Tangled Memories. Marta Perry

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      The car drew smoothly to the curb and stopped. He roused himself and opened the door, holding it for Corrie. “Welcome to Savannah,” he said again, knowing she understood how little he welcomed her.

      Corrie slid onto the sidewalk and just stood for a moment, looking at the graceful sweep of steps with their glossy black wrought-iron railing. Visualizing herself owning the place, perhaps? Or feeling reluctant to go in and face what waited for her there?

      “This is Mr. Manning’s house?”

      “It is.” He almost imagined that was a bit of awe in her clear blue eyes, but that hardly seemed likely. An accomplished fraud would surely have boned up on the place.

      Maybe it was those big blue eyes that had caught Baxter’s attention. Trey had had the blue eyes and curling blond hair, too. But not the freckles that dusted Corrie’s lightly tanned cheeks or the snub nose that made her look like a classic girl next door, if the girl next door happened to be a con artist.

      “I didn’t realize…” She stopped, as if unwilling to share whatever she didn’t realize with him.

      “That it was so old?”

      She slanted a sideways glance at him, nodding.

      “The house was built in 1835 in classic Regency style and restored in the early sixties when the historic district was in the midst of a wave of preservation.” He launched into the familiar recital. If you lived in Savannah’s historic district, you could do it in your sleep. “The compound has four town houses, built around a shared courtyard. Baxter lives here, and Eulalie Ashworth, his niece, has the next one.” He nodded to the adjoining house, identical in design and decor.

      “I see.” She looked as if she were trying to take it all in. Maybe she never had been out of Wyoming. If so, Savannah was going to be a shock.

      “The two houses that face the alley are smaller but similar in design. My son and I live in one. The other one is rented to a family friend, Lydia Baron.” He paused for an instant. “That was originally Trey’s house.”

      He thought there was a small intake of breath, but otherwise she didn’t react. Maybe she was tougher than she looked.

      “Shall we go in?” He gestured to the curving stairway.

      Corrie hesitated. Then, with her face wooden, she started up.

      He followed, running his hand along the polished rail. He couldn’t help but love introducing his city to a stranger, even an unwelcome one like Corrie. Savannah was bred in him. For all the city’s faults, he’d be a foreigner anywhere else.

      “The main floor in many of Savannah’s historic homes is on the second floor—the parlor floor. The downstairs is called the garden level.”

      She paused in front of the glossy black door. Heavy pots of alyssum stood on either side of it, perfuming the air. “I understand Mr. Manning hasn’t returned yet.”

      Corrie, naturally, would be more concerned with the man she hoped to impress than with the decor.

      “Not yet.” He reached past her to turn the brass knob. “But I’m sure some of the family is waiting to meet you.”

      And ready to behave, he hoped. He’d warned all of them not to give this woman any ammunition to use against them with Baxter. He could just hope they’d paid attention.

      He opened the door. They stepped into the long entrance hallway, rich with the mingled aromas of polish and potpourri. Two people waited for them: Eulalie, his mother-in-law; Deidre Ashworth, his sister-in-law. He shot Deidre a warning look.

      “Eulalie, this is Corrie Grant.” He smiled reassuringly at Eulalie, knowing she was torn between her innate Southern courtesy and her fear that Corrie would somehow supplant her two children. “Corrie, this is Eulalie Ashworth, Mr. Manning’s niece. Who may, or may not, be your…let’s see, second cousin.”

      “Of course she is not our cousin.” Deidre took a step forward, hands curling into fists as if she’d like to throw Corrie out bodily. “She’s a fraud, and she’s not welcome in this house.”

      TWO

      Corrie froze for an instant. Obviously she should have been ready for direct hostility, but she wasn’t. What had happened to that Southern hospitality she’d heard so much about?

      She stiffened her spine. Aunt Ella had taught her how to behave, and she wouldn’t shame her. She held out her hand to the older of the two women, trying to manage a smile.

      Eulalie Ashworth was as soft and round and fluffy as a mound of cotton candy. She also looked perplexed. She studied Corrie’s hand as if it might be a deadly weapon and then took it. Corrie felt soft, powdery skin and smelled a whiff of lilac scent.

      “Welcome to Savannah…” Eulalie began, but the younger woman interrupted.

      “She’s not welcome. I don’t see any reason why we should be polite.”

      “An accusation no one could possibly make about you, Deidre.” Lucas smiled, but Corrie thought his amber eyes held a warning. “Corrie, this is Eulalie’s daughter, Deidre Ashworth.”

      Deidre obviously wouldn’t take her hand. Her eyes flashed with anger, and her dark hair fairly sparked with electricity. Midtwenties, at a guess, she was sharp, thin, brittle and beautifully dressed.

      “Deidre. Mr. Manning mentioned you.”

      Deidre lifted arched black brows. “Not calling him Grandfather already? How subtle of you.”

      “I’ve already told Lucas. Now I’ll tell you.” She darted a glance at Lucas. He leaned broad shoulders against the newel post of the soaring staircase, watching her with a sardonic expression. “I don’t want anything except to find out about my parents.”

      “As I said, how subtle.” Deidre was clearly not impressed. She swung on Lucas, as if he were to blame. “Do we really have to have this creature in our house?”

      “Deidre, please.” Eulalie’s cheeks turned as pink as her dress. “Think what Uncle Baxter would say.”

      Deidre glared at her mother. “Uncle Baxter must have entered his second childhood. We should have him declared incompetent.”

      Corrie’s head began to throb. Maybe Baxter Manning had overestimated his control over his family. If they didn’t cooperate, she’d find out nothing.

      “This is Baxter’s home.” Lucas’s voice hadn’t lost its lazy timbre, but there was steel underneath. “It’s up to him to say who stays here. And need I remind you who owns the house you live in?”

      For a moment the fury in Deidre’s face was so out of control Corrie thought she’d strike him. Her hands clenched until the veins stood out. “You’d take Uncle Baxter’s side, of course. You always do. But then, you know which side your bread is buttered on, don’t you, Lucas?”

      If the barb hurt, Lucas didn’t show it. “It’s common sense, Deidre, which you seem to be sadly lacking.”

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