Читать книгу A Time To Keep - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 8

Gwen worked nonstop around the clock, averaging five hours of sleep each night in order to make Bon Temps habitable. She knew she should’ve hired a cleaning company, but considered the housework she’d done therapy. She didn’t have an office to go to, so airing, dusting, mopping floors and cleaning windows gave her a sense of purpose.

It took half a day to air out and clean the bedroom, sitting room and adjoining bath that she’d selected for herself. A search of the pantry yielded a large tin filled with exotic teas, and as dusk descended she’d sat on a cushioned love seat on the second-story veranda watching a cluster of fireflies illuminate the velvety darkness while listening to the unfamiliar nocturnal sounds.

The rest of the week was spent cleaning the other bedrooms, the kitchen and shopping in an upscale mall in Morgan City, twenty miles southeast of Franklin. It was the first time she chided herself for not having purchased a sport utility vehicle, considering how her trunk and the inside of her car now over-flowed with grocery bags and other household items.

A moving company delivered cartons filled with her clothes, favorite books, electronic equipment, CDs, DVDs, her computer, photographs and family mementoes. And once a telephone technician installed the data lines she needed for a telephone, computer modem, and fax machine, she finally felt in control of her life. Aside from her cell phone she’d felt cut off from her family and friends.

Sitting at her computer, she opened a new document: Bon Temps Restorations. She wanted to replace the wallpaper throughout the house, reupholster sofas and chairs, repair and hang the magnificent living room and ballroom chandeliers, and repair the plasterwork on the ceilings. All of the wood floors and tables in the rooms on the first story were in need of refinishing. Bedroom closets overflowed with colorful dresses and costumes, suggesting that Gwendolyn Pickering had not led a reclusive lifestyle. The task of emptying the many closets still awaited her, a project she planned to tackle at her leisure.

The telephone rang, shattering her concentration. Peering at the display, she saw the name of her late aunt’s attorney. She’d called his office in New Orleans, as he’d suggested during their last conversation, with her new number. Picking up the receiver, she introduced herself.

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Afternoon, Miss Taylor. Billy Sykes here.”

She smiled. He’d referred to himself as Billy whereas stuffy Boston lawyers would’ve been Mr. Sykes. “Please call me Gwen.”

A chuckle came through the earpiece. “I was hoping you’d allow me that honor. I suppose you’re settlin’ in all right.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good. I’d love to come down and sit a while with you, but right now I’m up to my eyeballs in a case that’s sure to get a lot of media coverage. I just wanted to tell you that your aunt left a package with me about seven months before she passed away, and I’m going to send it to you by a bonded messenger.”

“What’s in it?”

He chuckled softly. “You’ll see when you get it. He should get it to you by Thursday.”

Her curiosity piqued, Gwen wondered how much Billy knew about Gwendolyn Pickering. She hadn’t had much contact with her mother’s favorite aunt. Gwendolyn, as she wanted to be called, traveled from Louisiana every five years to reconnect with relatives in Delaware, Pennsylvania and Massachusetts. She refused to vary her schedule, not even for a funeral. The year she celebrated her sixty-fifth birthday the visits, telephone calls, cards and letters—always without a return address—stopped. Everyone suspected she’d passed away until William Sykes called to inform Gwen that her great-aunt had left all of her worldly possessions to her namesake.

“How well did you know my aunt?”

“I didn’t know her as well as my daddy did. But, he can’t tell you anything because the Lord called him home last year. All I can tell you is that she didn’t want me to contact you until after she’d been cremated.”

“I’m glad she could trust you to follow her wishes, and I look forward to receiving the package.”

“All I can say is Gwendolyn Pickering was quite a woman.”

“Thank you, Billy, for everything, and if you’re ever in the neighborhood, please come by.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Goodbye, Billy.”

“’Bye, Gwen.”

She hung up, wondering what else her aunt wanted her to have. Her gaze shifted back to the blinking cursor on the computer screen. Her fingers touched the letters on the keyboard with lightning speed as the list lengthened. She’d just saved what she’d typed when the melodious chiming of the doorbell echoed throughout the house.

Walking out of the sun-filled room she’d set up as her office, she went to answer the door. It was probably the head of the landscaping crew who’d come earlier that morning to cut and weed the grass, and prune the fruit trees and flower beds. The aroma of freshly turned earth, cut grass and flowering blooms wafted through the many screened-in windows.

Peering through the security eye, she saw the face of a young man in a tan uniform. He wore the same hat she’d seen on Shiloh the night he’d answered her nine-one-one call.

She opened the door. The star on the man’s shirt identified him as a deputy. “Good afternoon. Is there a problem, Deputy Lincoln?” she asked, reading his name badge.

Frank Lincoln removed his hat, cradling it to his chest. The sunlight glinted off his thick orange-red hair. “Good afternoon, Miss Taylor. I just came by to give you something from Sheriff Harper.” He reached into the pocket of his shirt and handed her an envelope. “He said he’ll come by later to talk to you about it.”

Gwen took the envelope. She smiled at the deputy. “Please let Sheriff Harper I know I’ll be expecting him.”

Frank put back on his hat, grinning broadly. He’d recognized Gwendolyn Taylor as the woman who’d sat in the unmarked SUV with his boss. “You have a good day, Miss Taylor.”

She returned his friendly smile. “Same to you, Deputy.”

Gwen waited until he slipped behind the wheel of his cruiser and drove away before tapping the envelope against her palm and ripping off a corner. Opening the envelope she shook out two tickets. PAID, stamped in red, covered the face of the tickets for a fund-raiser given by the Bayou Policemen’s Benevolent Association for Needy Families.

She closed the door to keep out the sultry heat, smiling. She’d been so engrossed with cleaning Bon Temps that she’d forgotten her commitment to purchase two tickets for the fund-raiser.

Sitting on a formal high-back chair in the entryway, Gwen placed the envelope and tickets on a mahogany table. Fatigue washed over her and she closed her eyes. It wasn’t until she sat down that she became aware of how hard she’d worked, pushing herself to the point of exhaustion.

A knowing smile softened her mouth. She’d told Shiloh she was disciplined, focused, but he had countered, saying she was anal. He was right, but that was something she wouldn’t readily admit.

What she did not want to acknowledge was that she was an overachiever. From the first time she won a school-wide spelling bee, made the high school honor roll and finally the college’s dean’s list, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor was motivated to come out on top at all costs. And she hadn’t needed a psychologist to tell her she was overcompensating and silently crying out for attention from her parents, who obsessed about their terminally ill son. Langston was gone, yet her drive for acceptance and approval continued until she turned thirty.

With her New Year’s resolution to streamline her life and her decision to relocate to Louisiana, she’d finally accepted that she hadn’t needed anyone’s approval except her own.

* * *

Shiloh slowed down as he maneuvered his sports car under a live oak allée, coming to a stop at the end of a circular driveway. He parked and turned off the engine. He’d called himself king of fools for chasing after Gwen Taylor, but there was something about her that wouldn’t let him stay away.

He’d lost count of the number of times he’d driven past the road leading to her house and hadn’t stopped to find out how she was settling in. What excuse would he use to explain his unannounced visit? He was certain Gwen would’ve recognized his deception if he told her that he was checking on residents in the area.

Shiloh reached for a decorative shopping bag on the passenger seat, opened the door to his Mustang convertible, stepped out, and glanced around him. The smell of grass and flowers hung in the air. It was a smell that had become an aphrodisiac, pulling him back to Teche even when he hadn’t wanted to stay.

Soft gold light spilled from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the first story of the understated house with a full-height columned porch wrapping around the front and sides. He stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, waiting to come face-to-face with Gwen again. Less than a minute later he was met with the image of his ongoing musings bathed in light from an overhead fixture, and the sound of classical music.

His gaze moved over her features with the gentleness of an artist wielding a sable brush over a silk canvas. The unruly curls framed her face in sensual disarray, making her appear utterly wanton. The fitted halter dress displayed the fullness of her breasts and narrowness of her waist before flaring out around her hips and legs. His eyebrows lifted when he saw the color on her toes in a pair of black patent leather sandals was an exact match for her dress: vermilion red.

He smiled at Gwen as he handed her the shopping bag. “Good evening. Here’s a little something to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Gwen stared up at the tall man in her doorway wearing an off-white, raw silk shirt, tailored black slacks, and Italian-made slip-ons, unable to ignore the tingling in the pit of her stomach. Despite her belief that she didn’t have the time or inclination to indulge in a romantic entanglement, she knew she’d been waiting to see Shiloh again, even before his deputy came by to inform her that his boss would be stopping by. He’d come not as Sheriff Harper, but as Shiloh.

“Why, thank you. But you didn’t have to. Besides, you’ve done enough.” Her hand brushed his as she reached for the bag. A shiver raced up her arm with the slight contact. She knew Shiloh felt it, too, because he jerked his hand away as if he’d been burned.

He angled his head and smiled, wanting to tell Gwen that there were other things he’d wanted to do with her that he hadn’t done with a woman in a long time. He wanted to take her to a place where they could eat, dance, and talk about any and everything.

“I don’t know if you drink, but it’s a bottle of French cognac.”

“Thank you.” Gwen grimaced. “I’ve forgotten my home training. Please come in.”

He stepped into the entryway, noticing the obvious changes immediately. The scent of roses came from a burning pillar anchored in pink sand in a large glass chimney on the handkerchief table flanked by two hall chairs.

“Your place looks very nice. How long did it take the cleaning people to finish?”

Gwen left the shopping bag on the table, then felt the heat from Shiloh’s gaze on her back as she led him into the living room. “I decided not to hire a cleaning company.”

Reaching out, he caught her upper arm and turned her around to face him. “You cleaned this place by yourself?”

Tilting her chin, she gave him a direct stare. “Yes, I did. It’s taken me a while, but I pretty much have everything under control. Right now I’m negotiating with the architectural firm that authenticated the furnishings to have them restore the moldings, ceilings, floors and walls.”

Shiloh shook his head, unable to believe she’d taken on the Herculean project by herself. “What were you trying to do, kill yourself?”

Gwen stared at the fingers gripping her bare arm. “Please let me go, Shiloh.” He complied and his hand fell to his side. “I’m sorry, sugah, but I’m not one of your hothouse Southern belles who wouldn’t think of cleaning her own home because she just might chip a nail.”

Her inflection was so unadulterated Deep South that Shiloh laughed. He wanted to tell Gwen that despite the backbreaking housework her nails were perfect. Cupping her elbow, he led her to a silk-covered sofa with a magnolia blossom print. He sat, and eased her gently down beside him.

“Let’s not fight the Civil War again, Gwen.”

She glared at him. “I would like to think that we would’ve been on the same side during that particular war.”

“We would,” he said, deadpan. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were so helpless that you couldn’t take care of yourself.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “You strike me as a strong black woman who would be content to live your life with or without a man.”

There was enough sarcasm in his statement to set Gwen’s teeth on edge. “Men usually say that to me whenever I show them the door,” she countered.

Shiloh turned to look at her. “How many have you shown the door?”

“Too many.”

He lifted his left eyebrow. “It could be that you’ve been attracting the wrong kind of men.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, shuddering. “Like a mega magnet.”

He chuckled softly. “Perhaps your luck will change now that you’ve moved here.”

She shook her head. “I’m really not looking for anyone. Finding a partner is not at the top of my to-do list. In fact, it isn’t even on my to-do list.”

“How about an escort?”

Gwen sat up straighter. “What?”

“I’d like you to be my date for the fund-raiser.”

Feeling strangely flattered by his interest in her, Gwen asked, “Wouldn’t that pose a problem for Mrs. Harper?”

Shiloh shrugged a broad shoulder and flashed a smile. “Not in the least. My mother has her own escort for the affair, and I’m sure it wouldn’t sit too well with my brother if my sister-in-law attended the fund-raiser with another man.”

“Are you saying there are no Mrs. Harpers in St. Martin Parish other than your mother and sister-in-law?”

“They’re the only two Mrs. Harpers,” he confirmed.

Gwen hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. The local hunk of the month had just asked her out, which should’ve flattered her, but she hadn’t made time in her busy schedule for dating. She opened her mouth to decline his offer, then changed her mind. Shiloh had gone above and beyond his role as sheriff to make certain she was safe. What did she have to lose? The fund-raiser was only one date, not a commitment for something more.

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” She stood up, Shiloh also rising to his feet, and walked out of the living room. Two minutes later she returned and handed him an envelope.

Vertical lines appeared between his eyes. “What’s this?”

She met his questioning gaze. “It’s a check for the tickets.”

Shiloh’s frown vanished. “I already paid for the tickets.”

“You paid for my ticket believing I would go with you?”

“I paid for your ticket with the hope that you would go with me.”

She’d glimpsed an air of confidence in the man standing only inches away. She didn’t know anything about Shiloh Harper, but liked what he’d shown her: confidence and truthfulness.

“I’ll go with you, but on two conditions.”

“Give it to me straight.”

“I pay for my own ticket.”

A hint of a smile softened his mouth. “Okay.”

“And that you will not treat me as eye candy.”

Lowering his head, Shiloh shook it slowly. “Now, that’s going to pose a problem because—”

“Shiloh!” she chided, interrupting him.

He wagged a finger at her. “Gotcha!”

Gwen grabbed his finger. “I’d never figure you for a tease.”

Shiloh sobered, his gaze betraying his thoughts. He wanted to tell Gwen that she was a tease. Everything about her face, body and intelligence teased and tantalized him.

“Only with you,” he admitted. “Now if this knowledge goes beyond these walls, then my reputation as a tough lawman will be shattered completely.”

“What goes on at Bon Temps stays at Bon Temps.”

Shiloh wondered if Gwen had knowledge of the gatherings that took place when her namesake owned the property. And for a quick moment he wondered if history would repeat itself. After all, the present-day Gwendolyn had admitted she wanted to remain anonymous.

“Promise?” he asked, lowering his head.

There was a beat of silence before Gwen whispered, “I promise.” She wanted to tell Shiloh that he was too close, his virility too potent, and that she’d been without a man for too long, but the words were locked away in the back of her throat.

His head dipped and he breathed a kiss on one cheek, then the other. His free arm circled her waist. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. This year’s event will be a masquerade ball.”

Gwen felt as if she were drowning in his gold-green flecked eyes. “Why a masquerade?”

Shiloh caught and held her entranced stare. “It depends on which organization hosts the event. Last year the chamber of commerce’s theme was Mardi Gras, and the year before, the fishermen association’s theme was a hoedown.” Releasing her waist, he took a backward step, leaving a modicum of space between them. “If you let go of my finger I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing.”

Gwen released his finger as heat stole into her face. “I’m sorry.”

Shiloh winked at her. “I’m not.” He winked at her again. “I’ll see you Friday.”

“Friday,” she repeated.

Shiloh hadn’t kissed her, really kissed, yet the feel of his lips so close to hers made her want more—so much more. He was a tease—a tall, dark, devastatingly handsome man who made her forgo her promise not to date.

He pocketed the envelope with her check. “Your donation will be put to good use.”

“I’m glad I have it to give.”

Shiloh turned on his heel and strode for the door, Gwen watching his retreat. She stood in the same spot long after he’d gotten into his car and driven away. The soft ring of the telephone on a side table shattered her entrancement with a man who made her pulse race a little too quickly whenever she saw him, a man who was as different from the men she’d known in Boston as night was from day.

She reached for the cordless instrument. “Hello.”

“How y’all doing?”

Gwen smiled. “Very funny, Lauren. Did you get my e-mail?”

“Yes. I’m sorry about not getting back to you sooner, but Cal and I just got back from New York. He was scheduled to meet with his publisher, so I went along and did some sightseeing and shopping. We ate at a wonderful restaurant in your favorite neighborhood.”

“How is Harlem?” Gwen asked as she settled down in a large club chair.

“Incredible. The changes are unbelievable with all of the gentrification. Enough talk about me. What’s happening with you?”

Gwen gave her cousin a brief overview of her first week in the town, deliberately leaving out her encounters with Shiloh Harper. “The house is something out of Gone With the Wind, but on a smaller scale.”

“Are you going to renovate it?”

“No,” she answered truthfully. “I plan to restore it. The kitchen is the only room that doesn’t conform to the original plans. It’s the quintessential gourmet kitchen. As soon as I get the floors done I want you, Cal and the kids to come down for a visit.”

“It’ll have to be after the children are finished with summer camp and before school begins.”

Cradling the phone between her chin and shoulder, Gwen ran a hand through her hair. “Good. I hope to have everything completed or near completion by that time, and hopefully will have perfected a few regional dishes by the time you guys get here.”

“Don’t forget to throw in a little social life along with your cooking and cleaning.”

“I’m way ahead of you, cuz. I’m going to a masquerade ball Friday.”

There was a pause on the other end of the wire. “Are you going alone?”

Gwen wanted to say yes, but had never lied to Lauren. “No.”

“Who are you going with?”

“The local sheriff.”

A soft gasp came through the earpiece. “Don’t tell me you met him when he pulled you over for speeding? I shouldn’t have to tell you that Louisiana isn’t Boston where you were on a first-name basis with every traffic and beat cop.”

As a reporter Gwen had what most in the newspaper business called a bloodhound’s nose for a story, and early in her career she cultivated friendships with several high-ranking police officials, attending their fund-raisers and causes while reporting their acts of heroism in her column. She’d started at the Gazette as a crime reporter before she was reassigned to write the lifestyle column.

“No, Lauren.” Gwen told her cousin how she came to meet Shiloh, leaving out the part where she wouldn’t get out of her car and he had to carry her across the road.

“Does he at least look good in his uniform?” Lauren asked, giggling.

“Yes, but I think he looks better out of it.” Shiloh wearing a shirt and jeans had the same impact on her as a man in formal attire; he carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence that she hadn’t encountered in any of the men she knew.

“You’ve seen him without his clothes?”

Gwen sucked her teeth while rolling her eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mrs. Samuels. I was talking about civilian clothes, not his birthday suit. And if you say anything else I’m going to hang up on you.”

“There’s no need to get hos-tile, Gwendolyn. I don’t need to remind you that each sunrise brings you one day closer to thirty-eight.”

“Hel-lo. Test tube,” she countered in singsong.

“I’m hanging up,” Lauren threatened.

“Good night, cuz,” Gwen drawled, unable to stifle a laugh.

The distinctive sound of a dial tone reverberated in her ear before she pressed a button and placed the receiver in its cradle. She’d teased Lauren about artificial insemination even though she preferred getting pregnant naturally. Gwen doubted whether she would ever choose something so impersonal as going to a sperm bank. Adoption was her first choice, but that was an option that had remained secret.

Thinking of children reminded her of the upcoming fund-raiser to help needy families. Shiloh said the affair was a masquerade ball and she had to find something to wear.

“Aunt Gwendolyn,” she whispered. Her aunt’s closets overflowed with dresses and costumes from her days as an actress. She and her great-aunt were about the same height, and the last time she saw sixty-something Gwendolyn Pickering, the older woman had the figure of someone half her age.

It’d been years since she’d played dress-up; attending the fund-raiser would bring back memories of the Venetian masked balls during Carnival. There was something about the city built on water that reminded her of Bayou Teche. It was as if time stood still, leaving those trapped within in a spell that was far from reality.

She rose from the chair and headed for the staircase. The fund-raiser was only two days away.