Ain’t She Sweet?

So Gigi knew about the Seawillows.

“They were my very best friends, but I don’t see them anymore.” Sugar Beth let that sink in for a moment. “I miss them.”

“But you’ve got a lot of other friends. Important friends you made when you lived in California and Houston. It’s not like you need the Seawillows anymore. I mean they’re not important or anything.”

A traitorous tightness gripped her throat. Her emotional rope felt frailer every day. “Real friends are always important.”

It wasn’t the answer Gigi wanted to hear, and Sugar Beth could see her quick brain getting ready to launch another battery of arguments. Before she had the chance, Sugar Beth said, “It’s late, and I’m tired. I’ll bet you are, too.”

Gigi looked crushed. Sugar Beth reminded herself that she already had more trouble than she could handle. But she understood this child a lot better than she wanted to, and as she rose from the table, she heard herself say, “I have some time off on Sunday. Maybe we could talk then.”

Gigi perked up. “I could get away in the afternoon. My parents have a concert.”

Sugar Beth remembered the posters she’d seen in town. The Ryan and Winnie Galantine Concert Series…

“I don’t think sneaking around’s a good idea.”

“My dad’s pretty strict. It’s the only way I can see you.”

Sugar Beth could understand Winnie forbidding Gigi to see her, but Ryan? Exactly what did he think Sugar Beth would do to her? “All right.” She rose from the table. “Sunday afternoon it is.”

Gigi’s face broke open in a smile. “Thanks!”

Sugar Beth couldn’t send her home alone this late, so she got her jacket. “I’ll walk with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.” She opened the door and followed Gigi outside. Gordon dashed ahead, naturally choosing to trot beside Gigi instead of his rightful owner. There were no sidewalks on Mockingbird Lane, so they walked in the street.

“My dad was your boyfriend, wasn’t he?”

“A long time ago.”

“And you and my mom didn’t get along, right? Because of her being illegitimate and everything.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I guess.” She tilted her head and gazed up at the sky. “When I leave Parrish, I’m not ever coming back.”

That’s what we all say, honey.

Lights shone through the windows of the old brick French Colonial that would have looked at home on the Vieux Carre. Gigi stopped before they got too close. “You don’t have to come any farther. My bedroom is over the back porch, and the railing’s pretty easy to climb. It’s real safe.”

“I’ll bet.” She should make her go in the door and take her punishment, except she wasn’t Gigi’s parent, and she didn’t have to do the right thing. “I’ll watch just to make sure.”

“Okay, but don’t get too close. We have landscaping lights. Win-i-fred’s idea.”

Sugar Beth heard the scorn in Gigi’s voice and issued a strict warning to herself. No piling on, no matter how tempting. She pushed away the image of Diddie’s pearls encircling Winnie’s neck. “I won’t.”

Moments later, she watched Gigi climb the wrought-iron post on the small back porch. It offered easy footholds, and before long she’d swung her leg onto the narrow roof. Just before she’d slipped open the window at the back, she turned and waved.

Sugar Beth stood too far in the shadows to be visible, but she waved back all the same.

I’ve brought your daughter home, Ryan. Safe and sound.

She sighed and gazed down at Gordon. “Come on, pal. Time for us to head for bed. We have a big day tomorrow.”

The Duke was always magnificent, but tonight he had surpassed himself.

GEORGETTE HEYER, These Old Shades

CHAPTER NINE

Colin finished shaving and made his way to his closet. Gordon usually accompanied him when he was getting dressed, but he’d been banished to the carriage house for the evening. The best thing about Sugar Beth was her dog.

A crash echoed from the vicinity of the kitchen. The caterer again. Or maybe Sugar Beth had dropped something. She’d been flying around the house all day: answering the door, rearranging flowers, arguing with the caterer. Throwing herself heart and soul into her own comeuppance.

He cursed as he stubbed his toe on the closet bench. He had no reason to feel guilty. There was a brutal simplicity about what would happen tonight, and since revenge wasn’t anything he cared to devote his life to, this would be the end of it. A clean break. He pulled a shirt from a cedar hanger. Once the evening was over, he’d write her a big severance check and never think about her again. Which, admittedly, wouldn’t be easy.

He’d just flipped the toggles on a pair of Bulgari cuff links when he heard a knock. “Go away.”

She stormed in, just as he’d known she would. She was conservatively dressed-for her at least-in black slacks and a white blouse with a V neck. If the angle was just right, as it was now, he could catch a glimpse of a lacy white bra. He missed those towering stilettos she’d shown up in, even though he was the one who’d made her change. He’d pointed out that she’d be on her feet all evening, but they both knew the truth. Guests wore dressy stilettos, not the staff. The staff also didn’t pile its hair up and let long, unruly locks fall every which way-over the curve of a flushed cheek, along the nape of a slim neck, in front of small ears where a tiny pair of gold hearts swung-but he’d let that go.

“I’m fixin’ to come to blows with that caterer,” she exclaimed, the gold hearts bobbing. “The minute he said he was from California, I should have told you to find somebody else. He’s usin’ tofu in an hors d’oeuvre. And he didn’t even deep-fry it!”

She was in full good ol’ girl mode, something he was beginning to suspect she did when she was on the defensive, which seemed to be most of the time. The flush in her cheeks made her look healthier than when she’d arrived in Parrish, but her wrist bones were still frail, and the tracery of blue veins in the back of the hand she planted on her hip might have been a road map of all the disappointments life handed out to aging beauty queens.

“He just broke that new pitcher I bought you. And did you know he was plannin’ to use disposable aluminum pans on the buffet table? I had to remind him this was a dinner party, not a fish fry.”

As she ranted on, he wanted to order her to stop putting so much energy into a party that wasn’t hers. Right from the beginning, he’d told her she’d be waiting on his guests, but she hadn’t blinked. He’d even driven the point home by instructing her to dress appropriately. Surprising how easy it was to play the bastard once you set your mind to it. If only she’d bow those proud shoulders just once and concede defeat, he could let this go. But she wouldn’t. So here they were. And, now, he simply wanted the whole thing done with.

“… make sure you take the cost of that pitcher out of his check when you pay him tonight.”

“I’ll do that.” The caterer had probably broken the pitcher because he was staring down her blouse.

“No, you won’t. Except for me, you’re Mr. Big Spender. Even with that incompetent West Coast weasel of a caterer.”

“Such prejudice from someone who once lived in California herself.”

“Well, sure, but I was drunk most of the time.”

He caught his smile just in time. He wouldn’t give in to that seductive charm. Her self-deprecating sense of humor was another manipulation, her way of making sure no one else threw the first punch.

“Is that all?”

She eyed his dark trousers and long-sleeved grape-colored shirt. “If only I hadn’t sent your dueling pistols to the cleaners.”