Sweet Talking Man Read online

  “I like odd.”

  Hilda fanned herself, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Simeon came to live at Laurel Woods shortly after he graduated from a prep school on the East Coast. His parents left him the estate and we rarely saw him around town. But one day he showed up at the city council meeting wearing a pair of silk slippers, a long trench coat and a bad toupee.”

  Leif lifted his eyebrows.

  “I know. Why on earth would a man with so much money buy a bad toupee? But anyhow, he submitted a proposal calling for a springtime art festival to celebrate local artists. Since Simeon volunteered to fund the first festival on his own, even offering a top prize of one thousand dollars for the winner of an art competition, the council chaired by my late husband couldn’t think of a good reason why we shouldn’t give the festival the green light. All Simeon asked was that we name it after his historic home, so the Laurel Woods Art Festival was born in 1973. The top prize in each artistic category was named the Golden Magnolia.”

  “So this guy loved art.”

  Hilda made a face. “Well, of course. His mother had piddled in ceramics and collected paintings. For a while, the Harveys owned a Monet, a Rembrandt and a sculpture by Degas, all of it sold when oil took a downturn. The family recovered financially, but Simeon got hooked on art. At one point he even tried to create a commune on the grounds of Laurel Woods.”

  Leif already knew most of this from his internet search, but feigned interest anyway. “A commune, huh?”

  “He converted the old cabins on his land into studios were artists could live and work. He even brought in artists from Europe. Made Magnolia Bend a more interesting place, I’ll tell you. Artists are—” she paused, her gaze lifting to meet his as she searched for the right word “—a colorful bunch.”

  Leif chuckled. “Nice save.”

  “Oh, pish, I forget myself sometimes. That’s what happens when you get old.”

  “How would you know? You’re not old.”

  Hilda looked him straight in the eye. “I love a man who lies to make an old woman feel better.”

  “So what kind of artists came to Laurel Woods? I live right behind the place and I’m fascinated that an artistic community once thrived there.”

  “Well, thrived is a relative term, but there were all sorts of creative types—weavers, painters, some guy who made sculptures out of old tires. Some were older, many were young. All were interesting.”

  He still had no insight into his mother. He’d hoped Hilda would mention Calliope in some manner, but then why would she? As she’d stated, all kinds of artists flocked to Magnolia Bend on the whim of a rich man with a bad toupee.

  “Of course when Simeon died, his nephew did away with all those crazy artists—his nephew’s words, not mine. None of us were surprised by Bart’s refusal to continue housing the artists since Simeon’s death came under suspicious circumstances. It was—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Damn.

  Hilda rose and pressed her hands against her pants, a habit her cousin Abigail shared with her. “Right on time. I had worried people might be late.” She headed toward the foyer, leaving Leif to wish she’d finished her sentence.

  Was his mother involved in Simeon Harvey’s death? Was that why she was so terrified?

  He couldn’t bring it up to Hilda again without her growing suspicious, but an internet search could net him more info, and if that failed, the parish library no doubt had copies of the Magnolia Bend Herald in their database.

  “Come right on in, Mr. Godchaux. You, too, Violet. Oh, and here comes Abigail,” Hilda said, stepping back so a man with silver hair and a woman with a ginormous cross necklace could enter. Leif would bet his Taylor guitar the woman was the Baptist preacher’s wife.

  He rose and shook hands with the other committee members. Mr. Godchaux settled on the far end of the settee and eyed the Scotch like a dog eyeing a bone. Violet eyed it like it was a porno mag.

  Abigail entered, looking a little softer around the edges in a fluffy sweater. The peach color didn’t necessarily flatter her, but it did make her appear more approachable. Hilda eyed the sweater much the same way Violet eyed the booze.

  “Hello, everyone,” Abigail said, perching on the edge of a straight-backed chair Hilda must have brought from the dining room to accommodate the meeting. “Does everyone know Leif? He’s the art department head at St. George’s.”

  Leif smiled, first at Abigail and then at the two others. “I missed the meeting in October. Nice to meet you. It’ll be cool working on this committee.”

  Mr. Godchaux said, “Yes, cool. You can call me Ed.”

  Hilda clapped her hands. “Now all we’re waiting on is—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Hilda spun toward the door and Leif took the moment to look at Abigail. “Hello, neighbor. Thanks for introducing me.”

  Abigail crossed her legs. She wore a pair of not so sensible heels and a skirt that looked a bit shorter than normal. Being that the temperature had dropped in the past couple of days, he wondered why she’d elected to show off those very nice legs.

  For him?

  God, he hoped so.

  “Hello,” Abigail said with a tight smile. “I see you brought some refreshment after all, Leif.”

  He shrugged. “I know you said it wasn’t necessary but I’m indulgent.”

  The preacher’s wife frowned and studied her cuticles. Ed reached for the bottle.

  “Nothing like a little toddy on a cold day,” Leif said, looking pointedly at Abigail’s bared legs. She tucked the sides of her skirt under her thighs.

  “Indeed,” Ed said as the sound of masculine voices filled the foyer. A second later Abigail’s ex-husband and a tall man with a thinning hairline entered the room.

  Hilda gestured to the other chairs set up near Abigail. “Cal, Bart, have a seat. We need to get started.”

  “Hello, everyone,” Cal said. Abigail closed her eyes as if she were sending up a prayer. Heck, maybe she was. Her ex popped up like a weed, unwanted, but impervious to the fact. The only silver lining to having charming Cal show up and surprise Abigail was the recognition that her high heels and skirt hadn’t been for her ex’s benefit. The thought warmed him as much as the Scotch did. “Mother decided the best way for me to reaffirm myself as a good citizen of Magnolia Bend was to take the family’s place on the committee. Looks like you guys are stuck with me.”

  Abigail looked as if Medusa had glanced her way—completely stone-faced.

  The other man who’d come in with Cal appeared bored, tugging at his shirt, which looked a size too small.

  “And some of you know Bartholomew Harvey. His family started the art festival and he’s agreed to serve as an adviser.”

  Bartholomew inclined his head and offered a faint smile. “Call me Bart, please.”

  Leif felt as though pieces were dropping into place. He needed access to Bart and here the man stood.

  “Now.” Hilda clapped her hands again and picked up a stack of colored folders. “I have prepared these folders for you. Please put them in the binders I gave you at the first meeting. This is the schedule of events, mock-ups of the posters that will go out next week and the press release.”

  For the next forty-five minutes, Hilda led the meeting, and Leif spoke when it was appropriate, trying like the devil not to stare at the woman across from him. He did manage a peek at Abigail’s smooth legs and that niggle of concern that was a permanent fixture between her pretty eyes. It made him want to ruffle her feathers, mess her up a little bit, make her laugh. Slide his lips—

  Hilda snapped her binder closed. “You all have work to do and I would like a report by next week. Leif, as soon as you’ve confirmed the final judges, I’d like a bio for each to place on the website. Please include Bart as an honorary judge.”

  Leif looked at Bart, the man who had once owned the land his house sat on, the man who might be able to help him in his quest for the truth about his parentage. “Would you min
d if I stopped by to pick your brain about the judging criteria?”

  Bart startled. “Me? I don’t know a lot about art, but I suppose I could look it over.”

  Violet was the first to stand. “I’ll get back with you after I speak to Patty Ann about the catering menu. Nice to meet you, Leif.”

  “You, too,” he said, knowing the minister’s wife didn’t mean what she said. No skin off his nose. Ed was the next to make his exit after saying his goodbyes.

  Abigail remained in her chair, scribbling notes. She was in charge of the parade grounds and facilities, including security and ticketing. A big job but probably not for Abigail. He waited because he wanted to walk her out, but it was obvious Cal had the same idea.

  Finally, she stood. “Thanks, Hilda. I’ll do some checking around with the organizers of The Revel up in Shreveport. I think they have an auction every year for seed money and we might plan something similar for next year, especially if we can get some interest from galleries in New Orleans.”

  Hilda studied the two men standing beside her cousin. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing.”

  Veiled words.

  Cal placed his arm on Abigail’s elbow. “Can I grab you for a sec, Abi? I’ll walk you out to your car.”

  Abigail tugged her elbow free, shifting her gaze to Leif. “Later, Cal. I need to talk to Leif.”

  Inside, Leif gave a fist pump. Score. Then he chastised himself. Abigail was probably only using him as an excuse to get away from Cal.

  “Okay, then I’ll stop by later. I wanted to continue the conversation we had earlier.” Cal dogged her footsteps as she moved into the foyer.

  Abigail shook her head. “Not tonight, Cal. I’m tired.”

  Leif didn’t want to look as if he were eavesdropping so he turned to Hilda, who held out the Scotch bottle.

  “No, keep it,” he said.

  Hilda shifted her gaze from the back of Cal’s head. “You obviously know what a lady needs.”

  The way she said it was more thoughtful than flirtatious.

  Then she leaned closer. “You’re a laid-back, generous man, but there are some things worth going after. Know what I mean?”

  Leif refused to look toward where Abigail stood with Cal. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Hilda.”

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her wear heels in over a year.”

  “And you assume it’s because of me? That’s a huge jump. Her ex just showed up in town. Maybe she wants him to know what he’s missing.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Hilda smiled like a cat with feathers caught in her whiskers. “There’s one thing I know and that’s human nature. Abigail needs someone who can pop her buttons. And she’s interested in you. Make no mistake. So the question is, Leif…”

  He crooked an eyebrow.

  “Are you a good button-popper?”

  Leif laughed. “Oh, Hilda, if there’s one thing I do know…”

  This time she crooked the eyebrow.

  “It’s that Abigail’s not going to let me touch her buttons.”

  “Come now, Mr. Lively. I have faith in you. Bet you could unbutton things with that delightful smile alone.”

  “Use my teeth, eh?” He snapped his pearly whites and grinned.

  “Jesus, go practice double entendres with Abigail, you devil. She needs some romance in her life…and some ‘curl her toes’ sex.”

  Leif stilled as Cal’s angry “Later” signaled the end of Abigail’s conversation with her ex-husband. “Her life is pretty complicated at present.”

  Hilda’s tilted her head, darting a glance at Abigail. “True. But never let complicated stand in your way. She was once full of laughter. I miss that about her.”

  Her words pummeled his resolve. That was the first thing he’d noticed about Abigail. Okay, the second. The first thing had been her frown at the custodian’s failure to fill the ice chests for back-to-school night, which she’d tempered with a pat on the shoulder and an offer to help him. Then he’d noticed the absence of something in her smile. Such a pretty woman who looked so… He didn’t really have the words.

  Joyless?

  So what would it hurt if he flirted with her? Gave her a little attention? Or a lot? It wasn’t charity. Abigail was an attractive, single woman who he suspected hid her sensuality beneath a cloak of PTA-attending, Volvo-driving, committee-organizing responsibility. Question was—could she let go enough to let him in?

  Just because she put on a skirt and heels didn’t mean she wanted to straddle him…or even share a cup of coffee with him.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He picked up Hilda’s hand and kissed it.

  Hilda sighed. “If I were thirty years younger and fifty percent more flexible, I’d lock you in my bedroom.”

  Leif chuckled. “And I’d let you.”

  He turned toward where Abigail stood looking half aggravated, half uncertain. “Coming, Abigail.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Hilda drawled before waving to her cousin.

  “You’re a bad girl, Hilda Brunet,” he whispered.

  “Yes. And let’s see how bad a boy you can be for my Abigail. I’m putting money on you.”

  Leif shook his head before heading toward Abigail. “You needed to talk to me?”

  Abigail blinked. “Huh?”

  “You told Cal you—”

  “Oh, yeah. I wanted to talk to you about Birdie.”

  Leif opened the door, tucking his folder under his arm. He stood aside to let her pass. “So what about Birdie?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were naked when she spied on you?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CRISP NIGHT air met Abigail as she stepped out her cousin’s door. She’d been stupid to wear the short skirt. Her knees probably looked wrinkly and it was too cold for her legs to be bare. And the ridiculous high-heeled pumps pinched her toes. Vanity, thou art a bitch.

  All because of that damned Marcie.

  No.

  All because Abigail wanted Leif to see her as something other than Birdie Orgeron’s staid mother.

  And then she’d gone and extinguished the flirty look in Leif’s eyes by bringing up that little nugget—her daughter spying on him when he was naked.

  It was like farting in an elevator.

  “Uh, Birdie told you that?” Leif asked, walking down the steps slightly behind her.

  “No. Shelby did.”

  “Shelby Mackey? The substitute at St. George’s?”

  “Yeah. She’s about to marry my brother John. We were talking the other day and your name came up.”

  “Oh?”

  “She brought up the whole spying thing. I don’t think Shelby meant to let it slip. But she caught Birdie doing it.”

  Leif fell silent, no doubt trying to figure out how to handle the situation. Abigail still didn’t know how to handle it. She’d thought about asking Cal but felt he’d overreact, especially since the naked guy had been Leif Lively. If anything, Cal knew who his competition was. Her ex-husband had grown accustomed to being the best-looking man in a room, accustomed to being the golden boy of Magnolia Bend. His shine had worn off, though, and it didn’t take long to realize half the women in Magnolia Bend fluttered when Leif passed by.

  “So Birdie didn’t confess?”

  “No, why?”

  “Well, she told me the naked part. And I wanted to tell you when the time was right, but I had hoped Birdie would do it herself. Secrets are never a good idea.” Something flitted over his face…as if he knew all too well that secrets led to heartache. Maybe that’s what had destroyed his relationship with Marcie.

  “So why have neither of you mentioned it to me? It’s an important issue.”

  “It is…and it isn’t.”

  “No, it is. It’s one thing to spy on someone. It’s quite another to spy on a naked man, Leif.”

  “Why? Do you really think your daughter is attracted to me?” Leif said as they walked toward her car. His
own small Mazda was parked across the street. “Really?”

  “I don’t think Birdie knows what she is. She hasn’t gone through puberty yet.”

  “But she’s a normal kid. Curious. Besides she doesn’t have a father.”

  “She has a father.”

  “I meant at home. Cal hasn’t lived there in a while, right? So the male physique is not something she sees much of. I didn’t make a big deal because she was embarrassed…and the human body shouldn’t be treated as something to be ashamed of.”

  The thought of his wanting to protect Birdie warmed her. But still, she was annoyed both he and Birdie had kept this from her. “I don’t know…ugh. I’m handling this all wrong. I’m just going to apologize for my daughter. I’m not sure why you were naked, but she had no business spying on you. Makes me feel like a bad parent.”

  Leif took her elbow, turning her toward him. “Why would you feel like a bad parent? Kids do those things. It’s normal. Didn’t you ever do a little looky-loo as a kid?”

  Abigail felt her cheeks heat. “I had brothers.”

  “So the answer’s yes.”

  Abigail looked at him. He’d gathered his hair into a low ponytail bound with leather and wore a hoodie that broadened his shoulders somehow. In the glow of the moon he became a Nordic warrior. Except for that smile. No fierce warrior had a charming smile that dropped panties.

  Abigail squeezed her knees together just in case.

  “You’re just being nice,” she said, noting her mood had shifted. Something in the way he talked smoothed the wrinkles in her thoughts. Relaxed her.

  “You think this is me being nice to you?” His eyes dropped from hers to her mouth.

  Without thinking about what she was doing, she slid her tongue over her lips. Something pinged. Or was it a buzz? Whatever it was made her girl parts zing. Zag. Awaken. “You’re nice to everyone.”

  “You need someone to be nice to you, Abi.”

  His words slithered over her like silk, making her lean in slightly. What would it be like to taste him? To take just a little piece of Leif for her very own, for fodder on those cold nights. But what then? How would she ever be able to attend his art class or see him in the halls at Birdie’s school knowing she’d been so desperate as to rise up on her toes and—