A Secret Life

“No, there’s not.”

“You can’t make me leave.”

“Yesterday I couldn’t make you stay.”

“I’m fickle.”

“That’s true,” said Heather.

They both turned to look at her.

“Well, it is,” she affirmed, breaking the tension.

Alain tucked his notebook into his breast pocket, turning his attention to Joan. “If you’re going to be in town, I do wish you’d reconsider endorsing the music festival, ma’am.”

Joan pointed a finger at Alain. “See? He doesn’t think I’m in any danger.”

Anthony glared at Alain. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I’ve had fifteen years in law enforcement,” said Alain. “I’d take precautions, but there’s no need to panic.”

Joan poked Anthony in the chest. “Hear that?”

“Thanks a ton,” he said to Alain.

Alain shrugged.

“For that,” said Joan, “I will endorse the festival.”

Alain tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very generous of you.”

“It’s my damn books that are ruining Indigo,” Joan muttered under her breath. “Not the music festival.”

“You’re going to Paris,” Anthony told her.

ALL THE WAY back to the B and B, Joan insisted she wasn’t going to Paris, obviously frustrating Anthony.

“Keep the blinds closed and the lights off,” he barked as he moved toward the door of the attic suite. “I’m taking the first shift, and Luc’s taking the second.”

Heather blinked beside her under the covers in the giant bed. “I feel like we’re seven.”

“That’s because you’re acting like you’re seven,” said Anthony.

Heather stuck her tongue out at him.

“Nice,” said Anthony, clicking the door shut as he left.

Joan couldn’t help but grin. She didn’t blame Anthony for being worried, but she’d given it a lot of thought. The only thing that made sense was a souvenir hunt gone wrong. Even if somebody was mad at her for writing Bayou Betrayal, there was no reason to shoot Samuel. And if they meant to harm Joan, they would have been at her place or the B and B, not his.

“Protective guy,” said Heather into the dim light.

“You know it,” Joan agreed. Usually she kind of liked his protective streak. But this time it was proving inconvenient.

She reached for her sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re okay, right?”

“Now that I know Samuel is okay, yes.”

Joan considered Heather’s profile, trying to make sense of her relationship with Samuel. Last she’d checked, they didn’t like each other.

“So, uh, what were you doing at his cottage?” she asked.

Heather gave her lacy pillow a couple of whacks, then propped it against the white wicker headboard. “He was going to give me a tour.”

“Why?”

“Because it was in your book.”

“So?” Samuel’s exact cottage wasn’t in her book. It was an amalgamation of his, her own and several other Creole cottages in the area.

“So, I read your book today.”

Joan stilled.

Heather grinned. “It was terrific.”

Emotion built in Joan’s chest until it was hard to breathe. She sat straight up, dragging a fluffy, white pillow into her lap. “Are you just saying that?”

“Does ‘just saying that’ sound like me?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m not just saying that. I liked it. It was…” Heather gazed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It was exciting and sexy and enthralling.”

“Enthralling?” That was definitely more validation than Joan had ever hoped for from a member of her family.

“You’re a good writer, Joanie.”

Joan blinked against a sudden burning in her eyes. “You think Mom and Dad will like it?”

Heather choked out a laugh. “Mom and Dad will hate it.”

Joan tried to hide her disappointment.

“Face it,” said Heather. “The better you write these things, the more popular you’ll become, and the more they’ll hate it.”

“Aarrgghh!” Joan pulled the pillow over her face.

“You can’t win on this.”

“I know.” Joan’s voice was muffled. “I know.”

Heather patted her shoulder. “You really should have taken up poetry.”

“And write about ‘the green grass kissing the morning dew’ for the rest of my natural life? I don’t think so.”

“Don’t talk heresy,” said Heather.

Joan looked up. “So you really liked my book?”

“I really liked your book.”

Joan sighed in satisfaction. Until this very moment, she hadn’t realized how much Heather’s opinion meant to her.

“But we have to talk about the other thing now,” said Heather.

“What other thing?”

Heather tilted her head sideways and leaned in close. “I walked in on you and Anthony.”

Oh. That other thing. “Well…” Joan started slowly. “I guess, under the circumstances, we forgive you.”

Heather gave her a shove on the shoulder.

Joan tried really hard not to think about what Heather must have seen.

“I thought you said you weren’t sleeping with him.”

“I wasn’t. I’m not.”

“What do you mean, you’re not.”

“I mean…” Joan stopped herself short, realizing she was about to make the situation worse.

Heather blinked at her for a second. “Oh my God.” Her shriek of laughter rang out, and Joan buried her face in the pillow.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

Before Joan could get her mind around what was happening, the bedroom door crashed open. Anthony and Luc burst into the room, rifles drawn.

“What?” Joan cried.

“You screamed,” Anthony roared, his gaze darting to every corner of the room.

Luc turned his back to Anthony’s, pointing his weapon at the French doors.

“That was me,” said Heather.

“It’s nothing, nothing,” Joan hastily assured them with a frantic shake of her head.

Both men stopped and stared at them.

“You screamed for nothing?” asked Anthony.

Heather swallowed. “I was…uh…laughing.”