Hamilton’s words, though spoken in the easy tone of party chatter, were a threat. I knew it, and he knew it. But I didn’t want Harold to catch the undertone. I smiled and nodded. “I’m certain your words are wise, Mr. Garrett, but I have a different view. When the only act left is one of desperation, then you have to put your whole heart into it.” I gave it a slight pause. “An interview with you was a long shot. No damage done.”
“Then we both survived your gamble without injury.” He picked up my hand. “Perhaps I’ll revise my opinions on gamblers and make a new category for one with such incredible charm.” He bent low over my hand, his lips brushing my skin, and then excused himself.
Harold watched him go with a frown. “He’s very different now,” he said slowly. “Bitter.”
“Will you do business with him?” I asked, remembering Tinkie’s talk at the dress shop.
“The bank wants his business, but no one is certain he’ll stay in Zinnia. He returned here out of the blue, and there’s every chance he’ll disappear again in a matter of weeks.”
As Harold took my arm and steered me toward the dining room, where candles glowed and food that looked both festive and delicious crowded the long banquet table, I wondered if that last remark was calculated, or simply an innocent comment.
Harold fed me a curried shrimp, smiling as I licked my lips. “You didn’t tell me about the newspaper job,” he said.
“I thought if I got a great interview, I might be able to talk my way into working with Cece.” I wanted to work for the newspaper about as much as I wanted to have the chicken pox a second time.
“I know the publisher. I could speak to him on your behalf,” Harold said.
“No, don’t you dare!” I saw the surprise in his eyes. “I mean, no, thank you. Let me see what I can do on my own.”
Harold’s smile held a degree of pride. “You are remarkable. You don’t want me to use my influence to help you get a job. You want to get it on your own merits. I’d be careful, Sarah Booth, or the other women in your set are going to get very, very angry with you.”
He was right. I was betraying my gender and my class. It was not a step to take lightly.
“And Hamilton isn’t someone to play with,” Harold cautioned.
“Why? Because he’s accused of murdering his mother?” I asked, hoping to get Harold’s reaction to the charge.
“No, because he did kill his mother,” Harold answered smoothly.
I was shocked at Harold’s blasé attitude, but there was no time to question him further. A cluster of women descended on us and I was trapped at his side.
Harold had claimed me as his hostess, and as such there was little I could do except smile, nod, and reply to the endless banter. At another time, I might have enjoyed the opportunity to shock, engage, or malign. But my mind was on Hamilton, and though I tried to be subtle, my gaze followed him.
He made the circuit of the party, smiling, shaking hands, accepting the women’s kisses on his cheek, undressing the pretty ones with a practiced eye. On occasion, he would look my way and I’d feel as if he’d touched someplace private and not very nice.
After half an hour, Hamilton strolled from the dining room and disappeared. It was the way he looked to left and right that made me realize he was up to something. Excusing myself from Harold, Mrs. Carruthers, and Augusta Langford with the excuse that I would check on the canapés, I slipped into the kitchen and out the back door. Hamilton had gone out the front, and I eased into the protection of the camellia bushes that grew beside the house and made my way toward the front porch.
A cloud of cigarette smoke enveloped his head as he sat in a wicker chair, alone. He’d had the good sense to grab his coat, something I hadn’t been able to do. Rubbing my arms up and down, I waited. When he glanced at his watch and stood, I knew my instincts were right. He walked toward the gardens.
I followed, ducking beneath a huge magnolia tree and stepping carefully to avoid the fallen pods. I slipped from shadow to shadow, following him, aware that I was moving deeper into darkness and farther away from the women’s laughter that chimed and rang amid the hearty conversations of the men.
Harold’s big yard was bounded by a yew hedge, and I pressed myself into the green wall of shrubbery just in time to hear a man speaking on the other side.
“I know the truth,” the man said. Strong emotion distorted his pronunciation. “I know what Sylvia’s been trying to—”
“Stay away from my sister!” Hamilton warned.
“It’s too late for that,” the man said, his tone edgy. “She may be crazy, but she isn’t stupid. To think what she’s done to herself. You have to believe—”
“I don’t have to believe anything. Sylvia surrendered to the past a long, long time ago,” Hamilton said. “She has her imagination.” I caught the scent of cigarette smoke.
“Imagination!” The man laughed. “If you have doubts, why did you come back?”
“My sister left me no choice.” Hamilton’s voice was cold. “What’s your excuse for being drawn into this?”
“You weren’t the only one who lost his father.” There was a pause, and when the other man spoke again, some of the anger was gone. “You should sell the estate. Once this is over, clear out.”
“Knob Hill is my heritage. Show me your proof.”
There was the sound of paper unfolding and rustling. “Your sister had this,” the man said with expectation.
“My God,” Hamilton whispered, excitement in his voice.
“I thought you’d find it interesting.”
“Where—”
At the sound of a female calling, they broke off.
“Hamilton! Hamilton Garrett, you bad boy, are you out here smoking?”
I closed my eyes in disbelief, but it was truly Tinkie. I saw her standing, backlit, on the front porch of Harold’s house. She came down the steps and stopped at the edge of light, as if she were afraid to step into the darkness.
“Hamilton, are you out there?”
Before I could move, Hamilton brushed past the hedge and crossed the open space. He went to Tinkie.
“I can’t believe you’re home,” she said softly.
“It’s been a long time,” he answered, in a voice completely different from the one he’d used only moments before.
I held my breath, praying that neither of them would decide to have a tryst in the garden.
“Are you home for good?” she asked. To her credit, she was keeping her feelings well hidden. This could pass for casual party chatter.
“Tinkie, you’re freezing,” Hamilton said, taking off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Let me escort you back inside.” With his arm around her, they walked onto the porch and were blocked from sight by the camellia bushes. I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he bent down to kiss those pouty lips of hers.
I kept very still in the hedges, listening for the other man. When I heard his footsteps echoing emptily on the cold sidewalk, I counted to fifty and then crept out of the hedge. The only evidence of the meeting was a cigarette butt. Marlboro. Clinging to shrubs and shadows, I hurried to the back door.
The warmth of the party hit me like a fist, and I picked up a glass of champagne and drank half of it. The caterers were staring at me, so I slipped through the door into the dining room. Trying to slide along the wall, I was intent on finding Hamilton and Tinkie and avoiding Harold. I finished the champagne and was looking for a place to put the glass when I noticed Hamilton’s coat dumped in a corner.
It was a long shot, but I picked it up as any good hostess would do and started toward the bedroom where Harold had put the guests’ coats and purses. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I locked it.
The coat was wool and smelled of cigarettes and Hamilton. My hands were shaking as I began to go through it. In the right front pocket I found a page torn from a magazine. I sat down on the bed amid the coats and examined what appeared to be part of a story about a gallery in Califo
rnia that was exhibiting jewelry.
There were photographs of several pieces, all of them created from gold, enamel, and semiprecious stones. The materials were not that expensive, but the craftsmanship was interesting. The article was about the designer René Lalique, a Frenchman. Though I read it twice, there was nothing significant in it. I put it aside and began to search for something else.
A loud pounding on the door made me jump, and I jammed the article back in the pocket and rushed to open the door. Hamilton stood there. He hesitated when he saw me. “Why are you always where no one expects to find you?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you,” I said, trying to hide my flush, “when you tell me why you’ve suddenly decided to return to Zinnia.”
He stepped toward me so quickly that I almost backed away. Almost.
“I get the impression you’re a very curious woman,” he said, so softly that it might have been an endearment. His hand reached out and caressed my cheek. “Just remember that prying is a dangerous occupation.” He picked up his coat and left, closing the door behind him so softly that the latch barely bumped into place.
15
When I returned to the party, Harold was in the library in the middle of a group of men. I made the rounds of the women in the parlor and dining room, fully aware that the segregation of the sexes foretold a certain stage in the evening. I fortified myself with a quick glass of champagne, replaced the empty with a full one, and circulated, never staying long enough to answer serious questions. I passed through conversations just as Jitty drifted through walls. Hamilton the Fifth absorbed me, though I did the best I could not to show it.
He was a dark force, and no matter how much I tried to deny it, he affected me. As Jitty had so aptly pointed out, this was not a good thing. In a Delaney woman, when the womb overrides the brain, calamity is sure to follow.
I was about to join Tinkie, whose state of inebriation and smile could both be described as plastered, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. My Hamilton bruises tingled dangerously before I turned to find Cece grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“You were alone with Hamilton in the bedroom,” she said eagerly. “What’s the scoop?”
My, news traveled fast. “He doesn’t like desperate gamblers.”
“Are you developing a relationship with him?” Cece’s smile suddenly looked as false as her eyelashes.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Sarah Booth, you’re not up to anything, are you?”
“I’m always up to something,” I said on a bright note.
“This book you’re writing.” Her dark eyes seemed to deepen, and I was aware that I was dealing with a dangerously perceptive person. Cece had the intuition and wiles of a woman, but the added dividend of male logic. “You don’t have a personal bone to pick, do you?”
It occurred to me that Cece had been goaded into wondering about my book. “Why do you ask?”
“Delo Wiley came by the paper yesterday afternoon.”
Her revelation was startling, but I couldn’t afford to show it. I was beginning to catch on to the fact that a good PI revealed as little as possible about everything. “I didn’t know you worked on Saturday,” I parried.
“One normally doesn’t.”
“And your point is?” I bluffed. Delo wasn’t the kind of man who would ordinarily drop by a newspaper office. COR’s had little use for newspapers or transsexuals.
“He was checking up on you,” Cece said, and I could see the logical part of her mind clicking through options a mile a minute. “He wanted to know if you’d ever written anything before. It makes one wonder about your newfound love of fiction.” She gave it two beats. “You are writing fiction, aren’t you, dahling?”
“Facts are too limiting,” I answered carefully.
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s as real as it gets, at least tonight.” I was tempted to tell her I was a private investigator and give up the whole writing tale. But it had proven to be such a serviceable lie. No one ever wanted to be investigated, but almost everyone wanted to be immortalized in print.
“What are you up to?” Cece asked, but I knew by her singsong tone that it was rhetorical. “Get an interview with Hamilton, a good one, and I’ll give you a job.” She smiled her hungry smile and turned away.
I was left with the image of a very sleek jungle cat.
Cece headed out the door, and a general exodus followed. The party was over. Several members of the banking board remained clustered in front of the fireplace. When they lit cigars and took up brandy snifters, I knew it was time for my departure, along with the other women. I made sure to slip my typed report to an eager Tinkie at an opportune moment before the crowd thinned.
Harold insisted on walking me to my car. A heavy fog had begun to settle over the Delta, and had turned the familiar night into an eerie landscape. Having arrived fashionably late, I had parked a good distance from the house.
Harold tucked my hand through his arm and guided me down the drive. I must confess that my womb was in a serious state of unrest. I found the solid reassurance of Harold’s arm, his simple presence, to be profoundly moving.
At my car he kissed my hand, holding it lightly. “Your entrance was spectacular,” he said. “It was everything I expected of you.”
I filed that away for further pondering. I was tired and my shoes, though exquisite and worth every penny, had permanently deformed my toes. “Good night, Harold,” I said, offering a cheek.
He ignored the cheek and lifted my hand to his lips once more. Instead of the kiss I expected, he sucked my thumb into his mouth. With unexpected expertise, he gave it a delicious tug and a provocative nibble, then slowly released it.
Without another word he left me. Stunned, I watched him disappear into the descending fog that blurred the fairy lights he’d constructed into a soft tunnel of light.
I slept late the next morning, but it was not a restful repose. It seemed that I had two pulses going in my body—one in my thumb and the other more womb-oriented. Awakening, I felt as if I’d been caught between two drumming tribes of warriors.
The first thing to meet my gaze was Jitty, perched on the bed with a black stormcloud surrounding her head.
“Holy DDT,” I said, scooting back from her. My vision cleared and I realized she’d given up on the orange juice cans and gone natural. Her Afro was a masterpiece that went against every principle Newton had ever advocated. The dashiki she wore radiated red, yellow, and black with an intensity that hurt my blurry eyes.
I glared at her, then turned my attention to my thumb. It looked normal, so why did it have a heartbeat all its own? I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom when the doorbell chimed. I checked the bedside clock and saw it was nine. Not really late, but too early for visitors. Respectable visitors, at least.
The house was cold, so I hustled into a robe and slippers and made it to the door only to find that whoever had come had also gone. On the front porch was a newspaper, a white box tied with string, and a paper bag from which wafted the aroma of coffee. Delighted, I snatched them up, slipped off the string, and opened the lid of a pastry box whose contents were still warm from the oven. Oh, delight of delights! I rushed back upstairs and crawled under the covers, mouth watering with anticipation.
In New York, when I lived on East Ninety-first Street, half a block from a pastry shop, I’d paid the owner’s nephew to deliver hot Danish, coffee, and The New York Times at eight o’clock every Sunday morning. It was the height of civilization as far as I was concerned.
Though it was a Monday instead of Sunday, and the paper was the Dispatch rather than the Times, I was in hog heaven. I turned to Cece’s column—after all, it was why she’d made the delivery—and picked up a pastry.
The heir apparent of the Garrett fortune, Hamilton the Fifth, newly returned to his home, made a splash reentering the waters of high society last night at a gala at the home of Harold Erkwell, local banker and art connoisseu
r.
Hamilton’s return to his native soil was a surprise, and one that left the ladies breathless. It did not take Madame Tomeeka’s talents to see what was running through the minds of at least a dozen of Zinnia’s most prominent blooms. The local dry cleaners will have a booming business this week removing drool stains from the bodices of several expensive gowns.
HG the Fifth is one handsome man, and though his marital status wasn’t determined as fact, I did notice that his ring finger was bare, and without even a trace of a tan line.
The hot questions for this week are: What brought Hamilton home and how long will he stay? And does he lack for female companionship? More on this as the story unfolds.
So, Cece was stirring the pot. It would drive Hamilton wild that he couldn’t control the mad dog of the press, Cecily Dee Falcon.
“Hot bath,” I said, diagnosing exactly what I needed and wondering if Jitty missed such mundane pleasures. I hadn’t even considered sharing the pastry with her.
“Cold shower would serve you better,” she replied.
“You’re jealous,” I teased.
“Harold threw you for a loop,” she said smugly. “You got a decision to make, girl. And it won’t be easy. I tol’ you there was more to Mr. Banker than fine art and financial security.”
I hate it when Jitty is right, especially about men. “If you’re so damned smart about romance, how come you never married?” I asked. I had a second cup of coffee waiting for me; I was content to lounge in bed and chat for a while.
“I don’t suppose you ever heard of a small disruption called the War Between the States. Funny how a thing like romance takes a backseat to survival.”
We’d started the day on a mutual snarl, and I decided to make the first move in improving things. Something about her posture touched me. “So were you ever in love?” I asked.
I was surprised to see Jitty, normally an in-your-face sort of ghost, turn away from me to gaze out the bedroom window into the crisp December morning. I could tell by the bright sunshine that it was going to be a cold day.
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