“I appreciate your support. And if I think you can help, I have you on speed dial, but for now, I think Jack is a better resource. Can you just trust me?”
Silence was the closest thing to an agreement Mac received, before their younger brother, Joey, snatched the phone from Sean and wished Mac a Happy New Year.
“Will I see you before I report to spring training?” Joey asked.
“I’m not sure. But regardless, I’ll be in Florida for a few weeks with the scouts. You better be on your game or you’ll wind up riding pine in the Carolina League rather than snagging pop-flies in Minnesota.” Mac stifled the circuitous lecture he’d given Joey nearly every day he was home in Ohio for Christmas. “Do the time in the gym and stay away from Marshal Smith. Trouble seems to follow him. And you don’t need any extra help finding trouble. Why not catch up with Jessup? He was always a better influence. Bet he can still beat you running the forty.”
“Yes, Mom.” In many ways, his twenty-six-year-old brother hadn’t matured past sixteen, and both Mac and Sean took turns bailing him out of an endless cycle of trouble. Since the end of baseball season this fall, he’d been nursing a shoulder injury and non-physical wounds neither Mac nor Sean could uncover. Joey, with his string of bad choices, was often the main subject of Mac’s prayer life. And he once again lifted a silent prayer to the Lord for his baby brother and the healing he could only receive from the great Healer.
“Just do what you need to do to get back to playing form. I can’t imagine your manager will want to deal with anymore of your…extracurricular activities.”
“I hear you. Between you, Sean, and Jessup you’d think I needed rehab or something.”
“I’ll back off if you promise me you’ll show up to Florida in shape and ready to play.”
“Deal. Now tell me the truth. Will gorgeous Georgie be in Florida in March?”
“Don’t even think about it, Sprout.”
“What about the chilly one? Will hot Charlotte be scouting players, too? Maybe I’ll need to play in the minors to get my shoulder back in shape. Wouldn’t mind looking at either of those pretty girls of summer for a few months.”
“Girls of summer?” Mac couldn’t help the chuckle at Joe’s tweak to the ‘Boys of Summer’ term for ballplayers. “Sprout, forget about Charlie and Georgie. Focus on your shoulder, your game, and getting your life out of the tabloids, and into a church bulletin. Get your life in order and maybe the Good Lord will send you a nice lady to keep you on the straight and narrow.”
“Jealous, big bro? You have your eye on one of the delectable Dixon sisters? Did the Good Lord finally send you a damsel to rescue?”
20
“Charlie?” Georgie’s voice was barely a whisper above the creak of the guest bedroom door. “Are you awake?”
Charlotte glanced at the antique clock on the bedside table. She had slept exactly twenty-seven minutes. “I’m awake.” Shoving herself up, she rested against the headboard.
Georgie folded her long body onto the end of the four-poster bed. “The arson investigator just arrived.” Georgie tugged her zip-up hoodie tight around her chest.
“Did he say how long it would take?” As Georgie repeated the arson investigator’s rundown, Charlotte’s mind wandered to her confession to Mac. Why had she told Taylor anything? He was the last person who could help her. Or was he? He’d listened to her, and his face had reflected concern, without judgment. But how could he not be condemning her today? Every minute she stayed in South Carolina, she placed everyone—her sister, the team, the entire company—in danger.
Her mother’s arrival last night was all the proof Charlotte needed. Every whispered accusation she’d imagined and heard, had to be true. Stasi surely didn’t come all the way to South Carolina to check on her daughter’s well-being.
And in less than six hours, Charlotte needed to calmly have tea with the woman who likely tried to have her killed not seventy-two hours earlier. The person most likely to have set fire to her home. The person who used her business like a personal ATM.
Her mother.
Charlotte had to confront her mother with what she knew. Today. She couldn’t wait a moment longer. Beyond the gallery and the risk of prison, too many lives were in jeopardy. She needed to confirm the theft, the money laundering, the car explosion, the house fire. All of it. Her mother’s not-so-secret connection with Anton Markov and the bratva needed to be exposed.
Even if exposure triggered the demise of both Stasi and Charlotte.
Puffing a breath, she focused on her sister. Even weary from sleep Georgie was the stunning image of Delia. Dishwater blonde curls, tamed into a wayward bun, framed her heart shaped face and lightly freckled cheeks. Her only link to their father was the Caribbean-ocean colored eyes both sisters shared.
The wall of ice Charlotte had built around her heart twenty years earlier— a wall to shield her from the pain of loving her sister, her father, and Delia and not being able to be with them—had been slowly melting since the funeral and now stood as nothing more than a moat of cloudy water. “I’m sorry, Georgie.”
“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault. Savvy invited so many people last night anyone of them could have accidently started a fire wandering around the property with a cigar or a candle. Praise God no one was hurt.”
Charlotte swallowed a confession. No matter how much relief she felt sharing the burden with Mac, she couldn’t risk anyone else knowing. Not before she knew what to do. Mac was convinced he could help. Remy, too. But she refused to put anyone else she loved in danger. Especially not sweet Georgie. Not after everything Charlotte had given up to keep her baby sister safe. “I imagine Savvy needs some help cleaning up.”
Georgie nodded and slid off the bed. “The caterers took care of the dishes and everything last night, but furniture needs to be moved and Christmas needs to be de-Christmased throughout the house. The big cleaning crew will be here tomorrow, and Savvy would hate for them to really have to clean anything.”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“OK. I’m sure Savvy will appreciate the help.” Georgie left with a click of the door into its frame.
Charlotte flipped to her stomach. A tear tilted down her cheek. Lifting a silent prayer to the God of Georgie and their father, Charlotte asked for a day of peace to start the New Year.
Just one day.
A whole year would be pushing the limits of even a benevolent deity.
~*~
Five hours, twenty boxes of Christmas decorations, and a hot shower later, Charlotte smoothed her black and white checkered pencil skirt under the diminutive oak table in the Rose and Thorn Inn’s breakfast room. Nearly all the tables of the quaint inn’s dining room were filled with patrons in various states of high tea consumption. A special celebration on a special day.
Delicate towers of tiny sandwiches, cookies, and bowls laden with clotted cream and jellies crowded every clear surface in the room except for Charlotte’s table. She knew better than to order prior to her mother’s arrival. Cold tea to Stasi was tantamount to declaring war.
Charlotte sipped her water, crossing her legs at the ankle, and kept a discreet eye on the door. She’d left Remy two voicemails this morning, hoping to have him meet with Mac and her so they could best strategize how to approach the FBI. But her normally chatty best friend, whose phone was perpetually cupped in his palm, had ignored each of her calls. She tapped the edge of her phone as the rumble of vibration notified her of a text. Swiping the screen, she read the message from Remy.
Happy New Year. Unexpected business engagement in DC. Will call when I’m back in town.
A slight calm washed over her. If Remy was out of town, neither her mother nor her compatriots could hurt him. She could call him later to gain his insight into the best approach with her three lettered friends. The farther away from her, the safer he was. Now if she could only figure out how to keep Georgie safe. And Mac. And Savvy. And…
“That table is unacc
eptable.”
The shriek of her mother’s voice permeated the small dining area, bouncing off the walls, sending shivers, and chilling Charlotte to the core. Standing, she lifted her handbag and closed the few steps to the reception area and her mother’s tantrum.
“I cannot sit in the open. I insist on the private room I requested.”
“Ma’am,”—the manager stepped from behind the reception desk—“I do apologize for any confusion. Give me a moment, and I will see if we can’t free up the blue room.” His heels clicked against the wide pine floors as he rushed down the hall.
“Mama.” Charlotte kissed Stasi’s cheek. “I see you’ve made an impression as always.”
“Well, I’ve never been treated this poorly,” Stasi said, fanning herself. “I’m sure that horrible woman you call aunt arranged for this appalling experience.”
“Mama, it’s a table for tea. It’s not as if you’ve been locked in a POW camp for the last six months without access to water.”
“Well, it might as well be.” Pivoting on the soles of four inch stilettoes that allowed her to see nearly eye to eye with Charlotte, her mother’s gaze scraped the length of Charlotte’s body. “Was this the best you could do?” she said. “You look as if you are going to a funeral, malyshka.”
Well, at least she and Savvy agreed on something.
“I had little choice in what to wear, what with the majority of my clothing damaged. I’m certain you heard about our misfortune last evening. I had to borrow this from Georgie.”
Her mother flipped her hair over her shoulder and glanced down the hall past Charlotte. “Ahh, here’s the silly manager.”
“Ma’am, your private tea is set. If you’ll follow me.”
Charlotte bit her cheek as she followed her mother down the narrow hall and into a twelve by twelve room lined with toile wallpaper in robin’s egg blue on three sides. Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded a breathtaking view of the English-style gardens and pond along the back half of the property, comprising the fourth wall.
“To your specifications, ma’am. I do apologize for the confusion.” The manager offered with a sweep of his arm.
Stasi barreled by him, assessing the room and contents. “It will suffice.”
Gracing the center of the room was a round table with a single ornate leg support. The table was flanked by two high-backed chairs upholstered with a flowered fabric complementing the wallpaper. Mini sandwiches and cookies dominated the table. Two delicate, wide mouth teacups were set before each place with small ramekins of orange peels, cinnamon sticks, and cloves. Matching tea pot and plates completed the elegant presentation.
Clearly, the elevated place-setting was dictated by Stasi. High tea wasn’t something with which to be trifled. And although most teas in the United States were more British than Russian, Babushka drilled the necessity of traditional tea into the fabric of Stasi’s life from the time she was small, and repeated the lessons once Charlotte came to live in New York. The Bickford women compromised on the food, but rarely on the cinnamon and orange accompaniments.
Charlotte preferred coffee and sandwiches made on full slices of bread. The process of a “cup of tea” and the memories associated, churned waves of repulsion within her stomach.
Stasi glanced to the small bell—a requirement at all meals—and nodded. “We’ll ring when we need you,” she said, with a wave of her hand sending the manager scurrying out of the room. “Sit, malyshka. You cannot take tea standing. One would think you’d been raised in this backwater town.”
Charlotte slid onto the chair opposite her mother. With automatic precision, she lifted the tea pot and served Stasi before adding tea to her own cup.
“The youngest must always serve their elders. This is the way. You take care of those who come before, malyshka. This will make you good daughter. Good granddaughter. Good woman. Serve others. Always serve family first. Never forget.”
Her grandmother’s wisdom. Her grandmother’s demands.
She lifted the cream to her mother, but Stasi shook her head, stirring with a cinnamon stick before raising the black tea to her lips for a tentative sip. “So, tell me of this unfortunate incident at that house.”
“Mama, you know about the fire.”
“Your house caught on fire? Why would you think I would know of a fire, malyshka? I was thrown from Savannah’s house like a common beggar. No room? Pft. That woman just wanted to embarrass me last night. And you allowed her to make me look cmexa? A fool? In front of those people? You are no daughter. You are a traitor.” She slammed her hand on the table; the teacups clanked in their saucers and cookies rattled across the plate.
“Mama, settle down.”
Half standing, her mother leaned across the table, a hair’s breadth from Charlotte.
“Settle down! You want I should settle down? You do not tell me how to feel or behave, little girl. You do not tell me anything. You are the child. I am the mama. Don’t you forget. You forget? We will make you remember.” Her narrow eyes flashed to black. Her cheeks flamed pink, darkening on pace with the vein beating in her neck.
Charlotte sucked in a shaky breath, her heart vibrating against her ribs. “Mama, I could never forget I’m your child.” She reached her hand across the table, stroking her mother’s clenched fist. Soft physical touch was the only defense against Stasi’s mood swings. A lesson Charlotte had learned too young.
Swiping her hand across her forehead, Mama slid back into her chair with a nod. “See how you make me behave. You always were a temperamental little girl. Throwing fits to get her way. Now. Eat your food. Drink your tea. We are celebrating the New Year.”
Charlotte lifted her cooled teacup dragging a sip past her taut lips.
“S Novym Godom, malyshka! Happy New Year, baby girl.” Her mother’s red painted lips smiled wide as she snatched a triangle sandwich from the tray. With a small bite, she patted the corner of her mouth. “This will be the best year ever. You shall see. Mama will take care of everything.”
Charlotte smoothed the napkin on her lap.
Mama dolloped thick cream on a petite scone. She seemed to be calm. Calm was very rarely a good sign with Stasi.
“How long will you be staying in South Carolina?” Charlotte reached for a crust-less cucumber sandwich. Not eating at tea was paramount to treason.
Dabbing the corner of her mouth, Mama finished chewing before answering. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to rush our visit. After all, I have nothing to do.”
“Of course not. If you’re here, who is watching the gallery?”
“I closed the gallery for the holidays. I thought that would be as you wish. You’ve taken my access to the accounts away. Pulled my artists. What could I do?” She shrugged. “I told all of your employees to enjoy their long break with their families.”
“But Mama, the holidays are our busiest time. With tourists. Gifts. We need the money to keep the gallery open.”
Mama drew a delicate sip of tea. Setting her cup on the saucer, she stretched her hands long against the white cloth. “What do you care about keeping the gallery open? You cut me off from the funds needed to pay artists, to pay the bills, to pay staff. How could you possibly care about the gallery?” She spoke in a low controlled voice, sending fear rippling through Charlotte.
“Remy or I could release funds. You can still write checks. Remy recommended we have two co-signers for the time being. Just while he finishes the audit.” Charlotte bit the corner of her sandwich, hoping the terror threatening to engulf her remained concealed from her mother.
“And you expect me to jump through hoops like a dog at a circus to do you a favor?”
“Of course not, Mama. I appreciate all of your help. But the gallery needs to stay open. It’s my livelihood. My business.”
“Pish. You will have your father’s money. Money that should have been mine years ago. You can fund the gallery for decades. You can fund all sorts of projects. Give gifts.”
“I can’t funn
el money into a failing business, and if I don’t have clients shopping for art that is exactly what the gallery will be. A failing business.”
“Do you question me? Didn’t you put me in charge? Didn’t you beg me, ‘Mama, I have to go to South Carolina to honor my father’s wishes. Please take care of the shop.’ I have a life. I have needs. But you don’t care about me. You are always take. Take. Take. Take. I give because I love you. I’m your mother.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Charlotte smiled. “Yes, I did ask you. Thank you. If you think it best the gallery close for a few weeks, then I’m sure it is the best choice.” She stretched her hand out to her mother.
A small candle of hope burned for Mama in Charlotte’s heart. For all her mother’s self-indulgent actions, Charlotte could not fully reconcile her mother with the criminal activity Remy discovered. Perhaps Mama had been used. Coerced. Perhaps she was innocent. Charlotte knew in an instant what her wish for the New Year was.
“Well, then my darling, you must trust your mama.” Her red tipped fingers stretched across the table, clutching Charlotte’s hand. “You know I will always do what’s best for family. A lesson you clearly haven’t learned yet. But you will. I just need to find a few more ways to instruct you. Unfortunately, sometimes lessons to children require pain. It is biblical; spare the rod, spoil the child.”
Beads of sweat popped against Charlotte’s forehead. Hope slipped from her heart.
The grip of Mama’s hand over hers cut off circulation. Visions of the explosion and the fire fought for center stage in her mind. Had the tragedies been inflicted by strangers? Or were they a mother’s lessons?
21
A light drizzle slid down the cloudy window of Cade’s motel room five miles from the field office in Charleston. He rotated his neck, popping the joints. Shifting his focus from the dismal New Year’s Day, he punched the passcode on his phone. A picture of Georgie and Charlotte Dixon staring at the smoldering guest house filled the screen, Georgie’s arm draped around Charlotte’s sagging shoulders.
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