Sarah Booth Delaney

by Sarah Booth Delaney 01-06 (lit)

  In the Old South of bone corsets and come-hither glances, femininity was taken to a pinnacle that has never been achieved before or since. The softness, the pliability, the art of flirtation and pleasuring, were taught with a vigor that would make a marine think twice. Babes in arms were initiated into the illusionary cult of helpless PW.

  And beneath the guise of the PW beat the heart of the WW. This was the woman who ruled, yet made her spouse believe that he held the reins of power.

  As a result of all of this pliant femininity, that highest form of manners—chivalry—was born. The Southern male yang to the feminine yin.

  Harold was a superior specimen of the old school, and it was the one thing about him that I truly admired. There is something mesmerizing about velvet-lined power, whether it comes from a steel magnolia or a Southern gentleman.

  "How was your holiday dinner?" he asked as he drove between the bone-bleached trunks of the sycamores.

  "Delicious." He was still sore that I had chosen not to eat with him. Declining an invitation is WW, not PW. Men ask, women accept—with a gasp of pleasure or at least a smile.

  He turned left out of the drive, toward open country and away from Zinnia. Harold owned one of Zinnia's large, old houses in town, where he frequently entertained in great style. I was a little disappointed we were headed in the opposite direction because I enjoyed visiting his home. Harold had exquisite taste. His library was a treasure trove, and the walls of his home were hung with the work of the masters and an interesting assortment of new artists that Harold championed and supported. Because of his single status and his tasteful selection of furnishings, there had been talk of his sexual persuasion. But that was simply the talk of disgruntled women, or their mothers. Harold was considered quite a catch, and when they didn't land him, they turned nasty.

  We drove through the countryside in an afternoon of slanting sun and brown fields littered with the bolls of cotton that the mechanical pickers had missed. That tattered look the fields had reminded me of the great wealth and great poverty that was the Mississippi Delta. A land of extremes, in almost every way.

  "Sarah Booth, you said you'd have an answer for me," Harold said.

  I tried once again to pinpoint my objection to Harold. He was handsome, rich, and powerful, and he always treated me with graciousness. It could be worse. Yet I couldn't bring myself to yield to him. And it certainly wasn't because I was too moral to trade my physical favors for his financial ones. Every relationship is one form of bartering or another. This was an honest, forthright deal.

  "Why do you want me, Harold?" Perhaps if I understood, I would be better able to accept him.

  "I don't know," he answered, glancing at me with some puzzlement. "You're an attractive woman, but there are plenty of good-looking women, and I normally prefer blondes."

  I gave him a sideways glance. "And your point is?"

  "You're attractive, Sarah Booth, but there are women who are beautiful and not so difficult. Tell me something. Have you ever had a successful relationship with a man?"

  His question startled me before it made me mad. What exactly was the definition of successful? "Are you asking me why I'm not married?" I parried.

  "In part. Let's start with that."

  "It's too much work." That was the one answer guaranteed to fry him.

  "So your idea of a successful relationship is short-term, with no work involved?"

  I didn't like the way he was handling all of this, but so far he was simply restating what I'd said. Or almost what I'd said. "Pretty much," I answered. "Where is this headed, Harold?"

  He turned the car down a dirt lane and pulled over beside Opal Lake. The water caught the slanting rays of sunlight and sparkled like the semiprecious stone for which it was named. It had been a long time since I'd been to Opal Lake, the place where teenagers went parking. But I wasn't a teenager and it was still broad daylight.

  "I have a proposal for you," he said. "A formal one."

  I wondered if he had a contract in the breast pocket of his coat. Basically, I knew the terms—I would be Harold's mistress and he would help me refinance Dahlia House. From a cold, practical standpoint, it was a good deal for both of us.

  "I can't sleep with you as some kind of business proposition," I said, not meeting his gaze. This was hard for me. Harold was the ace in the hole, the thing I could fall back on. And I was cutting myself free of him. "I just can't do it, Harold. In the long run, I'd feel so bad about it that it would be worse than losing Dahlia House."

  "Would it be so bad to sleep with me?" he asked.

  "No." That was an honest answer. "It would be so bad to do it because you're blackmailing me." Aha! That was the nub of my resistance. Coercion didn't sit well with me. I looked up into his smile. His happiness concerned me. "What?"

  "That's what attracts me, the defiance, the refusal to be coerced. I find that extremely exciting."

  And indeed he did. I could tell by the flush of color on his cheeks and the increase in his respiration. The solitude of Opal Lake struck me anew. It would be a long time before the teenagers came out to park.

  "You'd find it very annoying after a short while," I said, edging back against the padded leather door of the car. Behind me the automatic lock clicked as Harold pressed the button on his control panel. His smile widened.

  "Oh, I doubt that." His right arm moved to the top of my seat and I realized he wore leather gloves. Leather is appropriate for a man like Harold, but the gloves bothered me.

  "Harold, you would find me very, very unamusing. Trust me." I was now finding myself very, very concerned. My major at Ole Miss had been psychology, and my fascination had been aberrant behavior. It was not over the top to find control freaks who eventually sought the ultimate level of power—life or death.

  The fingers of his right hand flexed in the leather gloves, a slow cre-ee-ea-k of material not a foot from my head.

  "Sarah Booth, I have to admit, you fascinate me. But there are things about you that worry me."

  "I'm sure," I said, giving him a jolly grin. "More than you can count. I'm just not worth the trouble."

  "Who is it that you're always talking to?"

  His question threw me off balance. "Talking to?" I realized that it had to be Jitty, but when had he been listening? I remembered him standing in the bridal wreath. Was it possible that he'd actually been stalking me? Some detective I was turning out to be. I had a madman in my yard and didn't even notice.

  "Every time I come up to the door, I hear you chattering away. And from your tone of voice, I know you think someone is answering you."

  His hand inched closer to my throat. I could not push back against the door any harder.

  "Who are you talking to?"

  "Myself?"

  He smiled. "All of the Delaneys are buried at Dahlia House, aren't they?"

  I swallowed. Mention of burial and cemeteries did not seem like a good thing. I nodded slowly. "Most of the big old plantations have their own cemeteries."

  "Which one of your dead relatives are you talking to?"

  Jitty wasn't actually a relative, but she was family. "Someone who is very close to me." I tried to sound sad.

  "Don't you think it a little odd for a thirty-three-year-old woman to be talking to dead folks? You've cut yourself off from the girls you grew up with."

  Right. I didn't have money to indulge in The Club, or the tennis matches, or the charity events. "Things have changed for me, Harold. My life is different."

  "You don't have the money to keep up with them."

  He'd hit the nail on the head. "That's one way of looking at it. Another is that I'm not like them." Even as I said it, I realized it was true. They had married and settled, they had accepted a way of life from which I had slipped away.

  "You could go back. You were born and bred for it."

  "Could I?" I was asking myself as much as him.

  His hand slipped over and grasped my shoulder so suddenly that I gasped. His left han
d moved toward me in a fist. Suddenly the glove opened and in the middle of his palm was a small velvet box.

  "Take it," he said.

  My hand trembled as I reached for it. Without being told, I snapped open the lid and gazed down at the diamond. It was at least four carats, but not ostentatious. Incredible. I had never seen a jewel so beautiful. "It's lovely," I said.

  "Marry me, Sarah Booth. I thought I wanted a casual relationship, but now I realize that I must have you as my wife. I want you to have my children, to be a part of my future."

  I held the ring in my right hand and looked into his eyes. They were the lightest blue I'd ever seen. It was impossible to tell what emotion lay hidden behind them. Conquest, love, something else.

  "I can't," I said, handing it back.

  "Can't or won't?" He didn't sound upset.

  "I know it's going to sound crazy, but I haven't married because I haven't fallen in love." Even to me it sounded ridiculous. One thing that Daddy's Girls knew from birth was that love was a fickle consort—security was the basis of a lasting relationship. "I'll marry when I meet the right person."

  Harold's smile widened again. "I knew you'd say that." He turned the key in the ignition and the Lexus purred into life. "It's the perfect answer, Sarah Booth. It only makes me more determined."

  Great. That was exactly what I'd intended. "Harold, I don't think this is a situation where determination can make a difference."

  He turned the car around and drove slowly back to the road. I was relieved to be on blacktop where there were other cars passing.

  "Is there someone else?" he asked.

  "No." That was honest.

  "Good, because if there was, I might be driven to desperation." He reached across the seat and put his hand over mine, squeezing it lightly. "I look at this as a challenge. You'll marry me, Sarah Booth, and sooner than you think."

  8

  Knob Hill was an impressive sight, especially silhouetted against the magnificence of a clear Delta sunset. Behind the three-story plantation, the sky burned fiery pink, deepening into coral, mauve, and, near the horizon, a purple of intense richness. Spreading out on either side of the house were the cotton fields, a deep burnt umber in the dying light.

  The detail of the house was lost in shadows as I drove along the curving drive that climbed to the top of the hill and ended at the front door. But I could see more than enough.

  Dahlia House was beautiful; Knob Hill was the Hollywood version of Southern architecture. The porch fronted the entire first story, a sweep of gray boards that looked, in the waning afternoon light, as if they'd been freshly painted. The columns that supported the second-floor balcony were stout and white. Knob Hill was in excellent repair for a ghost house.

  I was surprised when I found the gates open. I'd anticipated driving by for a look, and then proceeding on to the tiny community of Bunker to find the people who had once staffed the great house.

  Since the gates were open, I decided to detour for a closer look at the place where Hamilton Garrett had spent his formative years. I couldn't help but wonder how Europe had compared to this kingdom. For all of the culture and glamour of the great Continental cities, it would not have been an easy trade for me.

  I got out of the car, more to stretch my legs than with any purpose in mind. Curiosity led me up the steps to peer in the front windows. Eight feet in height, the windows had been designed to open from floor level to allow the Delta breezes to blow through the house during the hot summers.

  Through the lacy patterns of the sheers, I could make out a few details of the interior, but the gauzy panels and approaching darkness made it hard to see inside clearly.

  I moved along the front porch, satisfying my nosiness without pretense. I was snooping. But then that was what I was getting paid to do. I rather liked this job. I moved back to the glass panes on either side of the front door, surprised to see a suitcase beside the stairs. It should have alerted me, but instead my gaze went directly to a unique sculpture at the foot of the staircase. In clear and frosted glass, the woman stood against a stiff wind, her hair blowing and her hand attached to a tree trunk laced with vines. The statue caught the fading light, and her glass skin glowed pink. I was transfixed by the sight of her, until a motion halfway up the stairs caught my eye. In contrast to the statue, the man standing on the curving sweep of stairs seemed made of metal. Where she was filled by and reflected the light, he seemed to drink it in. He stepped slowly down the stairs, his gaze pinning me. Unable to look away, I felt as if an electric current bonded us. He began to move faster.

  I heard his feet pounding toward me. The front door flew open and I turned, my body already shifting toward the edge of the porch. I could jump to the ground without injury. It was only three or four feet. Escape was the only sensible action.

  I made it three steps before I felt his hand on my shoulder. The fingers were savage, gripping hard through muscle and clamping on bone. The pain made me stagger, and I went down on one knee, finally looking up to see the devil that gripped me in his talons.

  The face that stared down at me was wild with fury. Dark hair curled around a face contorted with anger. Green eyes burned with fevered emotion and his grip tightened, forcing me to cry out as my body curled into itself and away from the pain.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Who sent you?"

  He must have realized that his grip precluded any verbal response because he relaxed most of the pressure, retaining only enough to lift me to my feet.

  My first impulse was to knee him in the groin as hard as I could. I probably wouldn't get away, but it would provide a slight payback. But then, revenge wasn't worth feeling his strong fingers clench around my neck. I settled for slapping his hand away from my shoulder. "You're hurting me!"

  "Once again, who are you?" he asked, releasing me.

  There was a hint of accent, something not definable. I took a breath and looked up at him. Rage had been replaced by caution. The change in his features was remarkable. The man who stood before me was handsome. Tinkie's phrase, "a dark man," slipped into my mind. There was no better description, physical or emotional. Blood suffused his olive complexion, and the generous lips of his mouth were straight with challenge. He was not a man to tamper with. I knew that instantly, even as I became fully aware of his broad chest, the large hands clenched at his side, the leanness of hip and thigh that spoke of physical strength.

  There was impatience in green eyes that also held a warning. He was a dangerous man, and I had better have the right answers to his questions. The thrill was delicious.

  "My name is Sarah Booth Delaney, of Dahlia House. And who are you?" Tit for tat. A powerful man is much like a horse—never show them fear.

  "Why are you trespassing on my property?"

  I had enough sense to hear the operative pronoun in his question. So this was Hamilton Garrett the Fifth. In the flesh. I had to come up with a story, and fast.

  "I had hoped to find you or someone from your staff at home," I said. "Cece Dee Falcon asked me to do a story on the Christmas season parties for this area. Since you've returned home, the newspaper wanted to know if you're planning on having a fete here at Knob Hill?"

  It was weak, but it was better than nothing. And Cece would stand behind me if I offered her some tidbit of gossip.

  Hamilton's left eyebrow lifted. "Knob Hill has been closed for nineteen years. Why would you think we'd have a party this holiday?"

  "My thought was it wouldn't hurt to ask." I smiled and wished that I'd had a little more experience playing weak and helpless. He would have recognized that as a lie, too, but he would have been honor bound to respond to it. That was assuming that a potential murderer was still adhering to the Code of the South.

  "Delaney," he mused, never taking his gaze off me. "I know who you are."

  "Of course you do," I said. "I remember the 1979 Christmas parade when you drove Queen Treena in your daddy's white Caddy convertible." Now this was firmer ground. We
were trading pedigrees. The crisis was over, though my body still trembled at the thought of his touch.

  "My last Christmas in Sunflower County," he said, and there was a coldness in his voice that made me wish I'd picked another memory. Hamilton stepped back from me. "There will be no parties at Knob Hill. Please don't bother us again."

  "Are you home for good?"

  His features hardened. "My comings and goings are no one's business. Particularly not a newspaper gossip columnist. Take my advice: Stay off my property, or the consequences will be dire." He stepped back and away and reentered the house. The door slammed with a good, solid thunk.

  Walking back to the car, I was aware that my shoulder throbbed. Once the car door was locked, I stretched the neck of my blouse down and saw the clear marks of his fingers. The bruises would be colorful.

  Cruising down the gracious curve of the drive, I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. Knob Hill stood like a mammoth black fortress against the silvery night sky. Even as I stared at it, a single light blinked on in a third-floor window. I found my teeth chattering and I turned on the car heater. The falling night had stolen the day's warmth.

  And Hamilton Garrett had stolen mine. My fingers were icy as I gripped the wheel and turned right toward Bunker. I still intended to find the people who'd once worked for the Garretts.

  I shared one thing with Harold Erkwell—a grim determination that only grew stronger with resistance. Now I was vested in the truth of what had happened nearly two decades ago. Hamilton Garrett had touched my life and left his mark—embedded in my flesh.

  Bunker was a four-way stop that featured a gas station/ convenience store, a video rental that sold livestock feed, and cotton fields that seemed to stretch forever. The store was open and the owner told me Amos Henry, the Knob Hill groundskeeper, lived on a small farm two miles to the west.

  As I cruised toward the Mississippi River, I found myself replaying the images of Hamilton, the dark master of Knob Hill. He was a man a woman wouldn't forget, and I understood Tinkie's fascination with him. But he was also a hard man, one who demanded satisfaction. I hoped, for Claire's sake, that he was not her father.