist. Still, he wouldn’t let her distract him again. From now on, he’d direct every bit of his energy where it belonged. Into his new novel.
He heard the faint sound of running water in the kitchen. Last night it had taken him nearly an hour to come up with that overloaded list of things for her to do today. The dinner party had been in the works for a month, so that was pure serendipity. He smiled and checked his conscience to see if he was ashamed of himself, but the romantic boy who’d once dreamed of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses had developed the heart of a cynic, and his conscience didn’t say a word.
Sugar Beth tossed aside Colin’s list long before she got to the end and concentrated on the essentials. As she’d expected, his freezer was stuffed with frost-encrusted casseroles from the good women of Parrish, but the rest of his refrigerator was nearly as empty as hers. He’d tossed a pile of clothes destined for the dry cleaner on the couch, and a package addressed to a New York literary agency needed to go to the post office. He’d also left a note about some books waiting to be picked up at the bookstore. If she got enough done, maybe she’d be able to start searching the house this afternoon.
She polished off her coffee, set her oatmeal bowl in the sink to soak, then grabbed the keys to his Lexus. No way was she using her gas to run his errands. As an afterthought, she tossed the keys to her old Volvo on the counter, just in case he had an emergency. She was nothing if not considerate.
His Lexus smelled like designer cologne and a portfolio of tax-free municipal bonds. She set her purse on the seat. Inside was the envelope he’d left her with a hundred dollars in petty cash and a note saying he wanted a receipt for every penny. Suspicious bastard.
As she came out of the dry cleaner, she met Sherry Wilkes, a former classmate, who backed her into a corner and filled her in with a description of all her health problems, which included acid reflux, eczema, and early-stage endometriosis. Sugar Beth supposed she should be grateful that someone female wanted to talk to her, but the encounter only made her think about how much she missed the Seawillows. So far she hadn’t run into any of them, but that wouldn’t last forever. She wasn’t looking forward to being cut dead by the women whose friendship she’d held so cheaply.
She found the town’s new bookstore catty-corner across the street from Winnie’s antique shop. Hand-painted African animals formed a border around the plate-glass window, which displayed current best-sellers, biographies, and a wide selection of works by African American novelists. A toy train surrounded a display of autographed copies of Last Whistle-stop designed to attract the tourists. In the center of the window, the store’s name, gemima books, was printed in bold brown letters outlined in black. Beneath that, a smaller inscription read All people with free hearts are welcome here. The only sign Sugar Beth could remember from Parrish’s former bookstore had read no food or ice cream.
She heard the sounds of Glen Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations as she entered. Two elderly women chatted by the cookbooks, and a mother with a toddler browsed through the parenting section, aided by a clerk with curly blond hair. Sugar Beth used to believe nothing smelled better than the perfume aisles of a department store, but that was before she’d discovered the companionship of books. Now she breathed in the smell of the store.
A tiny woman, her head shaved to reveal the elegant shape of her skull, came toward her. She wore a close-fitting saffron, long-sleeved top, wooden beads, and a slim, calf-length wrap skirt made of kente cloth. She had a dancer’s body, what little there was of it, and she smiled as she slipped behind the cash register.
“What can I do—? Well . . .” She lifted her eyebrows. “Well, well, well.”
They were probably close to the same age, so they might have gone to school together, but Sugar Beth didn’t recognize her. There’d been little social interaction between the black and white kids, although they’d been expected to get along together, thanks to the influence of her father’s hiring policies at the window factory. Although Griffin Carey had been a Southern traditionalist in many ways, he’d held liberal social views, and he’d used his economic clout to enforce them. Modern-day Parrish, with a relatively prosperous African American community and a forty-year history of racial cooperation, had reaped the rewards.
Sugar Beth braced herself for the worst. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”
“I’ll just bet I do. I’m Jewel Myers.”
“Jewel?” She couldn’t believe this beautiful woman was Jewel Myers, the scruffy tomboy daughter of Diddie’s housekeeper Ellie. “I—uh—didn’t recognize you.”
“I grew up while you were gone.” She seemed amused. “I became a radical lesbian feminist.”
“No kidding. Interesting career path for a Mississippi girl.”
A customer interrupted with a question, giving Sugar Beth a chance to reorient herself before Jewel turned back to her. She took her time looking Sugar Beth over. “I used to wear your hand-me-downs. Mom made them over so they’d fit.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You never said a word about it. Year after year I’d show up at school in your old clothes, but you never once made fun of me.”
“I wasn’t entirely evil.”
“Honey, you were the biggest bitch in school. If I’d been a threat like Winnie, you’d have taken out an ad in the school newspaper. I gotta say, though, you didn’t bother the black girls much. Not unless somebody got in your face. Now how can I help you, Miz Sugar Beth Carey?”
Sugar Beth couldn’t keep the wistful note from her voice as she gazed around her. “You could give me a job. I love bookstores.”
“Afraid I don’t need anyone. Besides, I only hire lesbians and other persecuted minorities.” She grinned and took in Sugar Beth’s black lace top. “You’re not a lesbian, are you?”
“I haven’t been in the past. Which doesn’t say I wouldn’t consider it for the right employment opportunity.”
Jewel chuckled, an amazingly big sound coming from someone so petite. “So you’re looking for a job?”
“Technically, no. But my current employer is a heartless bastard, and I’d drop him in a second if something better came along.”
“The rest of us like Colin.”
“News travels fast.”
“A lot of people are holdin’ their sides laughin’. Even I, a fair-minded person with no overt reason to hate you, find it amusing. Did you know that Colin’s the one who helped me get a college scholarship? The counselors couldn’t be bothered.”
“He’s a real saint, all right.” Sugar Beth cast another wistful glance around the store. “I’m supposed to pick up the books he ordered. He said to put it on his account. And toss in some of Georgette Heyer’s regency romances while you’re at it.”
“Not Colin’s normal reading taste.”
“He’s broadening his horizons.”
Sugar Beth followed Jewel as she headed for the best-seller aisle. Gemima Books was both cozy and well stocked. Index cards dangled from the shelves with Jewel’s handwritten comments recommending a particular book. Comfortable chairs welcomed customers to sit and browse. Only the children’s section seemed neglected. “This is a great store.”
“I’m lucky. Even with all the tourists the community association has attracted, Parrish is too small to interest the big chains.”
“Where did the name come from? Gemima Books?”
“Jewel is a gem.”
“But Gemima?”
“I like reinterpreting African American female icons. Originally I was going to call it ‘Mammi’s’ with an i, but my mother had a fit. Thanks for that note you wrote when she died, by the way.”
They talked about books for a while. Jewel’s preferences ran toward socially relevant fiction, but she wasn’t a snob about it, and Sugar Beth could have followed her around all day. More customers entered the store, and Jewel greeted all but the tourists by name. She pointed out a book by a Hispanic author she said Sugar Beth should read, and a new commercial women’s fiction author destined to be a best-seller. It felt so good being with someone who wasn’t hostile that Sugar Beth had to resist the urge to throw her arms around Jewel and beg her to be her friend. Which just went to show how far loneliness could drag you down.
Jewel rang up her order and gave Sugar Beth an impish smile as she handed over the package. “Tell Colin to enjoy those Georgette Heyers.”
“I sure will.” She toyed with the strap of her purse, then shifted the package from one hand to another, trying to be casual about it. “If you get bored sometime and want to grab a cup of coffee, let me know.”
“Okay.” Jewel’s response wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but it wasn’t entirely unfriendly either, and Sugar Beth had heard that miracles did happen, even if they never seemed to happen to her.
She glanced at her watch as she got back into the car. She had more errands to run, but she’d stayed away longer than she should have, and she’d better put off the rest until tomorrow.
A good decision, as it turned out, because trouble lurked at the ducal estate. His Grace, it seemed, had grown restless waiting for the return of his lowly housekeeper . . .
