by Talley, Liz
Or not. The lingerie was expensive, and no need to have the shock treatment Andrew had dumped in earlier damage the delicate lace and silk.
So she kept walking to the far side of the yard, admiring the oleander that would soon bloom. It would be perfect later in June for the shower. Invitations would go out on Monday. God, people were going to be so surprised by the personalized hand-lettered invites.
Something to her left caught her eye. On the side of the pergola covering the outdoor seating area was a large black duffel bag. Her heart sprang into her chest. Just days ago a suspicious backpack had been discovered in the stairwell of the Caddo Parish courthouse. Turned out a student left it, but the city had been cautious, deploying a bomb squad just in case. No doubt this was merely a bag left by one of the workers who’d come that morning to change out the pool pump.
But what if it wasn’t something left by a worker?
What if it was something more dastardly . . . something dangerous . . . something that should be checked by a good-looking officer of the law?
She laughed because she was a little drunk and a lot lonely.
Turning, she hurried back into the house, looking for her purse. Inside was her Chanel lipstick with the slight shimmer. Not totally trashy, but just enough to make her lips vibrant with desire. That was how the saleswoman had put it, and that silly thought made her laugh again. Then she pulled out the card she’d slid into the pocket of her wallet.
Officer Joseph C. Rhett. Hot Cop himself.
Ten minutes later, she fluffed her hair and pulled the door open. She may or may not have spritzed herself with her favorite Tom Ford scent.
Okay, she totally had.
“Officer Rhett, thank you for coming so quickly,” she said, summoning her best victim voice, perfected when she’d played Lois Lane in an off-off-Broadway mash-up called Superman Saves the Dame. Of course she’d been nude the entire play, so that could have had something to do with the vulnerability factor.
He blinked at her slightly overplaying her role. “Sure. It’s my job.”
“Of course it is. Come in, and I’ll take you around back where I found the suspicious package.” Prada toddled toward her, yawning with a yip. The pup went right to the door, and Tennyson’s heart soared with hope that Prada finally understood she was to do her business outside.
“What’s that?” Officer Rhett asked, stooping and extending his hand. Prada smelled his hand, and then, very ladylike, gave him a simple swipe of her tongue before squatting on the oriental runner and peeing.
“That’s my attack dog . . . one who seems to think the carpet is grass.”
Officer Rhett stood. “Attack dog, huh?”
Tennyson shrugged, scooped Prada from where she now stood, obviously empty of bodily fluids, and gestured to the back. “This way.”
“Is it a package? Or a bag? You said bag on the phone.” He stepped inside, his big body brushing slightly against her shoulder. He smelled good. Warm and woodsy. Like a real man would smell, not a well-manicured businessman with $500 loafers. This man was a Wolverine boots kinda guy. And she only knew about those because a guy in high school used to wear them.
“It’s a . . . bag. I think.”
Officer Rhett looked at her with suspicion. Maybe all cops looked at people with suspicion. “Let me take a look before I call for backup this time.”
He made her sound silly. She wasn’t silly. She was opportunistic. And lonely. And maybe slightly horny. Hey, it had been a long time, and Officer Joe looked mighty fine in his uniform. “Just come through here.”
She led him through the living area, out the solarium, and through the French doors that led to her back patio. She’d bought the house because of the outdoor area. The blue-gray slate stretched out to a gorgeous leveled pool with a large brick wall from which water cascaded. Beyond was the outdoor pergola with the stone hearth and small pool house. The slate also extended to the carriage/mother-in-law house, which was a minireplica of her house. On the other side was a once-lush garden that needed some TLC, but would be breathtaking once her landscape artist got ahold of it.
Officer Rhett looked around at the splendor, and she didn’t miss the appreciation in his eyes. He turned to her and arched a dark brow . . . which was sexy. Totally sexy.
“Over there.” She pointed, kissing Prada on the head and earning a doggy kiss in return.
When he turned toward the area by the pump, she quickly tugged her breasts upward in the lace bra and intentionally allowed the caftan ties at her throat to come undone. Prada seemed to understand and immediately started chewing the ties, widening the gap even more. This dog was finally being useful beyond mere cuteness.
Officer Rhett approached the bag, shining a light he’d pulled from his heavy-looking utility belt. “Did you have any workmen out recently? Someone who might have left this?”
Tennyson made a thinking face. “Hmm . . . well, oh, you know, the pool company came out to service the pump.” She pretended to look embarrassed. She was almost 99 percent certain the pool company had left their bag behind and hadn’t missed it yet. But she wasn’t telling him that.
Officer Rhett walked over to the bag and lifted it. Parting the sides, he nodded. “Just a tool bag.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Tennyson said, moving closer. “I guess I got nervous after that whole deal with the courthouse last week.”
“You thought this was a bomb?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
“Well, I mean, I didn’t know.” Tennyson gave him a guilty smile.
The man shook his head. “Is there a reason someone would leave a bomb at your house?”
He made it sound like someone might have a legitimate reason to do so. Sure, she could be a pain in the ass, but no one had tried to kill her. Yet.
“I’m sorry. It just made me nervous, and then I remembered you’d given me that card and . . .” She held a hand up and shrugged.
“It’s fine. That’s what I’m here for—to protect and—”
“Serve?” she finished.
Officer Rhett narrowed his eyes. “Did you call me out here for some other reason, Mrs. . . . what’s your last name again?”
“You can call me Tennyson. Can I call you Joseph?” She smiled and stepped back so he could pass. Prada stopped chewing and watched him as he walked by.
Joseph made an annoyed face, but she didn’t miss that he also noted her parted caftan, which did a great job of showcasing the valley between her breasts. “Sure. Whatever works for you.”
Following him back to the house, Tennyson fluffed her hair and pinched her cheeks. Like a nutcase. She had no clue why she was attracted to this cop. She needed to get a grip. “Officer Rhett, I mean Joe, can I offer you a drink for your trouble? I have beer, vodka, and wine.”
“It’s Joseph. Not Joe. And you realize I’m on duty at present, right?”
She felt sort of dumb now. “I’m sorry. Of course you are. I’m just very appreciative of you. You know, having to come save me twice over the last few weeks. I’m going to have to vote yes to fund police raises.”
“I don’t think . . .” Joseph stopped inside the house and turned to her. “Never mind. Thanks. I could use a raise.”
And then he smiled.
Hot damn, the man had a great smile. “Uh, a bottled water then?”
He stood for a moment, looking at her. “You look a lot different than you did the last time I was here. That mask thing must really work.”
Tennyson had no idea how it happened, but it happened—she blushed. “Oh well, if you pay enough you can repair anything.”
It was the wrong thing to say because his smile disappeared. “That’s what they say. I’ll see myself out, but you probably need to lock up after I leave. You’ve checked all the windows, correct? We don’t want random raccoons, squirrels, or a curious burglar to come inside.”
“I don’t want specific ones,” she quipped.
He made a confused face.
“Yo
u said random . . . uh, it was just a joke,” she said, wondering if he even had a sense of humor. It wasn’t a requirement, though she usually preferred a man who had one.
Tennyson led the way to the front door, strangely disappointed. She wasn’t sure what she expected to happen between her and Officer Rhett. She wanted to see him again but didn’t know how to ask him point-blank—she had never asked a man out before. Never had to. And though his gaze had held a flicker of interest, she wasn’t sure he was into her enough to accept a clumsy invitation to dinner or coffee. He was a man doing his job. That was all. “I have a security system I need to get activated, but I checked the windows after Rocky ransacked my bedroom, and they are all secure. Plus I have Prada now. She’s got a ferocious bark.”
Joseph snorted.
“Well, I’m sorry about the whole bag thing. I guess I . . . I just thought it would be best to call you and make sure. Now that I’m divorced, I’m here alone.” Of course not totally alone anymore since Andrew and Emma were a stone’s throw away, but he didn’t have to know that.
Joseph paused at the door and turned to her. “I’ll stop in sometime and check on you. I patrol this area frequently, and I don’t live too far away, either. You have my card if you need me.”
Tennyson bit her lip, playing a bit ingenue before saying, “That would be nice, Joseph.”
He paused a full five seconds and studied her. She could feel something change. Or perhaps she wanted to feel that way, as if he saw something worthwhile in her.
“Okay, then, have a good night, ma’am,” he said with a curt nod.
“Tennyson,” she reminded him.
“Tennyson,” he said, his mouth curving slightly. “Take care.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Two weeks later
Melanie counted the crystal one final time. Seven rows of ten. Seventy glistening champagne flutes ready to toast her daughter with the Veuve Clicquot currently chilling in the extra refrigerator. Kit had picked the boxes of bubbly up from the Bottle Shoppe earlier in the day and brought them home, his one concession to helping with the party. Maureen Godfrey had delivered the layer cake earlier. The ballet-pink cake with the scalloped fondant sat atop the buffet on the crystal pedestal that Melanie had received as a gift for her own wedding. All that was left was for the caterers to arrive.
Where were they?
She glanced at her watch and straightened the monogrammed napkins she’d ordered for rush delivery for the third time. The caterers were now thirty minutes behind schedule. Dang it.
“Oh my goodness, Mom,” Emma said, stepping into the dining room and looking around. “It smells like a funeral parlor in here.”
Melanie managed to smile despite the tension she felt. “I’m not sure if that was what I was going for. I just wanted lots of pretty flowers.”
She turned and surveyed the dining area and formal living room. Her friend was a florist and had shown up with soft violet hydrangeas, white roses, and other delicate blossoms that spilled from crystal vases. White linens had been pressed and freshly polished silver trays sat side by side on the antique buffet. Soft instrumental music spilled from the speakers Kit had paid a small fortune to have installed last year. The overall mood was elegant and highbrow, something that would rival whatever Tennyson would do for the couple at the end of the month. Overdoing the party was petty. She knew this, but that didn’t stop her from maxing out Kit’s credit card to impress people with her hostess skills. Melanie looked at the perfection of a cake, and her stomach growled.
She’d been doing Weight Watchers ever since she’d found out 1) there was going to be a wedding at the end of August no matter how much she wished there wasn’t, 2) Tennyson looked ten years younger and thirty pounds lighter than she did, and 3) Charlotte had been invited to the engagement party. Melanie now knew being “hangry” was a real thing. Like a really real thing that made her want to kill Charlotte and eat a whole sleeve of the Girl Scout Thin Mints she’d hidden in the freezer from Kit and Noah.
But she wouldn’t because she was in control. And Charlotte wasn’t the problem in her marriage, according to the therapist.
I am in control.
That was the mantra the therapist had suggested she use when she felt her world unraveling. So far it hadn’t worked because words don’t repair ruts in the front yard or help her get into the Spanx that no longer fit. How did Spanx not fit, anyway? She currently wore the top part of a pair of control-top pantyhose with the legs cut off.
Melanie and Kit had gone to the therapist last week. The woman had given them a profile to complete, things Melanie wouldn’t tell her doctor of many years much less a veritable stranger, but she’d tried to be as honest as she could. That seemed to be the therapist’s buzzword—honesty. During their first session, the woman had used it twenty-three times. Melanie had started counting when she saw where things were headed. Kit didn’t seem to have a problem being honest. He was like the golden retriever of therapy, eagerly oversharing and fetching anything the therapist tossed his way. Even about their sex life.
Melanie had nearly died when the therapist asked how often they were intimate.
And then she’d felt guilty when she realized it was actually a lot less than she thought.
She knew she needed to work on being more open to having sex, but she was so darned tired. At the end of the day she felt anything but sexy. The thought of wearing a thong and having the energy to be playful or “into it” seemed as desirable as having to scrub around the toilet. When she and Kit did have sex, it was very vanilla, and she made the appropriate sounds and said the things she knew he liked to hear, all the while wondering if she had mailed the check for Noah’s summer camp or if she had called the vet to order Poppy more special dog food. Kit seemed to know this, and when he asked, “Are you sure you want to?” she always brightly said, “Of course I do,” but she knew he knew she really didn’t. It was the game they played every time he rubbed her shoulders.
So she’d started staying up late to finish up the dishes or pay bills in order to avoid him.
How horrible was that?
“Mom?” Emma asked, snapping her fingers in front of Melanie’s face.
“What?”
Emma laughed. “Where’d ya go?”
You do not want to know.
“Sorry. I’m distracted. Goodness, it’s going to be a busy summer for us all.”
“Mom, you really don’t have to stress about the wedding. Tennyson has volunteered to help, and we have a wedding planner who can take some of the burden off.” Emma looked so sincere. And she looked so pretty in her simple Lilly Pulitzer dress and neutral platform sandals. Her brown hair fell straight, the caramel highlights catching in the soft lighting. Such a lovely girl to be saying such a horrible thing to her mother. Let Tennyson help? Only if Melanie were half-dead. As God as her witness, at the very least, this wedding would be tasteful and elegant.
“It will be exactly how you want it, but you have to indulge me a little. I’m not sure your brother will ever get married. His hygiene is going to have to improve, and he’ll have to convince a girl to tie the knot before he takes off his shoes,” Melanie said.
“True. He’s pretty disgusting.” Emma walked around the table and stood, staring at the white roses. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Married. Wow.”
Hope burgeoned inside Melanie. “You know you don’t have to get married right now. I mean, you could live together. I don’t think it will cause a stir.”
She didn’t want her daughter living with Andrew, but it would be better than marrying Tennyson’s son. Taking vows was a major commitment . . . and the marriage brought Tennyson with it. Her daughter shacking up sounded better than a legal union.
Emma’s dreamy expression faded. “I don’t care if it does. I want to marry Andrew. I’ve wanted to marry him since our third date, when I knew he was the one. We’re adults and ready to make this commitment now . . . not when the rest of the world thinks we’re old
enough.”
Something in her daughter’s words caused a niggle of . . . something. There was something more there. Was Andrew pushing this? Or did Emma think it would bind him to her at a time that would be difficult for her? The first year of med school was no joke. Emma would be snowed under with work and study. Maybe she was afraid Andrew would lose interest and find other pastures. “I know you believe that, sweetheart, but he’s the first guy you’ve ever been serious about. Sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs, you know?”
Melanie knew it was the wrong thing to say the minute the words left her lips. Emma’s expression narrowed. “So you’re saying your first love can’t be your only love? Because you’ve always said Daddy was your first love.”
Mic drop.
“Yes, but I dated other guys before your father.”
“Yeah, and I did, too. I mean, no one super official, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have some experience. You’re acting like I just met Andrew. We’ve been dating for two and a half years. We’re committed to each other and in love, so please stop trying to talk me out of marrying him.” Her gaze hardened, and Melanie was reminded of how incredibly stubborn her child could be.
“I’m sorry. I’m worried about you overloading yourself.”
Emma exhaled heavily. “You’re always worried. So why would me waiting to get married change anything about that?”
“What’s all this fussing on a day when my beautiful granddaughter is announcing her good fortune?” Anne Brevard asked, gliding into the room, her hands outstretched toward Emma. One thing she could say about her mother—she loved her grandchildren and rarely found fault with them.
“Gee Ma,” Emma said, her face changing from irritation to pleasure. “You look so pretty.”
Melanie’s mother preened and gave her granddaughter’s hands a squeeze. “Thank you, and you look lovely as well. Are you ready for your big night?”
“I’m excited. It’s going to be a bit of a whirlwind, but I feel like I have to do this now. I was just saying as much to Mother,” Emma said, glancing over at Melanie with an emphatic look.