What the Heart Wants (7 page)

“My great-grandmother was the one who chose it.” Laurel gave the table the evil eye. “It was all the fashion back then, but, to tell the truth, I prefer a simpler style.”

Lolly's face lit up. “Then you'd love ours. It's real plain—straight up and down. You can see it when you visit.”

Apparently Lolly had accepted the fact that Laurel was not her mother, but was now playing matchmaker. That child was desperate for a mother.

Opening the closet door, Laurel pulled out a protective pad for the table, spread a pale pink tablecloth across it, then topped everything with delicate lace. Her fingers caressed the fragile threads. “Gramma Lorena crocheted this for her hope chest.” Mama had saved it for special occasions, and Laurel figured that having Jase and his daughter for dinner was as special as it could get.

Lolly eyed the tall, glass-fronted china cabinet. “Are we going to use the stuff in there?”

“Be careful. It's antique.” In fact, so was everything else in the house, which could get claustrophobic. It was like there was an invisible sign on the whole lot:

DO NOT TOUCH: PLEASE KEEP TWELVE INCHES DISTANCE FROM DISPLAY.

She wiped each plate with a soft towel as she took it down, just as Mama used to do, then handed it to Lolly to carry to the table. Later this fall, if the house didn't move, the china would have to go. She'd already sold the Rosenthal, but had hoped to hang on to the Limoges Haviland. Lord only knows why—it wasn't as if she'd ever have a use for it.

Laurel watched as Lolly set the crystal and the silver in place. She weighed a knife in her hand. “This stuff is heavy.”

“Erasmus bought the silverware for his first wife right after the house was finished.”

“You have so much family history.”

“I guess I have been sort of rattling on.”

“I think it's interesting. Besides…”

Laurel froze in her tracks. Did Lolly
still
think she might be a Kinkaid? How could she handle this tactfully? “Honey—”

Casting her a panicked look, Lolly quickly altered her course. “I don't know much about my own family.” Her eyes went bright, and she started talking so fast it was hard to follow her. “Dad won't tell me about my mother, and I think he's holding back about his father too. Aunt Maxie's told me all about
his
mother, though. She was her youngest sister and sorta wild.”

Laurel pressed her lips together and shoved a meat platter and two bowls into Lolly's hands, then scanned the china cabinet for the butter dish. “After we decide which serving dishes to use, we'll be through in here.”

Taking the hint, Lolly flashed the Redlander smile and changed the subject. She gestured toward the table setting. “Gosh, Laurel, whenever Dad throws a party, Aunt Maxie always hires a caterer. But you know how, like, to do all this yourself, don't you?”

Laurel glanced at the table settings. “I prefer a more hands-on approach,” she lied, her voice gentling. But maybe it wasn't a lie. There was a warm, secret joy to preparing dinner for Jase and his family, even if she was only warming it up.

By five thirty, the roast was biding its time in the oven and the sides were simmering on the stove, all according to the instructions printed on their cans, boxes, and plastic bags. Laurel hung her mother's frilly apron on the back of a chair and breathed a sigh of relief. She might not be Cordon Bleu, but she could read.

Taking a seat at the big round table, she closed her eyes for a second and inhaled deeply. Cooking was a hassle, but it smelled wonderful. If she could bottle up that aroma and sell it, she wouldn't have to move out of Bosque Bend—she could buy the town outright.

Lolly cast a glance at her, then pulled the rack out to baste the roast again, although Piggly Wiggly's instructions didn't call for basting more than once. Since cooking was apparently as new an experience to Lolly as to her, Laurel suspected her culinary assistant was getting a kick out of playing with the juice. No harm done. She closed her eyes again.

“Laurel.”

What now? Lolly was standing in front of her, frowning.

“Laurel, I can take care of everything down here, so why don't you go up and change clothes? You know”—she smiled and batted her lashes—“get into something sexy.”

Laurel blinked and glanced down at her happy face shirt. Lolly was right. She did need to change—not into anything sexy, of course, but something more appropriate for company.

She rose from the chair. “Okay, and you can borrow one of my dresses if you want to. I think I have a few that would work, but they'd be ankle-length on you.”

“Me? This shirt will do me just fine. Dad sees me every day, but you”—she smiled again—“you're special.”

Laurel passed Lolly's comment off with a laugh, but she couldn't help but wonder. Had Jase fantasized about her over the years like she had about him? She'd thought there was an immediate reconnection on both sides when he visited her yesterday, but was it for real?

But she really should get into a nicer outfit. All the way up the stairs, her forebears agreed, especially Erasmus's first wife, who was supposed to have been something of a stickler for convention. She probably needed to be, with those four roguish-looking daughters.

Laurel anointed herself with the last of Mama's Chanel body cream, changed to fresh underwear—as if anyone would be able to tell—and slipped into a cream-colored trousers outfit she'd bought years ago on a shopping trip to Dallas. It was fairly conservative, covering everything quite well, although the fabric was somewhat clingy. Pearl drops went in her ears, and she draped a triple loop of pearls around her neck.

Now for her face. It had been a couple of years since she'd used anything more than lipstick and sunscreen, but, sorting through her dressing table drawer, she located some mascara and a compact of eye shadow. That should do the trick. Or did it? She studied herself in the mirror. She looked so—so
commonplace
. Lolly wanted her to look sexy…and maybe Jase did too.

She undid the two top buttons of her blouse. Her mother's soft voice immediately told her that people expected more modesty and less exposure from a minister's daughter.

Maybe she should rebutton.

On the other hand, Mama always worried about what people thought, and it killed her in the end.

Laurel moved her hand away from her neckline and released her ponytail. Another minute to fix her hair and she'd be ready. She picked up her comb and looked in the mirror.

Darn! The rubber band had crimped her up! She wet a comb and tried to repair the damage in the bathroom mirror.

Quick footsteps came down the hall and paused just outside her door. “You decent?”

Laurel moved back into the bedroom. “I'm dressed, Lolly. Come on in.”

“I just thought I'd come check”—Lolly blinked in surprise—“You look
hot
!” She reached out to touch Laurel's sleeve. “I love the feel of the fabric—and the way it moves.” Stepping back, she looked her hostess up and down, frowning as she focused on her hair.

“We need to do something about your—um—
coiffure.
You sit down and I'll be right back. I never go anywhere without my hair stuff.”

A second later, she returned with a bathroom towel over her shoulder and her arms overflowing with salon supplies, all of which she dumped on Laurel's bed.

Laurel stared at the pile: scissors, shampoo, conditioner, a blow dryer, giant containers of styling gel, mousse and hair spray, and what looked like an industrial-sized curling iron. No wonder there wasn't any room in Lolly's backpack for a change of clothes.

“Uh, I have my own curling iron and blow dryer,” she ventured in a weak voice, eying the black-and-chrome mechanism Lolly was plugging into the electrical socket on the wall. That thing looked lethal.

Lolly pinned a bathroom towel around Laurel's neck. “You just stay still and let me take care of everything.” She waved the curling iron around for emphasis. “I do all my friends' hair and they love it.” Combing through Laurel's hair, she lifted tresses here and there to examine them. “You've been cutting it yourself, haven't you?'

“I didn't want to bother going to the hairdresser's.” She didn't want to spend the money, Besides, Saundra Schlossnagel Crosswaithe, who'd taken over Ooh La La Salon and Boutique when her mother developed Parkinson's, had sent her a registered letter telling her they would no longer welcome her patronage.

“It's uneven.” Lolly reached for her scissors. “I'll, like, take care of that. Just a snip here and there.”

Laurel started to protest, but Lolly was already cutting.

“There, I've fixed it,” she announced. “All you needed was a little trim. Now for the fun part.”

Laurel watched in the mirror as Lolly worked a glob of foamy mousse into her hair, then picked up the comb and smoothed out the bangs, blending them to the side. A few deft twists of the curling iron and Laurel's shoulder-length bob became a graceful cascade turned slightly under at the tips, with one purposefully errant strand going against the tide.

Lolly stepped back to pouf the hairdo with spray. “Check it out. Wiggle your head a little.”

Laurel watched her hair ripple and fall back in place again. “This is great, Lolly. You really know what you're doing. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I want you to look good when Dad comes to dinner.”

Laurel glanced at the clock on her dressing table. “He'll be here any minute. We'd better check how the roast is doing.”

There were no pauses on the stairs to study the portraits this time, but once in the kitchen, Lolly insisted Laurel's role be strictly supervisory. “You need to sit down and stay nice. I'll lift all the lids and open the oven.”

Laurel couldn't help but smile. Lolly obviously had a not-so-ulterior motive, but as long as it remained unspoken, she'd go along with it. Luckily, the only casualty was the tin of rolls, which had burned because the timer had been set wrong. Lolly dumped the tiny, pitiful lumps of charcoal into the step-on trash can, and Laurel stuck their backups in the oven. All she would need to do was delay everyone at the door for a minute or two for the replacements to finish baking. Or, if Jase and his aunt were a bit late, it would be even better.

Lolly took the chair next to her. “Those pearls you have on are gorgeous. Are they for real?”

Laurel reached up to the necklace. “Yes. They were my grandmother's. Grampa gave them to Gramma when they were married, and Mama had them restrung for my sixteenth birthday.”

Lolly tilted her head in inquiry. “What was she like—your mother, I mean?”

“Mama? She was older than most of my friends' mothers and rather conservative, but very sweet.”

“But what did she
look
like?” Lolly persisted, her voice quieting. “I can't tell from the painting because her hair is mostly white. Was she dark, like you?”

Laurel shook her head. “No. I take after my father. He was tall and had brown hair, but Mama was fair and rather short, more your height.”

Lolly's eyes widened and she sucked in a deep breath.

Laurel could have kicked herself. Her description had given Lolly wings to another flight of fantasy, and there was no way to take it back. But it didn't matter. All she wanted was to keep the peace for what little time they had left. Jase would be here soon and Lolly would leave with him, and she'd probably never see either of them ever again.

Jase spotted a familiar intersection, signaled, and turned south, flipping down his sun visor against the relentless sunshine coming in from the right. Almost there. He'd know the way to Laurel's house blindfolded.

The scent of newly budded roses wafted across the car, and he glanced over at the sheaf of blush pink that Maxie was holding for him. A gentleman brought flowers to a lady, especially if the lady had invited him for dinner, and he was determined to make a good impression on Laurel. Attitude, behavior, and self-control were the keys to success, he reminded himself. Reverend Ed had taught him that.

They'd been in the pastor's small study off the front room, and Jase had just vented his anger at the world. “I hate my father and I hate Bosque Bend and I hate myself!” he'd said, banging his hand on Reverend Ed's desk for emphasis.

He hated Marguerite too, but he wasn't going to say it.

The good man hadn't even blinked. Instead, his austere features reflected concern and sympathy. He'd laid a comforting hand on Jase's shoulder.

“You're angry, and you have a right to be, Jason—the world has dealt badly with you.” He'd stopped for a second, as if searching for the right words. “But be careful. Remember that you want to take a positive viewpoint, be honorable, and not let yourself be led astray. Hate will get you nowhere. In fact, it gives that person a certain…certain
power
over you. You need to free yourself of the past in order to plan for the future.” Then Reverend Ed had taken an old-fashioned fountain pen from his pocket and reached for a legal pad. “Now, let's figure out some immediate goals for you.”

The future, not the past
—wise advice from a wise man, advice Jase tried to live by. And not only had Reverend Ed pointed him toward a better life, but he'd also stuck by him when news of the mess with Marguerite broke. He'd even tried to persuade Charles Bridges, the district attorney, to file charges against Marguerite for statutory rape.

As if that would fly in Bosque Bend. Bert Nyquist, who had the ear of Dale Fassbinder, a school board trustee, was insisting that Jase had assaulted Marguerite. The school board's reaction was to hush everything up by putting Marguerite on leave and running him out of town.

Nevertheless, he owed Laurel's father a lot.

He glanced across at his aunt. And he owed Maxie a lot too. Not many teenage guys get saddled with newborns, and the idea of fatherhood, of being responsible for a tiny, squalling, demanding scrap of humanity, had been scary. He could never have handled the situation without Maxie.