by Sandra Brown
"Who actually knew her, you or me? You'd only been living here a little while before she died."
"I've heard tell."
"Well, you've heard wrong. Besides, she was getting old and all her former beauty had faded."
"That's a woman's point of view. I tell you she was still a good-looking woman."
"What about Cash?" Schyler cut into what she could see was becoming a full-fledged marital disagreement. It hadn't taken long for her to realize that the Howells' marriage fell short of being sublime. She tried her Christian best not to take pleasure in that.
"What does Cash do for a living?" Schyler could tell the question surprised them. They stared at her for a moment before Ken answered.
"He works for us, for Crandall Logging."
Schyler assimilated that. Or tried to. Cash Boudreaux was on her family's payroll. He had hardly behaved deferentially that afternoon. His manner hadn't befitted an employee in the presence of an employer. "Doing what?"
"He's a logger. Plain and simple." Having demolished the cobbler, Ken wiped his mouth and tossed down his napkin.
"Not quite that plain or that simple, Schyler," Tricia amended. "He's a sawhand, a loader, he drives the skidder. He selects the trees for cutting. He does just about all of it."
"Shame, isn't it," Ken said, "that a man his age, and as smart as he seems to be, has no more ambition than that?"
"Does he still live in that shanty on the bayou?"
"Sure does. He leaves us alone. We leave him alone. Cotton has to deal with him down at the landing, but other than that we all give each other wide berth. Can't imagine him coming close to the house today. He and Cotton had words when Monique died. Cotton wanted to move Cash out. Somehow Cash talked Cotton into letting him stay. Cotton's trust is commendable."
"It's also selfish," Tricia said. "He needs Cash."
"He might need him, but he doesn't like it. I think he's a fool for trusting the man. I wouldn't trust Cash Boudreaux as far as I could throw him." Suddenly Ken leaned across the table and looked at Schyler with concern. "He didn't do or say anything offensive, did he?"
"No, no. We just exchanged a few words." And a touch. And a gaze. Both had conveyed as much contempt as sensuality. Schyler didn't know which disturbed her the most, his interest or his suggested animosity. "I was curious about him, that's all. It's been years since I'd heard anything about him. I didn't expect him to still be around."
"Well, if he ever gets out of line with you, you let me know."
"And what will you do? Beat him up?" Tricia's laughter ricocheted off the crystal teardrops of the chandelier overhead. "Some say Cash stayed in the jungles of Vietnam a tad too long. He kept reenlisting in the marine corps because he loved the fighting and killing so much. Came back meaner than he went, and he was already meaner than sin. I doubt you could pose a threat to him, honey."
Schyler could feel the undercurrents of enmity between husband and wife rising again. "I'm sure that's the last I'll see of Mr. Boudreaux." She scooted back her chair. "Excuse me, please. I'm going to freshen up before I go to the hospital."
The bedroom she was sleeping in now was the same one she had as a child. Through three large rectangular windows she had a view of the back of the property, the greenhouse, what had at one time been a smokehouse and now served as a toolshed, the barn that housed several horses, and the detached garage. Beyond the outbuildings which were all painted white to match the main house, was the woods, and beyond the trees, the bayou.
She closed die bedroom door behind her and stood with her back against it. She paused to appreciate the room she'd missed so much. ITie hardwood floor was dotted with area rugs that were worn and faded and would bring a premium price should they ever be sold, which they wouldn't be. Schyler would never part with anything that belonged in or to Belle Terre.
All the furniture in the room was made of oak, aged to a golden patina that kept the pieces from looking heavy and masculine. The walls were painted saffron, all the woodwork white. The bedspread, chair cushions, and drapes were white as well. She had insisted on that the last time the room had been redecorated. She hadn't wanted any of the furnishings to detract from the simple beauty of the room itself.
The only modem touch was the bookshelf. It was still cluttered with childhood and teenage memorabilia. She had resolved to clean out and throw away the yearbooks and dried corsages and yellowing party invitations many times. But nostalgia would always override her pragmatism. Nevertheless, she decided that before she returned to London she would give this room a thorough housecleaning and get rid of that junk.
The small adjoining bathroom hadn't been changed. It still had a white porcelain pedestal sink and claw-foot bathtub. She rinsed her face and hands in the sink and, using the framed mirror over it, retouched her makeup and brushed her hair. When she lifted the loose, dark blond curls off her neck, she noticed the pink bump on the side of her throat. A mosquito bite.
They know the best places to bite, she remembered Cash saying.
She tossed down the hairbrush impatiently and, picking up her purse and rental car keys off the bureau in the bedroom, went downstairs. Tricia was speaking animatedly into the telephone receiver in the formal parlor. It was joined to the informal parlor by sliding wooden doors that disappeared into the connecting walls. The doors were always kept open, making one large room out of the two, but each half was still referred to by its traditional name.
The adoptive sisters waved good-bye to each other. Schyler walked through the wide hallway and out onto the veranda. She was on the second step down when Ken spoke to her. He left the rocker he'd been sitting in and came to join her on the step. Encircling her upper arm, he led her toward her car, which was parked in the drive. It made a semicircle in front of the house, then ran along one side of it to the back and the garage.
"Let me drive you to the hospital," he offered.
"No thanks. You and Tricia went this morning. It's my turn."
"I don't mind."
"I know, but there's no need."
He turned her to face him. "I didn't offer because I thought you needed a ride. I offered because we haven't had a second alone since you got here."
Schyler didn't like the direction the conversation was taking, nor Ken's confidential tone. She politely but firmly disengaged her arm. "That's right, Ken. We haven't. And I think that's best, don't you?"
"Best for whom?"
"For all of us."
"Not for me."
"Ken, please." Schyler tried to sidestep him, but he heeded her off. Facing her again and standing close, he ran his fingers down her cheek.
"Schyler, Schyler. I've missed you like hell. Jesus, can you imagine what it was like for me to see you again?"
"No, what was it like?" Her voice was harsh as were her accusing eyes.
He frowned with chagrin and withdrew his hand. "I can imagine how you felt when we found out that Tricia was pregnant."
Schyler's laugh was bitter. "No, you can't. Not unless you've been betrayed like that. Not unless the planet has been jerked out from under you. You can't know what I felt like at all." She wet her lips and shook her head as if to ward off an attack of insurmountable depression. "I've got to go."
Again she tried to walk around him and again he impeded her. "Schyler, wait. We've got to talk about this."
"No."
"You hightailed it to London without ever giving me a chance to explain."
"What was there to explain? We were about to announce our engagement to be married when Tricia upstaged us by announcing that she was pregnant with your baby. Your baby, Ken," she repeated, stressfully enunciating each word.
He gnawed his lower lip, his only concession to a guilty conscience. "We'd had a fight, remember?"
"A quarrel. A stupid, lovers' quarrel. I don't even remember what it was about. But it must have been over a real bone of contention with you because you wasted no time in sleeping with my sister."
&
nbsp; "I didn't know she would get pregnant."
Schyler was speechless. She didn't remember obtuseness being one of Ken's character traits. Six years was a long time. She had changed. Apparently so had Ken. Still, it was incredible that he missed the point.
"It was inconsequential that she conceived, Ken. It hurt me just as much to know that she could be pregnant with your baby."
He took a step closer and caught her shoulders. "Schyler, you're blaming the wrong party here. Tricia came on to me something fierce. Hell, I'm only a man. I was depressed. I was missing you. At first I thought she just wanted to comfort me, you know, sympathize, but then—"
"I don't want to hear this."
"But I want you to," he said, shaking her slightly. "I've got to make you understand. She, well, you know, started flirting with me, flattering me. One thing led to another. She kissed me. Next thing I know, we're making out. It just happened once." Schyler looked at him with patent disbelief. "Okay, maybe a few times, but it never meant anything. I screwed her, yeah, but I loved you." He tightened his grip on her shoulders. "I still do."
Angrily, Schyler threw off his grasping hands. "Don't you dare say that to me. It insults us both. You are my sister's husband."
"But we're not happy."
"Tough. I am."
"With that Mark character you work for?"
"Yes. Yes, with that Mark character. Mark Houghton has been wonderful to me. I love him. He loves me."
"Not like we loved each other."
She laughed shortly. "Nothing like the way we loved each other. Mark and I share a kind of love you would never understand. But whatever my relationship with Mark, it has no bearing on ours. You're married to Tricia. Whether or not your marriage is happy or dismal is no concern of mine."
"I don't believe you."
He quickly drew her to him and kissed her. Hard. She recoiled and made a small choking sound when his tongue speared into her mouth. But he didn't stop kissing her.
For a moment she allowed it, curious as to what her reaction would be. She discovered, quite surprisingly, that Ken's kiss evoked nothing but revulsion. She dug her fists into his chest and pushed him away. Saying nothing, she quickly got into the rented Cougar and started the motor. She floorboarded the accelerator and put the car into motion with a spray of crushed shells.
Chapter Four
From the cover of a palmetto, Cash watched Schyler drive away, leaving Ken staring wistfully after her. He waited until Howell had dejectedly climbed the steps and entered the house before he slipped into the deeper shadows of the woods and headed toward the bayou.
"So that's how the wind blows," he said to himself.
In Heaven everybody knew everybody's business. The scandal six years ago involving the Crandall sisters had started tongues wagging. The town had buzzed with gossip for months after Schyler's defection to London and speculation on when she would return had varied. Some said weeks. Others said she might sulk for a month or two. No one betted on it being years before she came home, and only then because her daddy's life was in jeopardy.
But Schyler Crandall was back at Belle Terre and, apparently, back in her old lover's arms. If that kiss was any indication, it didn't matter to her that Howell was married to her sister. Maybe she rationalized that she had had him first and that turnabout was fair play.
What mystified Cash was why either woman would want Ken Howell. He must pack more of a punch than it seemed he could. Howell had been known to frequent the upstairs bedrooms of the area honky-tonks, but no more than any other man. He never chased after women who were married, single, or somewhere in between. And he always paid for his extramarital dalliances. Women weren't one of his vices.
Whatever made Ken Howell attractive to the Crandall sisters escaped Cash. In his opinion, Howell was a sanctimonious son of a bitch. He'd been raised to look down his nose at anybody who wasn't in the social register. Howell had conveniently forgotten that when his folks died in a plane crash, they had left behind more liens than legacy. He still considered all but the upper crust of society inferior to him.
Maybe he also considered himself above morality and felt justified in having a wife in the house and a lover on the veranda.
Deep in thought, Cash continued walking through the forest. He moved through the trees with a stealth that had been developed in childhood and refined with taxpayers' money. The marine corps had honed his natural talent and developed it into a fine art. He didn't have to think twice about finding his way, which was good since he was lost in thought about Schyler Crandall.
It didn't make sense to him that that much woman would want a pompous wimp like Howell. Not that Schyler was a lot of woman physically. He was certain he could almost close his hands around her waist and he would welcome a chance to prove it. Her hips were full enough to make a sensual curve from her slender waist. While her breasts weren't large enough to win a wet T-shirt contest, he was sure she'd find it uncomfortable to sleep on her stomach without making adjustments. He'd been well aware of their shape beneath her blouse.
Thinking of that made Cash smile. Was there a set of tits on any living woman that he didn't take notice of? With that expertise to qualify him, he could say that Schyler Crandall's figure wasn't voluptuous, but remarkable just the same.
She put that figure to full advantage, too. It wasn't so much her body that made her wholly woman, but what she did with it. The graceful way she moved. The feminine gestures she unconsciously made with those slender, ring- less hands. The long legs and narrow feet. The expressive movements of her light brown eyes. And all that sweet, honey blond hair.
She was woman through and through. Cash wondered if she knew that. It was doubtful she did. But he sure as hell did.
Irritated with himself for dwelling on her, he stepped into the pirogue that he'd left on the bank of the bayou. He picked up the long pole and used it to push off. As silent as his guerrilla progress through the nighttime jungle, the canoe cut as cleanly as a blade through the still, murky waters of Laurent Bayou.
Since he was several years older than Schyler—he wasn't sure just how many because Monique hadn't been a stickler for dates and was never sure exactly what his birthday was—Cash had watched her grow up from a pretty little girl with flaxen braids into the woman she now was.
As a child, being driven around by proud papa Cotton in his newest Cadillac convertible, she had always worn hair ribbons that matched her lace-trimmed dresses. Always so prim. While Cotton looked on proudly, she had entertained his friends with her precociousness.
But she hadn't been like that all the time. Every now and then the little doll had stepped out of her bandbox. From his hiding places in the woods, Cash had often seen her riding Cotton's horses barebacked and barefooted, hair flying, face flushed and sweaty.
He wondered if she still rode horseback. And if she did, did she ride hell-bent for leather like she used to when nobody but him was looking?
That image of her made his sex stretch and grow hard against his zipper. He wiped the sweat that beaded his forehead on his sleeve and cursed the vicious heat. Ordinarily he wouldn't have even noticed it.
But Schyler Crandall had come home. Nothing was ordinary.
Schyler noticed how stifling the heat was as she left the car and made the short walk to the air-conditioned lobby of the two-story hospital. By the time she stepped through the automatic doors, her clothes were sticking to her. Maybe she should have showered and changed before coming to the hospital.
As she waited for the elevator, she surreptitiously checked herself in the mirrored wall and decided that she looked far from outstanding, but okay. There was a grass stain on the hem of her full cotton skirt and her sleeveless blouse was wrinkled, but in this part of the country everybody wore cotton in the summertime. Everybody looked wilted by late afternoon. It was a given that the heat and humidity would inflict their damages, so they were generally ignored.
The very thought of wearing stockings
was suffocating. She'd left on her sandals. Her only pieces of jewelry were a plain watch with a leather strap and the gold hoops in her ears. They were eighteen carat but unostentatious. Her shoulder bag was expensive and of the highest quality, but since the designer's signature wasn't obvious, no one would be impressed, even if he recognized the Italian's name.
In the mirror Schyler saw a woman who looked perilously close to her thirtieth birthday. It wasn't the maturity in her face that bothered her, but that she didn't have more to show for those thirty years. No career to speak of. No husband. No children. Not even an address she could call her own.
Her accomplishments added up to nil. She hadn't been able to move forward because of the memories that kept her shackled to the past. By coming home, she had wanted to lay to rest the most disturbing of those memories. She had hoped that the ambiguities surrounding her feelings for Ken Howell would be resolved.
Instead, his kiss had only confused her further. She no longer loved him, not with the intensity she had before. That she knew. What she didn't know was why. She couldn't pinpoint the reason why her heart didn't trip over itself each time he looked at her, why she hadn't dissolved at the touch of his lips on hers.
For six years Ken Howell had been preserved in her mind as she had first seen him, a dashing student leader on the Tulane campus, a stunning basketball star. He was from a good family, in solid with New Orleans society. He was a business administration major; his future had held nothing but bright promise. And he had chosen Schyler Crandall, die reigning belle of Laurent Parish, to pin his fraternity pin on.
They went together for two years. As soon as both had graduated, marriage seemed a natural progression. Then they had had a silly falling out, a misunderstanding over something so trivial as to be insignificant. They didn't date each other for several months.
Schyler never considered the break irrevocable and she had viewed the temporary separation as healthy for the relationship. It gave them time to date others and make certain that they wanted each other for life.