Authors: Sandra Brown
"You and Belle look so happy together, Alister," she remarked as she slowly wound the telephone cord around her finger. His apology had sounded sincere, but she couldn't dismiss the happy picture he and his wife had made as they stood hand in hand in front of the church.
"I suppose she is happy," he said. "She doesn't have the same passions that I do. That we do. Since I stopped making love with her, she doesn't even miss it. All she ever wanted was a successful husband and beautiful children. She's got that. She doesn't know what real passion is. God," he moaned. "There's no comparison between you, Yasmine. You've got to know that."
"No, there's no comparison. She's got you and I don't."
"I reside with her," he said evenly. "She doesn't have my heart. It's not her I think about every hour of the day. I want to be with you right now."
"I'll meet you," she offered eagerly.
"I can't. We're involved in this wedding shit for the rest of the evening. Following the reception, there's an after-party and an even more intimate gathering after that. It's essential that I mingle with these people. They're influential. Three-fourths of the money in Louisiana is represented here tonight. I only sneaked away long enough to order the rose for you and to call."
"I'm leaving tomorrow, Alister," she said, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. "I'll be in Mississippi for at least a week."
After a slight pause he said, "Next Thursday night. Can you make a round trip to New Orleans?"
"Yes. Rosesharon is only a two-hour drive from here. It'll be a long night for me, but I've got to see you."
"Thursday then."
After finalizing their plans, Yasmine said breathlessly, "I can't wait."
"Neither can I, but right now I've got to go. Belle will start missing me. This call was supposed to be a quick business call."
"I love you, Alister."
"Oops, there she is. She's signaling for me to rejoin the party. See you next Thursday."
He didn't even say goodbye before hanging up. Dejectedly Yasmine replaced the telephone. For a long while she sat on the edge of her bed, staring vacantly, immobilized by despair. Never in her life had she felt more blue. Even the rose could no longer cheer her. She'd hugged it so tightly, it was already beginning to wilt.
She finally mustered enough energy to move to her dresser, where she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Even the crying hadn't marred the perfection of her face. She studied her image objectively, then asked, "Why the hell are you putting yourself through this, you dumb bitch?"
It wasn't fair. Alister was at a party, laughing, drinking champagne, dancing, surrounded by people who thought he was bloody marvelous. Here she was: Yasmine, goddess of fashion runways and magazine covers, weeping alone. "What's wrong with this picture?" she asked her reflection.
Men were bastards. All men. From the abusive father who had deserted her mother when Yasmine was still in diapers, to her current lover, they were sorry, low-down, scummy sons of bitches who rarely had to account for their actions. Seldom did one get his just desserts.
Of course there were exceptions. Once in a blue moon one got the punishment he richly deserved. Like Jackson Wilde.
* * *
Claire was clearing away the dinner dishes when she heard Mary Catherine cry out. Dropping the sponge into the sink, Claire ran from the kitchen into the living room. Mary Catherine was sitting in an easy chair reading the evening edition of the
Times Picayune
. All the color had drained from her face. Her hands were trembling.
"Mama!" Claire cried in alarm. "What is it?" She rushed to Mary Catherine and caught the newspaper as it slipped from her lifeless fingers. "My God," Claire whispered after reading only a few paragraphs of the front-page story. She lowered herself onto the arm of her mother's chair.
"Does Mr. Cassidy think you killed Reverend Wilde, Claire?"
"He's only doing his job, Mama."
"Did he kiss you?"
"What does it matter?" Claire asked bitterly. "It's been reported that he did."
Mary Catherine covered her face with her hands. "This is all my fault. My sins are reflecting on you. If I hadn't sinned—"
"Mama, stop that!" Claire drew her mother's hands away from her ravaged face. "You were young. You fell in love and gave of yourself. You weren't the sinner. You were sinned against."
"But it says in the newspaper that because of your upbringing you would try seducing the prosecutor to stay out of trouble. Oh, Claire, I'm sorry. I never wanted anyone to judge you by what I did."
"This," Claire said, flicking her hand at the newspaper, "is the handiwork of a wicked, vicious, spiteful woman. Ariel Wilde is trying to make me look guilty in order to turn the attention away from herself. Mrs. Wilde doesn't know you or me. What difference does it make what she thinks of us? Let her believe what she wants to."
"But other people, Mr. Cassidy…" Her face reflected her torment. In a fast, hushed voice she whispered, "If only he'd come for me as he said he would. I was there, on time, with my things. I'm sure it was today he said we were to meet. But he wasn't there and—"
"Listen, Mama." Claire hastily hunkered down in front of the chair and clasped Mary Catherine's hands. "I just had a wonderful idea. Why don't you come to Mississippi with us tomorrow?"
"Mississippi?"
"Yes. For a vacation. Wouldn't you enjoy a few days away?" Mary Catherine's troubled face began to relax. Claire pressed her point. "Harry can come along to keep you company while I'm working. Please come. I want you there with me."
Mary Catherine coyly laid her hand against her throat, looking as flustered as a wallflower who's just been asked to dance. "Well, Claire Louise, if you really need me there…"
"I do, Mama." Claire stood and assisted Mary Catherine to her feet. She whisked the newspaper out of sight. "Start choosing what you want to take with you. I'll call Harry and have her spend the night here. We'll get an early start in the morning. I've rented a van so there'll be plenty of room. We'll stop for breakfast somewhere along the way. Oh, this will be a lovely trip! It's been ages since we went away together."
"Yes, ages," Mary Catherine said as she drifted toward her room. "I'll take that new afternoon dress."
"By all means. You look beautiful in that shade of blue." As soon as Mary Catherine disappeared into her room, Claire snatched up the evening newspaper and read the infuriating article. It was trash, but it effectively planted in the reader's mind that Claire Laurent, publisher of the scandalous French Silk catalog, was a hussy who had tried seduction as a means of avoiding a murder rap.
Claire tried to locate Cassidy by telephone but was unsuccessful. After cooling down a bit, she reasoned that it was just as well she didn't speak with him. He wouldn't be enjoying the notoriety either. It would be better for them to handle this situation individually rather than as a team, which would only fuel Ariel's hints of an unethical and highly improper affair.
She called Harriet York, informed her of the change in plans, then checked with the proprietors of Rosesharon to make certain they had another bedroom available. As soon as Harry arrived, Claire left her to help Mary Catherine pack while she went downstairs to her workroom to place a long-distance call. She caught her business attorney in New York on his way out to dinner, but he patiently listened while she read him the majority of the newspaper article.
"I warned her not to slander me again," Claire told him when she finished reading. "She's waving a red flag in my face, daring me to sue her."
"That's what worries me," the lawyer said. "She wants to prolong her feud with you and take advantage of the publicity it generates. She's got nothing to lose by pursuing it. You, on the other hand, abhor publicity. Unless you want your private life exposed even more than it already has been—"
"I don't."
"Then I advise you to ignore her."
"Damn!" she muttered. "I know you're right, but I hate to back down. What good are ultimatums if you don't follow through?"
"It's like celebrities who threaten to sue the tabloids for the half-true stories they print. The litigation only creates more adverse publicity. It's a no-win situation. Unless you want all your dirty laundry aired publicly, your hands are tied."
"But how can I allow her to go on saying anything she pleases about me and my family?"
"You can't have it both ways, Claire. If you even hint at whitewashing what can or cannot be said to the media, you've got to be prepared for the backlash. Ariel Wilde could then say you stand for the First Amendment rights of free speech and free press only as long as they benefit you."
Claire sighed. "I never thought of it from that angle."
"I wouldn't be surprised if that's her ultimate goal," the lawyer said. "She'd love to see you eat your words on this censorship issue."
They discussed it for a few minutes more before Claire said, "I really don't have a better alternative than to continue ignoring her."
"That's my advice. She's a nuisance, but she can't really harm you."
"It's not me I worry about. I couldn't care less what Ariel Wilde or anyone else says about me. It's Mama. When anyone slanders her, I come out slugging. She and Yasmine are the only family I have. We're a tight little group who stands together or not at all."
"I know that. That's why I was so puzzled by that other matter."
"What other matter?"
Then he broke the really bad news.
* * *
The two Mrs. Monteiths were almost interchangeable. Grace's hair was a shade darker burgundy than Agnes's, but beyond that there wasn't much difference between the two buxom women. They were sisters-in-law, they explained to Claire as she checked in to the bed-and-breakfast house known as Rosesharon.
"Our husbands were brothers, you see," Agnes told her. "We lost them within months of each other."
"Rather than get into a squabble over who had inherited what in this house, we decided to pool our resources," Grace contributed.
"Each of us loves to cook. It only made sense to capitalize on our hobby."
"The place wasn't fit for guests, though."
"So we sold off part of the acreage and from that revenue hired a fancy decorator to redo the house from top to bottom."
"Well, she certainly did a wonderful job," Claire said, glancing around the wide foyer. The house had been refurbished to antebellum splendor.
"He," Agnes said in a stage whisper, while bobbing her purplish eyebrows. "Although he was prissier than most females I know."
"Agnes!" Grace admonished with a giggle, which she tried to cover with her veined, age-spotted hand.
As she imprinted Claire's credit card, Agnes said, "Your rooms are ready for you. Juice, cold drinks, and snacks of fruit and cookies can always be found in the kitchen if someone misses the regular meals. Breakfast is served between seven and eight-thirty, but there's always a fresh pot of coffee on the sideboard in the dining room. Lunch is an informal cold buffet. Tea and finger sandwiches are available from three-thirty until five. We open the bar at five, but except for the wine we serve with dinner, there's an extra charge for liquor. One has to mix his own, and we trust our guests to keep their own tabs. Dinner is the only formal meal. It's served at seven-thirty."
Claire liked them and hoped that no one on the crew would take advantage of their hospitality or naïveté. "We'll try to keep to your schedule," she told them. "However, if we get behind, I'll appreciate a little flexibility."
"Of course, dear. You're our first 'working' guests. We've been beside ourselves with excitement. The only thing better would be having a movie filmed here," Agnes gushed.
"And we love your catalog," Grace said. "When it arrives in the mail, we fight over who gets to look through it first."
"I'm glad to hear that." Claire was glad that a smile was called for. She couldn't have kept a straight face under punishment of death. "From what I've seen so far, your home will make a beautiful backdrop for our photos."
She'd been impressed since leaving the highway and following the tree-lined, gravel road to Rosesharon. Although the growing season was waning, the lawn and flower gardens surrounding the house were still green and lush. White lawn furniture was grouped in the shade of sprawling trees.
The house itself looked like a wedding cake. The bricks had been painted a pale, creamy pink. The six fluted Corinthian columns and all other trim were white. There was a deep, wrap-around veranda shaded by a second-floor balcony. Claire was very pleased with Yasmine's choice.
"We want to make your stay enjoyable," Grace told her. "Remember, this is our home. As our guests, you have the run of the place."
A commotion out on the veranda drew their attention to the front door. A short, wiry young man in a white linen suit and yellow Polo shirt flung open the screen door and made a grand entrance.
"Claire!" he gasped when he saw her. "My God, this is positively fab, Darling!" He kissed her cheeks in turn, then held the light meter, which was suspended from his neck by a black cord, up to her face and checked the reading. "Oh, this is going to be so sweet. I can't wait to begin, if I don't expire from the freaking heat first. How do you natives stand it? But the house is fab, really it is. Yasmine said as much, but you know how that bitch is prone to exaggerate."