CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  Aunt Sis demolished half a bowl of pasta before she stopped for breath. “This is delicious. What are you having?”

  “Lasagna.”

  She turned her fork in the midst of her pasta, wrapping strands around its tines. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Rude?”

  “Some things are better kept secret, dear.”

  That was God’s own truth. “I understand.” I also understood that somewhere along the line Aunt Sis had had a baby. Had she given the child up for adoption? Or had she kept the baby? Did my cousin have a health problem? Was that why Sis had spent so much time alone in hospital waiting rooms? I swallowed my questions with a sip of Chianti.

  Aunt Sis wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. “Would you excuse me a moment, dear? Where’s the—”

  “The ladies’ room is just past the bar.”

  She stood without lurching—a huge accomplishment given the much lower level in our bottle of Chianti—and staggered off toward the bathroom.

  I gazed at the bar and immediately regretted it.

  Quin Marstin gazed back. He was the owner of a gaze that made a woman feel as if she needed a bath when finished looking.

  Worse, he hefted himself off his bar stool and approached. “Hey, foxy lady.”

  Foxy? I choked on my wine.

  Quin fancies himself a ladies’ man—open collar, gold chains, expensive watch, hair that defies description (well, expect to say that not all of it was his). The only lady who’d be interested would have to be blind, deaf, and without a sense of smell. The scent of his Aramis whacked me over the head from a few feet away.

  Maybe that was how he got women back to his place. He forced them to hold their breath until they passed out.

  I smiled at him anyway. Quin had been on the steps when the bust fell. Had he looked up from Marjorie’s cleavage long enough to see anything? If so, I wanted to know what it was.

  But foxy? I gulped my wine. “You always were a sweet talker, Quin.”

  For an instant, he looked surprised that I hadn’t told him to get lost. For an instant, he looked like a real person, one with insecurities and feelings. Then his lips curled into an oily smile and he slid into Aunt Sis’s chair. “It’s not sweet talk, babe. It’s true. All the stars in the sky have been captured in your eyes.”

  Did women actually fall for such drivel?

  He leaned forward, nearly dipping one of his chains into Aunt Sis’s pasta. “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”

  Somehow, I kept my lasagna down. Somehow, I made my eyelashes flutter. “The other night, when that statue fell, you were on the stairs, weren’t you?”

  He leaned back, draped one arm over the chair, and adjusted his gold chains. “Yeah, babe.”

  “Did you notice anything before it fell?”

  “Just you walking down the stairs.”

  Liar. His gaze had never shifted from the deep vee of Marjorie’s dress.

  “It was so brave of Kenneth to save me.”

  “Kinky?” With a wave of his hand, Quin dismissed Kinky’s heroics. “He just got lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “We were all talking to Marji and his wife came up to us and asked for a word with him. She looked mad as hell.” Quin’s half-laugh was fully admiring. “Kinky’s never let little things like marriage or his wife interfere with chasing tail.”

  That the tail was my sister didn’t occur to him.

  “He didn’t go?”

  “Nah. But after that he was off his game. That’s why he saw the statue falling.”

  The wine and the lasagna burbled in my stomach. This was what the sexual revolution had brought women? A game? The right to be objectified as tails?

  “You want to get out of here?”

  Hell, no. “I’m here with my aunt.”

  “We can drop her off on the way to my place.”

  “I think not.” My voice was frosty.

  Quin paled.

  A hand grazed my shoulder and I stiffened.

  “Marstin.” If my voice was frosty, Hunter Tafft’s was frigid. His hand on my shoulder tightened in a show of possession.

  Quin stood. “Nice talking to you, Ellison.” He scuttled back to the bar—or the rock he crawled out from under.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Hunter lifted his hand from my shoulder and crossed his arms. “I called the house and Grace said you’d brought your aunt here for dinner. Where is she?”

  “The powder room.” I glanced at my watch. She’d been there a long time.

  “Does Jones know about this?”

  “About what?”

  “That you went out?”

  Luigi’s wasn’t “out”; Luigi’s was a place you went when you didn’t want to cook and were too tired to change out of your jeans. “I didn’t tell him we were coming.”

  He looked half-gratified and half-irked. The gratification I chalked up to my not telling Anarchy my plans. The reason for his annoyance was a mystery.

  “There have been multiple attempts on your life.”

  Mystery solved.

  Hunter Tafft had worried for my safety. The glow emanating from my stomach had nothing to do with the large glass of Chianti I’d downed when talking to Quin.

  “I’m not so sure there have been,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time.” It was the story of my life.

  “The bust nearly fell on you.”

  “That bust came closer to falling on Kinky than it did on me. He was lucky he knocked me down or it might have landed on him.”

  “The firebomb.”

  That was harder to explain away. “It wasn’t much of a firebomb.”

  “They shot at you, Ellison.” He had a point.

  “They missed by a wide margin.”

  “The poisoning?”

  “Any one of nearly a dozen people could have sat in that chair.” Plus, there existed the slim chance that Hammie was the intended target all along.

  “What about today? I hear Marjorie was wearing your coat, driving your car…”

  My eyes filled with tears. No doubt caused by too much wine and remembering the gut-wrenching panic I’d experienced in the parking lot when it looked as if I’d spend the rest of my life without a sister—even if she was a monumental pain in the wahoosy. “I wonder what’s taking Aunt Sis so long. She’s been in there forever.” I stood. “I’m going to check on her.”

  Hunter followed me to the ladies’ room.

  I tapped on the door. “Aunt Sis? Are you all right?”

  No answer.

  I tapped louder. Had she passed out? Had she tripped over the hem of her caftan and hit her head on the toilet? Was she hurt? There was a murderer on the loose. Was she his latest victim? Was she dead? A surge of adrenaline sent my heart racing and I raised my voice. “Aunt Sis?”

  “Let me.” Hunter banged on the door.

  Nothing.

  He jiggled the handle. “Locked.”

  I raced back to the bar. “I need someone to open the ladies’ room door. Something has happened to my aunt.”

  “The key’s missing,” said the bartender. “Haven’t seen it in weeks.”

  “We need to open the door.” My tone rose an octave with each word until I squeaked.

  Hunter appeared at the entrance to the hallway that led to the bathroom and looked at me expectantly.

  “No key.”

  He disappeared into the hallway.

  Hunter is suave. Hunter is debonair. Hunter is always impeccably dressed. Hunter makes his living with his brain not his hands or his body.

  I raced down the hall after him.

  He crashed his shoulder into the door, grunted, and did it again.
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  The frame on the side of the door protested—a sound of nails and wood struggling to remain where the carpenter had put them. What if something had happened to Sis? What if it was my fault because I’d ignored Anarchy’s warning to stay safe? My heart beat in my ears and fingertips and stomach. I bit the back of my hand to keep from screaming her name.

  Hunter crashed again.

  This time something gave way and the door swung open.

  “Sis?” I cried.

  My aunt’s lower half lay on the bathroom floor. Her back leaned against the wall. Her head lolled onto her shoulder. Worst case scenarios flitted across my brain like the newsreels they used to show before movies. Was she dead? She wasn’t moving.

  My already abused heart quit working and stars danced around my head.

  ZZZ-zzz-zzz-ZZZ.

  Sweet nine-pound baby Jesus.

  Aunt Sis was out cold. She’d passed out in the bathroom. I fell to my knees and wrapped my arms around her. When she woke up, I was going to kill her.

  Hunter rubbed his shoulder. “I’ll pull the car up to the back door.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Would you prefer that I carry her through the restaurant?” That Hunter Tafft, he’s a problem solver even if he does have a sarcastic streak.

  “Thank you.” I patted my aunt’s cheek. “Aunt Sis, wake up.”

  Nothing.

  I glanced over my shoulder but Hunter was gone.

  I patted harder.

  ZZZ-zzz-zzz-ZZZ.

  Nothing short of an open-palmed slap or a bucket of ice water was going to wake her. The slap was out of the question, but the water…

  I patted again. I even shook her shoulder.

  ZZZ-zzz-zzz-ZZZ.

  I gave up, ceded defeat, threw in the towel, cried uncle—call it what you will. Aunt Sis wasn’t waking up. I sat next to her and leaned my back against the wall. It was surprisingly comfortable for the floor of a public bathroom.

  My aunt had set out to get this drunk, and I was the one paying the price. For now. In the morning, she’d be the one paying.

  Hunter appeared in the doorway. “I paid your tab and the car’s outside. Can you help me get her up?”

  The bathroom was not a large one—just a toilet, a sink, a towel dispenser, and a glass vase holding patchouli scented joss sticks—but somehow Hunter and I managed to lever Aunt Sis off the floor.

  Now it was just a matter of dragging her to the back door. If we each took a side…

  In one dramatic sweep of his arms, Hunter picked her up.

  If I had that kind of strength, I would have tossed her over my shoulder in a fireman’s hold. Not Hunter. He cradled her in his arms like a newborn.

  He loaded her into the backseat with equal care. He even fastened her seatbelt.

  We drove the short distance home and he reversed the process. Except now when he lifted Aunt Sis into his arms, Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable came to mind. It was probably just the gracious sweep of the front stairs that made me compare him—favorably—to a swoon-worthy hero.

  I followed them up the stairs. “Second door on the left.”

  Hunter laid Sis on the bed.

  I removed her shoes and pulled a blanket over her. “Give me a minute.” A stack of towels, a pitcher of water, what else might she need if she woke? I grabbed a bottle of aspirin and returned.

  “You’re very thoughtful,” Hunter said.

  “Me? You saved us.”

  He shook his head and the light from the hallway caught the silver of his hair. “Anyone would do the same.”

  He was wrong, but I didn’t argue.

  ZZZ-zzz-zzz-ZZZ.

  Instead, I backed out of the room.

  We paused in the hallway.

  “You look tired.” He brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

  “I am. Thank you for—” coming to the restaurant to make sure I was okay, getting us home, taking such good care of my aunt—“everything.”

  Something electric passed between us—a frisson of excitement as we stood together, poised on the edge of the unknown.

  The door to my room stood open and the large empty bed drew my gaze. His too.

  It would be so easy. To be held. To be touched. To be cherished.

  Seductive promises that would turn to dust in the morning light. “I’m not ready.”

  A smile touched his lips. “I told you, I’ll wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Mainly because you don’t know why.” He kissed the end of my nose. Would it be wrong to lean on him? He’d be sturdy and warm and safe.

  He kissed the corner of my mouth and a tingle rippled through my whole body.

  It was wrong to lean on Hunter. I did it anyway. I let myself go limp against him.

  One arm circled me, holding me close against the softness of his cashmere sweater. He stroked my hair. “I’m here whenever you need me. No strings.”

  Were more seductive words ever spoken?

  We stood there for I don’t know how long. Until Max wedged himself between our legs. Until I relocated my spine. Until I stiffened said spine and pulled away, brushing my fingers against the chiseled perfection of his cheek. “You should go.”

  He didn’t argue. Instead he took my hand and led me down the front stairs. “Is everything locked up?”

  “Yes.” I’d check after he left. If he stayed much longer…

  He slipped out the front door, and I turned the lock behind him. Then I checked the kitchen and every window on the first floor. Finally, certain the house was secure, I trudged upstairs and fell into bed.

  Maybe, just this once, the sleep gods would let me pass the night uninterrupted. A woman can dream…

  Fourteen

  The doorbell rang at an indecent hour.

  Ugh. Aggie would answer the blasted door. I rolled over, pulled the covers over my head, and drifted back to sleep.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Lord love a duck, what now?

  “Yes.” I might have sounded a teensy bit terse, but I’d had a rough weekend and now faced a Monday morning without near enough sleep.

  “Mrs. Russell,” said Aggie through the door. “I think you should come downstairs.”

  I sat—fast enough to make me dizzy. Among other things, the wit Dorothy Parker was famous for the way she answered the phone. I stole her line. “What fresh hell is this?”

  Aggie cracked the door and the smell of coffee wafted in. “There’s someone here. I think you’d better come.”

  “Who’s here?”

  Aggie pushed open the door, crossed my bedroom, and put the mug in my hands. She blinked a few times, but if she had comments on the state of my hair or the bags beneath my eyes, she kept them to herself. Instead she said, “You probably ought to get dressed before you come down.”

  I took a bracing sip of coffee. “Who is downstairs? Mother?”

  She shook her head so hard that her earrings swung like pendulums. “I’m not exactly sure who he is.”

  “But he’s worth getting up for?”

  I doubted it.

  She nodded. Life—or at least this particular morning—would be easier if I didn’t trust Aggie’s judgment so completely.

  I sighed and threw off the covers. “I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

  I made it in five.

  Aggie, God love her, met me at the bottom of the stairs with a fresh cup of coffee. “He’s in the living room.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Your aunt. She’s still asleep. I couldn’t wake her.”

  Aunt Sis’s night of too much wine—the gift that kept on giving.

  I peeked through the door. A man around my age stood by the front window looking out at my lawn. His hands were shoved in the pockets of a pair of corduroy trou
sers and there was something about the way he tilted his head…He looked vaguely familiar—someone I should recognize.

  “Did you get a name?” I whispered to Aggie.

  “He wouldn’t give me one.”

  A name would be easy and simple and straightforward. In other words, nothing like a Monday. I stepped into the living room. “How may I help you?”

  He turned and I saw him full on. My jaw dropped as if held together by faulty hinges. Hinges that refused to spring back into place. I’d been right. Sis had definitely had a baby. A son. And he was in my living room.

  “You must be my cousin.” It counted as a victory that I actually closed my mouth enough to form words, squeaky though they were.

  He crossed the room, his right hand extended. “David.”

  His handshake was firm, direct, and confident. Mine was limp from shock.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you. Won’t you sit?” I waved toward the settee. He might not need to sit, but I did. My knees, usually so reliable, were quivering like Aspen leaves in a strong wind.

  People kept secrets. That I knew all too well. But this? A person? The man in my living room was the granddaddy of all secrets. And Mother had never said a word. Did my father know?

  “My mother and I were supposed to meet for coffee this morning.” His forehead wrinkled and worry lines formed around his mouth. “She didn’t show up, and I’ve been worried that something happened to her.”

  I could put his mind to rest on that score. “Your mother had one too many glasses of wine last night. She’s sleeping in.”

  “Really?” His brows drew together. “She doesn’t usually drink much.”

  Be that as it may…“We had a rough weekend.” No need to tell him about Hammie Walsh’s murder or Marjorie being shot or Sis’s fight with Mother. “We all needed a glass of wine last night.”

  His mouth tightened and silence ensued. What to say to a man you didn’t know existed? David stared at the paintings on the walls. I stared at a crack in the ceiling, made a mental note to call the handyman, and sipped my coffee.

  Coffee.

  What kind of hostess was I? “Would you care for coffee?”

  “I never touch the stuff.”

  Maybe we weren’t related after all.