Sweet Talking Man

by Liz Talley

  Fact was that after dodging all those women who had fallen in love with him in the past, he’d fallen for the one woman who didn’t love him, who didn’t think he was worth the effort.

  Irony really was a bitch.

  “Thanks,” she said, without looking at him.

  “No problem,” he said, wishing things were different, half of him recognizing Abigail’s coldness as a measure of protection, the other half too hurt to care.

  Abigail regretted everything.

  But what was he missing out on, really? She’d hidden him as if he weren’t worthy, content to keep the relationship within the parameters of sex only. Abigail hadn’t wanted to try anything different. She hadn’t wanted him beyond the bedroom, so maybe she was right. Maybe they shouldn’t have started at all because the ending was damn near crippling.

  “Have a good one,” he said.

  But what he really wanted to say was “Why am I not good enough? Why can’t you give me what you gave that dickhead Cal? Why can’t I have your days and your nights? Why can’t I have all of you?”

  But he didn’t say that. Instead he pushed out the heavy door as the bell rang, sending students scurrying around like cockroaches. Time to face the day and forget about his wounded pride and busted heart.

  “Morning, Mr. Lively,” called one student.

  Another called, “Hey, Mr. Lively. Bitchin’ boots.”

  Leif waved and said, “Watch it, Mr. Salindas. Younger students will think it’s okay to use that language.”

  “Sorry, Mr. L. I’ll watch it,” the high school senior replied with a shamefaced grin.

  And thus began Monday morning at St. George’s Episcopal School. Another day, another dollar, no room for regret.

  *

  ABIGAIL SPENT THE morning faking happiness because to give fifteen four-year-olds anything less would be unfair.

  By the time Muriel Dyson arrived to take over, Abigail felt as if she’d been ridden hard and put up wet. Her hair had fallen out of the bun she’d fashioned that morning, her sweater had a huge glop of glue right over her left boob and a dull roaring headache had sneaked up on her.

  She’d like to blame it on the four-year-olds, but the tears she’d cried the night before paired with the pain at seeing Leif again were most likely the culprit.

  But she’d made it through seeing Leif for the first time after their breakup without crying.

  So there was that.

  Leif had looked at her as if he wanted to say something more than “I want us to be okay.” She wanted him to tell her to stop being an idiot, to give them a second chance, to come over and have makeup sex.

  But he’d uttered nothing beyond common banalities.

  His casualness had been a hot poker plunged into her gut. But what had she expected? Leif knew how to play this game. To him, seeing her was no big deal. He’d used a soft voice, the same sympathetic one she’d heard right after Cal left. It was the “let’s be careful with Abigail” voice.

  Leif probably used that apologetic voice often. After all, he was a man who got out when things got serious. Commitment wasn’t his thing. Hadn’t he used that same voice when the last woman he’d broken up with had appeared wearing a wedding gown?

  One day you’ll see breaking things off was the right decision for both of us.

  Same voice, same sorry expression in his eyes.

  Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. That’s the plan. The ache will dull. You’ve done this before. Hey, at least this time everyone in town won’t see your utter humiliation. You got this, sister.

  The bell rang and classroom doors exploded open as kids poured into the hall, high-pitched laughter mixed with shouts. Nothing like the middle-grade hallway at class change to make a person glad she wasn’t a full-time teacher. Abigail caught sight of Birdie at the exact moment her daughter saw her.

  And the little turkey did a total about-face and headed the opposite way.

  Yeah. Every time Abigail showed up around school, Birdie disappeared. Somehow today it hurt worse.

  Like kicking a sick pup.

  Abigail tried to ignore her heart and focus on the errands she needed to run. The next week would be busy with the festival gala and ensuing events. Between now and then, she had to see Leif in flippin’ art class tomorrow and again at the final committee meeting on Thursday. All she had to do was pretend he was Hitler or something.

  Or she could throw her dignity off a cliff and crawl to him, begging his forgiveness for whatever she’d done…which, as far as she could tell, was refuse to make them an official couple.

  And what was so wrong with that?

  It wasn’t as if she were ashamed of Leif. On the contrary, she still couldn’t believe he’d been so into her in the first place. No, it didn’t have to do with Leif. It had to do with her.

  Why couldn’t he understand that she didn’t want the whole town to know her business…to watch her fall apart when Leif left? She couldn’t bear glances of pity any more than she could ones filled with censure. Being pathetic wasn’t her bag. Not anymore.

  Damn it all. She was worth love. She was worth staying for.

  Abigail wove through the remaining middle schoolers and found Birdie in Mrs. Peavy’s English classroom. All the students were in the process of pulling out journals, chatting with one another while Dawn Peavy scratched something on the overhead projector.

  Birdie looked up, saw Abigail and froze.

  I am not pathetic and I won’t be treated as such.

  “Hey, Birdie, I just wanted to tell you I’ll pick you up after school. Don’t ride the bus. We’ve got to get your dress for the Spring Fling. Girl time!” Abigail declared, giving a little clap.

  Birdie turned an indescribable color before ducking her head.

  “Y’all have a good day,” Abigail said, cheerfully, giving a little wave to Dawn.

  That’s right, sister. I’ll teach you to act like I’m gum on your shoe.

  And then Abigail left St. George’s, brokenhearted, but empowered to do something in regard to Birdie’s behavior.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BARTHOLOMEW HARVEY POURED gin in his glass before topping it off with a dose of tonic. Mixing the drink with a glass stir stick, he took a large gulp and eye-balled Leif. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”

  Bart leaned back and crossed his legs. They sat beneath the large palm on the patio of his impressive home on the golf course. Evening approached, and though a chill hung in the air, the temperature had been atypically warm for the beginning of March. Bart had called and suggested they skip the last meeting of the festival committee and have drinks at his home instead. Since Leif had ignored the search for his father in order to nurse a broken heart and going to Bart’s meant he wouldn’t have to see Abigail, he’d agreed.

  “Not really my poison,” Leif said.

  At that moment, Bart’s Hispanic housekeeper interrupted. “Phone for you, Mr. Harvey,” she said, her accent as heavy as her makeup. She was likely in her twenties, with a curvy body and eager-to-please demeanor, making Leif wonder for the second time whether she was truly the housekeeper or Bart’s mistress.

  “Hold all calls, Bonita. I’ve been remiss in speaking to Mr. Lively here for the past few weeks, and he deserves my attention. Take a message, please.” Bart nodded a dismissal, but his eyes held possessiveness toward the woman who had not been the least bit covert in checking out Leif when he’d arrived.

  “So what do you require from me, Leif? I’m rather inept when it comes to judging art.”

  Leif launched into the criteria for judging that upcoming weekend and what role Bart would have in the process.

  “I honestly don’t see why it’s critical for me to be involved. It’s my uncle who liked art,” Bart said once Leif finished.

  And just like that, Bart opened the door for Leif’s real reason for sitting on the wealthy man’s patio. “And this was the uncle who was killed?”

  Bart flinched. “Oh, so you’ve
heard the accounts of my uncle’s murder?”

  “People like to talk. So do you think Calliope did it?” Leif tried to look casually interested. He’d tracked down Meat Grommet, and the man swore he had been only friends with Calliope. He claimed she’d done nothing more than help him with a piece of art he wanted to give his girlfriend, who had since become his wife. Another name struck from Leif’s list.

  “I do. She was after the Harvey fortune. I have no doubt about that,” Bart said, lifting an unaffected shoulder even as his hand trembled slightly. It seemed he wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable speaking of his uncle’s death, but he didn’t seem eager to share the story, either. “But that’s all water under the bridge.”

  “But if she killed your uncle, why wasn’t she held accountable?”

  “She ran before the sheriff could question her. I gave my statement and when they went to find her, she was gone. You know those people. They’re like migrant workers—fake names, dark alleys to disappear in.”

  “But by all accounts she was small and harmless.” Leif led the questioning much like a defense attorney, trying to lull Bart into security.

  “My uncle was both feebleminded and delicate in constitution. A child could have tipped him down those stairs. Besides I saw her with my own two eyes.”

  “So you were actually there?”

  “Yes. My uncle had asked me to come by,” Bart said, setting the empty glass on the small table beside him. “Why are you so interested?”

  “It involves the founder of the festival. Suppose my curiosity got the best of me.” Leif gave the man a sheepish smile before looking out at two golfers about to tee off. “But why do you think she wanted his money? He’d already endowed the artist program.”

  Bart laughed. “Shit, everyone wants money, son. Uncle Simeon had plenty of it, too. He was a typical tightwad Southerner, though. Didn’t like to part with it. Kept damned tinfoil and storage bags like he couldn’t afford more. But when it came to art, he tossed money away like it was nothing.”

  “Must have driven you crazy.”

  “It’d drive anyone crazy. He had me on a strict allowance. Getting more out of him was like squeezing blood from a turnip.”

  “I know the type,” Leif said, though he really didn’t. Most of the people he surrounded himself with were generous in nature and reusing, renewing and recycling was expected. “Must have been a relief to inherit the money and have control over how it was spent.”

  “Yeah, but it was a hard thing to lose the old bag. Of course, not having to beg was nice. I closed down the artists’ program. Why spend money on something I had no interest in continuing? No offense but I didn’t see the point.”

  Leif shrugged. “It was a good program.”

  “Which led to my uncle’s death,” Bart said, looking a bit more relaxed. “So why are you so interested?”

  “Because Calliope was my mother.”

  Bart froze, his gaze shifting from his pool to Leif. “Your mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  For a few moments Bart seemed to mull over how to handle this wrinkle. Leif, however, felt an enormous sense of relief at finally coming clean about exactly who he was with someone other than Hilda and Abigail.

  No more secrets.

  Finally, Bart looked at him. “I can see the resemblance in you. She was a beautiful woman, and if I may say, you’re likewise as pretty.” He gave a small nervous chuckle.

  Leif, however, didn’t respond.

  “So I suppose one of the reasons you’re here in our little town is to clear your mother’s name?”

  Leif answered with a slight lift of his eyebrows.

  “Well, I can give you no help there. I stand by what I saw.”

  “You saw my mother push Simeon down the stairs?”

  Bart averted his gaze again, and at that point, Leif knew the man wasn’t telling the full truth.

  “You’re lying about it,” Leif said.

  “Not lying. Look, I saw my uncle at the bottom of the stairs. Your mother stood over him and I asked her what she’d done. She said, ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’ Honestly, she scared me—it was as if she was capable of anything. Perhaps she was on drugs. Acid makes people see and do crazy things. That particular drug was popular among her crowd.”

  “My mother never dropped acid.”

  “That you know of. Kids don’t know what their parents did because Mommy and Daddy don’t want their reputations sullied, right? Besides if your mother hadn’t killed my uncle, why would she run?”

  Bart had a good point—one Leif couldn’t answer. Calliope had never spoken about Magnolia Bend, Simeon Harvey or Leif’s father, so in this quest for the truth, he was crawling around on the floor, blind and groping his way. “My mother didn’t have a motive.”

  “Why don’t you just ask your mother what happened?”

  “My mother died last summer. She never told me about Magnolia Bend. Or Simeon.”

  Bart picked up his empty glass and shook it, the ice cubes tinkling against the crystal. “I’m sorry about your mother, but perhaps since she’s gone, you shouldn’t bother with unearthing that whole mess. Sometimes the past should stay in the past for good reason. It’s like picking up a log in the woods only to find crawly things beneath.”

  “Maybe so, but with her last breath Calliope begged me to set things right. Obviously she’d been haunted by what happened here, and I can’t ignore her final wish.”

  A myriad of emotions crossed the older man’s face—guilt, anger and resolution. Leif would get nothing more from Bart regarding Simeon’s death, but perhaps he could get a clue as to his father’s identity. “One more thing, if you don’t mind?”

  Bart didn’t look excited but said, “Sure.”

  “Was my mother close to anyone besides your uncle?”

  “I’m not the right person to ask. I didn’t live here and only met your mother twice, the final time being the night of my uncle’s death. I didn’t know much about her, other than she was a sculptor and her work was very sensual. There was a rather evocative sculpture of Diana the Huntress sitting in my uncle’s room the night he died.”

  Total strikeout.

  Bart stood. “Well, if you don’t mind…”

  Leif rose and extended his hand. “No hard feelings, Mr. Harvey.”

  Bart took his hand and gave it a brief, hard shake. “Of course not. I wish I could give you better news.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Leif said, moving toward the open doors of the patio, where Bonita stood smiling like a good hostess. Leif spun before exiting. “Oh, and I hope you’ll keep this in confidence.”

  Bart nodded. “I’m many things, Mr. Lively, but a busybody is not one of them. Your business is your own.” He turned to stare out over the golf course at the sun sinking low in the sky, casting fingers of light over the newly greening lawn, looking much like Jay Gatsby.

  And, perhaps, like the infamous hero of The Great Gatsby, Bartholomew Harvey held his dirty little secrets close to his vest.

  Or perhaps his guilty expression throughout their discourse was over something entirely different. Either way, it didn’t matter. Leif had gained nothing from his visit with Simeon’s nephew.

  He struck Bart off his mental list, leaving only one name—Everett Orgeron.

  And something told him that was the name he should have started with.

  *

  LEIF WALKED UP the drive to Hilda’s with mixed emotions. He wasn’t the kind of guy who marched to another man’s drum, but he pulled his weight. He should have attended the meeting earlier but after enduring Abigail in art class earlier this week, going to Bart’s sounded like an escape hatch being tossed in front of him. He opened that bad boy.

  In art class, Abigail had been more autobot than human, never asking questions, refusing to make eye contact, and seeming to exist in her own bubble. Her coldness froze any heat he’d tried to generate by smiling her way or teasing her about her lopsided vase of flowers.
<
br />   Stone-cold Abigail.

  Brrr.

  But he missed her so much, and this search for his father wasn’t nearly as meaningful without having someone to share in the progress. He’d gone to see the old groundskeeper, but the man couldn’t remember what sort of art Calliope created, much less who she dated…though he could remember lots of meaningless facts about Simeon and the way the wild violets bloomed about the cabins. Essentially Leif’s trip out to the Desadier house had proved a waste of time.

  So that left Cal’s uncle Everett.

  Leif had done research on the senator, trying to decipher from the publicity photos on the internet if he looked anything like the distinguished politician. Other than the fact they had the same height and build, Leif couldn’t find any clues as to whether the man could possibly be his father.

  “Well, I wondered about you,” Hilda drawled, answering the door wearing an expensive-looking pantsuit and small gold ballet flats that bore a designer’s logo. She turned without saying another word, leaving the door open. He followed her into the parlor and found her sitting on the pink settee, long arms draped over the back, making her look all-knowing and all-powerful. “Why weren’t you at the meeting?”

  “None of your business,” he said.

  “Huh, well, that could mean a great many things—you had a bad case of flatulence, things are going smoothly with the art judging, you’re close to finding your father…or you’re avoiding Abigail. Tell me. Which is it?”

  Leif smiled. “None of your business.”

  She laughed and picked up a goblet of red wine from the side table. Then she studied him, her dark eyes assessing before giving a toothy smile. “I do like you, Mr. Lively.”

  “So you’ve said,” he replied setting the papers she needed to sign on the coffee table. “I need some signatures on the hotel check.”

  “Avoiding the question, I see,” Hilda said, picking up the folder and leafing through. “By the way, Cal was here.”

  “Was he? Smashing,” Leif drawled à la Hilda.