Ain’t She Sweet?

“As frequently as possible, yes.”

“You look stupid.”

“You, of course, being the ultimate fashion arbiter.” He cast a disparaging eye toward her filthy jeans and dirty sweatshirt.

She slipped off her cowboy hat and wiped a cobweb from her cheek. “You were a terrible teacher.”

“Abysmal.” He nudged aside a piece of cable with the toe of his boot.

“Teachers are supposed to build their students’ self-confidence. You called us toads.”

“Only to your faces. Behind your backs, it was a bit worse, I’m afraid.”

He had been a terrible teacher, sarcastic, critical, and impatient. But every once in a while, he’d been glorious, too. She remembered the way he used to read to them, words cascading like dusky music from his tongue. Sometimes the classroom would get so quiet it felt like nighttime, and she’d pretend they were all sitting in the dark together around a campfire someplace. He had a way of inspiring the least likely students, so that the dumbest kids found themselves reading books, the athletes were writing poetry, and shyer students began to speak up, if only to protect themselves from one of his scathing put-downs. She belatedly remembered that he was also the teacher who’d finally shown her how to write a paragraph that made sense.

As she stuck her hat back on, he gazed with distaste at the pool of stagnant water on the floor. “Is it true you didn’t go to your own father’s funeral? That seems ignominious, even for you.”

“He was dead. I’m figuring he didn’t notice.” She pushed herself up off the bench. “I saw you had your book photo taken in front of my property. I want royalties. A few thousand should do it.”

“Sue me.”

She pushed aside a section of pipe. “Exactly what are you doing here?”

“Gloating, of course. What did you think?”

She wanted to snatch up one of the broken chair legs and hit him with it, but he would undoubtedly have hit her back, and she forced herself to be practical instead. “How well did you know my aunt?”

“As well as I wanted to.” He wandered over to investigate the ticket window, not at all put off by the grime. “As a history buff, she was an invaluable source, but narrow-minded. I didn’t like her all that much.”

“I’m sure she lost sleep over that.”

He ran a finger along one of the iron bars, gazed at the dirt he’d picked up, and pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it off. “Most people don’t believe the painting exists.”

She didn’t bother asking how he knew she was looking for it. By now, everyone in town was familiar with the terms of Tallulah’s will. “It exists.”

“I think so, too. But how do you know?”

“None of your g.d. business.” She pointed toward a stack of crates. “There’s a dead bird behind there. Make yourself useful and get it out of here.”

He peered around the crates but made no move to do anything with the corpus un-delicti. “Your aunt was barmy.”

“It runs in the family. And don’t expect me to be ashamed. Yankees lock away loony relatives, but down here, we prop ’em up on parade floats and march ’em through the middle of town. Are you married?”

“I used to be. I’m a widower.”

If she hadn’t become a better person, she’d have asked if he’d killed his wife with his keen sense of humor. At the same time, she was curious. What kind of woman would have bound herself to such a critical, impossible man? Then she remembered all the high school girls sighing over him even after he’d stung them with one of his scathing rebukes. Women and difficult men. She was thankful she’d finally broken the habit.

He abandoned his investigation of the ticket window. “Tell me about boycotting your father’s funeral.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m a writer. I’m fascinated by the inner workings of the narcissistic mind.”

“I swan, all these big words are makin’ my lil ol’ head spin.”

“You were so intelligent.” He inspected one of the joists. “You had a fine brain, but you refused to use it for anything worthwhile.”

“There you go again, knocking the fashion magazines.”

“Skipping the funeral took gall, even for you.”

“I had a hair appointment that day.”

He waited, but she had no intention of telling him about that horrible year.

It had started out so well. She’d been the most popular freshman girl at Ole Miss, so caught up in the whirl of campus life she’d forgotten all about the Seawillows, ignoring their phone calls and standing them up when they drove over for a visit. Then one January morning Griffin had called to tell her that Diddie had died in the middle of the night from a cerebral hemorrhage. Sugar Beth had been inconsolable. She’d thought nothing worse could ever happen to her until, six weeks later, when Griffin announced that he was marrying his longtime mistress. He expected Sugar Beth to be in the front row of the church for the wedding. She’d screamed that she hated him, that she’d never set foot in Parrish again, and even though he’d threatened to disinherit her, she’d kept her word.

She’d spent his wedding day in bed with Darren Tharp, trying to numb her grief with bad sex. Not long after, when Griffin was disposing of Diddie’s things, he’d found Sugar Beth’s guilty confession. Within days, everyone had known what she’d done to Colin Byrne, and the people who’d merely disliked her before now hated her. The Seawillows, already hurt by the way she’d abandoned them, had never spoken to her again.

She’d had no chance to reconcile with her father. Right before her final exams, barely three months after his marriage, he’d suffered a fatal heart attack. Only then did she learn that he’d made good on his threat to disinherit her. In the space of five months, she’d lost her mother, her father, her best friends, and Frenchman’s Bride. She’d been too young to understand how many losses were yet to come.

“Is it true that you got married three days after they buried Griffin?” Byrne asked, with no particular display of interest in her answer.

“In my defense, I cried buckets through the ceremony.”

“Touching.”

She pulled the key from her pocket. “It’s been hilarious talking to you, but I need to lock up and get on with my day.”

“Manicure and massage?”

“Later. I have to find a job first.”

One bold, dark eyebrow angled upward. “A job? I’m incredulous.”

“I get bored if I have too much time on my hands.”

“The papers said Emmett Hooper died bankrupt, but I was certain you’d manage to come away with something.”

She thought of Gordon. “Oh, I did.”

He gazed around at the awful interior of the depot, then infuriated her by lifting one corner of his mouth in what she realized was a knife-thin smile. “You really are broke, aren’t you?”

“Only until I find the painting.”

“If you find the painting.”

“I will. You can count on it.” As she brushed past him and headed for the door, she had to force herself not to run. “Sorry you couldn’t stay longer.”

He took his time following her outside, the smile still hanging around the edges of that uncompromising mouth. “Let me make certain I’ve got this right. You’re actually going to have to work to support yourself?”

“I’m very good at it.” She twisted the lock with more force than necessary.

“Planning to wait tables again?”

“It’s honest work.” She headed for the car, trying not to look as if she were making a jailbreak. Just as she got there, he spoke from the steps of the depot.

“If you can’t find a job, come and see me. I might have something.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m going to do that, all right.” She jerked open the door, then spun back to confront him. “Unless you want our range war to get really ugly, you’d better have that chain off my driveway by nightfall.”

And didn’t that just entertain the heck out of him. “A threat, Sugar Beth?”

“You heard me.” She threw herself into the car and peeled off. As she glanced in her rearview mirror, she saw him leaning against the side of his shiny new Lexus, elegant, aloof, amused. Coldhearted bastard.