Honey and Smoke

by Deborah Smith

  “I’m not engaged,” she said grimly. “You’d better stop talking while you’re ahead.”

  Max chuckled coolly. “Take her advice, Mr. Richards.”

  Sloan pointed at Max but looked at Betty. “He’s so old, Beebee.”

  “Old?” Max gave him a warning look, but smiled sardonically. “I’ll be thirty-nine in April. Why, if my pacemaker weren’t on the blink, I’d let myself get upset. How many years have you been shaving?”

  Betty felt a headache coming on. She looked up at Max sheepishly. “Sloan is twenty-six.”

  Max stared at her for a second. “Cradle robber.”

  Sloan groaned dramatically. “Beebee, you have to give me a chance.”

  She bristled. “All those years, I thought I was waiting for you to catch up with my maturity. But now it occurs to me that I’m not that much older than you. You should have caught up a long time ago.”

  “I’ve caught up now.” He grabbed one of her hands and kissed it. “We’ll have lunch, just like you said. Okay?”

  “Lunch. All right.”

  “Lunch, no,” Max interjected. “It’s a waste of time.”

  Sloan shot him a curt glance. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, grandpa.”

  “Watch it. I’ll hit you with my cane.”

  “Good night, Sloan,” Betty said quickly.

  But Sloan was relentless. “Beebee, listen. I know I made mistakes. I used your money. Hell, I practically bankrupted you. But you knew it was for a good cause. And look at me now”—he held out his arms—“I’m a success because you loved and supported a struggling, idealistic musician. Let me make it up to you.”

  Her humiliation was terrible. Max knew her financial secret, that she had been a fool, that she was struggling now because of it, that she needed his help more than she’d ever wanted him to know. His fingers dug into her arm, and she looked at him with defensive dignity.

  His face was a mask of anger. “I think you and I need to talk without the wonder boy present.”

  “Yes.” She shook her head at Sloan.

  “Call me, Beebee—”

  “Good night,” Max said in a low voice full of warning.

  Betty let him lead her down the hall. His stride was long and quick, his hand a vise on her arm. “There,” she told him grimly, pointing toward a side hall. “Let’s go to the garden room.”

  When they reached an artistically lighted atrium filled with potted trees and plants, he faced her, a muscle popping in his jaw, the green ice of his eyes chilling her. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were broke?”

  “I didn’t want to explain the reason.”

  “Is this your idea of how to treat someone you love—by keeping secrets?”

  “My mistakes are private. I handle them myself.”

  “That’s a strange attitude for a woman who claims to live and breathe for the spirit of marriage, the sharing, commitment, and trust.”

  “You don’t want to be a marriage candidate. Why should you care if I don’t treat you like one?”

  “But you considered that overage teenager a good prospect?”

  “I made a mistake,” she said between gritted teeth. “I resolved it.”

  “Not if you’re planning to have lunch with it.”

  “Lunch does not mean romantic involvement.”

  “I’m asking you not to see him again.”

  “You don’t have that right.”

  They traded a look of troubled challenge. She was miserable with Max’s jealousy; there was no satisfaction in hurting him over Sloan’s reappearance. Max stiffened with pride. “I didn’t think you’d stoop to playing me against another man, but that’s what it feels like at the moment.”

  She took a faltering step back from him, so shocked that she almost stumbled. “You think I’d try to pressure you into marrying me?” She clenched her fists. “Relax, Major. I have too much self-esteem to play that game. I want a man to propose of his own free will.”

  “Well, Sloan’s probably still waiting in the hall.”

  His words whipped her. She told herself that he didn’t mean them, but the pain went too deep. “I hope so,” she retorted softly. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I’m leaving. Stop this grandstanding and come with me.”

  “Or else?”

  He smiled thinly. “Or else I’m leaving alone.”

  “What? No threats about selling my sauce recipe to Goody Foods? No threats about taking back your investment? No threats about our future relationship—excuse me, I forgot.” She gave a choking laugh. “You don’t believe in thinking about the future.” She pressed trembling fingertips to the corners of her eyes, willing the tears back. “Go ahead, Max. Make some threats.”

  He looked at her wretchedly. “Not my style, babe. You’d know that I didn’t mean them, anyway. Now come on. Let’s go home.”

  His honest anguish nearly crumpled her. “Max, go without me,” she urged in a tortured voice. “Don’t you understand? It’s not my home; it’s yours.”

  “I can’t believe that you look at the situation that way.”

  “I do. I’m so afraid that I’ll stay with you, and then one day I’ll lose you. And I wouldn’t be fit for any other man afterward, because nobody could take your place.”

  “I’m hurting you,” he said hoarsely. “And not accomplishing anything. I want us to be together all the time, and I want to share everything in your life. Can’t we find any middle ground?”

  “We did, for a little while. And it was so wonderful that I can’t risk it anymore.” She hugged herself tightly, feeling as if she were about to fall apart. “Go. Please go. This has nothing to do with Sloan showing up here tonight. You and I were headed for this moment all along.”

  They were silent, the seconds passing in mute despair. Finally, like a man coming out of a trance, he shook his head. “I’ll be waiting. The front door will be unlocked.”

  Betty turned away blindly and steeled herself from the urge to give up all her convictions and follow him. “I’ll be staying with my parents for the next day or two.”

  He came up close behind her and rested both hands on her shoulders. “This isn’t over, babe.”

  Betty quivered as he kissed her hair gently. She listened to the sound of his footsteps on the room’s tile floor as he left. Slow, subdued, but firm. He always meant what he said.

  Max slumped on the edge of the couch, smoothing a scarf of Betty’s between his hands. She would have to come back, if only to get her clothes. It had only been two days. Slowly he raised his gaze to a dark window beside the fireplace. His eyes were raw from lack of sleep, and his head throbbed.

  Cold rain drizzled down the windowpanes. He smiled sarcastically at the drama of the scene—the bleak night, the empty house, his angry, self-questioning mood. Ah, yes, it was good to be independent and live only for the moment. It felt wonderful.

  He Stared at the phone on the coffee table. It compelled him to curse softly and viciously. He had waited for two days. Now, without pride, he grabbed the phone receiver and punched the number for Betty’s parents’ home.

  Her mother answered. Max made a gallant attempt to chat with her nonchalantly before he asked to speak with Betty. In a breathless, honeyed voice, Emily Quint explained that Betty had gone to Los Angeles for the week with a friend.

  He didn’t fluster her further by asking who the friend was. He knew. She knew that he knew. He thanked her and hung up. Then he leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. The scarf felt like a whisper of good-bye in his hands.

  The sunset was a smoggy red glow over Los Angeles. “To think that this view belongs to me!” Sloan exclaimed. Standing on the deck of his little Spanish-style house, he spread his arms and surveyed the city below them. “Do you know how much I had to pay for a view like this?”

  Betty settled in a patio chair and set her soft drink on a glass-topped table beside it. “Too much.”

  He laughed. “Right. But it’s wort
h it.” He ambled to the table, shoving his hands into the pockets of white trousers. With the trousers he wore an unstructured pink jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The pink T-shirt underneath his jacket bore the name of his band, Play by Heart.

  “So what do you want to do tonight, Beebee? Breeze through a few more clubs? How about dinner at Spago’s again?” He rocked back and forth on the heels of his white loafers. “Or how about we just stay here and move your luggage from the guest bedroom to the master bedroom? Hmmm?”

  She laughed. “No thanks. I like the guest bedroom.”

  “Beebee, what’s the point?” Frowning, he sat down across the table from her and propped his chin on his hands. “We’ve done the ‘pals’ thing for three days now. We’ve gotten reacquainted. When do we get back to basics?”

  “I never said that we were going to. I only said that I wanted to observe you in your natured habitat. And that I wanted us to be friends again.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I wanted to teach myself a lesson, Sparky.”

  “Sparky. That’s the first time you’ve used my nickname. I love it.”

  “You’ll always be Sparky to me. Even when you’re a superstar, and you’re on the cover of Rolling Stone, and women are throwing themselves in front of your limousine, I’ll still think of you as Sparky.”

  “I don’t like the implications here. What did you mean about teaching yourself a lesson?”

  “You and I had some great times together. I can remember them without feeling angry at you now. I’m learning to enjoy one day at a time, Sparky.”

  “But don’t forget to think about the future. Marriage. Children.” He spread his arms grandly. “I’m ready.”

  “Good. I wish you luck finding the right woman.” She smiled pensively at him. “I have to go home and make some sense of my life.”

  He deflated like a handsome pink balloon. “I sort of expected this,” he said glumly. “You’re going back to the old marine.”

  “I’m going back to be near him, yes. Because I feel good about the future, and I have to believe that I can make him feel the same way.” She went to Sloan and kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you for confirming that I did some things right in the past.”

  “You were the best. You’re still the best.” He looked up at her with tears in his eyes. “Beebee, will you let me give you some money? I owe you so much.”

  She chucked him under the chin. “Don’t spoil a gift that was given in love. I really don’t regret anything I did for you.”

  He smiled sadly. “But I get the feeling that I was just the warm-up before the real concert. You and Dudley Dooright.”

  “I don’t know if Dudley will ever do right, but I think I’ll fly home tomorrow and see him.”

  “I’m gonna dedicate the album to you.”

  She was so pleased that she choked up. Sloan stood. They hugged each other tightly. “Sparky?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Just don’t use my initials.”

  Max’s schedule of cases was light for the day, and he finished an hour early. He left the courthouse and drove home slowly, his thoughts lethargic. Rain slashed down on the windshield. Through an exhausting output of willpower, he kept himself from thinking about Betty. So she was with Sloan, in sunny L.A. But she was not in Sloan’s bed.

  Max believed that without doubt. It wasn’t her way. He had faith. For the first time in years faith was sweeping through him like a desperately welcome breeze in a desert.

  But still, thinking about her, knowing that she wasn’t going to share his nights and his days anymore, at least not any time soon, was torture. He made himself think about the three weddings he was scheduled to perform that evening. All were costume packages.

  The marriage parlor was losing its appeal. He didn’t find it funny to preside over one wedding after another, when each reminded him of the problem between him and Betty. He didn’t like watching the couples and wondering, as he’d never wondered before, if they were destined for much fuller, happier lives than he was.

  Muttering darkly to his self-doubts, he parked the Jeep behind the house because the back door was quicker to reach. He bolted inside and went straight to his bedroom. Damp, exhausted, and depressed, he stretched out on the futon without undressing, and fell asleep.

  He awoke to a deafening explosion and the roar of flames.

  Eleven

  It had been raining when her jet landed at the airport, but now a sapphire sky emerged from the clouds. The sun sparkled coldly on the windshield of the Mercedes she’d borrowed from her mother. Her mother had jokingly threatened to tie Faux Paw to the back bumper. Clumsy Faux Paw had not been the ideal houseguest in a house filled with expensive knickknacks.

  Faux Paw would be coming back to Webster Springs as soon as Betty arranged the apartment over Grace’s shop. Troubled, Betty turned up the car’s heater and shivered inside a heavy green sweater she’d pulled over her shirtwaist dress. She hadn’t prepared for the change from Los Angeles to north Georgia temperatures. But she also shivered from anticipation.

  She was going to be the woman who changed Maximilian Templeton’s opinion of marriage and family life. It might take a while, but she’d do it. Such faith would have struck her as foolish a few days ago, but Sloan had given her back her pride. Believing in Sloan hadn’t been a mistake, even though marrying him would have been a big one.

  Now she had the confidence to accept whatever happened between her and Max. She was going to show him that his dark distrust of the future was no match for her patience, dignity, and love.

  Forested hills swept past her as the road climbed toward Webster Springs. She sighed with relief. Home. Max. The two were the same.

  He should be finished with his work at the courthouse by this time of day. She’d stop by his house and see him. They’d talk. She’d explain about Sloan and the trip to L.A. She’d explain that she wasn’t going to brood about the past if Max would stop brooding about the future.

  Maybe Max would go into town with her and help get the apartment ready. Later, maybe they’d celebrate this new phase of their relationship with some barbecue and a bottle of muscadine wine. She smiled, thinking of other ways to celebrate.

  Her smile froze in horror as soon as she turned into the drive below Max’s place. Up on the hill a charred, smoldering shell was all that remained of his house. The apple trees in the front yard were scorched. The remnant of the flag pole was a thin black spindle. The lawn was a muddy mess cut by the tracks of fire engines. Ruined furniture was scattered everywhere.

  She was dimly aware of screaming Max’s name as she slammed the Mercedes into the graveled lot by the wedding parlor. She threw herself from the car and ran to find Norma. The parlor had a cold, deserted look. The unlit “Get Hitched” sign stared down at her cheerlessly.

  Betty pounded on the front door. Norma must be wherever Max was. The hospital? The morgue?

  Gulping for air, Betty raced back to the car. She did her best to drive slowly and safely into town, but by the time she reached the square, she had run off the edge of the road twice and clipped the passenger-side mirror on a mailbox. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the road long enough to look at the speedometer.

  A patrol car from the sheriffs department swung out of a side street and followed her, lights flashing, to the small hospital on a hill east of town. Betty parked the Mercedes with one wheel atop the curb at the emergency-room entrance. She bolted for the doors, while a deputy trotted after her, calling firmly for her to stop.

  She ran inside and nearly collided with paramedics covered in mud and soot. Betty took a quick, terrified look at them and staggered to the admissions window. “Max Templeton!” she said to the startled young woman behind the window. “Is he here?”

  “Ma’am, you’re in trouble,” the deputy said, arriving behind her and grabbing her arm.

  Betty hung on to the ledge of the admissions window. “Is Max Templeton here?”

&nb
sp; The clerk blinked anxiously. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, my God.” Betty pivoted blindly and stared at the doors to the treatment areas. “Max!”

  The paramedics gave her curious looks and stepped closer. The deputy clung to her arm. He said something authoritative, but it was a meaningless buzz in her ears. She lurched forward, twisted away from him, and gave him a shove. Caught off guard, he stumbled into the paramedics. All three men bumped into a watercooler, and it fell over with a boom that reverberated down the corridor.

  Betty ran for the doors to the treatment area. She plowed through them and met a bewildering array of emergency-room equipment and personnel. A nurse started toward her, shaking her head. “This area is off-limits, ma’am—”

  “I’m here to see Max Templeton!”

  “You’ll have to wait outside, ma’am.”

  Betty dodged her. She scrambled through an obstacle course of gurneys, scanning a distant corner where individual screens hid other gurneys. She heard shouts and running feet behind her.

  They had hidden him. He must be dead. Fear numbed her as she ran from one screen to the next. The gurneys behind the first three were empty. A deputy grabbed her. She elbowed him in the ribs and their combined momentum carried them past the last screen.

  Betty slammed into the wall. Gasping, she looked fearfully at the last gurney. A groan of relief burst from her throat. “Max!”

  He looked terrible—bruised, muddy, his face covered in grime and his clothes a damp mess. He was propped up on pillows. A bloody cocoon of gauze surrounded his left hand. He stared at her in groggy amazement as she careened to his side.

  “What happened? Are you all right?” Her hands flew over him, patting his chest and stomach. “My God, Max. Max, are you okay?”

  “He’s fine,” a deputy grumbled. “But you’re under arrest.”

  Max finally dragged his eyes from her to the small army of deputies, paramedics, and nurses behind her. He shook his head at them. “She’s not always like this. Sometimes she’s worse.”

  Betty weakly bowed her head to his shoulder and held his good hand. “I thought you were … but you’re not. You’re not.”