Be Mine Forever (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (14 page)

“Oddly enough, I am.” He dropped his free hand to her hip and pulled her close. “Especially if payment comes in the form of a private dance lesson.”

Oh boy.

With a nod, she hit speakerphone so Trey could hear. “Hey, Roman, Trey DeLuca is going to head over. He’ll be there in five minutes, and I’m giving my permission for him to sign Cooper out and take him home.”

“Trey?” Roman said, and Sara could almost hear the guy’s head thunking against a hard surface. “Hey, you know what? Don’t worry about it. I can keep Cooper with me and then drop him by the studio after the meeting.”

“No need, buddy,” Trey said, sliding the BabyBjörn carrier over her body, his hands brushing the sides of her breasts as he secured the straps. “I’ve got it handled.”

Handled indeed. In fact, at that moment, Sara realized that there wasn’t much that Trey couldn’t handle or that she wouldn’t mind him handling—especially if it entailed his palms cruising over every inch of her. And he was looking at her as though he knew exactly where he wanted those big, capable hands of his to start.

But him handling her was not dependent on him handling this mess with Cooper. And she needed him to know that. It was one thing to help her son make a car with her one room away. It was another to expect him to be chauffeur, chef, and story-time supervisor.

“I can always call ChiChi,” she offered, giving him one last out. “She and the Foxy Ladies have watched Cooper before.”

“It’s a few hours of bro time, Sara. How hard can it be?”

By the time Sara was ready to close up shop for the night, she had a permanent pounding behind her left eye. The costume company had sent out the wrong sizes, so instead of twenty delicate snowflakes flittering across the stage, she wound up with enough snowballs to cause an avalanche. And although she knew that Cooper had arrived home safe, she still hadn’t a clue as to why he was sent there in the first place.

To make matters worse, she wouldn’t be able to find out until her last client of the day showed up. She had tried calling her “special” client, but hadn’t managed to connect and cancel, so she was tying up the loose ends of her day and waiting for him to arrive.

Locking the front door, Sara shut off the main studio lights and powered down her computer. Thankful that at least Stan had returned her car earlier, she grabbed her dance bag and purse and walked down the hall toward the back room, which was behind the main studio floor. She reached around the door to click off the lights and—

“Holy shit,” Sara shouted. At least she tried to, but her throat closed in on itself, making the cry for help more of a squeak that was further muffled by the sound of her bags crashing to the floor.

She clutched her hand tightly to her to keep her heart from exploding—right out of her chest—when three frosted heads turned to look at her in surprise.

The Foxy Ladies sat on the sofa, glasses low on their noses, alarm high as they peered over their rims at her. Well, all of the ladies except for ChiChi who, dressed in a black pantsuit and frosted helmet hair, stood next to the wall, her ear pressed against it.

“What are
you
doing here?” Lucinda scolded, and Mr. Puffins, who was dressed in a camouflage rain slicker and matching hat, opened one eye to let out a low, throaty meow. “Gave me the palpitations.”

When Sara’s pulse had returned to a somewhat normal rate, she glanced toward the back entrance. Relieved that her last client hadn’t arrived yet, she stepped inside the room, a bad feeling forming in the pit of her stomach.

“I have a private in ten minutes,” she explained, that bad feeling getting worse.

What used to be her spare studio, used for pole-dancing classes and privates, now looked like CIA headquarters. In the middle of the normally empty space, between two of the floor-to-ceiling silver stripper poles that Heather had insisted they needed to “push the limits of their studio,” sat a makeshift desk with a computer monitor, a bottle of angelica, and enough petits fours and finger sandwiches to supply the Garden Society for their monthly high tea.

“Your turn. Why does my studio look like the set of Batman?”

Sara’s question didn’t seem to settle well with the senior section of the room. Neither did Sara’s dinner when her eyes fell on the security camera secured to the upper corner of the wall. It was facing the wrong way—and attached by a black cord to the computer screen. Only, they weren’t watching
Jeopardy
.

“Is that Petal Pusher’s back room?”

The ladies exchanged a serious look, then Lucinda spoke. “When you became an honorary member of St. Helena’s Widowed Warriors, we took a vow to protect you and yours. That protection goes both ways.”

“You make it sound like we sacrificed a chicken and then swapped blood,” Sara laughed, because good Lord, these women and their theatrics. The grannies, though, looked dead serious. “We played quarters.”

“With my angelica,” Pricilla said.

“And we let you win,” Lucinda added, in a very Corleone fashion.

“Fine,” Sara threw her hands up in defeat. She needed to get them out before her private showed up, not stand there arguing. “We’re connected for life. Now would you please tell me why you are here so I can finish up and get home to Cooper? He’s had a hard day.”

“All those secret meetings you had where Deidra was being agreeable, she was playing you,” Pricilla whispered.

“We met for a bowl of soup today at Stan’s. It wasn’t a ‘secret meeting.’ She offered to help find an MC, which she did, and I paid for lunch. No conspiracy there.” All three women gasped, and ChiChi made the sign of the cross. Twice. But Sara kept going, “You guys found the band and helped with the advertisements. How is that different?”

“Because the MC is the only one besides the mayor who has access to the envelope that contains the winner’s identity,” Pricilla said, her face wrinkled with more worry lines than were healthy for anyone who wasn’t in the process of being mummified. “They can read off whatever name they want and no one would be the wiser.”

“Except.” Sara tapped her chin once. “The mayor.”

“Who is Deidra’s second cousin twice removed,” Lucinda said.

“Deidra is a cheat, plain and simple,” ChiChi snapped. “I don’t mind losing if everyone’s playing by the rules.”

“And this right here is proof she’s a cheat,” Pricilla said turning on the monitor.

Sara crossed the room to watch Deidra flitting around the back room of her flower shop.

The Sunroom, as it was known, usually functioned as an indoor patio with wicker tables and wire-back chairs, where customers could enjoy a cup of tea and talk about flowers and trimmings and all things green. Deidra also held classes throughout the year to teach locals about indigenous plants, gardening tips, and how best to prune a rosebush for winter survival.

In the video, the tables were shoved together in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass walls to make one large seating area. Deidra was circling the room in a flowing mango-colored gown and plenty of bling, dropping flowers into a vase in perfect synch with the light hum of music—that was wafting in through the vent?

“Wait, is this live?” The Tap and Barre shared its west wall with Petal Pushers, which explained the backward-facing camera and ChiChi’s fancy stethoscope. “Did you drill a hole in my wall so you could use my security camera to spy on my neighbor?”

“Deidra doesn’t do democracy,” Lucinda said, as though that made up for the gaping hole in her wall. “She’s mad that you won the coordinator position and is out for blood.”

ChiChi’s eyes went hard. “The nominations were heard, the board voted, and yet she’s still trying to get her way by asking for a recall, claiming that you’re too busy with your studio to focus on all the small details of the Gala.”

“She’s staging a coup d’état.” Pricilla clasped her hands together.

“Only she’s calling it a tea party,” Lucinda stated. “I was picking up some salmon for Mr. Puffins at the market when Marilee Craver pulled me aside. She doesn’t take well to sneaky behavior and there is a whole lot of sneaky going on in this town these days.”

Sara glanced at the Deep Throat situation room in front of her, but wisely kept her mouth shut.

“She was at the library talking to Mrs. Moberly about those love books she likes so much, when Peggy came in saying that she wouldn’t be able to make it to tea at Deidra’s because her shop was getting a shipment of studded collars in that day and she’d have to sign for them.”

“I assume the collars are for the dogs and not Mrs. Moberly and her love books?” Sara joked, but she was the only one who laughed.

“Mrs. Moberly doesn’t read those books—Marilee does—stay with us, child,” ChiChi said, shooting Sara a reprimanding look. “Mrs. Moberly and Peggy are on the Garden Society’s board.”

“And they both head up Winter Gala committees,” Pricilla added.

“So does Connie Larson, and she said that Deidra’s been meeting with the Garden Society’s board members in secret, convincing everyone that you’re in over your head, coming to her begging for help. We think that she’s going to try to override the vote,” ChiChi said.

“Friday. Right next door,” Lucinda added.

“Why would she hold it next door if she doesn’t want you to know about it?”

“Because she knows we’ll never set foot in there,” ChiChi explained.

“Well, if she thinks she can petition the board to take over your slot, and no one will be there to veto it, she’s got another thing coming.” Pricilla gave a firm nod.

“Plus we already set foot in her store,” Lucinda said proudly. “Last night we swapped out some of her Earl Grey with powdered ex-lax and added a dash of cayenne pepper for kicks. They won’t stick around long enough to vote.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Sara said. “Someone could get sick.”

“Don’t worry.” Pricilla patted her knee. “Some of those ladies need a little help loosening up.”

“If Deidra gets her way and wins Garden of the Year…” ChiChi faded off as though someone had poked a pin right through all of her fury. “She says that she’ll make it so only the winner would get to waltz instead of making it the traditional finalists’ waltz.”

“And she’ll win since she’s using dye in her water,” Pricilla added quietly. “No one can get pansies that color without using dye.”

“I won’t get to dance, unless you walk into that meeting Friday and prove that you are the woman for this job.”

Sara didn’t like the idea of getting in the middle of this battle, especially if it involved the Garden Society, which oversaw the distribution of funds—funds that would help her hire a new dance assistant. If she made a mistake, even a small one—like, say, let it slip that her dance school was doubling as spy central—she could lose her position as entertainment coordinator. And the five thousand.

Then again, if Deidra convinced the board to side with her, Sara’s studio might be cut from the roster altogether.

She needed the money. It changed everything for her. Plus, she loved the Foxy Ladies. With Garrett’s parents no longer alive and Sara’s mom living in a different state, these crazy ladies were the closest thing to a grandmother that Cooper had. And they were her friends when she’d desperately needed some.

“What do I need to do?” she asked.

“It’s easy,” ChiChi said. “You go in there on Friday and tell them that you have arranged the entertainment for the entire night. And really play up the kids and how excited they are.”

Sara opened her mouth to argue but ChiChi kept going.

“You won’t have to have the girls dance the entire time. Explain that you have set up a schedule that includes time for social dance, which encourages all of the people of St. Helena to participate.”

“They’ll eat it up. They love jargon like ‘community’ and ‘bridging the generational gap,’” Lucinda added with a snort.

“It will set the mood for your big finale.” ChiChi’s fists exploded like fireworks, her fingers twinkling over her head. “The Winter Garden of the Year Finalists’ Waltz, a three-minute moment in time where all of the nominees can come together and celebrate the town’s history and beauty.”

“And true love,” Pricilla whispered, her eyes a little glassy.

“If I do this, then you have to promise to take down the highly illegal operation you have running out of my studio. And swap her tea back.”

ChiChi gave a defiant tut, so Sara crossed her arms and sent them her best on-the-count-of-three glare.

“Fine, but only if you promise to mold my Trey into one of those television dancers,” ChiChi countered. “I don’t want to dance that waltz, I want to live that waltz.”

Sara thought of how Trey’s hands felt skimming down her back and wondered just how improper they could get in one lesson. When she realized that in order to catapult him to
Dancing with the Stars
level that they’d have to partake in several privates, right there in the pole-dancing room, her lady parts warmed up and got ready to tango. “I’ll work my magic.”

ChiChi narrowed her gaze on Sara, giving her a thorough examination that made swallowing hard. With a smile, the older woman patted Sara on the arm and said, “I bet you will, just remember he is a good Catholic boy, dear. Now, don’t forget to lock up.”