Sweet Talking Man

by Liz Talley

  And reaching toward her future.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LEIF TIED HIS tie for the third time, finally getting the length right. He’d spent the past few hours overseeing the delivery of the art to the gala, leaving Jolene Marks, one of the committee members, in charge of arranging the last few donations for the silent auction. He’d contributed a piece he’d done of a California beach portraying a lone figure against the sinking sun.

  Giving his tie one final tug, he turned to make sure Birdie had indeed grabbed the framed pieces he’d left atop his drawing table. The spot was empty, and the girl had even remembered to lock up and return the key to the birdhouse.

  Like her mother, the girl didn’t miss a beat.

  He’d sent Abigail several messages regarding the artwork, but she’d put it off. The woman was good at keeping her distance.

  Trying to pull his thoughts from Abigail and the dark clouds that surrounded her, he hummed an old Stones’ tune, pulling on the dinner jacket he’d borrowed from Hilda’s late husband’s closet. As he adjusted his collar, a realization hit him between the eyes—the sketch he’d done of Abigail. He’d left it…where?

  Oh, shit.

  He had completed the chalk, unable to put it aside half-finished. Those lonely nights when he ached to touch her, the best he could do was lovingly trace her high cheekbone or shade the underside of her luscious breast. He’d set the chalk only a few nights ago, leaving the piece propped beside the table.

  He walked over to his large drafting table and sifted through the few pieces he had there. The one featuring Abigail was missing.

  Huh.

  Leif rounded the bed to look there just as the doorbell rang.

  Damn.

  The doorbell sounded again, disrupting the panic growing inside him. The sketch had to be here somewhere. But where?

  A horrible feeling knitted around the panic. Surely Birdie hadn’t taken the rendering of her mother to the gala. Birdie was at the age where nothing was more embarrassing than having your mother half-naked on display for everyone to see. He knew. His mother had been painted, sculpted and captured on film in the buff. He’d cringed every time he saw images of her hanging in museums across the Southwest.

  The bell sounded again, and he wrenched open the door hoping Birdie would be on the other side, holding the rendering of her mother, ready to apologize for nearly giving him a heart attack.

  But it wasn’t Birdie.

  It was Bart, dressed in a tuxedo.

  “Bart,” Leif said, confused at the sight of the man on his porch.

  “Good evening,” Bart said, glancing around and nodding at the neighbor and the damn dog that pooped on everyone’s lawn but its own. “Can I have a word with you before this evening gets under way?”

  Leif had no clue why Bart was on his porch. He didn’t have time to spare. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “I understand, but this is important,” Bart said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

  Leif gestured toward the sofa. “I need to make a call first.”

  “Go ahead. I’d rather stand. Too pent-up.”

  Leif grabbed his cell phone and dialed Jolene. She didn’t answer. He sent a text asking her to call him. Immediately. No need to alarm Abigail yet.

  Then he turned to Bart, who looked as nervous as a goat in a room full of cheetahs. Leif sank onto the couch, trying to give Bart some breathing room. Yeah, Leif and his goddamned infamous breathing room.

  “Look, after you left, I couldn’t get that night out of my head,” Bart said.

  “Makes sense. I dragged it up again, but now isn’t the time—”

  “No, I have to do this. I couldn’t go there tonight without clearing this off my mind. I can’t sleep or eat or—” Bart paused, setting a hand to his chest.

  “Fine.” Leif glanced down at his cell phone. Nothing from Jolene.

  “See, Uncle Simeon wasn’t the easiest guy to love, but he was the last of my family. He cared for me, though I exasperated him greatly in those days.” Bart paced toward the fireplace before turning toward the door again. “This thing is just ripping at me and I can’t keep the truth buried any longer.”

  “What truth?” Leif asked, the concern over Birdie and the sketch fading as Bart’s words hit him.

  “I lied.”

  “About…?”

  Bart rubbed a hand over his face. “Your mother didn’t push my uncle. She wasn’t even upstairs when the accident happened. I was.”

  “You?”

  Bart threw up his hands. “Look, I didn’t push him, but I was scared someone would think I did. Uncle and I had been arguing because he wanted to give his money to the foundation, appointing your mother the custodian of the endowment. He was tired of me wasting money and wanted to wash his hands of me. I, of course, was against this, so we argued about the foundation and the endowment.”

  “So how did my mother even—”

  “She interrupted. We were upstairs, where my uncle stubbornly kept his bedroom. With his health he should have been on a lower floor, but the silly man didn’t want friends to think him infirm. Your mother called out from downstairs and he tried to go down. His foot missed the top step. I don’t know if he was looking at her or at me, but somehow he just missed. He landed nearly at your mother’s feet.”

  “Why did you say she pushed him?”

  Bart inhaled as he paused at the window. “I’m not proud of myself. I knew what my uncle wanted to do with the family money, knew he’d already contacted his attorney, so I told your mother if she didn’t pack up and leave, I’d tell the police she pushed him. I told her the authorities would believe me over her. She literally ran from the house and I searched my uncle’s papers and destroyed any evidence of his plans for the endowment fund. His attorney had no other recourse but to drop it because there was nothing official. The money went to me.”

  Leif sat a moment, reeling at what Bart had revealed. Anger burgeoned within him at the bullish tactics the man had used to chase a no doubt terrified Calliope away from Magnolia Bend. She’d left thinking she’d be arrested for a crime that never existed.

  “I’m sorry. Ever since you told me she was your mother, I’ve been sick with worry—”

  “That people would know what a greedy bastard you are?” Leif rose, moving toward Bart.

  “Yes, but guilt had burrowed inside me for years. I couldn’t undo what I did to your mother, so when Hilda came to me and asked to revive the art festival, I donated the money.”

  “And that makes up for what you did?”

  “No, but I can help you. Whatever you need, I’ll give you. You can tell the truth. You have that right. And I won’t stop you…even if it means I go down as the bad guy. I wronged your mother.” He took a deep breath, releasing it. “The truth is finally out there.”

  “How do I know you didn’t push your uncle? Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

  Bart jerked back. “I’m not a murderer, Mr. Lively. I’m greedy and weak, but I wouldn’t harm anyone.”

  “You harmed me.”

  Bart looked confused.

  Leif helped him out. “My mother left pregnant. Because of you, I never knew my father. Because of you, my father never knew I existed.”

  “What?” Bart shook his head. “I didn’t know. Wait, you don’t think it was my uncle? No, couldn’t be. So who is your father?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “You don’t…oh. Well, perhaps that’s how I can help. Maybe hire an investigator and do blood tests? No expense spared.”

  “I’ll take care of it my way, Mr. Harvey. You’ve done enough.”

  Bart nodded, still pale but his features reflected a measure of relief. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. If you need my help, you have it.” He turned and walked out the door.

  Leif let him go because he didn’t trust himself not to kick the man’s ass for being such a manipulative bastard. If his mother hadn’t felt so threatened, if she’d
felt like she had some support in this town outside of Simeon, she might have stayed. Leif might have had a father to toss the ball with, to teach him to drive and to share his first beer with.

  As Bart’s headlights swept over the front windows, Leif shook himself from the past. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “Thank God,” he said, answering.

  “Leif, what’s up?” Jolene said, sounding out of breath.

  “Birdie Orgeron brought some entries for the junior sweepstakes today. Did she bring something for the auction, too?”

  “Uh, yeah. And it’s stunning. So—”

  “Is it a picture of Abigail?”

  “Abigail?” Jolene sounded confused. “Wait. Oh, crap. That is Abigail. The hair. Don’t know how I missed it.”

  “Take it down. Now.”

  “It’s already up. Have you looked at the clock? We opened ten minutes ago.”

  Leif glanced at the clock. Holy shit. He grabbed his keys and lurched out the door. “Go take it down. I don’t care if it causes a fuss, go get it.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Do it,” he said, pressing End and finding Abigail’s number. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he said as the phone rang…and rang…and rang.

  He didn’t leave a message. Instead he texted for her to call him and ran to his car. The gala had just started. If he could hit all green lights, he might make it before anyone realized the sketch was of Abigail.

  His lateness made him want to punch Bart.

  Then perhaps turn Birdie over his knee…though he didn’t truly believe in corporeal punishment.

  Because any chance he had to get Abigail back had disappeared like a sand castle in the surf.

  *

  ABIGAIL HAD JUST entered the country club, feeling prettier than she had in years, when Cal grabbed her arm and pulled her out onto the stone patio.

  “What are you doing?” she said, jerking her arm away.

  “Trust me,” he said, his breath forming a cloud in the dark night. “You don’t want to go in there.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong?”

  Abigail pulled her thin wrap tighter around her shoulders and tried to figure out if something was really wrong or if Cal were playing at something.

  “Do you really trust this Leif guy?”

  “What in the hell are you talking about? That’s none of your business. It’s mine.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s just yours anymore,” he said, looking as if he’d run over a puppy or broken her mother’s best china. “Your business is very much out there.”

  “Tell me what you’re talking about or get out of my way. Hilda wanted me here by seven-thirty for the committee introduction.”

  “Abi, there’s a—”

  The door opened and a few people came out reaching for cigarettes. One was a guy from the bank who looked stunned to see her. “Oh, hey, Abigail.”

  Was the man blushing?

  “Hi,” Abigail said, giving him and two other men with him a smile. They literally raked their eyes over her.

  Inside a little thrill shimmied up her spine. She’d looked good in her bathroom mirror and they’d just validated the reflection.

  “See you later,” Abigail said.

  Cal gave her a pained look but nodded.

  The warmth of the club along with the hum of conversation greeted her as she moved inside. Cal trailed behind her. As she walked through the hallway toward the main ballroom, people stopped their conversations and stared.

  Abigail discreetly looked to check that her boobs hadn’t tumbled out or that she didn’t have her dressed tucked into her Spanx. A terrible feeling unwound inside her as she walked into the room.

  About 70 percent of the people inside turned to look at her. At least the band didn’t stop playing.

  She spied her brother Matt at the bar. He set down his drink and walked over to her. Dropping a kiss on her cheek, he said, “You look pretty tonight.”

  “Thanks. Why is everyone looking at me?” she asked.

  “Come with me,” her brother said, sending a fierce glare to those staring at her, making conversations resume as if on command. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Have you seen Leif?”

  “No. Not yet. Is something wrong?”

  Matt made a sympathetic face. “Look, Abi, I want to prepare you for something—”

  “This feels familiar, Matt.” She tugged her arm from her brother’s grasp. Something was up and she didn’t need a man to lean on, like some weak-assed female who needed protection from…whatever awaited her.

  She moved to the boardroom holding the silent auction. When she stepped inside, it felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the space. Her smoking-hot heels sank into the new plush carpet when she saw it.

  The painting Leif had done of her.

  Her first thought was how absolutely gorgeous it was.

  Her second thought was at how absolutely naked she was.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  “Yeah,” Matt breathed behind her as everyone in the room, Hilda included, watched her.

  Abigail swallowed the shock, the hurt, the out-and-out horror, scrambling for how to handle the sight of herself tangled in sheets, nude and sated…on display in front of friends and family. In front of her cousin, who was the mayor. In front of her first-grade teacher. In front of…

  Oh, God.

  Her father.

  Dan stood with a cluster of people he ministered to every single week.

  Abigail thought she might faint again. Matt pressed an arm in the middle of her back, keeping her from sagging.

  Her father came to her, a smile on his face. “Hey, baby, you look pretty as a bluebonnet.”

  Dropping a kiss on her cheek, he gave her shoulders a little squeeze. Matt’s hand dropped away.

  “Daddy,” she managed to say, her eyes still on the painting.

  Her father turned, his arm around her shoulders. “I think the piece is simply stunning. Like something Michelangelo might have painted. Just has such an intimate, surreal quality to it. Honestly, I’ve never seen you look lovelier,” her father said, holding her firmly so her trembling couldn’t be detected.

  Abigail took a breath and tried to talk without breaking into tears. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and said, “You know, I love it.”

  “Just so you know, I’ve already bought it,” her father said, his voice loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

  Abigail managed a nod and a blistering smile. She couldn’t look her father in the eye. If she did, she’d break, shattering into a million pieces.

  And it was at that exact moment Leif arrived, looking like a contestant on The Amazing Race, jacket open, eyes wild, breath coming in great spurts.

  *

  LEIF BARRELED INTO the silent auction room, trying to look as if he hadn’t sprinted from the other side of the tennis courts, where he’d parked. A fresh speeding ticket poked out of his breast pocket and he knew sweat trickled down his face.

  But when he saw Abigail standing there clasped against her father’s side, pale and also quite stunning in a short navy dress, he nearly dropped to his knees.

  Sitting in the middle of the room on a large easel was the piece he’d done of her.

  “Oh, God,” he breathed.

  Everyone in the room grew so quiet he could’ve heard a mouse fart.

  Abigail merely stared at him, disappointment mixed with shock shimmering in her green eyes. And there, too, he saw the accusation—she thought he’d intentionally entered the intimate rendering of her in the auction.

  Didn’t she know him better than that?

  “Leif,” she said finally, a tremulous smile on her face.

  Hilda crossed the room, smiling at him and then her cousin. Turning to the picture of Abigail twisted in his sheets, she said, “You really ought not to have been so modest with this one, sweetheart.”

  Her remark was teasing, her eyes sparkling. Her approv
al, along with the good reverend’s nod, broke the ice and the other people in the room returned to their wine spritzers and polite conversation.

  Leif moved next to Abigail, his heart in his throat. “Can I talk to you, please?”

  Her father gave him a stern look. “Maybe later, Mr. Lively.” His mild tone tempered his expression. “My daughter has to take a phone call from her mother.”

  Leif glanced at Abigail, who stared at his buttons and said nothing.

  “Please,” he whispered to her.

  Abigail shook her head and moved past him. “We’ll talk later.” And then she turned and walked out of the room, effectively dismissing him. Her family closed ranks, Reverend Beauchamp and Matt leaving the room behind her. Abigail belonged to them. She belonged to Magnolia Bend.

  He had no one.

  Bullet to the chest.

  “Chin up,” Hilda whispered, taking his arm. “You need a drink stat, and then you need to tell me why in the hell you did this.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Hilda arched an eyebrow, but kept smiling as they passed other attendees. She maneuvered them toward the bar, where she bought him a double whiskey. He didn’t hesitate in downing it promptly.

  “Slow down and tell Auntie Hilda what that whole thing was about. Did you draw that?”

  “Of course, but it was for my eyes only.”

  “Then how did it get here?”

  Leif shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. I need to talk to Abigail.”

  “Not yet. Give her some time. The poor girl looked like she’d been strip-searched and then asked to eat a beetle. The bug kind, not the rock group.”

  “Shit,” Leif breathed, rubbing a hand over his face.

  At that very moment, a man tapped Hilda on the shoulder. When Leif caught sight of Senator Orgeron, he felt pretty sure he lost every bit of color in his face. Things were happening too fast, spinning out of control. He couldn’t deal with this now.

  “Hilda,” Everett said, bestowing a kiss on Hilda’s cheek. “Someone mentioned you were looking for me.”

  “Ah, Finch, you old rascal. I’m always looking for handsome men,” she replied with a genuine smile.

  “So I see.” Everett turned to Leif, his hand extended. “Everett Orgeron.”