The Sweetest September. Liz Talley
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Название: The Sweetest September
Автор: Liz Talley
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9781472099259
isbn:
He had no reason to smile, but, damn, she’d nailed it. “I’d say that’s an accurate depiction.”
“So why do you want me to stay?”
“I can’t let you traipse off to Baton Rouge and hole up in a hotel room without someone to look after you.”
“Why? I’m a grown woman. I have a cell phone.”
She had a point, but something inside him balked at her leaving. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted in regards to the child, but if Shelby left Magnolia Bend, he might never know. Her leaving felt wrong. “Look, I know you can take care of yourself, but do me this solid—stay here. If something goes wrong, you’ll have someone to help you. I’ll get your things from the hotel. My sister won’t pester you or ask questions. I swear.”
“You’ll be working so what does it matter if I’m here or in Baton Rouge?”
“I can visit you each evening. We can get to know each other better.”
“Better than sex on a bathroom sink?” she snorted.
“Yeah, not my best moment.”
“I’ll say.” After a moment, Shelby continued, “I don’t need you to apologize for what happened or feel guilty. I don’t blame you anymore than I blame myself. We both screwed up and fiddler’s bill is steep.”
“Yeah, but I wish the dance had been a little better,” he said, recalling the cheap linoleum, the naked lightbulb and the way he’d made her feel when the realization of what he’d done washed over him. Not well done of him. Cheap, shoddy and now that he knew Shelby a little better, not deserved. “But it’s too late for regret. Best both of us can do is to move forward, doing what is best for our baby.”
“Our baby,” she repeated, her voice sounding lost.
Right as he pulled onto the highway, Shelby touched his arm. Her hands were small, still polished and soft looking. Nothing like Rebecca’s hands, worn from washing them too often at the preschool where she’d taught. Shelby’s touch sparked something in him, something he’d rather ignore and keep hidden.
Hunger for something more than what he’d lived for the past year and nearly three months.
“For the baby’s sake, I’ll stay until I get the all clear from Dr. Jamison, but I can promise you nothing beyond that.”
John looked over as she pulled her hand back into her lap and focused on the broken yellow lines of the road zipping beneath the old truck. “Okay, we can start there.”
THE LAUREL WOODS Bed-and-Breakfast had a polished shine that John’s small plantation lacked. The house boasted plush Oriental carpets, shining mahogany and framed John James Audubon original paintings centered above marble mantels. The soaring ceilings and glittering chandeliers nearly overwhelmed, but the sincerity in Abigail Orgeron’s eyes set Shelby at ease...something she needed in spades at the moment.
Abigail, for one, didn’t ask a single question, as promised, merely ordered a smartly dressed young man to ready the Rose Salon and take up the shopping bag Shelby carried before waving Shelby into the dining room where a carafe of tea sat along with some pecan-studded muffins and perfect tea cakes.
“John, why don’t you fetch some milk for the tea and call Birdie inside? The sun’s about to set and I don’t want her breaking her fool neck in that oak tree,” Abigail said to her brother, dismissing him as she sank onto a velvet flocked chair of crimson. “Sit down and I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
Shelby didn’t want to be there and didn’t want tea, but she sat down anyway. John glanced at her, concerned, but slipped through the swinging door no doubt leading to the kitchen. “You have a lovely place.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said, lifting the steaming pot and pouring the fragrant tea into a delicate cup. Handing it to Shelby, she smiled. “Hibiscus herbal tea. I can’t tolerate caffeine this close to bedtime. Stay awake all night.”
“Thanks,” Shelby said, taking the cup and balancing it on her knee, glad she hadn’t had to ask for decaffeinated.
“Sugar?”
“One spoonful, please.”
Swirling the spoon and clanking it on the lip of the cup, Shelby glanced up to find John’s sister staring at her with a curious expression on her face.
John’s sister looked older than him. She had an elegant silver forelock that swept her inky shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were a clear green, cheekbones high, chin long, mouth generous. Her navy slacks and trim apple-green cardigan portrayed no nonsense and easy sophistication. Soft tan leather ballet flats backed up the impression. Here was a woman who chaired committees, ran a house like a field general and...waited for others to explain themselves.
Silence sat fat between them. Abigail sipped her tea, never wavering in her stare, waiting for someone, presumably Shelby, to clarify the situation.
Shelby shifted in her chair as John reentered carrying a carton of milk and dragging a young girl with tangled hair and a pair of binoculars around her neck.
“Mom, I can’t believe you’re making me come inside. I had just gotten my ’nocs trained on that woodpecker. How am I supposed to draw him in his habitat? This is preposterous,” the tiny girl declared with a stomp of her sneaker.
“Birdie, you’ve been out there for the past hour and still have some reading to complete,” Abigail said, her eye going immediately to the dirt left by the sneaker stomp. “You’re tracking in the house.”
The girl wore glasses that made her blue eyes look impossibly large. The skinny jeans made her more waiflike and the oversize Flash Gordon shirt didn’t help. She looked exactly like her name. “It’s Thanksgiving break, Mom. I’m not reading that stupid AR book over my holiday.”
Abigail’s eyes widened but she said nothing, turning instead back to Shelby. “Shelby, this is my daughter, Eva Brigitte. We call her Birdie.”
“Hi,” Shelby said.
The girl glowered but muttered, “Hey.”
“Now, get cleaned up for dinner. Shelby is one of our guests tonight and doesn’t want to hear our squabbling over homework.” Abigail’s voice brooked no argument.
Birdie flashed her mother a withering look and ran toward the stairs, leaving more zigzag dirt on the polished floor. She may or may not have muttered “whatever” on her escape.
John stared after his niece looking as perplexed as Shelby felt. “Since when has she been fond of sketching woodpeckers?”
“Oh, it’s those Audubon prints scattered all over the inn. She’s so strong willed and—” Abigail waved her hand. “Let’s not do this right now. Birdie is Birdie.”
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