Closer Than She Thinks

by Meryl Sawyer

Alyssa hesitated.

  “That’s what I thought. You won’t be positive until you see him again and talk to him.”

  There was a kernel of truth in what Aunt Thee said. Alyssa wondered how she’d feel when she ran into Clay. She couldn’t honestly say that she wouldn’t feel something. She’d loved him once with all her heart, and as years passed, she’d met other men, but had never allowed herself to fall in love.

  “Aunt Thee,” she said, deliberately changing the subject, “who owns this house?”

  “I do. I’ve had it leased for years, but several months ago the lease was up and I put the tenants on a month-to-month agreement.”

  “You own this town house?” Somehow Alyssa wasn’t surprised. Aunt Thee rarely discussed her financial holdings. She’d been left a wealthy widow and forced to learn to manage her own affairs. She’d encouraged Alyssa to be just as independent.

  “Yes. I’ve wanted to come back home for some time now.”

  “You have? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t want to leave you.” Aunt Thee touched Alyssa’s cheek. “I’ve never forgiven myself for not adopting you when your parents died. If I had, Hattie LeCroix wouldn’t have tortured you.”

  “She didn’t mistreat me … exactly. I wasn’t loved but the LeCroixs provided for me. I turned out all right. Didn’t I?”

  Aunt Thee’s smile was tender. “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. Don’t fuss about my childhood. You helped me when I needed it the most.” Alyssa leaned over and kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I love you. You know that.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Alyssa stood up, smiling fondly at her aunt. “It’s late. Try to get some sleep.”

  Aunt Thee held up her hand to stop her. “Have you seen Jake Williams yet?”

  “Yes.” Alyssa wasn’t sure why she hesitated before saying, “I had dinner with him tonight.”

  “Was he as rude as he was the first time you met?”

  “No. Jake …” Alyssa was at a loss as to how to describe Jake to Aunt Thee. He was a complex man, and she had no idea what made him tick. He’d been cold and abrupt in Florence, yet tonight he handled a difficult situation with humor and intelligence. Then he’d seemed genuinely concerned about her safety.

  “Well?” prompted Aunt Thee.

  “He told me about Clay. I explained the situation, and he assured me that I’ll report directly to him. Clay may be part of the company, but I won’t have to deal with him.”

  Aunt Thee regarded her with a speculative gaze.

  “Jake helped me come up with a plan.”

  “Really?”

  Alyssa explained how they were going to try to force Clay’s hand. “By this time tomorrow night, we should know why Clay bought Rossi Designs.”

  Clay placed his hand on the back of Phoebe’s arm and guided her up the sweeping steps of Max Williams’s estate on the exclusive guard-gated Audubon Street just down the block from where Phoebe’s parents lived. Party lights twinkled in the graceful magnolia trees lining the drive, and chains of red roses laced the marble banister leading into the house. The sound of a band playing Mardi Gras music drifted their way from behind the mansion.

  “I refuse to believe Max Williams is going to be king,” Phoebe whispered, her tone as frosty as it had been since the Orion krewe’s election.

  “Sh-h-h!” he cautioned his wife. “No one is supposed to know for months who the next king is. Max will be a good king. He’ll throw tons of money at it.”

  Clay didn’t bother to look at his wife as he spoke. She was miffed enough because he’d voted for Max. She’d be furious if she knew how hard he’d lobbied to get Max elected. Now that Max was devoting his time to his Mardi Gras role, he wouldn’t be hovering around TriTech.

  Clay spotted Max standing in the massive entryway, greeting guests. Tall with broad shoulders and rough-hewn features, Max strongly resembled his son, except Jake’s hair was jet-black and Max’s full head of wavy hair was burnished with silver. He was over fifty, but he looked much younger because he kept himself in shape and his hairline hadn’t receded.

  “There’s Ravelle.” Phoebe waved to Ravelle Renault as the parking valet opened the door to the older woman’s Bentley on the driveway at the bottom of the steps. A van marked KTNO pulled up behind Ravelle and a camera crew jumped out, then started to set up for a panoramic shot of the mansion.

  Clay smiled at the woman whose human interest show, “About Town,” appeared every night on television. It was nothing more than a gossip session about the lives of wealthy local residents. It was hard for him to believe so many people tuned in every night, unable to get enough of what others called “bayou backbiting” because Ravelle had been born in a small Cajun backwater village.

  He nudged Phoebe forward in the receiving line, prepared to leave her to chat with Ravelle. He made it a point not to cross Ravelle, but he didn’t care for the woman. He’d never forgiven her for the way she’d attacked Alyssa years ago.

  “Clay, how’z it goin’?” Max greeted them in his deep-timbered voice.

  “Great. Just great.”

  Max offered Clay a firm but quick handshake as he turned to Phoebe. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. You’re more beautiful every time I see you, Phoebe.”

  “Oh, Max, go on.” Phoebe blessed him with a brilliant smile, and even Phoebe’s own mother would never have guessed that Phoebe had wanted Max blackballed.

  “I’m serious,” insisted Max. “You’re the best lookin’ gal here.”

  Clay noted how taken Max was with Phoebe. She managed to wrap any man around her finger, he thought, then corrected himself. Jake Williams hadn’t fallen for his wife. He might be a country boy from the Redneck Riviera, but Jake had street smarts. Clay wondered if Jake would even bother to show up for his father’s party. He avoided the social scene and kept to himself.

  The crush of people behind them forced Max to urge them to go inside for a drink, and they walked into the antique-filled mansion. Clay ignored Phoebe and glanced around for the bar. It had been a tough day and he needed a double shot of Johnny Walker Gold in the worst way.

  “He’s in love with me, you know.”

  Clay spotted a bar set up in the corner of the massive dining room off the entry, and knew there was a wood-paneled taproom down the hall, but he was certain with this big of a crowd the caterers would have set up another bar on the back terrace.

  “Are you listening?” Phoebe tugged on his arm.

  “Yes. Max is in love with you.” He kept walking toward the French doors that were open onto the terrace, hoping Phoebe would stay behind to catch Ravelle.

  “He’s been crazy about me since I was Mardi Gras queen.”

  There was something in his wife’s tone that made Clay glance at her. Phoebe smiled up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. It had been years since Phoebe had been queen. Max had been in New Orleans back then, his business just beginning to take off, but he hadn’t traveled in their social circles.

  “How did you meet Max?” he asked, thinking the question underscored how distant they’d become. He’d assumed they’d met at some charity function several years ago when Max had hit the big time and had exploded onto the social scene, buying his way in by donating money to a variety of charities. God knows, Phoebe sat on every committee imaginable.

  “We met at a photo shoot after I became Mardi Gras queen. Max came right up and introduced himself.”

  “You’ve known him since before we were married?”

  “Well, duh! I guess you were too busy chasing Alyssa to notice.”

  It was true, he had been spending as much time as possible with Alyssa back then, but he was dead certain he would have remembered had he met Max. The man had a brash, go-for-it style that reminded him of Jake.

  Alyssa, thought Clay, smiling inwardly. She was a taboo subject between them. Phoebe hadn’t mentioned her name in years. How would she react when she found out Alyssa was back in town?
First thing Monday morning, Clay planned to go into Alyssa’s office and welcome her home.

  “He’s still after you?” Clay asked, remembering what Phoebe had said when she’d dropped by his office to convince him to blackball Max.

  “He’s never given up.” Phoebe’s long-suffering sigh nearly made him gag.

  Clay greeted friends, but kept moving toward the terrace bar. Phoebe stuck to his side instead of scurrying out to greet Ravelle to be certain she was featured on the television coverage of the party.

  “Max frightens me,” Phoebe told him.

  “Why? You claim he’s crazy about you.” Personally, Clay thought Max was crazy about politics and only slightly taken with his wife as were too many men around town to count.

  “He’s never stopped loving me.”

  “That scares you?” Clay kept his voice low. They were close to a number of other people now, and he didn’t want any of them to misinterpret this ridiculous conversation.

  “He wants to marry me.”

  Phoebe’s version of reality was suspect at best, but this was a new twist. He called her bluff. “I’ll give you a divorce anytime you want.”

  Not only was Max old enough to be her father, but Phoebe was the epitome of snobbery. Being married to a Duvall was the pinnacle of society. She’d connived her way into the marriage, and she didn’t intend to let him go—unless she could move up.

  “Don’t tempt me,” she hissed.

  We’re stuck with each other, Clay thought as he ordered drinks from the bartender, having to settle for Johnny Walker Black Label. Trust a hick like Max not to make certain Johnny Walker Blue and Gold were available for his guests.

  Clay had no intention of divorcing Phoebe and being forced to split the family fortune. He was set to make even more money—not give it away to a woman whose crowning achievement was riding the krewe’s float as Mardi Gras queen.

  “Phoebe, darling.” Ravelle Renault joined them at the bar. “Your dress is divine. As soon as my crew catches up, we’ll get a few shots.”

  “It’s a Badgley Mishka.” Phoebe did a slow pirouette while Ravelle gushed over the silver beaded gown. Clay was positive it had set him back a bundle.

  Ravelle’s black hair was piled on top of her head in the updo she’d worn for years. She dyed it black to look good on television, but in person it was much too dark for her pallid skin. She was whippet thin now, but before Ravelle had convinced the owner of a local television station to give her a spot on the news, she’d been overweight.

  Clay took a sip of his second Johnny Walker, not paying any attention to the women’s chatter until Ravelle began to whisper.

  “Darling, who’s that stunning woman with Neville Berringer?”

  Clay scanned the crowd for the most eligible bachelor in New Orleans. Neville had been in Clay’s class at Tulane law school. He’d joined his family’s legal firm while Clay had gone into his family’s importing business. Neville’s wife had died two years ago of cancer. He rarely had ventured out to a party since.

  “I have no idea who she is,” responded Phoebe, “but she’s wearing last season’s Armani. I saw it on sale at Neiman Marcus.”

  Clay spotted Neville and almost choked on the whiskey. Maree Winston was clinging to Neville’s arm and smiling up at him. Stay cool, Clay told himself. Maree had stopped calling weeks ago. Now he knew why. He’d wanted her to find someone else, but he couldn’t help resenting how easily she’d linked up with one of his friends or how much she seemed to be enjoying it.

  “I guess there’s a story here,” Phoebe said to Ravelle. “Neville’s donated a new building at Tulane in his wife’s name. You’ll want to get his comments on that.”

  Ravelle waggled her finger at Phoebe. “Darling, you’ve been naughty—very naughty. You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “I have?” Phoebe’s tone was coy. “About what?”

  “Darling, you know the really big story isn’t Neville.” Ravelle inclined her head toward the terrace.

  Clay tore his eyes away from Maree and spotted Max standing on the terrace with Jake. Between them stood Alyssa Rossi.

  “That bitch is back!” cried Phoebe.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ravelle asked.

  “I didn’t know.” Phoebe’s reply was barely audible.

  “Where’s my crew?” Ravelle waved frantically to her cameraman, who was still filming near the gazebo. “I must interview Alyssa.”

  Clay downed the rest of his Johnny Walker in a single gulp, his angry gaze sweeping over Alyssa. She wore a strapless red gown that showed off her knockout figure and an unusual blue beaded necklace she must have designed. Every man around was gaping at her—but it was Jake Williams who had her on his arm.

  Christ. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned.

  CHAPTER 8

  Alyssa stood next to Jake half-listening to him talk to his father. She hated to admit it, but the butterflies in her stomach were as big as bats. She made herself look up at the men, but she’d already spotted Clay Duvall over near the bar. He hadn’t noticed her because he’d been gawking at a drop-dead gorgeous brunette in a black gown.

  She would have recognized Clay anywhere, Alyssa thought, her breath catching. He was heavier through the chest and shoulders than she’d remembered, having shed any remnants of the boyish Clay Duvall she’d loved. He was mature now; they both were. Time did that to you, she reflected, knowing she’d changed as well.

  Smoothing the midriff of the red silk sheath, Alyssa reminded herself that she was no longer the shy, insecure girl Clay had so easily charmed. Not only was she older, but the years in Italy working in the fashion industry had given her confidence and her own unique style. Every woman here would be wearing a designer gown while she’d designed her own gown. True, she’d given the sketch to a dress manufacturer and he’d produced it in exchange for jewelry for his girlfriend, but the idea had been hers and hers alone.

  Phoebe appeared only slightly older than when Alyssa had last seen her, but the air of sophistication she’d worn like her own skin had taken on a hard edge. She was glamorous and poised and sure of herself, the way she’d been since Alyssa could remember.

  Blond and blue-eyed and statuesque, Phoebe and Clay were a striking couple, she decided. Like a pair of matched Thoroughbreds, they belonged together. They always had. Their backgrounds, their breeding, their view of the world had been preordained long before they had been conceived.

  Alyssa had been shackled with an appearance that was disarmingly similar to Phoebe’s, but they’d shared little else. Hattie had always pitted them against each other, telling Alyssa she wasn’t pretty enough, then taunting Phoebe, saying she wasn’t smart enough. Alyssa was positive that time and distance hadn’t changed this fact. Was confronting them a good idea? she asked herself yet again.

  It had seemed like it when Jake suggested attending his father’s party and taking everyone by surprise. “The best defense is a good offense,” he’d told her. Now she wasn’t so certain.

  The fine hair across the back of her neck prickled as she recognized the woman standing next to Phoebe. Ravelle Renault had crucified Alyssa when little Patrick Duvall had been kidnapped, insinuating she was responsible. Her vicious columns had led to Alyssa’s arrest.

  At the far end of the gardens, Alyssa noticed a gazebo where a band was playing. A camera crew was filming the dancers who were gyrating on the parquet dance floor that had been brought in for the party. She recalled what Jake had told her about Ravelle’s television program and realized this must be Ravelle’s camera crew. Inwardly, she braced herself.

  “I can’t get over it,” Max Williams was saying to her, and she forced herself to pay attention to him. “You look exactly like Phoebe. Almost twins.”

  “We’ve often been mistaken for twins, but we’re only second cousins.”

  “Phoebe’s a fine-lookin’ gal. Mighty fine. I see my son has great taste in women, too. You’re just as beautiful.”

 
; Alyssa kept her eyes trained on Max and Jake, aware that conversation on the terrace had become hushed whispers. Jake smiled reassuringly, his hand now on the back of her waist.

  “Alyssa’s a very talented designer, Max. That’s why we acquired her company.”

  “What do you design?”

  Alyssa gazed at Max, thinking this was exactly what Jake would look like when he was older. He’d be athletic and good-looking in a rugged way—not that he wasn’t attractive now.

  “I design costume jewelry, specializing in beads. Some are semi-precious stones but most are crystal. Like this.” She touched the frothy collar of aquamarine briolette beads encircling her neck. “I like to think of it as wearable art.”

  Max nodded, approval in his dark eyes. “Do you have a shop here?”

  “She has representatives in New York the way most jewelry designers do,” explained Jake, his hand pressing hard on her back. “Her stores are in Italy, but she’s opening a shop here in the Warehouse District.”

  This was news to Alyssa. They hadn’t discussed it, but she assumed the pressure of his hand meant he wanted her to agree. She nodded, thinking it was a good idea. “The French Quarter’s too touristy. The Warehouse District with all the art galleries and boutiques would be perfect.”

  “Isn’t there a vacancy on the ground floor of your building?” asked Max.

  “Yes. It’s a small shop but all she needs is display space. The business division already has relocated its headquarters to TriTech.”

  “That so?”

  Alyssa could tell Max knew nothing about this. From what Jake had told her, his father had retired, but still kept abreast of the inner workings at TriTech. She tried to concentrate on the idea of opening a new shop, but it was difficult with people staring at them. And with Clay so close after so many years apart.

  She’d imagined this moment, dreamed about it more than she cared to admit even to herself. But nothing prepared her for the reality of seeing Clay with Phoebe at his side, and with Ravelle Renault coiled like a venomous snake ready to strike. She tamped down her misgivings, reminding herself that she had done nothing wrong. She had every right to be here.