Carolina Heat

by Barth, Christi

  The smile he gave her was so patronizing, it was the equivalent of a pat on the head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Mark, this is not up for debate,” she hissed at him in a harsh whisper.

  “You’re right. No debate. I stick with you like glue.”

  “This is not the time to play overbearing Southern gentleman. My work, my rules. Everything’s come to a head. I’m going to break this open tonight. I feel it. I feel it so strongly I’m practically vibrating. Which means there is no room for a misstep, an amateur mistake, or any distractions.”

  His smile didn’t waver, but the arm beneath her hand turned to stone. “Think about what you just said. Try to pinpoint the word that might’ve pissed me off the most.”

  Annabelle winced. “Look, I’m sorry if your pride got tweaked. It’s not personal.”

  “Right. Nothing more than watching out for yourself. Can’t have a bunch of amateurs,” he spat the word out, as though it had left a sour taste in his mouth, “running around, tripping over their own feet.”

  The couple in front of them moved through the doorway. Mark and Annabelle were now on the wide porch. Between the overhead illumination and the bright glow spilling out through the door, it was like being caught in a spotlight. Even as their argument grew more intense, Annabelle was acutely aware the people in line behind them were making every attempt to eavesdrop.

  “Mark, I’m sorry if you’re mad, but it quite simply doesn’t matter.” Hoping to soften him, she cradled his face between her hands. “Look at me. It is too dangerous. I will not ask any of you to put your lives on the line.”

  He pulled her hands away and touched his forehead to hers. To any of the onlookers, it was a tender gesture. But Annabelle saw the utter coldness in his eyes. The man she had come to know was completely shut off from her. When he spoke, his exaggerated drawl was thick as molasses and twice as slow. “What you have overlooked, Miss Annabelle, is that you didn’t ask us for a thing. We offered. And you insult all of us by throwing the gift back at us.”

  On that note, they took the final steps across the threshold. Although she’d chosen to distance herself from Mark, it surprised her how much it hurt he’d pulled away from her. Instead of honing her focus, it splintered her thoughts.

  “Welcome to the Magnolia Ball.” Madelaine Beaufort was in her element. The crystal chandeliers glittered above her, reflecting off the generous chains of diamonds dripping down her throat. Annabelle had to admit her outfit was tasteful, elegant and perfect. Her lace mittens were the same pattern as her fichu, and more lace spilled down the front of her Confederate gray silk dress. However, when she spotted Annabelle on Mark’s arm, her brilliant smile dulled for a split second. Ever mindful of her audience, not to mention her duties as hostess, she quickly recovered.

  “Mark, my dear boy. It is so wonderful you returned from your travels in time to grace our little gathering with your presence.”

  “Mrs. Beaufort, you look lovely as always.” Mark kissed her on both cheeks, European style.

  “I have to apologize to you. I’m afraid by asking my daughter to coordinate this whole affair, it left her far too busy to accompany you as a guest. It was such a relief to hear you managed to find a replacement for her at the last minute. Not that anyone could truly replace my Jillian, of course.” Her laughter tinkled gaily.

  Annabelle seethed. Without so much as an acknowledgment of her presence, Madelaine managed to make her feel like a two dollar hooker Mark scraped off the sidewalk ten minutes ago. Oh, the woman was good. Slashed to pieces, and still reeling from Mark’s cutting words, Annabelle simply could not muster an equally vicious retort. She was saved by Jillian’s arrival.

  “Why on earth did you wait in that silly line? Mark, I thought you’d have the sense to squeeze in the side door. I declare, this party will never get started if we keep all the guests lined up like schoolchildren.” She enveloped both of them in a quick hug. “Mama, if you’ll excuse us, my guests need drinks.”

  “But Jillian, don’t you want them to be announced?” Mrs. Beaufort’s hands fluttered in a helpless gesture.

  “Not in the least.” Without another word, she whirled away, dragging Mark and Annabelle in her wake. Her pink and white skirts frothed around her as she led them through the house. It was packed with what Annabelle presumed to be the cream of society, all resplendent in myriad variations of frock coats and hoop skirts. Sabers glinted at more than one waist, and women simpered behind elaborate fans.

  To heighten the mood, Jillian had banned electric lights for the duration of the night. Every mantel, window sill and table top was studded with candles. They fought for space alongside lavish flower arrangements which spilled out of silver vases. The trio halted in an alcove. It was as private as possible in this crowd.

  “Jillian, you’ve done nothing less than work magic. It genuinely feels like we stepped back in time. Everything looks beautiful!” Annabelle gave her a quick hug, brimming with pride for her new friend.

  “Quite the shindig you put together, Jilly.” Mark dropped a kiss on top of her elaborately coiffed head. “But what’s going on between you and your mother? Not to say we don’t appreciate the rescue, but you were borderline rude. On this night, in front of all these people, I don’t think the snotty attitude’s going to go over real well with her.” He signaled a passing waiter carrying a tray of drinks.

  “I don’t care.” Jillian tossed her head, sending ringlets flying. “She pushed my last nerve, both as a client and as a mother. We had a horrible fight. If Ashby hadn’t pulled me away, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

  “She was probably just over-excited,” Annabelle soothed. “Like a child hopped up on candy.”

  “No way. She flew off the handle. I’ve never seen her so mad.”

  “What set her off?” asked Mark, as he handed each of the ladies a glass of champagne.

  “A picture.” Ashby joined them. He handed Mark a heavy crystal highball glass. “Saw you come in when I was at the bar. Got you a whiskey on the rocks. Figure you’ll need more than the bubbly stuff to survive the night.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Annabelle, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were one of our Southern belles. You look great.” As he swept his eyes over her, they had a hungry, wolfish gleam that was almost palpable.

  “Whoa, simmer down.” Annabelle took an instinctive step back from the heat in his stare. This was a side of Ashby she hadn’t expected. Then she remembered the story about him from the barbeque, and relaxed. “They weren’t kidding—you really do get off on these old-fashioned costumes, don’t you?”

  “You have no idea. Tonight’s a little slice of heaven for me. Even the little pink fluffball next to me looks amazing.” He gave a gentle tug to one of her ringlets.

  “You don’t know how much a woman treasures a half-assed compliment like that,” Jillian commented dryly.

  “Still, you did flat out ogle my girlfriend,” Mark objected half-heartedly.

  “Just being polite to a visitor. Want her to feel welcome.”

  Mark took a sip of his drink. “What’s this about a picture?”

  “The woman flipped,” Ashby said. He shook his head. “Threw a temper tantrum in front of everyone. Kind of like watching the Queen of England melt down. Wild.”

  “Start from the beginning,” Annabelle begged. “This sounds juicy.” She was grasping at straws; at this point anything that could distract Mark from continuing the discussion they had on the porch was a good idea. It was obvious he disagreed with her, but he didn’t have a say in it. Her decision to go it alone was final. And given time—hopefully the length of Jillian’s story—he’d come to realize she was right.

  “Well, the very beginning was about a few weeks ago. Mama went out of town to help my aunt. I used the time to spiff up the mansion for the ball. The attic’s full of different silver sets, old portraits, things that don’t get rotated into use very often. I spent a couple days up th
ere battling cobwebs and digging through trunks.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Annabelle said.

  “For a while. Then it was plain hard work. I found a ton of great stuff to use tonight, and switched out some pictures. When Mama came home she didn’t say anything to me, but one of the pictures I’d hung on the stairs was gone the next time I came by.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the end of the world,” Mark murmured.

  “Exactly. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but yesterday I noticed the empty spot on the wall. Snagged my shirt on the nail. With everything going on, the last thing I wanted to do was dig through the dusty attic for a suitable replacement. Figured it was quicker to rehang the same picture, since I already knew it fit in the space. It had a really unusual, octagonal frame. Mama prefers classical lines, but what did it matter just for tonight?”

  She took a fortifying gulp of champagne. “I came down the stairs tonight and found her staring at it. No mention of how nice everything looked, or thanks for my hard work. She just lit into me. Said as long as she was President, I was to do as I was told. At first I honestly had no idea what she was talking about. Then she flat out yelled, and called me an irresponsible twit for ‘thinking I knew better how to present the D of C to the public.’ “

  Ashby took up the narrative. “They’d attracted a crowd by then. Mrs. Beaufort was making such a scene, the kitchen workers came out to watch. I didn’t want to interfere, but the woman was out of control.”

  “What did you do? Play the gallant suitor, valiantly defending your true love?” Mark scoffed.

  “Offered to get her a drink. Thought it’d give her a chance to step away, calm down a little. Didn’t work. Looked me up and down, turned to Jillian and asked her why the gardener was dressed like a guest.”

  Annabelle gasped. “She didn’t!”

  “Oh, yeah. Knew I was out of my league at that point, so I backed away.”

  “Mama was simply horrible. I told her she had no right to speak that way to Ashby.” Jillian’s curls quivered with her indignation. “She completely ignored me and went right back to yelling about the picture. How she didn’t have to explain herself to me. Said I had no right, no authority to move anything in the mansion. I pointed out I’ve been a member for six years, so technically I could do anything I damn well please, same as any other member. That’s when she slapped me right across the face.” A single tear tracked down her cheek.

  Annabelle could tell Mark’s amusement had vanished when his hands fisted at his sides.

  “She’s gone too far this time. I ought to throw the temperamental old bat out on her bony ass,” Mark threatened.

  “Took care of it already.” Ashby’s expression was grim. “Picked her up, threw her over my shoulder, and carted her up to her office. Either I surprised her or knocked the wind out of her. She shut up fast. Told her to stay in the office until she cooled down. Said she’d better not come down until she was ready to be pleasant to everyone. One more harsh word and I’d kick her the hell out of her own party.” His blue eyes burned with ferocity. Annabelle guessed his temper had been carefully banked, but not anywhere close to extinguished.

  “I also mentioned that if she ever laid a hand on Jillian again this gardener would find a place to plant her where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  Mark clapped him on the back. “Way to go.”

  “He was my very own knight in shining armor. I’ll never forget it.” Jillian pecked him on the cheek, careful to scrub off the lipstick she left behind.

  “She came down after half an hour. You better believe we left the damn painting hanging up. She had to walk right past it on her way down. Hasn’t spoken to either one of us since.” Ashby turned to stare at the entryway. “If she’s got the sense God gave a chipmunk, she’ll keep her distance for the rest of the night.”

  “Jillian, I am so sorry you went through that, especially tonight. But you can’t let it spoil the evening. You’ve worked too long and hard.” Annabelle raised her champagne flute in a toast. “To Jillian; the mastermind behind this grand event.”

  They clinked glasses as a pink flush spread across Jillian’s powdered cheeks. “Normally, my inbred modesty would prevent me from accepting all this praise. Annabelle, I think some of your Northern brashness has rubbed off on me. I just want to bask in the glow of all the compliments people have heaped on me. Can you believe I’ve already had four people ask me to help with their events?”

  “That’s terrific. I bet you’re swimming in new business before the evening is over.”

  “Oh, but I completely forgot to ask about your afternoon. Did you have any luck with the book?”

  “State secret,” Mark snarled. “I’m afraid Annabelle’s shut us out of the investigation. No, my mistake, I should’ve said her investigation.”

  Okay, so clearly Mark wasn’t as easily distracted as she’d hoped. Quite the opposite, in fact. He looked as if he planned to nurse this grudge for quite a while. Annabelle sipped her champagne, using the few seconds it afforded her to come up with a gentle way to explain. Jillian’s and Ashby’s faces held mirror images of shock and confusion.

  “It’s not that I’m shutting you out,” she said carefully. “But we’ve progressed to a stage of the investigation which is very delicate. It’s best handled by one person.” She looked at Mark, but as expected, he didn’t appear willing to help her get through to the other two. He leaned against the wall, glowering at her. “But you’ve all been a tremendous help,” she finished lamely.

  “Did we do something wrong?” Jillian asked in a small voice.

  Annabelle was quick to reassure her. “No, no, not at all.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you want our help?”

  “Of course I want your help. But I can’t accept it. The situation is far too dangerous to involve anyone who doesn’t already have a stake in the proceedings.”

  “But we do have a stake in it. We have you. You’re important to us, and important to Mark, and he’s important to us. That means we’re in as deep as we can possibly be.”

  Annabelle shot Mark another helpless look, but he shook his head. “Can’t make your argument for you, not when I think it’s a load of crap. You know where I stand.”

  Time to try another approach. “Jillian, you know how horrible it was for me when I learned Jonathan was in the hospital. Imagine how bad I’d feel if one of you were injured, and it was my fault.”

  Jillian’s retort was sharp and fast as the crack of a whip. “Imagine how bad we’ll feel if something happens to you because we weren’t there to help.”

  Ashby nodded. “Safety in numbers. Always the way to go.”

  “In the past month I’ve lost my best friend, and almost lost my brother. I simply could not handle losing one of you.” Her voice caught on a sob. It was all too much.

  Mark pulled her into his chest, in complete disregard of her makeup and his starched white cravat. “Poor little darling. You put up such a brave front we all overlook how hard this has been. And just maybe, you’re the one who’s overlooked it the most.”

  “Maybe,” Annabelle sniffed. If they wouldn’t listen to reason, she couldn’t actually stop them from helping. Maybe they were right. Maybe sticking together was the smarter plan, the best way to keep all of them safe. Was there an instruction manual she could get to teach her how to work with a team?

  “Good then, we’re back on track.” Jillian beamed. “Did you find anything useful in the book?”

  “No flashing neon clue signs,” Mark said wryly, “but we did come up with an idea. I’d like to compare it to a full listing of D of C members. We agree someone in the organization is involved, so cross-referencing is the next logical step. Only problem is married names won’t do us any good.”

  Jillian raised her fan and swooshed it in a lazy motion. “Consider it already crossed off the to-do list.”

  Annabelle pulled herself out of the comfort of Mark’s embrace. “Now you’re showing off, trying to prove
I was an idiot to contemplate excluding you.”

  “Maybe a touch,” she giggled. “But really, it couldn’t be simpler. Every member has to provide documentation of their ancestry, going back at least one hundred years, although we prefer longer. We play up the Confederate angle, of course, because it’s what folks care about. Most people can’t let go of the past, and the more Confederate soldiers in their family tree, the more proudly they rub it in everyone else’s face. And the people who are related to officers, well, you can’t shut them up at all. But regardless of how my mother likes to spin it, honestly, the Daughters of the Confederacy already have that angle covered.”

  “Jillian, focus,” Ashby remonstrated. “You’re beginning to sound like you do want to become their president.”

  “Sorry. It’s been pounded into me from birth. And for the record, you couldn’t pay me to take over as president. Bad enough my grandmother submitted my name for membership when I turned sixteen.” She bit her lip. “To sum up, the legal stricture is that you can’t become a member unless your family’s been here in Charleston at least one hundred years. In our roster, each member listing includes the name of the original family name by which the lineage is traced.”

  “That’s exactly what we need!” Annabelle blotted her eyes with the handkerchief Ashby handed her. Mark’s shirtfront was unblemished, but she knew her makeup hadn’t survived her mini-meltdown.

  “I can go upstairs and print it out for you. Should only take a few minutes. Why don’t you come with me and I can show you where to refresh your makeup?” Jillian asked, the model of tact.

  “That would be wonderful. I must look a mess. But first,” Annabelle turned to Ashby, returning his handkerchief, “has your mother arrived yet?”

  “My mother is a social butterfly. She was here before the doors opened, and she’ll stay until we turn out the lights. She’d never miss a moment of a party. And she’ll still be up at dawn tomorrow to bake your cinnamon rolls. The woman has the stamina of a teenager.”