It was getting late and six thirty a.m.—the time she met Luther six mornings a week to start food preparation—would come early. Samantha double-checked the lock on the door and went into the bedroom to prepare for bed. As she pulled a soft T-shirt and pair of pajama shorts from the top drawer of the bureau, she uncovered the white-painted jewelry box tucked among the clothing. On impulse, she opened the lid, lifting the inexpensive cameo from inside it.
The cameo had belonged to her mother. Along with Walton, a one-eyed, worn-out teddy bear that sat on the bed, it was the only remnant of her true past that Samantha still clung to. Proof that she had been someone’s child. That she’d had an actual childhood, at least for a while, before her world had come apart.
Those sentimental items—along with the cash she’d been saving—were the things she had foolishly returned for that fateful night. Without warning, Devin’s hard features filled her vision. Her stomach churned. She could still smell his musky aftershave and feel his bruising grip on her throat.
I’m gonna take what’s mine, Trina. What’s always been mine. And tonight, you’re gonna be up on that stage shakin’ that sweet little ass or I swear to God I’ll beat you ’til no one’s ever gonna want to look at you again.
Before closing the drawer, her fingers touched the small derringer she kept there. The postcard still had her rattled.
She went to sleep with the light on.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I heard she has Luther Banda working there, of all people. You do know that man spent fourteen years in Bennettsville Correctional Institute?” Olivia peered suspiciously into the St. Clair’s auxiliary kitchen from the hallway. Normally used as a staging area for large events, the space was now inhabited by Samantha, Mercer and five little girls, including Emily, who were enthusiastically spreading buttercream frosting on oversize cupcakes. Pink balloons bobbed in the air, tied around the room with ribbons.
“At least the tourists don’t know about him, working right there in town,” Olivia added with a disdainful sniff.
Mark gazed over his mother’s shoulder at the activity, aware of the happy look on his daughter’s face. He also admitted to himself that Samantha’s casual sundress—which bared her shoulders and set off her long, dark hair—hadn’t escaped his notice, either.
“Luther did his time, Mom. And he’s stayed out of trouble since. How long ago was that, anyway? Twenty years? I’ve been hearing about it since I was a kid.”
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots. You wouldn’t hire him at the St. Clair, would you?”
“I don’t know. He’s never applied for a job here.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were turning into a liberal, Mark.” Worriedly, Olivia toyed with the double strand of pearls around her neck. “And what do you know about this Samantha Marsh, exactly?”
“Not a lot,” Mark replied truthfully. “I went to her shop to order some of those fancy cupcakes she makes for Emily’s birthday, and she offered to come here and have a baking party with the girls. From what I can tell, it was a good idea.”
“That was opportunistic of her.”
“It was capitalistic. I’m paying her well for her time.”
Olivia frowned. “Mercer said she was from New York. If you ask me, she doesn’t sound much like a Yankee. She tries to hide it, but I detect a hint of a Southern drawl. Maybe northern Alabama?”
His mother prided herself on being able to identify someone’s birthplace based on his or her accent. Usually, she was right on target.
“She moved here from New York, but I’ve no idea where she’s from originally.”
“Are you interested in her?”
He pressed his lips together and stared back into the kitchen. “No.”
“That’s a relief. Because I was just going to say that Felicity is a much better match for you. Her mother was just telling me the other day that—”
Pushing the door open the rest of the way, Mark left Olivia opining on the virtues of Felicity Greene and entered the kitchen. He was instantly greeted with a round of Hi, Mr. St. Clair from the young party guests and a sweet smile from Emily, who had a smear of frosting on her cheek. All the girls, Mercer and Samantha included, wore white aprons.
“How’re things going in here?”
“Deliciously,” Mercer declared, licking frosting from a spatula. “I think I’ve gained five pounds so far.”
The stainless steel work island held all the items for mixing, baking and decorating. Frostings and sugars in dazzling colors filled small ceramic bowls, and a bounty of edible flowers, from roses to miniature carnations and nasturtiums, floated in a pan of water. Samantha stood behind Emily, her arms around the child as she helped her grip a pastry bag. Emily’s small tongue darted out in concentration as Samantha guided her in squeezing frosting onto a cupcake in an artistic swirl.
Chatting with one another, the girls sat on tall stools borrowed from the hotel’s bar so they had better access to the decorating supplies. Mark only wished Emily would join in their animated conversation. But at least she appeared to be having a good time.
Samantha looked at Mark. She gave him a soft smile before lowering her dark lashes again and helping Emily select a flower for the cupcake’s top.
“Did you know Sam’s a runner?” Mercer asked around a mouthful of cake. Apparently satisfied with her decorating skills, she’d begun eating the results of her work. “She’s going jogging with me in the morning to make up for force-feeding me all these refined carbs. I swear I might as well be rubbing the frosting directly on my thighs.”
“Why would you do that?” one of the young guests asked, wrinkling her nose. “That’s gross!”
“The café’s closed on Sunday, so we can go whenever you want tomorrow,” Samantha said. “Weekdays and Saturdays, though—”
“But you do have help, right? Surely you can escape for an hour a few times a week.” Mercer shot her brother a teasing glare. “Mark practically runs a sweatshop around here, and even he lets me outdoors on occasion.”
“Let you out? I encourage it. I call it my break from Mercer hour.”
Mercer flipped a spatula loaded with frosting in retaliation. The blob hit Mark’s white dress shirt, splattering in the center of his chest.
“Uh-oh!” one of the girls exclaimed.
Mark stared down at his shirtfront in pretended dismay. Then, dragging his finger through the confection, he popped it into his mouth.
The group broke into giggles.
“I think you earned this.” Mark held two glasses of wine, one for himself and the other for Samantha. The party over, she was in the kitchen cleaning and packing up the decorating supplies she’d brought with her from Café Bella.
“Where’s Emily?” she asked. He waited as she removed her apron and wiped her hands on a dishtowel embroidered with the St. Clair logo, then hesitantly accepted the stemmed glass.
“Outside with her guests. They’re still waiting on some of the parents. Mercer’s going to take her home afterward and get her ready for bed.”
“I hope she can sleep with the sugar buzz she’s on.” Apparently picking up on what he’d said, she added quizzically, “Home? I thought your home was here.”
“It is. We live in one of the ocean-side bungalows farther down on the property. You can drive or take a golf cart to it from the hotel. I had to send someone there from the concierge desk earlier to get me a clean shirt.”
“And Mercer?” She suppressed a smile, probably thinking of their earlier frosting war.
“She keeps a room here, which, according to my sister, is preferable to living with our mother. Olivia resides in what pretty much everyone calls the Big House,” he said jokingly, referring to the stately white-columned estate home located just outside the resort.
“That must be the place I saw driving in. Is that where you grew up?”
He nodded. “There and here. I remember playing with Tonka trucks with my brother on the oriental carpet
in the lobby. I think that’s my earliest memory. That or the time Carter threw a croquet ball through a glass panel in the sunroom’s atrium. We were both in some trouble that day.”
“Two St. Clair men? I didn’t know you have a brother.”
“Carter lives in New York—in your old stomping grounds of Manhattan, actually.” Mark decided to fish for information. “But you’re not a native New Yorker, are you? My mother claims she can tell by your accent, as faint as it is. It’s Southern, not Northern.”
“Olivia and I already discussed it. I was raised in Alabama—in a small town that’s not much more than a wide place in the road,” she admitted. “But my family’s all gone now. I don’t have ties there anymore.”
He watched as she pensively took a sip of wine, stopping short of saying anything more about herself. Instead, she commented, “Honestly? I can’t imagine growing up around all this. I’m surprised you’re not spoiled silly, Mark St. Clair.”
“Who says I’m not?”
She laughed then, and Mark had that same awkward feeling he’d experienced before around her. She really did look gorgeous tonight. It would take a dead man not to notice, he thought, trying to ease his guilt. And it wasn’t the made-up kind of gorgeous that took two hours in the hotel spa to achieve. As far as he could tell, she wore no makeup except for a touch of sheer color on her lips. Her dark hair appeared glossy and soft to the touch. Looking down, he glimpsed flat sandals and tan, bare toes painted a shell-like pearl.
“Would you like to take a walk on the beach?” he asked, surprising himself with the question. But the truth was, he wasn’t ready for her to excuse herself and go home. “We can bring our wine with us.”
She stared uncertainly into his eyes, and he noted again their color, which was like rich caramel. Samantha bit her lip. “I really shouldn’t—”
“It would give us a chance to get to know one another. And I’d like to hear more about your business plans for Café Bella. I might be able to offer some ideas.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “All right. But just a short walk. I can’t stay long.”
Mark escorted her from the kitchen into the hotel’s large main dining room, where uniformed wait staff served guests. The lights on the tiered overhead chandelier had been lowered, and each linen-covered table had a centerpiece crystal bowl filled with floating gardenias and tea candles. The clink of silverware against fine china accompanied the low hum of conversation. Several employees greeted Mark as he and Samantha made their way toward the patio. He opened a set of wide French doors that led to a graceful outdoor bar area, proud to show her more of the St. Clair. To their right, the underwater lights of the Olympic-size pool glowed, making the chlorinated water appear a dazzling blue. A man swam laps, and several other guests were gathered at the pool’s edge, lounging in wicker furniture and having drinks.
Mark halted. “I should’ve asked if you’d like something to eat.”
“Thanks, but I killed my appetite with the cupcakes. Just a walk on the beach and the wine is good.”
They went onto the boardwalk, passing guests in bathing suits who were headed back to their rooms for the evening. An outdoor showerhead allowed beachgoers to wash the sand from their bodies before coming into the pool area. He stood, waiting as Samantha stopped to watch a small child—her water wings flapping—squeal with delight as her mother rinsed her off under the spray. The warm breeze made the briny sea air especially pungent, and in front of them, the Atlantic spread out in a deep blue haze that melded into the darkening sky.
“Everything is so beautiful here,” Samantha observed as they reached the end of the boardwalk.
He agreed, seeing the oceanfront resort through her eyes. Mark sat on the top of the stairs that led to the beach. He removed his dress shoes and socks and rolled up the bottoms of his suit pants. Samantha followed his lead, temporarily placing her wineglass on the railing as she slipped out of her sandals and put them next to his shoes. He reached for her hand and helped her down the wood-planked steps, experiencing a little jolt of electricity at the feel of her slender fingers in his. He let go once she reached the bottom. Mark walked with her across the beach until they reached the shoreline. Cool, wet sand squished between their toes, and foamy waves lapped at their feet as they traveled southward from the hotel.
“Emily’s such a sweet child,” Samantha said once they’d talked a little about the café. “Why doesn’t she talk? Is there…something wrong?”
Mark gazed at the white caps of the crashing waves, feeling a familiar jab of pain at the question. “She stopped speaking after my wife, Shelley, was killed in a car accident a little over two years ago. I’ve taken her to specialist after specialist, but they all say there’s nothing really wrong with her. At least not physically. They refer to it as trauma-induced muteness.”
“Oh,” Samantha said, growing silent. Then she asked, “Is there a chance she’ll come out of it?”
“They hope so. But the longer it continues, it’s seeming less likely.”
They walked for a time, slowing to watch the ghostly silhouette of a large fishing vessel as it made its way into deeper waters. Its low horn blared a good-bye as it escaped into the horizon.
“I really am sorry, Mark. About your wife.” Samantha gazed up at him. “For you as well as Emily.”
He simply nodded and took a sip of wine, desiring a change of subject. “So what’s your story, Samantha? You are single, right?”
She took her time in answering, looking out to sea. “I was in a relationship, but it didn’t work out.”
“So you left the big city behind for a return to small-town life?”
“Something like that.” The wind whipped her dark hair. She pushed a strand of it from her face, then pulled the length off her shoulders, lifting it from her nape so that he caught a glimpse of her long, graceful neck. Mark swallowed hard. He should be back at the hotel. The dining room was in full swing, and since it was one of the last remaining weekends before schools were back in session, occupancy was full. But right now, all he knew was that he couldn’t quite stop staring at her. He gathered his courage, in disbelief of what he was about to do.
“Samantha…I was wondering if—”
“Your mother tells me I’m not right for you.”
He stopped in his tracks at her soft comment, astonished. Mark felt his face heat. “She said what?”
She smiled faintly, although he noticed the act didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, not directly, of course. But she intimated as much. She was going on about your MBA from Emory University and all the Charleston socialites with their sights set on you. It was pretty impressive, actually. She also asked about my family—what line of business my father was in and whether I was related to the Birmingham Marshes, as she put it. I’m fairly sure I failed the screening process.”
He sighed heavily, his irritation with his mother intense. “You really have to take her with a grain of salt.”
“Don’t be upset with her, Mark.” She sounded sincere. “Her ways are a little bold, but she’s just looking out for you, and I am the stranger in town. I think she wanted to set me straight about any designs I might have on you. I actually find her protectiveness admirable.”
“I don’t. She’s meddling in my life,” he grumbled. “It’s one of her specialties.”
They stood face-to-face now, mere inches apart. Samantha gazed up at him, her soft-brown eyes sympathetic. Mark felt his stomach flip-flop. The wind once again blew her hair into her face, and unable to help himself, he reached out and slowly slipped his fingers through it, settling it back into place. It was as silky as he’d imagined.
“My mother’s pretty intuitive where her children are concerned,” he conceded hoarsely, his heart beating hard. “The truth is, since my wife died, I haven’t…there hasn’t been anyone. I was on the verge of a lame attempt at asking you out, but I’m guessing you know that.”
She bowed her head. Her voice when it finally came was gentle
. “Your mother’s right, Mark. I’m not right for you. I want to be up-front with you about that. We can be friends. I’d like to be friends, but it can’t be anything more…”
They simply stared at one another. Mark felt his blush deepen. A line of sea gulls squawked high in the air above them, their calls sounding over the heavy ocean roar. A little farther down the beach, someone set off a firework, launching a red starburst into the eggplant colored sky.
Before he could form a response, she handed him her empty wineglass, pressing it to his chest until he took it. She appeared resolute, even sad. “In fact, I think it’s best if I go back to the hotel now and go home.”
She said a polite good night and retreated, not waiting for him. Mark didn’t follow. Embarrassed and confused, he watched as her figure moved away, growing smaller in the distance until she reached the stairs and disappeared along the boardwalk.
CHAPTER FIVE
Feel that, child? Hell’s a thousand times hotter. Your Momma’s burning in eternal damnation. If you don’t get right with the Lord, you will, too.
The day Trina Grissom went to live with her grandmother, the woman dragged her to the kitchen stove, still hot from baking cornbread. Trina begged and screamed as Mamaw Jean forced her hand onto the oven rack, holding it there long enough to give her a blistering burn. She claimed she’d taught her eight-year-old granddaughter an important lesson, which was to not turn out like the drug-addicted whore her mother had been, or else suffer the consequences.
Before the Storm Page 3
