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Authors: Carolyn Hart

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BOOK: Don't Go Home
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The inn was shaped like a square-edged U, with a wing on either side. Some ground-floor rooms looked out on the patio and pool. Ground-floor rooms in the outer west wing faced a side parking lot. The more desirable outer rooms, in the east wing, had individual patios that looked out on a thick cluster of loblolly pines.

Annie started down the gazebo steps, then paused as she recognized a trim figure coming around the end of the west wing. Marian Kenyon's thin shoulders were hunched. She was moving fast, canvas shoulder bag banging against one hip. Marian was always in a hurry, with a story to cover, a deadline to meet, quick to pick up on the unusual, the dramatic, sometimes the poignant, sometimes the heartbreaking. Marian talked in fast, staccato bursts, brown eyes bright in a gamine face beneath a mop of unruly dark hair.

As Annie watched, Marian covered half the space between the end of the wing and the expanse of the patio, clearly on her way to the crushed oyster shell path on the far side of the east wing.

Annie's partially lifted hand fell. She'd been ready to call out, but now she had a clear view of Marian's face in bright sunlight, a face Annie had never seen, pale, set, hard. Usually Marian exuded life. She brimmed with vitality. The woman striding toward the end of the wing looked bleak and driven, with hollow eyes, jutting cheekbones, lips pressed together.

Annie hurried down the steps. Scarcely formed thoughts flitted in her mind . . .
something wrong 
. . .
Marian's face 
. . .
a look of fury, dread, implacable resolve 
. . .
what had happened?
 . . .
why is Marian here? . . . have to help her . . .

Annie reached the path that ran behind the east wing. Ground-floor rooms had small private patios separated by head-high, stuccoed walls. She recalled the number of the Griffith room and thought it was at the end of the east wing, a corner suite.

Annie reached the beginning of the path.

“Alex, please.” The husky voice belonged to Marian. It rose from beyond the patio wall.

Annie took one step, another, came close to the wall that extended from the corner.

A man spoke. “I thought you were a free spirit . . . Louanne.” The tone was easy, amused.

“Don't call me Louanne.” Marian's voice was harsh.

“Would you rather”—the voice was silky—“have me call you Mom? Is that what the kid—”

“Shut up, Alex. Someone might hear you.”

A careless laugh. “They might. They'll hear me tonight. I trust you'll be on the front row.”

“Why are you doing this?” The words were sharp, insistent.

“For my art, darling. Readers have asked and asked about the characters and now it's time for me—”

“You can't.”

“I can.” He sounded untroubled. “But maybe I won't tell everything about you. For now. Just enough to give a hint of good old-fashioned scandal to come. I have to keep some spicy parts for the book. But I can mention enough to get everyone talking. That will make the book sell.”

“It won't sell.” Marian's voice was flat. “Nobody cares about any of us.”

“Sorry about that. But people care about me. The last time I was on
The Diane Rehm Show
, the phones rang off the hook.”

“Alex”—she sounded like a woman holding on to a lifeline as a huge wave loomed—“don't do it. Leave us alone.”

“Trying to make me feel bad? It won't work. You know the old saying, take what you want and pay for it. Afraid you've got a bill coming due. You've always been tough. We'll see how tough you are. Will Louanne jut out that sharp little chin and spit in the wind? Or will she throw her bags in a trunk and ride out of town, leaving everything behind?”

Annie touched the smooth stucco of the wall. She felt frozen in place. She wanted to help but there was no help she could give. Louanne was one of the characters . . .

“Did I ever tell you how much I hate you—”

“You didn't always hate me.”

The note of amusement and satisfaction jarred Annie.

He continued in that light, faintly mocking tone. “Once, you couldn't get enough of me. Do you know why I bothered with you? I owed Craig one. He shot me down with the boss. I damn near lost
my job. How do you think I liked it when a slobbering drunk got all righteous about my getting a free weekend at a casino, girls included? Do you think I won't enjoy his finding out the truth?”

“Craig pulled himself together. Because of David. He's been sober for years. Alex, please—”

“Good for him. It's even better that he's sober. Cold, hard truth packs a punch when there's nothing to dull the edges. His reaction should be interesting. Maybe I'll pay him a visit, tell him how the cookie crumbled, how his wife—”

There was the sound of a slap.

Annie pressed against the intervening wall. She hadn't seen Marian, small, desperate, at-bay Marian, lift a hand and strike Alex Griffith, but she knew what she had heard.

“Not the way to win friends, Marian.”

“You have no friends. You will never have friends. Everyone knows who you are, what you are.” Marian's husky voice was cold, scathing. “You'll poke and prod and stab until we all bleed and then you can write another book, be richer and richer. When you were a kid, did you tear the wings off butterflies to see what they'd do, how they'd writhe and struggle until they died?” Her voice grated like a car fender scraping a wall.

“I like watching people.” There was no stress in his voice, merely amusement.

“Sure you do. More fun than a Saturday-night dogfight. Lots of blood and death at the end.” The words came out in spurts as Marian struggled to breathe. “Here's something to watch.” There was a crash and the sound of splintering glass. Running steps sounded and Marian burst from behind the patio wall.

She skidded to a stop inches from Annie and stared at her, eyes glazed. Marian's chest heaved. Her face twisted in fury. Bright patches
of red stained chalk white cheeks. She hurled out the words, “I wish I'd killed him.” She ducked around Annie and flew down the oyster shell path.

Annie stood rooted for an instant, then bolted forward and came around the patio wall.

Alex Griffith stood with his hands on his hips, gazing down at the wreckage, a twisted hurricane lamp and a cracked glass patio door.

“You're all right.” Annie's voice was shaky. She was shaky.

He looked at her with a rueful expression. One cheek was still reddened from Marian's slap. “Never better. Can't say the same for the patio door. I'll tell the inn to send the bill to Marian.” His gaze focused on Annie. There was a flicker of approval and interest. “This seems to be my morning for women to arrive unannounced on my small terrace. I hope you don't throw things.” His tone was whimsical. He pointed at the shards of red-and-green glass scattered on the patio tiles.

“You were horrid to Marian.”

He raised a sandy eyebrow. “Ah, you don't throw hurricane lamps but you have no objections to insults. Didn't your mama tell you it isn't nice to eavesdrop?” But there was no rancor, simply mild inquiry. “I don't believe we've met. I'm Alex Griffith.”

He spoke with assurance, a man who was accustomed to instant recognition by Four Seasons Hotel clerks—
Mr. Griffith, we have your favorite suite ready . . . Mr. Griffith, the Krug 1990 is cooled and awaiting you . . . Mr. Griffith, we know you prefer fresh papaya with your cereal
. A man who led a charmed life, sucking like a vampire on everyone around him.

He smoothed back a tangle of reddish-brown hair, his handsome features relaxed. Shirtless and barefoot, he wore gray gym shorts. He was a little over six feet tall, well built and muscular, the kind of man any woman on a beach would note with interest.

Annie was aware of his appeal. If she hadn't overheard him and Marian—casual disdain and cruelty on his part, desperation and despair on Marian's part—she might have responded to his amused confidence, his undeniable good looks.

Not now. Not ever.

“I'm Annie Darling.” She knew her voice was thin and strained. “Your wife came to my store and asked me to arrange everything for your talk tonight. I didn't know what you intended. I hadn't read the
Gazette
. I've read the article now. I don't like bullies. So forget it. I won't be here tonight. Nor will there be any copies of your book.” With that she turned and moved toward the path.

She turned at the end of the wing, realized her face was flaming. She felt a whipping anger. What a complete and total jerk. She was still fuming when she reached the lobby. She turned and charged up the stairs to the second floor. She burst into the catering office.

A plump woman with dark hair looked up with a smile that stopped midway in its formation. “Annie, what's wrong?” Rita White was a mainstay in Friends of the Library. She handled volatile personalities on the board with the same aplomb she'd gained from years of arranging events at the Seaside Inn.

Annie took a deep breath. Rita was going to think she was unhinged. There was no good way to announce that the store was no longer involved and that any and all questions about the reception should be directed to Rae Griffith. It was important that Annie not say anything about why she was distraught. That would be the last thing Marian would want.

Annie stood at the door with one hand gripping the knob.

“What's wrong?” Rita pushed up from her chair, came around the side of her desk.

Annie managed to sound crisp. “I'm no longer involved in the
event planned for tonight.” It seemed an eon ago that she and Rita had worked out the number of chairs, the positioning of the lectern, the location of the cash bars. “Death on Demand isn't participating.”

Rita looked shocked. “Has the staff—”

“It has nothing to do with the hotel. I have withdrawn as a sponsor of anything connected with Alex Griffith. Whatever the Griffiths do has nothing to do with me or Death on Demand.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed. “Let's just say I decided it wasn't an appropriate event for Death on Demand.”

“But, Annie—”

Annie held up a hand. “Alex Griffith has a program in mind that wouldn't be helpful to the bookstore. I don't want to get into details. Let's leave it at that. Now, if you'll call a bellman, I'll retrieve the boxes of books that Duane brought over.”

Rita turned to her desk, lifted a phone. “Ask the bellman to bring the boxes of books stored for tonight's event to the front desk . . . Thank you.” She looked at Annie. “The boxes will be there for you.” Her face creased in concern. “Will his talk go on as planned?”

“I suggest,” Annie said carefully, “that you speak to the Griffiths.”

•   •   •

A
nnie handed the bellman a twenty-dollar tip after he slid the last box of books into the Thunderbird's trunk. She would be happiest if she could take Griffith's damnable books and toss them from Fish Haul Pier, watch the boxes sink into green water. The next best thing was to return them to the wholesaler. Her lips pressed together as she slid behind the wheel. Alex Griffith was going to cost her money—the shipping costs for special quick delivery, the returns—but she didn't care. She drove straight to the FedEx office, smiled at
the freckle-faced teenager who carried the boxes inside for her, filled out address labels. Good riddance.

•   •   •

A
nnie carried the last copies of
Don't Go Home
from the South Carolina authors table to the storeroom. She filled out forms for their return and boxed the books. When they were gone—she could drop them at FedEx—there would be no trace of Alex Griffith or his books at Death on Demand.

•   •   •

A
nnie felt like she was swimming through heated molasses as she walked from her car up the back steps of the house. The sunlight now slanted through the pines but beginning shadows offered no respite from the humid air. She stepped into the kitchen, welcomed the cool blast of air-conditioning.

Dorothy L, their gorgeous white cat, Max's special gal, gave a plaintive mew.

Annie understood. Max wasn't here and he should be, so far as Dorothy L was concerned. He was often immersed in creating dinner when Annie arrived home. This evening there were no delicious smells, no pans on the range.

“Sorry, sweetie. Just you and me.” She bent and stroked Dorothy L's thick, long fur, only a little thinned from summer shedding.

Dorothy L gazed up at her with China blue eyes, then, almost as if shrugging in sadness, turned and padded slowly away.

Annie fixed a tall glass of ice water. She felt at loose ends. Ingrid had already lined up Duane to help at the store tonight so she insisted Annie leave. “Take a break. Go down to the beach. There's a new
fish shack that deep-fries breaded jumbo shrimp. Without the food gendarme along, you can indulge.”

Annie smiled as she imagined Max's response when she told him he was now officially known as the food gendarme. Served him right for his raised eyebrow when she ordered her usual fried oyster sandwich or chose fried flounder instead of grilled. But tonight she had little appetite. She fixed cold smoked salmon with cream cheese on a bagel with onions and capers, added potato chips and coleslaw, and carried a paper plate onto the screened-in porch. As she ate, the sun sank behind tall pines and shadows stretched across the backyard.

She tried to think of other things—the drought that threatened the Southwest, the fetching video on YouTube of a sleeping Great Dane with a bright-eyed kitten jumping back and forth over its recumbent form, a reprise of the famous tennis match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs—but remembered voices sounded over and over in her mind, one amused and taunting, the other despairing. Marian had been her friend and Max's for years, cocky, funny, bright, quick, always lively, never bitter or angry or despairing.

BOOK: Don't Go Home
9.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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