“Good—I love a man with a plan,” she told Becky as they pulled away from the hotel.
Their next stop was at a private residence, one of the elaborate hilltop homes on a steep road above town; the place had been featured in Architectural Digest once, as she recalled. Sam negotiated the curves carefully while Becky kept an eye on the cake. The bride’s mother dithered in and out of the huge great-room, directing the florist and caterer not to trip over the tangle of wires where the band was setting up, mainly getting in everyone’s way. Finally, the bride herself, in curlers, came downstairs and showed them where to set the cake. She raved about the ruffled red heart on top of it and the sugar hearts that gave the piece the feel of an old fashioned quilt. Privately, Sam thought the country look was a bit of an incongruity in the glamorous house but it was never her place to argue with a willful bride or her mother.
“Whew! That makes me glad my mother didn’t have a say in my plans,” Sam said. She glanced at Becky, settling herself into the van. “It’s okay. Really. We’ll reschedule. Soon. Probably next week.”
“Sure. I know.”
Sam directed her attention to getting down the mountain. “Call the shop and see if there’s anything else we need to do while we’re out,” Sam said, handing Becky her phone.
Jen must have answered. The short conversation went in the shorthand that two old friends would use. Becky laughed out loud as she hung up.
“Jen’s got her hands full of men,” she said, working hard not to howl. “Her exact words. I don’t think she got the same mental picture I did.”
“We better get back there. I knew the males of this town would wait until the last minute to get their Valentine gifts.”
Two hours flew as cakes, cupcakes, cookies and chocolates raced out the door. Every time Sam thought they might turn over the Closed sign, some other harried guy would screech to a halt outside and they would find something to send home with him. Finally, they were down to one final square cake which Becky had decorated as a package—pink frosting with a red bow and a generic Happy Valentine’s Day written in red gel.
“The next guy through this door will get lucky and the one right behind him better hope the flower shops aren’t completely cleaned out.” Sam said as she started to gather the credit card receipts from the cash drawer. “And he better hurry. I’ve got forty-two minutes to get home, clean up, dress elegantly, and put a little romance in my smile before Beau gets there to pick me up.”
Luckily, she’d put a bottle of champagne in the fridge and had taken home one of Sweet’s Sweets nicer little cakes yesterday. With the red dress she’d bought, originally for their honeymoon trip, she envisioned an evening that would start with an admiring stare from him, move through dinner to champagne and dessert, and end up in Beau’s spacious bedroom. It was 6:54 when she slipped the dress over her head and stepped into the matching pumps.
At 7:15 she was sitting on her sofa, cursing the sheriff’s department for keeping him late at work again. Okay, she thought, how late will he be? She plucked her cell phone from her black evening bag and speed dialed his number. His voice came across a little muffled, with a lot of background noise.
“Beau? What’s going on? Are you tied up with—”
More noise. Laughter. Music.
“Here, baby, let me talk.” Was that Felicia Black’s voice? “Samantha, come on over. The party’s really warming up. I’m bringing out some of your chocolates for dessert pretty soon.”
“What?” Sam’s insides went cold. “Put Beau on this phone.”
“Darlin’—”
“Do not try to sweet talk your way out of this, Beau Cardwell.”
“Sam— Darlin’—”
She hung up and threw the phone across the room.
Chapter 24
The ridiculous shoes lay on the bathroom floor, one behind the toilet and the other with the red dress lying in a heap on top of it. Sam scrubbed away the makeup she’d worked so carefully to apply and reached for sweats she’d worn two days ago.
Rage flared through her. She couldn’t decide where to direct it—at Beau or at Felicia—and the poor little Valentine cake had taken the brunt of it, now smashed to bits on her kitchen floor. The phone had rung, somewhat feebly, twice, but it had stayed quiet for the last ten minutes. Sam yanked a Henley shirt over her head, stalked past the mess on the kitchen floor and grabbed up her keys, put on a hoodie and stuffed the keys into the pocket.
Before she decimated the rest of her house or did something really stupid with that bottle of champagne, she better take a brisk walk—for about five miles or so. Once the dark and the cold had taken some of the fire out of her, she would have to clean up the kitchen and decide what to do.
The back door slammed a little harder than she’d intended. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and stalked down the long driveway leading to Elmwood Lane. Before she’d made it halfway, though, a car raced off the road a skidded to a stop. Beau’s Explorer.
She turned around, trying to think of another exit.
“Sam! Come on . . . don’t do this.” He left the driver’s door open and came after her, his dress shoes slipping on the frosty gravel. “Darlin’, please— We have to talk about this.”
She spun on him. “What’s to talk about? You were to be here at seven to pick me up for our special, secluded, Valentine’s dinner. When I finally reach you, you’re at a party—at your ex-girlfriend’s house! I don’t see where this discussion could possibly go.”
His face crumpled. “Felicia didn’t call you? Earlier?”
Sam’s glare answered that question.
He was beginning to shiver in his good blue suit. “Could we go inside?”
Her first instinct was to pummel him, but something stopped her. She pulled out her key and marched toward the house while Beau stepped back to the Explorer and closed his door.
“Watch out for that spot,” she said, pointing to the gobs of smashed cake in the middle of the kitchen.
She heard him mutter under his breath, “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, uh-oh. What on earth possessed you to think I wouldn’t be mad that you stood me up in favor of her.”
“Want to sit down—?” he stopped. “Ah, no. Okay.” He stuck his hands awkwardly in his trouser pockets. “Felicia called me this evening. She told me that she had also called you, repeated the invitation to her party, and that you’d accepted.”
“But—”
“She told me you were on your way, that I should just drive on over.”
“And you believed her?”
He shrugged. “I heard party sounds in the background. I tried calling your cell, the bakery and here . . .”
“You didn’t leave messages.”
His mouth opened but Sam had turned toward the back door.
“We could still have dinner . . .”
She ignored the misery in his voice. “I seem to have lost my appetite. We’ve missed our reservation and there’s no place outside of McDonald’s where we’ll be able to get in right now.”
“Sam—”
“It’s been a very long week, Beau. I think I just need to make it an early night.” She held the back door open closing it a little too firmly behind him.
After a long silent space, she heard his SUV start up. Gravel crunched as he backed out and drove away. Iris’s garnet ring winked in the light and Sam pressed it to her lips. Oh, Beau.
The moment passed though. She stared at the ruined cake on the kitchen floor, then grabbed a roll of paper towels and set about cleaning it up. Her spirit felt weary.
*
When her eyes opened Wednesday morning Sam realized it was already daylight in the room. She’d not set her alarm the night before and her heart raced as she grasped that for the first time ever her shop should already be open and she wasn’t there. Wandering into the living room she saw subtle signs that Kelly had come home last night and left already this morning. She found her cell phone on the kitchen table and dialed the bakery.
“Sam, it’s okay,” Jen said. “We’d made the plan weeks ago. You deserve a rest.”
It hit Sam full force that the original plan was that she and Beau would be leaving for their honeymoon today. Her four employees already had their work schedules set up, an arrangement to keep the shop going without her. She mumbled something about coming in a little later, even though Jen assured her they had things well under control.
She felt numb as she showered and set the coffee maker to brew. The shock of discovering Beau at Felicia’s house last night and the broken Valentine’s Day date, on top of the emotional roller coaster of their postponed wedding, had settled into a painful ache in the center of her.
She dried her hair and stared at herself in the mirror. Every comment from last night’s argument seemed to have etched another line into her face, every ugly thought about Beau and Felicia added a dozen gray hairs. She turned away from the medicine cabinet and pulled on her slouchiest set of sweats.
The television provided background noise, a blur of color and sound to offset the blank state of her mind. The phone rang several times but she couldn’t summon the energy to get off the couch and answer it. Once, in the background, she heard Beau’s voice leaving a message on the kitchen phone. She turned up the volume on the TV set and pulled a blanket over herself. At some point the light in the house dimmed, telling her it was late afternoon. She didn’t particularly care.
*
By the next morning she’d decided that wallowing in misery was not her strong suit. She took a long shower and donned her baker’s jacket and showed up at work. The girls were surprised to see her, but no one asked questions. She could only assume that Beau had called here yesterday, looking for her. She’d erased his messages from her machine at home and deleted the ones on her cell. It wasn’t so much that she was avoiding him, she just didn’t see much point in listening to excuses.
She baked cheesecakes and then made chocolate chip cookies for the after-school kids, even though Becky and Sandy could have easily handled those tasks. When Kelly came into the shop at noon, she approached Sam with a determined look in her eye.
“Mom, we need to have lunch.” It was more an order than an invitation.
Sam couldn’t even plead that she was swamped with work, because that clearly wasn’t the case. With the extra two helpers and the absolute lack of custom orders, for once, her day loomed ahead as an empty bunch of hours.
“Okay, you are clearly a wreck,” Kelly said, once they’d settled into a corner of a noisy little cantina that they both normally loved. “Beau says there was some terrible misunderstanding.”
“Probably.”
“Mom, what are you going to do about it? Just dump Beau, like that? I thought you really loved him.”
Sam swallowed hard, covering her emotions while the server came and took their orders.
Kelly smiled brightly at the girl and watched her walk away. “He really loves you. When he called me yesterday he sounded absolutely miserable.”
Sam picked up her fork and rubbed at its already-shiny surface with her thumb. Maybe a day was long enough to make certain that Beau had made his choice—Felicia or her.
“You’re right, Kel. He’s a good man and I don’t mean to punish him. I’ll talk to him today sometime.” Maybe she should let him off the hook, at least consider the idea that Felicia, not Beau, was the cause of the problem.
Their enchiladas arrived just then and Kelly cut right into hers, apparently satisfied that she’d done her little mediation task satisfactorily. Sam gave herself over to the flavors of chicken and green chile and began to feel a sense of normalcy. She finished her lunch and excused herself to go to the ladies room, and when she came back she saw Kelly surreptitiously slip her hand into her jacket pocket. A second later, Sam’s own cell phone rang.
“Gosh, what can I bet that this will be Beau?” she said with a smile at her daughter.
“Can we meet somewhere?” he asked before she had a chance to start the conversation.
They agreed that he would come by her house in thirty minutes.
“I have to get back to work,” Kelly said. “Riki’s got a full shop today.”
Sam picked up the check and they walked outside to find that the sky had clouded over and a white mist filled the air. Kelly dashed for her car and Sam slid into her van. But before she started it her phone chimed again. She didn’t immediately recognize the number on the readout.
“It’s Jonathan Ernhart. I’ve got some DNA results.”
Sam felt her mood take a dip. So soon? She’d hoped for a few more chances to see Marla and work her healing touch before this.
“. . . what we expected,” Jonathan was saying. “Our John Doe is Tito Fresques. I’m sorry.”
“Will you be sending someone to inform Marla in person?”
“We already have. I’ve asked local law enforcement to pay a visit.”
“Sheriff Cardwell, here in Taos?”
“Yes ma’am. I spoke with him about a minute ago. I’ve also notified the DEA. Given what we learned about his work for them, they need to know that Panther won’t be coming back.”
Sam thanked him and hung up. Condolence calls were one of any law enforcement man’s least favorite duties, especially Beau’s.
She quickly dialed Beau’s cell and determined that he was on the way to her house.
“We need to talk about something. Other than us. Well, in addition to us,” she said.
Chapter 25
Beau’s cruiser was in her driveway when she pulled in. She faced him across the hood of it, imagining her own expression to be nearly as uncertain as his. Not letting go of the lock on her gaze, he crossed the front of the vehicle and walked over to her.
“I can’t believe Felicia set us up that way,” he said. “Telling me that you were on the way to her party.”
Sam wanted to believe him.
“I tried to call you. When you didn’t answer it seemed like proof that you were doing what she said.” He looked so miserable that Sam felt the conflict dissipate.
“Beau, do you see why I was leery of her from the start? I told you she was after you. Now she’s set this up so we would fight—”
He stepped toward her and put his arms around her, pulling her against him in a tight little ball. His uniform smelled of aftershave with a faint undertone of coffee. Tiny droplets of the gathering mist cooled her hot skin.
“Baby, I’m so sorry that I believed a word she said.”
“I know. Hey, let’s get inside, out of the drizzle.”
They walked into the kitchen, and Sam offered to make tea.
“Sorry, I better not. I’ve got an assignment and I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Marla Fresques. I heard about the condolence visit.”
“Damn, that’s right. Tito Fresques’s mother. I’ve been so swamped with other work that I’d forgotten about the case.”
“Can I go with you?”
“You sure about that? These aren’t really fun calls.”
“I know. But I consider her a friend, and I’m thinking she might like to have someone nearby when she gets the news.”
“It would be a big help to me,” he admitted.
Sam excused herself to change out of her bakery clothes. Beau was right—this wouldn’t be an enjoyable stopover. After putting on jeans and a warm sweater she picked up the wooden box. A few minutes with it on her lap, the familiar tingle of warmth in her hands, and she felt ready to go.
Beau smiled widely as she emerged from her bedroom. “Darlin’, you look absolutely beautiful.”
She heard that a lot after handling the box.
He pulled her toward him and when he touched her hand he laced his fingers through hers and drew her close for a kiss that sent quivers through her. The moment might have stretched into an afternoon, but Sam reminded him about Marla.
“We can take both of our vehicles,” she suggested as they walked out the back door. “I think
I’ll need to stay with her awhile.”
Marla’s car sat alone in the driveway when they pulled up out front. Sam saw a curtain at the living room window move aside, and the door opened before they’d reached the porch.
Marla sensed their mission. Sam could see the mixture of anticipation, dread, hope, despair.
When Beau began his official line, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to inform you . . .” Marla crumpled.
“No, not my Tito,” she whispered, both hands trembling as she raised them to her temples. Her chocolate eyes left Beau’s face, traveled to Sam’s, moved back again.
“Let’s go inside and sit down,” Sam suggested.
Beau followed, made sure that Marla was comfortably seated on the sofa and didn’t have more questions for him, then he left. Sam knew that Marla probably had a million questions; she just hadn’t yet thought how to verbalize them.
“Is Jolie at school?” Sam asked.
Marla gave a numb nod.
“I should wait with you until she comes home. I mean, I will if you want me to.”
Sam glanced down at her hands, which were still pink from the effects of the wooden box. She reached over and took Marla’s hands in hers. Warmth moved through her arms and into her friend. Sam saw a small rush of energy come to Marla.
“I need to let people know. Make some calls.” Her gaze darted around, looking for something, but Sam held fast to her hands. “Where’s the phone? Where’s my address book?”
“Give me a few minutes to warm your hands,” Sam said. “It will help.”
Marla submitted but she didn’t relax. “Father Joe. I need to tell Father Joe.”
“I’ll get you the phone and the numbers in a minute,” Sam said.
But when Sam let go of Marla’s hands, fatigue immediately set in and her friend slumped against the back of the sofa.
“Here, let’s cover you up and I’ll find your things,” Sam said, pulling a knitted afghan from the recliner chair across the room and draping it over Marla’s lap and legs.
“I can’t be lying around and resting,” Marla protested. “There will be arrangements to make. I’ll have to plan his funer—” Her voice broke.
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