Forbidden Son (2 page)

Chapter
Three

When
Tripp Hartwell III pulled to the Burger Bin’s drive-through window in his shiny
white BMW convertible, Honey Belle knew he was somebody special. A notorious
flirt, she leaned out the window and handed him the order of double
cheeseburger, hold the onions, fries, and a cola. She offered him her most
seductive smile. “How ’bout a ride in your fancy car?”

She
wanted to swim in those blue eyes that reminded her of the ocean on a sunny
day. When he smiled, his teeth were perfectly straight and matched the color of
his shiny white car. “I don’t ride girls in my convertible unless there’s a
very good reason, darlin’.”

She
leaned closer to catch the subtle hint of his cologne. Expensive, she guessed,
and wanted to snuggle against his chiseled jawline. “Today is my birthday. Is
that reason enough?”

He
flashed a wink. “Ah, your birthday. I’m not interested in jailbait. What are
you, sixteen?”

Still
leaning out the window, Honey Belle squeezed her armpits together to accentuate
the mounds of her breasts. “When I get home there’ll be a birthday cake with
nineteen candles on it. I reckon that makes me old enough to ride in your
convertible.” She returned his wink. “And with the top down, of course.”

He
arched an eyebrow. It was a simple gesture, but one that pitter-pattered Honey
Belle’s heart. “In that case, birthday girl, what time is your shift over?”

“First,
my name is Honey Belle Garrett. And second, my shift ends at two o’clock. I’ll
meet you out front, Mr.—”

“Tripp
Hartwell the Third.”

“My,
my. Fancy name to go with your fancy car, Mr. Tripp Hartwell the Third.” She
smiled pleasantly.

“
Honey
Belle
...are you as sweet as your name?” Before popping a French fry in his
mouth, he pursed his lips into a kiss. The way he looked at her caused her
heart to bang unevenly against her ribcage. She gave herself a little hug when
he revved the engine and drove off.

A
loud harrumph sounded behind her. She turned to face Carla, a round-faced,
red-cheeked girl who worked the counter. “I can see you’re busting out all over
to say something, Carla. Go ahead, spit it out.”

“Hope
you ain’t countin’ on that rich boy to keep his promise.”

“You’re
such a pessimist, Carla. He’s a man of his word.”

“First,
don’t be usin’ words I don’t understand, and second, what makes you so
all-fired certain he’s
a man of his word
?”

Honey
Belle shrugged her shoulders up and down. “I just know.”

“Uh-huh.
If he does show up, it’ll be ’cause he’s lookin’ to get himself a free piece of
tail. And the way you were hanging out that window, you had Fr-e-e-b-i-e
written all over your bad self.”

A
sense of euphoria swept over Honey Belle. “Why Carla Biggers, I do believe
you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?
I don’t think so.”

Honey
Belle batted her eyelashes. “Then I’d thank you kindly if you’d mind your own
business.”

“You
know, I read a book once. It was about a girl named Cinderella. You mess with
the likes of Mr. Rich Fancy Car, and you’ll find out soon ’nuf he ain’t Prince
Charmin’. ’Specially when he finds out where you live and meets your wicked
mama.”

Honey
Belle offered an indignant sniff. “I read the same book, Carla. It had a happy
ending. And my mother’s not wicked, just... Well, she has a lot on her mind.”

Carla
chuckled as she placed an order on a tray and handed it to a customer. “I’ll be
the first to say
I
told you so
when he doesn’t show.”

****

No
one was more surprised than Honey Belle when Carla whirled into the employee’s
bathroom. “It’s three minutes of two, and you ain’t gonna believe it, H.B.”

“What
on earth are you talking about, Carla? Believe what?”

“Poke
your head out the door and take a peek. He’s here.”

“You
mean...
he’s
here?” Frantic, Honey Belle snatched several paper towels
from the dispenser, ran them under the faucet, squeezed out the excess water
and wiped under her armpits. Like Carla, she hadn’t truly expected him to show
up. “You got any deodorant, Carla? I can’t go riding in a convertible smelling
like sweaty French fries.”

“Nope.
Only thing I got in my purse is condoms. Pays to be prepared, you never know
when you’ll score, girlfriend.”

Honey
Belle arched an eyebrow and shot her coworker a sarcastic scowl. “A ride in a
convertible doesn’t mean he or me wants to
score.
”

“Hm-huh,
I’m just sayin’.” Carla shoved the cellophane packet into Honey Belle’s apron
pocket. “‘Sides, I got two young’uns to prove what happens when you don’t think
you’re gonna...
score.”

Honey
Belle groaned as she pulled the rubber band from her hair. She raked her
fingers through the long blonde strands, gathered the hair, and pulled it into
a neat ponytail. She applied a fresh coat of Passion Pink gloss to her lips,
and pinched her cheeks to add a little color. “Wish me luck, Carla.”

“You’re
gonna need it, H.B. He’s a heartbreaker, for sure.”

Honey
Belle was fearful Tripp could hear the thrumming of her heart as she approached
him. “You’re here.”

“You
didn’t expect me to show?”

“Well,
I wasn’t sure. Some guys like to feed a girl a line of hooey.”

“I’m
not some guy.”

“I
know, with a name like Tripp Hartwell the Third, that must make you somebody.”

As
if wanting to change the subject, he said, “Your chariot awaits, birthday
girl.”

She’d
dated lots of boys. Not one had made her feel giddy. Today, she was giddy. She
allowed him to escort her to his car. When she reached for the door handle,
Tripp covered her hand with his. “A gentleman always opens the car door for a
lady.”

“Oh,
sure.” She cringed inside, fearing her ignorance was showing. It was the first
time anyone had ever opened a door for her. She smiled, and as she slid into
the seat, the plush fabric felt as if she’d sat in a bucket of downy feathers.

“Ready?”

“Huh?”
Honey Belle wondered why she was acting like a dunce. She wondered if he
thought she didn’t understand English.

He
walked around to his side of the car and, in one fluid movement, sat behind the
steering wheel. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and adjusted
them on the bridge of his nose.

Then,
as if he’d forgotten something important, he reached behind the seat. With a
smile that would light up a cloudy day, he handed her a single red rose. “To
the birthday girl.”

Wishing
she had a pair of sunglasses, she blinked back a rush of tears as she lifted
the flower to her nose. No one had ever given her flowers. “It’s a wonderful
gift. Thank you.”

“Want
to go watch the submarine races?” A lopsided grin kinked up the corner of his
lips.

Filled
with hot-cold prickles of irritation, she tossed the rose at him. “I wasn’t born
yesterday, Mr. Hartwell.”

When
he raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, Honey Belle balled her hands into
fists to keep from slapping him. “For your information, just because I flirted
with you doesn’t mean I’m easy.”

He
looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “I’m sorry, Miss Garrett. I didn’t
mean to imply—”

“Of
course you did. Any idiot knows a guy wants to make out when he drives a girl
to the beach to watch the
submarine races.
” Her voice increased an
octave. She shook with anger. “My friend Carla warned me about the likes of
you. I didn’t believe her.”

“Hey,
you’ve got me all wrong.”

“Never
mind about riding in your fancy convertible. Besides, it’s almost time for my
mother’s shift to start. I have to get the truck home.”

“I’ll
follow you. You can leave the truck. Accept my apology and allow me to take you
to dinner.” He grinned. “And no submarine races, I promise.”

His
smile helped soften her aggravation. “Another time, maybe. My father is sick
and requires round-the-clock care.”

“If
that’s a promise, I’ll hold you to it, Miss Honey Belle Garrett.”

She’d
probably never see him again, so where was the harm in agreeing with him? “If
you say so.”

Eager
to make her escape, she ran to the old pickup truck. Gripping the steering
wheel, she allowed her mind to drift, creating a hero of a white knight who
would win her love through bravery and integrity, and by the protection of
others. Woven in with these traits, he’d have to have the most important
quality of all—he’d have to love her unconditionally and forever.

It
wasn’t until she drove into the driveway of her house and switched off the
engine that she realized she’d left the rose on the seat of Tripp’s car.

She
sighed deeply. Men like her hero existed only in the world of fantasy and
imagination. None were flesh and bone. And even if such a man existed, why
would he want the likes of her?

Leaning
against the seat, she wondered if Tripp meant what he said about meeting again.
She’d heard what guys like him wanted from girls like her. Still, her heart warmed
toward him. Suddenly, she very much wanted to know him.

“You
gonna sit there daydreaming your life away? I gotta go to work.”

Sighing,
Honey Belle pushed all thoughts of Tripp Hartwell the Third from her mind as
she opened the door and relinquished the truck to her mother.

Chapter
Four

Sun
poured through the Burger Bin’s large picture windows. The usual crowd of noisy
students gathered in booths while Honey Belle worked in the back, loading the
dishwashers. Her job wasn’t glamorous, but she enjoyed it—usually. Today, the
exhaust fan was broken. Despite a requisition, no one had come around to repair
it.

“H.B.”

“What,
Carla?”

“You
ain’t gonna believe who just walked in.”

“I’m
too hot and tired to play twenty questions.”

“Then
get your bad self up here and take a peek. It’s him.”

Honey
Belle peered around the large industrial refrigerator and spied Tripp standing
at the counter. “Holy poop hill, what’s he doing here?” He was holding two red
roses. A foreboding shiver ran down her spine—one she quickly dismissed.

Her
hand automatically touched her sweat-plastered hair. “I can’t let him see me
like this.”

“If
he’s got any smarts about him, he’ll know you can’t look like a beauty queen
while flippin’ hamburgers over a hot round-top all day. If he don’t, then he
ain’t worth your time of day.”

Carla
made a fluttering motion with her hands as if shooing Honey Belle to the front
counter.

Smoothing
her trembling fingers down the side of her grease-splattered uniform, Honey
Belle scooted around the refrigerator. She longed for a spritz of her mother’s
treasured eau de cologne water.

She
was certain his electric blue eyes were magnets drawing her to him. Her voice
seemed to come out in a breathy whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He
held out the roses. “One birthday rose for a lovely young lady, and one for a
peace offering. I didn’t mean to offend you, yesterday, Honey Belle. And if
you’d still like to take that ride, my chariot awaits.”

She
inhaled the faint scent of his cologne, a designer fragrance to match his
masculinity. Then she lifted her gaze, fully intending to accept his offer.

“I...I’d
love to go for a ride with you.” Love to fly to the moon, if he asked, she
thought, feeling entirely too giddy for a girl of nineteen.

She
returned his smile and could no more have taken back her words than she could
have taken away her father’s illness. “Can’t.”

She
hadn’t meant to cause Tripp to wince, just like she hadn’t meant for her voice
to sound abrupt.

“I
see. Using the father excuse again?”

“It
isn’t an excuse. Daddy suffers from congestive heart failure. He’s in a
wheelchair and has to wear an oxygen mask.”

She
thought his voice sounded contrite. “Once again, I seem to have put my foot
where it doesn’t belong. At this rate, I’ll owe you a dozen roses.”

She
hugged the flowers to her chest. “Tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll ask my cousin to
sit with Daddy for a few hours.”

“Tell
me where you live and I’ll pick you up at five.”

“I...um...I
live at 1423 Barrington Street.”

When
he turned to leave, she said, “Thank you, again, for the roses.”

Carla’s
voice startled Honey Belle, causing her to jump. “I notice you didn’t give him
directions to
your
house.”

Honey
Belle’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Mind your own business, Carla.”

****

Too
embarrassed to have Tripp see the dilapidated rental house where she lived,
Honey Belle had given him a false address in the better section of Charleston’s
upper middle-class neighborhood.

She
stood next to an elm tree at the end of a sidewalk, in front of an antebellum
home with a sweeping front porch, a neatly trimmed yard, bushes bursting with
red azaleas, all surrounded by a white picket fence.

Whatever
guilt she felt disappeared when she glimpsed his car driving slowly down the
street toward her. She lifted her hand and waved. Then she whispered a little
prayer, hoping Tripp knew no one in this neighborhood.

She
pressed her hands to her stomach, drew in a deep breath, and blew it out slowly.

Like
a proper lady, she waited for him to slow the car to a halt, get out and open
the door for her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”
She smiled.

“You
look nice, Honey Belle. I like your hair down.” He leaned over and gave her a
perfunctory kiss. She felt her cheeks grow warm as he caressed her lips.

“Where
are we going?”

“Not
the submarine races.” He winked and she laughed. “I made reservations for us at
the Pirate’s Den. I hope you like seafood.”

“Love
it.” She wished the butterflies in her stomach would stop flitting around.
Tripp Hartwell was way out of her league. She shouldn’t be with him. She didn’t
know proper table etiquette for an expensive restaurant—or, for that matter,
any restaurant. What if she made a fool of herself? What if she didn’t know
which fork to use? And her seafood experience was limited to fried catfish.
She’d always dreamed of lobster. Lobster... No, too expensive.

This
was a bad idea. The thought came too late. Tripp guided the convertible into an
empty parking space and before she could say
scat
he stood at her door,
offering his hand.

With
his hand pressed against the small of her back, he guided her toward the
restaurant. “I made reservations for the porch. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Hm.
The sound of the waves lapping the shore is soothing. I find it quite
relaxing.” She hoped she sounded sophisticated.

A
hostess greeted them. “Mr. Hartwell, you’re at table number twelve.”

“Good
evening, Jenna, and thank you.”

After
they were seated, the hostess said, “Your waitress will be right with you.”

Honey
Belle leaned forward. “She knew you. Do you bring all your dates here?”

Tripp
reached across the table and tweaked her nose. “Only the pretty ones.”

The
waitress came to the table, introduced herself, and poured water into their
glasses. “Would you care for a cocktail?”

Honey
Belle glanced over the menu at Tripp questioningly.

“Go
ahead. You can have anything you want,” he said.

“I
don’t know.” She lifted a shoulder into a shrug.

“Do
you want a beer, wine, iced tea?”

She
met his gaze hesitantly. “Wine, I think?”

“Wine
it is.” He looked at the waitress who waited patiently. “We’ll have the
Chardonnay. 1950.”

“Bottle
or glass?” the young woman asked.

“Just
a glass.” Honey Belle wrinkled her nose. “First date,” she said jokingly. “I
wouldn’t want to get tipsy and make a fool of myself, would I?” She groaned
inside. What a stupid thing to say.

The
waitress laughed and walked away to fill their drink order.

Honey
Belle glanced across the table at Tripp gazing at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t
mean to embarrass you.” For the life of her, she couldn’t read his thoughts.

“You
didn’t.”

The
expression on his face told her she hadn’t.

She
smiled to herself as she concentrated on placing the red linen napkin across
her lap.

“What
would you like?”

“Like?”
His question puzzled Honey Belle.

He
opened the menu and handed it to her. She almost gasped aloud at the prices.
Her eyes scanned down both columns. “Holy poop hill, we could buy a week’s
worth of groceries for the cost of one surf and turf.”

She
laughed. She wanted to reach up and smack her forehead.

He
laughed with her, reaching for his water.

“You
must think I have
stupid
engraved across my brow.”

“I
find you refreshing. I like your wisecracks—especially ‘holy poop hill.’” He
smiled in a way that made her feel strange.

She
had to stop this or he’d guess she didn’t live in the fancy house on Barrington
Street.

“Thanks.
So what shall we have to eat?” She looked back at the menu.

“The
scallops in the white wine and garlic is very good.” He frowned. “Garlic? Hmm,
that leaves kissing you goodnight out.”

“Honestly,
Tripp, I’m so hungry I could eat a—” She’d almost said
cow.
“Why don’t
you order for me?”

The
waitress returned with their glasses of wine. While Tripp placed their order,
Honey Belle savored the first sip. Chardonnay, 1950, certainly tasted better
than the cheap wine her mother brought home.

Fussing
with the edge of the linen napkin in her lap, Honey Belle searched for
something to say. She inwardly cringed when the question popped out. “So,
Tripp, do you work?”

He
sat the long-stemmed goblet aside. “I work hard at my studies.”

“College?”

“Yes.
I’m attending Harvard School of Law in September.”

Honey
Belle pursed her lips. She caught herself before she whistled to indicate she
was impressed. “Well, if you don’t work at a job, how can you afford such a
fancy car?”

“My
father is Judge T. Harlan Hartwell. You may have heard of him.”

Honey
Belle sat a little straighter in her chair. “You mean, as in Judge Hartwell
that’s always in the newspaper?”

Tripp
offered her a smile. “The very same.”

Honey
Belle’s insides quivered. Tripp wasn’t merely a rich college guy, he was the
son of a judge—a judge with a reputation for not showing mercy to anyone in his
courtroom. She needed to break off this budding relationship before it got out
of hand.

“What
about your mother, what does she do?”

“My
mother loves to garden, research her family history, and—”

Honey
Belle didn’t miss the fleeting shadow of sadness that caused Tripp to stop
speaking. “What is it about your mother that makes you sad, Tripp?”

She
liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “My mother was
forty-one years old when I born. She’s like a magnolia whose petals are easily
bruised, turn brown, then wither away.”

For
the life of her, Honey Belle didn’t know what the analogy meant. “I-I’m not
sure I know what you mean, Tripp. Is your mother ill?”

He
nodded. “Not in body. It’s her mind. It slips away a little more each day.”

Honey
Belle reached across the table and intertwined her fingers with his. “I’m
sorry. It’s the same with my daddy. Guess we have something in common, don’t
we?”

The
next hour and a half flew by, and before she knew it, Tripp was paying the tab.
“How about a walk on the beach before I take you home?”

As
much as she wanted to feel wet sand squishing between her toes and, perhaps,
hold hands with the handsome man seated across from her, a little voice inside
her head sounded a warning. And as good as the first glass of wine tasted, the
second glass had left her feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, and perhaps a
little tipsy, too. “It’s late. I wouldn’t want to worry my parents.”

Honey
Belle loved her parents. Between work and sitting with her father, she didn’t
often date. Tonight she felt like Cinderella. But like all good fairy tales, it
was time to bring this one to an end.

Sheer
and utter dread weighed heavy in the pit of her stomach as Tripp drove toward
Barrington Street. What if he insisted on walking her to the front door? What
if he asked to meet her parents? What if...what if?

When
he pulled to the curb and shut off the engine, relief washed over Honey Belle
with a fierce intensity that left her weak in the knees. She said, “The lights
are out. I guess my parents went to bed early.”

“Too
bad, I wanted to meet them.”

“My
father doesn’t respond well to company. The least little thing wears him out.”

“Another
time, when it’s more convenient.”

She
waited for Tripp to open the car door. A true southern gentleman, she thought.
Not like the rednecks she’d dated who reeked of cigarette smoke.

“I’d
like to kiss you goodnight, Honey Belle.”

She
lifted on her toes and ran her hand upward over his chest. Very slowly, never
breaking eye contact, she raised her mouth to his. “Hm. Aren’t you glad you
didn’t have the shrimp with garlic sauce?”

He
laughed, and so did she. “Good night, Tripp.”

She
stood next to the elm tree and watched until the taillights on his car were no
longer visible.

The
sky had grown dark, but the streetlights illuminated the sidewalks and the
older homes lining both sides of the street.

She
slipped off her high heels and, holding one in each hand, raced the full four
blocks to the gas station where she’d left her old pickup truck. Thirty minutes
later, she crossed the railroad tracks and rattled down a washboard road that
the county refused to maintain. A few minutes later, she pulled into her own
driveway. It wasn’t a nice place to live.

She
grabbed her purse, and dug out her key before she opened the screened door and
let herself in the house.

The
house was small, with a living room that also served as the dining area, a
galley kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath. Beyond the back steps was a yard
littered with old car parts and rusting barrels overflowing with bags of
garbage.

She
never wanted Tripp Hartwell the Third to know where she lived. If he asked her
out for a second date, she’d make certain she met him at the elm tree on
Barrington Street.