Sweet Talking Man Page 7

  “Why not? Both have magnetic personalities and woman kneeling at their feet.”

  “Would you be serious?”

  Fancy reached out and tweaked Abigail’s nose. “Lighten up, Francis.”

  “You’re quoting Stripes? Nice.” Abigail stacked the three pillows at the end of the scarred wooden table. “So are you going to get around to what you really want to ask me?”

  “You mean something besides how your art lessons with Mr. Yummy Yoga Pants have been going?”

  Abigail couldn’t help herself. She chuckled.

  Her mother brushed her wispy red hair from her face. “Now, that’s the Abi I love. Big laugh. Fun girl.”

  Abigail snorted. Yeah, right. Her mother remembered things differently than she did. “I still laugh.”

  “Not often enough.”

  “Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes.”

  Fancy sank into the fluffy armchair. “Come sit and tell me about Calhoun.”

  Abigail took the opposite chair, releasing a huge sigh. “Well, he’s back. He says he’s home to stay.”

  Fancy’s gaze dissected Abigail’s face. “You think he’s serious about staying?”

  “He says so. Morgan left him, presumably for another man. Quite frankly I’m surprised she lasted five years with him. She saw him as her ticket out of the bayou, but no one could have told Cal that. He was so certain he’d missed out on the life he was supposed to live.”

  “What a dumb ass,” Fancy said.

  Abigail trilled, “Language.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I grew up a Burnside. My papa could make a sailor blush. Apple, tree and all that. Besides, I say my prayers every night. The Good Lord knows Calhoun is a dumb ass, so forgiveness should be forthcoming.”

  “True. So Cal’s living with his parents and says Buster gave him his old job at the plant. That surprised me—Buster was furious at him for abandoning us to go chasing fame and fortune.”

  “Time has a way of healing anger for some folks. Buster loves Calhoun and the man isn’t getting any younger. He needs someone to take over the business when he retires.”

  “Buster will never retire.”

  “Don’t be too sure. Diabetes is tough on the body and he’s been having issues with his legs.” Fancy stared out at the winter-weary branches of the roses she loved to tend. “So what are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve known Calhoun Everett Orgeron ever since he drank his first sip of milk. He’s the kind of man who leans on people to get what he wants.” Her mother looked at her, eyes soft and sympathetic.

  “What?”

  “He wants you back?”

  Abigail clutched the arms of the chair, worry clawing her insides. “Why would you think he wants me back?”

  “I just told you. I know Calhoun. He’ll want his old life. He thinks he deserves it because he’s an Orgeron…and because he has a pretty smile. He blew through his savings living in California, played footsie on the beach with a veritable child and now he’s home. He’s not going to sign up for eHarmony, so he’ll be over at Laurel Woods sweet-talkin’ you.”

  “Well, he can bark up another tree.”

  Fancy reached over and patted her hand. “You never could resist Calhoun.”

  “The hell I can’t.” Abigail sat up straight. “He broke my heart. I spent years with my self-worth pancaked, so I’m done with Cal. His smile doesn’t work on me anymore.”

  “Good girl. I’ve been worried. I saw Birdie yesterday and I swear that child could not stop talking about Daddy this and Daddy that. She’s going to make it harder to say no to Calhoun. Birdie will want to be a family again.”

  “We are a family…just not a family who lives together. Birdie understands that. I just need to come up with some guidelines.”

  “It won’t be just Birdie who’ll press this. Be prepared, daughter of mine. Be prepared.”

  Abigail nodded as her cell phone rang. The clanging bells signaled the ringtone for St. George’s. “That’s the school. Hope Birdie’s sore throat hasn’t turned into strep again.”

  Abigail stood, answering her phone. “Hey, Lelah, don’t tell me Birdie’s running a fever.”

  Lelah Carter, the most efficient school secretary this side of the Mississippi said, “Oh, no. She’s good. Just thought you should know Cal checked her out thirty minutes ago. Said he was taking her to the Dairy Maid. He’s on the checkout list so I let her go with him, but after I thought about it, I figured you should know.”

  Abigail closed her eyes. This was why she needed to clear her head of fluff and attend to Cal and what his return meant for their lives. “Thanks, Lelah. I don’t want her to miss any instructional time, so I’ll have a word with Cal.” She clicked the end button and collapsed into her chair.

  “Everything okay with Birdie?” her mother asked.

  “Yeah, she’s fine. Cal checked her out to take her to lunch. The man didn’t even bother to call and tell me. I would have told him no.”

  Her mother made a face. “Well, he is her father. But this confirms what I said earlier. Things are about to get complicated.”

  “Yeah,” Abigail said in monotone, knowing it was important she sit down with Cal to create some rules regarding Birdie. Having Cal in town, something she’d wanted years ago, felt like being shit on by a bird. She didn’t want him here, throwing her life into chaos. She didn’t need him bribing Birdie with hamburgers and ice cream and suggesting he could make up to her what he’d destroyed so long ago.

  She was tempted to call Morgan and beg her to take Cal back…for the good of everyone.

  “I’ve been praying for a little excitement in your life, but I don’t think you want Calhoun Orgeron to give it to you,” Fancy said.

  “Lord, no,” Abigail said. “It’s like he’s trying to rattle me. Provoke me. That’s not the excitement I need.”

  “Calhoun’s a man obsessed with himself, so don’t make this about you. He wanted to spend some time with his daughter today and didn’t think about how it might affect anyone else. He’s all about treats and giggles. Always has been.”

  “Maybe he didn’t mean to ruffle my feathers, but it was irresponsible of him. And what is he teaching Birdie? That it’s okay to shirk school for a root-beer float?”

  Fancy chuckled. “Oh, come on, Abigail. You’re mad because you didn’t give your permission. I’ve sat by for several years watching you exercise such firm control over your life that wiggle room is nonexistent.”

  “Oh, God, Mom. Please don’t start this now. Not when I have to go deal with Cal and Birdie.”

  Fancy crossed her legs Buddha-style and shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I mentioned it. Yes, you and Cal need to lay some ground rules, but he hasn’t seen his daughter since last summer. Missing a few hours of school won’t hurt her. Birdie needs you to give her a break every now and then.”

  Abigail looked at her mother, at the woman who never let her or her brothers miss school unless vomit or a high fever were involved. As a former teacher, Fancy had declared that personal days were for other people. Beauchamps didn’t miss school for no reason. “Who are you?”

  “A woman who has stared cancer in the face and known fear. A woman who realizes that doing the right thing is not always the best thing. A woman who has been watching her daughter hold on tighter and tighter to life, thinking she can control every aspect. Birdie needs breathing room, honey.”

  “Why do our conversations always turn to my mothering skills?” Abigail shoved her phone into her purse and gathered up the pillows.

  “I’m not trying to be critical.”

  “Yeah, you are,” Abigail said, attempting to stuff the damn pillow into the bag it fit in moments before but was now refusing to go in. “Get in.”

  “Calm down,” her mother said in that voice that made Abigail feel anything but calm.

  Aggravation exploded inside her. Screw everyone. She was doing the best she could to raise Birdie. So she liked schedules a
nd rules. People functioned better when they had them. And one of the rules she had was her ex-husband wasn’t allowed to check their daughter out of school for a cheeseburger. “I know I’m not perfect, but I try really hard to give Birdie parameters. That’s my job. To keep her safe and help her make good decisions.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “No. No buts, Mother. I have to go. Thanks for the pillows.” Abigail didn’t give her mother the opportunity to say anything further. She headed for the front of the house. Her mother called out to her, but she ignored her.

  Fancy had become increasingly meddlesome when it came to Birdie, constantly bringing up the way Abigail parented. Her mother’s well-placed suggestions wore on Abigail. She loved Fancy and certainly valued her mother’s opinion, but that didn’t mean she agreed with her.

  “Birdie needs some breathing room,” Abigail mimicked under her breath. “Breathing room, my ass. She needs to straighten the hell up is what she needs to do. And Cal needs to learn there are parameters.”

  Abigail tossed the bag with the pillows in the back of her Volvo wagon and climbed inside, aware she’d been muttering to herself like an old woman. As she put the key in the ignition, she glanced at her loafers.

  The ones she’d picked up at Talbots.

  The ones that were like Marcie’s mother’s.

  She pulled down the visor and clicked open the mirror. Her brow had knitted into four lines so that when she relaxed, her forehead remained wrinkled. She rubbed at the lines, noticing the dark circles under her eyes and the ever-present swoop of silver that fell over the right side of her hair. The stripe had appeared almost overnight five years ago—a month after Cal left her.

  She wore her life on her face and the look wasn’t becoming. She stared at her hands that gripped the steering wheel. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers, wondering why she held on so tightly. Her insides felt just as tense. As if she might snap any moment.

  She glanced into her own green eyes and sighed.

  Who had she become?

  If she stood back and observed herself, what would she see? A thin woman who wore buttoned-up cardigans with old-lady shoes. A woman who drove the safest car available. A woman who organized her calendar with colored tabs. Who wore dark colors. Who didn’t date because it was too much of a hassle. A woman who hadn’t had sex in one year, four months and a handful of days…with another person, that is. And even going to the trouble of picking up her vibrator had become too big a commitment. She didn’t have the energy for invoking fantasies that turned her on enough to go there.

  Pathetic, really.

  No. Really pathetic.

  What was she so afraid of? That she would be humiliated once again? That love would beat her up and leave her bleeding on the ground?

  Who lived like that?

  She glanced at herself in the mirror again before shifting into Reverse.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HILDA BRUNET WASN’T a woman to be messed with. She had severe features, a biting wit and shoes that would make a prostitute jealous.

  And any project she undertook succeeded.

  Because if there were even a small chance for failure, she never touched the project.

  So it was expected that each member of the Laurel Woods Art Festival committee pull his or her weight. That meant everyone on the committee would be present in Hilda’s parlor on Thursday night to report on what they’d accomplished since October.

  Yes, parlor. And said parlor was very pink. Leif sank onto a velvet settee—at least he thought that was the right word for the tufted monstrosity.

  “Would you care for tea, Mr. Lively?” Hilda asked. She wore satin pants that looked like pajamas and backless, pointy-toed shoes.

  “I brought Scotch.” He lifted the cylinder containing the fifteen-year-old Highland Park.

  Hilda raised her perfectly waxed eyebrows. “You do know the Baptist preacher’s wife is on the committee?”

  “She can have some, too,” he said, giving her his most charming smile.

  Hilda’s lips twitched. “You’re a naughty boy. I like you.” She set down the teacup and walked across the parlor to pull two whiskey glasses from the cabinet.

  No one else had arrived yet. Leif had come early, hoping to find out a little background on the festival and Simeon Harvey. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass and pouring for himself. “I like you, too.”

  Hilda folded herself into a chair. “Really? Most people dislike me upon meeting, but I rather like that about myself. Approval is given too easily these days.”

  Leif crooked an eyebrow. “Maybe so, or perhaps some of us are simply born less intriguing.”

  “I gather you consider yourself to be not as intriguing? Ha.”

  “I’m an open book,” Leif said, sipping the Scotch and looking around at the virulent pink parlor. The decor didn’t fit the sleek, droll Hilda in the least.

  “It’s interesting you see yourself as such when no one in this town knows anything about you.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “No one asks much about me. They just look at me like I’m an alien. The little green kind. Not the ‘in the US illegally’ kind.”

  “You’re easy to look at, alien or otherwise. So why are you here?”

  He pointed down and lifted a questioning eyebrow.

  “Not my parlor. Magnolia Bend.”

  “I needed a job.”

  “Hogwash. A man like you taking a job like the one at St. George’s? Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fine school but it’s a small school. Feels to me as though you’re hiding.” Hilda crossed her thoroughbred legs. “Are you?”

  A frisson of alarm slithered up his spine. “Of course not.”

  “Then you’re seeking.”

  Damn sneaky woman. He’d been wrong about her. He would get nothing from her until she got something from him. “I suppose that’s part of it. I am looking for something.”

  “Ooh,” she drawled, her dark eyes brightening. “Do tell.”

  “You know, perhaps there’s something to this intriguing business. I might want you to work a little harder to get my secrets. As you said, things are so readily given these days.” He smiled so she knew he teased, but he could see Hilda had found a thread to tug. She’d pull until she unwound his story…or rather his mother’s story.

  Calliope.

  His beautiful, tragic mother.

  What reaction would Hilda have if he mentioned his mother’s name?

  Hilda would have known of Calliope. Of that he felt sure. But something held him back from bringing up the artist who’d once lived on the grounds of Laurel Woods. Even as a small child, he’d sensed that his mother held on to some sort of sadness from her past. And on the day she died, a mere hour before she took her last breath, Calliope had whispered to him, “Baby?”

  “Right here, Mother.”

  “I never told you. Never did,” she said between shallow breaths. “He doesn’t know about you. I should have told him but I couldn’t.”

  “Wait, who doesn’t know about me? My father? You never told him he had a son?” He’d tried not to sound accusing but the emotion was there. He took her hand and stroked it, tried to calm himself. “Who is he?”

  “I’m scared. They think I murdered a man. He made me leave. He said no one would believe me. You have to understand. I couldn’t let anyone hurt you. You were—” Her words faded and she gasped for air, shuddering.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, his heart thumping against his rib cage, his mouth dry as sand.

  Her words were likely jumbled by the drugs the nurses had given her to make her passing more comfortable. His mother’s emaciated, cancer-ridden body was already reminiscent of a corpse, awaiting relief. Her dark eyes reflected madness.

  “I didn’t do it. Fi-fin—” She opened her mouth as if tasting the air before refocusing on him. “I didn’t say goodbye. Can’t you see? I didn’t tell him I loved him.”

  “Who? Who are you talking about? My father?�
�

  “I’m afraid, Leif. I should have told him. He needed to know about you. Will you tell him for me?” she whispered before closing her eyes, her breath falling away.

  “Wait is he still alive? Where is he, Mother?”

  “Mag…Magnolia. Ben…” she managed to say before squeezing his hand as she faded into unconsciousness. She never woke. He left the room not knowing what she meant about murder, his father or her past. He’d gone home, done some research and hit upon Magnolia Bend. He’d made plans to land in town some way and, just like that, the job at St. George’s had landed in his lap.

  For the past five months he’d imagined his father in every man in the town, but he hadn’t made much progress. He told himself it was because he needed the townspeople to trust him first before he started asking questions, but something else held him back—the fear of rejection, the idea that the truth of who his father was might be worse than not knowing.

  So even though he could use Hilda’s help, he wasn’t ready to tell her what he truly sought.

  “Oh, a tease to boot,” Hilda said, jarring him into the present and the meeting that would take place in ten minutes.

  “So tell me about the festival. Why resurrect it?” he asked, picking up a piece of celery from the silver platter holding snacks.

  “Well, the festival never should have been canceled, but when the town council decided to do away with it, I was living in New Orleans. I’ve been here for a few years now and I petitioned for its revival. And voilà!”

  “Hilda gets what she wants,” he said, chewing the celery, which did little to complement the whiskey.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “When did the festival first begin?”

  “Back in the early seventies. Simeon Harvey was the driving force behind it. His father owned Tri-State Drilling, which meant the Harvey family had as much money as Louisiana has mosquitoes. Simeon was the last of the Harveys and the boy was an odd duck. He wore the strangest clothes and—”

  Leif looked at his fair-trade hoodie, drawstring pants and rope sandals.

  Hilda paused, assessing Leif. “Not like you, dear boy. Simeon liked frothy clothing, carried a pocket watch and collected butterflies. He even wore a monocle. Perfectly nice man, but odd. You understand?”