by Kaye Dacus
He drew in a deep breath, wiped his mouth on the white cloth napkin, and laid it beside his plate. “Mrs. Landry, while I thank you for making suggestions for the wedding, I would ask that you cease now. Your daughter has hired a professional wedding planner to take care of all those details.”
Mrs. Landry’s mouth hung open, exhibiting the remains of the pasta she’d been chewing. “I beg your pardon!” She slammed her fork down hard enough to make the glassware on the table tremble and clink together. “Courtney, are you going to sit there and let him talk to me like that?”
Tears brimmed in the girl’s eyes. “Mama, please. You’re making a scene.”
“He started it.” Mrs. Landry pointed across the table at George.
How had Courtney turned out to be so delightful? He had to get her away from the harpy before Mrs. Landry ruined this experience for her. He dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table, then stood and offered his hand to Courtney. She folded her napkin beside her plate and rose, not looking at her mother.
“Mrs. Landry, dinner was—enlightening. I will take Courtney home.” He gave the sputtering older woman a curt nod and led Courtney out of the restaurant.
Outside, Courtney threw her arms around his waist. Taken aback, he froze, hands hovering away from his sides.
“Thank you so much. I’ve been wanting to tell her all afternoon to shut up. She offered to pay for part of the wedding, but probably only so she can have some say in what happens.”
He patted her back. “Do you want her involved in the planning process?”
“No!” She released him. “I don’t even want her at the wedding, much less having any say about it.”
“Now, miss, she is your mother.”
Once again, tears threatened to overflow the innocent brown eyes. “That’s just it. She is my mother, and she knows exactly how to get under my skin. I don’t know how I’m going to last four months in her house.”
“You don’t have to.” The valet arrived with the car. George held the door for her, then went around and climbed in. “You’re going to direct me to her house, and you are going to pack your bags and move into your fiancé’s home.”
Her full lips started to form into a smile. “Mama will flip when she finds out.”
They’d been at the house nearly twenty minutes, and Courtney was halfway through moving her clothes from the bureau to a suitcase, when her mother stormed into the room. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Packing, Mama.” Courtney continued arranging the folded T-shirts in a layer on top of the blue jeans.
George moved in between them as Mrs. Landry reached out to grab Courtney’s arm. He intercepted her hand. “Kindly allow Miss Courtney to continue what she’s doing.”
Mrs. Landry gasped and jerked away. “How dare you come between me and my daughter!” Her voice rose to a pitch that would soon have all the dogs in the gated, exclusive subdivision barking. “Where do you think you’re going to go? To live in sin with him?” She practically shrieked the accusatory words.
“Mama!”
“Mrs. Landry, that is quite enough.” George used every ounce of training and past experience to keep his voice even and low. “Courtney is going to move into one of the third-floor bedrooms. I will be staying in a room in the basement—beside the housekeeper’s room. Nothing untoward will happen.”
“If you’re not—then why—?”
“Because it’s obvious she cannot stay here one moment longer.”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Landry folded her arms across her ample— and most likely not natural—chest. From the way her face screwed up, she seemed to be trying to conjure some tears. “I can’t believe you’re going to choose him over me! Is that what you really want? Because if you leave here, that’s what you’re doing. I’ll…I’ll never speak to you again.”
Courtney kept packing; but her hands shook, and she tossed items in the suitcase haphazardly. George mirrored Mrs. Landry’s movements to stay between them.
“Court?” Mrs. Landry glared at him when her daughter didn’t answer. She planted her fists on her hips. “Fine. But you’ll come back here begging my forgiveness before too long.” She turned and flounced out of the room.
“I’m through here.” Courtney slapped the lid of the suitcase down and zipped it closed. “If I’ve left anything behind, we can come back for it tomorrow when she’s at the tanning salon.”
Although happy to be leaving, George dreaded going downstairs and walking through the house again. Gold-plated cherubs and low-quality reproduction Greek and Roman statuary crowded every inch of space possible.
The wheels of the suitcase caught on the faux tiger-skin rug—at least he hoped it was fake—that covered Italian ceramic tile in the front foyer. He heaved the bag up and carried it to the door.
Her baggage barely fit into the car trunk.
“I’m so sorry about my mom.” Courtney rested her elbow on the windowsill but leaned toward him as the cabriolet ragtop closed. He didn’t want to take any chances with the thunder growling in the distance. “She always wanted to be rich—I remember she and Daddy used to argue all the time about how she wasted money on junk. Then after he died…”
He started the car and left with all due haste. “How long ago did your father pass away?”
“Ten years ago in April—an accident at work. Mama got a lawyer, and the chemical plant settled out of court for millions of dollars. Mama finally had more money than she could spend on all of the chintzy junk she’d always wanted. Lucky for me, she decided to send me to a private prep school, where I lived on campus nine months out of the year.”
That explained how she’d escaped unspoiled. “I’ve seen enough people like her in my time. You don’t have to apologize for her actions or words.”
Thank God his employer’s home lay on the other side of the city from her mother. Unfortunately, Mrs. Landry had been to the house and could probably find her way back should the fancy strike her. His stomach churned—although it could have just been hunger pains since he’d only eaten a few bites of his dinner before making the grand exit with Courtney in tow. “You don’t think your mother will show up on the doorstep, do you?”
“Nope. There’s no way she could find it again. She didn’t pay attention on the way over, and she fired that driver this afternoon because he didn’t change lanes when she told him to.”
At the front door, he taught Courtney the security code to get in. She insisted on carrying two of the smaller suitcases, while he managed the large one and the hanging bag. Why had he decided to put her on the third floor? The second floor would have been much easier on his knees than climbing all these stairs.
Courtney chose the room at the end of the hall—the one that would make a “perfect nursery,” and one of the few that had a full set of furniture. Pale pink walls and white and pink linens hugged the room in femininity. Perfect for the very feminine creature who stood beside him—whose stomach emitted a roaring growl.
She rubbed her tummy and grinned at him. “I’m kinda hungry. Think we can raid the kitchen?”
He returned the smile, his own stomach feeling grumbly. “I’d like to introduce you to Mama Ketty, the housekeeper and, for now, cook.”
As he’d hoped, Mama Ketty cooed over Courtney and insisted on cooking dinner for her, even given the late hour of nine o’clock—Mama Ketty’s normal bedtime. Mrs. Agee bustled around the kitchen in her bathrobe and slippers, silver hair mounted on enormous curlers and covered with another colorful scarf.
“Show me your room, George.” Courtney slid off the barstool.
“There isn’t much to show.” He ushered her down the hall, opened the door, and motioned for her to enter.
“This can’t be your bedroom. No, you’ll have to move into one of the upstairs bedrooms.”
He laughed. “No, this is just the antechamber.”
She opened the second door and looked around. “Well. It’s big enough.” She disappeared through a
nother door. “And the bathroom is great—better than mine at Mama’s house.” Coming back out, she pinned him with an amused gaze. “Tomorrow we go furniture shopping. I know you have a budget to furnish your room—I heard that part of the conversation at least. I know all the best places where you can get nice stuff cheap.”
Furniture shopping with Courtney would help seal his assumed identity. He pushed aside the guilt that threatened every time he thought about the untenable situation he’d allowed himself to become entangled in. How was this going to reflect on his witness as a Christian when the truth finally came out?
“Now, George, it won’t be as bad as what you’re thinking—no, I can tell by your expression you don’t like shopping. But it’ll be fun; I promise.”
He immediately composed his expression and bowed his head toward her. “As long as I don’t end up with a pink faux-fur rug, I would appreciate your help.”
Laughing, she tapped his arm with her fist. “Not funny.”
“You two ’bout ready to eat?” Mama Ketty stood in the doorway, arms folded.
They followed her back out into the kitchen and sat at the bar, where she’d put plates piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns. Beside the main dish sat smaller plates with a stack of pancakes dripping with butter and syrup.
“Breakfast food’s my specialty. Coffee’s on—decaf—and I”— she paused to kiss Courtney on the cheek—“am going”—she kissed George’s cheek—“to bed.”
“Good night, Mama Ketty.”
“Thank you so much, Mama Ketty,” Courtney said around a bite of pancakes.
George poured coffee while Courtney wolfed down the food. She was halfway through when her cell phone sounded a familiar tune. Her eyes lit up, and her countenance glowed. To give her some privacy, he took his plate and coffee into the staff dining room—an octagonal chamber with a round, eight-person table as the centerpiece.
He’d no more than sat down when Courtney squealed with excitement and rushed into the room, phone still pressed to her ear. “Can you take me to the airport tomorrow? Charter terminal?”
He frowned but nodded. “Of course.”
She jumped up and down a little bit and returned to the kitchen. He ate slowly, enjoying the disparate flavors of the foods—the briny crisp bacon, spicy link sausage, eggs oozing with cheddar cheese, all washed down with rich, dark-roast coffee.
“I’m going to New York—and then he’s taking me to Paris to buy me my trousseau.” Courtney leaned over him from behind, hugging him around the neck.
She’d needed something to take her mind off the scene at her mother’s home. “I know you’ll enjoy that.”
“He also said something about apartments for me, and you could give me the addresses?”
“Of course.” Three months ago George had signed leases on town houses in both cities when his employer decided to propose but wanted to keep the relationship a secret. Besides, she wouldn’t have stayed in his apartment with him anyway. She wouldn’t risk her reputation that way. “When do you expect to return?”
“In about three weeks.”
“Three—” His mouth went dry.
“Yeah. Sorry to leave at such a crucial point in the planning, but this is the only time his schedule will allow—probably the only time we’ll be able to see each other much before the wedding.” She kissed his cheek. “Well, I’m off to bed. I rinsed my plates and cup and put them on the counter by the sink.”
“That’s fine.” His mind reeled. Three weeks. The three most critical weeks for planning the engagement party—scouting out a location, securing a band, selecting invitations, creating the list…
And he’d have to do it alone with the most attractive woman he’d ever met.
Chapter 5
Left on his own after Courtney’s departure, George found getting out and about in Bonneterre eye-opening. The mental image he’d created of a midsized city in central Louisiana had been built solely on anecdotes of his employer’s childhood and a few films he’d seen supposedly set in the area.
He hadn’t quite believed he’d hear Cajun-French spoken in the stores and zydeco music on the radio or see alligators swimming around in swamps, but he also hadn’t expected a teeming, modern minimetropolis, either.
Using his need for furniture as an excuse for leaving the house early each morning and not returning until late in the evening, he explored the city on his own. Although Mama Ketty fed him well, he discovered Beignets S’il Vous Plait, a chain of cafés around town that only served the powdered sugar–dusted, fried french puff pastries and the best coffee he’d ever tasted. The last three mornings, he’d started out his jaunt with a tall chicory coffee and a plate of three beignets.
He really wanted to explore Old Towne, Town Square, and the Riverwalk, but being in the vicinity of Anne Hawthorne’s office with the possibility of running into her stopped him.
Slipping into the café’s men’s room, he washed the stickiness from his hands and checked his shirt for any signs of white dust from his morning snack. He’d have to go back to the house and change clothes before meeting with Anne this afternoon. Khaki pants and a navy polo shirt weren’t his idea of a professional appearance.
He turned the air conditioner up to high when he got back in the car. Ten in the morning, and the Mercedes’ external temperature gauge registered eighty-eight degrees. If only Bonneterre were located farther north—much farther north—he could call it ideal.
His cell phone began to play Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa.” Smiling, he turned down the radio to answer the call.
“Good morning, Miss Landry. How may I assist you?”
“George, I just got off the phone with Anne. She’s going to make some changes to the contract and have you sign it. Can you pull together the address book so we can get a mailing list to her for the engagement party?”
“I believe it would be better if I handled the invitations. Since Miss Hawthorne is supposed to believe I am your fiancé, she would find it rather odd when my name isn’t on the announcement, wouldn’t she?”
Courtney giggled. He’d come to enjoy that sound so much. “Okay. Well, can you tell her that when you see her?”
“Yes, miss.” She never demanded. She always requested. “Have you settled into the apartment?”
“Oh, it’s so cool—I have the best view of Central Park from my window. And I’m in walking distance of all of the fabulous designer stores in Manhattan.” She giggled again. “Oh, and George, thank you.”
Heat rose in his cheeks. “What for?”
“For the pink and the lace and the ribbons. I know you had to be the one who had my room decorated for me.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Courtney.”
“Speaking of decorating—how is your furniture shopping going?”
“The stores you recommended were wonderful. I think you’ll approve when you return.”
“I can’t wait to see it. Oh, the car’s here. Gotta run.”
“Good-bye, miss.”
“G’bye, George.”
After losing track of time exploring a few shopping centers near the large enclosed mall, George returned to the house, stomach growling. He parked in back and headed for his room to shower and rid himself of the sticky feeling from running in and out of stores in the heat and humidity. He was going to have to rush to be on time for the three o’clock appointment with Anne.
The cell phone rang again while he stood in the closet, peeling off the sweaty clothes. “Hello, George Laurence here.”
“Mr. Laurence, this is Anne Hawthorne. I wondered if we might push our appointment back to three thirty. I’ve had to take care of an issue with a vendor and will be late returning to my office.”
The longer he could put it off, the better. “Three thirty will be fine.”
“Thank you so much.”
George ended the call and jumped in the shower. Then, although he hated to do it because of the heat, he dressed in black summer-weight
wool trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a tie.
His phone beeped. A message from his employer. He grimaced at his reflection as he straightened his tie. Oh, to be able to turn off his cell phone and not have to jump to do someone else’s bidding at any time of the day or night. Whoever had invented the mobile phone should be publicly executed.
He listened to the message and made notes on tasks he needed to do, e-mails he needed to send, and plans he needed to make on his employer’s behalf. All of it could wait until later.
The luxury convertible twinkled at George in the shimmering sunlight as he approached it. Too bad he couldn’t keep this indulgence. When his employer arrived, George would have to hand over the keys of this beauty and find something more in keeping with his own income.
Crosstown traffic was heavy for midday. He thought he noticed a group of women seated at alfresco tables outside of a coffeehouse admiring him, but he didn’t want to turn around and look. He never ceased to be amazed at how the appearance of money could make women pretend to find him attractive.
He’d never had any delusions about his physical appearance. He’d been a slight lad growing up—a slight lad with an angular face, big nose, and unevenly spaced teeth. Although his teeth had straightened out somewhat as he grew up, he still tried to keep them hidden as much as he could. His nose, large to begin with, had been broken in a school rugby game when he was fourteen, so was a bit asymmetrical, too. His shoulders were broad, and he was tall; but if he didn’t work out with weights at least four times a week, he could hide behind a lamppost just by turning sideways. He kept his light brown hair short, and several years ago, he’d started to develop wrinkles around his eyes.
Put him in an expensive Mercedes, and the women would look. Stand him beside someone like his employer or Forbes Guidry, and no one saw George Laurence.
“Lord, I know this has been a recurring theme in my prayers, but You know how much I would like to marry and have a family. I cannot ask a woman to live with the kind of schedule I must keep for my current employment. Please show me a way to do something else and still remain in this country.” George looked around to make sure no one saw him talking aloud in an otherwise empty car. What did it matter? It wasn’t as if he were talking to himself. He was talking to Someone more important.