by Liz Talley
Sue’s fisted hands rested on her hips and her head wobbled as she spewed her venom. “One where the preacher and his wife are having serious enough marital problems that they separate, yet they won’t tell even their closest friends what’s going on. It looks bad. Real bad. And I’m not going to sit around and wait until the Taylor’s Grove Church becomes the laughing stock of Marshall County.”
Faith pulled off her gardening gloves. “Have you and Ed ever had problems, Sue?”
“Well, of course we’ve had problems. Every married couple has problems.”
Faith leaned forward and used a stage whisper. “Did you want those problems talked about?”
“I didn’t put them on public display by moving out of the house.” The smug smile came back out to play at the edges of her mouth.
“And neither did Sawyer.” Faith took the gloves in one hand and slapped them against the other to knock the dirt off, imagining the hand was Sue’s smirk. “But he’s who you’re going after.”
Sue’s chin lifted. “He’s the leader of the church.”
“Or maybe he’s the easier of the two targets.” Faith opened the cage on her own anger. “You know if you come after me, I won’t take any of your crap.”
Sue gasped and Faith rolled her eyes at the drama.
“Oh, like you’ve never heard the word before. Your daddy started the church and you control the purse and therefore you think you control Sawyer.” Maybe Sue had been right all these years. Telling somebody off did feel good! “What you may not realize is that Sawyer doesn’t just put up with your crap because of your position. He genuinely likes you, Sue, which isn’t true of most of the people in this community. He somehow manages to see through your hateful, mean ways to some goodness inside you—though goodness knows where. Did you know that? Sawyer’s your staunchest supporter. ‘Sue has a good heart,’ he always says. ‘She means well.’ Well, look at where that faith in humanity has gotten him.”
Sue’s face was the color of the beet Faith had unearthed a few minutes earlier. “I’ll make you sorry you ever crossed me, Faith Franklin. I’ll get to the bottom of this secret you’re harboring, and when I do, I’ll have you run out of town on a rail. And your husband, too. He’ll never lead another church in this county or anywhere near here, if I have my say.”
“Oh, that’s what you do best, Sue. You have your say...whether it’s the truth or not.” Faith took a menacing step in the woman’s direction, brandishing the weeding fork she still held. “Now, get out of my yard before I throw you out. Lacy’s plants don’t need any more of your...fertilizer.”
Sue nearly ran from the yard.
Faith watched with amusement, breathing hard and thinking the woman might actually vault over the gate in her haste to leave.
She gathered up the gardening tools, the task having suddenly lost its appeal. Guilt tightened her chest for participating in such an ugly scene in Lacy’s lovely place of tranquility.
She needed to finish the calls she’d started two days ago, and then she’d go see Sawyer and tell him what had just happened. He’d been sure the Board of Fellowship would follow Sue’s lead. Well, her tirade had pretty much put the last nail in that coffin.
The house was cool and stepping inside was like putting a soothing balm on her temper.
Faith sat down at the table with the list of numbers she’d jotted down in her quest for Jacques Martin and picked up the phone.
The placement office at Murray State didn’t have any information on the former student, nor did the Office of Alumni Affairs. But the woman there had been most helpful. She’d suggested Faith use the yearbook from her college sorority to help contact her sorority sisters—one of them might have information on Jacques Martin.
It was a splendid plan, and had kept Faith busy the past two days catching up with old friends and rehashing old times.
She dialed Tina Lofton’s number and listened to it ring. No answer. No answering machine. No voice mail. She’d try that one again later.
On to Mary Jane Mitchell. She had only the first three numbers punched in when the phone vibrated in her hand.
“Faith? It’s Cheryl Wheeler. Cheryl Gates Wheeler. I got your message.”
An image of Cheryl Gates as she looked thirty years ago settled in Faith’s mind. “It’s so good to hear from you, Cheryl. Thanks for calling me back.”
They chatted for a while, catching up on the years that had been swept away like they’d been caught in a flash flood.
“So, Cheryl, do you remember Jacques Martin?” Faith tried to modulate her voice so it didn’t sound too full of excitement...or trepidation.
“That hot French guy? Nobody could forget him.” Cheryl laughed. “Didn’t you two hook up on graduation night?”
Hearing the secret she’d harbored for so many years spoken aloud as if it were common knowledge caused Faith’s throat to tighten. When Cheryl said it, it sounded so worldly and modern, So opposite of the real her, but perhaps the woman she might have been if she’d not spent the past twenty-nine years as the preacher’s wife in Taylor’s Grove.
“Yeah, just that once, though.” She forced a smile, trying to borrow that worldly persona. She’d practiced what she would say and fell easily into the lie. “But my husband and I are thinking about a trip to France, and I thought I might try to look Jacques up. Would you happen to know if he’s still in Paris?”
“He is still in Paris,” Cheryl answered, and Faith tilted the phone away from her mouth and nose to keep her sporadic breathing from sounding creepy. “Or, at least, he was two years ago. Kay and George Yancy had dinner with him. You remember Kay and George? George and Jacques were fraternity brothers.”
Faith swerved the phone down to her mouth. “Yeah, I remember Kay and George well.” Her hand shook as she grabbed the pen and notepad.
“Well, they live in Frankfort now. George is a state congressman.” That came as no surprise. “But we see them occasionally. I’m sure they could put you in touch with him.”
Her? In touch with Jacques? Lord, no! “That would be great. Could you give me their number?” Faith’s throat felt as tight as her grip on the pen.
“Sure, just let me get Kay’s personal number, one second.”
A few seconds later Cheryl returned to the phone with that fateful number and Faith jotted it down on her notepad.
“Just so you know, Faith, I tried calling Kay a few days ago and found out she and George are on a cruise. They won’t be home until Sunday, so, if I were you, I’d wait until Monday or Tuesday to call.”
“That’s no problem. I’m not in any hurry.” Faith’s throat relaxed a little, knowing she had a few days’ reprieve before she had to act on this. “But thanks for the number, Cheryl. I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. We should get together sometime.”
“Yes, definitely, when life isn’t so hectic,” Faith answered. Which is never.
“I hear you.” Cheryl paused, and Faith didn’t pick up the conversation. “Well, I’ll let you go. I hope you enjoy your trip.”
Trip? Oh, the made-up trip to France. “Yes, thank you. Hopefully we’ll actually end up going.” Adding the qualifier softened the lie in her mind. “Thanks again, Cheryl.”
After the goodbyes, Faith stared at the number she’d scribbled. Her hand had been shaking so much, it would be difficult for anybody but her to make it out.
Kay. Tara. Jacques.
Now, with the possibility of Jacques being as close as three calls away, Faith’s courage began to slip.
She hadn’t thought about the possibility of Jacques Martin’s return to her life. She’d imagined Tara meeting him. Coming back to Taylor’s Grove, thrilled with the new discovery. She’d never considered that the man himself might show up, too.
The air conditioner kicked o
n, and the vent above her head directed a cold breeze down her back, causing a shiver to course through her.
What would it be like to see Jacques Martin again? Would she have heart palpitations? Yeah, but not because of any attraction to him.
Because of Sawyer.
With everything else he was going through, could she do this to him, knowing it could be the end of the marriage she wanted so desperately to save?
The choice had come down to choosing her daughter’s happiness or her husband’s and therefore her own.
A tear fell on the paper, smearing the ink and obliterating the last two numbers.
She might have considered that as a sign not to start the sequence of actions if the number wasn’t already etched into her brain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE MATTER WAS OUT OF Garrett’s hands now. He could only hope things went as he’d planned and that he hadn’t made a mistake.
It all seemed a little surreal that Saturday morning had come at last. That they were strolling hand in hand toward a bench where, unbeknownst to Tara, they would await the meeting with her birth father. He, with his heart in his mouth, hardly able to concentrate enough to put together a coherent sentence. She, in her yellow dress, smiling and bright.
“You look like a freshly picked sunflower...or maybe a drop of the sun.” He kissed her hand as they walked. “You’ve certainly brought light and warmth into my life...and Dylan’s.”
The smile she rewarded him with both soothed his heart and made it ache.
For the millionth time, he wondered if Tara would pick up a familial vibe or notice a resemblance between her father and herself.... Though he’d exaggerated the similarity in looks in order to appeal to Jacques Martin’s ego, it definitely existed. Her mouth was an exact copy, but her eyes and nose belonged to her mom.
As they approached Place des Vosges, another worry niggled at his brain. Why in the hell, with Paris’s abundance of parks, had he chosen this particular place for their meeting? It seemed a cruel twist of fate.
Paris’s oldest square, beautiful in its symmetry, had drawn its share of famous residents, and Parisians and visitors were still drawn to its beauty.
But it was also a well-known place for dueling, for God’s sake, and that irony caused the sweet morning air to leave a bitter taste on Garrett’s tongue as he spoke.
“King Henri the second was wounded here in a tournament.” Garrett guided Tara to an empty bench. A quick glance around the immediate area turned up no Jacques Martin, which relieved and agitated Garrett at the same time. “He died of the wounds.”
“Poor Henri.”
“Yeah.” He tried to ignore the irony in that statement, too, and changed the subject by pointing to maison number six. “Victor Hugo lived there. It’s a museum now that houses some of his things. Did you know he went mad?”
He watched Tara’s mouth curve down at the corners. “No, but I can believe it. I’ve never cared for Les Mis. I mean, it was uplifting, but the story was so sad.”
“It must not have given him much joy, either. He took to carving furniture...with his teeth, earning him the nickname Beaver Hugo.”
Laughter rippled out of her. “You’re kidding, right?”
Garrett held up three fingers. “Boy Scout’s honor. Well, not about the nickname, but the part about carving out furniture with his teeth. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve read.” He grinned. “Probably started out as a pencil chewer.”
“So maybe the madness was caused from all the lead he ingested.” She said it with a straight face that dissolved into a giggle. “Nope, I don’t believe you.”
“God, you’re beautiful when you laugh.” He nabbed her smile with a kiss that she returned with enough enthusiasm to make him wish they were home in bed.
She jumped, then her lips tore away from him, and she leaned over. “Oh, look!” she cooed.
A small blue ball lay at her feet with a tiny Yorkie rushing toward it in pursuit.
Garrett looked up to see Jacques Martin watching them intently, and his breath froze in his chest.
He counted the man’s steps as he approached although instinct had already told him the distance between them.
Ten paces.
* * *
TARA PICKED UP THE BALL as the Yorkie skidded to a halt at her feet.
He didn’t bark, just looked at her with bright, expectant eyes, twitching with excitement. The ball she held matched the dog’s turquoise collar, which was set with jewels that sparkled in the sunlight like real diamonds.
Surely not. But the man who approached them—the dog’s owner—had an affluent air about him that screamed “Money!” and changed her mind to maybe so.
“Bonjour, madame...monsieur.” He rattled off something she didn’t understand, and, as she had gotten used to doing, she turned to Garrett for a translation.
His eyes cut to the stranger and back. “He said he’s sorry for the clumsy throw.”
“Ah, English?” the man asked.
“American.” Tara leaned over to allow the dog to sniff her hand. He rewarded her with a couple of licks. “Can I pick him up?”
“But, of course.” The Frenchman nodded toward the dog’s continued licks. “Attila likes you.”
She chuckled at the name. “Attila the Hun?” The tiny dog felt almost weightless in her hand and barely made an indent on her dress when she placed him on her lap. He had way too much energy to just lie there, though, and scrambled up to lick her face. She laughed as he covered her nose with doggy kisses. “More like Attila the Honey, if you ask me.”
A wide smile split the Frenchman’s face and his dark eyes brightened. “You make a good joke.”
Nice-looking for a middle-aged guy, the man was of medium height and build, with dark hair combed back from his face. Heavy brows framed dark brown eyes with a keen and perceptive gaze that seemed to miss nothing. His pink shirt was crisp and tucked neatly into trousers that appeared to be of black silk. Expensive-looking black leather shoes and belt. A leash that matched the dog’s collar dangled from his hand. His whole demeanor exuded elegance—something she’d grown used to in Paris.
Attila flipped around, looking at her over his shoulder, and wagged his almost nonexistent tail.
“He wants you to throw the ball, but not too far.”
Tara waited for a strolling couple to get past and then tossed the ball a few yards away.
Attila shot from her lap, catching up with the ball before it stopped rolling. He stretched his little mouth wide to pick it up and skipped his way back, jumping on the bench beside her and placing it back in her lap.
“What a good boy you are!” Tara scratched behind his ears, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head to give her full access to his favorite spot. “He’s so adorable. How old is he?”
“Seven months.” Pride showed in their visitor’s eyes almost as if he were talking about his child.
Tara scooted closer to Garrett and pointed to the empty space beside her. “Would you like to sit down?”
The man gave a slow nod. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
“Yes, she is.” Garrett gave her leg a pat. Attila added his approval by stretching over Tara and licking his hand.
When the gentleman sat down beside her, the pleasant fragrance of his cologne filled her head. Unlike the light, clean aroma that surrounded Garrett, this was a heavier scent, exotic and mysterious. Perhaps a good match to the man who wore it. But the two extremes dueled for dominance in the air around her, with a distinct advantage determined by the way she tilted her head.
She picked Attila up and buried her nose in the soft fur, finding a third scent that was decidedly feminine. “You smell good.” She rubbed her nose against him again, and he licked her cheek in response.
“My wife’
s parfum.” The man rolled his eyes. “I tell her a dog with such a name should not smell like a woman, but she puts a little on her hands and strokes it into his fur.”
Tara fought back her own eye roll. She couldn’t imagine her mom putting perfume on a dog. And never in her wildest imagination could she imagine her dad walking a dog that wore a diamond-studded collar. The absurdity almost dislodged a snort she kept at bay only through sheer will.
She tossed the ball again, and the dog sprang from the bench.
The Frenchman’s laugh was low. “He already has you trained. Now he will allow you to throw the ball for him all day.”
“That’s okay.” Tara clapped when Attila grabbed the ball and held it up like he was showing off his prowess. “We don’t have any place we need to be for a while.”
“So you are American?” The man gave her a sidelong glance and passed a hand over his brow. The heavy Rolex on his wrist glinted in the sun—another thing she couldn’t imagine ever seeing on her dad. If Sawyer were ever given such a thing, he would sell it and send the money to some mission.
“Yes, I’m from Kentucky,” she answered.
“Ah!” Attila jumped onto the bench between them and the man took his turn at throwing. “I have visited Kentucky, I believe. But only once, and that was many years ago.”
Garrett jerked beside her, coughing hard several times.
“You okay?” she asked and he nodded. She turned back to the stranger. “You should go back there sometime.” Most of the French people she’d talked with on this trip weren’t familiar with Kentucky. It was nice to converse with someone who had some familiarity with the place. “It’s really beautiful on Kentucky Lake in the summer.”
The Frenchman shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll return someday.”
Garrett coughed again, this time louder and harder. She hoped he wasn’t coming down with something.
“Hey, babe.” Apparently he’d gotten the coughing under control enough to speak. “I’m going to find a bottle of water. Be right back, okay?”
She nodded.