by Liz Talley
But now there was no one left.
And with John behaving so irrationally, Carla had to act.
A flash of shame seared her gut as she pulled into Remy Broussard’s office building. She’d told John nothing would change. Did that make her a liar?
Maybe.
But what choice did she have? She’d not thought hard enough about her words that day so long ago. Driven by emotion, she’d made a promise to John.
It had been a Wednesday, two days after the worst day of her life, and Carla had driven out to Breezy Hill to pick a dress for her daughter to be buried in. The shotgun had done so much damage to Rebecca that open casket wasn’t possible, but Carla couldn’t stand the thought of her precious girl being buried in something other than full clothing. She’d found the house unlocked and dark...and her son-in-law in his bedroom fully dressed and curled up on the bed, clutching Rebecca’s nightgown. His gut-wrenching sobs had robbed her of breath.
“John,” she’d said, laying a hand on his shoulder.
He’d turned, his eyes so confused, looking through her. “Becca?”
“No, honey. It’s Carla.”
“Oh, God, Carla. Oh, God,” he’d moaned. She had never seen a man so crippled with grief and hadn’t known what to do. She had patted him as he rocked and cried out in anguish.
After what seemed like hours, she had shaken him. “John, I know you’re hurting, but it’s time to get ahold of yourself.”
His hand had clamped over hers, squeezing it until she whimpered, but he didn’t let go. She bore it because her hand couldn’t possibly hurt as badly as his heart. “My life’s gone. What am I going to do, Carla? What am I going to do? I killed her. That goddamned gun. That goddamned gun.”
Carla pulled his hand off hers and sank onto the bed. “You’re going to go on just like before. You have Breezy Hill. She loved this place and now you have to keep it alive for her.”
Eventually his sobs had subsided and he sat up, still clutching her hand. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will. You told Hal you’d take care of his daughter, you’d take care of his legacy. Did you lie?”
“God, no.”
“Then don’t say you don’t have anything left. You have this land and the legacy my husband entrusted to you. Rebecca would have wanted this. She always said the first day you stepped in the field you became part of the history of Breezy Hill. She said you looked as comfortable here as a pair of worn-out jeans. You belong here.”
He’d released her hand, wiped the tears from his face and straightened. “I’ll keep my word, Carla, and I’ll put one foot in front of the other because Rebecca would have expected me to press on.”
“Yes, she would. We’ll both have to press on, broken, but still moving.”
He’d looked at her then, his green eyes so grief-stricken, but his gaze also resolute. “I won’t let you down.”
Carla blinked away the sudden tears as the memory of that day and the promise she’d made slipped back into the past where it belonged.
John hadn’t let her down in regards to the plantation. Last year she’d met with Remy and Duke Hassell at the bank and reviewed the profits and losses of the trust. John had increased production in one short year and the projections for this year predicted more than marginal growth. Every day, the man who’d loved her daughter, who’d unwillingly caused her death, worked himself to the bone in the Stanton fields, planting, growing and harvesting Louisiana sugar.
But today wasn’t about profits or promises.
Today was about choices.
Carla owed it to Hal to protect the Stanton trust.
And she owed it to her daughter to see that John Beauchamp never had what Rebecca couldn’t.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHELBY JANGLED THE key in the classroom door while balancing the box Matt had sent her yesterday, but she couldn’t get the stupid lock to pop.
“Here, let me help,” a man said behind her.
Shelby straightened, letting the keys dangle. “Thanks, it’s stuck.”
“Nah, you just have to have the right touch,” he said, stepping in front of her, jiggling the key until a small metal click sounded. “There you go.”
Shelby sighed. “Whew, thanks.”
“Here, let me get that for you,” he said, taking the box from her hand.
Shelby stepped inside the classroom and flipped on the lights, stepping back to let the man pass. Her Good Samaritan stood about six foot three inches with burly shoulders, silver-peppered hair and a white beard.
“I’m Shelby Mackey,” she said as he set the box on the desk. “I’m substituting for Ms. Fox until she returns.”
“David Hyatt,” he said, a smile breaking the hard planes of his face. “I teach American history right next door and I’m happy to show you the ropes.”
“Good to know.”
“You’re obviously not from around here. West Coast?”
“Seattle.”
He smiled. “I’m from Oregon.”
“Really? I went to Oregon State.”
“Well, hello, fellow Beaver,” he said, his smile even larger.
For the next few minutes, Shelby chatted with David, but he seemed to sense her need to get the classroom set up and departed with a wave and an invitation to sit at the cool teachers’ table at lunch.
Shelby took a 360-degree turn around the room, taking in the placid blue walls, decorated bulletin board, subdued posters and clean whiteboard. Neat, tidy, minimalist. Perfect room, nice desk and as she slid the filing cabinet open, perfect filing system.
Yay, Ms. Fox.
Time to work. This morning, she’d review the last chapter the kids had completed and give them a small quiz to ascertain mastery since the chapter had been taught by a parent substitute who had honestly stated she had no clue what to teach.
At eight o’clock a few students strolled in, shifting their eyes nervously, straightening their green-and-navy plaid skirts or tucking their shirts into belted khaki uniform pants. At five after eight, the bell rang and the room filled, every student casting puzzled looks at her, a few of the boys cracking jokes, no doubt about the way Shelby looked.
Which was totally professional in a pencil charcoal skirt and black sweater. A red scarf draped across her neckline and the black boots, though designer, were conservative. She could do nothing about her curviness or the enormous pregnancy boobs, but she’d tried to dial down the boomchickawowwow thing she always seemed to have going as best she could.
Another bell sounded and the students slid into their desks.
Shelby closed the classroom door, the sound of her boots loud to her own ears. Turning, she smiled. “Hi, everyone, I’m Miss Mackey, and I’m going to be your teacher for the next few weeks.”
Twenty-one gazes met hers. One boy in the back row raised his hand. “So are you married?”
Right. Shelby had been dealing with these sorts of comments her entire teaching career. “Why? Are you available?”
The class tittered and the boy turned red.
“I’m joking, of course,” Shelby said, giving the boy a no-hard-feelings smile. His lips twitched as the boy next to him gave him a fist bump. “I’m not married and I’m a certified high school math teacher who has taught everything from Algebra I to Trig.”
She saw several front row students nod, their eyes shining in relief.
She discussed her expectations and gathered information about their past few weeks under a substitute before getting started on a review of previous material. The fifty-five-minute class flew by as did the next few classes. Before she could blink, David stuck his head in and cried, “Lunch!”
Shelby jumped at the boom of his voice.
“Sorry, I’m the official announcer of my favorite time of day,�
�� he joked, waiting while Shelby grabbed the lunch she’d made for herself that morning in the empty kitchen of Breezy Hill. John had left the coffeepot on, no doubt forgetting she couldn’t imbibe caffeine. Strangely enough, as uncomfortable as she’d been at times with him, she’d felt lonely having her breakfast with only Bart. The dog had been some company, though, lolling out his tongue, staring at her with adoring eyes. Now she understood why people had dogs...they made you feel a whole lot better about yourself.
Shelby followed David down the hall to the door marked teachers’ lounge. When he opened the door, laughter met her ears.
David held up a hand. “Folks, folks, we got a new one here.”
The educators, in all shapes and sexes, turned with smiles. One overweight woman in a horrid purple jumper called out, “God help you.”
They all laughed, several standing to shake her hand, before David cleared her a seat at one of the tables. Shelby sank into the spot a little overwhelmed, but glad of the camaraderie. Being welcomed into the fold always made being a substitute easier.
The door behind her opened and a Greek god walked in. No, more like a Norse god with his chiseled face. Golden locks brushed his natural-hewn hoodie. His trousers were linen and he wore Toms. A hippie Norse god with icy-blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose.
“Leif,” David cried, “come meet Shelby.”
His name was Leif—the old Scandinavian name meaning “heir,” and Shelby didn’t know how she knew that. Probably from some celebrity couple who’d chosen the name.
Leif’s eyes moved over her before he cracked a smile. “Well, things are looking up around here.”
Shelby tried not to blush, but she felt the heat in her cheeks anyhow. Leif seemed a natural born charmer with his rambling loose gait and flirty smile. Good gracious, he was pretty. She extended a hand. “Hi, I’m subbing for Ms. Fox.”
“Enchanté,” he said, arching one eyebrow. “Leif Lively.”
It should have sounded absolutely cheesy, like something Austin Powers would say, but it didn’t. His voice was smooth as scotch and his demeanor unassuming.
Lively? Where had she heard that?
“Leif’s the art department head, as if you couldn’t tell,” David said. “And he drives those poor sixteen-year-old girls to write bad poetry and sigh every time he walks by. Swear my hair blows from all the ‘ahs’ and ‘ohs.’”
Oh. My. God. Leif was the dude Birdie had been spying on. He turned around to grab something from the teachers’ boxes attached to the far wall. Yep. Fine-assed Leif in the flesh...but covered.
He whirled back. “You still have hair left to blow. Be glad. Look at ol’ Bobby over here.” He winked at the grumpy-looking man with a mustache, large glasses and a small ring of brown hair around his scalp.
“Watch it, sissy boy.”
Leif settled across from her, setting down a weird-looking container. “That’s what they love to call me. Hey, I’m a lover not a fighter.” He pulled off the lid revealing a lunch of bean sprouts, tofu and kale along with a funky smell. Shelby’s stomach rolled.
And then she knew she was about to throw up.
“Oh, God. Bathroom?” she squeaked.
“Right through there.” Leif pointed behind her left shoulder.
Shelby’s chair made a huge screech as she bolted for the bathroom door, praying it wasn’t occupied. God answered, and she made it in the nick of time.
She emerged a few minutes later, shaky and pale, but better.
“You okay?” purple jumper asked, her brow furrowed, concern in her eyes. “Here, come sit with us.”
“Thank you. Uh, sorry, everyone,” she said, giving a weak smile. “I’m a bit nervous and that smell...” She nodded toward Leif’s disgusting-looking lunch.
“Sorry about that. It’s probably the curry sauce. Or the anchovies,” he said.
“Come on,” purple jumper said, her earrings jingling a merry tune. “I’m Anne. I teach English and I’m always nice to the math people even if I don’t understand you all.”
Another lady who looked pretty much normal grabbed Shelby’s lunch and sat it in front of her. “And I’m Susan. I teach Latin. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, much better.” Shelby untied the plastic tabs on the bag she’d grabbed out of John’s kitchen pantry this morning. “Hey, at least I know how to make an impression, right?”
The two women smiled, easing Shelby’s paranoia that someone would suspect she had morning sickness. She’d agreed to substitute at St. George’s, but knew she could never stay employed there as an unmarried woman expecting a baby. Small town religious institutions usually frowned on such. Better to hide that little fact as long as possible and look for a public teaching gig where one’s personal life belonged to her.
She nibbled at her sandwich, thankfully experiencing no more nausea. The other teachers were nice, and even the artsy-fartsy hunk apologized again for the smell of his lunch. By the end of the hour, Shelby felt more comfortable in her role as Ms. Fox’s substitute.
And by the end of the day, she felt as if she had a firm hand on what each class needed in terms of getting caught up and prepared for semester tests. The students had challenged her at times, but soon discovered she had more classroom experience and authority than they did. No student had been sent out for disciplinary reasons, and Shelby could still smile at the end of the day. Mission accomplished.
Now if only she could manage the personal life she tried to hide, as well.
* * *
CARLA HATED GOING to the grocery store in Gonzales, where she forgot where things were located and sometimes didn’t know a soul, so after meeting with Duke Hassell over the dissolution of the trust, she decided to stop by Schwartz’s Economical Grocery in Magnolia Bend. The family run grocery story had escaped buyout from a big name competitor and managed to supply the small town with decent prices and quality products. Carla especially liked the produce manager and knew all the checkout gals. So walking into Schwartz’s was like walking into home.
After conversing with the associate manager Jimmy about the upcoming cold front, Carla pushed her buggy toward the produce section. Even as the familiarity soothed her, her stomach still burned with aggravation at Duke.
Blasted man wanted her to think about things before doing anything rash.
Didn’t he know she had thought about this? The future of Breezy Hill and the legacy of the Stantons sat on Carla’s shoulders. She didn’t take her responsibility lightly...even if she had put off thinking about the business for the past year. Grieving had a way of bleeding into every aspect of life. Hell, getting out of bed and deciding on breakfast were struggles, so dealing with the trust Hal had established and deciding the fate of the land, house and John had been easy to ignore.
So when she told Duke and Remy she contemplated dissolving and selling Breezy Hill if John progressed with the relationship with Shelby, they’d looked alarmed, saying things like “Let’s not be too hasty, Carla.”
Hadn’t those two morons already suggested the same thing shortly after Rebecca’s death?
Men were fools.
Carla was the only heir. Since Rebecca died without having a child, Louisiana communal law should entitle her heir, aka John, to her part of the trust, but Hal hadn’t been born yesterday. He made sure the trust couldn’t be divided, circumnavigating John with a clause in the case of death or divorce. Carla now held all the cards. With the trustee’s permission, she could petition for dissolution of the trust.
Which meant John Beauchamp could choose—Breezy Hill or the bimbo?
But Duke, who served as trustee, didn’t want Carla to move quickly. With cane still standing in the field, he made a valid point—if she were to dissolve the trust and try to sell Breezy Hill, the value wouldn’t be as high as it would after harvest.
Carla picked up a winter squash and then set it back down, rolling her cart over to the bananas, trying to calm the ire still scratching around inside her.
Duke wasn’t wrong. All Carla had to do was wait until mid-January when the cane was in the mill. Then if John hadn’t come to his senses, she could fire him and sell Breezy Hill.
The thought of signing away her husband’s pride and joy made her heart ache, but she’d rather sell the house and lands and all it had meant to her family than let John continue as he was.
She supposed she could find someone else to manage the farm. Still, what would happen when she died? She wasn’t leaving the house and land to some distant cousin who knew squat about farming sugarcane.
No, better to proceed with her plan.
Carla was almost certain that when faced with losing all he’d known or that girl, John would be reasonable.
But if he chose a piece of ass over Breezy Hill, Carla could use the proceeds from the sale to travel, help build a wing at the new cancer center in Baton Rouge or create scholarships for the underprivileged. Anything was better than...
“Mrs. Stanton?”
She turned, holding a cluster of ripe bananas. Well, slap her sideways, there stood the very woman who’d set this all in motion.
Shelby.
Carla stood a moment looking at the girl in her trim skirt and boots. Shelby didn’t look like a bimbo, but Carla knew the type. Deceitful. A woman didn’t have to wear see-through shirts and hoochie skirts to be a whore.
“Uh, you’re Mrs. Stanton, aren’t you?” the girl prodded, giving a small smile.
“That’s right.” Ice hung on her words.
“I thought so,” Shelby said, setting a bag of fresh green beans into her cart. “Uh, do you have a minute?”
“No, I do not,” Carla said, seeing an older lady she didn’t know crane her head around the scales dangling in the aisle, eyes wide. Her frosty words had drawn attention. “If you’ll move your cart.”
