by Donna Hill
“How’d you sleep?” he asked as he set the mugs down on the nightstand.
Zoie secured the hooks of her bra and turned to him. “Good question. I guess I must have slept at some point,” she said with a grin. She cat-walked across the room, then sat next to him on the side of the bed. He handed her a mug.
“Thanks.”
“About last night,” he said in a bad British accent, and they both burst out laughing.
Zoie looked at him. “We can’t do strings, Jax.”
“I get that.”
“And no promises.”
“We do have one promise: to be upfront and real with each other.”
She nodded in agreement.
“I was gonna fix some cheese grits, scrambled eggs, and fried fish. You good with that?”
“Do you see my mouth watering?”
He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Everything is where it’s always been in the bathroom. Help yourself. I think there’s an extra toothbrush in the basket under the sink with the soap and stuff.” He pushed up from the bed, took his coffee, and walked out.
* * *
“See, if you’d let me pick you up last night, I’d be driving you home this morning instead of you pulling out of my driveway alone,” Jackson said as they stood by her car.
“Maybe next time.” She winked.
He pulled open her door, and she got in. “I’ll stop by Mrs. Maitland’s later today and see if I can get her to change her mind about talking to you.”
“What about Mr. Maitland?”
Jackson slowly shook his head. “The old man is pretty sick. She watches over him like a hawk. No one gets near him. In the times that I’ve been to the house, I may have seen him once.”
“Okay.” She stuck the key in the ignition and turned on the car. “Call me later.”
“Will do.” He leaned down and kissed her long and slow. “Drive safe,” he said, then stepped back and shut her door.
Zoie finger-waved and drove off.
She turned on the radio, but she wasn’t really listening. She tried to process the events of the past twenty-four hours. One fact stood out the most. When she’d come back for her grandmother’s funeral, the last thing she’d ever imagined herself doing was driving home in the morning from a “sleepover” at Jackson Fuller’s house. But then again, since she’d arrived, nothing had turned out the way she’d expected.
CHAPTER 17
“Girl, are you gonna make me come down there and get your crazy behind?” Miranda yelled into the phone.
Zoie giggled, leaned back against the headboard of her bed, and tucked her feet beneath her. “Randi, relax. I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t. Not when it comes to Jackson. Your feelings are all over the place. You hate him, you love him, you never want to see him again, he broke your heart, he’s the only man you’ll ever love. You have no clue how you feel. And now in the middle of everything you need to focus on, you sleep with him!” She paused for a breath. “So . . . how was it, girl?”
They burst out laughing.
Zoie shared with her friend everything that led up to her and Jackson’s night together, and brought her up to speed on what she’d shaken loose from her family tree, along with her growing suspicions.
“I’m telling you, sis, this needs to be a made-for-TV-movie. You can’t make this stuff up. So when are you going to meet with Kimberly?”
“I still need to set that up. My hope was to talk with her mother first. We’ll see. In any event, I’m going to have to get back up to New York. But I still have to deal with Nana’s vegetable business. Oh, guess what?”
“What?”
“Aunt Sage said she’d help me.”
“Get the hell outta here. For real?”
“Yep. Couldn’t believe it myself. But, Randi, ever since I got back, I’ve been hit with one unbelievable event after the other.”
“I hate to say I told you so, but I did!” She chuckled. “Give folks a chance, Z,” she said softly.
“I’m trying. But when you’ve been at the short end of everyone’s pissed-off list for so long, it makes you wary.”
“I hear ya. But they say folks mellow with age. That’s what’s happening with your family.”
Zoie sighed. “I guess . . . anyway, I need to get myself in gear. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Okay. Take care, and good luck with everything. Oh, one last piece of advice.”
“What?”
“Eyes open, legs closed!”
“Girl, bye!”
Just as she was about to hop off the bed, her phone rang. It was a New York number, but at least it wasn’t her office.
“Hello?”
“Good morning. May I speak with Zoie Crawford?”
“Speaking.”
“Good morning, Ms. Crawford. This is Gail Sorensen, Mrs. Graham’s assistant.”
“Yes, good morning. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to extend an invitation to you and a guest for the upcoming fund-raising dinner for Mrs. Graham.”
“Oh! Okay. Thank you.”
“I will send you an email with all of the particulars.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it. What is the date?”
“Two weeks from this Friday.”
“Alright. Thank you.”
“Enjoy your day.”
The call disconnected.
Humph. Well, one way or the other, she was going back to New York. She had two weeks to get her ducks in a row. A fund-raiser? This would certainly give her an opportunity to see Kimberly Graham in action and to observe how a crowd reacted to her. She smiled. Hopefully things were starting to fall into place. At least she could tick this off as a tidbit to keep Mark pacified.
Her phone chirped with a text message.
I’LL STOP BY LATER AND TAKE A LOOK AT THE FILES. ABOUT FOUR. J.
Her heart thumped.
K. CU THEN.
* * *
“Mr. Fuller, would you care for some sweet tea?” Mrs. Maitland’s housekeeper asked.
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“Sure you don’t want something a bit stronger, Jackson?” Lou Ellen coaxed.
Jackson chuckled. “No, thanks. I still have some more work to put in today.”
Lou Ellen pursed her thin lips. She looked up at her housekeeper. “My usual, Margaret.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They were seated in the enclosed veranda, which looked out onto the sprawling estate and the lake beyond. Overhead fans moved lazily, cooling the humid air.
“So, what can I do for you? I hope it’s not more money,” she said, half in jest.
“No. Nothing like that. The project is on schedule and on budget. Thankfully the storm didn’t cause much damage.”
She peered at him with her penetrating green eyes and folded her liver-stained hands on her lap. Even though she was petite in stature, there was an imposing presence about Lou Ellen Maitland that could not be denied. Everything about her was impeccable, from her perfectly coiffed gray hair, to the pearl studs in her ears and the rope of pearls around her neck, to the stylish coral-colored dress that was fit for a luncheon at the country club and not a simple chat with a business associate. But that was Lou Ellen Maitland. She was all about appearances.
“I’m listening.”
“I was hoping that you would reconsider talking with a colleague of mine.”
Her thin brows rose. “Who might that be?”
“Zoie Crawford.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her body grew rigid. “And why would I do that? More important, why are you interceding when I already told that woman no?”
“I hoped that if you did talk with her, you could lend some insight into your daughter. I know how important the family image is to you.” He watched her visibly relax. “If you control the message, you can shape it to cast the best light.”
She lifted her chin and sniffed. “I never wanted that l
ife for Kimberly, you know. It was Franklin who thought that somehow she could miraculously step into Kyle’s shoes. He was the one who put those ideas in her head from the time she was a teenager. The Maitland legacy, he said.” She flicked her hand as if to toss aside the absurdity of it. “I never agreed.”
“With Kimberly being . . . your only child,” he hedged, “I can understand your husband’s reasoning.”
Her thin nostrils flared. “I don’t have any idea what I can say that would make a difference one way or the other.”
“I know that anything you could offer would be important,” he said, continuing to stroke her ego.
She sniffed again.
Margaret appeared with their beverages in glasses on a tray, along with one carafe of mimosas and one of sweet tea.
“Thank you, dear,” Lou Ellen said and took a sip of her mimosa. “Perfect.” She turned her attention back to Jackson. “I have a distinct dislike of the media. They have an almost sinister way of bending the facts. I’ve made it a point, since Kimberly’s birth, to keep them out of our lives.”
“That’s why it’s important for you to be able to tell your side.”
“Dig, dig. That’s all they do. Dig to try to find something unpleasant. That’s what sells,” she insisted in her lofty tone. She took a long swallow of her drink, nearly finishing it off.
Jackson held his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was set her off. He knew how she was, and once she dug her heels in, there was no wrestling her free.
Lou Ellen set down her glass just as Franklin’s nurse pushed open the door and wheeled the patriarch in.
Franklin Maitland, even in his illness, was still regal, though frail. He sat ramrod straight in his wheelchair, and his thick shock of silver hair brought to mind movie-star royalty. His white shirt was starched stiff, the crease in his black slacks was sharp enough to slice bread, and for an added touch, he had a red ascot tied around his neck. This was maybe the second time Jackson had seen him up close. The only thing that hinted at his illness was the slight yellow tinge to his otherwise pale skin.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Lou Ellen greeted. She patted his hand.
“Needed some air,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep and strong. He looked Jackson over.
“You remember Jackson Fuller, dear. He’s—”
“Of course I remember him,” he said, sharply cutting her off in mid-sentence.
Lou Ellen flushed.
Jackson extended his hand and was taken aback by Franklin’s powerful grip. “Good to see you, Mr. Maitland.”
“And what brings you here? Problem with the development?”
“He came to ask about—”
He threw a look at Lou Ellen that stopped her cold. “I’m talking to Mr. Fuller.”
The muscles in Lou Ellen’s throat flexed, and her face flamed. She reached for her glass and finished off her drink, then quickly refilled it from the carafe, took another long swallow, then pressed her lips together into a tight thin line as if to permanently seal them.
Franklin looked at her with what Jackson perceived as disdain. He might be wrong, but the vibe he got from these two was anything but loving. Maybe they were having a bad day, something any couple went through even after decades of marriage. But he had to admit that, in all of his dealings with Lou Ellen, he had never seen her flustered until now.
“You were about to say, Mr. Fuller . . .” Franklin said.
“I have a very good friend, a colleague of mine,” he qualified, “who is working on a story about your daughter Kimberly’s run for the New York State Senate. She would really like to have an interview with . . . you . . . both”—he looked from one to the other—“about your daughter to give the article a more humanized perspective.”
“Humph. I see.” He worked his mouth for several moments. “That might be a good thing for Kimberly.”
“Franklin!”
He reached over and patted her hand, which held the arm of her chair in a vice grip. “It will be fine,” he said, in an almost consoling tone. He turned his focus on Jackson and nodded his head. “I take it that my dear wife gave your ‘friend’ a hard time.”
“No. I wouldn’t say that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. But I know my wife. Tell this reporter that she can stop by. We’ll give her one half hour.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Franklin glanced over his shoulder at his nurse, who stood dutifully behind him. “I’m ready for lunch, and we can escort Mr. Fuller out.”
Jackson stood. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Maitland.” She shook his hand, and Jackson would have sworn that she fought back tears by sheer will.
He followed Mr. Maitland out and, as promised, was shown the front door.
“Enjoy your day, Mr. Fuller.”
“Thank you, sir.”
* * *
“Gave me a whole new perspective about the Maitlands,” Jackson said, while he looked through Claudia’s files.
“Wow. I thought for sure that Lou Ellen ran the show.”
“So did I. Maybe she’s just the front, and Franklin is pulling the strings behind the scenes.”
“It would actually make sense,” Zoie said.
“Meaning?” He made some notes.
Zoie leaned her hip against the side of her grandmother’s desk and folded her arms. “Well, with the family in general being all about appearances, maybe they decided that Lou Ellen would be the face to avoid Franklin looking weak.”
“Hmm, maybe,” he said without much conviction. “The man I saw today was still a force to be reckoned with, wheelchair or not. And he definitely has Lou Ellen on a short leash.”
“Hey, rich folk have a whole other philosophy about the world,” Zoie said.
“I wouldn’t know,” he joked.
“Me neither.”
He leaned back in the chair and took off his reading glasses.
The glasses were a new addition, and noticing that made Zoie realize how time was flying by and changing everyone in the process.
“From what I’ve determined, your grandmother had five steady clients that she provided product for at given times. Looks like every six to eight weeks. She alternated the products with each delivery. I guess that has to do with when things were ripe and ready. Then there were periodic customers who put in special requests. Now she also has a contract with a boxing company that packaged the merchandise, and it looks like they were responsible for delivery as well. And according to this schedule, there are delivery dates coming up in the next two weeks.”
“So now what?”
“Now we need to go through the lists of customers, see what their orders are, and get the products prepared.”
“Aunt Sage said she would help with the clients, and my mom has been tending the garden. I’ve really got to stop calling what’s out there a garden. It’s field. It stopped being a garden a long time ago,” she said with a tone of awe.
“There ya go. It’ll be fine.” He closed the files and checked the time on his phone. “Listen, I gotta run. I need to get over to the site.”
“Sure. I’m sorry I’m taking up so much of your time, like you don’t have enough to do.”
Jackson stood. “I don’t mind.” He smiled at her. “It’s not a problem.”
“Thank you anyway.”
He took his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on.
“Oh, I got an invitation to Kimberly Graham’s fund-raiser.”
“Great.”
“I was wondering if you would like to go with me. My plus one.”
“To New York?”
“Yeah. It’s in two weeks. I can get everything on track here, fly out, and come back.”
“Let me look at my schedule, make sure everything is in order, and I’ll let you know.”
“Sure.”
They walked to the stairs and started down.
“So, uh, where will I be staying if I go?”
“We can stay at my place.
It’s not the Ritz, but it’ll do.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
She walked him outside. “Jackson, there’s one more thing I want to run by you.”
“Shoot.” He shoved his hands in pockets.
“You’ve pretty much seen what I found in my grandmother’s journals and letters.”
“Yeah.” He dragged out the word.
“There’s something about the timeline that’s been bugging me.”
He frowned. “What timeline?”
“Why did my mother leave New Orleans in her last year of high school to go to school in New York?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“That’s what I don’t get, and when I asked her, she got all defensive.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Think about it. My mother was sixteen, almost seventeen. She leaves home, and in the same year Kimberly Maitland is born, yet there is no record that I could find that even remotely indicates the Maitlands were expecting another child, only her birth.”
“And . . .”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“Only to a point. You see for yourself how the Maitlands control their message and their image in the press.”
“Exactly, but only since Kimberly was born.”
“Are you thinking that your mother . . .”
She nodded. “It would explain so much. It would explain the secrecy, Lou Ellen’s unwillingness to talk to me, even Aunt Hyacinth’s ramblings.”
“Z, be careful. That’s a heavy accusation. The ramifications . . .” He shook his head. “Why? It makes no sense.”
“It would if Kyle Maitland was the father.”
“What?”
“Think about it. My mother was a minor, black, housekeeper’s daughter who got pregnant by the heir to the Maitland fortune and a rising political star. The scandal would have ruined them, especially back then.”
“So, what, you’re thinking that Kimberly is your mother’s daughter and the Maitlands have been passing her off as theirs?”
“Yes. Kimberly Graham is my sister, and I’m going to prove it.”
The screen door swung open. Rose stepped out. “What are you saying?”
CHAPTER 18
Jackson couldn’t shake from his head the look of shock and pain on Rose’s face. He’d wanted to stay and maybe be a buffer between mother and daughter, but Zoie insisted that he leave and she’d call him later. That had been nearly four hours ago. He’d been tempted to call her but opted against it.