by Kaye Dacus
“From Anne’s expression? She’s usually so good at hiding what she’s thinking, even from those of us who know her best.”
“I think Ms. Hawthorne is suspicious of the nature of my relationship with Miss Landry. And with every right to be so. Why would a man forty-one years old be marrying a girl half his age— less than half his age?” Especially a man like me at whom no woman would ever look twice? George shook off the negative thought and turned the leased Mercedes Roadster convertible into the driveway that should lead to his employer’s nineteenth-century home.
“Anne’s pretty open-minded. I mean, she does have high morals, but when she takes on clients, she doesn’t let things like age differences in the couple interfere with her job.”
Enormous oak trees lined the narrow road, creating a canopy overhead that allowed no sunlight through. George removed his sunglasses and slowed the car. After five nights in a hotel, he hoped all the plumbing repairs were indeed completed. He didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with water dripping on his head, as Forbes told him the leak had been over the basement service quarters.
Anne might be open-minded, but he’d seen the look of pure astonishment in her eyes for a split second before she’d slipped into her professional persona. “Look, mate, she’s your cousin, and you know her better than I do. I just don’t want to see anyone get hurt because of this.”
The tree-shaded drive rounded a corner to reveal a magnificent mansion, just like the kind used in movies about the American Civil War. “Love a duck,” George breathed, stopping the car to drink in the view.
“I beg your pardon?” Humor laced Forbes’s baritone voice.
“Oh, sorry. I’ve just seen the house.”
“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say.” Red brick with a white-pillared porch dominating the front, the manse loomed ever larger as he drove closer.
“Listen, you focus on getting settled in and don’t worry about Anne. If she has a problem with you or the situation, believe me, you’ll know about it. With Anne, you don’t have to guess.”
George bade the lawyer farewell, ended the call, and followed the paved carriageway to the separate garage building in the back. The land sloped down toward a large pond, exposing the basement level of the house. Mrs. Agee, the housekeeper, had moved in yesterday, but when George tried the main service entrance, it was locked. He punched in the security code Forbes had given him on the panel beside the door and entered.
“Hello?” His voice echoed through the shadowy interior of a cavernous kitchen fitted out with enormous commercial-grade appliances set in redwood cabinetry with gray granite countertops.
“Someone there?” A woman’s voice came from a hall to his right, and bright lights blazed, momentarily blinding George.
“Mrs. Agee?”
An African-American woman entered the kitchen—tall, softly built, her gray hair kept back from her angelic face with a flowery scarf. “I’ve been expectin’ you for a couple of hours now.” She crossed the room, right hand extended. “I’m Keturah Agee, but you can just call me Mama Ketty.”
Now he was almost certain he’d stepped out of real life and onto a movie set. He shook her hand. “George Laurence.”
“Let’s get you settled in, baby, and then we can discuss business matters.”
He followed her through the stone-arch doorway into a hall with gleaming wood floors. The corridor extended the same short distance to the left and right of the doorway.
“I’ve taken up residence in the suite on the left.” She pulled a key out of the pocket of her khaki pants.
The antique brass key was heavy in his hand. “Is locking the doors necessary inside the house?”
“It will be if there’s ever a party here and this lower level is swarming with caterers and day-hires.” She looked at the gold pendant watch hanging from a long chain around her neck. “It’s nearly three. Can I make you some tea?”
Teatime really wasn’t until four. “I’d love some.”
She smiled, showing a full set of straight, white teeth and dimples in both cheeks. “I’ll put the water on while you get yourself settled in.”
By the time he’d gotten his two suitcases and hanging bag out of the car, the teakettle whistled, drowning out Mama Ketty’s humming. She winked at him as he wheeled the luggage through the kitchen. He paused at the door to his room, hoping it was large enough that he wouldn’t be tripping over the end of the bed, as in his room in the New York town house.
The door swung open on silent hinges. The dark wood flooring continued into a long but very narrow room. Well, if he was going to have to stay in the tiny space, at least it had a large window overlooking the back lawn and the pond. He opened the door to his left, expecting an equally small bath, and entered a second, much larger room.
In relief, he sank onto the queen-size bed that sat on a plain metal frame under another large window. Dark wainscoting gave way at waist height to walls painted hunter green. Two more doors revealed a walk-in closet and a large private bath.
He’d have to go furniture shopping, but the size of the suite more than made up for being sent into exile for nearly five months.
The sweet aroma of cinnamon and vanilla drew him back out into the kitchen. He sat in one of the tall chairs at the bar on the back side of the island. Mama Ketty set a white cup and saucer in front of him along with a dessert plate piled with sweets and pastries.
He’d just bitten into an oatmeal cookie when a chime reverberated through the room.
Mama Ketty looked perplexed. “Someone’s at the front door.”
“I’d best go see who it is.” He stood, then looked around. He didn’t know how to access the main portion of the house.
“Beyond the pantry.” Mama Ketty indicated the opposite side of the kitchen from their suites. “Enter the security code before you open the door at the top. The upstairs is on a different zone than down here.”
He jogged up the enclosed wooden staircase and found himself in another kitchen—smaller but still well appointed. He crossed to the swinging white door and exited into a wide foyer. The hall ran the length of the house, the front door on the opposite end. Two figures stood on the other side of the etched oval glass; he entered the security code and slid the dead bolt lock open.
“Miss—”
“George!” Courtney stepped forward and hugged him. “Mama had to come by and see the house.” She gazed at him with wide eyes begging him to maintain his fictitious identity.
Forcing a smile, he stepped back and motioned the two women in. The only similarity between daughter and mother was their chestnut hair. Courtney, about average height, possessed a natural grace and a dancer’s figure. Her mother, however…
The cloying odor of an entire flower garden preceded the woman into the house. Dressed in a bright pink sateen jogging suit, she sported overly large sunglasses, which she pulled down to the tip of her nose with claws painted to match her outfit.
“Mrs. Landry.” He took her proffered hand, hoping her nails wouldn’t impale him. “It is nice to finally meet you.”
She looked him over from head to toe and raised her painted-on eyebrows. “So you’re the cause of this. To think, my own daughter springing a surprise like this on me. She used to tell me everything, you know. Humph. I expected you’d be—”
Younger. So had Anne Hawthorne.
“Taller.” Mrs. Landry brushed past him.
Courtney shrugged and cocked her head to the side in an apologetic gesture. He followed along behind as Courtney explored the house with her mother. He’d served in some of the largest estates in Britain yet was impressed by the obvious care taken in the restoration of this property.
“Oh, I have the perfect pink faux-fur rug for this room. It would make such a cute nursery.” Mrs. Landry gave George a significant look over her shoulder from the doorway of the last room on the third floor.
He shuddered internally as he inclined his head toward the woman who fit t
he stereotype of nouveaux riches every person in the service industry feared working for.
Courtney checked her watch. “Oh, Mama, we need to go if you’re going to have time to get ready for the homeowners’ association meeting tonight.”
He stepped out on the front porch with them, astonished to see a Rolls-Royce in the driveway. The chauffeur scrambled out and opened the back door.
“Mama, you go on. I need to speak with George for a moment.” Courtney watched her mother climb into the car. As soon as the door closed, she turned back to look up at George. “I’m so sorry I sprung that on you without any warning. My friend I thought I was going to stay with ended up going to Australia for the summer, so I’m having to stay with Mama instead.”
“And she didn’t know you were engaged?”
“Not until I told her at breakfast this morning right before you and me went to meet Miss Anne. Mama wanted me to go to the beauty salon with her and was like, ‘Where are you going?’ And I was all, ‘I have plans.’ But she was like, ‘You just got here—how can you have plans?’ and got all up in my face until I blurted out where we were going. It wasn’t exactly how I wanted to tell her—I wanted her to find out when everyone else does at the engagement party.” She grabbed his hands and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for playing along.”
Mentally, George added elocution lessons to the etiquette he planned to teach Courtney between now and the engagement party. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Come to dinner with us tonight?”
“Of course.”
She gave him directions to the restaurant, although he’d Map-Quest it as soon as he got inside. He waited on the porch until the car disappeared between the tree rows, then leaned against the front door after closing it and resetting the alarm. The deception had just gotten a little bigger. Now Courtney’s mother believed he was the fiancé. But concealing the truth of his identity from the wedding planner had felt much worse than this.
The wedding planner.
He cut off all the lights and descended toward the service level. Anne Hawthorne.
When he’d seen her at the restaurant, he’d immediately wanted to get to know her better. No one had affected him like that in a very long time. And he must lie to her to protect his employer’s identity and keep his job.
He shook his head as he regained his seat at the island. The next five weeks were going to be, like, the longest of his life.
Chapter 4
“What in the world is wrong with you, Grumpy McGrouch?”
Sitting at the large table in the back room of her cousin Jenn’s rustic seafood restaurant Monday evening, Anne thought she was doing a good job of hiding her emotions. But Jenn was right: Anne had been in a bad mood ever since Courtney and her fiancé had left her office that morning. Not available. Just wait until Forbes got here!
“No joke,” chimed in Meredith. “All you’ve done since you walked in is shred every napkin on the table. Was the wedding this weekend really that bad?”
Anne glanced around at the blizzard of white paper on the table. “I’m sorry, y’all. I asked for us to have dinner tonight instead of Thursday, and here I am being completely unsociable. It’s just been—a stressful day.”
Meredith squeezed Anne’s shoulder. “No, we’re sorry for teasing you.”
Jenn flopped into the chair on her other side. “Hey, you were going to tell us about that guy you saw. The one having dinner with Forbes the other night. Forbes is running late. So tell us.”
Anne snorted. “Well, when I first saw him, I thought he was handsome—and I seriously felt like maybe God had finally answered my prayers.” She crossed her arms and slouched down in the plush red chair.
“But something changed?” Meredith prompted, pushing back a piece of hair back from Anne’s face and letting her hand rest on Anne’s shoulder.
“He’s engaged. He and his fiancée were my ten o’clock consultation this morning.”
“Oh, Annie.” Jenn vigorously rubbed Anne’s other shoulder.
“That’s not the worst part. The worst part is that his fiancée is Courtney Landry.”
Meredith cocked her head. “Courtney… which one is she?”
“The baby. The one who’s barely nineteen years old. I mean, this guy has to be at least forty. You’d think Forbes—”
“Did I hear my name?”
“Speak of the devil.” Jenn stood to allow her oldest brother to take the chair on Anne’s left.
“Devil indeed.” Anne punched him in the arm as soon as he sat down. “Not available?”
“Ouch! Wha—?”
“George Laurence! I felt like such an idiot this morning when he and his fiancée walked into my office. The least you could’ve done was tell me he’s engaged. Then I wouldn’t have—” Oops, she’d almost said too much.
Forbes stood and shrugged out of his suit jacket. “Wouldn’t have what?”
She scrambled for something believable. “Wouldn’t have acted so surprised when they walked in.”
“You didn’t have their names written down in your calendar?” Forbes sat and shoved the pile of shredded napkins to the middle of the large round table. “Really, Anne, you’re usually so much more organized than that.”
That little half grin, dimple, and sparkle in his blue eyes weren’t going to work this time. “When the information downloaded from the Web site, all it had was her last name, which is pretty common in this state, if you haven’t noticed. I arranged the appointment by e-mail, and she never signed her name to any of the correspondence.”
“But it’s going to be worth it, huh?” He nudged her with his elbow.
“Hrrrrr.” She groaned, smiled, and shook her head. “Yeah, it’s going to be more than worth it—if they’re telling me the truth.”
Forbes’s left eyebrow shot up. “What leads you to believe they’re not telling you the truth?”
“No limits to what can be spent? Come on. Everyone has their limits.”
“Oh.” He loosened his tie and turned to look over his left shoulder. “Hey, Jenn?” he called across the room to his sister.
She waved at him but didn’t turn from her conversation with two of her servers. When she was finished, she rejoined them. “What’s up?”
“That new music come in yet?”
“Yep—even those tracks Annie wanted me to order.” Jenn poked Anne’s shoulder. “And I just want you to know, those were hard to come by, too.”
“Thanks. I’ve got to expose y’all to the classics. All this new music—”
“Good grief!” Jason, a younger cousin to all of them, flopped into the chair beside Meredith. “Karaoke hasn’t even started, and she’s already griping about modern music.”
Anne laughed along with them. She’d save the lecture for the next couple choosing their reception music. Once the other cousins arrived and the food was served, they cajoled Jenn into opening up the microphone an hour early.
“You’ll have to get up and do a couple of those songs you want us all to hear so much,” Forbes said.
Anne shook her head, and her stomach flip-flopped. “No. You know I can’t sing in front of a crowd.”
“Once you’re up there with the spotlight on you, you can’t see anyone. Just concentrate on the words going across the TV screen, and you won’t think about anyone else being here.” Jenn jogged across the restaurant to the stage.
The rest of her cousins caught on to Forbes’s suggestion and started chanting Anne’s name. A bit of feedback quieted the now-packed restaurant. Anne angled her chair to see the stage better.
“Welcome to the Fishin’ Shack, where every night is family-friendly karaoke.” Jenn’s announcement and following dialogue with her patrons got the crowd riled up. “Now I see the sign-up list is already pretty full.” She pointed at the small whiteboard beside the stage. “And I usually open it up to the first person on the list. But tonight, we have a special request from the large party in the back.” She cupped he
r hand around her mouth and whispered, “That would be my crazy family.”
The men at the table stood and cheered as if their football team had just scored a touchdown.
Jenn’s eye-roll was easy to see from across the room. “Anyway, if you’ve looked at the new music list tonight, you may have noticed some strange titles. Anne—why don’t you come up here and entertain us with one of them?”
Anne’s cheeks burned. She hated being put on the spot— especially when it meant public humiliation. The cousins started chanting her name again. She narrowed her eyes and grimaced at them before rising and crossing the dining room. She took the list from Jenn and picked out the first song title she recognized, pointing out the number to the sound guy.
Jenn hadn’t been lying. Once she stood on the platform, she couldn’t see anything but dark shadows beyond the bright spotlight.
The trumpet blast that started Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” drew whoops and cheers from the crowd. She smiled and started singing—nervous at first, then with growing confidence as she lost herself in one of her favorite singer’s signature songs.
She didn’t do it justice, but she did have fun. The audience cheered and clapped when the music ended. The next person, an older gentleman, took the microphone from her but stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I haven’t heard that song since the last time I saw the Rat Pack on stage in Vegas. Good choice.”
Several people stopped her on her way back to the table to let her know how much they’d enjoyed the song.
* * *
“And we ought to see if that Elvis impersonator Sara had at her reception is available. You don’t want your uncle Billy Joe doing it once he gets into the beer.”
George coughed and reached for his water glass. Since sitting down for dinner at the upscale restaurant, one absurd comment after another had spewed forth from Mrs. Landry’s mouth, nearly bringing the half-chewed food back out as well.
If Courtney’s shoulders drooped any lower, she’d be under the table. His heart twisted with compassion for the young woman. To be so browbeaten by a woman with such poor taste. He steeled himself to do what he’d been dreading all evening—living up to his namesake and facing the dragon.
