by Dara Girard
Suzanne sat back determined not to be offended. “Did you read it?”
Rick raised his brows, impressed. “That’s an interesting question.”
“Why?”
“I’m surprised you think I can read.”
“Yes,” she replied in a dry tone. “I expected you’d learned how to read, but I’m sure your father didn’t teach you.” Suzanne regretted the words the moment they left her. She knew how much he hated his father.
A dark look passed over his face, but quickly disappeared. When he didn’t speak, Suzanne crossed her legs and swung her foot, desperate to break the silence. “So, have you read it?”
“No, I haven’t.”
She felt herself relax. “Good.”
He sent her a piercing look that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” He flipped through the pages, but not in a quick careless motion. He was slow and deliberate, forcing her to look at his hands. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t help herself. She remembered his hands the most. They were callused and large yet tender when they touched her. And at one point in her life she’d let him touch her everywhere. “Anything about me in here?”
The sound of his voice startled her out of her dangerous thoughts. She swallowed and said with a bit more force than she’d planned, “It’s a story. Fiction. Nothing more.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t plan to answer your question.”
“Why?” he challenged.
“Because I made the story up.”
“Not all of it.”
“Most of it.”
He shot her a glance. “A clever excuse to air our town’s dirty laundry.”
“I don’t deny that I based some of the events listed in the book on things that have happened here, but Anadale’s laundry is no dirtier than any other town’s.”
“So you say,” he drawled, “and I know better than to argue with a judge’s daughter so I’m not going to disagree with you.”
“Although you want to?”
“I want to do a lot of things,” he said in a silken tone, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll follow through.”
Suzanne brushed imaginary fuzz from her trousers to keep her trembling fingers occupied.
Rick opened the book again and looked at the professional photograph on the inside jacket flap then glanced up at her. “You look better in real life.”
“Thank you,” Suzanne said, not caring if his statement was an insult or a compliment.
He snapped the book closed then set it down. “You’re a little skinny, though. Don’t you like the food up North?”
“I like to stay toned.”
He nodded but looked unconvinced.
Suzanne glanced around the room, a room whose every crevice she knew by heart, uncrossed her legs and crossed them again, wishing she could think of something else to say. Finally she decided to be blunt. “So why are you really back in town? Are you here to make some husband or boyfriend nervous?”
Rick tilted his head to the side, his clever eyes making it clear that he knew her attempts to provoke him wouldn’t work. He flashed a wicked grin. “I could say the same about you and the wives.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Some wives and girlfriends aren’t too happy with your return.”
“But I don’t have your reputation.”
“You may not have left with much of a reputation, but you’ve certainly come back with one.”
“I’m surprised anyone noticed.”
His smile grew and she felt her face grow warm as he continued. “You expected them to and you succeeded in getting their attention with your flashy sports car and stylish clothes.” His gaze swept her body with admiration. “Congratulations.”
Suzanne hated how close to the truth he was. She had come back wanting to show the town that she was no longer the pathetic housewife she’d been five years ago. She should have been used to their whispers and stares, but they still bothered her. As a young girl they whispered about her because she was the judge’s perfect daughter, years later they whispered about her because she was attorney Wallace Lyon’s perfect wife. Then the whispers turned to pity when it became clear that Wallace preferred the attention of other women besides his wife. Then came the divorce. She had left town in shambles, but now she was back.
“My days of making trouble are over,” Rick said with a sincerity that surprised her.
“You’re ready to settle down,” she said, unconvinced.
“Something like that. Have you seen Lyon?”
She scowled at the sound of her ex-husband’s name. “Yes, at the funeral.”
He nodded. “Sorry to hear about your loss.”
“About as sorry as a fish forced to live on dry land,” she sniffed. It was no secret how Gerald Rand and Rick Gordon felt about each other.
He shrugged. “I’m not saying I’m sorry he’s dead. I’m saying I’m sorry for your loss. In that I’m being genuine.”
“How’s your mother?” Suzanne asked. She didn’t care, but she knew it was polite to ask.
Rick raised an eyebrow, amused by her feigned interest. “She’s fine.” He glanced around the room, drumming his fingers on the couch.
Suzanne glanced at her watch. Where was Della? It felt like hours had passed, although in reality it had only been ten minutes since she had spoken to her.
Rick noticed the motion. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No, I just hate to see you waiting.”
“I bet you hate seeing me at all.”
Suzanne narrowed her eyes, but didn’t respond.
Rick leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I know you’re too polite to admit it, but I know it galls you, doesn’t it? You can’t stand the thought of trash like me going through your fine house.”
“Stop it,” she said in a tight voice.
“I’m polluting your fine walls.”
Suzanne jumped to her feet. “I said stop it. Or you can leave right now.”
He stood in front of her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then I will.”
He seized her wrist, his dark eyes boring into hers with a ruthless sheen. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me because money changes everything. It evens the score.”
“Only on the lowest level,” she shot back. “Because there are levels you’ll never reach.”
“One day that pedestal you’re sitting on is going to fall, Suzanne, and you’ll have no one else to look down on.”
She narrowed her gaze. “And if you think money and class is the same thing, you’re going to learn a hard lesson.” At that moment, they were standing so close to each other, Suzanne could feel his breath on her skin, and could see the artery in his neck pulse.
“You pretend to have a lot to say. So how come you haven’t written a second novel?” he asked, his dark eyes probing deeper into her soul.
The sound of screeching tires stopped Suzanne’s reply and Rick released his hold. They heard a door slam then Della raced into the house. Her years of salon care were clearly evident. Della’s black hair had been expertly curled and styled, her nails were finely manicured and her face glowed with moisturizer and expertly done makeup. “Sorry, I’m late. Are you ready to have a look around?” While Della could not be called beautiful, she was a very striking woman, who knew exactly what colors to wear to accentuate her honey baked skin, and what fashions suited her ample frame.
Rick turned to her. “Yes.”
“Suzanne, don’t you want to come with us?” Della said when Suzanne returned to her seat. She turned to Rick. “She knows so much about the house.”
Rick looped his thumbs in the belt hole of his jeans. “I guess she has more important things to do than try to convince someone to buy her house,” he said sarcastically.
Suzanne met his look. “If someone needs to be convinced, perhaps they shouldn’t look.”
“No h
arm in looking.”
“Yes, that’s right,” she said with a brittle smile. “It’s free.”
Rick’s jaw tightened and for a moment Suzanne wondered if she’d pushed him too far.
“But the house isn’t,” Della said, oblivious to the tension between them. She walked up to Suzanne and whispered, “Please help me with this one. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it.” Her voice went lower still. “But this man makes me weak in the knees.”
Suzanne wanted Della to earn her commission, but knew that wasn’t going to happen. “All right.”
Della smiled in relief. She turned to Rick. “She’s so good at telling stories.”
Rick kept his gaze on Suzanne. “So I’ve heard.”
Della clapped her hands together, pleased. “Come on. This will be fun.” She walked past him and headed down the hall.
Rick remained in the doorway and motioned Suzanne past him. “After you,” he said with the same mocking gesture she’d used earlier to usher him inside the house.
Suzanne bit the inside of her mouth then turned sideways and began to squeeze past him.
Rick noticed the attempt and smiled. “I remember a time when you didn’t mind touching me.”
Suzanne halted and looked up. She shouldn’t have; his penetrating gaze impaled her and she smelled the faint intoxicating scent of his cologne. She steeled herself against it. “That time has passed.”
“Really?” he said in a low voice. “Do you have many lovers up North?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Doesn’t stop me from asking.”
She turned away. “Let me show you the kitchen,” she said, then walked toward it.
“Can it take a lot of heat?” Rick asked.
Suzanne sent him a look over her shoulder. “Even the devil would find comfort.”
“That sounds good to me.”
Suzanne gave them the obligatory tour, which was made difficult by Della’s trivial comments.
“Oh, Suzanne, don’t forget to point out the hand-stenciled tile in the kitchen,” Della piped in as though it was of utmost importance. “And don’t forget to tell Mr. Gordon about all of the recent updates, like the sanding of all the wood floors, and replacement of the broken guest room window.”
Suzanne cringed. Those upgrades hadn’t been done in years. When she was showing Rick the main bathroom on the second floor, Della pointed out that the toilet might be “too low to the ground” for a tall man, such as himself, and that he may want to put in a higher one. “We all spend so much time in this little room,” Della said with a bright grin. “We need to make sure it’s comfortable.”
Suzanne stifled a groan.
Della noticed Suzanne’s pained expression and tried to make the room sound more pleasant. “But I’m sure it’s easier for men, you just aim and—”
Suzanne yanked her out of the room before she could finish. “Let’s go to another section of the house,” she said, then showed them the all-purpose room where she and her mother did crafts. She’d been forced to learn to do needlepoint. “A lady is of no use if she can’t crochet or needlepoint,” her mother liked to remind her. She showed them the five bedrooms, leaving her bedroom for last. She quickly tidied up. “I didn’t expect company,” she said, pulling up the sheets of her unmade bed.
“I’d always wondered what this room would be like,” Rick said lifting a bra from off the back of her chair.
Suzanne snatched it from him. “As you can see there’s plenty of space.” But somehow he made the room feel small, and the bed, the most prominent object in the room. She shoved her bra in a drawer. “Let’s go.”
Next she showed them her father’s study and the family room. Throughout the tour Rick remained attentive. At times, a little too much so. Suzanne wasn’t sure if it was real or fake, but she didn’t care. She wanted it to end. Finally, after approximately forty minutes, Suzanne flopped into a white wicker couch on the wraparound porch outside and watched, with relief, as Rick and Della left. Although she desperately wanted the house to sell, Suzanne secretly hoped Rick was leaving for good. That this was the last time she would see him, and that the invisible thread that somehow bound them together would be broken for good.
Chapter 3
“So what did you think of the house?” Frieda Gordon asked her son the moment he entered the house. She tapped the ashes of her cigarette into a nearby tray and set her shrewd gaze on him.
Rick sat on the plastic-covered leather sofa in his mother’s living room and smiled, satisfied. “It’s perfect.”
“And Suzanne? You must have had an opinion of her.”
Yes, he certainly had an opinion. Several in fact and they all bothered him. Suzanne Rand, the judge’s daughter, the attorney’s wife, and now the successful novelist. But all those labels didn’t seem to suit her. There was something different about the woman he’d just met. There was a steel edge to that Southern polish she’d perfected. A hardness he wanted to break. He knew a side to her that no one else had seen and she could pretend what had happened that summer had just been a fling, but he was going to remind her that it was something more. That he was something more. Something more than just the poor kid she’d decided to toy with for a couple of months out of boredom and then discard.
The boy she never once invited inside her house, or introduced to her friends or parents. He was her delicious secret and, for a while, he’d thought it was fine. He didn’t mind, he was used to clandestine relationships and had indulged in plenty. By the age of twenty-two he was a pro. He never took girls seriously, but something about Suzanne had been different, and for a moment he thought they had a chance. That what they had was real. But she’d let him know that wasn’t true. That he wasn’t good enough for her. Now he’d let her know that that had changed.
Frieda dragged on her cigarette and narrowed her gaze. “Be careful there,” she said, as though she’d read his thoughts.
Rick rested his arm on the length of the couch and dared her to challenge him. Instead his mother reached for her carton of cigarettes and held them out to him as a peace offering. “Wanna smoke?”
“I quit, remember?”
“When?”
He sighed, annoyed. “Five years ago.”
“Oh, yeah.” She puffed on the cigarette, taking the smoke into her mouth and then exhaling. “Now I remember. I didn’t realize it’d been that long.”
Rick stared at the smoke as it drifted up to the ceiling. The new house he’d bought her had nine-foot high ceilings, fine wooden floors and the right address. But except for the size, it was still too similar to the cramped house he’d grown up in. Despite the expensive furnishings the place smelled of old cigarettes, stale beer and plastic flowers. It still held too many painful reminders of his past, except for one. He no longer needed to worry about getting his head bashed in by his father.
“Rickie, promise me not to get into any trouble now that you’re back here.”
He hated when she called him that and she knew it, so he didn’t correct her. “Yes, ma’am. I know why I’m here.”
“You always had a weakness for women.”
“No,” he said with a laugh, “they had a weakness for me.”
“Is she as pretty as before? Like when she was crowned Miss Anadale?”
“Yes.”
“I could have been crowned Miss Anadale once, but her mother beat me out because she was from the right family.” Frieda Gordon angrily stubbed out her cigarette. “Even though I was prettier. I was the prettiest girl in town at the time.”
Rick knew it was best not to reply. His mother may have been a beauty once, but her hard life, hard drinking and chain-smoking had stripped her of most of her good features. Her once vibrant cocoa skin was now a dull muddy brown, and her notable high cheek bones looked like hollow shells. His mother had long ago resorted to wearing wigs, since her thick black-brown hair, which was her pride and glory, began thinning and falling out. Her hair had been her
main source of vanity, and although she was now in her late sixties, she could not let go of her youthful image. As a result she only wore one wig style. Unfortunately for his mother, cascading black, shoulder-length hair was unbecoming and only emphasized how far she was from the beauty she had once been.
“Does Suzanne look the same?”
He tapped a beat on the back of the couch. “She looks like her picture.”
“Hmm, so she’s skinnier. Not that sad little porky thing she’d become when she married that Lyon boy. Remember when she got married? Oh, wait, you weren’t there.”
“Yes,” Rick said in a distant voice. “I was there.” The only reason he’d been at Suzanne’s wedding was because he’d been working two jobs that spring and the company he worked for had been hired to set up the equipment for the stage show. A famous singer had been flown in to perform. He remembered the hundreds of guests and Suzanne in a stunning white gown becoming another man’s wife.
“Oh, that’s right, you left the year after, so you didn’t see her change the way I did. Not that I felt sorry for her. She did just like her sort always does—marry for money and prestige, even though everyone knew that boy dropped his pants for anything with breasts and you know what. Did she look happy?”
“Momma,” he said with growing impatience. “Her father died only a few weeks ago and she has to sell their house.”
A sly grin touched his mother’s lips. “And we know why.”
Rick rubbed his arm, a feeling of restlessness seizing him. For a moment he wished he were back at 468 Trellis Court surrounded by the fresh smell of flowers, the pristine wood furniture and history. In a way he and Suzanne still lived in different worlds. Although his apartment was nothing like his mother’s place, it did not have the casual elegance of 468 Trellis Court.
Frieda waved her cigarette at him. “Don’t let her flash and glamour get to you.”
Rick glanced at his watch. He tried to make sure that his visits with his mother never lasted more than an hour. “I won’t.”
“You did once.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes.” She dragged on her cigarette, inhaling until her cheeks looked like they’d stick together. “And you can’t trust her. She wrote that filthy book about us. About the whole town. She got rich off of our pain. Keep your distance.”
