Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  Aunt Elise and my mom are fraternal twins, so they still have all the freaky twin-bonding things without the looking-anything-alike thing. Aunt Elise holds a pig roast every year and invites the entire extended family, which consists of a lot of Budweiser-men and women in shirts that are too tight and hair that is too big. Every year I try and avoid those things before I become caught up by some cousin gossiping about some other cousin while I juggle a can of warm beer and a plate of dripping pork that I pray doesn’t slide off and down my pants.

  “Fine,” I say as I pull into the parking lot. Why do they have to make this stupid lot so small? Ten spots gets this business district nothing but mocked. “I have to go, Mom, I have to go to work.”

  “Okay!” Is it just the speakers or does her voice sound a thousand times lighter now that she can get off the phone. “See you Saturday.”

  Ugh. “Sure thing.”

  I hang up and back out of the full lot. Please God let me not hit anything. Pendleton Falls’ business district is like a cruel joke. Adorable! Full of funky, clever little stores with odd, folksy titles! And absolutely nowhere to park.

  Aside from the dinky lot, there is street parking beneath the more decorative-than-functional streetlights, marked by parking meters that are perpetually out of order. I drive down a few blocks, past the center green, to the less-cute section of Main Street and park at a gas station.

  I check my hair in the rearview to make sure the curls are behaving and to throw on some lipstick. My insides flutter as I get out of the car, one and only one thought pounding through my skull.

  Hunter. Is Hunter going to be there? Of course he is, he owns the jewelry shop. He will be there. How will he act? I mean, is he going to pretend that the other night didn’t happen or is he going to play it cool? Well, I know he can’t pretend it didn’t happen, because I emailed him the other day through the office inbox asking him if he told his mother about my walk in the woods.

  He wrote back within minutes:

  No. She was visiting. Windows.

  It was a terribly minimalist email, and in general I disapprove of minimalist emails. I mean, that’s what texts are for, emails should be a bit more fleshed out.

  But whatever, the message was clear and I got it. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

  I wrap my arms around my middle and stand next to the car, eyeing the old pickup that clatters into the gas station.

  I have to play it cool. He came into the office yesterday, looking smoking hot in a dark suit, but he walked through the front of the office, talking only to Abigail and didn’t even glance in my direction.

  Which is totally fine. I just wish the universe would send that memo to my heart, which is off the charts with its rat-a-tat business as I make my way down the street to the store.

  Shifting my purse firmly up over my shoulder I pull open the door to Brookes Diamonds.

  Immediately, the glittering world of backlit cases of sparkling jewels and fancy people wearing fancy clothes and talking in low, fancy voices makes me feel underdressed.

  I pull the cardigan in a little tighter over my tea-length sweater dress. Really, it’s actually chilly today, how can these ladies be wearing spaghetti straps?

  My eyes scan the gleaming, wide-plank hardwood floors and lavender on the walls, the perfect color to highlight the cases of baubles embedded into the walls. I take mental notes of the décor and the number of people, about sixty-five of them, to write about in the column later.

  But I can’t see Hunter. Oh joy, look, there’s Mrs. Brookes.

  Unfortunately, she’s a real stunner in her black designer power suit and ruffled blouse. She uses diamond-studded hairpins to hold back her mass of thick, dark hair. That’s pretty over-the-top. I take a pic to remind myself to write about it in the article.

  Just as I make my way to the buffet table, she sees me and waves me over with a sneering-smile-death-face.

  Oh God, no.

  I take a step back.

  Taking a deep breath to prepare myself for the cutting jabs about to be launched my way, I suddenly smell cinnamon.

  Lots of cinnamon and spice and holy God, Hunter is behind me. I look down at the glass he’s reaching around my waist to offer me.

  Wiping my hands on my skirt, I take the glass. “I’m reporting on this little event for the paper, you know.”

  “Yeah? Cool.” His voice is low and dark and wow are my hands shaking. He comes around to stand in front of me. His smile, with those creamy, thick lips turns my insides to hot little pools of lust.

  This sucks. Wrestling my hormones back into their lockbox, I say, “Well, then you know I’m not allowed to drink on the job.”

  I push the glass of what is that, anyway? Bourbon? Whiskey? Are they the same thing? Whatever it is, I push it back into his empty hand.

  His smile falters.

  Oh no.

  I add, “You wouldn’t want me to piss off my boss, would you? I hear the owner of the paper is a real jerk.” And I wink.

  A wink? Where did that come from? Sweet Jesus, Piper, winking is so nineteen-fifties. And creepy. Like old-man, stalker, here-little-girl-do-you-want-some candy, creepy. Why for the love of goodness did I wink?

  Hunter takes a sip of his drink. “Yeah, I hear that, too.” He pushes the drink back into my hand. “Especially when he insists that his young reporters have a drink before going over to interview his mother.”

  I sigh and take the drink, sipping it and say, “Would you insist that Hildy have a drink if she were here instead of me?”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t have to. Hildy would have shown up hammered.” He has the look of the devil in his eyes and I giggle. Giggle like a little, pre-teen, pink-obsessed girl. Ugh. I’m pathetic, really.

  “That’s not very nice,” I say.

  “No, but it’s true. I went to high school with Hildy, trust me.” He offers his glass up and we click tumblers. “Besides, if you are brave enough to interview my mother then you may as well have every tool in the arsenal at your disposal.”

  “Are you offering to be my tool?” I ask, and then the look on his face, this sort of shock turning into a sly smile, makes me realize what it is I just said. “Oh my God, I didn’t mean it like, sexy-like. Or not sexy-like, or even tool like jerk, tool-“

  He laughs, a full, charming sort of laugh. “I’m more than happy to be your tool.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “Make fun if you will. But yeah, if you could walk with me over to your mom, that would be great. Oh, and before I forget” -I stop, digging around in my purse until I find my card and shove it into his hand- “if you can think of anything that might help with the story, call my cell, okay?”

  “Sure. Let me just warn you that mom thinks that my buying the Herald is a waste of time. She doesn’t care that it now has the second largest readership in the state.” He places his hand on my lower back and the weight of it send sparks riding from the pit of my stomach through to my toes.

  “Why is that?” I ask, breath a bit on the raspy side. Why is he so close? And oh my God, can he get closer? He smells so freakishly good. And so strong, with those big hands-

  Bad, this is bad. Hormones, get back in the stupid box! Now!

  “She’s still upset because the last publisher of the Herald asked her out the second she and my dad divorced. She turned him down and out of spite, he ran all sorts of nasty rumors about her and dad.”

  “Not very professional of him.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “You know, the ladies in the office say you bought the paper because you have this freakish passion for local history.” I lean in close to his shoulder as he guides me around the room full of the gray and the gilded. When I go gray, I hope to have it look half that good. The grays in the room are the beautiful, full of silver grays as opposed to the ugly tricolor, zombie grays I’ve been unlucky enough to spot on occasion in the mirror.

  “Freakish passion? That’s a new one.”

  “Oh, don’t be
offended, all of the good passions are freakish,” I say and take another sip of this sweet, cherry-filled boozy drink in my hand.

  He gives me a sideways glance and his lips curl up into this half-smile that sends my insides all a quiver wow. “I’m going to have to take your word on that one. But yeah, I guess my reasons for buying the paper were a combination of my appreciation of local history and the need to make my mom and dad stop screaming at each other over some bs they read about each other post-divorce.“

  “And yet you’ve been running it from New York.”

  “I don’t run anything, I just own it, which means that all I had to do was put Abigail in charge and take care of the books.”

  “And here I thought you were some power-hungry megalomaniac or something.”

  “Well, there’s that. But let’s just keep that one to ourselves, shall we?”

  "Piper, it’s so nice to see you dressed for the occasion." Mrs. Brookes says. The angry slant to her voice makes it perfectly clear that seeing me again is about as pleasurable as being dragged across hot coals by some tattooed magician in Vegas.

  "Mrs. Brookes, nice to see you again." I say. Hunter's hand on my back fortifies my position. I think if his hand wasn't there I would collapse into a jumble of nerves splattered on the floor.

  "Don't ever call me Mrs. Brookes. Anyone who has actually done their research would know that my name is Samantha. Just Samantha. Don't ever call me anything else."

  Okay, then. "Well, Samantha. Tell me what happens here at the Jewelry Expo of Pendleton Falls?"

  "Do you mean to tell me that you have come to this Jewelry Expo without at least doing a Google search of what a Jewelry Expo is?" She turns to Hunter with all the affection of a viper. "Seriously, darling, I'd think you'd interview your reporters for at least a modicum of IQ before hiring them. Or do you only hire based on looks?"

  "Well, you seem to have everything figured out." Hunter takes a drink from his glass, snatches her flute of champagne from her hand and places the glasses on the tray of a passing caterer. “And after that comment, you’re cut-off. You know you shouldn’t drink at these things. Never goes well.”

  Words stick in the back of my throat like old chewing gum, and Hunter’s eyes are focused on the ground. My nerves wither like week-old flowers.

  "Well, little girl, since you seem to be a bit slow, I will break it down for you. This Jewelry Expo is the premier in the region. It is not the largest, by any means, because we keep out all of that costume crap. We only accept the finest artisans and invite the biggest retailers to come. You see, in theory, a Jewelry Expo is where retailers come to find new suppliers, designers, local artisans, that sort of thing."

  I glance around, eyeing the diamond people. Who I don’t see in the room is her ex-husband, Hunter's father, the co-founder of her jewelry empire. Rumor has it that she bought him out but none of the papers ran anything about it. I’ll have to pry the info out of her for the article.

  "Well, Samantha, who would you say is the premier exhibitor here at the Expo?" I ask.

  "My son. He’s designed one line for the top-tier, high-end retailers which is debuting here tonight. He’s also designing a more affordable collection that is getting us a lot of buzz that we will premier later on in the season. Early test batches have done very well." She huffs. “Though God knows, it’s not like the masses can tell the difference.”

  I shiver at her slight against the masses, since I’m clearly in that category.

  I look up at Hunter, who looks away, sipping at his drink. The room definitely is full of people and by all accounts there are plenty of staff busy as bumblebees scribbling down order after order.

  Samantha plucks a canapé off a passing tray. She turns to Hunter. “I wonder what Sissy thinks about you gallivanting around in the woods with your employees.”

  Sissy, as everyone in town knows, is the nickname for Hunter's girlfriend, the super-beautiful, super-wealthy, super-long-legged, former crew rowing All-Star, Sondra McGrady.

  My shoulders slump and something inside of me deflates. Which is silly, of course, but hey, nothing like the shining image of perfection to make you feel, well, not like perfection.

  But Hunter’s face is stony. This is his big night, the debut of his first line of jewelry and Sondra isn’t here. His hands shake and he takes a deep breath.

  She continues, “Seriously, Hunter, first you gallivant in the woods and now here? I should call her-“

  I snap, “I think your life would drastically improve if you could put down your guns and your canapés and go for a good solid gallivant through the woods. It’s really amazing for the spirit. Like yoga, or pilates, only gallivantier.”

  She blinks and Hunter swooshes me away into the glittery crowd.

  “You are braver than you look.”

  “No, I think it’s whatever is in this glass.” I look over my shoulder back to where Samantha stands, staring after us, the hatred in her eyes so pointed I think I can actually feel my skin prick. “What do you think the chances of her actually shooting me over those comments, are? Twenty percent? Thirty, maybe?”

  “Less than thirty, definitely. Though I have yet to hear anyone suggest to my mother that she take up gallivanting, so I can’t be sure.” He says as we walk and the smile in his voice is apparent.

  His hand at my back feels good, too good, so I shuffle away. I can’t let myself like this, I can’t let myself like him. God knows I’ve had enough drama to last two lifetimes. I open my mouth to say something else, but some jolly gentlemen with rosy cheeks and puffy hair swoops in and rushes him away.

  The collection is amazing. I snap pictures and take notes on any necklaces or bracelets that seem to be causing excitement among the crowd.

  To be honest, jewelry isn’t really something I know terribly much about. It sparkles, it costs a lot of money, and, well, that’s about it. But this stuff really is different. Bands of gold or platinum twist and loop at with a grapevine-like elegance, small colored jewels inset at just the right angle to make the whole piece come alive.

  When I look up from the case, I see Hunter chatting, exuding confidence in his posture, in his gestures, but his smile is somewhat weaker than it was when I first got here. It no longer reaches his eyes.

  It’s Sissy. His whole demeanor changed when his mom mentioned her.

  Just more proof that the whole relationship business brings nothing but grief.

  After I interview six of the eight buyers, I look around to make sure to say goodbye to Hunter. He’s between three glamorous ladies dripping jewels and charm and pheromones, so the second I catch his eye I wave and motion to him that I’m leaving.

  He nods and holds up his glass before diving back into the conversation.

  The streets of Pendleton Falls tend to get all ghost-town every night after eight pm. Bars are zoned out of the historic district, so it is just me, my clacking shoes, an owl hooting from some tree and the smoke of wood-burning stoves as I make my way back to the gas station where I parked the car.

  The chill isn’t so bad, really, it’s not like breath-fogging up sort of cold, but it’s just cold and desolate enough that I speed up the rate of my footfalls. It’s not far. I step off the curb and cross, heels click click clicking across the street. Man I hate heels.

  My phone buzzes and I dig it out of my purse. It’s a text message, from Hunter.

  So, is there any question now as to why your boss is such a crazy jerk?

  Part of me smiles but another little piece of me warms. I take a deep breath, hoping that the thirteen-year old girl buried deep inside will get back into her cage.

  My chest tightens, I can’t crush on my boss. I know better. I type:

  Actually, I'm surprised that my boss wasn't locked up years ago. I think he's doing pretty well if his worst offense is making us all wear goofy nametags.

  I hit send.

  I want to tell him that I know all about disappointing family. About having decisions derided by the p
eople who mean the most to you, the people who can do the most damage. But I don’t.

  My fingers tremble as I unlock the car.

  Ann

  “You’re serious?” Elise looks down at Ann’s clay-covered hands with a raised eyebrow and her trademarked, what-kind-of-horror-show-is-this eyebrows.

  “What? Did they frown upon pottery at Smith?” Ann smirks at her sister’s obvious discomfort. “Grab a smock and sit.”

  She holds the smock up like it’s coated in smallpox, but she ties it around her waist and sits at the open wheel beside her sister. “When you said that we needed sister time, I didn’t really think-“

  “It’s open studio time, Elise, I need to finish these jars to auction off for the soup kitchen benefit next month.”

  “Fine.” She eyes the pink-haired studio assistant and adjusts her seat on the bench. “You call Piper?”

  “I did. She’s not being terribly forthcoming.”

  “Terribly forthcoming? Where the hell are you from, Annie? You worry about her enough to send me tons of emails at two am and now that we’re here face to face you get all vague.”

  “Phil is still staying with her and I don’t know what to say. Whenever I try and even broach the subject of her recommending alcohol to her readers and how it could hurt her future career she completely shuts me down. Hence, not terribly forthcoming.” Ann’s eyes stay on the clay rising between her muddy fingers.

  “If Philanderous Phil is bothering you so much, you should just tell her the damn truth.”

  Ann’s blood burns in her throat as her heart ka thunks in and out of rhythm until she steadies herself, staring at the spinning wheel in frustration at the lump of now-ruined clay. “Truth?” She asks, swallowing back her rising panic.

  “About the stealing. He’s her father, she’s old enough to know.” Elise stares at the gray catastrophe swirling around on Ann’s wheel. “I thought you were good at this?”

  “I’m getting better at it.” Ann dips her hands in the bucket of water at her feet and tosses some water on top of the shapeless mound before wiping the edges with a rag before leaning over the wheel and cupping both hands around the clay as it turns. “And I’ve hinted at his sticky fingers. How would it look if I just showed up on her doorstep and told her that Phil was a thief? That he stole from us? She’s not all that crazy about me as it is.”