Ain't She Sweet? (37 page)

His eyes grew hooded and the lips that, only seconds earlier, had been soft, tightened. “Is that what you think of me, then?”

She rubbed her arm, tunneled a hand through her hair, slowly shook her head. “No.

You’re aggressive, but you’re not a predator. You don’t mean to hurt me.”

“Exactly. Why should I go to the bother when you’re doing such a good job of it by yourself? I can only hope you’ll be in a better mood when we get together in the morning.”

“The morning?”

“I promised to help you search the depot and the carriage house. Surely you haven’t forgotten. Shall we say ten o’clock?”

Spending the morning with him was the king of bad ideas, but she needed his help. And no matter what he had in mind, she wouldn’t let him bulldoze her with any more kisses.

“All right,” she said. “Ten o’clock.”

Gigi didn’t usually like church too much. Sometimes the sermons were okay—Pastor Mayfair was pretty cool, and Sunday school had been sort of interesting today—but she wasn’t too crazy about the Bible, in general, which had way too many depressing parts and, in her opinion, should be R-rated for violence. This morning, though, she didn’t even mind John the Baptist getting his head chopped off because her mom had slipped into the pew next to her right before the worship service began.

Gigi wished she could think of a way to change places, so her mom was in the middle, next to her dad. Still, they’d looked at each other across her and smiled, although Gigi couldn’t tell if they were real smiles or just-being-polite-for-the-sake-of-the-child smiles.

As the sermon went on, she fought the urge to lean against her mother’s shoulder and close her eyes like she used to when she was a little girl.

She’d even put on a totally lame Bloomingdale’s skirt and blouse because she wanted to make her mother happy. She still hadn’t figured out what she was going to wear to school next week, but she’d started thinking about giving up her Goth stuff. Yesterday Sugar Beth had told her it was an excellent eighth-grade look, but the way she’d said it had sort of made Gigi feel like she was only copying everybody else instead of being an individual.

Last night she’d gone to the Spanish club dinner with Gwen and Jenny, but her parents were so wrapped up in their own problems they still hadn’t asked her about it. Mostly, she was glad they’d stopped poking their noses in her business, but it’d be nice if they showed a little interest. Especially her mom. Gigi was starting to realize that maybe her mom wasn’t as perfect as she’d thought. And what she’d gone through in high school was a lot worse than anything Gigi was going through.

After the service, her parents hung around for a while to talk to their friends, but they didn’t talk much to each other. When they finally began walking to the parking lot, Gigi hung back on purpose.

“Thank you for the tulips,” she heard her mother say.

Her dad had given her mother flowers?

“When I saw them, they made me think of you,” he said.

Way to go, Dad.

“Really? Why?”

Uh-oh. He was going to say something dumb.

“Because they’re beautiful. Like you.”

She was going to hurl. Right here in the parking lot.

But her mother wasn’t as critical, and she looked like she was blushing. Her dad took advantage and moved right in. “Would you like to have dinner tonight at the Inn? Maybe around seven? If you don’t have other plans.”

Gigi forgot to breathe.

Her mother took a moment to reply. “The Inn would be nice.”

Yes!

“It’ll be just the two of us, is that all right? Gigi has a project due.”

In two weeks.

“Oh. Yes. All right.”

“If you want her to come along . . . maybe she could work on her project this afternoon.”

Gigi prayed her mother wouldn’t be a dope.

“No, that’s all right.”

Way to go, Mom!

Her dad held the door of the Benz open, and her mother slid in. Gigi wished she’d come home with them, but her dad didn’t try to talk her into it. He just smiled, shut the door after her, and waved.

As they rode home in his car, Gigi thought about what had happened, and the more she thought, the more worried she got. Finally, she turned down the radio. “Ask her about the store?”

“What?”

“When you go out tonight, ask her about the store. She likes to talk about it. Not about how much money it’s not making, either. Ask her how she decides what she’s going to put in the window, and how she knows what to buy. Stuff like that. Stuff that shows you’re interested.”

“All right,” he said slowly.

“And whatever she’s wearing, don’t ask her if it’s new. You always do that. She’ll put on something she’s worn a million times, and you’ll say, is that new?”

“I don’t do that.”

“You do it all the time.”

“Anything else?” he said, starting to sound sarcastic.

“She likes to talk about books. And tell her she looks beautiful again. She really liked that. And maybe you should say she has nice teeth.”

“You say that about a horse, not a woman.”

“I’d like it if a boy told me I had nice teeth.”

“All right. I’ll compliment her teeth. Are you done yet?”

“Don’t ask her about Sugar Beth, Dad. They still have issues.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

She knew he was curious about what had happened yesterday morning, and she thought about telling him she knew about all the stuff in high school, but it was too embarrassing.

They got ready to turn into Mockingbird Lane just as Colin’s Lexus passed them in the opposite direction. Gigi waved. “Hey, Sugar Beth’s going somewhere with Colin.”

“And may God have mercy on his soul.”

“Richard, I could hit you!” she declared.

The smile grew, allowing her a glimpse of excellent white teeth. “I don’t think you could,
my dear.”

GEORGETTE HEYER,
The Corinthian

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sugar Beth looked like a diet Pepsi ad, one of those TV commercials shot at a gas station in the desert. As she sauntered toward his car in her pipe-stem jeans, bare midriff top, and straw cowboy hat, she led with her hips, a gorgeous genetic freak of a woman, too tall, too thin, too leggy. Her straight blond hair floated in slow motion at her shoulders. Her arms swung in graceful arcs at her sides, and a denim jacket dangled from her fingertips.

Long before they’d reached the depot, he’d started to sweat.

“You’re quiet this morning.”

“Not a bloody thing to say.” He slammed the car into park, climbed out, and stalked across the crumbling asphalt toward the door, where—since she had the key—he had to stand cooling his heels while he watched the whole thing all over again. The careless, undulating walk, leggy grace, lithesome tilt. Her stretchy top rode up as she hit the steps; the waistband of her jeans dipped and played peekaboo with her navel. By the time she opened the lock, he’d been swept up in a conflagration of lust.
“Let me do that!”

“Jeez, what’s eating you?”

Since every reply that sprang to mind was salacious, he ignored the question. Instead, he slapped a pair of work gloves into her hands and pointed toward the rear of the depot.

“We’re going to do this systematically, starting in the back.”

“Whatever you say.”

When she’d arrived in Parrish, she’d looked worn out, but she didn’t look that way now.

Her complexion had regained its glow, her hair its bounce. He wanted to believe his lovemaking had revitalized her, that he’d filled her with a magic elixir that had restored her bloom. He could almost hear her scoff at the notion.
The lies you men tell yourselves.

“Are you gonna stand there all day, Your Grace, or could you help me move this crate?”

“Damn it, Sugar Beth, I’m concentrating!”

“On what? You’ve been staring at that wall for five minutes. Either tear the son of a bitch down or come over here and help me.”

“You curse far too much.”

“ ‘Son of a bitch’ isn’t a curse. It’s a figure of speech.”

Colin had been sullen all morning, but since he understood buildings and construction, Sugar Beth couldn’t let him off the hook. She needed him to find what had eluded her, and if they came up empty today, then she needed his sarcasm to console her.

“This place isn’t as bad as it looks.” He pushed the crate to the side. “It needs a new roof, and there’s water damage, but the structure’s basically sound. Tallulah was right.

Someone should restore it.”

“Don’t look at me. I can’t even afford to get the dent taken out of my fender.”

“Why don’t you talk to Winnie about the depot? The planning council should at least consider it.”

“I’m the last person the planning council would listen to.”

“Restoring it would take serious money, that’s for certain.”

“It’s a mess.” But even as the words left her mouth, a picture sprang into her mind of a children’s bookstore, complete with a miniature caboose, model trains, signal lights, and a trunkful of dress-up costumes. She sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I wish Jewel cared more about selling kids’ books. Wouldn’t this make a fantastic children’s bookstore? Not that she could afford to renovate it even if she were interested.”

“It’s a great location. But it has more square footage than a specialty bookstore needs.”

“Not with a coffee shop next door.” She didn’t know where the idea had come from, and his eyebrows rose as he studied her more closely. She turned away and headed for the back. Some things were too impractical even for daydreams.

Colin tapped walls, investigated storage areas, and took every opportunity to snarl at her.

Eventually, he announced that he was going up into the loft.

“I didn’t know there was one.”

“Exactly what did you think was above the ceiling?” he inquired with the same scathing tone she remembered from high school.
“Did you imagine you would absorb this
information through osmosis, Miss Carey, or could you open your text?”

She followed him into the ticket office, where he climbed up on the old desk and pushed aside a splintery access panel above his head. As she watched how effortlessly he pulled himself through the opening, a rush of desire swept through her. First his chest disappeared, then the rest of him, all in one effortless motion. She wanted to feel that strength pressed against her once more, inside her. She stepped away.

He reemerged five minutes later, looking dirtier and more withdrawn. “Nothing. Let’s get out of here.”

She’d hoped Winnie would be at the carriage house to act as a buffer while they searched its rooms, but only Gordon greeted them at the door. Colin continued to snap her head off, and by the time they reached the studio, she’d lost patience with him. “Forget it! I’ll do the rest myself.”

“Right. Since you’ve done so well already.” He pulled away the plastic. She gritted her teeth and watched. He moved the ladder to the side, looked under the drop cloth, and studied a pair of paint-splattered cracked leather boots she’d found during an earlier exploration.

“He wouldn’t have left them here if he hadn’t planned to come back,” she said.

“Who knows?”

As he returned the boots to their place under the workbench, Sugar Beth thought of Tallulah and the bitterness that came over women who defined their lives only through their relationships with men.

Finally, there was no place left to look, nothing to do but lock up. “I’m sorry, Sugar Beth.”

She’d been counting on his sarcasm to sustain her, and now she had to fight to keep her composure. “
C’est la vie,
I guess.”

“Give me a couple of days,” he said, more softly. “I’ll think of something.”

“It’s my problem, not yours.”

“Nevertheless.”

She didn’t hang around any longer. Instead, she left him standing on the path and made her way back into the house. As she shut the door, she reminded herself that finding the painting today had always been a long shot. She shouldn’t have let herself hope.

Barely five minutes passed before Winnie appeared, her arms full of grocery bags.

Gordon snarled at her as she sidestepped him. “Is that dog dangerous?”

Sugar Beth mustered the energy to reply. “So far, you and I are the only ones he doesn’t like.”

“Why would you keep an animal like that around?”

“A lesson in humility.”

Winnie glared down at Gordon, who was still growling. “Stop it right now.”

He backed away just far enough to block the doorway to the kitchen so that she had to climb over him. “I picked up some groceries,” she said. “I told Gigi to come over for lunch. I hope that’s all right.”

“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.