The woman trotted inside. Jada blocked the tardy employees to let other guests follow.
Linnie hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Resist the urge to kill your brother. If we sell a few gowns, the money goes straight in the till. Where’s the harm in profiting from his generosity?”
“Good point.” Should she ask Mr. Uchida to slip announcements beneath guest room doors? From the looks of it, Freddie had ordered several hundred dresses.
They squeezed into the packed suite. In the sitting room, Daisy from housekeeping twirled in a pale-blue gown. Three members of the kitchen staff, all dressed to the nines, looked on approvingly. In the main room, the matron from the hallway stripped down to her bra and taupe slip, then directed one of the harried Ballantine’s clerks toward a lavender frock. Near the windows, five waitresses from the Sunshine Room chatted animatedly in their party clothes.
One of the clerks gave Linnie and Jada an assessing glance. After searching through the racks, she came forward with two dresses.
Linnie stopped her. “Put them back,” she ordered. “We’re not interested.”
A pained expression crossed the woman’s face. “You’re Mr. Wayfair’s sister, aren’t you?” Linnie nodded, and the woman rushed on. “We’re under strict orders to fit you for the party. Do you like the red? It’ll be perfect on you.”
The glittery dress was gorgeous, but Linnie didn’t care. “Tell Mr. Wayfair his sister says no.”
“He thought you’d feel that way,” the clerk replied. “If you won’t accept a dress, he’s asked us to leave five selections for you at the front desk. We’ll also open up a personal line of credit for you at Ballantine’s.” Nearing, she whispered, “Please take the dress. There are other women waiting for help with their selections, and I really must get back to them.”
“Fine. Go help the others.” Linnie accepted the dress. She handed the gold lamé number to Jada. “And thank you.”
She dragged Jada toward the bathroom.
“Out, all of you!” Jada shooed several maids from the john. She locked the door.
Linnie stepped out of her stretchy pants. “My brother is totally inconsiderate,” she muttered, noting her selection appeared two sizes too small. Hopefully the fabric contained Lycra.
“Absolutely. Why would he instruct the best department store in Ohio to deliver party clothes without seeking your permission? He’s turned the Wayfair into a zoo.” Jada shimmied the gold lamé fabric up past her hips.
“I should call my mother, complain about Freddie.” The red gown did have tons of give. “Why am I always afraid to talk to her?”
“She can’t possibly know he’s in Sweet Lake stirring up trouble.”
Linnie paused before the mirrored wall separating the sink from the large whirlpool tub. “I’ll fill her in. After, I’ll beg her to ask him to sell his stock.” The dress, cut daringly low, revealed tons of cleavage while detracting from her less-than-svelte waistline. She angled sideways for a profile view. “What do you think? I can’t breathe, but who needs air?”
“Not any woman on the prowl. You’re a bombshell. Wait ’til Daniel gets an eyeful.”
Shivers of anticipation danced down her spine at the prospect of him glimpsing her in the skin-hugging number. “I hope he doesn’t miss the party. He mentioned another trip out of town.”
“More secret meetings on Freddie’s behalf?” Jada threaded her arms through the spaghetti straps of her outfit. “I’d love an inkling of what’s going on.”
“Me too.”
The night they’d met on the beach, why hadn’t she pressed? The intel might give a clue to the length of Freddie’s stay, not to mention the true reason for his visit.
The doorknob rattled. On the other side, Linnie found Silvia, Frances, and the effervescent Tilda Lyons. Tilda, the town’s only realtor, had a penchant for texting the latest gossip, real or imagined.
Frances swept past. “Share the room, ladies. I refuse to undress in the midst of the cackling masses.” In her arms, a charcoal dress with miles of taffeta rustled agreeably. “I can’t wait to try this on!”
Linnie stopped her. “I heard an ugly rumor. Is it true you’re behind my brother’s generosity?”
The question stole the smile from the elderly Siren’s face. “Are you upset? This isn’t what I intended.”
“What did you discuss?”
“I’m sorry, child. Our conversation is private.”
“Gosh, Frances. You’re beginning to remind me of Daniel.”
Tilda edged past Silvia. “Did you hear the other news?” Latching on to Linnie’s shoulders, Tilda forced her against the wall. For a woman the size of a nutcracker, the realtor possessed uncommon strength. “I’m so happy, I’ll take back every insult I’ve ever flung your brother’s way. Paying for Silvia’s party and inviting your staff—what a lovely gesture!”
Linnie pulled herself free. “That’s my brother, the epitome of grace.”
The snarky comment went over Tilda’s head. “I hope his film schedule doesn’t call him away too soon. He’s a perfumed breeze in the backwater of Sweet Lake.” She shimmied her shoulders with glee. Then lightning appeared to strike her dizzy brain. “Should we beg him to stay the summer?”
Linnie gasped. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t you think I should ask?”
Jada leapt before the realtor. “Bite your tongue,” she said, “or I will.”
Frances steered them apart. “Retract your fangs, Jada. We shouldn’t give Freddie the key to the town, but he’s done a kindness. Don’t you like your gown? He’s trying to make amends.”
Silvia, stripping out of her capris and blouse, trembled with rage. “Are you insane? Paying for the party, agreeing to give the Sirens three percent of his next movie—it’s a plot. Machiavelli couldn’t beat Freddie Wayfair at deception. Mark my words. You’ll all be sorry.”
Frances regarded her with ill-concealed impatience. “You’re a font of hypocrisy. You’re letting him pay for your party and trying on an outfit.”
“Only because it’s Oscar de la Renta. How can I resist?”
“You storm his suite, and he shows kindness in return—Silvia, you’re wicked to the core.”
Tilda stepped between them. “Ladies, please! Can’t we enjoy ourselves?”
Silvia swished her frothy gown. “Can we? I don’t know, Tilda. Why don’t we ask the lady of the house if she’s in a celebratory mood?”
Her imperious gaze found Linnie.
“I think you’re right,” Linnie admitted. “Freddie’s plotting my downfall.” Unable to mask the despondency in her voice, she added, “I stopped by Daniel’s office today and found two boxes on his desk. All the money Freddie took years ago, plus interest. There was also another twenty thou for pain and suffering.”
“The bastard,” Jada breathed.
Frances said, “You’re mistaken. He’s made some screwups, but he means well. Give him a chance. Your brother won’t find his higher angels without help.”
Linnie raised her shoulders to her ears. “I can’t take the risk. The gifts, his sudden generosity—it’s a Trojan horse. He’ll wheedle his way into everyone’s good graces and then strike. Daniel warned me not to use the money to fix up the inn. The more profitable the place becomes, the bigger the prize when Freddie pushes me out.”
Silvia and Jada bobbed their heads in agreement. Frances pressed a hand to her throat, and Tilda sighed. Linnie peeled off the dress as second thoughts dove through her brain. Was it cruel not to give her brother a second chance?
Jada arched a brow. “You aren’t going soft, are you? Call your parents and fix this mess. If you don’t, I’ll find the nearest brick. Time to knock some sense into you.”
“Don’t go hunting for a brick.” Linnie swallowed down her doubts. “I’ll make the call.”
Chapter 13
The inpatient ward of the Devlin Institute hummed with subdued, orderly activity. There seemed as many nurses
on staff in the world-class facility as patients recuperating in the long corridor of private rooms. The antiseptic scent Daniel associated with medical facilities was missing, and the walls boasted a cheery yellow paint. The color reminded him of Fancy, the bright strands of hair fluttering behind her whenever she raced after Puddles.
At the nurses’ station, a brunette nodded in greeting.
“Has Mr. Wayfair arrived?” Daniel asked her. “We’re here to see Bryce Reed. His surgery was this morning.”
She typed in the name. “I’m sorry. He hasn’t arrived.”
Daniel glanced at his watch. Where the hell was Freddie? He’d promised to make an appearance. Bryce’s surgery had gone well, and his parents were undoubtedly visiting. They expected to finally meet the benefactor responsible for their son’s treatment. Disappointing them—and their son—was out of the question.
Retreating from the nurses’ station, Daniel pulled out his cell.
Freddie picked up. “Ozzie, there’s a limit to my patience. Are you sending the revisions or not?”
With effort, he tamped down his irritation. “Freddie, it’s Daniel. I’m in Cleveland. Where are you?”
“Cleveland . . . at Devlin? How’s Bryce?”
“Not sure. I’m about to go in.”
“Why haven’t you?”
The question was bizarre. “I’m waiting for you.” Lowering his voice, he added, “I spoke with the surgeon on the drive up. The cornea transplant for the right eye looks good. Dr. Eriksson isn’t sure about the left.”
On the other end, the news created a heavy silence. At last Freddie said, “Bryce may lose the sight in his left eye?”
“I didn’t get the impression Eriksson held out much hope.”
“When will he have a firm prognosis?”
“Next week. He’ll run more tests. Touch-and-go until then.”
“How awful.”
“Tough break for a young man.” Tough break for anyone, Daniel mused, but a kid Bryce’s age would take it especially hard. During their brief conversations, mention of a girlfriend never came up. Did the kid have a sweetheart, someone to reassure him if he needed a glass eye? Stowing the thought, Daniel got back on track. “All the more reason for you to put in an appearance, brighten his day. Are you still on the road?”
The offer to drive together had been refused. Freddie had mentioned stopping over in Columbus for the night. Something about a reunion with an old college buddy.
More silence, and he sensed the forming of a flimsy excuse.
“I never made it to Columbus. Obviously, Cleveland is out of the question.” Someone murmured in the background, and Freddie muffled the phone. When he came back on, he said, “The film, the one I’m shooting in August? There’s a problem with the script. One of the actresses will pull out of the production if we don’t beef up her role. I’m trapped at the Wayfair discussing plot revisions long distance. Poor Ozzie. He’s attempting to make the changes. He doesn’t work well under pressure . . .”
Down the corridor, Janis Reed stepped from a room. Casually she thumbed through her phone before slipping it back into her pocket. She peered down the corridor and then pivoted to speak with someone out of view. Daniel was grateful she hadn’t spotted him.
“I have to go,” he said, cutting Freddie off. “Sure you won’t come?”
“Work before pleasure, I’m afraid.”
A fine thread of fury worked through Daniel’s blood. “You never planned to meet the kid directly. Hiring me to play intermediary, the excuses for skipping the visit to Medina—why didn’t you level with me from the outset? Drumming up excuses for your absence is no picnic. Not with decent people like the Reeds.” Without awaiting a reply, he added, “For the record, it’s my impression you mean a lot to Bryce. Why, I can’t fathom. Behind the wealth and peculiar generosity, you’re the same self-serving bastard I remember from high school.”
He hung up, and immediately his spirits fell. Three boys dashed out of the room to join their mother. Younger than their star-crossed brother, they paced in their cheap tennis shoes, awaiting the arrival of a legendary filmmaker. Their youthful expectancy, necks craned to catch a glimpse of magic, filled Daniel with sadness.
He strode toward them with a bitter sense of failure dogging his heels.
The next morning, Linnie woke with a craving for butter pecan ice cream and a sour stomach from bad dreams.
In the nightmare, she stood barefoot outside the Wayfair in the red ball gown. Rain fell in buckets, soaking her to the bone. On the inn’s veranda—much larger in the dream than real life—Freddie regaled his guests with stories of his filmmaking career. The mud pooling around her ankles began sucking her down into oblivion.
A less auspicious start to the day was hard to imagine. Especially since she’d promised Jada and the Sirens she’d call her parents.
Resigned to the task, she padded toward the bathroom. From the hallway, snatches of conversation pinged off the walls.
A small miracle: Freddie wasn’t roaming the inn half-naked. A few paces outside her door, he looked stylish in a blue suit with zigzags of yellow thread running through the sumptuous fabric. Why he felt compelled to conduct early-morning business in a hallway of the neglected south wing was a question for a sage.
She mouthed, What do you want?
He scowled at her and then resumed the call with saccharine patience. “Yes, Wheaties are jumpers. I have a trainer scheduled to visit tomorrow. Yes, he’ll come as often as you’d like.”
“What’s a Wheatie?” she whispered.
He pressed the smartphone to his well-tailored breast. “A type of terrier.”
“What? You’re a dog breeder on the side?”
“A filmmaker of my stature does not have time for canine mating rituals.” He paused long enough for her to fear his next disclosure. “I bought the pup for Mother.”
Shock lanced through her. “You’re chatting with Mother?”
With glee, he watched her jaw slacken.
“Hang up the phone!”
“Make me.”
“Don’t think I won’t.”
“Sugarpop, you’re hyperventilating. Breathe. There’s nothing attractive about resembling a guppy hurled from the sea.” Returning to the call, he said, “Yes, Mother. Didn’t I mention I’m with Linnie? Yes, in Ohio. Of course I’ve seen the Sirens. No, they aren’t threatening to boil me alive. We’ve settled our differences . . .”
The implications jarred her brain. Freddie, with cunning aplomb, had called their parents first. And he’d bought their mother a puppy? A masterstroke of cunning. In comparison, the gowns brought in from Ballantine’s was a minor ploy.
“Yes, I’ll give Frances and Silvia your love. Oh, and Mother? Linnie thinks I should relinquish my rights to the inn. That’s correct—all my shares. Certainly. Do whatever you think is best. Oh, and say hello to Dad.”
Hanging up, he surveyed her sleeping costume—an old T-shirt and plaid knee socks. “I can’t imagine why you cast aspersions on my party clothes,” he remarked. “The ghoul in my latest sci-fi extravaganza has more sex appeal than you.”
“Forget about my pj’s.”
“How can I? You’re my sister and the daughter of the stylish Sarah Wayfair. You should have some fashion sense.”
The zinger nicked her ego. Stupidly, she went back for more. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I tremble at the prospect of you ending up alone. Old, grey, buying your clothing from a catalog with ducks on the cover and canoes in the center spread.”
“There’s nothing wrong with rural chic.” She steered him back to the problem at hand. “Why did you call Florida at sunup? I haven’t even seen a coffeepot yet. You never did play fair.”
He adjusted his tie. “Oh, please. I chat with Mother daily.”
Astonished, she stepped back. “You do?”
At best, she called once a week. The conversations left her convinced she didn’t measure up. Or the stilted exchange
left the impression she should acquire an allergy to sugar until the Grim Reaper pitched her pudgy frame into the grave. Whining about Linnie’s sweet tooth was a favorite pastime of her mother’s. Like Freddie, the emotionally fragile Sarah possessed an enviably trim figure.
Freddie jolted her from the reverie. “I suggest you pick up the call,” he said, clamping onto her shoulders. He spun her toward the suite.
With dread, she detected the faint hum of her smartphone. By the time she launched back into the room, he’d sauntered down the hallway.
From the dresser she snatched up the phone.
Snuffling tears came across the line. “My poor babies!”
“Good morning, Mother.”
“Are you having a spat with Freddie?”
“After seven years he shows up without warning—what did you expect? I’d roll out the welcome mat and throw a parade?”
“I’ll settle for the barest courtesy you’d show a stranger. He’s your brother!”
Linnie threw herself across the rumpled bed. “He’s taken three of my best suites and installed his film weirdos inside. These are not nice people. One of his assistants gave me the finger. The rest drink heavily and don’t sleep until dawn.”
“Why, they’re only having fun. Aren’t you happy your brother has friends?”
Friends?
A humiliating memory accosted her. The fifth-grade swim team screaming at the top of their lungs. Freddie, sprinting through the locker room with a fire extinguisher, blasting the girls with the noxious white foam. Jennifer Meyers, the overexcitable star of the swim team, dropped in a dead faint. Linnie crawled through the foam to rescue the unconscious girl.
The heroics didn’t matter. Freddie’s prank earned her pariah status—none of the girls ever spoke to her again.
Freddie came up short in the friend department? She’d lost friends every time an evil whim popped into his head.
She pressed a pillow to her face, threw it back off. “Mother, let’s not argue. We’ll never see eye to eye when it comes to Freddie.”
Sweet Lake (Sweet Lake #1) Page 15
