by Metsy Hingle
“And what makes you think you had anything to do with it one way or the other?” Gertie asked as she took the seat next to her. She picked up the dish and peeled back the cloth to reveal the hot flaky biscuits and held them out to Lily. When Lily selected only one, Gertie added a second one to her plate, then served herself.
“The doctor said Timmy probably came into contact with someone, maybe one of the children at the playground.”
“Or he might have picked it up from someone in the grocery or at that hamburger place he likes to go to,” Gertie informed her. “He’s a child, Lily. Children get chicken pox. Nothing you do or don’t do is going to stop that.”
“But did you see his eyes? How pitiful he looked?”
“Looked like he was laying it on pretty thick so you’d agree to bring him a surprise, if you ask me,” Gertie replied. “The little scamp’s got you wrapped around his little finger, Lily, and he knows it.”
“I wasn’t the only one who promised him a surprise.”
She dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “Us honorary grandmothers are allowed to spoil grandchildren.”
Lily leaned over and kissed the older woman’s wrinkled cheek. “Thank you for loving him.”
“Hard not to. That boy of yours is a charmer. Mark my words, he’s going to steal a lot of hearts.”
He’d certainly stolen hers. From the moment she’d known she was carrying him, she had loved Timmy. If only Adam had been able to get beyond his obsession with her to love his son. And just as she’d done so often during the past seven years, she questioned her own blindness to what Adam was. Lily thought of her grandmother, remembered how she’d told her the reason her mother didn’t live with them was because of the choices she’d made. Her mother had wanted to be famous, see her picture in fashion magazines, go to fancy parties, her grandmother had explained. Having a baby girl didn’t fit in with the lifestyle she’d craved. So when she’d been three months old, she’d left her with her grandmother and had never come back. It had been her mother’s choice.
And while she might not have felt she’d had a choice about marrying Adam since he had supported her following her mother’s death, she could never regret having done so. Because had she not married Adam, she wouldn’t have Timmy. No matter what had happened or would happen, she would never regret her son.
“Child, you going to butter that biscuit and eat it or just admire it?”
“Sorry,” Lily said, and smoothed butter onto the warm golden bread. Her eyes strayed toward the bedroom and she thought of her son asleep in the next room, how warm he had been.
“Lily, you need to stop worrying about him. He’s going to be fine.”
“I know. It’s just…he’s so little to have chicken pox already.”
“No littler than you were when you got them,” Gertie told her.
“I had chicken pox?”
“Sure did. Only yours were a lot worse than Timmy’s. Your poor grandmother, God rest her soul, worried something fierce you were going to have scars on that pretty face of yours. But you didn’t. Not a single one. And your skin’s still just as pretty now as it was when you were a baby.”
“I don’t remember,” Lily admitted.
“And Timmy probably isn’t going to remember getting them, either. Now eat,” she instructed.
Lily ate—more to appease Gertie than because of hunger. But fifteen minutes later, both biscuits were gone. So was the coffee. And she was feeling a great deal better—until she saw the time. Lily groaned. “Nancy Lee’s going to kill me. I’ve missed the breakfast crowd, and by the time I get there, the lunch rush will be starting. Let me help you clear these dishes and—”
“I’ll handle the dishes,” Gertie insisted, and took the plate and cup from her.
“All right. But only if you let me pick up something for your dinner.”
“You don’t need to be wasting your hard-earned money on me,” Gertie told her.
“Gertie…”
“We’ll see,” the older woman said, which was her way of saying no without using the word. “Now go check on that boy of yours like you’re itching to do and then get yourself out of here.”
Lily hurried from the kitchen to the bedroom where Timmy was sleeping. Her heart swelled with love as she looked at him. He was the one thing she’d done right in her life, Lily told herself. And to keep him safe, to protect him, she would fight a thousand Adams.
Gertie came up behind her, touched her shoulder. “He’s going to be fine,” she whispered. “You go on and stop worrying about him.”
After adjusting the blanket around him, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head and exited the room. “Okay, I’m going,” Lily told her as she glanced around the kitchen for her keys and sunglasses. She spied her keys, but no sunglasses, and decided she must have left them in the car.
Gertie handed Lily her purse. “Thanks,” she said, and kissed the older woman’s cheek, hugged her close. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“You’d do just fine, child. Now, where’s your coat? Did you leave it in the car?”
“I didn’t wear one. It’s nice outside. I think the winter’s finally over and spring’s arrived a little early.”
“Not according to the groundhog. He saw his shadow a couple of weeks ago, which means we’ve got ourselves another six weeks of winter. Bob Breck says a front’s coming through with some rain and that we’re going to have a light frost tonight. You’d better stop by your place on your way to work and pick up your coat and Timmy’s.”
“I thought New Orleans was known for its warm weather,” Lily grumbled.
“It is. But not in February. In February you’re liable to have the air conditioner on in the morning and the heater on by evening. Of course, come July, you’ll be wishing for the cool weather again.”
As Lily waved goodbye and slid behind the wheel of her car, she wondered if she and Timmy would still be around in July to wish for the cool weather. She’d already stayed in New Orleans longer than she had planned—and she’d involved Gertie far more than she should have. But she’d been so tired and scared when she’d arrived, just being with someone who knew who she was, feeling the freedom to at least use the nickname her grandmother had called her and not another alias had made her feel more sane. Gertie had been a godsend, a link to her grandmother and a time when her life had been simple. The time before she’d become a burden to her mother and then Adam Webster’s possession. As much as she hated the idea of leaving Gertie and uprooting Timmy again, she doubted that Adam had stopped looking for her.
Unless he had other things to worry about—things like the police discovering Adam had been involved in the murder of federal agent. She thought about the disk she’d found in Adam’s safe, taking it, along with some cash, the morning she’d escaped. Her hands shook each time she remembered drugging his morning coffee and then lying to the servants that he was sleeping in. To this day, she wondered how she had managed to act normal when she’d had Otto drive her and Timmy to the pediatrician’s office for an appointment she didn’t have, and how she had exited through the rear door with Timmy after asking to use the rest room.
Lily pulled her car to a stop and raced up the stairs of her house. After retrieving their jackets, she headed for the diner. As she did so, she recalled seeing the Miami newspaper two weeks after she’d escaped and recognizing the photo of a dead man named Carter she’d seen with Adam in his study. Only then did she remember having taken the disk from the safe, deciding it must be important if Adam kept it there. As long as she lived, she’d never forget finally accessing the disk and discovering it contained the names, photos and data on federal agents working on an undercover sting in the Miami area. And Carter had been one of the agents. Had the FBI connected Adam to the man’s death yet? she wondered. She’d left an anonymous message for them from a pay phone. She should make time to swing by the library this week and see if any of the newspapers had reported anything more about the age
nt’s death or an investigation of Adam as a suspect. If they had, then perhaps she wouldn’t have to worry about running anymore. She could begin planning a future for her and Timmy—one that went beyond simply staying alive.
Five
He was going to cut out the lying weasel’s tongue and feed it to him, Michael vowed silently as he nursed the cup of coffee at the diner’s counter. Pretending to work the newspaper’s crossword puzzle, he studied the waitresses. He’d paid one hundred bucks to a supposedly reliable informant who had sworn that the woman he was looking for worked in a place called the River Bend Diner. Well, he’d check out all three women, as well as the cook, and no way were they Elisabeth Webster. The bottle blonde who seemed to be in charge of the place was at least twice the Webster woman’s age. The thirty-something brunette was too tall, too dark and way too Italian-looking to have ever been a natural blonde. The only one who might have come close to fitting the description had been the stacked redhead who’d been sizing him up like a side of beef since he’d walked in the door. He looked at her again now. She was young and sexy enough, he supposed, and if she lost the bright hair maybe, just maybe, she could pass for Elisabeth Webster.
Yeah, maybe in the dark. And on a good day, he amended upon closer inspection of the woman. Anyone with eyes in his head could see that the redhead, although attractive, lacked the fine-boned features and arresting beauty of Elisabeth Webster. Besides, the fact was her eyes were blue, not green. There was excitement and expectation in the redhead’s eyes, not that hint of innocence and sadness that had been in the portrait of Elisabeth Webster. And not the genuine delight he’d seen in the snapshot of her with her son.
Dammit. He really thought he had latched onto something when he’d tracked down the grandmother’s neighbor to New Orleans. But who’d have thought the name Boudreaux would be as common as the name Smith. So far, he’d found no listing for anyone with the name Gert or Gertrude Boudreaux. He still wasn’t sure if that listing for G. Boudreaux he’d called had been answered by a man or a woman. But since whomever it was had sounded as if they’d put away one too many cocktails, he’d ruled them out as being the elderly lady who had once lived next door to the young Elisabeth Webster, née Elisabeth Jeffries, more than a dozen years ago.
After wasting another thirty minutes dialing people named Boudreaux, he’d placed a call to an old contact in the Jefferson Parish Police Department, one of the major suburbs of New Orleans. Although it had been more than five years since he’d worked as an undercover detective with the Houston P.D., he’d taken a chance the deputy he’d once worked with was still employed there. He really thought things were looking up when the guy was not only still there, but remembered him and provided him with the name of a snitch who was supposedly reliable.
Reliable my ass, Michael thought, and scowled at the amount of time he’d lost on this wild-goose chase.
“You want me to freshen that up for you, hon?”
Michael looked up at the brunette behind the counter. “Thanks, ma’am. I’d appreciate it,” he said, and shoved his cup toward her for a refill.
“Haven’t seen you in here before,” the woman whose name tag read Gina said. “New in town?”
“Yeah. I just got in last night.”
“That a hint of Texas I hear in your voice?”
“Sure is,” Michael told her. “I’m from Houston originally.”
“Nice city. And big. I visited it about ten years ago with my second husband. So you just passing through, cowboy? Or are you here for the Mardi Gras.”
“Haven’t made my mind up yet,” Michael said. “I’ve been working offshore for a while and decided to take some time off. I thought I’d check out sin city. In fact, you might be able to help me. A buddy of mine said his sister lived here, but so far I haven’t been able to find her.”
“Well, we may be a big city, but New Orleans is pretty small when it comes to people. Everybody knows just about everybody. What’s your friend’s sister’s name?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not sure what name she’s using. I mean, my buddy calls her Beth—which is a nickname.”
“She got a last name?”
“She’s married. But I don’t remember what he said her husband’s name was. He did give me a snapshot of her though. Maybe if you saw it, you—”
“Excuse me, hon. One of the other waitresses just came in and I have a message for her from her doctor’s office.”
Michael turned and glanced toward the door where a woman wearing a shapeless gray coat and a rain-soaked hat had entered. Gina hurried over to the woman, handed her a note and the stranger’s head bobbed up and down as they spoke. A customer motioned for Gina, and when she moved he watched as the woman removed the hat and shook out her hair. Not pale blond and long, he noted, but honey-colored and chopped in some kind of short shag. She removed the ugly coat, hung it on a rack. Right height, a little thin, Michael thought as he skimmed the body clad in the same black skirt and white blouse the other waitresses wore. What he could see of the legs were nice, even if the black tennis shoes were unappealing.
“Lily, Nancy Lee wants you in the office,” the redhead called out.
“Coming,” Lily replied.
And when she turned around, Michael felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut when he saw her face. Excitement sprinted through him as he quickly drank in the pale skin, the delicate features and those haunting green eyes.
It was her.
He’d found Elisabeth Webster, he realized as he watched her hurry across the diner and disappear through the doors. Now all he had to do was make sure she still had the boy, and then he’d make the call to Webster.
“Sorry about that,” Gina told him.
Michael jerked his attention back at the sound of her voice and realized he hadn’t even noticed the woman had returned to the counter. “No problem.”
“So, you want to show me the picture of your friend’s sister?”
“Uh, it looks like I left it in my hotel room,” Michael improvised. Now that he’d located Elisabeth Webster, aka Lily, he didn’t want to tip her off. At least not before he notified her husband and collected the rest of his fee.
“Well, if you want to swing by later, I’ll take a look at it. My name’s Gina, by the way.”
“Thanks, Gina,” he told her. “And I’m Michael. Michael Sullivan.”
“An Irishman? I was hoping that dark hair meant you were Italian.”
“Afraid not,” Michael said with a chuckle. “Black Irish on both sides.”
“Oh well,” she said with a sigh.
Gina looked around, leaned closer and said, “Nancy Lee would probably kill me if she heard me tell you this, but you might want to grab yourself a table if you plan to hang around and finish that puzzle. The lunch crowd’s starting to come in, and in another thirty minutes it’ll be elbow to elbow at this counter.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for the tip.” Michael stood and tossed down a five-dollar bill for the coffee, then picked up his newspaper.
“I’ll be right back with your change.”
“Keep it,” he said.
“Thanks.” Gina beamed and slid the five into the pocket of her apron.
Michael noted Lily coming through the doors again. “Which tables are hers?” he asked with a nod of his head toward Lily.
Gina’s smile dimmed. “Should have known she was more your type.”
A little taken aback by the comment, Michael studied Gina. Only then did he realize the woman wasn’t just being friendly, but that she might have been flirting with him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, annoyed with himself for hurting the woman’s feelings.
“It’s no big deal,” she told him. “Lily’s a real pretty girl, and I’d probably hate her if she weren’t so darn sweet.”
Feeling worse by the second, he said, “I really am sorry.”
“No reason to be. I do all right. Some men actually prefer a woman with experience and a little more meat on her bone
s.”
“And don’t forget those smoldering Italian looks,” Michael replied, and winked at her.
She smiled, patted her hair. “Lily’s tables are the ones in that section on the right.”
“Thanks,” he said, picking up his coffee cup, and starting to leave.
“Say, Texas?”
He looked back at Gina. “Yeah?”
“Don’t take it personal when she shoots you down.”
“Got a lot of admirers, huh?”
“Quite a few and, so far, every one of them has struck out.”
“She’s not married or engaged, is she?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Worse. A widow and still in love with her dead husband.”
He arched his eyebrow, surprised by the comment. “Kind of young to be a widow, isn’t she?”
Gina shrugged. “I was sixteen when I married the first time.”
“And you say she’s still grieving for the guy?”
“That’s my guess, since she hasn’t shown a lick of interest in any man who’s come through that door. While they’re not all hunks, there have been a couple like you who would make a nun rethink her vows.”
“But not Lily,” Michael replied.
“Not Lily. She’s immune.”
“Maybe she just hasn’t met the right guy yet.”
“So, what’s the story on him?” Amber asked as she joined Gina behind the counter. Together they watched the big, handsome Texan saunter across the diner and sit down at a table next to the window.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like, he’s gay, isn’t he?” she asked, a petulant expression on her face. “I swear, lately it seems that nearly all the really hot-looking guys are into other men.”
Gina looked at the girl as though she’d lost her mind. “Why on earth would you think the man’s gay?”
“Well, for starters, he’s a hottie. Got that David James Elliott from JAG thing going.”
Now that Amber mentioned it, she could see the resemblance. “So?”
“So the man comes in here, gives me the eye. Does the whole once-over thing, you know. And I figure he’s interested. Right?”