Ain't She Sweet?

  “Sure. I like Gigi.”

  The implication didn’t bother Winnie one bit. She hummed as she began unpacking the groceries. Sugar Beth surveyed what she’d bought. All that green stuff and not a carton of mint chocolate chip in sight. She emptied the wastebasket, then lined it with a new trash bag.

  “You look upset,” Winnie said.

  “Broken fingernail.”

  “It’s the painting, isn’t it? Colin said he was going to help you look for it today. You must not have found anything.”

  “Not unless you count spiders.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to Tallulah’s canasta club again, maybe. Try to figure out if she had any other confidantes.”

  “Not that I know of. She was so critical most people avoided her. I can’t believe someone like Lincoln Ash could have fallen in love with such a sourpuss.”

  “I don’t think she was always like that. My father said she was funny when she was a girl.”

  “Our father. Just once, Sugar Beth, I’d like to hear you say it.”

  “Maybe you’d better check the weather report. Last time I looked, hell hadn’t frozen over.”

  “Doesn’t being a bitch get exhausting after a while?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I believe in deferring to the experts.”

  They continued like that for a while, trading insults and, in general, keeping themselves entertained, which was a welcome distraction after Sugar Beth’s dismal morning. So many years of being a respectable, law-abiding citizen made Winnie’s jabs clumsier than Sugar Beth’s, but she compensated by delivering them with the zeal of the newly converted. Eventually, however, she calmed down and concentrated on her salad.

  Sugar Beth went upstairs to wash off the dirt and phone Delilah. Afterward she gazed over at Frenchman’s Bride. Colin had said he intended to write today, but he was outside working on his wall.

  When she returned downstairs, she heard the humming of a happy little kitchen elf. “Orzo.” Winnie gazed cheerfully into Tallulah’s spongeware bowl. “Hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, pine nuts, an avocado coming up. Gigi’s going to love this salad.”

  Sugar Beth decided to distract herself by picking another fight. “It wouldn’t kill you to thank me for what I did last night. If I hadn’t gone that extra mile, you’d still think your husband was nuts about me.”

  But Winnie chose her own battle turf and struck back with a zinger. “You’re sleeping with Colin, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of information I’m gonna share with my worst enemy.”

  “I knew there was something going on between the two of you the night of the cocktail party. But you’ve met your match. Colin is one man who has his head screwed on straight.”

  “Right now, mine is screwed on a lot straighter than his.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” Winnie stabbed a tomato. “No matter how you try to manipulate him, he’ll never marry you.”

  “I don’t want him to.”

  “If that man dangled a diamond in front of you, you’d rip his arm off to get to it.”

  Sugar Beth shrugged. “Whatever you want to believe.”

  By turning serious, she seemed to have taken the fun out of the game. Winnie set down the tomato, wiped her hands on a paper towel, and leaned against the counter. “You mean it, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  But if she’d expected Winnie to back off, she was mistaken because real anger flashed in her eyes. “You’re trying to collect another scalp. You don’t care about hurting him. You just want to add him to your collection. And he’s so smitten he doesn’t see what’s coming.”

  “He sees it, all right. I’ve been trying to dump him since Tuesday night, but he won’t stay dumped.”

  That threw Winnie off stride. “I don’t believe you. Why would you want to dump him? He’s rich, successful…brilliant. He owns Frenchman’s Bride. And except for Ryan, he’s the sexiest man in Parrish. Colin Byrne has more character than all of your ex-husbands put together.”

  “Two of them, anyway. When did you say Gigi would be getting here?”

  “Don’t try to tell me you’re not attracted to him. I’ve seen the way the two of you behave when you’re together.”

  “Just drop it, okay.”

  “My, my. Have I hit a tender spot?”

  All Sugar Beth could do was nod.

  That gave Winnie something to think about, and she turned away to concentrate on the salad. Sugar Beth took a sip of cold coffee. A minute ticked by, and then another. Finally, Winnie set down her knife. “I got pregnant with Gigi on purpose.”

  Sugar Beth nearly choked on her coffee. “That’s definitely not something you should share with your worst enemy.”

  “Probably not.” She cracked a hard-boiled egg against the side of the bowl. “I spent fourteen years trying to make it up to him. I didn’t think he knew, but he did. And he never said anything. He just let his resentment eat away.” A piece of eggshell fell to the floor, but she didn’t notice. “What a pair we’ve been. He suffered in noble silence, and I fed my guilt by overcompensating. Then I blamed you for everything that was wrong in our marriage. So when it comes to you and me, Sugar Beth, which one of us is the biggest sinner?”

  “Beats me. I’m not good at making moral judgments.”

  “You seem to have made a few about yourself.”

  “Yeah, but that’s easy.”

  Winnie fished a piece of eggshell from the bowl, a distant expression on her face. “Gigi would say that I gave up my power.”

  “You’re doing one heck of a job getting it back.”

  Winnie smiled. “Ryan asked me out to dinner tonight.”

  “Just because a boy buys you a steak doesn’t mean you have to put out for him.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Gordon began to bark as Gigi arrived. This time she wore jeans and an Ole Miss T-shirt. “Dad’s really mad at Sugar Beth again. He didn’t want me to come down here. What’d you do?”

  “Come see what I’ve got in the salad,” Winnie said before Sugar Beth could reply.

  Gigi patted Gordon, who was worshiping at her feet, then walked over to examine the salad. “Orzo! That’s so cool. And avocado. Don’t put any chicken in, okay.” She plucked out a piece of tomato with dog-slobber fingers and nearly gave Winnie apoplexy.

  Sugar Beth rinsed out her coffee mug. “I’ll leave the two of you to your own devices.”

  “Don’t go,” Gigi said.

  “I have things to do.” She was trying to give them some time alone together, but Winnie got her snippy look.

  “Now you can see exactly how inconsiderate your aunt really is, Gigi. I’ve made a nice lunch for us, but does she care? No, she doesn’t.”

  Sugar Beth didn’t want Winnie to guess how good it felt to be included. “Okay, but I’m going to switch plates at the last minute, so don’t try any funny stuff with food poisoning.”

  “You guys act so weird.”

  Ten minutes later they were settled at the drop-leaf cherry table in the living room with the salad, rolls, and Tallulah’s pressed-glass tumblers filled with sweet tea.

  “Did you decide what you’re going to wear on your date tonight?” Gigi asked her mother.

  “It’s not a date. Your father and I are having dinner together, that’s all.”

  “I think you should borrow something from Sugar Beth.”

  “I’m not meeting your father in Sugar Beth’s clothes!”

  “Just a blouse or something. He won’t know. Hers are sexier than yours.”

  “Good idea,” Sugar Beth said. “I’ll trade you a slinky little number I bought at Target last winter for that Neiman’s cashmere sweater set I saw you in last week.”

  “She’s trying to get you upset again, Mom.”

  Sugar Beth hid a smile. “If you keep spoiling my fun, kid, you’re out of here.”

  Gigi leaned closer. “
He’s picking her up at seven. Do her makeup, Sugar Beth.”

  “I’ll do my own makeup,” Winnie retorted.

  “Sugar Beth does better eyes.”

  “That’s true. I do know my eyes.” She gazed at Gigi. “Hair, too. What do you say I even up your new do a little?”

  “I guess.”

  Their conversation moved on to other things, and without planning it, Sugar Beth found herself telling them about Delilah, leaving out only the financial troubles her stepdaughter was causing.

  Gigi wrinkled her nose. “It’s sort of gross, isn’t it? Having a stepdaughter that old?”

  Winnie smiled and touched the back of her daughter’s hand. “Love’s a strange thing, Gigi. You never quite know exactly when it’s going to hit or how hard it’ll strike.”

  On this, at least, Sugar Beth and her evil half sister were in total agreement.

  Colin sat with his back to the wall of the lobby bar of the Peabody Memphis Hotel, trying to stave off his guilt by going about the business of getting seriously drunk. Southerners said that the Mississippi delta began in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel, but the place was best known for its ducks. For more than seventy-five years, a small group of mallards had marched along a red carpet at eleven o’clock every morning to the sound of Sousa’s “King Cotton March” and spent the day splashing in the lobby’s travertine marble fountain. But it was evening now. The ducks had retired for the night, and the subdued lighting cast a sepia glow over the grandeur of the Italian Renaissance lobby with its marble floors, stained glass ceiling, and elegant, Old World furnishings. Driving sixty-five miles for the sole purpose of getting drunk wasn’t something he’d normally do, but he’d always loved the Peabody, and after he’d spent a frustrating afternoon laying stone instead of writing, this had seemed as good a destination as any, so he’d packed an overnight bag and left Frenchman’s Bride behind.

  “Colin?”

  He’d been so preoccupied with his self-loathing that he hadn’t noticed the attractive redhead approaching. Carolyn Bradmond was one of those high-powered, low-maintenance women whose company he should most enjoy. She was intelligent, sophisticated, and too involved in her career to be emotionally demanding. Colin Byrne’s ideal woman…So why hadn’t she crossed his mind since he’d last seen her five months ago?

  He rose to greet her. “Hello, Carolyn. How are you?”

  “Couldn’t be better. How’s the new book coming along?”

  It was one of the two questions people most frequently asked writers, and if he invited her to join him, it wouldn’t take her long to get around to the other one. “I’ve always wanted to know, Colin. Where do you authors get your ideas?”

  We steal them.

  From extraterrestrials.

  There’s a warehouse outside Tulsa…

  He had no energy for such a conversation, so he stayed on his feet and chatted with her until she took the hint and left. As the pianist at the bar’s baby grand switched to Gershwin, he finished his third whiskey and ordered a fourth. Before Sugar Beth had come banging on his front door, he’d taken pride in the way he’d confined his romantic inclinations to the printed page. But how did a man distance himself from a woman like her?

  He couldn’t let her leave Parrish. Not yet. Not until they’d had a chance to work through this bloody train wreck of a relationship. They needed time, but she didn’t want to give it to them. Instead, she’d made up her mind to run as soon as she got the chance. And it was wrong.

  He remembered her wistful expression as she’d gazed around at the depot and talked about making it into a children’s bookstore. She belonged in Parrish. She was part of this town. Part of him.

  His guilt settled in deeper. The pianist abandoned Gershwin for Hoagy Carmichael. Colin finished his drink, but the alcohol didn’t offer the absolution he craved.

  Today, he’d found Sugar Beth’s painting, and he hadn’t said a word.

  Ryan had never been more attentive. He asked Winnie a dozen questions about the shop and seemed genuinely interested in her responses. He complimented her on her hair, on her posture, on her jewelry, on her teeth, for goodness’ sakes. He didn’t compliment her on her clothes, which interested her, since she was wearing Sugar Beth’s trashy black stretch lace crisscross top and a midnight blue skirt that—in a moment of madness—she’d chopped off and hemmed to midthigh. There was a certain novelty in looking like a hooker, but she didn’t necessarily want to look like this again, and she was glad he seemed just the slightest bit displeased with her plunging neckline and short skirt.

  Considering his attentiveness, she should probably have been happier with the evening, but she wasn’t, because the elephant still sat at the table between them, that beast created by her deceit and his resentment. Ryan ignored the animal, acting as if the angry, pent-up words he’d assaulted her with last week at the shop had never been spoken. And she was tired of always being their emotional archaeologist, so she didn’t bring it up.

  “Are your scallops good?” he asked.

  “Delicious.”

  After what he’d said to Sugar Beth last night, she wanted emotion from him, passion, but he chatted with the waiter, waved to Bob Vorhees across the room, remarked on the wine, and talked to her about everything that didn’t matter. Even worse, he didn’t seem to be struck by any of those stunning little volts of sexual electricity that had begun plaguing her at the most unexpected times—when she heard his voice on the phone or caught sight of him behind the wheel of his car, or at church this morning when his arm had brushed hers during the doxology. And what should she make of that shocking, limb-melting rush of desire that had overcome her last night when he’d rejected Sugar Beth’s enticement?

  All you ever think about is sex!

  They finished their dinner and ordered coffee. Someday she’d have to tell him that Sugar Beth had set him up, but not just yet.

  He paid the bill, and the elephant followed them to his car. She’d known the patterns of their marriage were too deeply etched for easy changes, and she shouldn’t have pinned so many hopes on tonight. She was always to be the pursuer, Ryan the pursued. She the adorer, Ryan the object of her adoration. But she’d lost the will to play her part.

  He took a corner too sharply, and she realized they were headed toward the southern edge of town instead of Mockingbird Lane. “I want to go back to the carriage house.”

  He responded by hitting the automatic door locks.

  She couldn’t have been much more shocked if he’d slapped her. “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t reply.

  His gesture was symbolic. She would hardly jump out of a moving car. She started to ask him what he hoped to accomplish with his theatrics, but something about the tough set of his jaw made her decide to wait.

  As they reached the highway, a blade of light thrown by the headlights of a passing car slicked across his face, and another jolt of lust shot through her. “I want to go back,” she said, not meaning it.

  He didn’t reply. Courteous, accommodating Ryan Galantine ignored her, just as if she hadn’t spoken.

  They were heading toward the lake, but it was only March, and the season hadn’t kicked in yet. She clasped her hands in her lap and waited to see what would happen. It felt odd to be so passive.

  He drove past the road that led to Amy and Clint’s cottage, then passed the entrance to Spruce Beach, where they all swam and picnicked. The bait shops were still closed for the winter. He ignored the boat launch and the Lakehouse. Ten minutes ticked by. They were approaching the less-populated southern side of the lake. She seldom came this far, but he seemed to know the road by heart.

  She didn’t see the narrow, unmarked lane until he’d begun to turn into it. She couldn’t imagine where they were—

  Allister’s Point. This was the place where the Seawillows used to go with their boyfriends during high school to drink beer and make out.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  She’d driven
out here by herself not long after she’d gotten her driver’s license, just to see what it looked like, but she’d never been here with a boy. She could hardly breathe.

  The lane ended at a small promontory, which was protected on three sides by trees, with the open end overlooking the lake. At some point, the county had thrown down a little gravel, but not much of it was left. He turned off the ignition. She swallowed and gazed straight ahead. Moonlight dripped down the center of the lake like spilled milk.

  “I tripped the safety locks,” he reminded her.

  She licked her dry lips and looked over at him. “I’m gonna tell my mom.”

  “No, you won’t,” he replied, leaning back into the seat and regarding her with cocky, half-lidded eyes. “She’ll ask you what you were doing out here. How are you going to tell her you were lettin’ Ryan Galantine feel you up?”

  “Is that what I’m going to do?”

  “I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” He slipped his finger under the plunging stretchy black lace neckline. “Don’t wear Sugar Beth’s clothes again.”

  “You recognize this?”

  “I’m not entirely unobservant. I was hoping for your blue silk blouse, the one that matches your eyes. Or that pink yarn sweater you can see your bra through. Or maybe the yellow dress you wore the last time we went to Memphis. I like the way your legs look in it.”

  The fact that he’d ever noticed anything she wore left her speechless, let alone how her legs looked in her yellow dress. He slid his arm behind her shoulders, leaned forward, and gave her a deep soul kiss.

  Everything inside her melted. A few weeks ago she’d felt as though she’d never experience desire again. Now, she wanted to rip off her clothes and attack him.

  Always the aggressor. Never the pursued.

  “Take me home,” she said. “I’m not going all the way with you.”

  “No?” He trailed his index finger from the base of her throat to the black lace. “You really think you can stop me?”

  Her short skirt had ridden up on her thighs, and she did nothing to pull it back down. “I could scream if I wanted to.”

  “Then I’ll have to make sure you don’t want to.” He hooked his finger deeper under the lace neckline, picked up a bra strap, and drew them both down, exposing one breast. His hair brushed her cheek as he leaned forward and sank his teeth into a spot just above her nipple. She let out a tiny exclamation of pain. He sucked hard on the place he’d bitten and blew softly. “Tell me something, Winnie Davis. How are you going to explain that to your mamma?”