The string broke easily, and the brittle craft paper fell apart in her fingers as she peeled it away. But underneath, she found only a fat roll of paper. Not canvas at all. Paper.

She slumped against the window frame.

"Let me look," he said softly.

"It's not the painting."

He squeezed her shoulder, then opened the roll. When he finally spoke, his voice held even more awe than he'd shown toward the scotch. "These are the original blueprints for the window factory. They were drawn in the 1920s. This is quite a find."

To him, maybe. She hurried back to the cupboard, crouched down, and reached inside. It had to be here. There was no place else to look. She felt along the floorboards and into the corners.

Nothing but cobwebs.

She sank back on her heels. Paper rustled as he set the blueprints aside. He knelt next to her, bringing with him the smell of cologne and sympathy. He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, ran his thumb along her cheekbone. "Sugar Beth, you don't need the painting. You're perfectly capable of supporting yourself. Maybe not in the first lap of luxury, but-"

"I have to find it."

He sighed. "All right, then. We'll search the carriage house and depot together. Maybe I'll see something you overlooked."

"Maybe." She wanted to lean against him so badly that she pushed herself away. "I'd better get back to work."

"I'm giving you the rest of the day off."

That unbearable sympathy again. She rose to her feet. "I have too much to do. And I don't need coddling."

He'd only been trying to be kind, and she'd snapped at him, but she couldn't manage another apology, and as she made her way to the stairs, she felt as blue as a person could get.

He stayed in his office the rest of the afternoon. Whenever she pa.s.sed the door, she heard the m.u.f.fled clatter of the keyboard. As evening approached, she put one of the mystery ca.s.seroles from the freezer into the oven, set the timer, and left him a note saying she'd see him in the morning. She felt too fragile to risk having him showing up at the carriage house later, so she added a P.S. I have cramps, and I intend to do some serious self-medicating. Do not disturb!

By the time she left Frenchman's Bride, she still hadn't told him she was quitting to take a job with Jewel, hadn't thanked him for his kindness in the attic, hadn't said anything to him she should have.

It had begun to drizzle again, and Gordon shot ahead. She let him in the house but didn't enter herself. Instead, she made her way to the studio. As she opened the lock and stepped inside, she tried to convince herself that what had happened today hadn't marked the end of her search. Colin had said he'd help. Maybe fresh eyes would see something her own had missed.

She flicked on the overhead bulb and gazed around at the workroom-the paint-encrusted ladder, the ancient cans and brushes. Even through the dirty plastic that protected it all, she could make out thick dabs of vermilion, splashes of pulsating green, curls of electric blue, and great sweeps of acid yellow. On the drop cloth that covered the floor, tacks and cigarette b.u.t.ts, a lid from a can of paint, other objects that weren't as recognizable had become encapsulated like beetles fossilized in amber.

Paint was everywhere, but the painting was nowhere. And the man who lived in Frenchman's Bride wouldn't leave her thoughts. She struggled to hold back her despair.

"When are you going to end this folly?"

GEORGETTE HEYER, These Old Shades.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

The apartment above Yesterday's Treasures was cramped and dingy, filled with furniture that either hadn't sold or hadn't yet made its way downstairs. The living area had an exposed brick wall, two tall windows that looked down over the main street, and a sleeper sofa. A plastic shower stall occupied the corner of the old-fashioned bathroom, while the kitchen nook offered up an ancient refrigerator, a modern microwave, and an apartment-size harvest gold gas stove from the 1970s. The apartment couldn't have been more different from Winnie's house, and although she wasn't exactly happy here, she wasn't entirely unhappy, either.

She carried a cup of Sleepytime tea to the French cafe table she'd pulled from the display window so she'd have a place to eat, and gazed down on the dark, empty street below. It was nearly eleven, and the stores had closed long ago. The red neon sign for Covner's Dry Cleaning blinked in the light drizzle that had begun to fall, and a pa.s.sing headlight reflected off the window of Jewel's bookstore. Winnie was thirty-two years old and living alone for the first time. Not that she'd been alone for long. It was only her second night.

"This is so dumb!" Gigi had exclaimed when she'd stormed into the shop after school today. "Last night Dad made me do everything. I had to clean up the kitchen after we had pizza, and then I had to take the garbage cans out. He didn't even help; he just went in the study and shut the door. When are you coming home?"

Winnie had been so taken aback by Gigi's black outfit and eye makeup that she hadn't responded right away. Her baby! As much as Winnie had yearned to see the end of her baggy Salvation Army clothes, she hadn't expected this. What would be next? Tattoos and tongue piercing?

She took a sip of tea. Not even the Seawillows knew she'd moved out, although Donna Grimley, the woman Winnie had hired as her new a.s.sistant, was getting suspicious.

On the street below, the traffic light flashed red, and the lone figure of a man came around the corner. He was tall, broad-shouldered, jacket collar turned up against the drizzle. It was Ryan, and her pulses quickened just as they used to when she was a girl. She felt a rush of s.e.xual awareness she hadn't experienced in a long time and rose from the table so she could get closer to the window.

His steps slowed at the curb. He saw her looking down at him and tilted his head back to gaze up at her. She rested her cheek against the dirty gla.s.s and pressed the warm cup of tea between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

He made a sharp, upward gesture with his thumb. Open the door, d.a.m.n it, and let me in.

Her breath made a cloudy circle on the window. Once, she would have drawn his initials inside that circle. Now, she pulled back just far enough to shake her head.

His anger spiraled up at her, the anger of an ill-used husband saddled with an ungrateful, hysterical wife. He made another jab with that furious thumb.

She shook her head again. At home, a spare key hung on the rack. Either he'd never noticed or it hadn't occurred to him he'd need it. Rain glistened in his hair, and his posture grew rigid. He stalked away, his angry strides devouring the wet pavement.

Long after she'd lost sight of him, she continued to stand at the window, cradling her teacup and waiting for the tears to come.

They didn't.

Sugar Beth overslept the next morning. Cubby and his cronies had shown up again last night-two nights in a row-and kept her awake with their hooting.

"Sugar...Sugar...Sugar..."

She hurried to dress, and when she arrived at Frenchman's Bride, she found a note from Colin saying he had business in Memphis and wouldn't be back until evening. At the end, he'd written, I've made a dinner reservation for us tonight at the Parrish Inn. I'll pick you up at seven.

Of all the dimwitted notions...He had a death wish. Why else would he want to do something so lamebrained? It was one thing for her to work for him-people liked that-but quite another for them to be seen together socially. She'd be leaving Parrish soon, but he'd planted roots here. And no matter how famous he'd become, he was still an outsider. If people realized he'd stopped dedicating himself to making her miserable, he'd lose all their hard-won respect.

She rose and tossed the note in the kitchen trash where it belonged, then gazed down at Gordon who'd just finished his breakfast. "I've been doing a con job on myself, haven't I? Nothing about this affair is going to work."

He paused in his postmeal stretch to give her his I-told-you-so look.

She grabbed a sponge and attacked the counter. Colin would refuse to sneak around like any sensible person. From his permanent mount on that moral high horse, he'd view the concept of seeing her only for s.e.x as sordid. But who said sordid was always a bad thing? Sometimes sordid was simply practical.

She worked feverishly all day-stocking up on his groceries, cleaning out the refrigerator, straightening the closets. As she went into his office to sort through the household mail, she wished she'd told him yesterday that she'd taken a job with Jewel.

She also wished she'd been able to find a ma.n.u.script of Reflections. When she'd asked him if she could read it, he'd told her he didn't have a fresh copy. She'd said any old copy would do, but he'd put her off until she'd finally told him straight out that attacking Diddie after she was dead wasn't her idea of fair play. He'd ignored her, and all her snooping since then hadn't unearthed the ma.n.u.script, not even in his computer files. She spotted a printout of the first few chapters of his new book sitting on top of his desk. The red ink staining the pages reminded her of her senior year when that same critical handwriting had streaked the margins of every paper she'd written for him.

She returned to the kitchen and began making ca.s.seroles to freeze, just like all the other smitten single ladies in Parrish had done. Finally, she couldn't postpone it any longer, and she punched in the number of his cell phone.

"Frances Elizabeth here," she said when he answered.

"I did not know that was your name."

"Tell it to your shrink." She settled next to Gordon on the sunroom couch. "Where are you?"

"Almost home. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Why?"

"Your cramps?"

"Uh...all gone."

But he'd heard the hesitation, and he was smarter than the average bear. "You lied to me! You didn't have cramps at all. I won't have it, do you hear me?" He sounded deliciously pompous and decidedly miffed.

"Sorry," she said, "I was tired last night, and I didn't want to bruise your ego by rejecting you. Men can be so sensitive. And don't forget that I have a long history of taking the easy way out."

"Why am I becoming increasingly apprehensive about this phone call?"

It was hard to put one over on Yogi Bear. "As a matter of fact, I do have a little news to share. But it's good news so don't worry. You might even want to pull over to the side of the road so you can do a happy dance." She stroked Gordon's fur, not feeling much like doing a happy dance herself. "As of tomorrow morning, I'm not working for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Jewel hired me. She doesn't pay much, but neither do you, so the money's pretty much a wash. Not that I've forgotten about that two-thousand-dollar guilt check you wrote me, which, by the way, I tore up."

She waited for the explosion. It wasn't long in coming.

"This is completely unacceptable!"

"Why? You fired me, remember?"

"We renegotiated."

"When?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about."

"Don't tell me that you regard what we did in bed on Sunday morning as a labor negotiation."

"Stop being obstinate. Working at the bookstore will make you vulnerable to whoever walks in the door. You'll have no way of protecting yourself against whatever nastiness your old enemies decide to unleash on you. Jewel should have more sense."

"Quit it, Daddy, you're scaring me."

"Mock all you like. As long as you're working at Frenchman's Bride, you're protected. At the bookstore, you'll be a sitting target."

"I've known some unreasonable men in my time, but you just shot to the head of the cafeteria line. You want to get rid of me, remember?"

Predictably, he ignored her. "Why didn't you discuss this with me?"

"No time. She didn't offer me the job until yesterday morning."

The slow, ominous monotone that rumbled over the phone line told her she'd made a strategic mistake. "You've known this since yesterday, and you're just getting around to mentioning it?"

"I had some distractions. Thanks, by the way, for being so nice in the attic. I should have thanked you yesterday, but you might have noticed I have a problem expressing grat.i.tude."

"You have no problem at all expressing grat.i.tude. And I'd very much appreciate it if you'd stop trying to control every conversation that makes you in the slightest bit uncomfortable by throwing out your imaginary character flaws."

He was a dangerous man, and she quickly changed the subject. "Don't you think it's about time you did that happy dance?"

"One of us has to look out for your best interests. Call Jewel immediately and tell her you've reconsidered."

"No."

"We have an agreement. I don't plan to let you back out."

"Hold it right there. The only agreement we ever had was that you intended to make me as miserable as possible, and I intended to courageously make the best of an intolerable situation like valiant Southern women have always done."

"We'll talk about this over dinner," he snapped, clearly reaching the end of a very short rope.

"As to that-"

He broke the connection before she could say more.

Colin was in a foul mood that night as he got dressed to take Sugar Beth to dinner. In her typically reckless fashion, she'd only made her life more difficult. By accepting the job at the bookstore, she'd be at the mercy of everybody who still held a grudge against her. He slipped his watch on. Her yowling admirers had shown up again last night. He'd been reading in the second-floor study, so he hadn't heard them right away, and by the time he'd gotten downstairs, they'd driven off, robbing him of the satisfaction of driving them off himself.

He gazed around at his bedroom. She'd made sure he had clean laundry, fresh sheets, and a supply of his favorite toiletries. He'd started to get used to having someone looking out for his comfort, even though he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. Still, the smaller touches tended to escape him, like the polished red apple resting on a white cloth napkin next to his bed. One apple. Maddening woman. He frowned and shot his cuffs.

As he made his way to the carriage house, he chastised himself for not specifically telling her she'd been rehired, but he doubted it would have made a difference. Sugar Beth liked to muck about with things. She'd been on his mind all day-the way she'd looked when they'd made love, her sharp edges smoothed out, those silvery eyes slumberous and utterly beguiling. Afterward, she'd snuggled in his arms and entertained him with her sa.s.s. The thing of it was, he'd never been a lighthearted person, but when he was with her, he at least felt the possibility of lightheartedness. Too late, he wished he'd thought to bring her flowers, something intrinsically Southern, full of spice. Something beautiful, complex, and as elusive as she was.

He approached the carriage house porch. Just the thought of seeing her again lifted the dark mood he'd been carrying around all day. And then he spotted the note taped to the door.

More cramps.

Sugar Beth nibbled on a sweet potato french fry and gazed through the Lakehouse windows. Beyond the docks, the water lay dark and mysterious, waiting for the Jet Skis and swimmers to return. In high school, they'd hung out at Allister's Point, where they'd drunk illegal beer, told dirty jokes, and made out. She wondered if Colin had ever made out on a beach blanket that smelled like beer and suntan lotion. She couldn't imagine it.

She pushed aside the uneaten half of her barbecue, a Lakehouse specialty, along with tamales, corn bread, and fried dill pickles. The weeknight crowd was spa.r.s.e, but she'd still opted for the far corner table in the dining room, and even then she'd had to fight off Jeffie Stevens.

She'd been drawn to the Lakehouse tonight by nostalgia, along with a taste for the barbecue she'd grown up on. The rustic riverboat decor still looked much as she remembered: bra.s.s light fixtures with green gla.s.s shades, plank walls, gingerbread trim, wooden captain's chairs with vinyl cushions to protect against the wet swimsuits that were prohibited in the dining area-a rule that was conveniently forgotten from May into October, when the Lakehouse did most of its business. In the old days, green velour valances had topped the big windows that looked out over the water. Now the valances were red with gold ball fringe, and the wooden floor held a fresh coat of steel gray paint. A jukebox sat in the corner next to a tiny dance floor conveniently located by the doorway that led to the bar.

She reached for her c.o.ke, then nearly knocked it over as Ryan stepped up to that very same bar. Just her luck. She'd come here to avoid being seen in public with Colin, and now she'd run into Ryan. Maybe he wouldn't spot her. But a long mirror ran along the wall in front of him, and as the bartender pa.s.sed over his beer, Ryan's head came up.

She turned to gaze out the window, pretending not to notice him, but he was coming right toward her. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, and a tie loosened at the neck. Every eye in the dining room swung in their direction. She gazed down at her plate, spoke through tight lips. "You know better than this. Go away."

He kicked out the chair across from her and sank into it, beer bottle in hand. "I don't feel like it."

The teenage boy she remembered would never have taken a seat without being invited, but that boy had been a lot more polite than this hard-eyed captain of industry. She wanted her dog.

"I mean it, Ryan. Everybody's going to say I lured you out here, and frankly, I'm getting a little tired of being held responsible for the fall of all mankind."