Change of Life
Leigh Riker
She didn't need any more surprises…Not when Nora Pride's life was changing at a pace faster than the Indy 500. With her birthday a whisper away, she was prematurely becoming a grandmother. She'd just had her first hot flash (to her archrival's undisguised glee). And Nora had gone from primo designer to prime suspect in one day when a priceless vase disappeared from a house she'd designed.The topper–sexy detective Calvin Caine was nipping at her heels. His rough-around-the-edges authority was causing her whole world to heat up. And making her feel as empowered as a modern-day Scarlett O'Hara. As Nora set out to crack the case of the missing vase, she found an even more welcome surprise. Older didn't mean wiser. It just meant feeling more free to be yourself.
“You’re an incredible kisser.”
Caine grunted. “Out of practice.”
“Well, keep working at it. It’s coming back to you.” Nora meant herself, too. “I saw you today not only as a man,” she said, “but as a real…human being. A lonely human being, not a member of law enforcement.”
“I am a member of law enforcement.”
Nora leaned back in his embrace, enough to see his face in the moonlight. She felt entirely intent for once on not caring about others but focusing on herself, and she didn’t care. The notion was somehow freeing—for these few moments not to feel responsible for every person in her life, for everyone she loved. The day’s cooking, cleaning, entertaining, caring had drained her, leaving her vulnerable.
So had Caine’s kisses. Nora decided to indulge her notion. And herself. Not even stopping to question her actions, she whispered against his parted lips.
“And I can be a very bad girl.”
Leigh Riker
Leigh Riker is an award-winning author of thirteen novels—some, it seems, written from the back of a moving van. An Ohio native with an English degree from Kent State University, she has lived east, west, north and south, from New York to Kansas, and various points in between. In the process she “raised” one husband, two sons, four cats, several dogs, numerous guinea pigs, gerbils, birds and a horse. Always, of course, with a sense of humor.
Oddly enough, she still likes to travel, and firmly believes that change and new experiences, make life interesting.
A member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild and Novelists, Inc., she is a sometime contest judge and former creative writing instructor. Always ready for a new challenge, she is now at home (for good!) in the mountains of Tennessee or in Cabo San Lucas, where she keeps trying, like her heroine in Change of Life, to become ever more and more…herself.
Please visit Leigh at her Web site, LeighRiker.com.
Change of Life
Leigh Riker
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
From the Author
Dear Reader,
Change—good, or sometimes not so good—is a part of life. Big surprise. But lucky for me, I’m a Gemini and we thrive on change.
It’s a good thing, too.
After leaving my original home base in Ohio, I spent a few years in New York City, then married and began a series of long-distance relocations that may not have suited someone born under a different astrological sign. The Gemini Twins, however, don’t like to be bored!
Like my heroine, Nora Pride, I’m always happiest at home…wherever that may be. The births of children, or grandchildren (by the time you read this, my new little granddaughter will be here), the loss of parents or beloved pets, the triumphs and challenges of career, even the progress of a marriage, are all a part of the fabric—the changes—of our lives.
Above all, these changes are essential, necessary, often exciting. They make life interesting and provide us with ever new opportunities to grow. With Nora Pride, I wanted to explore the changes we face and how we not only learn to survive them but, in the end, thrive.
And now for my next challenge…the start of a new book.
Leigh
For Aidan…
An old Irish blessing
May the wind (of change) be always at your back.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 1
N ora Pride was having a heart attack.
Wearing her best black silk power suit, in the middle of an Interior Design Association luncheon at the Sandestin Hilton, of all places, she broke out in a sweat that seemed totally unrelated to the still-blistering end-of-September day outside the posh Florida hotel. The grand ballroom’s frigid air-conditioning wasn’t doing her a bit of good.
Her pulse raced. It skipped then thumped, hard, and Nora coughed twice, a knee-jerk physical reaction that tried to stabilize the beat. She prided herself, so to speak, on her appearance. On keeping up appearances, in fact.
My God, I can’t die in public. That would be humiliating.
Nora fumbled through her handbag for her cell phone, ever ready not only for a quick business deal but also for any emergency, like her mother’s unexpected coronary several years ago, in case Nora was needed again in a hurry. Now, it seemed, her own life was at risk. Still, she hesitated to pull out the phone and make a fuss.
At the podium someone droned on.
“…and with the Gulf area’s incredible growth rate in housing—a boom that seems to have no end or even a peak—our design talents in this region will continue to be highly sought…”
Nora didn’t hear the rest. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She suddenly felt light-headed. Should she call 911, or was that premature? She would hate calling in a false alarm, but as her daughter often pointed out, Nora was much better at caring for others than for herself.
Pulse still pounding, she tried to restore a sense of inner calm. This might be simple anxiety, an everyday, garden-variety panic attack. True, she’d never had one before, but…
Weren’t cardiac events more typical in the early morning than at noon? Whew, the room did seem hot. Nora glanced across the table. Her gaze landed on her longtime nemesis, Starr Mulligan, with whom Nora had disagreed again only yesterday about a new client they both wanted—badly.
The memory provided a brief distraction. Nora’s business, in particular, had been thriving until the past couple of years. During a pair of especially powerful hurricane seasons, some of her clients had, sadly, lost their homes, and until they rebuilt their devastated properties they obviously had no use for Nora’s design services. There were no interiors. Then more recently, another, luckier client had reneged on his payment, and although Nora didn’t want to refer the account to a collection agency, she needed the money. Her cash flow was hurting, and the competition with Starr wasn’t helping her financial picture. Despite some personal misgivings about the new client they both wanted, Nora still needed the job.
Starr reminded her of Elizabeth Taylor soon after her first marriage to Richard Burton. A few pounds too heavy but still attractive, if not the stunning beauty Liz had been in her youth, with that same dark hair and those arresting lavender eyes.
Nora wasn’t mean-spirited by nature. She liked helping people, and she wanted to get along with Starr. But no matter what Nora did, they always seemed to wind up at each other’s throats. And it was Nora who tended to back down, to let Starr win.
At the moment, Starr’s coal-black hair failed to reflect the overhead light, and her normally piercing gaze stayed as dull as dust—Starr’s usual reaction to a boring after-lunch speaker. For a second, Nora forgot her own problems to wonder if Starr had fallen asleep with her eyes open. Maybe she was like a canary in a coal mine, and too much carbon monoxide floating through the cold air had zapped her into wide-eyed yet vague unconsciousness. Now it was causing Nora to…blush.
She reached for her napkin to fan herself.
Women didn’t have heart attacks at her age. Her birthday might be circled on her calendar next week in red—Nora would turn fifty—but she had hoped for more time before she had to fret about her health like Leonard Hackett, one of her favorite clients, who could be a world-class hypochondriac.
She couldn’t die. People needed her. Her mother, Maggie, who had already lived two-thirds of her life playing the helpless widow, was beginning to fail. Sooner or later she would require Nora’s help, whether or not Maggie wanted it. Then there were Nora’s two grown children. Savannah and Browning might sometimes accuse Nora of intruding in their lives (meddling was the word they used), but they, too, needed her. And what about her friends? Her dog?
But then, as if she’d been sacked like a quarterback during the Super Bowl, the truth struck her. Nora dropped her napkin with a soft plop on the linen tablecloth and jerked upright on her ivory damask-upholstered chair. Her eyes again met Starr’s across the round table.
And wouldn’t you know? Starr couldn’t resist arching a penciled eyebrow, which drew the attention of several other people in their circle. Worse for Nora, in the suddenly too-quiet ballroom Starr’s voice rang out like a Buddhist temple gong for all to hear.
“Hot flash, darling?”
“Mark, you have to do something,” Nora murmured later that afternoon, flat on her back in her gynecologist’s examining room. The peaceful blue and gray decor, which Nora had done, didn’t soothe her, but to her immense relief he had squeezed her into his schedule. Nora gazed down her body at her spread legs in the stainless steel stirrups she had hated since before her first pregnancy.
Dr. Mark Fingerhut patted her hand. “Nora, relax.”
His touch felt warm, comforting. He must remember her tendency to overreact.
“Why do you always say that? Relax? You know I despise white coats.” Actually, she adored him—all of his patients did—if not, at the moment, the specialty he had chosen to make his living.
Mark pushed his stool back from the exam table. He flicked dark hair from his eyes. They were brown, like bitter chocolate, but compassionate.
“Listen. I know you’re feeling a bit needy…”
“What I need, apparently, is to take ten years off my life.”
“Would that be chronological?” he said, sounding amused. “Or biological? There’s a difference, you know.” But of course he could afford to look smug. To Nora, he appeared too young to be a doctor at all, much less a highly respected gynecologist. And her daughter, Savannah, who was perhaps his newest patient, agreed with Nora. His boyish smile belied the fact that he was pushing forty.
“I have women in their early forties who are perimenopausal,” he said.
“What does that mean?” Fresh panic beat inside her like a hummingbird’s strong yet delicate wings.
Mark sighed, but his dark eyes twinkled behind his black oversize frames.
“In a way, you’re overdue.” With a quick glance at her chart, he snapped off his latex gloves. “Fifty—actually, 50.8—is the median age at which women in this country stop ovulating, which means some do when they’re slightly younger, others a bit later. Like those women, you’re about to undergo what was euphemistically known before the sexual revolution and women’s lib as The Change. These days, we tell it like it is.”
Her heart sank. “My ovaries are dying.”
“Well, not exactly. Slowing down, I’d say.” His smile broke through as he smoothed his hair. “You can sit up now. Put on your clothes and I’ll see you in my office. Then we’ll talk.”
“About what?”
He stepped out of the room into the hall. “Your future. There are some choices of treatment for your symptoms we need to consider.”
Symptoms? Alone, like the dying woman she’d feared she was at lunch, she saw her life flash before her eyes. Her childhood, alone with Maggie after Nora’s father died. Her marriage to Wilson, and the flaming torch she’d carried for years after their divorce. The births of her two children, and the joy they had given her, and still did. Despite her recent attempts to smooth away the lines of experience with a little Botox, and those necessary thrice-weekly trips to the gym to keep in reasonable shape, she was clearly, in Mark’s opinion, on her way out.
In the empty room, squishing excess K-Y jelly, Nora wriggled into her panties and skirt, tucked in her silk top and then slipped into her shoes. Blinking, she grabbed her jacket.
“The future,” she murmured.
She ducked out of the exam room into the corridor, then bypassed Mark’s office and kept going toward the reception area and the door that faced the elevator in the hall. He could be wrong. Naturally, Nora had attended informative lectures (only half listening), read the occasional magazine article on the topic (and instantly dismissed it as irrelevant), and talked to her friends (who all suddenly seemed older than she was). She’d thought she was prepared. But this was her. One silly hot flash didn’t mean she was entering another stage of her life.
Menopause—she shuddered at the term—happened to other women.
Not to Nora Pride.
On her way home, Nora stopped at Starbucks for a mocha Frappuccino, her preferred grande size, although she wasn’t sure it would be a big enough pick-me-up today. Back in the car, she pulled out her cell phone to call her mother. In spite of their usual differences, she needed to hear Maggie’s voice, needed perhaps to weep in Maggie’s sympathetic ear.
Unfortunately, as was often the case, she didn’t get the chance.
When Maggie answered, Nora said brightly, “Hi, it’s me. I know it’s been a while,” she added so Maggie wouldn’t point out that Nora hadn’t phoned last week. “How are you?”
“How else would I be? I’m bored. I watch CNN all day. At six o’clock I switch to Fox News. My balanced diet of current events,” she said. “Big whoop.” Her tone changed in a heartbeat from dry to sad. “If I watch enough TV, it helps me—a little—to bear up after losing your father.”
Nora zipped along in the rush-hour traffic, the AC on high, sipping at her Frappuccino while speaking into her hands-free phone. She envisioned her mother’s graying hair, corkscrewed into the unflattering style Maggie still preferred. Nora could almost see her mother’s baggy house dress and her white ankle socks scrunched down into the heels of her worn-over, laced-up shoes. Like some Ice Age mummy, in forty years of widow-hood Maggie hadn’t changed.
“Daddy died when I was ten.” Nora willed herself to find the patience she had lost earlier in the day. She threaded her way between an SUV and a semitrailer rig on the narrow stretch of Route 98 that led through Destin. “We both miss him. But isn’t it time you got past that, and went on with your life?”
“Life? I’m seventy-five years old,” Maggie informed her as if Nora didn’t know.
Nora’s pulse hitched. “Are you feeling all right? I told you to make an appointment with your cardiologist. If you want me to, I can take you.” It wasn’t that far from Destin to the Commonwealth of Virginia, but sometimes just far enough for Nora’s peace of mind. Now she felt worried. She could block out the time on her schedule, even cancel a few appointments if she had to, to spend a couple of days with her mother. Take care of business, meaning her mother’s health.
With luck, maybe Maggie would welcome Nora’s company.
Nora doubted that. She envied Savannah, who had spent most of her girlhood summers in Richmond with Maggie. To this day, she and her grandmother were close, and Nora wished she could duplicate their relationship.
Maggie snorted. “Why bother with the doctor? That man books months ahead. By the time I really need him, I won’t need him,” she insisted.
Nora bit back a sigh. No wonder they didn’t get along. Like Maggie, she didn’t relish change in her life (take today, for instance), but she’d had her share. Nora was a survivor, and she remained an optimist. She blew a stray hair from her forehead, then counted to ten before she took a last sip of her Frappuccino. “If you don’t want to see your regular doctor…” Nora hesitated before adding, “then come visit me. Better yet—” she took the plunge “—live with me. As soon as you get here we’ll get you a complete workup.”
This was an old argument, and Maggie didn’t accept it now.
“I don’t want to move to Destin. I have plenty of friends here. I refuse to become a burden on my children.”
Child, Nora corrected in silence. Her only brother lived in Hawaii, and Hank Jr. had made it clear years ago that their mother was Nora’s responsibility. His interests seemed to consist of a collection of surfboards, the highest seas he could find, and endless women with the kind of deeply tanned skin that wouldn’t age well. He hadn’t held a steady job in years, unlike Nora, who had been working since she was fifteen. And seeing to Maggie’s future rather than her own.
“When it’s my time, I’ll go.” Maggie didn’t mean the move to Destin.
Nora ignored that. She didn’t want to think about losing Maggie. She slammed her empty cup into the holder on her console, steering a path with her other hand on the wheel through rush-hour traffic past the posh Silver Sands Mall. Overhead the sky was a clear, brilliant blue, and outside the car she knew the temperature still hovered in the eighties. It was too hot to open the windows, but Nora had the urge to inhale the bracing salt sea air along with the ever-present humidity. “The weather’s nicer here,” she pointed out. “Don’t you know how I worry about you alone in that house?”
“It’s my home,” Maggie said stiffly. She had rarely left it in fifty years.
“Yes, and it has three flights of narrow stairs and an outdated kitchen with faulty wiring. What if there was a fire?”
“My problem,” Maggie insisted. “I should think you have enough to handle. What about Savannah, living with that man before they’re even married? In my day, that would be a scandal. And then there’s Browning, who may have a fancy-sounding job with the government—he’s a spy, if you ask me—yet he hasn’t a clue about settling down. How many times has he ‘fallen in love’ in the past six months?”
Nora sighed. “More times than I can count.”
She swung her white Volvo convertible, the top of which was up today to shade her from the sun, off the two-lane road onto a side street that connected to her subdivision. And made one more try. “Please listen to reason. I’m your daughter. Your only daughter.”
Maggie’s tone hardened. “I hate Florida. What would I do among that bunch of leather-skinned sunbathers in retirement? They look like alligators. Listen to me, Nora Marianne Scarborough Pride, I am still your mother.”
After a few more minutes when neither of them budged from their usual positions, Nora said a wistful goodbye, then hung up, feeling frustrated. Well, that had gone badly, which, considering the rest of her day, shouldn’t have come as a surprise. First Starr, then Mark, now Maggie. Nora hadn’t even mentioned her troubles, after all.
Thank goodness her day was at an end.
By the time Nora reached home in her quiet, off-the-beaten-path neighborhood, she felt drained. The sight of her tidy, one-story house of rosy brick and the winding stone path to her door didn’t help for once. The Frappuccino hadn’t restored her spirits, either, or her energy, despite its triple kick of caffeine, and neither had her talk with Maggie. Still, Nora smiled as she opened her door.
Before she stepped inside, she heard familiar doggy footsteps. As always, Daisy greeted her in the foyer. Nora felt an immediate burst of vitality and a love that was both given and received. Several years ago, after Savannah had moved out and then Browning, Nora had adopted the silky golden retriever through a rescue organization. In truth, she felt they had saved each other. Unlike Maggie, Nora no longer entered an empty house. And who needed a man? Even her ex-husband had never been as affectionate or as good a companion.
“Hey, girl. Sorry I’m late. Anybody interesting call today?”
She dropped her keys and bag, then bent to hug the dog; Daisy wriggled with delight. Nora kissed the top of her head, then waited until Daisy bumped her wet nose against the hallway table that stood under a gold-framed mirror. It was part of their daily ritual, and dutifully Nora opened its small drawer to retrieve a bag of beef-flavored treats. Who had trained whom? she wondered with another smile.
The pleasure with which Daisy munched on the canine equivalent of a Dove chocolate bar almost wiped out Nora’s memory of her day. With a heartfelt groan of relief, she kicked off her Ferragamo pumps. She padded into the living room, Daisy right behind her, and reminded herself that, their differences aside, Maggie was indeed still her mother. And Nora did love her.
For the few seconds until her jaw had unclenched, she allowed herself to take in the tasteful taupe and gold and cream furnishings of her living room. Hers. She’d done a bang-up job with its simple but elegant decor, including the rich, darker shade she’d chosen for the walls, and tonight, especially, she needed its welcome sanctuary. It even smelled like home, part discreet potpourri from the bowls scattered throughout the house, part animal even though Nora bathed Daisy regularly, part furniture polish and the lingering scents of the white chicken chili Nora had fixed for dinner last night.
“Hungry, angel?”
There was only one answer to that question. Daisy launched into another dance, hips wiggling, doggy nails clicking all the way into the kitchen. Nora fed her before she headed straight for the chilled bottle of New Zealand chardonnay that languished in her refrigerator. Frankly, tonight she was a hair away from phoning Heath Moran when she’d promised herself she never would again.
Seeing a younger man, no matter how gorgeous he was, didn’t seem…well, seemly, as Maggie might say. The months Nora had spent with her hunky health club trainer had been fun—wildly, madly so—but they were over. Love games were for people her son’s age.
Nora had just poured a glass of wine when she heard the front door open. Engrossed in her meal, topped with leftover chili for gravy, Daisy didn’t look up from her food bowl. Lazy Daisy, Nora often called her with affection. Daisy didn’t concern herself with protecting her mistress. Obviously she recognized the intruder by scent and wasn’t alarmed. For an instant, Nora wondered if Heath had come to return her house key—or to offer her a second chance. On her stocking-clad feet she glided out of the kitchen into the living room and to her surprise heard stifled laughter, twice over. Her heart settled for the first time that day, then warmed at the sight of her daughter and Savannah’s fiancé.
“What are you two giggling about?” she asked. They stood by the door whispering like conspirators. Nora supposed it had something to do with their upcoming wedding. If one thing had gone wrong in the planning, everything had, and it had become a joke among the three of them. Nora relished sharing their regular reports of the latest snafu as much as she enjoyed supplying her own version of the often-ridiculous events. “If that printer has changed his delivery date again for those invitations, I’ll—”
Savannah grinned. “No, Ma. It’s nothing like that.”
Nora took a first sip of wine and assessed her future son-in-law’s not-quite-suppressed smile. His eyes sparkled, as if he knew some delightful secret, and he waggled his eyebrows at her. Nora lifted hers in response. She was happy to see him and Savannah, too, the one bright spot in this day, except for Daisy. She held up her glass. “Would either of you like a drink?”
“Maybe later,” he said.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Savannah said.
Nora smiled with pride at her daughter. With her blond hair and creamy complexion, her slender form, Savannah would make the most beautiful bride. And Johnny—well, what could Nora say? He had been a favorite of hers since he was thirteen years old.
He’d grown up very nicely. Tall, lean, and well put together, with those wicked green eyes, at thirty-three he had the kind of sun-streaked hair that reminded Nora of the surfer boys like her brother who abounded on the Emerald Coast but with a better brain. John Hazard, a screenwriter, managed to hide that sharp intelligence and an awesome talent behind his modest charm as effectively as he often repressed his deeper emotions. Not tonight, she realized. He didn’t fool her. A cream puff, she thought, but definitely one with a secret. He was all but dancing across her living room carpet like Daisy, though he hadn’t moved an inch.
Daisy had finished her dinner. Nora had no doubt she’d licked the bowl clean. All at once she charged around the kitchen doorway, tail waving like a pennant, bright eyes flashing. She aimed for Johnny, a personal favorite, then Savannah. When she’d absorbed another round of hugs and scratches, she finally settled down at Johnny’s feet.
“I saw Mark late today,” Savannah said too casually, leaning back against the door, her dark blue eyes—the eyes she had gotten from Nora—avoiding hers. “He said you’d been in before me. I thought he seemed a little…down, somehow. Did you notice?”
“No,” Nora said with a flicker of guilt. Mark, depressed about something? He’d seemed his usual cheerful self to her. But then Nora had been preoccupied. Maybe she’d overlooked something.
“I’m sorry we missed each other,” Savannah said. “Why were you there?”
Nora’s heart jerked. “Just routine. You?”
She wouldn’t mention Mark’s “diagnosis,” didn’t want to worry them with the words that Nora had decided to ignore. Besides, those two had something in mind. If anything was wrong with Savannah, she and Johnny wouldn’t be toying with her like this, as they so obviously were doing. Would they?
“We have some news,” he admitted.
“Good news? Or bad news?” Nora didn’t need the latter.
“We think it’s good,” he said.
“We’re not sure about you.” Savannah reached for his hand. They were still hovering by the front door, as if they didn’t know whether to come in.
A thousand possibilities flashed through Nora’s mind. As she’d suspected, the invitations must have been printed with the wrong names, time, or God forbid, date. Or Savannah’s wedding gown could not be finished on time. The reception hall had been double-booked by someone else with a prior claim. Savannah’s brother couldn’t be Johnny’s best man after all because Browning was off to Borneo for the government for six months.
“Angels, I can’t stand the suspense. You’re afraid to tell me, aren’t you?”
“We’re not afraid,” Savannah said, “but maybe you should sit down.”
Nora’s pulse took a tumble. “Everything else may have gone wrong today, but my daughter is about to marry the most wonderful man on earth for her, and vice versa. I’m over the moon already. Nothing has given me more pleasure than to help plan your wedding.”
“Help?” Johnny echoed. “Is that what you call it? As soon as we got engaged, you ran with the ball. ‘Let me take care of everything.’ There’s been no stopping you.” But his tone was teasing, his favorite attitude with Nora.
She reassessed him and Savannah. “Please don’t tell me there’s some problem with your absolutely perfect match.”
“No, of course not.” Savannah worried her lower lip. “It’s just that I’m—”
“We’re—” Johnny said at the same instant.
“—pregnant,” they both finished. “Nora—Ma—you’re going to be a…”
Savannah’s next word failed to register. Nora was speechless, stunned. Her gaze dropped to Savannah’s flat stomach. She had laid a hand over it, protectively, covering her still-slim figure in her skinny jeans, and Johnny reached out to enfold her fingers there with his. His chin lifted as he returned Nora’s stare, but she saw his left eye begin to twitch, a sure sign that he was feeling stressed.
Still she didn’t move. For years she had entertained the happy fantasy of her daughter one day becoming a mother, too. Nora loved her family. She had two children of her own, and on his wedding day Johnny would make three.
Wasn’t it only yesterday that Savannah had been a little girl in pigtails, playing jump rope during school recess? Crying over her first boyfriend? Giggling with her girlfriends? Learning to ride a horse? Trying on her prom dress? And always, always after Nora’s divorce from Wilson, drawing her primitive stick figures of their family, together again? For a second or two, Nora let the sweet and poignant memories drift through her mind.
“Say something,” Savannah murmured.
And at last Nora came out of her trance.
“Ohhh!” she shrieked. Startling Daisy, she sidestepped the dog, crossed the room, hauled Savannah into her wide-open arms, then Johnny, too. “Oh, my God! You two…”
She told them how pleased she was, then turned her first, shocked silence into the kind of Hallmark occasion that sold greeting cards by the millions. Daisy was more than eager to join in the expressions of joy. She shimmied and jumped up on people and gave a short, sharp bark of delight. The bright blue metal tags on her collar jingled like a nursery mobile.
“Can you believe it, Ma? Eeeek!” Savannah shouted.
Nora’s eyes misted. How many such moments came along, after all, in anyone’s lifetime? She and Savannah surrendered to their tears and clasped each other close, erupting now and then as only women can in support of each other on such a happy occasion.
Soon they would talk, as only mothers and daughters knew how to do, together. They would go shopping. For now Johnny was here, and he was a man, excluded by his sex from their female circle. He gazed helplessly from Nora to Savannah and back again with a baffled expression on his face at their display. He, in particular, wouldn’t understand such up-front emotion, and Nora finally took pity on him before she and Savannah went crazy all over again, unable to help themselves.
Yet underneath, Nora felt a strange mix of powerful emotions all her own. One minute she was stepping back to think, It’s too soon. She had wanted this some day, but years from now when she would be ready. In the next instant, she was laughing and crying and holding on to Savannah for dear life. New life.
Her baby was having a baby.
Nora felt close to being hysterical, actually. Even in the company of the people she loved more than her own life, it had been quite a day.
“I’m going to be…what?” she murmured.
CHAPTER 2
“Y ou sure don’t look like any grandmother I ever knew,” Nora heard Johnny say as soon as the restaurant hostess had shown them to their table, “including my own. Both of them.”
She struggled not to blush at the compliment.
“You think so? Really?”
“Character is my business, Nora. I’m thinking—” he assessed her for a long moment “—Sandra Bullock for the part.”
“She’s only forty.”
She felt grateful for his flattery, but Nora had lived on a roller coaster of emotion for the past two days, obsessing over Savannah and Johnny’s surprising news. Sometimes she found herself smiling at the prospect, then fighting the urge to run and look in her mirror for any obvious signs that Mark Fingerhut could be right. This morning she had called Johnny to arrange one of their regular brunches, and seized the chance to get away from herself.
Besides, she owed him something. The other night when she and Savannah had done their happy dance all over her living room, Johnny had stood there with a somewhat puzzled expression. What are they screaming about? She’d seen that male look on his face but, considering his emotionally deprived background, she hadn’t known how to include him then. Almost shyly now, she pushed a small jewelry box toward him.
But Johnny hadn’t finished. With barely a glance at the box, he left it where it was.
“Fifty is the new forty,” he pointed out.
“How about thirty? Could you see me as, say, Catherine Zeta-Jones?” She was teasing, yet Nora felt cheered. “I’d certainly like to think so, and it’s true women do take better care of themselves these days. Preventive maintenance.” If only Nora could do a better job of that, but there were always other people who needed her. Maggie, for one. And now there would soon be a little one to cuddle. Still, she couldn’t resist saying, “In theory, you realize, I’m too young to be a grandmother.”
Johnny had the audacity to laugh.
“Too young? Savannah said last night that she has no idea how we’ll get all those candles on your cake next week.”
Nora choked on her Bloody Mary.
His grin grew. “It’ll be a conflagration, a forest fire raging out of control.”
“I’d rather ignore it.” She waved a hand, dismissing the topic of her upcoming birthday. Dismissing the unattractive bouts of ambivalence she’d suffered for the past few days. “Johnny, seriously. My birthday aside, I can’t wait to dispense hugs and kisses, read stories, and even bake Christmas cookies for your child, not that I intend to put on a frumpy apron while I’m doing it.”
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? Savannah won’t give birth for six more months.”
“I like to be prepared.” In fact, she’d done just that before she met Johnny for brunch. Thanks to a friend who owned a beautiful shop in the Silver Sands Mall, she’d been able to get the gift ready for him on time. This would be her way of making Johnny feel like an even bigger part of the celebration and their family. Idly, he spun the gift box in the center of the table. He still hadn’t opened it.
“Please,” she said.
But Johnny had lost his smile. “I can’t quite believe it myself, you know. We’re having a baby.” He shook his head. “Do you realize that less than a year ago I was still living with Savannah’s best friend? Trying to get Kit on track in her life while I neglected my own? Keeping her kid from turning into a future juvenile delinquent in that crazy household? Not to mention that mother of hers…” He rolled his eyes over Kit’s demanding parent. “Now Kit’s back in school to finish her degree, Tyler’s still a great kid, I’m with Savannah and she’s—we’re—pregnant. Just call us The Incredibles.”
Nora reminded him of something else. “A year ago Savannah was pining away over you, fretting that you’d never see how right you were for each other. You didn’t know that? Well, she did. She was working for that awful temp agency—until I finally persuaded her to take a few clients of mine.” Before the second round of hurricanes, Nora thought, before her workload diminished. “But you forgot the rest.” She felt a fresh glow of approval for her future son-in-law. “You love Savannah with all your heart. And it’s a big heart, angel.”
This newly revealed side of his personality thrilled her, because Johnny had been the king of suppressed emotion for most of his life. Savannah had opened him like a can of beans, and in Nora’s view the change was all to the good. For his benefit, as well. No, especially for his benefit.
Johnny hadn’t had the best upbringing, she knew. His father had abandoned his mother early on, leaving her to raise their son by herself, and even after she’d married then left Wilson (she’d been his second wife), it had been hard going. When Savannah came home the first time, dragging Johnny like an abandoned cat, Nora had immediately taken him in. Their bond remained fierce, like a mother tiger with her cub, like Johnny’s with Savannah, and Nora felt lucky to share that.
He didn’t even try to wiggle out this time. “Sure, I love her,” he said. “What’s not to love?”
Nora blinked. “You love me, too. Admit it.”
“Yep. I do, angel.” He used her favorite endearment, still without smiling, and Nora’s inner alarm system went on alert. Despite this enjoyable brunch, Savannah was conspicuously absent today, and Johnny hadn’t bothered to explain why. “Savannah would have liked to hear me say that,” he added.
“Is she all right?” Nora asked. “Feeling well, no problems now that she’s expecting?”
Johnny frowned. “She’s a little under the weather. Especially in the morning. Apparently, it’s my fault.”
Nora smiled but she couldn’t bear for Savannah to be ill. “The women in our family don’t get morning sickness. She shouldn’t, either. I’m joking, of course. I do worry about her. Still, she has plenty to do with the Larson job I gave her to design their family room and sun porch. The contractors haven’t exactly been cooperative.”
His green eyes brightened. “You wouldn’t admit to having morning sickness if you were hung over the bathroom bowl like a Christmas ornament every day. And I bet you’d be wearing your best three-inch heels with a string of pearls.”
She couldn’t help answering his faint smile. “So true.”
Johnny moved the jewelry box closer to his plate. But he left it there, and leaving him room, Nora attacked her eggs Benedict. At the luncheon with Starr, or for the past two days, she hadn’t been able to eat a bite. Today she felt ravenous. She knew Johnny didn’t easily accept gifts—or love, at one time. She didn’t know anyone, however, who needed it more.
“So,” he said, addressing his vegetable frittata, “what’s new with you? We didn’t have time the other night to talk. But Savannah told me you’ve lost some more clients.”
Nora sighed. And thought of Starr Mulligan. “Starr keeps horning in on the rest of my people. I’m sure she’s feeling the pinch, too, with so much hurricane destruction everywhere, but this morning my first phone message was from a woman in Royal Palms. I’ll see her late this afternoon. Starr and I are battling over the chance to redecorate her ten-thousand-square-foot home. Do you have any idea how much money I’d lose if I don’t win this job? Which, yes, I do need.”
Johnny named a figure. Very close to accurate, in Nora’s estimate.
“How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “I listen to Savannah. She’s considering your latest partnership offer in Nine Lives. Royal Palms would be pretty good dough, Nora. Better than the first screenplay I sold to Wade Blessing for his initial Razor Slade film.”
“You can’t be serious. You earn a ton of money.” Wade Blessing, the actor, was Hollywood’s newest Arnold Schwarzenegger—before he decided to save the state of California from the governor’s office. Wade’s continuing action films about a mercenary with a heart of gold could be too graphic for Nora’s taste, but that didn’t matter to Johnny’s bottom line.
“I said the first one. Wait until Wade sees my new script.” He grinned. “I’m gonna hold him up like a stagecoach bandit.”
A few months ago, after Johnny had walked out on Kit Blanchard and she had turned to Wade on the rebound for a while, the two men had suffered hard feelings, but they had since repaired their friendship.
“I thought you were writing something different.”
“That, too,” Johnny murmured, looking embarrassed. “It’s what Stephen King calls a ‘toy truck’ project. Just for me right now.”
“Johnny, it will be a movie. Tell me. When it gets released, the whole world will see it. How private can that be?”
He looked even more uncomfortable.
“Yeah. I know. But that’ll be Christmas a year from now at the earliest. I figure I’ll be too busy changing diapers to notice the public reaction. Or the reviews. I don’t want to talk about it. Wait until wide release.”
When Johnny picked up the jewelry box, obviously as a diversion, Nora held her breath. Embarrassed in turn, she fussed with her napkin, waiting for him to at last remove the wrapping paper from the gift. Would he like it?
“I may have overstepped my bounds with Starr,” she admitted, returning to their earlier conversation about her own career to distract herself. “We had a run-in recently, and I may have made an impulsive remark or two about that potential client I mentioned, Geneva Whitehouse.”
“Earl Whitehouse’s wife?”
Nora felt a twinge of unease. “Yes. Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation. He’s a pretty big developer in this area. He built a few of the houses in my compound at Seaview. Didn’t you do some work for him a while back?”
“Briefly,” Nora said, not wanting to discuss Earl Whitehouse, who, despite his stellar standing in the community, was not one of her favorite people. “We were talking about Starr. She and I seem to bring out the worst in each other. Now I wonder if at our monthly business luncheon this week she decided to retaliate for what I’d said.” Had Starr’s pointed reaction to Nora’s hot flash been exactly that? Payback?
Johnny gauged her expression. “Then why not cut her some slack? You might even come to like her.”
Nora doubted that was possible, but she didn’t say so. And maybe he was right. She and Starr had struggled with each other long enough, and it was up to Nora—always the ready helper—to take the first step. Then she saw that Johnny had removed the paper, lifted the top of the box and pulled out the gift.
“Uh, Nora.” He choked up, and she saw him swallow. “This is for me?”
“It won’t suit anyone else, angel.”
He slipped the eighteen-karat gold signet ring on his finger. And stared at it. The fine script flowed across its surface, caught the light streaming through the restaurant windows and shone on the one simple word. Five letters that Nora had hoped might mean the world to him.
Johnny’s voice was thick. “Sometimes you break me up.” Then his gaze met hers, and his smile beamed. “Thank you. You sure know how to get a guy.”
The gold ring’s inscription read simply: Daddy.
Riding on a wave of euphoria long after her brunch with Johnny, Nora decided to take his advice to see Starr that afternoon before Nora met with Geneva Whitehouse. With luck, they, too, might reach some kind of rapprochement.
First, Nora swung by Nine Lives, Inc., where she found a pile of mail waiting on her desk. Her longtime client, Leonard Hackett, one of her most lucrative accounts, was also in her office. Typically, he didn’t look well.
Most of the mail was routine, with the exception of an invitation to a charity dinner in Fort Walton Beach for the Heart Association, and ordinarily she didn’t mind Leonard’s unannounced visits. But why was he here?
Nora tried to listen but, bent upon her meetings with Starr and then Geneva, her mind refused to take in the details. In her experience, it was always better to empathize with Leonard’s latest bout of severe hypochondria than to try talking him out of his newest ailment. All she needed to do was make soothing noises.
“I tell you, I’m not long for this world. It will be almost a relief.” Leonard slumped in a chair across from her. “I’ve been ill for years.”
“Clearly, it’s taken a toll.” His neurosis had definitely shredded her nerves and, suppressing a sigh, Nora lifted her gaze from the charity invitation to give him her best look of sympathy.
“I see you’re letting your hair grow,” she said, hoping to distract him.
Leonard ran a hand over the top of his head where a barely visible fuzz had sprouted. She’d never cared for his—so Leonard had believed—trendy baldness. Now, his gleaming skull struck her as preferable to the gray-brown stubble that took its place.
“I won’t need to maintain my looks,” he murmured. “I only dropped by—with the utmost effort, I might add—to say goodbye.”
Nora’s heart lurched. “Leonard, don’t be ridiculous.”
Needing to discharge her nervous energy, she jumped up from her desk to pour a glass of water from the silver carafe on the sideboard. She held the Waterford tumbler out to Leonard.
“Here. Drink. I have whiskey, if you’d prefer.”
“Not good for my liver. My function is marginal, you know.”
Nora did sigh then. Leonard frequently tried her patience to the breaking point. Others might laugh at him, but she kept trying in her usual way to—what, save him from himself?
Dutifully, obviously stalling, he took a few sips of water, then set the glass aside. On her cherry end table. Without a coaster. Nora whipped one in the shape of a seashell from the drawer and smacked it down.
“Please, Leonard. No rings.”
He stretched his legs out, then crossed them at his bony ankles. If he had ever been the playboy he imagined himself to be, Nora hadn’t seen it. To her, he was more like Greta Garbo in drag, playing Camille.
Still, everyone had his illusions, and she maintained a certain fondness for Leonard. He could irritate her to distraction, but he had gobs of inherited money which he didn’t mind spending on the houses, condos and co-ops he’d purchased with astonishing regularity over the years.
It was a neurotic cycle, Nora suspected. Leonard became “ill,” he managed to survive the deadly disease, then bought himself a new place to live like a fresh lease on life. She had to admit the very notion of his leaving this earth now, after years of threats to do just that, would make her weep.
On second thought, she couldn’t continue to agree with him.
She tried to cheer him up. “Your color’s good today,” she pointed out. “That navy polo shirt makes your eyes look even more, um, blue.” Actually, they were almost colorless, but Nora wouldn’t be unkind—one reason, she supposed, why Leonard kept showing up without an appointment. He must know he could count on Nora for support. “If I don’t miss my guess, whatever illness you contracted during your weekend in the Caymans must be encountering all those little antibodies by now. I’d say that by tomorrow—”
Leonard shifted. “I’ve talked to Starr Mulligan.”
Uh-oh. Here we go. This was the real reason for Leonard’s latest impromptu visit. The rest had been a cover-up.
Nora’s voice chilled to the temperature of the water in the silver carafe crammed with ice on the sideboard. “I see.” He had, as usual, engaged her sympathy for his current illness, taken advantage of her kindness. Now he would tell her the truth. Nora didn’t want to hear it.
“Starr?” she said, already rethinking her earlier intention to make amends.
“I wasn’t expecting her when she turned up at my condo yesterday afternoon. I was napping, trying to preserve my strength, and not properly dressed to entertain.”
“Starr brings her own show with her.”
“Yes, well.” Leonard cleared his throat. “I think you should know she plans to underbid you on the design for my new house.”
“You bought another house? So this medical crisis—” she circled a hand in the air “—was just a ruse.”
If he’d purchased yet another home, Leonard intended to live for a while. That was good news. Yet he’d almost put one past her and Nora’s focus sharpened. If he hadn’t been her most constant client for the past fifteen years, if she didn’t need him now, she’d feel tempted to throw him out.
“I didn’t bid on your job, Leonard. I didn’t know about it.”
He adopted a contrite expression like a basset hound. “Can you possibly forgive me?”
“I’m not sure. How did Starr learn about this property in the first place?”
Leonard looked away. “Her cousin is a Realtor. He’s, uh, my Realtor.”
“I never knew that,” Nora said.
“He mainly handles commercial property. I wasn’t even in the market when he phoned to tell me he had this marvelous listing at Impressions right near Seaview.”
“Charming.” Nora didn’t mean the gorgeous new development at the shore, a few miles from Destin, and not far from the other planned community where Johnny owned a beach home. “You’ll be too far from the pharmacy,” she informed Leonard, “and the mall. And probably from the water.”
“I can practically walk from my kitchen into the Gulf.”
“I see,” Nora said again. If her life kept going this way, she wouldn’t need to worry about her presumed perimenopause. She’d have a stroke. “So you’ve gone behind my back, bought a marvelous new home—and Starr has great plans for it.” Nora couldn’t help the next words that came from her mouth, Maggie’s long-ago teachings aside. “Well, congratulations. When she fills the place with hideous pseudo pre-Columbian art and charges you a fortune, please don’t call me.”
Leonard sounded like a little boy. “Nora.”
She pressed her fingers to her forehead, easing the frown that wanted to form. Her latest Botox injections were supposed to be at their peak effect, and her forehead shouldn’t show a ripple, like the surface of an unused swimming pool in the sun.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m hurt, Leonard.”
How could Starr steal her most lucrative and ever-present client? Just as she wanted to take Geneva Whitehouse? What would Nora do without Leonard? It seemed worse than her usual question: What to do with him? He had been the pain in her ribs for years, but she was, well…used to him. He had his gentler side, and until now a certain loyalty, although it wasn’t showing today.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he said in a soft, tempting tone.
And with that Nora realized she’d been played like a fine Stradivarius. Leonard had made the hackles rise on her neck, made her forget Mark Fingerhut.
She rubbed her imaginary frown. “You were trying to tempt me. The problem is, I’ve never provided estimates on your ‘projects’ before. If you can’t give me carte blanche this time, then by all means realign yourself with Starr Mulligan. I hope you won’t be sorry.”
Like a hermit crab, Leonard scuttled in his baggy khakis across the office to seize her hand. “Please, Nora. I do value your input.”
“I refuse to be manipulated.” She withdrew from his cold grasp. “I thought we were friends,” she added in a gently scolding tone and, ignoring his hangdog expression, ushered him out the door.
She knew Leonard’s taste in home decor. She would simply redo his new quarters in a month or two. For twice the price.
For the time being, she decided to let him squirm.
As for Starr, they would talk, all right. But there would be no truce.
By the time Nora got to Starr’s office, having needed an hour to gather herself after Leonard’s betrayal, she learned that Starr had left for the day. Disappointed, Nora drove to her last appointment in the very upscale Royal Palms subdivision on the outskirts of Destin. Ready to do some serious arm-twisting, she found the slim, almost petite Geneva Whitehouse waiting—but also, quite unexpectedly, Starr Mulligan.
Nora gritted her teeth, determined to keep her mouth shut until the right opportunity arose to confront Starr in private. Even her latest perfidy wouldn’t cause Nora to lose her cool. In grim silence, she trailed Geneva and Starr through the house, expressing the proper oohs and ahhs here and there over Geneva’s treasures. Geneva, who appeared to be the very epitome of the trophy wife, wanted a new showcase for several of her valuable collections, and Nora and Starr both offered their suggestions.
At a ceiling-high, antique glass-fronted cabinet in the wide hallway, which had a gleaming black walnut floor, Geneva paused.
Peering over her shoulder at the lighted étagère, Nora saw a large number of handblown glass bowls, perfume bottles, and paperweights. A vast amount of gold and silver mixed with crystal sparkled on every shelf. Nora identified Lalique, Orrefors, Waterford—and was that vintage Tiffany?—before her gaze caught on a stunning slender, heart-shaped vase that stood out from the rest.
“That is a gorgeous piece,” she murmured. “Very unusual.” The light struck and then ricocheted off the cobalt and ruby inside through a swirl of clear glass, creating a rainbow across the dark floor.
“Obviously expensive,” Starr said.
“Who’s counting?” Geneva smiled, showing a row of very white—and probably fully porcelain-crowned—teeth. Nora guessed she was in her early forties now, but everything about the woman appeared to be perfect, including her youth, or the illusion she had managed to sustain. “It was a present from my husband right before we became engaged,” Geneva told them with a loving smile. “His promise, he said then, of our future.”
“And you certainly have that,” Nora murmured.
Even so, this cabinet was a relatively minor possession. So was the vase, which Nora assumed held a more sentimental price tag. The rest of the house was a monument to expensive taste and extravagance, from the lush sofas with goose down cushions to the brushed nickel-framed paintings on the silk-papered walls. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the redesign job. As soon as she got home, she would draw up her plans. Something a shade less traditional, she envisioned, a tad more lean and contemporary to complement the obvious bling that Geneva appeared to treasure.
Almost twitching, Nora waited until Geneva drifted off into the kitchen. Should she use cherry or alder wood for the new cabinetry? While she pondered the choices, Nora and Starr were alone for a moment, and Nora spoke her mind.
“How dare you?”
Starr arched an obviously waxed eyebrow. There wasn’t a stray hair, or even a hair on her head, out of place. Her bland expression didn’t alter, not even a blink. “I beg your pardon. Haven’t you heard of capitalism, free enterprise?”
Nora clenched her teeth. “In other words, it’s every woman for herself.”
“If you mean Leonard Hackett, we competed, you lost.”
“And you feel entitled to steal my clients from under my nose?”
In response, Starr looked pointedly at Nora’s beak. She’d never felt especially proud of her nose. A trifle too long, a bit narrow, it would appear in her mirror to be a classic slash of a blade, but with just a slight bump over the bridge. That might work on a man, on Johnny for example, or Heath Moran.
The thought of Heath gave her a twinge of regret. In spite of her best intentions, after Johnny and Savannah had left the other night Nora had given in and called him, needing some kind of affirmation that she was still a reasonably attractive woman. But Heath hadn’t answered his telephone. Maybe he had his reasons, and Heath had decided she was right about the difference in their ages.
Would Nora also inherit her mother’s flabby underarm gene, her spreading cellulite? She could already imagine her breasts becoming a sad ski slope under her raw linen blouse, which by now had turned into a mass of wrinkles.
“Starr, darling.” She repeated Starr’s word from the luncheon. “Let me give you some advice.”
“Unsolicited, as always?”
Nora smoothed her blouse. “I don’t know who scheduled these two meetings at the same time, but I can guess. Wasn’t Leonard enough? No,” she answered her own question, “you had to call Geneva, and when you learned I would see her today, you ‘dropped by’ a few minutes earlier. Of all the nerve. If I were you I’d make some polite excuse and leave.” She indicated Geneva, who was opening and closing the doors to the immense pantry only a few feet away. “You can put in your bid another day.”
“Another day and you’ll have contractors all over this place.”
“Just tell Geneva—”
“What? That I’m the better designer? Most of the Florida Panhandle already knows that.”
Nora felt her blood pressure surge. After her recent near brush with a cardiovascular event, she needed to keep calm. No more of those unanticipated…flushes.
She would maintain control if it killed her. Of her temper. And her body.
“You’re not going to rile me, Mulligan. Don’t even try.”
Nora whirled around, intent upon charming her soon-to-be client and nailing down the deal. Her mind spinning with ideas, she started toward Geneva.
Starr charged after her.
When she jerked Nora around, pulling her arm almost out of its socket, Nora had no choice but to freeze in place. Starr glared at her.
“I want this job. I intend to have it. One way or another.”
For a few seconds, Nora stared her down. Then with a cool look of dismissal, she pulled her arm free and continued on into the kitchen. She didn’t care whether Geneva heard her or not.
“Someone will die first,” Nora muttered.
CHAPTER 3
D etective Calvin Raji Caine had a hangover.
On this hot September morning, it pounded behind his eyes and through his fogged brain. Last night’s six-pack roiled in his belly, which he fully deserved, but if anyone spoke too loud in the next few hours, he wouldn’t pull his punches.
Caine wasn’t proud of what he called his therapeutic drinking, which had started after his wife, Annie’s, death, but occasions like that three years ago, and at the moment this one, tended to throw off his good intentions. Right now, his job wasn’t helping him to reform.
“Guess I picked the wrong line of work,” he said, but it was all he knew.
Caine wound his way up the long, paved drive to the Whitehouse address.
Good Lord.
Did people really live this way? He knew they did. In his job Caine saw all kinds of homes: grand estates, middle-class brick ranch houses, single-and double-wide trailers. The small bungalow he’d shared with Annie popped into his mind as well. Neat and tidy, it had smelled of good food and furniture polish and most of all, love, when she was still alive. He hated going home now.
Solitary confinement, Caine called his place, which echoed with a sense of emptiness now that she was gone. He’d never planned on living there alone, or being a bachelor again. Well, alone except for Annie’s cat. Caine was the orange tabby’s sole companion now, just as the tomcat was his. He guessed they suited each other, one of them as irascible as the other. Once, he supposed, they’d both been normal guys.
What the hell. He might as well question Geneva Whitehouse about some petty burglary she’d reported earlier that morning or he’d start to feel tempted to go find a little hair of the dog and call a beer or two his lunch—not that Caine had ever done any drinking on the job. He didn’t expect the interview to amount to anything. Probably the Whitehouse maid had lifted an item or two, giving herself a nice five-finger bonus.
He rang the bell and heard discreet chimes from within.
The woman who answered would have sucked the breath from an ordinary man, one who still had red blood flowing through his veins. Reed-slim but full-breasted, Geneva Whitehouse wasn’t tall, yet she carried herself like a supermodel. An ash blonde with wide blue eyes, she wore a gold wedding ring on her hand next to a flashy diamond set in platinum that must weigh four carats.
“Ms. Whitehouse. Calvin Caine.” He flashed his badge. “I’m the investigator assigned to your case. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
With the introduction he handed her his card. As she studied it, the striking blue of her eyes went flat, like an unpolished stone, and the sparkle disappeared except from her ring.
“Please come in.”
Caine felt the back of his neck crawl. Right away his head began to throb again and he felt lost. The house was huge, in all ways. Big entry hall, big rooms, big ceilings, big air-conditioning system if the chill was anything to judge by. He thought of his own decrepit bedroom unit, cranking out stale air all night, not helping him to sleep. He kept meaning to replace it. Too bad he didn’t have the inclination to change the AC, his clothes, whatever.
In the living room she studied him. “Would you like a drink? Soda, coffee, something stronger?”
He must look as if he needed one. The temptation he’d suppressed rocked him back on his heels. “No, thanks. I’m on duty. I won’t take much of your time.”
Geneva Whitehouse perched on the arm of a very expensive-looking sofa. She invited him to sit down, but Caine stayed on his feet. He took out his notebook and clicked open his pen.
“The missing vase,” he said, prompting her to begin.
“Yes, of course. I noticed it was gone this morning when I got up,” she said. “It’s quite valuable, although not of museum quality.” She named a figure that widened Caine’s eyes anyway. “My husband had it custom-made for me from his own design.” She blinked. “As you might guess, it has even greater sentimental value.” She worried her bottom lip. “Do you think you can get it back?”
“We’ll try.” He scribbled on his pad. “When did you last see this vase?”
With a longing look toward the hall, she indicated the now-empty space in the curio cabinet, a look that reminded Caine of himself at home in his empty house. “Yesterday afternoon, I think, just before five,” she said.
Caine asked the usual questions about anyone who had access to the house or grounds, anyone who might know the layout and her daily routine. In his experience, most people followed the same schedule, in the same order, each day without any significant deviation. She mentioned the gardener, her cleaning service, the pool boy. “But they haven’t been here as recently as—” Her gaze popped open even more. “Oh, goodness. I’ve been so upset, I almost forgot. I’ve been interviewing interior designers. We’re going to have some work done on the house—” needlessly, Caine thought, but it was her money, or her husband’s “—and two women were here yesterday. One of them admired that particular vase. It does stand out,” she added.
Caine needed specifics.
“Nora Pride,” she murmured, sounding reluctant to say the name. “Her firm is Nine Lives, Inc. in Destin.”
Sounded more like a pet store to Caine. She gave him the other woman’s name, Starr Mulligan of Superior Interiors, and Caine rolled his eyes. Geneva Whitehouse didn’t see him because she had glanced away, but when her gaze met his again, his cop instincts began to hum. Caine saw doubt in her eyes. She didn’t know whether to tell him something.
“Anything you can give me, Ms. Whitehouse, will be a help. Sometimes the smallest detail can sound a bell.”
She fidgeted with her ring. “Something else does bother me, Detective Caine. I’d be less than a good citizen—and not very helpful to you—if I didn’t tell you that when they were here, Starr and Nora argued.”
Geneva Whitehouse gnawed on her lip again. It was a great lip, full and plump and ripe, but Caine reminded himself that he didn’t have much interest in women these days. His work had become his life. And besides, she was married. Caine liked to think he was a principled man.
“I wasn’t in perfect earshot,” she continued, bringing him back to the reason for his visit. “While I was looking at the shelves and cabinets in the kitchen, Nora took Starr aside. I could hear the buzz of their voices, then they rose before Nora’s dropped a little…” She flushed, prettily.
“Go on.”
Geneva Whitehouse hesitated. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. The vase was here when they left and later, I think, when I left home myself. I was supposed to meet my husband for dinner, but he was detained at work so I ended up eating alone in the restaurant.” She all but wrung her hands, looking more unhappy than her husband’s necessary lapse seemed to warrant. “I don’t see how anyone could have gotten into the house while I was gone. We have an alarm system and it’s always monitored. Earl insisted on it as soon as we were married.”
And she had become a blue blood by law, Caine thought. He made a little “hmm” of encouragement. This was Geneva Whitehouse’s first marriage, he knew, but it was her spouse’s third trip around the matrimonial track, and each time he had downsized in terms of his bride’s age. Earl Whitehouse was a prominent local builder and Royal Palms was his project.
Talk about career development. Without ever holding a job, Geneva Whitehouse had become an instant multimillionaire.
In the next breath she knocked him flat again.
“I hate to say anything against Nora, really. But I saw how determined she was to get my business.” Geneva Whitehouse reported Starr Mulligan’s similar statement, then stopped.
Caine sighed to himself. Getting a witness to talk could be as hard as bathing Annie’s cat. For another moment she couldn’t go on. Or at least that’s how it appeared to Caine, who felt his anticipation rising with every empty second.
She tried again. “Nora said—”
His tone was gentle yet insistent. “Yes, Ms. Whitehouse?”
“The burglary here is one thing and I’m heartbroken over my vase. But, well, I couldn’t help but overhear. Detective Caine, Nora threatened someone…with murder.”
Nora stared down at the just-received wedding invitation on her desk and thought of violence. And here she’d imagined she had put her past—her marriage—behind her at last. She reread the formal words.
Mr. and Mrs. William Baker
Request the honour of your presence
At the marriage of their daughter
Heather
to
Wilson Pride
The creamy vellum sheet was decidedly stubborn, if an inanimate object had any such quality, or it would have disappeared by now, zapped by Nora’s fervent wish that she hadn’t been included in the guest list. Attend her ex-husband’s wedding? Nora shuddered, but the words on the invitation hadn’t altered, either. She wished she could simply ignore them and the troublesome date that she had tried, only a few months ago, to make sure would never happen.
She wasn’t proud of herself for attempting to sabotage Wilson’s newest “love of my life,” and now it seemed she had definitely failed.
Nora leaned around her desk to catch Daisy’s eye. The golden retriever was lying in her usual spot between her and the door to her office. Several months ago, taking into account her lost clients, Nora had been forced to lay off her receptionist, and Daisy had kindly offered to work for free. Three times a week she kept Nora company at work, while supposedly discouraging intruders; in return, Nora dispensed extra doggie treats and kept a Chinese porcelain bowl of cold water on hand in lieu of a salary.
“Well, Daisy,” she said, “what do you think of Wilson and his bride? It’s a good thing he didn’t ask you to be in the wedding. I would never have forgiven him for that. But does he really think I want to—”
Nora heard the outer door open.
Apparently her ears were better than Daisy’s. The dog hadn’t gazed at Nora for more than a second before dropping her head again onto her paws, letting her floppy ears fall over her eyes, and going back to sleep. Now she didn’t move—until Nora’s visitor appeared in her office doorway. Detective Caine, apparently. The policeman had called to say he was dropping by.
The Walking Wounded, was Nora’s first surprised thought.
And, for some unknown reason she might never understand, all of the blood drained from her head straight down to her Jimmy Choo pumps. For a second, she swayed in her ergonomic desk chair.
Quickly, even in her distress, she took inventory of the detective. His rumpled black Dockers, his herringbone jacket, his shirt and tie were good quality and well-tailored but looked uncared for, like the man himself, it seemed. His craggy, hard-jawed face, shadowed by a late afternoon stubble, had seen too much living, Nora felt sure, with a sharp, masculine nose and shrewd yet puppy dog-sad dark eyes. His head of thick, dark hair, with just a hint of distinguished gray at the temples, clearly needed a stylist.
Yet he drew her gaze again. He reminded Nora of herself right after she had left Wilson and unwillingly struck out on her own, feeling ironically abandoned. She was feeling that now after getting the invitation to his wedding while she was still single and likely to stay that way.
Nora, the saver of other lost souls ever since her divorce, felt almost sorry for Caine. So did Daisy, apparently.
The retriever’s eyes opened, then brightened, and her plumy tail began to flap in greeting against the carpet. So much for Daisy’s new career as Nora’s quasi-secretary and protector. The detective smiled a little, then bent down to give Daisy a good scratch behind the ears.
“Ms. Pride?” he prompted.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Nora Pride.”
“Nice dog.”
Daisy rolled over for an expert tummy rub, gazing at Calvin Caine like an adoring strumpet. “She certainly seems to like you.”
Nora smoothed her limp skirt, wishing she’d had time to powder the shine from her nose. She reminded herself that he was a cop and not to underestimate him, though it was clear he liked animals, usually a plus in Nora’s book. Why did he want to talk to her? He hadn’t said, but Nora’s heart did a three-sixty roll. She had a stack of unpaid parking tickets stashed in the glove compartment of her car. Had the department finally tracked her down? Why send a detective?
He gave the surroundings a cursory yet professional assessment: Nora’s glass-topped desk, the wall of shelves behind it neatly sprinkled with books, a tidy stack of interior design journals and the latest issue of Architectural Digest. Then his gaze returned to Nora. He looked her up, then down.
“I have a few questions,” he said.
When he stood, Nora inspected his badge, tucked his card away without looking at it and then gave him another careful scrutiny like the one he’d given her. He had a decent build, good shoulders and a straight spine, if not of the same height and breadth as Heath Moran, who still hadn’t bothered to answer her numerous telephone calls.
Hugh Jackman, she decided of Caine. A more mature Hugh Jackman.
Then he murmured, “Geneva Whitehouse.”
Geneva? Almost before Nora could take in the name, the questions came at her like bullets. This wasn’t about parking tickets. When had Nora left Geneva’s house yesterday? Who could vouch for her whereabouts last night?
“I was home, alone.” Perversely, considering the situation, Nora wished he would smile. She’d like to see what he looked like then, because she suspected he didn’t smile often. Or maybe she was trying to divert herself from her obsessive study of the wedding invitation a few minutes ago—that is, until he brought up Starr. And the apparently missing vase.
“Yes,” Nora admitted, “I did see Starr yesterday.”
He had picked up on her cool tone. “You’re not friends.”
“I didn’t say that. We’re, well, more than acquaintances. We’re competitors in interior design.” Oh, you bet. Nora had barely been out the door yesterday before Geneva Whitehouse called to inform her that she’d chosen Starr to do the work on her home. The sudden decision had wounded Nora, but she tried not to show it. “Ours is a small world, Detective Caine. One can’t afford to make enemies.”
“Would you call Ms. Mulligan an enemy?”
Nora felt her cheeks heat. Before she knew it, they were as hot as a pancake griddle, and she could sense the blood rushing through her veins, centering in her chest and making her feel breathless. Nora fought the strong urge to fan herself with Wilson’s invitation. Her skin must look as red as fire. Dear God, she was having another of those flushes, worse than before. Caine’s fault. That alone was enough to make her dislike him.
“Starr and I may have had words a time or two, bless her heart. She doesn’t have the best…disposition. But we both know where our bread is buttered.” She had formed a small lie, hoping to tamp down the fiery blush spreading across her skin, hoping to defuse his keen attention. “If you must know, yes, we sometimes quarrel.” A new insight struck her. “I suppose it’s almost a hobby for us.”
Her heart thundered like a cannon during a twenty-one-gun salute at Arlington Cemetery. Nora looked from him to Daisy, who was now curled at Caine’s feet as if she belonged to him rather than Nora. Surely he didn’t think…
“Do I look like a common thief to you?” she asked.
Nora drove home in a blue funk, her fingers trembling on the steering wheel of her convertible. She knew she hadn’t conducted herself well in the interview with Detective Caine. Still, she wasn’t behind bars tonight for something she hadn’t done. Look on the bright side.
Daisy certainly did. She hadn’t stopped smiling since Caine walked into the office, not even when Nora worked late then dropped her off at the vet’s on the way home. Daisy didn’t know it, but she was staying overnight at the clinic to get her teeth cleaned.
Alone in the car for the rest of the ride, Nora put down the top and let the warm, sultry Gulf breeze blow through her hair. Overhead the sky had darkened to a velvety blue, and she glimpsed a few stars trying to come out.
She was putting her key into the door of the home she’d worked so hard to pay for as a single woman—an honest woman—when a hard hand covered her softer one. Her pulse jerked in alarm. She hadn’t recovered from Caine’s interrogation, and Nora half expected another attack right at her door.
Then she smelled him, that recently familiar scent of man and the pricey cologne she had given him for his birthday. Instead of a real assault, to her relief this was some fantasy come to life in her doorway.
A hoarse masculine growl threatened to melt the skin at the nape of her neck. There was no “Your money or your life” forthcoming, but every square inch of Nora’s flesh quivered.
He didn’t bother with talk. He didn’t have to.
Heath Moran seemed fully involved in a replay of that scene from the 1969 film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The young Robert Redford. Katharine Ross. A classic now. Like Nora.
Before she could breathe again, he gently nudged her inside and shut them both into the cool darkness of her entryway. He pushed her up against the closed panel of the door and set his delicious, wicked mouth on hers, and she went limp.
“Why the hell do you keep torturing me like this?” Heath mumbled, his mouth pressed to the cleavage above the top button of her silk blouse. “Three flipping weeks without a word from you. Then I get that desperate-sounding tone on my answering machine. The Steel Magnolia in full meltdown mode. You’re enough to drive a man out of his freaking, already-insane mind.”
“Heath—”
Nora didn’t get the chance to continue. Or explain, as if she could. Clearly, he was a man bent upon a mission of the utmost importance. Critical. Now.
Within the next heartbeat, Nora agreed with him.
She felt his hard body against hers, the press of his already-stiff penis against her through the coarse fabric of his cargo shorts. He would be out of them in the next five seconds if she didn’t take control.
“You didn’t answer my call.”
“I’m answering it now.” She barely understood his muttering. “I was at work last night. Or did you already forget that Thursdays and Fridays I’m on the schedule?” Before she could push him away, his mouth dipped lower and he had unbuttoned her sufficiently to slip his hand inside her blouse. The heat of his palm on her breast, his fingers snaking inside her bra, felt like heaven. His breath came in pants. “The club’s…short-handed right now. One of the trainers…quit and I’m working…more hours.”
“Some excuse. And your cell phone battery died? I called both numbers.”
“Sounded important.” He nuzzled her half-exposed breast. “So is this.”
Nora fought not to whimper.
She didn’t think she could resist much longer. When she moaned, Heath smiled against her other breast.
“You want it. You know you do. You want me.”
“You do have…your skills. And here I thought—” she couldn’t help the movement of her own body “—that you were nothing more than a sadistic personal trainer. I’m still hurting,” she murmured, trying to be rational. “Those last pull-ups were murder.”
“A month ago? And you’re still sore? I doubt it.” Heath laughed a little, but he sounded winded. “Through tormenting me, then? Because if you are, we can get down to business here.”
Heath was forty-two and a stud muffin, as Savannah might say, the likes of which Nora had never known up close and personal until a few months ago. That is, until she’d finally rediscovered her common sense. She’d already made one mistake with Wilson, as today’s announcement reminded her. When compared to Wilson’s more cerebral, poetic nature, Heath might be embarrassingly physical, more of this earth with his sandy brown hair and eyes the color of topaz, and he was sensible to the core, but he was still a man. And men dumped her, or forced her to dump them, no matter what they promised.
“I can’t, Heath.” She pulled back, smoothed her skirt and rebuttoned her blouse. Her whole body felt sensitized as she glanced at his still-dazed face. “This is ridiculous. I’m—”
His head jerked up. “If you’d only get over this cockamamy theory that I’m too young for you, Nora, we could have some fun. Again.”
“We’re really not compatible.” Except in bed. She couldn’t deny that. What was she waiting for?
Heath’s voice stopped her. “I still scare you, don’t I?”
Nora couldn’t disagree. “Old habits—like Wilson—are hard to break.” And then, there was Detective Caine with his questions and his sorrowful eyes, the inspiration for yet another, different blast of heat. This time Nora couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.
Heath ran a hand through his thick sandy hair. He was obviously frustrated. “I’m not a habit. You’ve been divorced for over two decades. Isn’t it time to be happy again? With someone else? Me, for instance.”
She had to turn away not to jump his bones. He wasn’t just a pretty-boy face, a pack of muscles and six-pack abs. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to her.
He followed her into the living room, where Nora switched on the lamps so as not to leave them in the seductive darkness that had fallen.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she admitted.
Their brief affair, a first for Nora, had taught her a few things. She wasn’t cut out for hot sex without strings. She also wasn’t above enjoying it.
That thought, at least, was comforting. Heath’s tone was not.
“Look, I’ve been a good boy. I left you alone for weeks. Believe me, that wasn’t easy. Then all of a sudden you call me, but I can’t figure out why. I stew about that for a couple of days, but when I get here—against my better judgment—you light up like one of these lamps. Then just when things start looking good, and I feel human again, you go into some deep freeze. What the hell happened, Nora?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget that. What? Your future son-in-law disapproves of us? That doesn’t sound like Johnny, or Savannah. She introduced us, for God’s sake.”
Nora took a deep breath. “She’s pregnant.”
When she turned from lighting the last lamp, Heath was staring at her.
“Pregnant. And that means…”
“I’m going to be a…you know.” Nora turned away.
“Well, that’s it, then.” If Heath slammed the door for good this time, she couldn’t blame him, but she wouldn’t watch him leave. Instead, he stalked her across the room. “There’s no use pretending that it’s not all over now,” he murmured too close behind her. “A grandmother.”
Her throat had closed. “That’s a good thing, but…” She couldn’t go on.
“Jeez, Nora.” Heath turned her into his arms. He did have the smoothest moves. She never saw them coming. “Do you think that matters to me?”
A slight thrill ran through her. “It matters to me.”
“So why did you call me, then?”
“I wanted…” She didn’t know.
“Comfort?”
“Maybe. A little.” A lot. A whole cartload of the stuff. “I needed…”
“Reassurance?”
He had gone from bemused bewilderment to curiosity. Now she heard irritation. She might as well finish this off.
“And I had a…hot flash.” She didn’t quite choke on the word this time.
Neither did Heath. “Well, of course you did. You’ll turn fifty next week.”
I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Please don’t make me.
She felt petty, immature, but couldn’t stop herself. “Then I came home the other night and Johnny was here with Savannah. They told me about the baby. Then yesterday Starr Mulligan—”
“That witch?”
But even that wasn’t all. Nora told him about her latest quarrel with Starr, but couldn’t bring herself to say she was being accused of a crime. Who on earth could have taken Geneva’s vase? And she couldn’t tell Heath about Wilson’s marriage.
He raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like you’ve had a weird couple of days.”
“Well, yes, and if you include Leonard Hackett—” To her absolute horror, she gulped back a sob. Nora whirled away.
Heath stopped her. His hard, sinewy arms wrapped tighter around her more slender frame. She felt Heath’s chin come to rest on the top of her head. He rocked her lightly back and forth, letting her feel that he still wanted her.
“I have a few good ideas to make you feel better.” His sexy tone almost undid her. “Want to hear them? It’s a free offer,” he said in a tempting voice. “Better than a sweaty workout at the club.”
Nora gave him a shaky smile.
“My life is changing too fast,” she whispered.
But Heath still had her in his arms. He felt strong and good and he wasn’t laughing at her. He just held her.
And, despite knowing that no good could come of it, Nora let him.
In that instant she felt vanquished yet determined, like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara.
Tomorrow, as Scarlett had claimed, would be a better day.
If it wasn’t, Nora knew exactly what to do about Caine.
She would just have to hire her own Dream Team.
CHAPTER 4
T he next day, Nora was still a free woman.
That pesky Caine wouldn’t get the best of her.
And neither would Starr.
On another hot and humid morning with the temperature already climbing, Nora gave the broad front door of Geneva Whitehouse’s home another determined blow with the brass knocker. She’d tried the doorbell, which had summoned no one. Now she waited in the blazing sun, then heard the click of heels on wood in the entry hall.
For a second, the back of her neck prickled. She felt she was being observed. Then the tap of stilettos clacked again, going quickly in the opposite direction. Her gaze homed in on the discreet brass peephole in the door.
Not to Nora’s surprise, Geneva obviously wasn’t glad to see her. A temporary setback.
She leaned on the bell with one finger, lifted the knocker again with her other hand and set off a cacophony inside the house.
“Ms. Whitehouse,” she called through the closed door for good measure.
Tap, tap, tap. The returning sound of heels was agitated.
“Geneva, please. Open up. We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to say. Our business is finished.”
No. It was not. She wouldn’t leave until Geneva Whitehouse reconsidered her decision to choose Starr for the redesign of her home. Ten thousand square feet, Nora reminded herself. The very numbers made her salivate.
She could imagine Starr’s gloating triumph when Geneva chose her instead of Nora. The insult wouldn’t stand.
Apparently this had been her week for outrageous insults.
Nora blocked from her mind the sudden image of Caine’s dark, brooding eyes, his accusations. He hadn’t gone quite that far, but he’d implied as much, and she knew she was a definite suspect in the burglary here at Geneva’s house. Nora desperately needed to repair her reputation.
Damage control. In spite of her aversion to Geneva’s husband for reasons of her own, she couldn’t afford to lose business. If Geneva would only hire her after all, and she liked Nora’s work, she might recommend her to her friends.
Through the still-closed door she heard heavy breathing. Geneva was still there, as if hoping Nora would get discouraged and give up.
“Please,” she said again, softening her tone to convey the courtesy that Maggie had ingrained in her long ago. “This won’t take long. I just want—”
“Go away.” Geneva’s voice shook.
Nora took a step back as if she’d been slapped. Geneva really was mad.
Nora reached for the black leather portfolio she’d left leaning against the brick wall beside the door. She chanced a look through the frosted glass panels that flanked it but could detect no movement or the outline of Geneva’s body. She must be pressed to the door itself, eyeing Nora through that peephole.
Nora tried another tack. “I have something to show you,” she said in a singsong tone. “I think you’ll be sorry if you don’t take at least a peek.”
The door crashed open, rattling the glass.
“Are you threatening me?”
Shocked, Nora clutched the big briefcase to her front. Her heart had begun to thump ominously, and for a moment she felt breathless.
“No. Of course not. I have some sketches here…”
With a weary sigh, Geneva clattered away from the open door.
“Come in, then. But I won’t change my mind. After Detective Caine and I spoke, I know that wouldn’t be wise.”
What did the man say to her?
Nora clenched her teeth. “I am not a criminal.” She followed Geneva inside, the cool air washing over her like a damp cloth against her heated skin. “That man has problems of his own. And if you believe Starr—”
Geneva clipped toward the nearby living room, right past the antique, glass-fronted curio cabinet that had held the now-missing heart-shaped vase. Nora glanced at the barren space on the shelf. The cause of her current troubles, or one of them.
Her business might depend on these next few moments—she had no doubt they would be very few—but so did her shaken sense of self-worth.
She perched on the edge of an obviously costly sofa. “I have never been accused of dishonesty before,” she said, zipping open the black case to draw out her sketches. “If you need references, I’ll provide them. I’m terribly sorry for your loss, but I can assure you I didn’t take your vase. What would I do with it?” Nora gave her a weak smile. “Adorn another customer’s home with a stolen object? Hardly. Keep it for myself—and wait for the day when Caine barges in to catch me in the act? Sell it on eBay?”
For the first time she noticed that Geneva, who sat on the matching sofa opposite, didn’t look quite herself. Maybe Nora shouldn’t have tried to make a joke. Geneva’s normally perfect blond hairstyle looked in disarray, and her blue eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Her gray sweatpants and T-shirt matched the pallor of her complexion beneath its tan. Even while wearing those three-inch heels, black with fetching crystal beads across the instep, she looked thrown together. Of course, she’d had no reason to expect company.
Geneva’s mouth quivered.
“All right, then. Show me.”
Nora had expected a bigger fight.
“Really?” She handed Geneva the first of half a dozen drawings, her ideas for the main rooms of the Whitehouse home. Despite Geneva’s decision Nora had put them together last night and she felt they’d turned out well. There would be none of Starr Mulligan’s typical touches, no garish colors, strange artifacts or overstuffed furniture. The fact that Starr did possess an eye for arrangement, and that her judgment on wall coverings could be pleasing, didn’t enter into Nora’s assessment. “As you can see, I’ve gone for a minimalist effect. Neutrals, clean lines, a contemporary look that should serve as a natural background to highlight your treasures.”
Her sharp glance made Nora swallow. Perhaps she shouldn’t have reminded her would-be client—her temporarily lost client—about the missing vase or any of its scintillating companions.
“This sort of design is all the rage now. I think you’d be very pleased with the outcome—”
“Or else?”
Nora faltered. “Why, of course I’d be happy to work with you on any changes, minor or more extensive.”
“Nora. As you know I’ve already hired Starr Mulligan.”
“Yes, I do know.” She cleared her throat. “And I realize my comment to her was less than, well, businesslike. I’m sorry you heard it. Starr and I have our differences, but they shouldn’t concern you. It’s the job that really matters.”
“Does it?” Geneva’s strained tone alerted Nora. There was something wrong here, even more wrong than Nora being replaced by Starr because of some silly misunderstanding. She’d already apologized, but maybe not enough.
“I am sorry, Geneva. I made a bad impression, but that’s why I’m here. Other than to show you my sketches, of course, which I had hoped might speak for themselves. And me,” she added.
“The sketches are beautiful.”
“You like them?”
Geneva’s blue gaze swept over the last drawing in the stack. For an instant her eyes brightened, but then, to Nora’s horror, they filled with tears. A few brimmed over, and before she stopped to think, by instinct Nora had fallen to her knees onto the thick carpet in front of Geneva’s sofa. She reached out to pull Geneva awkwardly into her arms. “There, there. We can work something out.”
“I doubt that,” Geneva wailed.
Maybe she felt terrible about her earlier decision. She might feel torn between Nora and Starr but regretted her rejection of Nora based on such tissue-thin evidence of a crime. Maybe now she wanted to make amends, as Nora did, but wasn’t sure how.
Nora rocked Geneva in her embrace, as she might one of her children even now. Geneva clung to her, sobbing as if her heart had broken.
“I don’t know about you,” Nora said after a few moments, “but I can’t sit on this rug as if I’m in a Japanese restaurant with one of those little tables that are no higher than a foot.”
Geneva Whitehouse didn’t smile. She pulled back, embarrassed by her display of emotion, and avoided Nora’s searching gaze. Geneva studied the pale cream carpet, the wall covered in an exquisite gold-washed French paper, the violated curio cabinet just visible in the hall, then the deep crown molding that edged the double tray ceiling before at last she met Nora’s eyes. Nora had misunderstood.
“Oh, Geneva. Please tell me what’s wrong. What have I done that can’t be corrected? Certainly you don’t believe Detective Caine—”
“No,” Geneva murmured. “It’s not him.”
Unable to speak, she gestured at the elaborate living room before she followed Nora’s lead and struggled to her feet. They faced each other with the marble-topped coffee table between them, a gorgeous piece of stone that Geneva hoped would be incorporated in the new design. Right now the house was the furthest thing from her mind. Odd, when it had consumed her for so long.
“My husband…lately, he hasn’t been very attentive. He works almost every night—not in his study here, as he used to do, but at his office in town. When I called there last evening, I—I got his voice mail.” The last was uttered in a shaken tone. “I thought then he was on his way home, but he didn’t show up until three in the morning. I know because I was still awake.” She made a futile gesture. “I don’t know what’s happening…”
Nora sat beside her again on the sofa. She took Geneva’s cold hand.
“You’re freezing, angel.”
Geneva shivered, feeling more bereft than she had since before she met Earl and at last escaped the life her parents had wanted for her. But had she only exchanged one misery for another after all? “I can’t seem to get warm.”
Nora looked eager to help, but it was clear she didn’t know how.
“When my relationship became…difficult, I didn’t feel warm for weeks.” Nora blanched, as if realizing what she’d said. “Not that I think you have the same problem,” she hastened to add. “Marriage is a long-term investment,” she tried again. “One that sometimes doesn’t work as we’d like. What I’m trying to say is, there are always ups and downs. I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “Don’t even think about my experience.”
Geneva withdrew her hand from Nora’s clasp. The memory of that other existence, and of one recent night, were still fresh in her mind. “A few nights ago when Earl was home, I went up to his study—it’s next to our bedroom—to ask him something and I found him at his computer. That’s not unusual, but when he noticed me standing in the doorway, he blanked out the monitor, I think so I couldn’t see what was there. He looked…guilty. I don’t know that anything was wrong, but it didn’t feel right.”
Nora looked away. “Your husband is probably embroiled in one of those male things that always seem to consume them.” She flushed. “That is, men get caught up in rectifying some global injustice or correcting the company balance sheet while we women do so in our smaller way without much fanfare.”
Geneva sniffled.
“Is that what your husband does, too?”
“Not any longer. I’ve been divorced for some time. But I’m sure he does,” she added quickly. “Or he will, with his new wife, as he must have with the others. He’s getting married again soon. I’m invited to the wedding.”
Geneva’s eyes widened. She dabbed at them with the handkerchief Nora handed her, using the delicate lawn fabric and Swiss embroidery to blot her smeared mascara. When she saw Nora wince at the stain, she set the cloth aside.
“That,” Geneva murmured, “was more information than I need.”
Nora wasn’t being very tactful, but Geneva knew she was trying, and it wasn’t easy to deal with a hysterical woman. Geneva wondered miserably if she was turning into her mother, the stage mama of all time who had been given to outrageous displays of temper and tears.
She couldn’t hold back her worst fear. “What if Earl is having an affair? Or visiting Web sites with nubile women on display?” Women younger, prettier, than Geneva now?
“Wilson’s first peccadillo nearly killed me,” Nora admitted, not helping at all, “and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself. “For a long while I regretted that it didn’t kill Wilson instead, even when I still loved him with all my heart.” Nora paled again. “Oh, my God. That doesn’t mean you should worry about Earl.” But something in her expression told Geneva that Nora felt exactly that about Geneva’s husband.
Geneva looked at her hands. “I was his trophy wife, you know. We’ve been married for fifteen years,” she said, her voice gathering strength now that she’d stopped crying. “When we said our vows, I was barely twenty-five. Now I’m forty, and no matter how little I eat or how long I spend on the treadmill every day, I’m still ten pounds heavier than when I met Earl—” She broke off, then began again, “I’ve done a thousand sit-ups, a million leg lifts, or I did until I quit my health club. But my face…oh, God.”
“Nonsense.” Nora adopted a perky expression. “Forty is the new thirty, even twenty-something. You’re a beautiful woman, Geneva. Stunning. Certainly you know that. I’m sure Earl does, too.” She gestured at the room, as Geneva had. “He must love you very much. This house, the car you drive, the exquisite pieces you display…” Nora trailed off, as if not wanting to tread too near the subject of Geneva’s missing vase again. Another reason she’d spent so much time crying today. “Those are material things, I know, but many men use them to express how much they care. It’s easier, you see, than admitting their feelings.”
“You think so?”
“Positive.” When her stiff-upper-lip approach seemed to work, Nora plowed on. “Maybe you and Earl could talk tonight.”
Geneva shook her head. “He called just before you rang the bell. He has a dinner meeting at seven. He won’t be home until late again.”
“Ah,” Nora said.
Geneva felt about to tear up all over again. “What if he doesn’t see me as a desirable woman anymore? Then what?” she demanded of Nora, who had no answer. Geneva didn’t notice. She swept the half dozen sketches of Nora’s designs off the marble table. “If he wants another woman, she’ll be the one who lives here! Not me.”
Nora looked horrified. “This house isn’t in your name?”
“We own it jointly,” Geneva said.
“Then at least you have a half interest, which is probably worth a great deal in Royal Palms, should the worst happen. It won’t, of course. You’re just feeling neglected, and insecure. It happens to all of us,” Nora assured her. “But there’s no sense giving in to a major depression. That’s not healthy, and good health is the first defense.” She rummaged in her handbag and came up with a card. “This is my doctor’s number. Mark Fingerhut. Call him. He can give you a lift in no time.”
Geneva examined the card. “An obstetrician?” Her mouth trembled. If only she could have given Earl children. He’d said he wanted only her, without anything else between them except her perfect body, but maybe a family would have provided a stronger bond. Given them something to hang on to other than Geneva’s beauty. It had been her lifelong curse. And it was all she had.
“He’s also a gynecologist,” Nora said. “But he can refer you to the right person if you’d like Botox injections, for example.” Nora composed her face into a serene expression. “They were the best thing I’ve ever done. I’d send you to the man I used, but he just retired.”
Geneva stared at her, then down at the card. Nora fished in her bag for another, handing it to Geneva with a flourish. “This might come in handy, too.”
Geneva read the name. “‘Heath Moran.’”
“I belong to this club where he works. He’s absolutely marvelous, and quite easy on the eyes,” she added. “Not that I think you need some fine-tuning, but if you’re really concerned about a fitness program, join the club and get a personal trainer. Heath is just the man.”
“I hadn’t thought about a trainer…”
But whatever worked, Geneva decided. She had to do something. Why would Earl remain interested in a woman who didn’t look her best, who had moped around all morning wondering how to fix their life together? Only a day or two ago she had been so excited about redoing her home. With a little pick-me-up she soon would be again.
Nora’s sketches were lovely, and she had tried to be of help about Earl, but she would have to wait while Geneva reconsidered her decision. She wasn’t in the mood to make one now.
“I don’t see what else you can do, Ma,” Savannah Pride said with a worried frown. Her mother was pacing the kitchen. “You’ll have to wait. The rest is up to Geneva Whitehouse.”
“I can’t believe how I messed things up. You should have heard me, Savannah, babbling on and on, putting my foot deeper in my mouth with every word. I said all the wrong things. Wait? I probably won’t ever hear from Geneva Whitehouse again. And I’m not a person who likes to sit on her hands.”
“Well, this time you’ll have to. You tried to help,” Savannah added. “There’s nothing more you can do.” In the condo she now shared with Johnny—wonder of wonders, he had finally committed to the relationship she had known was destined from the start—she poured Nora a glass of wine and then opened a sparkling water for herself. “I know how hard it can be to find the right words.”
She shot another look at the kitchen clock, wishing Johnny would get home. Earlier, Savannah had entertained her best friend, Kit, and her four-year-old son, Tyler, both of whom Savannah adored, but they’d gone home. She needed reinforcements before either she or Nora went into extreme breakdown mode. Better to concentrate on her mother’s problems than her own.
“I hope Geneva’s fears are groundless,” Nora said. “But you know how I feel about that man. I wouldn’t trust Earl Whitehouse as far as I can see him. Thank goodness I didn’t blurt out my experience with him.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t,” Savannah agreed.
Nora sipped at her wine. “And speaking of marriage,” she suddenly said, “what on earth are we going to do about your wedding?”
“Do?” Savannah repeated blankly. She didn’t care to have her relationship with Johnny mentioned in the same breath as Earl Whitehouse. She crossed her fingers behind her back as if to ward off trouble.
“I don’t see being able to hold the ceremony until the middle of next year.” Nora ticked off the months. “It’s almost October now, which means a due date in April if my math is correct.”
“April Fool’s Day,” Savannah murmured, which had amused her and Johnny. This baby was the best gift she could give him, and vice versa. But the notion terrified her out of her remaining wits. A mother? A wife? All in the same half year? Sure, this was what Savannah had wanted with all her heart, but her first delight and surprise at the happy turn of events were gone, and she was feeling the slightest bit queasy tonight, not only from morning sickness, which, ironically, seemed to last all day.
There were definitely adjustments to be made, and Savannah admired her mother all over again. Nora charged ahead without the least bit of hesitation, but Savannah was indeed a late bloomer who wasn’t sure of her capabilities in the new roles she had admittedly chosen. Whether or not she felt qualified to handle this newest phase of her life, she was in it now.
If one thing was certain, Savannah had learned when her parents had split, it was that life perpetually changed, often in astonishing ways. It was up to her to manage this change. But what if she couldn’t?
She couldn’t tell Johnny how she felt. She had eased him into the notion that it was all right—and perfectly safe—to love her, that she would never break his heart, and that after his shaky start in the world of relationships, they could live happily for the rest of their lives. If she uttered one word of doubt, she feared he just might bolt. What if he felt trapped?
Savannah realized she hadn’t heard whatever her mother said.
“…when the baby arrives, we can replan the wedding.”
Panic flashed through Savannah’s uneasy middle. She laid a calming hand over her stomach. “Ma, there’s no reason to postpone the wedding. Everything’s on track at last, and the seamstress you hired can put some kind of inverted pleat in the front of my dress.”
Nora looked horrified. “Ruin a dress that cost half the earth? I think not.”
“You’re worried about how I look?” Savannah waved a dismissive hand. “If Demi Moore could pose with her naked, pregnant belly for some magazine, and every other celebrity on the planet has taken up an attitude of ‘let it all hang out,’ I don’t see why not. At least I’ll be fully clothed. It won’t be ruined, Ma. I want to get married now.”
Nora studied her face. Savannah’s words had come out—been blurted, really—much faster than she intended. They sounded desperate. She didn’t want to lose Johnny.
“Angel, is there something you haven’t told me?”
Savannah didn’t meet her eyes. “Could we not talk about this right now? The clam chowder I ate for lunch is threatening to take the reverse route in my digestive system.” She turned away from the look on Nora’s face. Another second, and her mother would be shoving saltine crackers down her throat. “Enough about me, Ma.” She looked at Nora. “Why is your face flushed? The wine? Or are you having a hot flash?”
“One,” Nora muttered. “Two at the most.”
To Savannah’s relief, the front door opened. But it wasn’t Johnny.
Savannah’s brother, Browning, strolled into the kitchen carrying a big bag from Kentucky Fried Chicken and wearing his usual What, me worry? grin. If he only knew…
“Hey. My two favorite girls. Thought I’d drop by for dinner before the football game tonight and—uh-oh,” he said, taking in both their faces. He dropped the bag on the counter, spun around and headed back the way he’d come. “Guess I’m outta here.”
Savannah caught him by the collar. “Oh, no you aren’t. This is a surprise, but I need fresh troops—and you’re it.” She poured the last of the wine into a glass, which only made him wrinkle his nose. Browning preferred beer. “You just missed Kit and Tyler.” When he groaned at her teasing, Savannah said, “Take Ma into the living room while I find some clean plates for dinner.”
It wasn’t long before Savannah heard Nora’s agitated voice from the other room. Obviously the subject of Detective Caine had come up.
Savannah unpacked their take-out dinner while her brother listened to Nora vent about the missing vase. When Savannah poked her head around the kitchen door to check on them, he was leaning back, arms spread across the back of the sofa with his grin still in place. It took a lot to ruffle Browning. He had nerves of steel.
“Let it go, Ma. You told the cop what you know—that you’re innocent. Forget him.”
“I should be that lucky. The vase is valuable, but even more so to Geneva, it’s an emotional loss. She won’t give up until it’s found. Neither, I’m sure, will Caine. Why expect less? This hasn’t been my week, angel.”
Savannah almost pitied her brother, stuck with two women who were trying to deal with their topsy-turvy lives. How could he understand? Browning had too many friends of the single male variety, all of whom tended to act like adolescent, hormone-driven boys half their age. Like Nora, she had nearly given up hope that Browning, at twenty-six, would mature—and find a good woman to marry so they wouldn’t have to worry about him.
Not that Browning actually needed care.
He had grown into an amazing man, tall and lean with muscle, yet almost rangy like her Grandfather Pride, but with his own father’s perfect bones and Wilson’s vibrant coloring. Long-lashed hazel eyes, dark hair. Why on earth didn’t some woman grab him?
Many had tried, Savannah knew.
Browning insisted he liked his bachelor state as much as he enjoyed his government job. His friends. His weekends at the beach with any available blonde, brunette or redhead who answered his come-here smile. He practiced a persuasive variation of it on Nora now. Savannah had her own opinion. Her friend Kit might have a few issues, but she could very well be a match for Browning. If only he thought so, too…
“Ma, sit down. You’re wearing a hole in Savannah’s carpet.” He patted the seat beside him. “Finish your wine and tell me the rest of your troubles.”
“Don’t encourage her, Browning.” Savannah ducked back into the kitchen and ran the garbage disposer, as if the noise might shut out their conversation. And her own fears.
When she came out with a tray full of cutlery and plates, Nora was gazing into her chardonnay as if the wine tasted like acid and might kill her at any moment.
“I can’t stop thinking about that detective or about Geneva. If you had seen her, Browning, just falling apart this afternoon… Not only did she lose something precious, now she’s worried about her marriage, too.”
“It wasn’t a pretty sight, I’m sure. Ah, here we are.” He glanced up, sounding relieved when Savannah set their dinner on the coffee table. Fighting a wave of nausea at the smells wafting from the cartons in front of her, Savannah plunked down on the carpet, cross-legged.
“That may not be a healthful position for the baby,” Nora cautioned.
“I’m not even showing, Ma. The baby only weighs an ounce.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Browning snickered, not seeing Savannah’s alarmed expression. “Hey, look. The Colonel’s best chicken, extra-crispy, with mashed potatoes. It doesn’t get much better than this.”
Nora took one bite of coleslaw then set down her fork. “I have the impression Caine would see me behind bars.”
Browning snorted.
“If so, Johnny would bail you out,” Savannah said. “He’d call Wade Blessing in L.A. and get the name of the best shark attorney here in Florida. A whole dozen of them, if necessary, just like O.J.—”
“My thought exactly,” Nora said.
“—and all this will be an unpleasant memory,” Browning put in.
Nora smiled. “You’re a sweet boy. So is Johnny when he tries. And Savannah, you’re always a dear. You’ll make a good mother, a fine wife—if that’s what’s bothering you.”
Savannah nearly choked on her potatoes. Her mother knew her too well. “Whatever happens, Ma, we’ll all stand by you.” And you’ll stand by me. She’d always known that. “Are you feeling bad, too, about Dad’s wedding invitation?”
“Of course not. I told you, I’ve put that behind me.”
“Then he did invite you?” Savannah asked.
“Well, yes. I thought it was a little strange, but then we have made our peace in recent months.” Nora blinked. “Thank you, angels. Family and friends are everything.”
Savannah reached out a hand to her.
“Ma, you’re not going to cry, are you? You’ve been our Rock of Gibraltar, the one who fixes things and helps us.”
“I wonder if I can fix them now.” Nora threw down her napkin. “How could he possibly think I’m guilty of stealing a vase?”
“Caine has to consider everyone who had contact with Geneva or was in her home,” Browning said around a mouthful of chicken. “But you’ll see. Tomorrow he’ll come crawling. And apologize.”
Nora was in her office the next afternoon, still pondering the welcome support she’d received from her children, not only about Caine but Wilson, too, when she realized that Geneva Whitehouse was in the reception area.
Maybe she’d come to return Nora’s portfolio, which she’d left behind yesterday.
Daisy left her place, and her nap, on the carpet to pad into the other room, her tail not quite wagging but definitely interested. This was the first sign that Daisy might be willing to acknowledge Nora again after the dog’s trip to the vet’s for her dental cleaning. When Nora had picked her up the night before, after leaving Savannah and Johnny’s condo, Daisy had pointedly ignored her.
Now Nora’s eyebrows arched.
“Please send her in,” she told Daisy. Nora rose from her chair and went around her glass-topped desk to grasp Geneva’s hand. She felt much warmer today. “How nice to see you again so soon. You’re looking better.”
“I called Mark Fingerhut,” Geneva reported. “I’ll see him tomorrow. But that’s not why I came.” She took the chair Nora indicated in front of the desk, and Nora resumed her place behind it, sensing that the unexpected visit was of importance. “I’ve decided Earl does look as if he’s been working too hard and my adding to the pressure he must feel by making waves wouldn’t be good for our marriage. I can’t thank you enough for listening to me yesterday. I’m sorry I fell apart.”
“I’m a woman, too, Geneva. What do we have if we can’t help each other?”
Geneva smiled. She wore stunning off-white pants with a cream-colored jacket, topped by a filmy scarf in shades of rust, gold and a muted beige. Her handbag was Louis Vuitton, her shoes Ricardo Ricci. Her hair and makeup looked flawless again. It was like looking at a different person from yesterday, one who had her act together.
Geneva said, “I think we can help each other with the design for my house after all. I may have been hasty about hiring Starr and I have another idea.”
Nora’s heart began to thump. Say it. Choose me.
With a slowness that made Nora’s pulse triple in anticipation, Geneva handed over her portfolio and then drew a pair of sketches from her own bag. She laid them on Nora’s desk. She glanced at Nora with an expectant expression.
“Well? What do you think?”
Nora studied her own design for the breakfast room, a cheerful study in clubby rattan chairs, a round glass table, and swatches of impressionistic color—deep blue, pink, and yellow—in the cushion fabric. Then she saw the other sketch.
The home office design, which wasn’t hers, had a pleasing look, she had to admit, with a light pickled oak for the computer desk and cabinets, a rich hunter green for the carpet, paint for the walls in a soft, neutral taupe that lent a restful air. The chairs were scattered with sunny yellow throw pillows.
“Very nice. But I don’t understand,” she began with a sense of dread.
“You and Starr.” Geneva sounded as if the combination was obvious. “When I studied the sketches you brought yesterday, then looked again at Starr’s—” she indicated the pair of drawings “—I knew I wanted you both to do my house.”
“You heard us, Geneva. We’re hardly friends.”
“Nora, I can’t decide between you. I like some of your drawings, others of Starr’s. I haven’t talked to her yet, but when you both see which I’ve chosen for all of the rooms, you’ll see that they complement each other perfectly. I know I’m going to be very happy with the joint result.”
“But—but—” Nora stammered. She couldn’t imagine anything worse. Except being a suspect in the burglary at Geneva’s home.
Geneva beamed. “I can’t wait to get started. This has already given me a fresh lease on life.” She paused. “I’m sure Earl will love it, too.”
Wow, Nora thought. Yesterday Geneva had been a full-blown basket case.
“I really don’t think…” Nora tried, already seeing Starr’s face in her mind.
“The customer is always right. Is there any reason why this can’t work?”
The question sent Nora’s stomach into free fall toward her shoes.
Only because we might kill each other.
CHAPTER 5
W as half a loaf really better than none?
In a brief “discussion” with Daisy, Nora had convinced herself that it was. Considering the business she had already lost and the two possible clients who had more recently bailed out to use another design firm—word was definitely getting around town about the burglary—Nora’s answer had to be yes.
It didn’t take long to realize that Geneva’s unorthodox suggestion had another benefit beyond the half share of the design fee Nora would earn, assuming she and Starr could actually work together.
She could quell the local gossips who were beginning to have a field day with her misfortune, and finally demonstrate her innocence in the burglary.
Her life had been spinning out of control long enough. It was up to her to resolve her problems. And as always, that meant seeing to her business and to her family.
After Geneva had left her office, Nora decided on her first course of action. She picked up the phone to call Mark Fingerhut.
“Nora. What can I do for you? Having more of those uncomfortable hot—”
“My will is stronger than a few little hormones,” she said. “I feel fine.” As long as she didn’t come into contact with Detective Caine, Nora added silently. “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to see Geneva Whitehouse.”
“No problem. We had an opening and she sounded quite upset.”
“I’m sure you can deal with her concerns.”
“If I can calm you,” he said, a smile in his voice, “she’ll be a piece of cake.”
He sounded upbeat. Nora had never seen Mark in a sour mood, so maybe Savannah had just caught him in a bad moment. Still, she hesitated, not sure she should mention the other reason for her call. “I was also wondering if you might have room for another patient. My mother,” she added. Nora had been ruminating about Maggie since their last call. “I’ve been trying to persuade her to come to Destin. She’s had some problems with her health in the past and I’m worried about her.”
“Sure. We’ll set up an appointment for her, too. Let me connect you with my receptionist.”
“Well, not just yet. We’re only in the planning stage.” At least, Nora was. Laying the groundwork with Mark, she told him what she knew of Maggie’s heart condition and that her mother undoubtedly hadn’t taken care of herself in general, especially as a woman. “I hoped that if I approached this from a different direction and talked to you first, I might convince her to make the change. She definitely needs an exam.”
“I’ll be glad to take a look at her.”
“She can be difficult,” Nora felt obliged to warn him. At the other end of the line Mark laughed.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Maggie Scarborough was the lucky recipient of Nora’s next call. She listened to her daughter, then started to frown. All at once Virginia wasn’t nearly far enough away.
“Nora, I know you were trying to be a good daughter,” Maggie lectured her in the stern tone she used whenever she felt hemmed in by Nora. “But I’d really rather you didn’t discuss my private affairs with a stranger.”
“Mark Fingerhut is a practicing physician, not some Peeping Tom.”
Maggie tightened her grip on the telephone receiver. “No man has seen me that way since your father died.”
“Well, then this is your chance,” Nora told her.
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