by Angie Sandro
My sour stomach gurgles, and I press my free hand against my flattening belly. The majority of the pregnancy symptoms began to fade once the doctor said I wasn’t expecting. The tender breasts, exhaustion—gone. The only things left are the stupid recurring bouts of nausea flaring up throughout the day.
Landry thinks I’ve stressed myself out about tonight’s party, and he’s probably right. The nasty herbal tea Reverend Prince ordered me to drink to settle my stomach only made the queasiness worse, so Landry left a glass of Alka-Seltzer for me on the counter, but I forgot to down it before leaving the house. That’s his fault. Not mine.
He kept rushing me while I got dressed, saying if I didn’t hurry we’d be late. Bull. It’s not like the party would be over if we didn’t get there the minute it started. I guess he figured, the longer I delayed, the more likely I’d flake on the opportunity of bonding with dear old dad and family.
My grip on Landry’s hand tightens. He doesn’t even complain about it being sweaty. I glance up at him. Damn, he’s sexy. His steel-gray suit and black shirt compliment his thickly lashed eye and gel-tamed hair. The patch gives him a roguish air, which is only compounded by his cocky grin.
I bask in the warmth and security he brings. If he’s uncomfortable, it doesn’t show.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“I am,” he says. “Let’s go give them hell.”
My laugh bursts out. Leave it to him to know the right thing to say to unstick my feet and get me moving. We pass the lanterns bobbing in the wind. Shadows born from their light fall across the path. Landry sticks to my side, and I move my hand to the crook of his arm. The main house beckons, sending music and laughter in our direction. More lanterns hang from the rafters of the wide veranda. Citronella candles keep away any mosquitoes still lingering this time of year.
I shift my jacket across my arm and run my hand down the flowing fabric of my new dress. I saw the shimmering cobalt confection of lushness in the window of the Garland Rose, a high-dollar boutique downtown, and immediately thought, Mine.
I’ve never had the funds to do more than window shop in the past, and the majority of my clothing came from thrift stores. Guilt niggled at spending so much for a dress I’d probably never have the opportunity to wear, but I broke into Mama’s insurance fund cash and bought it anyway. I’m so glad I splurged. I may not be a wanted child, but tonight I refuse to fall into anyone’s preconceived notions that I’m poor trash.
Aunt March waits at the front door with a huge smile, and her eyes light up with joy. Thank God I didn’t flake on her. Her heart would’ve been broken over something as ridiculous as being terrified of my father’s reaction at seeing me. Or rather, his wife’s—George’s cheated-on mother. She has a right to be angry. But not to hate me. It’s not like I asked to be born. For George’s and his mother’s sake, I hope everything goes well. I feel bad for both of them. It must feel like the very fabric of their reality has been shredded. I can empathize, since it feels the same for me.
As far as my bio-dad, well, I’m trying my best to deal with my abandonment issues by not getting my hopes up or caring about him. George Dubois Sr. has known about my existence since Mama told him she was pregnant. He’s had plenty of time to adjust to the notion of his fatherhood, but he chose to ignore me. Maybe I’ll just ignore him right back.
My grip on Landry’s arm tightens when we climb the stairs. Neither of us has the best balance tonight, what with his shoddy depth perception and my infernal high heels. What the hell was I thinking? Oh, right. How sexy they look with this dress and the look of hunger in Landry’s eye when he first saw me in them. Stupid vanity.
Ms. March’s hands flutter when I walk up to her. Like she doesn’t know what to do with them. I take them in mine, careful not to squeeze too tight, then lean forward and press a kiss to her baby-soft, powered cheek. I inhale her scent, letting her familiarity soothe my anxiety.
“Happy birthday, Aunt March,” I whisper into her ear.
With a low cry, she pulls her hands free and hugs me. The hug cuts off my oxygen supply, but I don’t care. It feels good to be in her arms. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”
This, right now, makes up for all the years of loneliness. I have a family. Hell, the thought brings tears to my eyes. I’m going to look like a drowned raccoon if I don’t get ahold of myself. It took fifteen minutes to get the smoky eye shadow applied just right.
Aunt March pulls free to give me the once-over, and I see tears standing in her eyes. I guess getting overly emotional is genetic. She sniffs and manages a watery smile. “My, don’t you look beautiful. I love what you’ve done with your hair. How long did it take to straighten it?”
A blush rises, and I fan my heated cheeks. “Oh, you’re embarrassing me.” I nudge Landry in the side with my elbow. “He’s the one who worked the straightening iron. I wouldn’t have bothered, but he wanted to see what it would look like without the curls. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“Your niece is just pretending to be flustered, Ms. Dubois,” Landry says, winking at Aunt March, who titters. “She knows she’s gorgeous. And anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.” His arm wraps protectively around my waist, and he hugs me against his side. It takes a minute for me to realize his statement isn’t directed to Aunt March, but to the man who has come up behind her.
George Dubois Sr., my bio-dad, stands in the doorway. His dark eyes start at the soles of my now embarrassingly high heels, then travel upward. His closed expression leaves me guessing about what he’s thinking. My insecurity sends my pulse rate soaring. Thoughts pop in my head. All of them of the negative variety: Why would he be happy to see me? He didn’t want me. Never acknowledged the witch’s daughter as his out of shame. He probably thinks I turned out as messed up as Mama. I never should’ve worn these stupid hooker heels. And this dress…it’s too tight. Makes me look like I’m about to hit a corner and turn tricks.
Stop it! Stop. I can’t do this to myself. I know who I am.
My shoulders straighten. The warmth of Landry’s body smothers the cold doubt of my father’s rejection. I’m not alone. Or unloved. I am wanted.
The eyes of my father strike me as being familiar. I puzzle over how weird it feels to gaze into their inky depths, until it hits that they’re identical to the ones I see in the mirror every day—the same almond shape with thick lashes. Once I pick out that feature, I start looking for others. I have his nose. Powerful eyebrows. Man, why couldn’t I have gotten Mama’s dainty brows instead? Whatever.
The silence stretches…too long. I force myself not to shift my stance. Or dry my hands on the hem of my jacket. Can’t let him see I’m sweating if he’s deliberately trying to intimidate me. Should I say something first? What’s the protocol for officially speaking to one’s father for the first time? I’m mean, we chatted at Lainey’s funeral—well, he mostly grunted in my direction—but I didn’t know who he was then. So it doesn’t really count.
Ugh, I hate this.
Landry’s arm tightens. “Mr. Dubois, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
It takes a heartbeat longer for him to shift his gaze from me to Landry. He nods and thrusts out a hand for Landry to shake. Why couldn’t he have done that for me instead of staring like I’m some ten-foot-tall, blue-skinned alien?
“Likewise,” he says giving it a single pump, and then his gaze shifts to me again. His outstretched hand shifts in my direction. “Malaise…”
My heart races, and I feel lightheaded. Now I’m scared to touch him. My own father and I want to run. How sad is that? You’d think I would’ve learned to be careful what I wished for after turning Clarisse into Humpty Dumpty—bald-headed and cracked. My wishes have the same unpredictability factor as using a wish granted by a genie trapped in a bottle.
I release Landry and reach out like I’m petting a wild animal that might bite. Our fingertips brush and then slide around each other’s wet palms. That’s when it hits. He’s as nervous as I am. Only
he’s better at hiding it. My lips lift. His answering smile seems as strained as mine, but they’re genuine. “Good evening, Mr. Dubois.”
His fingers spasm when I say his name. Did he expect me to call him Dad? Not happening. Not yet.
Reverend Prince’s booming voice comes from behind. “Oh good, I’m not too late.”
I jerk free of my father’s grip. A flicker of what might be disappointment passes through his eyes before they look in the rev’s direction. His shaky smile turns into a full grin. “I see you come bearing gifts. Bushmills?”
Landry and I shift aside when the rev thrusts a paper bag between us into my father’s hands. “Of course,” the rev says, completing a slick maneuver that leaves him standing between us. He drapes an arm over our shoulders, so we’re enveloped by his open-armed hug. For the first time in the last five minutes, I can breathe. Then he says, “Thanks for inviting the kids to the party, G.D. It’s about time the families get together. Schedule some time next week for us to sit down and hammer out their wedding details. If we leave the planning up to them, they’ll sneak off to city hall and you’ll never get to walk your daughter down the aisle.”
Kill me now.
Like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in the middle of our group, he pats me and Landry on the shoulders, then moves around us to take Aunt March’s hand. “Marchie, you look radiant.” He presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “How are you, my dear?”
Landry and I share a…uh, totally horrified grimace. Which only gets worse when Aunt March flushes and giggles like a school girl. When she sees me watching, she shrugs. “I have a bit of a reputation you might not know about. For half the men in town from my generation, I’m the one who got away.”
“My first love,” Reverend Prince says. He shakes his head. “I never had a chance. Marchie only saw me as her baby brother’s friend.”
Aunt March hooks her elbow through mine. “Come on, the birthday girl has been away from the festivities too long. The other guests must be wondering where I am. Have you thought about what colors you want for the wedding? Do you plan on a church or an outside ceremony?”
“Aunt March, I haven’t—”
“We can always have it here. It would be beautiful in the garden.”
Dazed and unable to get a word in as she prattles on, I follow her inside. I drop off my jacket with the coat checker and follow her down the long hallway to the crowded ballroom. She waves in the direction of the bartender. “G.D., Landry, why don’t you go get drinks for your ladies? I’ll have a rum and coke. Mala?”
“Iced tea.” At my father’s quirked eyebrow, I stiffen. What? Does he think I’m a booze whore like Mama? My mouth opens to tell him to fuck off, but Landry runs a hand down my back, and I catch myself, saying instead, “I’m the designated driver.”
“Mala’s not much of a drinker,” Landry says.
My father nods. “Neither am I.”
Once again, he surprises me. I need to get myself under control. All of my resentment keeps bubbling to the surface, spawning negative thoughts that multiply like gremlins in my head. I keep expecting the worst from him, but it’s really me who’s the problem. I don’t deserve to keep beating myself up, or thinking badly of Mama. She did the best she could under the circumstances. Maybe things would’ve been different for us if my father had helped her.
I don’t know. It’s too late to find out.
The men head toward the bar, and Aunt March pats my arm. “I’m sorry to leave you alone, but I need to go have a chat with the caterer about the pecan pie. Tell G.D. I’ll be right back.”
Before I can say I’ll go with her, I’m alone. Using my wallflower status to full advantage, I hide in a corner and scan the room. It’s packed full of Aunt March’s friends. Reverend Shane and his wife, Molly, who looks fabulous after losing most of her pregnancy weight, stand by the buffet table chatting with Mable Grant. My old teacher nibbles on a jumbo shrimp with a pair of false chompers. George and Isabel stand in the far corner of the room by the balcony with his mother. I plan to stay as far away from them as possible. Mrs. Dubois and Izzy are the last two women I want to run into tonight.
Food is piled on the buffet table. It’s as informal a meal as Georgie said, but I’m glad I splurged on the dress. I would’ve been out of place if I’d come in jeans and a T-shirt. Even the business attire I dressed in while interning at the sheriff’s office would look dirty-dowdy next to the fire-engine red dress worn by the beautiful woman with glowing mahogany skin and natural-styled curls haloing her head.
Bessie glides across the floor in my direction, and I actually forget how to breathe for the few seconds it takes to recognize her. My surrogate mom’s glowing. I’ve never seen her so beautiful. And I bet it has to do with the man holding on to her arm.
Normal Ferdinand still has the ability to make my mind do the occasional wonky dance. Sir Hotness’ gorgeousness in a navy suit and teal shirt almost stops my heart. No man should be so pretty. Now stick the two of them together and I feel like paparazzi should be screaming for interviews and cameras should be flashing as they stroll down a red carpet.
Bessie swoops in to pull me into a tight hug. “Como se va?”
“I’m doing just fine, but obviously not as good as you,” I whisper into her ear.
Bessie, who rarely shows her emotions, giggles. She steps back to Ferdinand’s side, and when he places a hand possessively against the middle of her back, her eyes glaze. The air tingles. Is he using a glamour spell on her? Or is it his natural charisma that has Bessie so giddy?
A cold chill rolls down my spine. “I thought you went back to New Orleans with Aunt Magnolia. Why didn’t you answer our phone calls? We needed your help.”
His white teeth gleam. “I had other business to attend to. As you can see, I’ve returned.”
Bessie lightly touches his chest. “I talked him into coming with me tonight.”
The hairs on my arms rise, and I rub them.
Landry and Georgie thread around the sofa to reach us. I look for my father, but he and his son decided to exchange their chaperoning roles since he’s over by the balcony handing his wife and Isabel their drinks. Landry presses my glass of iced tea into my hand, but his eye never leaves Ferdinand. Does he sense the disturbance in the Force too?
“So this is the date you’ve been obsessing over, Ferdi?” Landry finally blurts out, waving his hand over Bessie, and I gasp, elbowing his side to shut him up before he inserts his foot any further into his mouth.
“She is.” Ferdinand’s the master of infusing a lot of meaning into few words.
Basically he managed to tell Bessie, in two words, how beautiful she is and that he’s proud to be with her.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Landry says. “If we’d known, we could’ve made plans to drive in together.”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Obviously they wanted to spend time alone together, Landry.”
His lip quirks. “Communication is key to any relationship. Disappearing without a word the way he did, I got worried that he was still pissed at the punch I threw at him. But see, not a mark on him. He’s perfectly fine.”
“I am.”
“And how is Magnolia? Mala and I really need to speak with her about what happened yesterday.”
Ferdinand’s eyes glitter. “I’m sure you’ll get the opportunity to, since she still has plans for you both.”
I swallow hard, pinching Landry’s arm. I totally get the reason for his passive-aggressive questioning, but continuing in this manner won’t get the result he wants. Ferdinand’s too slick. Why I didn’t see it before and focus all of my ire on Sophia, I don’t know.
Bessie stares between the guys, not befuddled enough to miss the underlying tension and threat in their clipped voices. “Ferdinand, how about if we go grab a plate and find someplace quiet to eat?” she says, nudging his arm.
This doesn’t feel right. I need to stop her from leaving with him. But how? I need a plan, but Ferdinand is
n’t giving me time to come up with a plausible excuse.
He glares at Landry, then tears his gaze free. “I like that idea,” he tells Bessie but his stare moves back in our direction, focusing not on Landry but me. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of Elizabeth. We have a lot in common.”
Liar…His eyes narrow. Damn mind reader. Hear this, Ferdinand. If you hurt Bessie, you’re dead.
His lips twist in a smirk. Asshole.
My stomach cramps, and I cry out, doubling over.
George jumps into big brother mode and grabs my arm. “Are you okay?” I’d forgotten about him. He lurks well when he wants to, like a spider hiding in a corner waiting for a fly.
Now both of my guys hold me upright. I flutter my hands. “I’m okay. I ju— Ouch—” The cramps would’ve dropped me to my knees if I they weren’t holding me.
“Is it the baby?” George cries, totally panicked, and I want to curl into a ball and die. Why didn’t we tell him about the false positive this afternoon?
Bessie’s eyes widen with each word. “Oh my God, you’re pregnant.”
“No, I’m—”
“What!” Reverend Prince says, and I spin around to see him. Only he’s not alone. My dad, his wife, Isabel, and Aunt March all stand behind us. They heard every blurted word. I’ve been thinking it all night, but please…someone put me out of my misery and kill me. Now.
My stomach cramps, and I breathe through the pain. “Excuse me, I need to run to the ladies’ room before I ruin my new dress.” Oh merciful heavens, I just announced the fact that I’m about to poop myself.
Landry can deal with the false-pregnancy business however the hell he wants to. I’m out. Before they have a chance to protest, I’m winding through the crowd. Is this my worst nightmare? No, not even close. But of all the things that I imagined going wrong tonight, an acute diarrhea attack, followed by George blabbing my personal business to my whole family, wasn’t even on the list.
