But he found himself hesitating.
In that second, it was clear he’d inherited some traits from his father. And they couldn’t be good traits. Because he was weighing the harm in meeting Frederick’s widow. Was there any harm in meeting her before refusing Tyrell’s offer?
* * *
It was on days like these that Callie Clarkson missed her husband the most. Frederick loved springtime, the scent of roses wafting in the bakery windows, mingling with the cinnamon and strawberries from the kitchen. Today the sun was shining in a soft blue sky, and tourists were streaming into Downright Sweet for a midmorning muffin or warm berry scone.
Their bakery, Downright Sweet, occupied both floors of a red brick house in the historic district of downtown Charleston. The first floor held the kitchen that they’d refurbished when they bought the place five years ago. It also held the front service counter and several tables, both inside and out on the porch. The second floor was a dining room with screened windows all the way around, plus a covered sundeck that overlooked the tree-lined, shade-dappled street.
The lunch crowd was diminishing, and Callie’s manager, Hannah Radcliff, breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“My feet are killing me,” Hannah said.
She was in her early forties, with rounded curves from a self-described weakness for buttercream. Her voice was soft. Her eyes were mocha brown, and she had a perpetual smile on her very pretty face. Both of Callie’s sons, James and Ethan, loved her to death.
“Go take a break,” Callie said. “Nancy and I will be fine.”
“Rest your feet,” Nancy echoed from where she was wiping down the espresso machine. “I’ll do the tables.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Hannah said. “Wait. Hello.”
Callie followed the direction of Hannah’s gaze to see Mayor Watkins striding past the front window, toward the Downright Sweet entrance.
Nancy gave an amused laugh. She was a college student who had come back to her family in Charleston for the summer. She didn’t see the attraction of the Mayor.
Hank Watkins was single, slightly younger than Hannah and equally quick to smile. His dark hair was short at the sides, with a swoop across the top that didn’t particularly appeal to Callie. But he was attractive enough, in a distinguished way that was beneficial for a politician.
She’d describe him as burley, with a deep, booming voice. He was the son of one of Charleston’s most prominent families. They traced their ancestry all the way back to the Mayflower.
The classic little gold bell jingled as the door opened.
Callie stepped away from the cash register, busying herself with tidying the displays of cupcakes and giving Hannah a clear field.
“Hello, Mr. Mayor,” Hannah said.
“You know to call me Hank,” the Mayor answered.
“Hank,” Hannah said. “What can I get you?” She gestured to the glass case on her left. “A lemon puff pastry? Or coconut buttercream? The cupcakes are popular today.”
“What do you recommend?”
“You can’t go wrong with the pecan tart.”
“Done.”
“Whipped cream?” Hannah asked.
“Of course.” The Mayor pulled his wallet from his suit jacket pocket. “Callie?” He turned his attention to her.
“Whipped cream is always a nice addition,” Callie answered lightly. She kept her attention on the cupcakes, not wanting to intrude.
“I was hoping I could talk with you,” Hank said, his tone going more serious.
She went immediately on edge. “Is everything okay?”
Following the unexpected death of her husband six months ago, Callie’s optimism had taken a hit. She realized her years with Frederick had made her complacent. She’d forgotten life mostly dished out pain and disappointment. She intended to be braced for it from here on in.
“Nothing too worrisome,” he said, handing Hannah a ten-dollar bill. He smiled again as he spoke to her. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, Hank,” Hannah said.
He looked at Callie again. “Will you join me?”
“Sure.” She untied her hunter green apron and slipped it over her head.
Beneath, she was wearing a white blouse and a pair of pressed khaki slacks. Her hair was up in a casual twist, and her earrings were small diamond studs that Frederick had given her for her birthday last year. She wore them every day. And as she walked around the end of the display case, she twisted her engagement ring and her wedding band round her finger.
She feared Hank was here with bad news about her deck permit.
He had offered to talk to the board personally to advocate for its quick approval. She’d turned down the offer, but now she wondered if that had been a mistake. Maybe she should have let him help.
Frederick had always advised her to keep the local politicians on their side. You might not love them, he’d said. You might not even like them. But it costs nothing to be congenial, and you never know which way the wind will blow.
If Downright Sweet didn’t get the permit to renovate the deck, they couldn’t replace the support beams, meaning they’d have to close the deck down while they came up with a new plan. It was May, the beginning of tourist season, and she was counting on running at full capacity by the end of June.
They took an empty table next to the window.
“Is this about the permit?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
Callie’s heart sank. “It’s been denied.”
Hank organized his napkin and fork. “Not yet. But Lawrence Dennison is hesitating.”
“Why?”
The bakery, along with all of the buildings in the historic district, was subject to stringent renovation conditions. There were bylaws to protect the character of the area. But Downright Sweet’s plans had taken that into account. The deck would be larger, but it would be in keeping with the existing architecture.
“Lawrence is Lawrence,” Hank said with a shrug. “He remembers the 1950s fondly.”
“I can’t believe he keeps getting re-elected.”
While she spoke, Callie’s mind pinged to potential solutions. She could shrink the size of the deck, maybe do only the structural renovations and keep the cosmetics exactly as they were. But it would be a shame to spend all that money and not improve the functionality. And to do a modified application, she’d have to start the process over again, losing time, and she’d definitely have to close the deck for the entire summer season.
“His pet project is the City Beautification Committee,” Hank said, a meaningful look in his eyes.
Callie squinted, trying to read his expression. “And?”
“And, if somebody was to...say...join that committee and show a particular interest in city beautification, Lawrence might feel kindly toward that person.” Hank took a forkful of the whipped cream and slid it into his mouth.
Callie found the suggestion unsavory. “You want me to bribe Lawrence to get my permit.”
Hank gave an amused smile. “Joining a committee is not a bribe.”
“It might not be money.”
Hank reached out and covered her hand with his.
It was a startlingly familiar gesture. Her first instinct was to pull back. But Frederick’s words echoed in her mind. It costs you nothing to be congenial.
“Do you have something against city beautification?” Hank asked.
“Of course I don’t.” Who could have anything against city beautification? “But I’m busy, the boys, the bakery, taking care of the house.”
When they’d first moved to Charleston, she and Frederick had bought a roomy, restored antebellum house. It was beautiful, but the upkeep was daunting.
The bakery door opened again, and a tall figure caught Callie’s attention. The man glanced around the room, se
eming to methodically take in every aspect.
For some reason, he was fleetingly familiar, though she was sure she hadn’t met him before. He looked to be a little over six feet, with thick dark hair, blue eyes and a strong chin. His bearing was confident as he took a step forward.
“It wouldn’t be much work.” Hank’s words forced her attention back to their conversation. “I’m the chair of the committee, and I promise not to assign you anything onerous. We meet once a week. There are six members. Depending on the topic, there’s usually some public interest, so citizens attend, as well. It’s all very civilized and low-key.”
Once a week didn’t sound like much, but it meant skipping story time with the boys that night, getting a babysitter, doubling up on housework on another evening.
“It’s not a bribe,” Hank repeated, giving her hand a light squeeze. “It’ll demonstrate your commitment to the city, your participation in the community and that you care about the culture and flavor of the historic district.”
“I do care about the culture and flavor of the historic district. I live here, and I work here.”
“I know.” He gave her hand a firmer squeeze. “So join the committee. Join in a little. Make Lawrence happy, improve your city and unblock the permit for your deck.”
When he put it that way, other than the babysitting challenge, there seemed little wrong with the plan. It felt opportunistic, but she wouldn’t call it unethical.
Hank leaned in and lowered his tone. “With Frederick gone, I’m sure you want Downright Sweet to be as successful as possible.”
“I do.”
Callie had grown up severely impoverished, never knowing from week to week how her dysfunctional family would afford food, never mind clothes and electricity. Frederick had pulled her out of all that. He’d been a wonderfully sweet man, vital and full of life. The wheelchair had never held him back.
He’d had enough of a nest egg to buy both their house and Downright Sweet here in Charleston. The business had no capital debt, but it was still a struggle to keep operating costs manageable.
A shadow crossed the table, and a deep male voice interrupted. “Excuse me?”
Callie glanced up, startled to see the tall stranger. She looked into his blue eyes and felt a strange pressure build against her chest.
“Are you Callie Clarkson?” he asked. “The bakery owner?”
“Yes.” She slipped her hand from beneath Hank’s, wondering if the man was a lifestyle reporter or maybe a restaurant critic.
He held out his hand to shake hers.
She took it, and felt a surge of comfort and strength. He was gentle. He didn’t squeeze her hand. But his palm was solid, slightly rough, not too warm, not cool, but an identical temperature to her own.
“Deacon Holt,” he said.
Hank pulled back his chair and came to his feet, putting on his practiced political smile. “I’m Mayor Watkins. Are you new to Charleston?”
“A tourist,” Deacon Holt said, without breaking his eye contact with Callie.
She knew she should look away, but there was something in the depths of his eyes that was oddly comforting.
“Well, welcome,” Hank said in a hearty voice. “I hope you’ve checked out the Visitor Centre on Meeting Street.”
“Not yet,” Deacon said, slowly moving his attention to Hank.
“They’ll have everything you need—hotels, dining, shopping and, of course, the sights.”
“I’ve already found dining,” Deacon said.
Callie felt a smile twitch her lips.
“Well, then I hope you have an enjoyable stay.”
Deacon didn’t seem fazed by Hank’s dismissive tone. He looked back to Callie. “What do you recommend?”
“Everything’s good.”
He grinned at her answer, and the feeling of familiarity increased. “That was diplomatic.”
Hank cleared his throat. It was obvious he wanted to get back to their conversation, to hear Callie’s decision.
She’d made a decision, but it could wait two minutes for whatever Deacon Holt wanted. On the chance he could offer free publicity, she was going to make him feel more than welcome.
“The sourdough is terrific,” she said. “Any sandwich made with that. If you have a sweet tooth, I’d try a cupcake. The buttercream frosting is to die for.”
“Buttercream frosting it is,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Callie?” Hank prompted as Deacon walked away.
“My answer is yes,” she said.
Hank beamed. He really did have an extraordinary smile. He took her hand in both of his. “I’m so pleased.”
“When’s the next meeting?”
“Thursday. Six thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
Deacon had been surprised to find Callie in an intimate discussion with Mayor Hank Watkins. Deacon had only been in town a couple of days, but he’d already learned all about the Watkins family. They were the Clarksons of Charleston—all the power, the prestige and the local money.
He’d also been surprised, even more surprised, that Callie was poised, polished and so stunningly beautiful in person. He hadn’t expected that of Frederick’s wife. Frederick hadn’t exactly been suave with the opposite sex.
Deacon had gone to a different high school than Aaron, Beau and Frederick. Deacon had been at PS-752. His three half brothers had gone to Greenland Academy. But there had been enough cross-pollination through sporting events and in social circles, that he’d known the basics of each of them.
He and Beau were the same age. Aaron was a year older, and Frederick was two years younger. Aaron was blond, Beau dark like Deacon and Frederick had ended up with ginger hair and freckles. He was thinner than his brothers and shorter, and always seemed to live in Aaron’s intellectual shadow, as well as Beau’s athletic one.
Even in the best circumstances, Deacon couldn’t see a woman like Callie falling for a man like Frederick. He supposed it could have been the money. It was often the money. Heck, it was usually the money.
For some reason, Deacon didn’t want to think that of Callie. But he’d be a fool if he didn’t consider the possibility.
After first meeting her yesterday, he’d waited overnight, waited through the morning, and now he was eating lunch at Downright Sweet for a second time. He was looking for more information, particularly for information on her relationship with Mayor Hank Watkins.
From what Deacon could see, Callie was way out of Hank’s league. But Hank obviously thought he had a shot. She must have given him encouragement of some kind.
Fact was, Hank had money just like Frederick. There was a chance Callie’s charming personality was an act, hiding a shrewd woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
She was behind the counter now, serving customers and looking as enchanting as yesterday. Her dark blond hair was in a jaunty ponytail. Thick lashes framed her blue-green eyes, and her cheeks were flushed with heat and exertion. Her apparent work ethic didn’t dovetail with a gold digger. Then again, most people had contradictions in their personalities. And he hadn’t even begun to get to know her.
She’d been right about the sourdough bread. It was beyond delicious. Yesterday he’d gone with black forest ham. Today he was trying sliced turkey and tomato. He hadn’t decided on dessert yet. There were too many choices.
His gaze moved from the tarts to the cupcakes to the pastries and cookies. He was tempted by the peanut butter white chocolate. Then again, he could practically taste the strawberry cream tarts. Maybe he’d have two desserts. Maybe he’d have to run ten miles before he went to bed tonight.
He was just about to bite into the second half of his sandwich, when the café door opened. Two young boys rushed inside, followed by a perky teenage girl in a T-shirt, shorts and white runners.
D
eacon set down his sandwich and watched the boys with amazement. There was no question that they were Callie’s two sons. The four-year-old was a mini version of Aaron, while the eighteen-month-old looked exactly like Beau.
“Mommy, mommy,” the younger one called out. He trotted through the maze of tables, while his brother followed at a more measured pace.
Callie smiled at her toddler. “Hello, my little darling.”
“We were going to stop for ice cream on Parker Street,” the teenage girl said.
She looked to be about sixteen. Her blond hair had a flashy blue streak in it that swooped across her forehead. “But the lineup was nearly an hour long, so they decided to bring all the kids back to the preschool early.”
“Did you have fun at the waterpark?” Callie asked.
“Sprinkley,” said the compact Beau.
“I went down the big slide.” Little Aaron made a long swooping motion with his hand.
“Ethan squirted everything that moved.” The teenager ruffled Little Beau’s dark head. “He has good aim.”
“Squirted James head,” Ethan sang out with pride. He turned his thumb and index finger into a gun and pointed at his brother.
Deacon watched the interplay with amazement.
“I was already wet,” James said philosophically.
“I’m glad you had fun,” Callie said.
“Can we have cookies?” James asked.
“Since you skipped the ice cream, you can each have one.”
“I want peanut butter,” James said.
“Color candies,” Ethan sang out.
“What about you, Pam?” Callie asked the teenager.
“I’m fine.”
“We just took some oatmeal monster cookies out of the oven.”
Pam laughed. “You talked me into it.”
She ushered the boys to a table by the wall.
Deacon rose and crossed to the counter.
“Those are your sons?” he asked Callie.
The question obviously took her by surprise. “Yes, they are.”
“They seem terrific.”
Her expression stayed guarded. “Thank you.”
The Illegitimate Billionaire (Whiskey Bay Brides Book 4; Billionaire & Babies) Page 2
