Breath of Scandal

Breath of Scandal by Sandra Brown

PROLOGUE

New York City, 1990

She was going back to Palmetto.

Standing at her office window, Jade Sperry adjusted the blinds and gazed down twenty stories at the snarled traffic around Lincoln Center. A cold wind whipped around the street comers with the impetus of the city buses that belched noxious fumes into the polluted air. Looking like frantic, yellow beetles, taxi cabs scurried from one congested traffic lane to another. Pedestrians never broke their stride, but continued to move, clutching their belongings.

It had been a struggle for Jade to adjust to such constant motion when she moved to New York. At first intersections proved hazardous. There was nothing quite as terrifying as standing on the curb of a busy avenue in downtown Manhattan, wondering which would mow her down first-a menacing taxi, a lumbering city bus, or the hoards of people pressing her from behind and growing impatient with the out-of-towner whose speech was as slow as her hesitant gait.

As with every challenge, Jade had ducked her head and tackled it. She didn't move as fast, or hear as quickly, or

Sandra Brouw

speak as rapidly as the natives, but she wasn't intimidated by them-just different. She hadn't been bred to bustle. Jade Sperry had been raised in an environment where the most industrious individual on a summer day might be a dragonfly skimming a tidal swamp.

By the time she reached New York, she had become accustomed to hard work and self-sacrifice. So she had acclimated and survived, because her South Carolinian stiffnecked pride was just as characteristic as her speech.

Today, it had all paid off. Thousands of hours of planning, plotting, and hard work had finally been rewarded. No one could guess how many years and tears she had invested in her return to her hometown.

She was going back to Palmetto.

There were those there who had much to atone for, and Jade would see to it that they did. The restitution she had dreamed of was within her grasp. She now had the power to make it happen.

She continued to gaze out the window, but little of the street scene below registered with her. Rather, she saw tall grass swaying in coastal marshes. She smelled pungent salt air and heady magnolias. She tasted low-country cooking. The skyscrapers were replaced by tall pines; the broad avenues became sluggishly flowing channels. She remembered how it felt to breathe air so heavy and thick that it didn't even stir the limp, gray Spanish moss that dripped from the branches of ancient live oaks.

She was going back to Palmetto.

And when she got there, all hell was going to break loose.

CHAPTER

One

Palmetto, South Carolina, 1976 "The hell you say!"

"Swear to God." "You're a liar, Patchett."

"How 'bout it, Lamar? Am I lying, or not? Can't a good whore put a rubber on you using only her mouth?" Lamar Griffith divided his quizzical look between his best

friends, Hutch Jolly and Neal Patchett. "I don't know, Neal. Can she?"

"Why'd I bother asking you," Neal scoffed. "You've never been to a whore."

"And you have?" Hutch guffawed. "Yeah, I have. Lots of times."

The three high school seniors occupied a booth at the local Dairy Barn. Hutch and Lamar shared one vinyl bench. Neal was sprawled along the other, across the pink Formica table.

:,I don't believe a word of it," Hutch said. 'My old man took me to her."

Lamar grimaced at the thought. "Weren't you embarrassed?"

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"Hell no."

Hutch looked at Lamar scornfully. "He's lying, you fool." Turning back to Neal, he asked, "Where is this whorchouse?"

Neal checked his reflection in the plate glass window at the end of the booth. His handsome face gazed back at him. Just the right amount of dark blond bangs dipped low over the brows above his sexy green eyes. His maroon and white high school letter jacket looked well used and hung jauntily off his shoulders.

"I didn't say he took me to a whorehouse. I said he took me to a whore."

Hutch Jolly wasn't as physically attractive as his friend Neal. He was a big, gawky boy with wide, bony shoulders and bright red hair. His ears poked straight out from the sides of his head. Leaning in closer, he licked his fleshy lips. His voice was soft and conspiratorial. "You mean to tell me there's a whore right here in town? Who is she? What's her name? Where does she live?"

Neal gave his friends a lazy smile. "You think I'm going to share a secret like that with you two? Next thing I'd know, you'd be beating down her door, making damn fools of yourselves. I'd be ashamed to claim I knew you."

He signaled the waitress and ordered another round of cherry Cokes. Once their fountain drinks had been delivered, Neal sneaked a silver flask from the inside pocket of his letter jacket and liberally laced his drink before offering it to the others. Hutch helped himself to the bourbon.

Lamar declined. "No, thanks. I've had enough." "Chickenshit," Hutch said, gouging him in the gut with his elbow.

Neal slipped the flask back into his jacket pocket. "My old man says there are two things a man never gets enough of. Whiskey and women."

"Amen." Hutch agreed with anything Neal said. "Don't you agree, Lamar?" Neal taunted.

The dark-haircd boy shrugged. "Sure."

Frowning with displeasure, Neal flopped back against the

booth. "You're getting downright serious on us, Lamar. If you can't keep up, we'll have to start leaving you behind. "

Lamar's dark eyes filled with worry. "What do you mean 'keep up'T'

"I mean Re raising hell. I mean like getting laid. I mean like getting drunk."

"His mama doesn't like for him to do those bad things." Hutch effeminately folded his large, ruddy hands beneath his chin and batted his eyelashes. Speaking in a falsetto voice, he looked and sounded ridiculous. Lamar took the jibe seriously.

"I puked my guts out the same as y'all last Friday night!" he exclaimed. "Didn't I steal those watermelons this summer like you told me to, Neal? Wasn't I the one who bought the spray paint when we wrote that graffiti on the post office wall?"

Hutch and Neal laughed at his vehemence. Neal reached across the table and slapped Lamar's cheek. "You've done real good, Lamar. Real good." Unable to keep a straight face, he burst into laughter again.

Hutch's bony shoulders were shaking with mirth. "You puked up more than the two of us put together, Lamar. What'd your mama think of your hangover yesterday morning?"

"She didn't know I was feeling bad. I stayed in bed." They were bored. Sunday nights were always boring. The bad girls were recuperating from Saturday night bacchanals and didn't want to be bothered. The good girls went to church. There were no sporting events scheduled on Sundays. They hadn't felt like crabbing or fishing that evening.

So Neal, always the leader and strategist, had rounded up the other two in his sports car and they had cruised the streets of Palmetto, looking for something to do to amuse themselves. But after cruising the main drag several times, they had failed to find any action in town.

"Want to go out to Walmart and look around?" Lamar had suggested.

The other two chorused, "No."

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"I know," Neal said in a burst of inspiration, "let's go to one of the nigger churches. That's always a hoot."

"Un-uh," Hutch said, shaking his fiery head. "My daddy said he'd skin me if we did that again. Last time we went, it nearly started a race riot." Hutch's father, Fritz, was the county sheriff. Fritz Jolly had served as the boys' consciences on numerous occasions.

Their last resort had been to go to the Dairy Bam, hoping that some action would find them. As long as they kept placing orders and behaved themselves, the management wouldn't kick them out. Of course, there would be hell to pay if Neal was caught with the bottle of whiskey in his coat.

His father, Ivan, had told him before leaving the house not to take any beer with him. "How come?" Neal had asked.

"Because Fritz called me yesterday morning. He was good and pissed off. Said Hutch came home stinking drunk Friday night and that you had supplied the beer. He said the sheriffs son can't be driving around town drunk and raising hell. Dora Jolly was fit to be tied, too. I told him I'd look into it."

"Well?" "Well, I'm looking into it," Ivan had thundered. "Lay off the beer tonight."

"Christ." Neal slammed out of the house. Once he got to his car, he chuckled and patted the inside pocket of his jacket, where he'd hidden the silver flask of expensive bourbon. Ivan would never miss it.

By now, however, the fun of having pulled one over on his old man had fizzled. Hutch was devouring his second hamburger. His table manners disgusted Neal. He ate each meal like it might be his last, taking huge bites, gulping noisily, not bothering to suspend conversation while he was chewing.

Lamar was always a gutless pain in the ass. He was a perennial  worrier whose company Neal tolerated because of Lamar's culpability. It was amusing to have a sucker around to be the butt of practical jokes and a target for

verbal abuse. Lamar was affable and above averagelooking, but the only real purpose he served was to be Neal's punching bag.

Tonight, he was as sullen and nervous as ever. Every time anybody spoke to him, he jumped. Neal supposed Lamar's habitual jitters came from living with his mama. That old bat was enough to make anybody jumpy.

Myrajane Griffith thought she was hot snot because she was a former Cowan. At one time, the Cowans had been the largest producing cotton planters between Savannah and Charleston. But that had been long before folks nowadays could remember. The Cowans had fallen on hard times; most of them had died. The old plantation house near the coast was still standing, but it had long ago been foreclosed upon and condemned.

Still, Myrajane clung to her maiden name like a runt shoat to a hind teat. She was an employee of the Patchett Soybean Plant, like almost everybody else in the three neighboring counties. She rubbed elbows with coloreds and people she wouldn't have spit on in better days. She had browbeaten her husband until he died. When Ivan viewed Lamar's father's body in the casket, he had remarked that the poor bastard was smiling for the first time in years.

Jesus, Neal thought, no wonder Lamar is nervous all the time, living with that harpy.

Neal was glad his mother had died when he was a baby. A series of nannies, mostly colored women from around Palmetto, had reared him until he got too old to spank and started hitting back. His mother, Rebecca Flory Patchett, had been blond and pale and the worst lay Ivan had ever had, or so Ivan had told Neal when the boy had expressed curiosity about his mother's nature.

"Rebecca was a pretty little thing, but screwing her was like sticking it in an icepack. She gave me what I wanted, though." Here Ivan had socked him lightly on the jaw. "A son. "

Neal thought that having one parent to answer to was bad enough, although Ivan was lenient and usually looked the other way whenever he got into trouble. Ivan paid for Neal's

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speeding tickets and covered the cost of the things he destroyed or shoplifted.

"For Chris' sake, do you know who my daddy is!" Neal had shouted to the hardware store clerk who had recently caught him stealing.

Sheriff Fritz Jolly had called Ivan to the scene to smooth things over. Neal had walked out of the store with the hunting knife he had pilfered, wearing a complacent smile that infuriated the frustrated sales clerk. The fellow later found his car with four slashed tires.

Neal wished he had something fun like that to do tonight. "Church is out." Lamar's observation pulled Neal from his musings.

A group of young people filed into the Diary Barn. Neal immediately dismissed the boys as Jesus freaks and thereby unworthy of his attention. But he gave each girl a smoldering once-over. Just that did wonders for a girl's ego and made her dream good dreams at night.

Besides, it never hurt to prepare a field for future plowing. He might be desperate for company some night and need one of these girls. If and when he called, she would remember the lustful look he'd given her. He had once boasted that he could convert a church-choir soprano into a slut in five minutes flat. It wasn't an empty boast.

"Hi, Neal. Hi, Lamar. Hi, Hutch."

Donna Dee Monroe stopped at the end          of their booth. Out of habit, Neal's eyes slid down her body, then back up. "Hi, Donna Dee. Did you get saved tonight?"

"I'm already saved. But I'm sure you're going to bum in hell, Neal Patchett. "

He laughed. "Goddamn right. I look forward to every minute of getting there. Hi, Florene. "

One of the girls with Donna Dee had been at the country club Valentine's dance a few weeks ago. The pickings had been slim that night, so he'd flirted with her when ordinarily he wouldn't even have noticed her. He'd danced with her until she was melting-literally. When he got her outside and slipped his hand beneath her dress and between her thighs, his fingers had come away damp. Just

as it was getting interesting, her daddy had come looking for her.

Now Neal lowered his eyelids and, in a sultry voice, asked, "Did you have any sins to confess tonight, Florene? Been entertaining any impure thoughts lately?"

The girl blushed to the roots of her hair, mumbled something unintelligible, and hurried to catch up with the group of churchgoers she had come in with.

Donna Dee lingered. She was a cheeky girl with dark, flashing eyes and a quick, sometimes ribald wit. Unfortunately, she wasn't too much in the looks department. Her hair was straight and thin. She wore it parted down the middle, not from choice but because that's all she could coax it to do. Her profile came to a point where her nostrils met her upper lip. Together with her uncorrected overbite and darting eyes, she resembled a friendly rat. She had a thing for Hutch, but, as usual, he ignored her.

"Look who's here," he said, drawing Neal's attention to the parking lot beyond the window. "Mr. Student Body President. "