“Why thank you, honey,” she patted the bouffant hairdo that sparkled like a ruby even in the dim light. The amount of hairspray she used to hold each swirl and curl in place was approximately as thick as the shellac on her bar. “My Tommy likes it too—even better than that Dusty Gold color I was wearing a few months back.” She placed a tall glass of beer in front of him. “You eatin’ here tonight, too, honey? Tommy made a good soup today—chicken barley—and we got a special with broiled cod and rice. There’s always a hamburg or fried clams, if you’re wantin’, and I got some potato salad and co’ slaw if you want that too.”
He sipped his beer. “How about a Reuben, with some cole slaw on the side,” he suggested. “And a cup of that soup.” Ethan craned his head around, looking out over the half-filled restaurant. “The girls coming in for their regular Saturday night meeting?”
Mirabella shrugged as she wiped off the counter. “I don’t know for sure. Everyone’s been pretty upset since Bee passed.”
There was a holler from the back room and Bella rolled her eyes, making her penciled brows jump. “That Tommy. I wonder what he needs now. I’ll be right back with your soup.”
Despite the peremptory yell, Mirabella took her time making her way back into the kitchen. Her lime green dress splashed with daisies and thick white lapels hugged Rubenesque curves and the generous bottom that had the same saucy wiggle that ‘her’ Tommy had fallen in love with twenty years ago...or so she’d boasted to Ethan many times.
He smiled, thinking how great it was that those two had lived and worked and run this restaurant together for more than twenty years...and she still loved Tommy as much as she did from the first. She’d do anything for him, or so she’d told Ethan and anyone else who’d listen, time and again.
Ethan’s amusement faded. The desire for single-minded devotion and commitment had been yanked right out of his life at about the same time he signed his name to the divorce papers.
It was pretty much not gonna happen—opening himself up to trusting a woman, or even casual dating—now that he’d been well and thoroughly screwed by Jenny, his ex-wife. Not to mention Lexie, one of his female students who’d wanted to get in his pants badly enough to lie about it. Oh, and Bruce—one of his friends who, as it turned out, had been boinking his wife for more than a year. It had been hell, that whole mess—and it was Belinda who’d listened to him blather about it over more than one six-pack. An unlikely pair they’d made, the two of them—along with Cady—sitting on the porch, talking for hours. Sometimes coherently, sometimes not so coherently.
Using one long forefinger, Ethan systematically wiped the condensation off his glass, his lips flattening with disgust. Women were either conniving, sneaky bitches like Jenny and Lexie, or cold, haughty ones like Belinda’s niece, and he figured he was safest staying far away from any of them except for a good, hard lay when the urge struck. And even then...he’d had a moratorium on that for well over two years now.
He just hadn’t been interested. In anyone.
A burst of raucous laughter erupted as a group of ladies swarmed through the front door. Five of them, varying in age from thirty to eighty, and in size from four to sixteen, flowed toward a large, circular table in the far corner of the room. They were chattering and laughing, carrying handbags of all assorted shapes and sizes.
“Well, I guess that answers your question, there, honey.” Mirabella set a steaming bowl of soup in front of Ethan, jerking her head toward the quilting ladies. “Eat up, and let me know if you want more.”
When he finished his dinner, Ethan pushed back from the bar and slid off his seat. “Good evening, ladies,” he said as he strolled over to them.
“Ethan!” crowed a blue-haired, bespectacled lady. “Why, I didn’t see you sitting over there.”
“You can’t see nothing past your own old nose, Martha,” grumbled Helen Galliday, who wasn’t far behind her in age but still possessed eagle eyes and super-bionic hearing. “He’s been sittin’ over at the bar, eatin’ his dinner the whole time we been here. Have a seat, young man.” She pointed a wrinkled, hook-like finger to an empty chair next to her. “And tell us how you’re doin’. You missin’ Bee like the rest of us?”
He sat. “I sure am,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what happened until Wednesday, when I stopped by her house and ran into her niece.”
“Pity, pity,” Martha of the blue hair shook her head. “And she was so young to just go like that. She wadn’t no more than sixty-seven.”
“And she had the best doctor in town,” added a younger member of the group. Rose Bettinger, who was somewhere over fifty, had had the distinction of being the most junior member of the quilters until Betsy Farr, aged thirty-three, joined last year.
“If Doctor Reardon couldn’t get her healthy, then, well, you know, I don’t think anyone could.” Betsy had a dreamy look in her eyes.
Ethan sat silently, watching the ladies in amusement as the banter jumped across and around the table with alacrity. “How’s your Crazy Quilt coming?” he asked when there was a pause in the conversation.
“We might be finished by next year if Pauline and Martha would get their blocks done,” grumbled Helen as she bit into a piece of bread, showering crumbs in her lap. She brushed them onto the floor with impatience and sour humor. “But Pauline’s so blamed worried that she’ll miss seein’ Doug Horner one time she won’t sit at the meetin’ long enough to piece one block, ain’t that right, Pauline? And Martha—her eyesight ain’t much good no more anyway so that we have to do all the sashin’ for her blocks. Good thing we got a system worked out for the ones we actually sell, or we’d be in more trouble’n a puffball in a tornado.” She snapped another bite of bread with teeth that were too perfectly straight and white to be real ones.
“Helen, don’t you be yammering about my personal life to this young man here,” Pauline admonished, pointing a coral-tipped fingernail at her friend. “And I can’t say you’ve been exactly timely with your last two blocks either.” She plumped heavily in her seat—a daring move for a woman whose generous size threatened the stability of the chair—as her perfectly manicured nails fluttered with indignation. “The only one of us who’s been on schedule has been Bee, and she isn’t gonna be here to see it completed.”
Pauline’s point seemed to sober the group, and even Helen had nothing to add.
“I’ve seen your other work at the craft shows,” Ethan said after a moment, “and I’d certainly like to see this Crazy Quilt of yours someday.”
“Well, you know we ain’t plannin’ on selling it, young man,” Helen snapped. “It’s just a way for us to use up some old cloths we had layin’ around. Truth to tell, I don’t know it’ll ever get done, ’cause we keep addin’ to it, you see.” Her eyes took on a special gleam. “But if you’re lookin’ for somethin’ for your own place, why we have a real nice double wedding ring quilt pieced in dark blue and burgundy and sashed with cream that would fit real nice in your house.”
Ethan hid a smile. Helen was most definitely both the brains and the brawn of the group when it came to the business end of retailing their work. She’d never even seen his cedar-sided cabin, much less have a clue how it was decorated. Not that you could call what he’d done to it ‘decorated,’ he thought ruefully.
“Now, Mrs. Galliday, you’re making me nervous here with talk of wedding rings. You know I don’t go in for that stuff.” He allowed his grin to show now as he leaned over to pat her wrinkly, veined hand. “But my sister Fiona is getting married, and maybe I should get one for her. She’d like something bright and fun, I think.”
Betsy Farr tittered at his comment, peering shyly at him from behind her coffee cup. She was young and single and just about as mousy as they came—and she’d never even said ‘boo!’ to him in the year he’d known her. “We have other patterns too, like a shoo fly and a couple monkey wrench ones. You could get one for your sister and one for you,” she offered boldly, then hid behind her mug again.
&nbs
p; He nodded. “If that’s so, I certainly will stop by for a look. It gets mighty cold up there by the lake some nights.”
“Doctor Reardon just bought a bright yellow and blue and green churn dash to display in his office,” offered Rose Bettinger, reaching for a dinner roll. “We’ve sold several to tourists who stopped in his office since then. It’s been a great bit of free advertising.”
The door to the restaurant opened just then and Ethan looked up. “Well, speak of the devil,” he muttered, recognizing the trio who’d just entered: Marc Reardon, along with Diana Iverson. Their companion, he suspected, was the man she’d been talking to on the phone yesterday, assuring him he had nothing to worry about with Ethan at her house.
Anger roiled inside him at the memory of her subsequent nasty accusations, and he figured he’d better split before Helen called them over. Then, he reconsidered. There was no reason for that narrow-minded, arrogant lawyer to make him feel uncomfortable. He’d done nothing wrong, and hadn’t he already learned the lesson with Lexie? Avoidance wasn’t the way to go when one was falsely accused.
“There he is!” whispered Betsy, staring over her shoulder. “I wonder who’s that lady with him?”
“That’s Diana,” Helen snapped, peering through narrowed eyes. “Don’t you remember her from the funeral? And that must be her young man with her. Jonathan Whose-its. He’s a big shot doctor down to Boston.”
“Oh, right.” Betsy seemed relieved and turned back around to sip her coffee.
Helen stood and waved her arm vigorously, its loose skin flapping with the effort. “Diana! Doctor! Over here!” Her greeting was more of a command than a hello, and they responded to her hail.
“Good evening, Mrs. Galliday.” Marc Reardon’s smile oozed gentility as he offered an abbreviated bow. “Ladies,” his gaze swept the group as his smiled warmed them. “And Dr. Tannock.”
“Reardon.” Ethan’s response was drowned by the enthusiastic greetings of the quilters. “Hello again, Diana,” he added coolly as she noticed him for the first time. Somehow she managed to look down her nose at him, even though he’d stood and now towered over her, and then she turned away to greet the quilting group with hardly an acknowledgment to him.
Suppressing irritation at her rudeness, he swept her figure with a chill gaze, deciding instantly—reluctantly—that purple was a great color for her. It made her thick, curling hair look almost black and her grayish eyes a deep blue. The cut of the dress didn’t hurt either, he thought, allowing his attention to wander over her curves while she was involved in greeting the ladies. Why deny himself the pleasure of looking just because he wasn’t interested in jumping into the deep end?
When he finished his leisurely perusal and turned his gaze to her companion, his eyes locked with those of Diana’s boyfriend. Oops. Caught with the hand in the cookie jar. He smiled as if he didn’t see the glare in the man’s eyes and, offering his hand, returned to his seat. “I’m Ethan Tannock. Glad to meet you.”
“Doctor Jonathan Wertinger,” the man replied coolly, shaking his hand with a firm grip.
Ethan stopped a wider smile that would have turned deprecating. Wertinger was even more formally and expensively dressed than Reardon, and bristling from some stick up his ass. Ethan wondered if he got more out of Diana than the icy, suppressed anger she’d unleashed on him yesterday. From the looks of the man, the answer would be no.
Wertinger had sharp, intelligent eyes, however, and enough bravado to eye Ethan with the same cool interest he was showing.
“Thinking about joining the quilters, Tannock?” Marc Reardon was asking. “You’ll have to be pretty talented with a needle to keep up with this bunch.” He patted Betsy Farr’s hand, and Ethan watched her eyelids flutter in ecstasy. “I bought a quilt from these ladies not three weeks ago, and already I’ve had five offers for it.”
“I don’t think they’d take me in,” Ethan replied with a good-natured laugh. “I don’t know a shoo fly from a monkey wrench, whatever that means, and I sure as hell can’t thread a needle.” He glanced at Diana and suggested with more than a bit of malice, “Why don’t you see if Bee’s niece might want to join while she’s here?”
“What a wonderful idea!” gushed Rose Bettinger, jowls jiggling with enthusiasm. “Would you like to work with us in your aunt’s place, Diana?”
The woman in question shot Ethan a nasty glare before turning a sweet smile toward the group of ladies. “Oh, I’m absolutely no good with a needle and thread, and I really don’t have a lot of time up here. It wouldn’t make sense for me to get in the group and then have to leave in a week or two.”
“A week or two?” repeated Jonathan Wertinger, looking decidedly displeased, echoing Ethan’s own dismayed thoughts.
That wasn’t nearly enough time to observe Diana for his study, particularly since he didn’t dare tell her his intentions—which he wouldn’t be doing if they couldn’t have a civil conversation.
“You’re only staying for that long? We thought you’d be here for the summer like the rest of those blasted tourists,” Helen Galliday groused.
“I love it up here, but I really can’t take that long from my practice back in Boston,” Diana tried to explain.
“Well, you’ll be back to visit, won’t you?” Pauline Whitten pressed.
Diana looked at Ethan as if she’d like to murder him for bringing this up, her blue-gray stare cutting him into little pieces. Then she seemed to collect herself and returned her attention to Helen Galliday, absently tucking one short tress behind an ear to reveal a large pearl stud. The dark lock curled under, peeking out beneath the earlobe and just brushing the pearl. Even in the dim light of the restaurant, the luminescence of the jewel and the shiny embrace of her hair were a combination of classic beauty and elegance. The rest of her walnut-colored mop, rising in soft waves from her forehead and brushing her bare nape, was tousled and full...almost messy, as if she’d just had sex. It left the long expanse of her neck bare to the potential caress of a finger...or a pair of lips.
Doing a mental double take, he reapplied his attention back to the conversation at hand. Wholly annoyed with himself, and that part of his anatomy that traditionally led him into troublesome situations, he shifted in his seat and firmly directed his thoughts elsewhere.
“You aren’t going to sell Bee’s house are you?” Helen Galliday was demanding.
Diana smoothed the skirt of her sundress, relieved when she felt the weight of Ethan’s gaze move away. She was incredulous that he would just sit there, as calmly and innocently as if nothing had transpired between them and she hadn’t uncovered his ulterior motives. Didn’t the man have any sense of shame?
“Well, Mrs. Galliday,” she equivocated, “I really haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the house yet. I have a lot of paperwork to go through before I can make a final decision anyway.”
“Bella, she’s gonna sell the house!” Helen announced as Mirabella walked up with a pot of coffee.
“Oh my. I can’t imagine what Tommy will say ’bout that!” She stood with a hand planted on her generous hip and looked questioningly at Diana.
“Who’s Tommy? And why would he care?” Diana asked, feeling more uncomfortable now with all eyes on her.
“Why he’s your great-uncle’s cousin’s son—didn’t you know that?—and my husband for forty years. Your Aunt Bee used to have him come over and plow her out in the winter time.”
Diana stared at her. “I’m sorry. I had no idea we were related.” Anger swept through her—how many other relatives had her mother kept from her? “We’ll have to get together some time and catch up on things.” She would not let this opportunity to spend time with her family get away from her, as it had with Aunt Bee.
“Well, now, honey, that would be right nice. It’s not as though you’re close cousins or anything, but blood is blood is blood. I’ll tell Tommy, an’ I’m sure he’ll be tickled pink! Now, he will be a mite disappointed if you do sell the house—”
“I’m sure Ms. Iverson will make the best decision she can.” Marc Reardon entered the fray with a smile at Diana. “But we can’t expect her to make it so soon, now, can we?”
Diana nodded gratefully as Jonathan leaned closer to her so that his shoulder pushed against hers. She shifted away, suddenly claustrophobic, and felt Ethan’s attention return to her. An amused smile twitched his mouth and humor twinkled in his eyes, crinkling their corners. It seemed as though he was enjoying a joke at her expense and she bristled at the patronizing look. If she weren’t so tactful—and fully aware of the ramifications of libel—she’d bring the whole subject up again, right here, and see what he had to say about it then. And who could know, perhaps he’d been working on one of the other old ladies. Why else would he be having dinner with them on a Saturday night?
At that moment, Ethan stood, taking Helen Galliday’s hand in his. “It’s always a pleasure to see you ladies.”
As he said his goodbyes to the quilters, Diana noticed the easy smile that warmed his face again and again, and the way he spoke to each of the women. Charm and casual flirtation came so easily to him, she thought, watching as he made Betsy Farr giggle and Rose Bettinger blush with an off-hand, but seemingly sincere, compliment.
When he finally turned that smile and those warm, crinkling eyes toward her, for a moment she, too, was almost disarmed by them. Then, as if realizing on whom he was wasting his charm, Ethan shuttered his face into a polite mask. Diana cooled her faint smile to an urbane one and accepted his hand for a business-like shake. “It was nice to see you again,” she told him, ignoring the fact that his grip was firm and warm and made her uncomfortably aware of the heat of his touch.
He moved away to shake Jonathan’s hand, and then Marc’s, and then, with one last quick wave, he left the group.
* * *
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 7
