He took a deep breath and warned himself not to let his emotions get mixed up in business. Joan’s career was his priority, not his bruised ego. That meant he had to get this discussion back on an even keel.
“We need to sit down,” he said to her. “And we need to talk about managing this issue.”
“We need to talk about escaping to Europe,” said Heather. “Mom and Daddy are-”
“Mom and Dad know?”
“They are literate,” said Heather. “And even if they weren’t, several of their friends have called.”
Joan groaned and clutched at her stomach.
“You’re not helping,” Anthony said to Heather, moving toward Joan.
“
“Yeah? Well maybe if she had a family who gave a damn about her feelings, she wouldn’t have had to hide her career for ten years.”
Heather let out a little squeak. “How dare you suggest we don’t care about Joan.”
“How dare you suggest I have motives other than her best interests.”
“So you’ve represented her for free?”
Anthony didn’t have a quick answer for that one. There was an answer, he just didn’t have it at his fingertips.
Heather sniffed, putting her nose in the air and reaching for Joan’s hands. “Go pack a few things. The jet’s on the airstrip in St. Martinville.”
“I’m not going to Europe,” said Joan. “I’m going to deliver my tea invitations.”
Anthony let out a long-suffering sigh. “Why do we have to keep having the same conversation?”
Joan gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Because you keep getting it wrong.”
He shifted closer still, capturing her green eyes in order to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation. “There could be reporters out there, lurking behind the cypress trees, waiting to pounce.”
“You have delusions of grandeur,” she said, staring right back.
“Your story was a section headline in
After a moment’s silence, Heather spoke up. “I have to go with Anthony on this one.”
Anthony glanced sideways at her and blinked. “Really?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m still taking her to Europe.”
“I’m standing right here,” said Joan. “And nobody is taking me anywhere.”
“That a girl,” said Anthony. This was a moment in a million for an author. Joan needed to stay in the U.S., where she could capitalize on it.
“And I’m giving a tea.” She turned to Heather. “You want to stay and make your crab puffs?”
“Joanie, we can be in Paris for breakfast.”
“I’ll deliver the damn invitations for you,” said Anthony, whisking them out of Joan’s hands. He could only fight on so many fronts at once, and Heather’s Europe plan needed to be neutralized.
Once those invitations were out, he was willing to bet that Joan would stay put and host the party. He’d rather get her to New York, but Indigo was a lot better than Paris.
JOAN AND HEATHER watched Anthony’s rented black sports car back down the dirt driveway and pull onto Amelie Lane.
“So, are you sleeping with him?” asked Heather as she let the cotton print curtains fall back into place.
“No, I’m not sleeping with him.”
“Really?” Heather gave Joan the arched-brow, skeptical look that she’d perfected when they were growing up.
Joan felt a shiver of guilt, even though absolutely nothing was going on between her and Anthony. “He lives in New York. I hardly ever see him.”
Heather shrugged beneath her Anne Klein blazer and tucked her bobbed hair behind one ear. “Too bad. If you ignore the attitude, he’s pretty hot.”
Joan wasn’t about to disagree with that. Anthony was definitely hot. He also had an attitude.
“So, what did Mom and Dad say?” she asked, changing the subject to something only slightly more comfortable than her feelings for Anthony.
“That they were sure this was all some kind of a mistake.”
Joan moved back from the window and into the cluttered, brightly colored living room. “I’m sure they thought it was.”
Heather took a cushioned rattan chair and crossed one toned leg over the other. The seat was Joan’s favorite. Positioned beside a bank of windows, it overlooked the lawn, the cypress trees and the little pier that jutted out into Bayou Teche.
“What happened, Joanie? Last I heard you were writing history books.”
Joan sat down on the floral print love seat opposite. “Brian died,” she said softly, referring to her late husband.
Heather gave her a quizzical look.
“He was partway through a mystery novel,” Joan said. “And then he died. I finished it in his memory.” She smiled to herself. “And it was fun.”
“So you made up a pen name.”
“And I kept writing.” Joan spread her hands. “And now this.”
“What if you just denied it?”
“I’d be lying.”
Her sister lifted a brow again as if to question the relevance of that statement. “Yeah?”
“Aside from the ethics of the situation, I’m pretty sure I’d get caught.”
“Which makes me wonder…how did you keep it a secret this long?”
“A numbered company through Zurich.”
Heather’s dark red lips pursed in admiration. “Not bad.”
“It was Anthony’s idea.”
“I bet Daddy could hide your tracks.”
Oh, yeah, that was the answer. Engage her father in a conspiracy. “You thirsty?”
“Got a cosmopolitan?”
Joan stood. “Let me check.” She drank more wine than martinis, but lime juice was a staple in Indigo, and she entertained often enough to keep a stocked bar.
Heather rose gracefully from her chair and followed. “I don’t get what happened, Joanie.”
Joan pulled the cranberry juice and lime out of the refrigerator, setting it on the breakfast bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “Mysteries are a lot more fun than history books.”
“Did you want to be famous or something?”
“Of course not. I just wanted to have fun writing them. I figured, what’s the harm? And I did hide it for ten years.”
“See, that part blows me away. Ten
Joan scooped some ice from the freezer and dumped it into the martini shaker. “Something like that.”
“So this wasn’t your first book?”
“
Heather blinked at her in silence.
“What?” Joan asked.
“Daddy’s going to freak.”
Joan reached for the Absolut. “There was a chance he wouldn’t freak over one book?”
“No. But now he’ll freak even more.”
“You bet.” Heather perched herself on one of the high swivel chairs at the breakfast bar. She tapped her long, red fingernails against the Arborite. “I don’t get why you had to publish them.”
“Because that’s what you do with novels.”
