Old habits were hard to break. Personalities were difficult, if not impossible, to change. Old issues, even from childhood, could cause anger issues in adulthood that might never heal. That was a lot to fix in a union that was supposed to be intimate and forever.
Vince joined them again. “I like this place a lot, but Roz and I have to do some talking before I consider making an offer.”
“Is this what you’d envisioned you’d buy?” Caprice asked.
“Not a chalet with an elevator,” Roz joked. “I was thinking something a little more ordinary. I was also thinking the bedroom on the second floor could be turned into a nursery as well as a home office.”
When Roz said the word nursery, Caprice was sure she saw fear come into her brother’s eyes. But she had to be mistaken. Vince was fearless in anything he did, and he’d taught her how to be fearless too. Yet when it came to marriage and having a child, life took on a serious quality that Vince had never experienced.
More guests began arriving from the closed foyer into the game room. Caprice was the hostess just as much as the real estate agent was. Kayla Langtree was handling this house listing. Kayla had sold Caprice’s sister Bella and her husband, Joe, their new home. Caprice usually worked with Denise Langford, a luxury broker, but this time she’d welcomed the chance to work with Kayla, who was sociable and easy to get along with.
Caprice leaned close to her brother. “I’ll let you know if offers come in. If they do, you’ll have to make a move if you want the place.”
He gazed at the pool table, the counter where a dad or his teenagers could cook up a snack or warm up a pizza for friends. He stared out the beautiful French doors to the lawn and trees in the back and then upstairs where conversation was becoming louder, like a party he and Roz could throw.
Yes, she could see Vince was imagining himself living here.
Now what was he going to do about it?
Chapter Three
That evening, as Caprice sat at her computer at home, she thought about how the chalet she’d staged might fit into Vince’s lifestyle. At present, her brother lived pretty much in the center of town and within walking distance of basic needs—like a corner grocery, the deli, the movie theater, the hardware store, as well as his law office. He didn’t have a commute or the chore of mowing grass. Everything was maintenance free. He didn’t even have to shovel snow. How would he cope with living farther out of town, having yard work to do, as well as everything else unexpected that a house dished up? On the other hand, if he was really ready to settle down . . .
She considered again her short conversation with Roz about Alicia. No, she and Alicia weren’t close, but they had been around each other every few weeks for the meetings for the reunion. Could she have really missed all the signs?
Caprice had never really checked out Sunrise Tomorrow’s Web site. She’d had no reason to. Tonight, however, she did.
The Sunrise Tomorrow main Web site page was set up with everything a woman would need at a glance. There was a yellow warning triangle next to an “Escape This Site Quickly” box. Caprice suddenly realized that a woman in an abusive situation might be watched by her husband constantly. If she had a minute to use his computer, he could walk in on her. She also noticed the “Clear Web Browser” icon. Both were necessary for someone wanting to access the site in secret. There was a telephone icon on the other side with a toll-free hotline number. Volunteers staffed it twenty-four hours a day.
Under that, she spotted the logo for Sunrise Tomorrow, the words emblazoned in the middle of a yellow sun. There were three headings beside it—All About Sunrise Tomorrow, Learn About Abuse and Get Help, and How to Help.
An attractive banner underneath that of several women, all races and ages, with and without children, rotated constantly. Below that were several topics with a “Read More” suggestion—Sunrise Tomorrow’s Programs and Services, Donate Now, Are You a Victim of Domestic Violence? and Become a Volunteer. There was much to read and discover about the site, about Sunrise Tomorrow, about a world she knew nothing about. She didn’t particularly want to know about it. Yet the reality of domestic violence was out there. She couldn’t help thinking about the children in those pictures . . . the children in those marriages.
Lady, who was sitting at her feet, stood and looked up at her. Sophia, her long-haired calico who was sprawled across the printer, meowed. Mirabelle, a white Persian and most recent adoptee who sat on her computer desk to the right of her keyboard, butted her head against Caprice’s hand. Her pets always seemed to be able to sense her mood. They were such a comforting presence in her life.
Caprice was ready to turn back to the Web site and explore the “Read More” subject titles when her cell phone on her desk played the Beatles’ “If I Fell.” She couldn’t help but smile. She’d fallen for Grant Weatherford big-time, and she thought he felt the same about her. She absolutely couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be around a man she was afraid of, or a man who tore her down instead of built her up. She supposed she had her parents to thank for instilling in her the idea of what a life partner should be.
When she picked up the phone and checked the screen, she didn’t recognize the number. It was a Maryland exchange. She might have thought it was just another telemarketer, but the name caught her attention. Vaughn Contracting. So she answered.
“Caprice De Luca,” she said.
“Miss De Luca, this is Roland Vaughn. I build houses, mostly in Maryland.”
Okay, so he’d caught her attention. “What can I do for you, Mr. Vaughn?”
“I’m hoping what you can do for me and what I can do for you will benefit us both. I’ve heard about you through the so-called grapevine. When you stage a home to sell, you have a unique theme. You throw quite a bash from what I hear. My architect attended an open house at your Hacienda Haven event. He was quite impressed. He even brought back photos on his cell phone that I studied quite thoroughly.”
“I suppose that’s a compliment,” she said. “Why were you studying them?”
“I’ve heard you’re straightforward, reliable, and inventive too.”
She laughed. “Some people might use other terms for those qualities, but I’d like to think they apply.”
“Plus you have a sort of urban-legend reputation. Several articles have been written about you in the Kismet Crier and other papers have picked them up. You solve murders and you take in animals.”
“I have done both,” she admitted, still not knowing where this was going.
“So you’re perfect.”
“That would be a first. Perfect for what?”
“I’m planning a promotion to advertise the houses I build. I’d like you to participate.”
“How would I do that?”
“I have three model homes for sale, and right now they’re standing empty. I would like you to decorate or stage, if you will, one home to sell. I’ve chosen two other interior designers to decorate the others. All of you would have three days to stage a two-bedroom, ranch-style home. A local TV cable station will cover the competition with a half-hour segment each evening, an hour on the fourth night. When the houses are finished, the public will vote on which they like best. The designer who wins will receive a contract to decorate another three model homes for me. If you agree, I can have the details set up in a week or so. What do you think?”
She thought the whole thing was very intense and public. But her contract with a builder in Kismet had run out and she was always looking for new ways to expand her business. Even if she didn’t win, the publicity could be beneficial.
“You say I’d have to participate for four days?”
“That’s right. The segments would air on a Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and the results show would be on a Friday. Your motel room, close to the homes, would be covered, of course. You’d have to cover meals yourself. I can send you an e-mail with photos of the houses and information about my company. But I need your answer by ten a.m. tomorrow morning.
That will give you a chance to Google me, too, in addition to the brief bio I’ve provided. I understand you’re going to want to make sure I’m legitimate and the offer is too. But there will be references on the e-mail if you’d like to call those. Derrick Gastenaux is a friend of mine, so I’m hoping you’ll let him vouch for me.”
She’d staged Derrick’s houses to sell, and that was the contract that had run out. Derrick was in the process of negotiating another land deal where he could invest in a development.
“I’ll call Derrick after I receive your information, and I’ll let you know one way or the other by ten a.m.”
“I should use the e-mail address on your Web site?” he asked.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
“I look forward to hearing from you and working with you.”
When Roland Vaughn ended the call, Caprice didn’t waste any time exiting the Sunrise Tomorrow Web site and clicking on her e-mail program. She was more than a little curious about Vaughn and eager to study his material. When she opened her e-mail program, she saw the e-mail there and the attachment. After she clicked on it, she picked up her phone and dialed Derrick Gastenaux.
* * *
Everybody’s Kitchen served residents from Kismet who needed a good meal. The food pantry that was attached dispensed food once a week to anyone whose cupboards were bare. Caprice, her nana, and her mom often signed up to volunteer to serve as well as cook. With school in session now, her mom, who was a high school English teacher, had less time to give.
On Monday at noon, as Caprice stood beside her nana dishing out beef stew and cornbread, she studied the faces of the women who passed through the line. After she’d spoken to Derrick last night about Roland Vaughn’s offer and decided to participate in it, she’d gone back to the Sunrise Tomorrow Web site and read all the information there. Some of it shocked her. All of it informed her. Many women who escaped abuse were homeless because they had no place else to go. In Kismet and the surrounding area she hoped they could turn to Sunrise Tomorrow.
During the summer months, moms brought their kids in for lunches at Everybody’s Kitchen. Now most of the kids were in school. She caught sight of two women with pre-kindergarten-aged children.
Caprice dished out a bowl of stew to a woman she’d seen at Everybody’s Kitchen other times she’d volunteered. Her name was Marilyn. In the summer a child of about ten had been with her. Caprice wondered about Marilyn and her story. Was she getting the help she needed?
The line had thinned now and Caprice glanced around the room.
Nana nudged her shoulder. As always, her nana looked younger than her seventy-six years today. She wore her gray hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, a tortoiseshell comb holding it neatly in place. She wore no makeup, just a dash of light coral lipstick that matched her blouse. Khakis and sneakers completed her outfit.
“You’re deep in thought today,” Nana noticed. “What’s on your mind?”
Nana noticed everything, and there was simply no point evading her.
“I recently learned one of my classmates might be an abused wife,” Caprice explained in a low voice. “I never knew, even though I was around her planning the reunion. How could I have missed it?”
“You have to know what to look for,” Nana told her. “Usually women are abused over a period of time. Many times it starts suddenly, with lots of criticism. That wears down a woman’s self-esteem until she loses her independence. She’s cut off from friends, either because her spouse controls that or because she’s ashamed of what’s happening.”
“I’m not sure I’ll know how to act around her now that I know.”
“Be yourself. If she knows you know her situation, don’t hide it. Just give her respect and listen to her. If you listen more than you talk, you can’t go wrong.”
“She’s left her situation and is getting help.”
“Well, good. Then all you have to do is listen. It’s not unusual for a woman to leave her husband multiple times before she actually can find a new life without abuse. Fear and love for husbands often go hand in hand.”
“Tell me something, Nana, did you ever fear Grandpa Tony?”
“Your grandpa could have a temper, but it was never, ever directed at me. He made me feel safe, tesorina mia. That’s what a man should do. That’s what a husband should do.”
Caprice was quiet as she stirred the beef stew still left in the serving tray. Her nana used her “my little treasure” endearment when they talked heart-to-heart.
Leaning close, Nana asked, “Are you thinking about Grant?”
“I’m thinking about the type of man he is and how well I think I know him. I do feel safe when I’m with him. He’d never hurt me intentionally. But I imagine there are lots of women who go into a relationship thinking the same thing as I am. Don’t you suppose?”
“I’m not sure about that,” Nana admitted. “Human nature is a funny thing. But I do know you’ve known Grant a long time. Not in the sense you do now, but you knew him when he came home with Vince on weekends when they were college roommates. When he came to Kismet, you watched from the sidelines, I know, but you did watch him put a new life together. When the two of you became friends, at least in solving murders, you even saw shades of his grief and how he was swimming through it. You’ve seen him interact with our friends and our family and how he loves Patches. I think Grant is what he seems, inside and out.”
“I think so too.”
“There’s another side to this, too, honey,” Nana said. “Background counts. You have loving parents, no violence in the home, no substance abuse. Your family gave you a clear vision of what you want in a family and what you expect in a relationship. If a man took a poke at you, I truly don’t believe you’d give him a chance to do it again. I hope you wouldn’t. But some women—they don’t think they deserve more. They might not feel that they can stand alone and face the world.”
“From what I read on the Sunrise Tomorrow Web site, the counselors and groups try to give women back their self-esteem.” That could be a long road, Caprice realized, seeing exactly why transitional care could be so important for victims of domestic violence. The Wyatt estate could be integral in saving lives and building futures.
More than ever, she was determined to decorate the mansion in a way that would support the programs there and the women. She had a meeting there tomorrow morning with Wendy. Already Caprice had chosen furniture groupings and fabrics that she wanted to show her. Wendy had told her the renovations inside the house could take about a month. Caprice knew if she ordered the furniture, it would take that long to arrive.
After the last person in need of lunch went through the line, Caprice and Nana helped two other volunteers clean up. Caprice was wiping down the tables in the dining area when her cell phone in her pocket played her Beatles tune. It reminded her of Grant, so she smiled. But when she checked the screen, she saw Wendy was calling. Maybe she wanted to change the time of their meeting tomorrow morning.
“Hi, Wendy.”
“Caprice, I need your help.”
Caprice could hardly hear Wendy, so she turned up the volume on her phone and pressed it closer to her ear. “How can I help?”
“When we had dinner the other night, you mentioned you called Detective Carstead on the Kismet PD on occasion. I wondered if you could give his phone number to me. I really don’t want to go through the menu and the public line.”
Brett Carstead had given her his cell number because whether he liked it or not, she’d become involved in his murder investigations. She suspected that he expected her to keep it confidential.
“Wendy, I don’t know if he’d want me to give it out.”
Wendy’s voice came back hushed and scared. “It’s a matter of blackmail, Caprice. Please.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Absolutely not,” Wendy said tersely.
Caprice wasn’t sure what to do, so she followed her gut instinct. Wendy wouldn’t be ask
ing her for the number on a whim. She knew that in her bones. She didn’t have to look at her contacts to know his number. She had it memorized. She rattled it off.
Wendy repeated it back. Then she said, “Thank you, Caprice. I’ll see you in the morning at ten at the Wyatt estate.” The line went dead.
A matter of blackmail? She supposed Brett would investigate that.
* * *
Caprice wondered about Wendy’s call into the following morning. Even if she saw Brett Carstead in passing, she knew he wouldn’t tell her anything about his conversation with Wendy. He might wonder, though, why she’d passed on his phone number, especially if the matter Wendy wanted to discuss wasn’t important.
Mirabelle meowed loudly at Caprice for her breakfast.
“Patience,” Caprice warned her.
Mirabelle had been a bit neglected in her former home, and Caprice had to admit she’d spoiled her since the Persian had come to live with her. But now that spoiling was making itself evident. Still, when that little face looked up at her, and those golden eyes seemed to see into hers, Caprice just wanted her to feel loved. The same was true for Sophia and Lady, of course. The difference was, Sophia knew Caprice would feed her. She just stood at her plate waiting, sometimes stretching, sometimes waving her tail.
While the felines ate, Caprice let Lady outside for a bit of a morning romp. She allowed it to go longer than usual because she wouldn’t be walking her this morning, not with her ten o’clock meeting. Maybe when she returned home. An Indian summer day would be perfect for a sojourn around the neighborhood.
Inside once more, she found both felines sitting on the dining room table and she knew what they wanted. Taking out the two brushes, one labeled for Mirabelle and the other for Sophia, she spent time brushing them both. Their full coats were coming in for winter and they needed brushing now as much as ever. The furnace heat would dry out their skin, and she wanted to keep them both healthy for many years to come.
After brushing them, she gave them treats designed for healthy skin and fur. She didn’t give Lady any, though, because she’d be leaving a play ball stuffed with kibble for her when she left. Lady seemed to understand that as she followed Caprice up the stairs and approved her outfit for a business meeting.
Shades of Wrath Page 4
