A Time to Keep

by Rochelle Alers

  Gwen wrinkled her nose in revulsion. “Why kidney pie?”

  “I tried it once at a Boston restaurant. I took a trip up to Massachusetts a week before Ian and Natalee’s wedding to see the city and take in some of the sights. After the third night I’m ashamed to admit that I went to every fast food place I could find for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

  She affected a moue. “I’m sorry about that, but if I’d known you then I would’ve either taken you to several wonderful restaurants or invited you to my place for a home-cooked dinner.”

  He leaned closer. “Can you really cook?”

  Tilting her chin, Gwen said haughtily. “All I’m going to say is that this sister’s got mad game in the kitchen.” As teenagers she and Lauren spent their summers with their paternal grandmother, who’d taught them to how to prepare everything from soups and salads to desserts.

  “When are you going to cook for me?” he whispered close to her ear.

  “It’s your call,” she countered.

  “I’m off next Tuesday and Wednesday.”

  “Make it Wednesday. Is there anything you can’t eat?”

  He gave her a lingering stare. “Nope.”

  “Then I’ll expect you Wednesday.”

  “What time should I come?”

  “Seven.”

  Shiloh nodded, then turned his attention to the woman on his right who’d placed a hand on his jacket just as the first course was removed. The next of the seven-course dinner appeared as if out of nowhere. Most of the fish entrées were as exquisitely pleasing to the eye as they were to the palate.

  * * *

  “Aren’t you going to have dessert?” Shiloh asked Gwen three hours later when coffee and platters of miniature cakes, pastries and seasonal fruits were set out on the table.

  “No. I’m too full.”

  His eyes widened. “But you hardly ate anything.” She’d left food on her plate with each course.

  “I ate more than I would usually consume in one sitting.”

  Shiloh wanted to ask her if she was dieting, but realized it might be inappropriate. This was only his first date with Gwen, and he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize their fragile friendship.

  When he’d asked her to accompany him to the fund-raiser and she’d accepted he’d thought himself lucky. But luck was as fickle as the turn of a card or a roll of the dice—it was there one second, then gone the next.

  The lights dimmed twice. “Dancing will begin in fifteen minutes,” Shiloh said to Gwen.

  “I’m going to the powder room to freshen up.” Shiloh stood up and pulled back her chair. “Don’t run away, Prince Charming,” she teased, referring to what he’d said to her before he was called to the dais.

  He laughed, the rumbling sound coming from deep within his broad chest. Those familiar with Shiloh turned and stared at the sheriff with incredulous expressions. It was obvious to many of them that the woman in the revealing dark-red dress was special, special enough to remind them how much their homegrown son had changed once his fairy-tale marriage ended.

  * * *

  At the stroke of midnight Gwen reached up and removed her mask. Shiloh’s impassive expression did not change, his gaze fixed on her mouth. He took a step, lowered his head, and brushed his mouth over hers. She gasped in surprise, her lips parting and permitting him to deepen the kiss as desire arced through her like a jolt of electricity.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

  Shiloh winked at her. “It’s a tradition.” He waved a hand. “Look around you.”

  Shifting, she saw couples sans masks embracing and kissing. “You could’ve warned me, Shiloh.”

  Anchoring a finger under her chin, he kissed her again. “Don’t you know how be spontaneous?”

  “Not here and not now.”

  Wrapping his arms around her waist, Shiloh pulled Gwen against his chest. “Did I embarrass you?”

  She rested her hands on his lapels. “No. You just caught me off guard.”

  He chuckled. “I’m sorry if I don’t come with a warning label.”

  Gwen wanted to tell Shiloh that he needed to come with warning and rating labels. Her hands moved up over his shoulders until her arms circled his neck. Rising on tiptoes, her mouth only inches from his, she winked at him.

  “Let’s dance.”

  Shiloh complied, pulling her closer. A jazz band had replaced the orchestra, playing a popular love song that had everyone up and dancing. She danced every number with Shiloh until Ian broke in. Without his mask, his resemblance to his brother was uncanny. Even though they looked alike, their personalities were completely opposite. She found him witty and easygoing.

  An elderly man poked Ian’s back. “May I cut in?”

  Ian lifted his eyebrows, and stared down at a diminutive man with an ill-fitting toupee.

  Gwen stared at Ian, silently imploring him to refuse the request after she saw the man gawking at her chest. He was practically salivating. Her silent plea went unanswered as Ian released her. She suffered through the slow number with the scratchy hairpiece grazing her bosom.

  The selection ended and she wended her way through the crowd, left the ballroom, and stepped out onto a gallery with old-fashioned lampposts that cast soft yellow light over a formal garden. The humid night air wrapped around Gwen like a diaphanous veil as the tangy smell of the Gulf wafted in her nostrils. The sounds of voices and muted laughter came from the garden.

  “Miss Taylor?”

  Turning around, she stared at a formally dressed, middle-aged man with neatly brushed silver hair and a deeply tanned face. It wasn’t until he moved closer that she was able to discern his delicate features. His eyes, a brilliant bluish-gray, were mesmerizing.

  “Who’s asking?”

  He inclined his head politely. “Nash McGraw, ma’am. I’m publisher and editor-in-chief of the Teche Tribune. Sheriff Harper told me that you were interested in a part-time position with the newspaper.”

  “I am, but—”

  “You don’t have to give me an answer now, Miss Taylor,” Nash interrupted in a quiet drawling cadence. He reached into the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and handed her a business card. “Give me a call and we’ll talk about when you can start.”

  Vertical lines appeared between her eyes. “Won’t you need references?”

  He gave her a boyish smile that transformed his face, making him appear years younger. “No. I’ve checked out your column on the Web.” He inclined his head again. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  He turned and walked back into Chauvin Hall. Gwen was still standing in the same spot when Shiloh found her.

  Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her gently to his chest. “Are you ready to go home, princess?”

  Leaning back in his embrace, she nodded. “Yes, prince.”

  * * *

  Shiloh held onto Gwen’s hand as he walked her to the door. It was after two in the morning and he still hadn’t wanted their date to end. He eased her key from her loose grip and opened the door. Stepping into the entryway, he placed the key on the table, then turned and cradled her face between his hands.

  “I’ll see you Wednesday.” He kissed the end of her nose. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  Gwen smiled. “Thank you for making it wonderful.” Rising on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his. “Good night, Sheriff Harper.”

  Chuckling softly, he pressed a kiss along the column of her scented neck. “Good night, Gwen.”

  Ten minutes later he unlocked the door to his house, undressed, showered, and for the first time in a long time he sought out his bed instead of the hammock.

  CHAPTER 7

  Gwen woke to the hypnotic sound of rain tapping against the French doors. Rolling over and sitting up, she peered at the clock on the bedside table. She’d overslept—again.

  As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and slipped her feet into her fuzzy slippers, reality dawned.
She wasn’t in Boston, didn’t have to get out of bed, didn’t have a job, and she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do.

  Her life had changed—dramatically. Minutes, hours, meetings, daily calendars and deadlines no longer measured her life.

  Within a month of listing her condominium with a Realtor she had a buyer. A husband-and-wife artist team made an offer she would’ve been a fool to refuse.

  Upon the recommendation of her financial advisor, Gwen invested the proceeds of the sale and donated the apartment’s furnishings to a local church and her favorite charity.

  Rising from the bed she made her way into the bathroom. After an evening of eating, drinking and dancing she looked forward to a more leisurely day. What she did not want to think about were the hours she’d spent with Shiloh. He’d been the perfect date: charming and attentive. She knew many of the parish’s longtime residents were curious about her, and she truly felt like Cinderella when she overheard curious whispers speculating about her identity. But unlike Cinderella, she did not flee the ball at the stroke of midnight. She did find herself in the arms of her prince when Shiloh gave her a kiss that heated her blood and left her wanting more—much more.

  After breakfast she planned to call Nash McGraw, the Tribune’s editor. She also wanted to go through at least one of the guest bedroom closets, and read some of her late aunt’s letters before she prepared to go out with Shiloh’s sister-in-law.

  Gwen picked up the carafe to refill her coffee cup when the doorbell rang, startling her. She didn’t think she would ever get used to the sound that reminded her of pealing church bells.

  “That doorbell has got to go,” she mumbled under her breath as she walked out of the kitchen to answer the door.

  Peering through the peephole, she saw a woman with a small child. She opened the door to discover that the rain had stopped and the rays of a watery sun pierced an overcast sky. A top-of-the-line Jaguar was parked in the driveway.

  She smiled at a tall, thin woman with raven-black hair, alabaster skin, and cornflower-blue eyes. She reminded Gwen of a Ralph Lauren model in a white linen sheath dress and matching pearl necklace.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Taylor. I’m Holly Turner, and this is my son, Kyle. I saw you at the dance last night with Sheriff Harper.” She handed Gwen a pale blue wicker basket wrapped in gold cellophane. Turner Treats was imprinted on a profusion of matching streamers. “I wanted to give you time to settle in before welcoming you to town.”

  “My mama makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the whole wide world,” Kyle said proudly.

  Gwen smiled at the child, whom she assumed to be about four years old. A spray of freckles over his nose and cheeks was the only color in what would’ve otherwise been a very pale face. Kyle Turner was a small male version of his mother.

  Her smile widened. “Yum-yum. My favorite.” She redirected her attention to Holly. “Won’t you come in? And please call me Gwen.”

  Holly shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay.” She ruffled her son’s hair. “Kyle has a long overdue appointment with his barber. If you’re free tomorrow evening, I’d like you to join a few of your neighbors for an early Sunday evening get-together.”

  Gwen knew she’d become an object of curiosity after she’d attended the fund-raiser with Teche’s sheriff. She hadn’t planned anything for the next day, but wanted to remain an enigma for as long as she could.

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it.”

  “How about next Sunday?”

  She wouldn’t be available the following Sunday because she’d committed to share dinner with Moriah. “If the invitation is still open in two weeks, then I’ll join you.”

  Holly gave her a triumphant grin. “Of course it is, Gwen. The other ladies are just dying to meet you.” She’d drawn out the word dying into three syllables.

  What they’re dying to know is my business, Gwen mused, returning Holly’s smile. She’d admitted to Shiloh that she wanted to maintain a measure of anonymity, but that would be difficult once she was introduced to Holly’s social circle.

  “Do you want a puppy, Miss Taylor?”

  Holly gave Kyle a warning look. “Mind your manners, darling.”

  “But you said we have to give them away, Mama.”

  Gwen smiled at the interchange between mother and son that reminded her of Lauren and her children. “What kind of puppies are you giving away?”

  Kyle scrunched up his face. “What kind are they, Mama?”

  Holly met Gwen’s amused gaze. “They’re purebred toy poodles. I have AKA papers on them.”

  “How old?”

  “Three months.”

  “Color and sex?” Gwen asked Holly. She’d grown up with cats and dogs as pets.

  “I have two. Both female. One is like a sandy-beige and the other a chocolate brown. They’re already paper-trained and a vet has given them their shots.”

  Gwen decided having a little dog would be fun. “I’ll take the brown one.”

  A flush suffused Holly’s face. “I don’t want you to think I’m here because I want to give away a puppy.”

  “Of course not,” Gwen said softly, hoping to put the obviously flustered woman at ease. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a pet and I have more than enough room for a tiny dog to have the run of the place.”

  Holly’s blush deepened. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll drop her off later this afternoon.”

  Gwen nodded. “I’ll be here.” She waited until Holly and Kyle returned to their car before she closed the door.

  She had the house and now a dog. All she needed was a husband and children. As soon as the thought popped into her head, she dismissed it. Lauren’s teasing was getting to her.

  She didn’t need a husband or children. Not now, not when her sole mission was restoring her new home.

  * * *

  Shiloh looked up with a knock at the door. He closed the cover on the report compiled by the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. Deputy Jameson’s stocky body filled the doorway.

  “Yes, Jimmie?”

  “A Marvin Oliver wants to see you.”

  Shiloh stared at the man who was certain to become sheriff once his term expired. “What does he want, Jimmie?”

  James Jameson shook his shaved head. The Dillard University graduate stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. “I don’t know, Shiloh.”

  “Didn’t you ask him?”

  Jimmie nodded. “Yeah. But he wouldn’t tell me,” he said in a hushed whisper. “The suit smells like the law.”

  Shiloh smiled at his deputy. He was the brightest police officer Shiloh had ever encountered. The FBI had recruited Jimmie within weeks of his graduation because they were actively seeking African-American agents.

  Jimmie’s tenure with the bureau was ten years, after which he returned to Louisiana to help his father with his younger siblings after his mother died of a massive stroke.

  “Which one, deputy?”

  Jimmie flashed a smug grin. “U.S. Marshal or DEA.”

  Pushing back his chair, Shiloh came to his feet. “We’ll find out soon enough. Send him in.”

  He was still standing when a slender man entered his office. He was the quintessential bureaucrat—short, conservative haircut and dark suit.

  Shiloh extended a hand. “Special Agent Oliver, or is it Marshal Oliver?”

  Marvin Oliver went completely still as he stared at Sheriff Harper. “Who told you?”

  “Which one is it?”

  Recovering quickly, he shook the proffered hand. “It’s Special Agent Oliver. DEA. How did you know?”

  “Deputy Jameson, the man you just blew off like a gnat, made you the instant you walked in here. Please sit down, Agent Oliver.” He motioned to a leather love seat. He waited for the drug enforcement agent to sit before he took a matching chair. Shiloh turned the chair around to face him.

  “You’re here because you either need my assistance, or you are go
ing to tell me something I already know,” he said, not bothering to conceal his irritation.

  “Look, Harper—”

  “No, Oliver,” Shiloh countered, interrupting him. “I’m more than happy to cooperate with your agency, but I’m going to demand one thing from you.”

  There was a moment of tense silence before the agent asked, “What’s that?”

  “Respect. You will respect my office and the people who work here. When Deputy Jameson asked you to identify yourself, then you should’ve done so.”

  Marvin Oliver’s gaze narrowed; he was smarting from the reprimand. His supervisor had briefed him about Sheriff Shiloh Harper. The arrogant former district attorney had been on a fast track for a judgeship before he was appointed to serve out his father’s term. It was apparent he wasn’t too happy in his present position.

  “I didn’t come down to this swamp to mix it up with you, Sheriff Harper. I’d like to believe we’re on the same side.”

  Shiloh schooled his facial expression not to react to the remark. Crossing his knee over the opposite leg, he stared at the toe of his polished boot. His head came up slowly as he gave the DEA agent a long look.

  “Are you here on an undercover assignment?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because I’m willing to bet that you’ll end up as gator bait before the end of the week.”

  The agent’s back stiffened as he leaned forward. “Is that a threat, Sheriff?”

  Shiloh’s expression was impassive. “As a former officer of the court I know enough not to threaten a federal officer. I’m just cautioning you that if you don’t change your attitude, then you’re going nowhere—fast. Folks around here don’t take kindly to outsiders looking down their noses at them.”

  Agent Oliver shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t wanted to come to the bayou because of the heat, humidity, mosquitoes, snakes and alligators. Layers of sunscreen and insect repellant provided little or no protection for his fair skin.

  “I’m here to brief you on an operation that has been approved by your Police Jury Association.” When Shiloh’s expression did not change, he continued. “Last year we busted up a major meth operation outside Natchitoches. Informants tell us that several meth production sites have moved into southern Louisiana, which makes it more difficult for undercover agents unfamiliar with this part of the state. Once we got your report about the hijacking of a truck carrying anhydrous ammonia, we were certain that they had set up something around here.”