Everything His Heart Desires

by Patricia Preston

  He was no authority. He had taken the required classes in literature and seen a few plays. That was it. “All right. Any more advice?”

  “Remember your manners. She’s a stickler for excellent manners.”

  He smoothed the front of his jacket. “I’m on my best behavior.”

  “Good luck.”

  When she turned to go, he saw her red dress was backless, open from the shoulders to the waist. Secured at the base of her waist and riding just above her hips was a large red bow. He exhaled and took a minute, standing in the drive with his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

  Some things in life are just not fair.

  “Oh, Brett.” She rushed back to the edge of the balcony. “I forgot about the cat. Don’t mess with Pharaoh. He loves to fight.”

  “You want to go someplace and talk about this?” The last thing on his mind was talking. But, hey, whatever worked.

  “What?” She frowned. “No. We don’t have time. Nana hates people who are late, and in a few minutes, you’re going to be late.”

  He started up the walkway, and she stopped him again. “One more thing. Try not to use any slang. Nana doesn’t like slang. Try to sound as intellectual as possible.”

  “Okay. No Shakespeare. Good manners. Don’t mess with the cat, and sound intellectual. Got it.” He glanced up as she started back inside. He got a full view of her backside and the bow. “Hey,” he called. “How come you’re helping me out? You want to lose?”

  Dream big, Romeo.

  “No,” she answered. “I just want you to know that I won fairly.”

  The doorbell mystified Brett for a moment. It had an antique brass handle rather than a button. Did it even work? He turned the handle and heard a bell ring from inside the house. He glanced at the fall wreath decorating the door. Covered with warmly-colored flowers, leaves and berries, the wreath was inviting. Nice, he thought.

  As he waited, he straightened his cuffs. When he had been choosing his clothes for tonight, he had decided on the sophisticated look of all black. Black Armani sports coat over a black linen shirt with the collar open, pleated black trousers, and leather oxfords.

  He was clean-shaven, smelling good, refreshed after taking a nap, and feeling positive about meeting Mrs. Layton as well as securing the chief of cardiology position and having sex in the backseat of the Road Runner. I’ve got this.

  The door hinges creaked as the door opened, and a gracious older woman smiled at him. He smiled back. Piece of cake.

  She was a petite lady with short wisps of silver gray hair framing her round face. A floral tunic drenched her body with vibrant color. Red, yellow, and purple flowers swirled across blue satin. She wore matching blue slacks, yellow slippers, and a chunky yellow necklace.

  “Come in.” She fluttered like a cheerful butterfly, and Brett grinned as he stepped in the house. Behind a pair of glasses, she had blue eyes that resembled Natalie’s. “You must be Doctor Harris.”

  The sound of excitement in her voice gave him hope. “I am.”

  “It is so good to meet a friend of Natalie’s.” She beamed. “And you are such a handsome boy, too.”

  “Thank you,” he accepted the compliment with a broad smile. “I’m honored to be your guest, Mrs. Layton.”

  “Oh, no. I’m Clara,” she said. “Clara Lawrence.” She shook his hand. “I’m Anna’s sister. After my husband, Walter, passed away, I moved here. Come, I’ll show you to the parlor.”

  Brett glanced around the entrance hall as he followed Clara to an adjoining room. Like most nineteenth-century homes, the pocket doorways, trim work, and floors were made of dark wood. Walls, sixteen feet high, accommodated large oil paintings of medieval landscapes and heraldry flags. A complete suit of armor stood in an alcove beneath a sweeping staircase. He halfway expected to hear the clanging of swords.

  “You have a lovely home,” he said, taking in the large parlor, which looked as if it belonged in one of those BBC period pieces, complete with dainty armchairs, a massive chandelier, a glossy center table, and portraits of people who had lived two hundred years ago on the walls. It was the kind of room that made him appreciate his comfortable, modern home.

  “The front half of the house is pretty much like it was when it was built. The furnishings and décor are original to the house,” Clara said. “This is the part of the house that we show when the house is open for tours during the spring. Our living quarters in the back half of the house are very up-to-date. Thank God,” she added with a nod.

  “I agree.”

  “Would you like a margarita? Anna and I were having a drink earlier. There’s some left.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “All right. I need to go check on the dinner. Oh, I did get the banana pudding made.” Clara patted him on the arm. “Natalie asked me to make it just for you.”

  “That Natalie.” He continued smiling. He hadn’t eaten any banana pudding since the day Natalie dumped a bowl of it on his head. Something about the smell of it. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for doing that. I know I’ll love it. I’m just a banana pudding kind of guy.”

  “I like you.” Clara seemed to have made some sort of judgment as to his character. “I told Anna she should give you a chance, but she can be so mulish with her opinions. I know you’re not Indiana Jones, but you might be the next best thing.”

  Brett nodded, even though what she said made no sense.

  “Natalie should be down in a moment.”

  Clara left him in the parlor, where he shifted his weight from one foot to another. He thought of taking a seat, but he wasn’t certain about the antique furniture. Maybe you weren’t supposed to touch it. He kept his hands in his pockets.

  The sofa and chairs were covered in dark green brocade and had short curved legs. At his height, if he sat in one of the chairs, it would be awkward. Like practically sitting on the floor.

  He decided to remain standing. He checked out the paintings of the Layton ancestors. Then he looked at his reflection in the pier mirror. Not bad. He strode over to the fireplace and studied the amazing clock on the mantel. The case featured oak leaves and acorns carved in the mahogany wood.

  He caught a movement in his peripheral vision and glanced at the floor just in time to see something black with a white stripe down its back shoot under the center table. He gave a start, his first thought being that a skunk was in the house.

  Then it appeared again, coming to a halt between the table and the sofa. He saw it was a muscular cat with a solid black face and gold eyes.

  “Hey, kitty,” Brett said in the high-pitched tone you always used for pets and babies. “Man, I thought you were a skunk. Huh.”

  The cat immediately arched its spine and let out a hiss. Brett backed away. “Nice kitty.” He eased to the other side of the center table, where he thought he was safe. The next thing he knew the cat was on top of the center table.

  The big cat crouched on the table and peered around a centerpiece of silk roses. Staring at Brett, it let out a low guttural yowl. Was that thug cat for “You wanna step outside, asshole?”

  “Shit,” Brett muttered. How far could that cat jump? All he needed was for the old lady’s cat to attack him. He glanced toward the door leading into the entrance hall. Could he make it into the hall without the cat pouncing on him?

  “Brett.” Natalie appeared in the doorway, and he had never been more thankful to see her. “I told you not to mess with the cat.”

  “I didn’t mess with the cat. It just showed up, and all I said was ‘Nice kitty,’ and the next thing I know it’s ready to attack.”

  “Pharaoh is not a nice kitty. Are you, Pharaoh?” She smiled at the cat, whose attention was still centered on Brett as if it were contemplating when to strike. “You want fish? Go to your bowl in the kitchen.” She clapped her hands, and Pharaoh lost interest in Brett immediately. He hopped off the table and trotted out of the parlor without giving them a second look.

  “Magic words,” Natalie ass
ured Brett. “Clara will give him some tuna.”

  “Will he stay in the kitchen?” Brett wanted to be prepared in case the aggressive cat returned.

  “For a while.” Natalie strolled into the parlor. She stopped across from him at the center table. The pier mirror behind her gave him an excellent view of her bare back and the red bow at her waist. He had this wild desire to run his hand over her shoulder blades and down her spine. Maybe fool with that red bow.

  Despite having a modest front, the dress radiated sex appeal. “That’s a hot dress.”

  She flushed slightly and smoothed the slim skirt. “Elvis thought so.”

  “Elvis who?”

  “The Elvis. The King,” she answered. “Of course, he didn’t say it was a hot dress, but he liked it.”

  Brett cocked his head, and she said, “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. This dress is from the nineteen sixties. I found it in the attic. After my dad sold our house a few years ago, he brought a lot of stuff over here and stored it for me.

  “This dress belonged to my mother’s mother. When she was in her twenties, she worked as a backup singer for some studios in Nashville and Memphis. According to the note I found with this dress, she wore it to a party at Graceland, and Elvis was very impressed.”

  “I bet he was.” I bet he got a hold of that red bow.

  “Speaking of bets, what time can I come over tomorrow and pick up Cathy?”

  He sidled up beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her body. He couldn’t resist sliding his hand down her bare back. He heard her breath hitch, so he kept stroking. “When do I get to take this dress off of you?”

  She looked at him, her lips parted as if she were going to kiss him. Instead, she stepped away from him, gave her head a feisty shake, and did her Miss Piggy imitation. “Moi would not have made the bet if moi thought moi would lose.” She fluttered her dark lashes.

  “Moi may be in trouble.” He eyed her mouth, hungry to kiss her again.

  “Natalie, darling.” A woman’s voice echoed down the cavernous hallway.

  Natalie smoothed her skirt. “We’re in the front parlor, Nana,” she called, and she gave Brett an amused glance. “I’m so looking forward to this. You have no idea.”

  “I’m looking forward to afterward,” he threw back in a husky voice and her cheeks flushed.

  “Not gonna happen,” she murmured. She walked over to the parlor doorway to greet her grandmother.

  Chapter 9

  When Anna Layton appeared, Brett did his best to conceal his shock. He had expected her to look something like Queen Elizabeth—forties hairstyle, conservative suits, sturdy shoes. Anna Layton was tall. Taller than Natalie. Her strawberry-blond hair was tucked behind her ears and flipped up on the ends. She wasn’t wearing glasses, and the absence of any chin or neck sagging was evidence of a face-lift sometime in the past.

  She was dressed in a long, fluid, navy blouse with matching pants, and a wide, glittering silver belt cinched her waist. Diamonds decorated both her hands and her ears. You would look at her and imagine that she’d been a movie star in the forties.

  “Oh, darling, you do look lovely in that dress.” Anna gave Natalie a fond smile.

  “I couldn’t believe it fit. I had to wear it.”

  “Why, all those lovely things in the attic have just been waiting for you to come home and enjoy them.” Anna Layton had a cultured accent that was usually found much farther south than Tennessee.

  Brett stepped forward, stopping beside Natalie. He smiled at Anna, who did not return the gesture. She gave him a bored glance as if tolerating him would be an ordeal for her. Surely he had imagined that. Natalie proceeded to introduce them in an Emily Post fashion, and Anna extended her hand as was dictated by good manners.

  Brett shook her hand. Unlike Clara, she didn’t welcome him warmly, nor did she tell him he was a handsome boy.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Layton.”

  She sniffed and swept into the parlor. “Natalie told us you were her friend in school.”

  “Yes. Natalie and I were good friends.” Brett glanced at Natalie, who sent him a silent message with a flash of her eyes. What was I supposed to say? That I had invited my worst enemy to dinner? “I always adored her. She was the prettiest girl in class.”

  Anna inspected a potted plant that sat on a tall plant stand in front of the window. “I do find it odd that I have no recollection of you. I knew most of Natalie’s friends.”

  “Oh.” Natalie moved to his side and patted his shoulder as she spoke to her grandmother. “We were friends at school. In the classroom.”

  “Yes.” Brett nodded. “In class. We were lab partners.”

  Natalie’s smile widened. “Brett was thrilled to have me as a partner. He always had something nice to say to me, and I still treasure a lot of his compliments.”

  “Yep.” Brett rolled his tongue against his jaw.

  “Hmm.” Anna tapped the soil in the pot, testing for dryness. “So you were just friends during school hours?”

  “Yes,” Natalie replied. “After school, Brett studied all the time. Since he was going to be a doctor, you know, he had to study a lot more than the rest of us.”

  “Yep.” Stick with the simple, safe answers.

  “It’s commendable that you studied all the time, Doctor Harris. Not many young people would be so inclined.”

  His spirits soared at the compliment. “Thank you, Mrs. Layton. I’ve always believed in trying hard and doing my best. As a physician, that is still my philosophy.”

  “I’m certain that was true of Imhotep, too,” Anna said, giving him a pointed glance as if waiting for his opinion. “Don’t you think?”

  Imhotep? The circuits in his brain lit up as he sorted through a zillion facts, searching for Imhotep. He placed the name as Egyptian, but that was all. He glanced at Natalie. Give me some help here.

  “Was he one of the Egyptian gods, Nana?”

  “Eventually. But he was a mortal man before his status was elevated to that of the god of healing.” She stood by the windows and focused on Brett. “Imhotep was the first known physician,” she said as if it were common knowledge that anyone on the street would have known. Brett kept his chin up.

  “Imhotep is credited with the founding of a school of medicine in ancient Memphis, and he is also assumed to have written the ancient medical text that is known now as the Edwin Smith Papyrus,” Anna continued.

  “The text brought to light the advances the Egyptians had made in medical treatment over a thousand years before Hippocrates ever became the father of medicine. They had learned to immobilize fractures, sew wounds shut, use poultices for infections. They had even studied the brain and how it affected the rest of the body. Amazing to think of all Imhotep accomplished without a CAT scan, isn’t it?” A trace of sarcasm underlined the question.

  Brett had just learned an invaluable lesson. Don’t underestimate Anna Layton. She was not your typical sweet little old grandma. She was so ruthless, it was a wonder her last name wasn’t Soprano.

  “Nana decided we would eat in the formal dining room,” Natalie said, steering the conversation away from Egypt and medicine.

  “Yes,” Anna said. “I thought it would be rather appropriate since this was your first visit to our home. Of course, I didn’t have enough notice to hire Charles for the evening, and he’s such an excellent butler. I’m afraid dinner will be quite informal.”

  “An informal dinner is fine, Nana. I’m sure Brett will agree.”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t imagine an actual butler overseeing dinner. “I’m all about informal and relaxed.”

  Anna frowned slightly. “All about?”

  “Slang,” Natalie said under her breath, and he cleared his throat.

  “I enjoy an informal, casual setting for dinner,” he stated. “I think sharing a meal in a relaxed atmosphere is a great way to get to know one another.”

  “I see.” Anna took a moment to rotate her potted plant
. She lifted back the sheer curtain and peered out the window. “What kind of car is that?”

  “Oh.” Brett smiled at the opportunity to brag about his car. “That is a nineteen sixty-nine Plymouth Road Runner. She’s—” he started to say “cherry” but caught himself. “She is in excellent condition. Almost the same as the day she rolled out of the factory.”

  Anna studied on that. “Nineteen sixty-nine, you say? That makes the car over forty years old.” She frowned as she gave him a laser-sharp glance. “Can you not afford a new car, Doctor Harris?”

  He forced a smile. “Of course. But I collect classic cars like the Road Runner.”

  Natalie said, “Brett has several old cars, and he’s going to let me drive one of them while I’m home. I’m picking it up in the morning. Right?” She shot him the megawatt smile.

  He kept his expression neutral. “We’ll see.”

  Anna glided away from the window. “Natalie, darling, perhaps that isn’t a good idea. You have the new car your father sent you. How reliable could a forty-year-old automobile be?”

  Brett stuck his hands in his pockets. It’ll outrun anything on the road.

  “Oh, Nana, I know the car is old, but it is going to be so much fun to drive. You have no idea.” She nudged his arm with her shoulder.

  Getting through this night was gonna be hell.

  “Doctor Harris.” The butterfly, Clara, appeared in the doorway. She fluttered over to him. “I can’t wait for you to try my parmesan chicken. It’s my own recipe.”

  He liked Clara. She was a harmonious person, and you couldn’t help but like her. Too bad he couldn’t say that for her older sister. “Miss Clara, I know I’ll love it. I’m sure everything you cook is delicious.”

  Clara patted his back. “Natalie, your friend is such a sweet, cute boy. Don’t you think so, Anna?”

  Anna looked him over like he was a stray dog that didn’t impress her. She shrugged slightly as she took in his black clothes. “I don’t know about the Johnny Cash look.”

  Natalie looked at the floor and stifled what sounded like a strangled laugh. “Is dinner ready, Aunt Clara?”