by Renee Roszel
"How kind of you to offer," Delila said graciously, "but I can accept them only if you take a box of my chocolate-covered strawberries in return."
"Oh, rapture!" Minny exclaimed. "I assure you I shall be getting the better deal. They're heaven on earth."
"Why, thank you, Minny. I may just use that phrase in my advertising."
To Angela's astonishment, Delila's remark seemed completely sincere.
Turning from Minny, Delila said, "And now, we'd probably better get to work, Angela dear."
"Goodbye Delila," Minny called. "I must go stir the sauce for the broccoli. It could very well become as hard as a wisdom tooth if I don't."
When she'd scurried away, Delila gave Angela a confused look. "What kind of sauce gets that hard?"
Angela smiled wearily. "Just Mother's."
Delila laughed, seeming pleasantly surprised. "How could a solid, down-to-earth young woman such as yourself have such a charmingly impractical mother?"
Angela plunged her hands into her jacket pockets and shrugged. "It was her charming impracticality that made me what I am. Somebody had to be practical, or the world would have come crashing down on us years ago." She turned to consider Delila, who was watching her intently. "But don't think I'm not proud of her. She helped me get where I am," Angela finished, her tone vaguely defensive.
Delila smiled kindly. "I'm sure she helped you a great deal. You have every right to be proud of her."
Angela felt as though Delila really meant it, and that, for some odd reason, the elegant woman had taken an instant liking to Minny. She hadn't thought that possible. She'd thought Delila would have no patience for Minny—have an attitude more like Tarrant's. She was glad she'd been wrong.
With a wave of her hand she directed Delila to the narrow room that was partitioned off from the main store. This was where the more expensive wooden modules were displayed in styles ranging from Country French to Danish Modern. Here was where custom buyers were shown catalogs full of the well-designed storage arrangements available to them. Delila Seaton was interested in only the best, and though Angela had offered to take the catalogs to Delila's home—no small feat—Delila had insisted on coming down to the store. Angela blessed her for her thoughtfulness.
They seated themselves at a catalog-strewn table that stood amid polished samples of cherry, oak and pine shelving of all sizes, as well as an endless variety of square modules. All the styles could be fitted together in myriad ways.
Angela was withdrawing her preliminary sketches from her briefcase when Delila touched her hand, stilling her movement. Angela glanced curiously at the older woman. When their eyes met, Delila asked, "Are you fond of my son, Angela?"
She was taken aback by the unexpected question. "Why, I, uh, we really don't know each other very well," she managed at last. She could never tell this woman what she really thought of her son—that he was cold, unfeeling and cynical.
Delila's expression had grown vaguely uneasy. "I try to stay out of my son's business, dear, but I would have to be quite a fool not to notice the publicity about you and Tarrant and a predicted marriage."
Angela tensed. "I'm very sorry about that, Mrs. Seaton. I assure you, it's all been a terrible misunderstanding."
Delila continued to watch Angela for a minute before she spoke. "Well, when your mother mentioned that she thought you and Tarrant—"
"Mother has these… dreams," Angela explained hurriedly, shaking her head. "She's convinced that Mr. Seaton and I… Oh, don't worry. I have no conniving notions in that direction. I swear. I've tried to explain to Mr. Seaton that my mother, though she means well, has made a dreadful mistake. I'm sorry I can't convince him of that, but I promise you, Mother means no harm."
"I see." The corners of Delila's mouth lifted wryly. "Well, she certainly is one of a kind."
Angela's expression softened. "That's true."
"I'll look forward to seeing you both on Saturday, then?"
Angela nodded as she drew out her sketchbook. Personally, she dreaded the thought of having dinner at Havenhearth.
"By the way, Eden Leslie will be there," Delila added as she slipped a pair of reading glasses from her brocade bag.
Angela didn't say anything. Was this a subtle warning? No doubt. She only hoped she could convince her mother not to give Eden any further condolences over losing Tarrant!
She mentally counted the things she would have to contend with next Saturday night—dog-biscuit earrings, Eden Leslie's proprietary presence, Tarrant Seaton's taunting gaze. All in all, the possibilities didn't bode well for a placid evening.
As Angela's car ka-chugged along the winding drive toward Havenhearth, she decided she'd better remind her mother once more about what she was not to talk about. "Remember, Mother, please don't mention any weddings. Eden Leslie and Tarrant Seaton will be married on the twenty-third of next month, and that's that."
Minny, who'd been fiddling with the pink ribbon on her little gift box, turned toward her daughter. "May twenty-third? How in heaven's name do you know that? There's been nothing official in the papers."
Angela suddenly wished she'd kept her mouth shut. She'd never told her mother about her wretched encounter with Tarrant the night she'd banged her head. She curled her fingers more tightly around the steering wheel and decided not to answer at all.
"Did Tarrant tell you? Did Delila? Are you absolutely sure about this? I think you're wrong. I still think—"
"Oh, Mother, for goodness' sake. I'm sure. Tarrant told me."
"When?" Minny had shifted in her seat and was wide-eyed and scowling at the same time, as though she was going to fight this tooth and nail. "I don't believe it. What about my dream? Have you no faith in me, sweetie? Don't you believe in my power?"
"Mother," Angela said through a weary sigh. "It's just that, well, I hit my head. You know, when I got that black eye. And for some stupid reason, I thought it was May twenty-third when I came to. Tarrant became very distressed and decided I was predicting the date for his marriage to me. I mean, with all the publicity, he was naturally suspicious of me. So…" Angela braked the car in front of the mansion and turned off the engine before she faced her mother with the news. "He told me in no uncertain terms that he was getting married on that day but it wasn't to me, it was to Eden Leslie." She reached over and touched her mother's knee, or what she thought might be a knee beneath all that tie-dyed muslin. "That's why I want you to just keep a lid on the whole subject. Please?"
Minny was frowning, apparently deep in thought.
"Mother?" Angela shook Minny's knee, trying to draw her from her strange stupor.
With a suddenness that made Angela jump, Minny cried, "That's it! Of course! Why didn't you tell me of your vision before, sweetie? This confirms it. You will marry Tarrant Seaton, and it will be on May twenty-third as you prophesied."
Angela was aghast. "I prophesied no such thing!"
Minny was smiling broadly now. "Sweetie, don't you see it? I didn't have the power to dream the future until I met your father. You now have the same power, since-you've met your true love." A look of pure bliss brightening her face, she clasped the gift between her hands, not noticing she was crushing the bow.
Angela was about to caution her mother not to go overboard when the car door was pulled open. She whirled around, startled. "Oh," she breathed. "Hello, Chauncey. I didn't see you."
Chauncey, the Seaton chauffeur, was standing there, tall and terribly imposing in his gray uniform. He smiled, or at least he seemed to, for his salt-and-pepper mustache twitched. "Madam. It's nice to see you. And I'm sure you know I've grown quite fond of your automobile."
She appreciated his droll wit and made an effort to smile. "We'll try not to flatten any tires this evening when we shut the doors."
"Allow me to close the doors." His mustache twitched again. "However, serving you in any way is my pleasure, madam."
Minny leaned across her daughter and waved. "Hello, I'm mad
am's mother, Minny. You look like a man who'd want a pair of dog-biscuit earrings for your wife. What do you say? Half price, today only."
Chauncey's bushy brows drew together in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
Angela scrambled out of the driver's seat. "Never mind, Chauncey. Come on, Mother. We'll be late if we dawdle."
Chauncey stepped back and removed his hat, watching with subdued astonishment as Minny scrambled across the seat and all but fell out. Trying to straighten the fabric flapping in the breeze about her, she twittered, "My door's jammed, and I don't crawl out as well as I once did. Makes a mess of my accoutrements. I design my own, you know."
Chauncey's mustache twitched yet again. "And they suit you, madam," he remarked in his reserved way.
Minny beamed. "Why, how sweet! Just for that, I'll send you a complimentary pair of my dog-biscuit earrings. I'd give you mine, but then what would I wear in my ears?"
"I wouldn't know, madam," Chauncey responded benignly. "Perhaps… hubcaps?"
"Chauncey," Angela cautioned, "don't help."
This time, Chauncey's shoulders quivered, and Angela shook her head at him, but she couldn't be angry. Chauncey was such a nice man with a keen sense of the ridiculous. It was odd that the Seaton mansion seemed to be full of good-humored people. She wondered why none of it had rubbed off on Tarrant.
Hurriedly, she led her mother toward the door as the older woman embarked on a rambling recital about the possibilities of abandoned hubcaps as potential fashion statements.
Angela tried not to shudder. The evening was off to a rocky start.
Upon entering the mansion, they were led to the library by the ever-austere Alexander. Angela was uncomfortable in the library, where Tarrant had so rudely held her captive in his arms and then tossed her aside like yesterday's Will Street Journal.
Lamentably, the first person she spied was the rude master of the mansion. Tarrant stood before the marble fireplace, tall and splendid-looking in a green silk blazer and rust-colored slacks. His black hair, infernally perfect, set off the deep tan of his face and enhanced the duskiness of his eyes. He was not quite smiling, but he seemed pleasantly disposed. Perhaps that was because at his right stood the willowy Eden Leslie, draped in mauve faille that clung to her lithe body. She seemed like some elegant image that had stepped out of a high-fashion magazine and into real life. Her blond hair was swept back from a sweet, ivory-pale face and hung in a regal French braid to just below her shoulder blades. Tarrant and Eden seemed the perfect socially elite couple, and for some stupid reason, that didn't sit as well with Angela as it should have.
She self-consciously smoothed her skirt—neither designer nor floor-length. Why, oh why, didn't she have a floor-length dress? Because, her practical side retorted, you don't have the money for such frivolous luxuries.
As was her habit, or her shortcoming, Delila was not in attendance. Minny, unbothered by social peculiarities, promenaded across the room to where Eden and Tarrant were standing and put out her hand. "Hello there, son. How are you doing? My, you're looking handsomer than ever!" She shook Tarrant's hand with both of hers, disregarding the fact that he hadn't offered it.
While one hand was being pumped, Tarrant gestured toward Eden and said, "Mrs. Meadows, this is my fiancée, Eden Leslie—"
"Uh-uh," Minny cautioned with a wag of her finger. "We aren't talking about that this evening. I promised Angela." Releasing Tarrant from her grasp, she picked up the blond woman's hand and began to pump anew. "It's so nice to meet you, Eden. Call me Minny." Looking over her shoulder at Angela, who was beating a hasty path toward them, Minny added in a clandestine whisper, "No hard feelings, I hope?"
A confused expression crossed Eden's face. "About what, Mrs…. Minny?"
Minny winked. "About the you-know-what on May twenty-third. But you're a pretty thing. You'll find somebody else."
When she finally reached them, Angela didn't know quite what Minny had said. But judging by the narrowing of Tarrant's gaze, she was fairly sure they weren't discussing the current humid spell. "Er, how do you do." Angela extended her own hand toward Eden, hoping her mother would take the hint and let go of Eden's. It worked.
Eden clasped Angela's hand and smiled good-naturedly. "It's nice to finally meet you," she offered in a voice that surprised Angela. It wasn't as honeyed as she'd thought it would be, but held an unsophisticated twang, instead.
Eden's gentle blue eyes compelled Angela to blurt, "I'm so sorry about all that awful publicity. I hope you weren't upset by it."
Eden shook her head. "Tarrant explained it all to me. I understand." She laughed gaily, adding, "I suppose a woman who's engaged to a man like Tarrant must expect a certain amount of competition."
"But I'm not—"
"Forgive me," Eden interrupted. "I didn't mean you." She patted Angela's arm. "Let's just forget it."
Angela smiled faintly. "You're very gracious."
"Yes, she is," Tarrant agreed, drawing Angela's reluctant gaze. He was regarding her with half-closed eyes—no doubt comparing her unfavorably with Eden. Her blue-and-white-checked gingham dress was a far cry from the elegance of Eden's outfit.
"You look very nice tonight," he remarked quietly, surprising Angela. "As do you, Minny."
Angela could only stare at him. Had she misread his intense appraisal? Was he being sarcastic? His voice hadn't seemed to carry a derogatory tone….
Unlike Angela, Minny was not stilled into shock by his compliment. She giggled. "You're so sweet, son. It's my own creation. Now be truthful—how do you like my earrings?"
He appeared to study them for a moment before he actually grinned and said, "They're absolutely you, Minny."
His tone was so unexpectedly friendly, Angela was startled. What was with him? Apparently he planned to be on his most gentlemanly behavior tonight. For Eden's benefit? Well, whatever the reason, it was the best news she'd had all week.
"Oh, son, you're such a tease," Minny was saying. "I've brought a pair of my doggy-biscuit earrings for your mother, you know. I do hope she'll be here."
"She will," Tarrant assured her as he twined his fingers with Eden's. "She has a tendency to be late."
Angela glanced from his dark hand, holding Eden's smaller, paler one, to his face. A certain tension in his voice had seemed to suggest he was recalling the last time Delila had been late to dinner. When her eyes met his, Tarrant averted his gaze. But she could tell he'd been watching her.
She was uncomfortable. Tarrant was holding his fiancée's hand but his fleeting glance had seemed almost guilty. And she, too, felt a strange culpability. That was absurd, of course. Nothing at all had happened between them. Nevertheless the feeling nagged at her.
Even an hour later, when they were finishing dinner, Angela felt the same odd sense of having been involved in an indiscretion with Tarrant. And the occasional sober glances he'd slanted her way hadn't helped.
During the meal, Angela had found out a number of things about Eden. She'd been divorced for two years, and her father had managed several of the Seaton properties. Eden had been very close to Tarrant while they were growing up. At eighteen she'd met and married a wealthy Texas rancher. That was twelve years ago. And though it hadn't been stated openly, Angela got the feeling that Eden's ex-husband had had an affair, ending the marriage.
It was obvious that Tarrant and Eden were fond of each other. Angela toyed with her food, wishing she could be happier about that fact. And just why she wasn't evaded her completely.
The evening had been filled with laughter and bright conversation. Angela had even managed to join in a time or two, though her gloomy mood continued to pester her. It was after nine when a smartly clad kitchen maid brought out a large dish and then, with a flourish, set it on fire.
Angela gasped in surprise, but Minny jumped completely out of her chair, declaring, "Be calm, everyone! My husband was a volunteer fireman!"
Before she could be reassured that strawberr
ies flambé was supposed to be aflame, Minny dragged her considerable sleeve across the blazing dessert to retrieve a finger bowl. Before she could grab it, her sleeve began to smolder.
"Mother—" Angela launched herself upward "—you're on fire!"
"Oh! Heaven preserve me!" Minny yelped. In her panic, she yanked at the front of her jumpsuit, ripping it apart in her frenzy to be free of the smoking fabric. Buttons flew like shrapnel. One plopped into the dessert. One hit Angela in the shoulder as she ran to her mother. One went pinging into a crystal goblet after ricocheting off a fork.
Tarrant hurriedly dunked his linen napkin in his finger-bowl and, rounding the table, caught Minny about the waist and corralled her long enough to smother the smoking muslin with the napkin. Angela arrived then, pushing back the sleeve to see if her mother was burned.
Immediately, Tarrant, Minny and Angela were surrounded by the others. Not seeing any physical damage to her mother's skin, Angela gathered the gaping bodice together, though Minny wore a modest camisole beneath it, and cried, "Are you all right?"
Minny blinked first at her daughter and then up at her savior, moaning weakly. "Son. You saved my life."
Tarrant was grim, almost pale under his tan. Obviously, the near debacle had shaken him. "Hardly that," he corrected. "Are you in pain anywhere?"
Minny fluttered her lashes. "Oh, I do believe I'm going to swoon— My heart…"
"Good gracious," Delila declared. "Get her into bed, Tarrant. I'll call a doctor."
Tarrant swept the limp woman into his arms and carried her away.
Sometime later, after the doctor had gone, Angela was alone in a grandly appointed bedroom with her invalid mother. Minny was languishing beneath a champagne-colored satin comforter, munching contentedly on chocolate-covered strawberries.
"Mother," Angela protested worriedly, "are you sure you should be eating? What did the doctor say?"
Minny licked chocolate from her fingers before she replied, "He said I had a bad scare, but that I'm fine." Giving Angela a sly wink, she added, "Besides, you know I have a good, strong heart. Always have."