Gwen placed an embroidered linen napkin over her knees before picking up a cup of mint tea as she settled down to interact with the ladies of the Genteel Magnolia Society. Holly Turner, who was serving the second year of her two-year term as president, was responsible for hosting the Sunday-afternoon soirees. The current members had gathered in the screened-in back porch of a meticulously restored antebellum mansion.
Without looking for the stamp under the saucer Gwen recognized the Sèvres pattern. She’d inherited a set of the incredibly beautiful porcelain from her aunt.
“Would you like a tart, Gwendolyn?” Holly asked, extending a matching plate filled with an assortment of miniature cookies and cakes.
Smiling, Gwen shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“I hope you’re not dieting because you have a wonderful figure,” said an elderly woman with snow-white hair as she peered at Gwen over her half glasses. The size of the double strand of pearls circling her neck was as large as jawbreakers. “I can’t believe the lengths you young women go through to look as if you’re starving. All that dieting and liposuction business is simply preposterous, if you ask me.”
Gwen smiled as she sipped her tea. She wasn’t going to comment on dieting because there were occasions when she’d embarked on several weight-loss regimens. In the end she’d come to the realization that as an adult she would never be a size six, and had come to accept her full hips and her intelligence as her best assets. She’d been told more than once by men that they liked the “junk in her trunk.”
She’d come to the Genteel Magnolia Society get-together only to discover she was the youngest of the twelve and the only woman of color. The members ranged in age from late thirties to eighties and claimed names associated with the earth, flora and fauna: Beryl, Rose, Hyacinth, Lily, Violet, Fern, Dahlia, Iris, Olive, Laurel and Holly. They were educated, wore classic clothes, conservative hairstyles, vintage jewelry, and were the descendants of the Revolutionary War and Civil War families.
She’d decided to forego her favored capris in favor of a skyblue linen sheath dress. Her accessories were a pair of pale blue-and-white high-heel leather pumps, a single strand of perfectly matched pearls, a gift from her mother for her sixteenth birthday, and pearl studs. She’d secured her hair in a twist on the nape of her neck.
Shiloh had teased her relentlessly as she dressed for the occasion, declaring she was a perfect candidate to integrate the centuries-old snobby group. Unknowingly, she’d become a Genteel Magnolia Society lady who just happened to be a darker hue.
“I just adore your accent, Gwendolyn,” said Fern, a natural redhead with sparkling green eyes and a friendly smile.
Picking up her napkin and dabbing the corners of her mouth, Gwen lifted her eyebrows. She’d hoped the woman meant regional inflection instead of an accent. She stared at Fern until the woman lowered her gaze.
“I know I don’t sound like you all, but no one has ever accused me of having an accent,” she said defensively.
Olive placed a wrinkled hand over her pearls. “You sound like those Kennedys. I think the way they speak is simply charming.”
The tension left Gwen’s body. Unconsciously she was ready to go to the mat to defend her home state. And what she intended to say wouldn’t have been very genteel.
“Why, thank you, Miss Olive,” she drawled in her best southern imitation. Everyone laughed, and so did Gwen. The tense moment had passed.
“I read your article in the Tribune, Gwendolyn,” Holly said as she sat down at the head of the table. “I must congratulate you on your wonderful talent. How you managed to write what you did without pointing a finger is amazing.”
“It’s a skill I learned in journalism school.”
Gwen was bombarded with questions as to her background and education, and she was candid and forthcoming in telling them she’d gone to college with the intent of becoming an English teacher. She’d taught high school English for two years before opting for a career in journalism.
“Do you think you’d ever go back to teaching?” Dahlia Townsend asked.
Gwen smiled at the tall, slender woman with ash-blond hair who bore a striking resemblance to Grace Kelly, the late princess of Monaco.
“I’ve thought about it.”
“If you’re serious, then please send me your résumé. I’m the principal at the high school. Several teachers are retiring and we need to fill their positions before the new school year.”
Not willing to commit, Gwen said, “I’ll have to update my résumé.”
“You can drop it off or mail it to the high school.” Dahlia’s cool looks were a deceptive foil for a dynamic personality that made her a highly respected and effective administrator.
Holly dropped a cube of sugar into her teacup. “Have you adjusted to living at Bon Temps?”
Gwen was hard pressed not to smile. Holly had just presented her with an opportunity to talk about her aunt. “Yes, I have.”
Olive crossed her arms. “I met my Gilbert, God rest his soul, at Bon Temps.”
Leaning forward, her pulse quickening, Gwen flashed a smile. She’d finally met someone, she hoped, who could possibly clear up some of the mystery surrounding Gwendolyn Pickering. “How well did you know my aunt?”
“Not too well. Gwendolyn never let people get too close to her. She kept to herself except when she hosted her balls at Bon Temps.”
Teacups were refilled and pastries passed around as Olive Peyton revealed the details about a liaison that crossed color lines and spanned decades. Gwendolyn Pickering had become a “kept woman.” She’d caught the eye of Robert LeRoque, a married bank president who set her up at Bon Temps while showering her with expensive gifts.
Olivia paused for effect. It wasn’t often she was able to garner the rapt attention of the women, and she intended to savor the moment. “Robert was generous and controlling. He bought Bon Temps for her, but poor Gwendolyn had to get his permission to do anything, even visit her family. She was a beautiful caged bird whose wings were clipped so she wouldn’t be able to fly away.”
Gwen slumped back on her chair. I know how difficult it was for you to come see me. I love you even more for risking everything you have to make the trip. The words written by the New Orleans musician came rushing back in vivid clarity. Gwendolyn Pickering loved A.C., not Robert LeRoque, yet she wasn’t willing to risk forfeiting a glamorous lifestyle for love.
“Where is Robert LeRoque now?” Gwen asked Olivia.
“He died about twenty years ago. And it seemed as if Gwendolyn died with him. She stopped giving balls, and whenever she left Bon Temps she was dressed in black with a veil concealing her face. We all but forgot about her until she passed away earlier in the year.”
Gwen managed a tentative smile. “Thank you, Miss Olive, for clearing up a lot of questions about my great-aunt.” Olive Peyton puffed up her chest like a hen settling on her nest. “Do you ladies have a historian for your group?” Eleven pairs of eyes were trained on Gwen.
“No…no, we don’t,” Holly said tentatively.
Dahlia pressed her palms together. “And we should. We’ve been meeting for more than a hundred years and no one has ever chronicled our meetings or our causes.”
Holly’s blue eyes danced with excitement. “Will you do it, Gwen? Will you become our historian?”
“I can’t.”
Bright red spots appeared on Holly’s pale cheeks. “Why not?”
“Firstly, I’m not a member of your august group. And, secondly I know nothing about the Genteel Magnolia Society.”
“But you could become a member,” Holly said quickly.
Gwen successfully hid a smile as she brought her napkin to her mouth. “Don’t you have criteria for membership?”
“Yes, we do,” Dahlia concurred, “but we can always amend that.”
There was a swollen silence as Gwen gave each of the women sitting at the table a look. “I’m aware of the incident wherein a woman of color sought membership but was denied not be
cause of who she was but what she was. And while you’ve tried to make amends by inviting me to join you for your Sunday-afternoon soirees I applaud you for trying to right your wrong.”
Faces flushed or blanched with Gwen’s soft chastisement. “Times change and people change,” she continued. “And even though I don’t know the woman you snubbed, I’ll accept your apology on her behalf. I won’t be your historian, but what I will agree to do is write your history. I’d like each of you to record your experiences into a tape recorder and send them to me. You can talk about anything you want. Miss Olive, since you’re the eldest one here I expect you to become the definitive voice for the other ladies.
“I don’t want a literary account, but a blend of eloquence and down-home. Miss Olive, you can talk about the balls at Bon Temps, and the fact that you met your husband there. Please, ladies, do not gloss over history or paint a picture that St. Martin Parish was exempt from racial bigotry and the evils of Jim Crow. If you give me what I want, then I’m certain I can put together something worthy of a bestseller.”
A flush suffused Dahlia’s face to her pale hairline. “It sounds so incredible. Have you thought of a title?”
Gwen smiled. “Sunday Tea with the Genteel Magnolia Society.”
Olive shook her snow-white head. “You are extraordinary!”
“No, Miss Olive, you ladies are extraordinary that you’ve maintained a cohesiveness that has survived for more than a century. I urge you to contact a professional photographer so that you can take a group picture which can be used for the back cover.”
“Will you join us for the photo shoot?” Holly asked.
“I’ll let you know,” Gwen said, unwilling to commit to becoming a Genteel Magnolia. She placed her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m going to have to take my leave now.” She stood up. “Thank you so much for inviting me. It’s been charming.”
Amid a chorus of “thank you” and “nice meeting you,” Holly escorted Gwen to where she’d parked her car among the other luxury vehicles.
She reached out and grasped Gwen’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough for coming. I’m going to submit your name for membership and I hope you’ll accept. We do champion many important local issues. The past two years we’ve supported Tabasco’s cause to preserve Louisiana’s wetland for future generations. We’ve raised more than fifty thousand dollars to increase efforts to save one of America’s ecological treasures.”
“I’ll give it some serious thought.”
Pulling her hand from Holly’s loose grip, Gwen pressed her car’s remote device, unlocking the doors. The smile curving her mouth as she drove away was still in place when she turned in to the driveway to Shiloh’s house.
* * *
Shiloh sat on a padded bench in the expansive bathroom, watching Gwen as she removed the pins from her hair and fluffed up her curls. He’d picked up her shoes to keep Cocoa from gnawing on them.
He lifted his eyebrow when he saw the name of the shoe designer. “You really like shoes, don’t you?”
Gwen caught his reflection in the mirrored wall. “Don’t start in about my shoes, Shiloh. Heels are the best way to connect to one’s soul.”
“Soul or sole?” he quipped.
She patted her chest. “This soul. When I’m stressed out I buy shoes instead of food.”
“You must get stressed a lot,” he drawled, “because I’ve never seen you wear the same pair twice.”
Turning slowly, she held his gaze. “Let’s settle something before we move forward in this relationship. I won’t put up with you monitoring what I wear or buy. And if you feel you can’t afford me, then I suggest we cut it off now.”
A slow building anger paled Shiloh’s eyes until they were a brilliant gold, all traces of green missing. “Don’t ever tell me what I can or cannot pay for, Gwendolyn. I can afford to house you, feed you, provide for our children, and buy you Ferragamo, Weitzman, Choo, Blahnik, Chanel or Cole Haan.
“What’s the matter?” he spat out when her jaw dropped. “You didn’t think I knew the names? I know them all,” he continued, not giving her a chance to reply. “My ex-wife had closets filled with labels from every well-known and up-and-coming designer in the business.”
Gwen’s eyes widened before she went completely still. “Don’t ever compare me with your ex-wife, Shiloh. I don’t know anything about her, and I don’t want to know. But, let me know now if the label in my shoes is a problem, because I’ll save both us the cost of a wedding and a subsequent divorce. I can walk away from you and forget that you ever existed.”
Shiloh closed the distance between them, his hands going to her bare shoulders and pulling her close to his chest. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He’d said it so softly that Gwen thought she’d imagined his threat. “You can’t stop me.”
There was a pregnant pause before he whispered, “I know I can’t. But, if you do, then I want you to know that I will love you until my last breath.”
Gwen felt her heart turn over with his passionate confession. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. He loved her and she loved him—more than she’d ever loved any man. Why, she asked herself, was she fighting with Shiloh? Was it because she had to keep him at a distance because she feared being hurt again? Was it because although she loved him she still wasn’t able to trust a man without reservation?
Rising on tiptoes, she wound her arms under his shoulders. “Show me how much you love me, Shiloh.”
Reaching around her back, Shiloh unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the floor. He cradled her breasts, squeezing them gently. Gwen expelled a lungful of breath. Vertical lines appeared between his eyes. “What’s the matter, baby?”
She buried her face against the column of his strong neck. “They’re tender because I’m ovulating.”
His hands moved from her chest to cradle her face. The smile in his eyes contained a sensuous flame. “Do you want to make a baby?”
The heavy lashes that shadowed Gwen’s eyes flew up. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
“What happened to a period of courtship, then a short engagement before we marry and have children?”
“I still want those, but I want you to have my baby now.”
“Before we get married?”
Shiloh’s eyes darkened with an unnamed emotion. “We can get married next week. Don’t most women want to be June brides?”
Gwen wanted so much to say yes, but couldn’t. “I can’t, Shiloh. Not when you still have to carry a gun for your job. I know you believe I have this tough big-city attitude, but I’m not so tough that I’m willing to risk marrying you, then have to deal with one of your deputies knocking on the door to tell me that my husband died heroically in the line of duty. My answer to becoming a June bride is hell to the no.”
Chuckling, Shiloh nuzzled her ear. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“Can you guarantee that?” she asked.
“Nothing is guaranteed. Not even the next minute.”
Gwen studied his stoic expression for a moment. “You’re right. The only thing I’ll agree to change is a shorter courtship.”
“If that’s what you want, then we’ll announce our engagement tonight.”
Grinning broadly, Shiloh swung Gwen up into his arms, carried her from the bathroom and into the bedroom. He placed on her bed and sat down beside her. Picking up the telephone, he handed it to her.
“Call your folks and let them know. I’ll use my cell phone to call my mother.” He got up, rounded the bed, and reached for the cell phone on the matching bedside table.
They sat, back to back, and informed their respective family members of their upcoming nuptials. Gwen told her parents to call Lauren and let her know that she wanted her to become her matron of honor, and that she would call her tomorrow to bring her up-to-date on what had been going in h
er life since they last spoke.
Shiloh made two calls: one to Moriah, and the other to his jewelry designer sister-in-law. He wanted Natalee to confer with Gwen so that she could design an engagement ring that was unique to her personality.
They ended their calls, smiling at each other. Gwen went into Shiloh’s embrace as he finished undressing her before he undressed himself. They lay in bed, fused. There was no need to say anything because they let their bodies speak for them.
It wasn’t until after Shiloh withdrew from her that Gwen felt a sense of loss and regret. Loss of the warmth and hardness of his body, and regret that he’d used protection.
Despite her fears that she could possibly lose Shiloh while he remained sheriff of St. Martin Parish she wanted a baby—Shiloh’s baby.
CHAPTER 15
Gwen felt as if she were on a nonstop roller coaster, going faster and faster along a winding track that had no beginning and no end.
She’d become the first woman of color to become a member of the St. Martin Parish Genteel Magnolia Society, updated her résumé and mailed it off to Dahlia Townsend at the high school, met with Deputy Sheriff Jameson on Tuesday mornings for updates on DUI and DWIs, burglaries, armed robberies, assaults and felonious mischief, or domestic disputes and had begun her own independent investigation into Shelby Carruthers’ unsolved murder.
It was July 15, and her parents’ flight that was scheduled to arrive at the Baton Rouge airport at eleven was more than an hour late. Millard and Paulette Taylor were traveling to Louisiana to reunite with their daughter and meet the family of the man who was to become their son-in-law.
She’d wanted her parents to wait until the interior repairs to Bon Temps were completed, but Paulette huffed and puffed, declaring she could always stay in a hotel. However, when Gwen disclosed her mother’s plan to Shiloh, he said Paulette and Millard could stay at his house. Moriah overruled him saying the elder Taylors would stay with her.
Gwen alternated pacing with staring at the electronic screen for arriving flights. Shiloh, who’d just spent three days in Baton Rouge attending a conference of the state’s Police Jury Association, had promised to meet her at the airport.
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