The question took him by surprise. “No, I haven’t.”
“No children then?”
Jeb shook his head. Much to his parents’ lament. They’d been singing the settle-down-and-give-me-a-grandchild song for several years now.
Foy’s gaze turned inward and unexpectedly somber. “I have,” he said. “My one and only, a boy. Back then it wasn’t customary for the fathers to be in the delivery rooms with the mothers, but hell would have frozen over before they’d have kept me out of that room.”
Given what he knew of Foy thus far, that seemed perfectly within character, Jeb thought.
“For hours and hours, it went on, her labor,” he continued, his voice strangely even, absent of its usual enthusiastic inflection. “I have never seen anyone in my life in that much pain and never felt more helpless in the face of it. She bore it all, my Annie. She squeezed my hand so hard she broke two of my fingers.”
Like a badge of honor, he held them up for Jeb’s benefit. They were crooked, bent in two different angles and had obviously healed without a proper setting first.
“Limp with exhaustion, soaked with sweat, she’d smile at me between contractions—smile,” he emphasized wonderingly, “because she’d fallen in love with our baby the instant she’d learned she was pregnant and she understood the reward waiting at the end of the agony.” Foy paused, swallowed, his expression grave. “I didn’t, at that point. All I could see was her suffering and, with every cry of pain, I just knew she wasn’t going to survive it, that I was going to lose her. It didn’t matter that the doctor told me that everything that was happening to her was perfectly natural, that she wasn’t in any danger. I didn’t see how her little body could go through all of that and not fail.” Foy hesitated, bit the inside of his cheek, and a sense of unease slid up Jeb’s spine. “She was the first to notice that something was wrong,” he said. “Because he didn’t cry, you see. He never made a sound.”
Jeb inwardly swore. Jesus…
“I was too busy looking at my boy—my son, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh—and falling hopelessly in love.” A soft smile caught his lips and he shook his head, clearly lost in the memory. “It’s true that men are visual, because I can tell you that, while I was excited about having a baby and made all the right noise and said everything that was expected of me, I just didn’t get it. I didn’t recognize the wonder and awe and significance of what that meant…until I saw him, and the world changed.” He released a slow breath, took another pull from his flask. “All of that happened in the space of a few heartbeats, and then, in a few more, that new world crumbled.” Foy glanced up, held his gaze. “It broke me,” he said simply. “And my wife, whose own heart was broken, whose body was spent and bleeding, turned and held on to me so that I wouldn’t fall to pieces. That, my friend, is strength.” He looked away, surveyed the room once more. “They’d wanted to take him away, didn’t want to let her see, let alone hold our son, but Annie wasn’t having it. She insisted that they give him to her—” He frowned thoughtfully, hesitated again. “—and I’ll never forget the look on her face, the bittersweet longing in her eyes as she slipped her fingers over his cheek…” Foy cleared his throat. “We named him Beau, after her father. She sang him a lullaby, thanked the Almighty for the privilege of carrying him, then dressed him in the clothes we’d bought to bring him home in so that he could be properly buried. They’re side by side now, the pair of them, and my name has already been cut into the stone.” He shrugged, blew out a breath. “All it’s waiting on is for me to die. She made me promise to live until then—really live—so that’s what I’m doing. I never broke a promise to her and I never will.”
Jeb swallowed. “She sounds like an amazing woman.”
Foy chuckled, inclined his head. “That she was,” he said fondly. “Let me tell you, any man who thinks of them as the weaker sex is a fool, and any man who thinks he doesn’t need one is an idiot. We weren’t designed to live alone. There’s a reason Tab A fits into Slot B.”
Er… While Jeb appreciated that Foy had shared his story with him—it certainly gave him more insight into his pretend grandfather—he sincerely hoped this wasn’t going to segue into the birds and the bees discussion. Admittedly, Foy had the benefit of wisdom and experience when it came to women and relationships, but when it came to sex Jeb was confident that he didn’t need any direction. A subject change was in order.
“Sophie tells me that this ball was only set into motion yesterday. That it hadn’t been in the works for months.”
“She’s right. I lied.”
Jeb blinked, stunned that he’d admit to it so readily. “Why?”
“Because Mary told me to.”
That’s it? Really? “Did Mary tell you why she wanted you to lie to me?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. These ladies know how to put on a party and Mary gets frisky when she’s been into the sangria.” He grinned up at him. “If I can get the band to play some John Legend, it’s going to be a win all the way around for me.” He leaned in as though sharing a secret. “Word of advice. Don’t just dance to the slow songs. Get out there on the floor and put a little hip action into it.” He gave a little swivel of his own for demonstration. “Do a little advertising, if you get my drift. You save the slow tunes for the end of the evening, when it’s time to close the deal.”
Before Jeb could formulate a reply—not that he could think of one off the top of his head—Foy waved at Mary and took off. Determined to live. Keeping his promise.
Another look around the room confirmed that Sophie still hadn’t returned from the ladies’ room. He frowned. Granted her clothing probably made a trip to the bathroom more time consuming than it did for him, but he really would have assumed she’d be back by now. A thought struck.
Had she left? he wondered. Had she changed her mind about staying for the evening for appearance’s sake?
Given the way she’d been dodging him, it was entirely possible, Jeb thought grimly, a dart of disappointment mushrooming in his chest.
Feeling suddenly ill at ease and twitchy, he walked out into the hall, looked in both directions and, while there were several people huddled in clusters of conversation, she wasn’t among them. He didn’t want to linger outside the bathroom door like some sort of pervert, but at this point he didn’t know what else to do. As luck would have it, Lila emerged from the ladies’ room.
“Evening, Lila,” he said, smiling at her.
She inclined her head, eyes twinkling. “Jeb. I hope that you’re enjoying yourself. I couldn’t help but notice that you were dancing with Sophie earlier,” she said. “Sweet girl, our Sophie. And so pretty, too.”
“Yes, she is,” he agreed, recognizing another sales pitch. He looked pointedly at the restroom door and hesitated awkwardly. “She, uh… You didn’t happen to see her, did you?”
Lila frowned at first, then finally took his meaning. Her eyes rounded. “No, I didn’t, sorry. It’s empty.”
He straightened, smiled, though it felt weird on his face. “Right.”
She’d bolted.
Left him here horny and miserable, in a tux, the lone actor in this two-person play they’d been forced to perform. The idea of going back into that room, alone and pitiable—an odd sound emerged from his own head and he realized it was his teeth grinding against one another—while the rest of the attendees got hammered and paired off made him want to howl. He could cheerfully throttle her, Jeb thought, stunned at how quickly his irritation surfaced and how ineffectual his attempts to tamp it down were.
Ordinarily he didn’t allow himself to get worked up over things he couldn’t control. Emotion was the number one enemy of common sense and could cloud judgment faster than the blink of an eye. When life or death decisions were on the line, one learned to ignore those impulses and soldier on.
Literally.
It was only years of practice that allowed him to nod politely at Lila, take a quick look into the ballroom to confirm Marjorie’s whereabout
s, then get about the job he was here to do.
And if he cursed under his breath all the way to her office and kicked a stray ear of Indian corn that had fallen into his path, then by damn, he’d earned it. His cell vibrated again and, with a grim “Not now, Judd,” he plucked it out of his pocket and hurled it into a nearby pond where it landed with a satisfying plunk.
Shit, he thought, eyes widening in shock as he stopped short. That wasn’t his phone. It was Ranger Security’s phone.
In a fit of temper, he’d just destroyed company property.
Him. Jeb Anderson, decorated soldier, former Army Ranger, West Point graduate. Nicknamed Shades in Jump School because he’d been so cool and enigmatic. Unreadable, he’d been told. The ultimate poker face.
And he’d let her do this to him. Wind him up so tightly that all he could do was spin. He felt his expression blacken.
It was intolerable.
Women might be strong, they might be able to endure much more than he’d ever realized, they might be kind and nurturing, fierce and fiery. Hell, they might be everything Foy had said about them.
But they were also trouble.
And only a fool wouldn’t realize that.
He rounded the corner, noting the golf cart parked near the fence as he passed, then silently opened the gate into Marjorie’s courtyard. The Forbidden Garden, as Foy liked to call it. Jeb had just put the pick in the lock on one of the French doors leading into the director’s inner sanctum when a flash of light from inside made him still. He lowered himself to the ground, nearer to a gap in the curtains, and peered in. A small pen light hovered over an open filing cabinet, putting off little helpful illumination, but the large aquarium nearest the intruder was much more accommodating.
Jeb blinked, certain his eyes had deceived him. Shock detonated through him.
A shimmer of black chiffon, a wink of turquoise beading…
What in hell was she doing in there? What possible reason could she have for breaking into the director’s office? Could he have pegged her that wrong? Could his instincts be that off?
No, he didn’t think so. But clearly a little reconnaissance was needed.
* * *
SWEARING SOFTLY UNDER her breath, Sophie carefully slid the filing drawer closed and moved on to the next one. Like its predecessors it, too, revealed nothing out of the ordinary and certainly no easily accessible safe codes. Marjorie’s computer was password protected and, though she’d tried a few possible codes—drill sergeant, task master and boss woman, just for kicks—she knew she wasn’t going to be able to gain access.
In all probability, if the codes were on file in this office, then they were on the hard drive.
The only other possibility was a locked drawer in the bottom of her desk. Sophie had crawled up under it and tried to access the locking mechanism from the back, but with no success. Other than a questionable bottle of nail polish—blood red, which was hardly Marjorie’s style—and a pop-on clown nose under her credenza, she hadn’t found anything of note at all in the director’s office.
Unsurprisingly, she kept good records, notating every last detail about each resident. Trips to the doctor’s office, which prescriptions they were on, any allergies, family relations, religious and political affiliations, even their likes and dislikes. At the bottom of Lila’s file she’d written “Loves salt water taffy.”
Residents who’d passed away were put into a separate drawer, their folders marked with a pretty sky blue heart. Sophie had gotten a little choked up when she’d come across her grandmother’s file and had run her finger across the beloved name.
Theodosia Grace O’Brien. Friends and family called her Dozie. She’d been a wonderful woman, her grandmother. The kindest person she’d ever known, with a heart for people and animals alike. She never passed a person in need without offering to help and she never noticed a stray without taking it in. Her lips quirked sadly.
Like her. She’d been the ultimate stray.
Marjorie had marked “estranged” next to her father’s name on her grandmother’s file, along with “Needs a pet,” and “Excellent gardener.” Both were very astute observations.
In addition to the files on the residents, Marjorie also kept files on all the employees. Hank, who manned the barber shop, each of the beauticians at the salon, even the onsite postal worker. Sophie learned that Hank was a medium who hosted ghost tours in downtown Atlanta on the side, that one of the grounds crew was a recovering alcoholic, and that Ethel had “coulrophobia.” She made a mental note to look that up.
Naturally, she’d taken a minute to review her own file as well. Marjorie had denoted all the primary stuff—name, age, date of birth, business on site, the relation to her grandmother. “Works well, universally liked, poor taste in clothes and men.” Honestly, she’d pegged her with the poor taste in men comment, but was beginning to get a bit of a complex about her scrubs. Didn’t people understand the concept behind her work wear? She didn’t select them for their style, dammit. They were comfortable.
Her cheeks puffed as she exhaled and, with one last look around to confirm that she hadn’t left any evidence of her visit behind, Sophie stood, blew a kiss to Marjorie’s beloved Kissing Fish, Emma and Mr. Knightley—Lizzie and Mr. Darcy had tragically gone to the big aquarium in the sky last year—and made her way quickly back outside.
The codes had been a long shot, but they’d at least given her a starting point. Now she wasn’t certain what she’d need to do next. Find a way to get Marjorie’s computer code? Break into Marjorie’s house and search for the jewelry?
Eek. She was a soap-making goat farmer who moonlighted as a masseuse—she wasn’t a cat burglar. Before she committed any additional crimes, she needed to talk to Pearl and Nanette. She needed to know exactly how their jewelry was stolen and, more importantly, where it was stolen from. If—and this was a big if—their items had been removed from their safes as well, then she’d be left with no other choice than to take a closer look at Marjorie.
But if that meant she might be able to recover Lila’s necklace and Rose-Marie’s brooch and whatever else had been taken, then so be it.
Sophie had no idea how long she’d been gone, but knew that it had been longer than the traditional bathroom visit. With any luck, Jeb would have been too occupied by everyone else to notice anything remarkable about her absence.
Anticipation spiked as she drove the golf cart back across the grounds, off the lighted paths, of course. A flash of white caught the corner of her eye as she rounded the big elm tree nearest the pond, but a closer look revealed it was only a swan. Her face chilled from the speedy drive, she pulled the cart right back into position near the door—silently thanking Cora for leaving the keys in the ignition—and snuck back into the recreation center.
Foy, Clayton Plank and several other of the men were on the dance floor reenacting Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance—hilariously well, actually—and Hortensia Forsythe was more than halfway through her table dance. She was down to her slip and heels, and Martin Howard was standing in front of her, wolf-whistling and shouting “Take it off, Teensy!”
Cora and a group of her friends were huddled together in the corner of the room, giggling like school girls, a suspicious cloud of aromatic smoke drifting up above their heads. No doubt they’d have the munchies soon, Sophie thought, with a chuckle.
Looking exhausted and past caring, Marjorie was slouched in a chair near the band, drinking champagne directly from the bottle.
Clearly she’d been away much longer than she’d realized, Sophie thought, scanning the crowd for a head and shoulders which would stand well above the others. Her own shoulders drooped dejectedly when her search proved futile.
He’d left.
It was just as well, she told herself. Really. There was no reason for her to be upset, for her to even care that he’d given up on her and made his exit. It wasn’t like they’d made a real date. It had only been for the benefit of everyone else, right? Isn’t that what he�
��d said?
So why was she suddenly so depressed? Why did she feel like she’d been shown a present only to have it snatched out of her grasp when she reached for it? Why, for the love of all that was holy, was she on the verge of tears?
She knew why.
Because, at one point, while they’d been dancing, she could have sworn she saw the same raw and ragged desire that had been tearing her up for days, clawing at him as well. The tension in his touch, that brooding inscrutable gaze…
Hope, that easily kindled insidious builder of expectation, had sprouted.
Clearly she’d been mistaken. Once again.
Sophie swallowed tightly, laughed as Foy and his crew reached the “zombie shuffle” portion of the iconic dance, then smiled her goodbyes at everyone and pushed back through the double doors out into the night. The music and laughter faded and the silence closed in around her, making her even more keenly aware of being alone.
A weak, resigned chuckle bubbled up her throat and she shook her head. That’s what Marjorie should have written at the bottom of her file, Sophie thought.
“Will die alone.”
7
HIDDEN BEHIND A massive magnolia, Jeb watched as Sophie left the party. She’d barely stayed five minutes upon her return and, though he hadn’t been able to clearly see her face, everything about her body language suggested that she was unhappy. Her shoulders were rounded, her step slow. He heard her chuckle, but there was no humor in the sound. It rang hollow, almost defeated. Then she’d shaken her head, tightened the wrap around her shoulders and, rather than take the cart again, began walking toward Cora’s.
Cold and confused—an admittedly unfamiliar state for him—and plagued with the irrational urge to comfort her, to right her wrongs, Jeb frowned into the darkness, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Was she disappointed that she’d missed him? he wondered. That he’d left? Was that the reason for the sudden onset of unhappiness?
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