Elizabeth Lynn Casey - Southern Sewing Circle 10 - Wedding Duress (6 page)

She hadn’t planned to stop at Debbie’s Bakery before heading home, but knowing Milo was tied up at a school board meeting for most of the evening made the pull of her fellow sewing circle sister’s baked treats even more overpowering than normal. The fact that she could sit down and relax for the first time all day while eating that baked treat made the decision to stop a veritable no-brainer.

Now all she had to do was pick what she wanted . . .

A salted caramel brownie?

A giant chocolate chip cookie?

A peanut butter and chocolate tartlet?

A white chocolate mousse pastry puff?

A piece of caramel drizzled cheese—

“You could always have one of each, Victoria. I won’t tell.”

She looked up from her love affair with the bakery case to find Debbie Calhoun eyeing her with naked amusement. “And even if you didn’t, everyone would know because I’d be dead.”

“I think I should be offended by that, don’t you, Emma?” Debbie nudged her chin in the direction of the college-aged girl who ran the register at the bakery most days.

Emma grinned and nodded. “It sure sounds like someone is doubting your baking ability, boss.”

Tori shot her hands up in the air and waved them from side to side. “Wait. You misunderstand the reason for my death.”

Debbie’s left brow lifted nearly to her hairline. “Oh?”

“If I ate one of everything in this case,” she said, pointing, “Rose would kill me.”

“Rose? Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to fit into that gorgeous wedding dress she spent the past six months making for me . . .” She glanced back down at the case and pointed at the top treat on the left. “I’ll take a salted caramel brownie and a promise of baker-client confidentiality while I’m at it.”

“You got it.” Emma slid open the case and reached inside for the largest of the six brownies. With expert hands, she placed it smack dab in the middle of a doily-draped plate and set it on the counter beside the register. “Would you like a drink to go with that?”

“She’ll take a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream,” Debbie interjected with nary a look over her shoulder as she set about preparing the drink. “And they’re both on the house.”

“Debbie, please, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t, but after taking care of Beatrice the
way you did last night, I
want
to.” The bakery owner held the powder blue ceramic mug under the milk steamer and gestured toward the seating area with her chin. “Why don’t you take your brownie and I’ll join you with your drink as soon as I’m done.”

“Sounds good.” Holding an index finger to her lips for Emma to see, Tori plucked a five-dollar bill from her already-open wallet and stuck it in the tip jar beside the register. When the money was safely inside with Debbie none the wiser, she liberated her plate from the counter and carried it across the room to the quaint seating area on the other side.

As the only person in the bakery at the moment, Tori had her pick of tables, and as was usually the case, she gravitated toward the four-top closest to the front window. There, she could enjoy Debbie’s sinful creations while reading, chatting with friends, or watching the comings and goings of her Sweet Briar neighbors.

She had just settled herself, her phone, and her brownie at the table when Debbie slid into the opposite chair. “A hot chocolate for you . . . and a much-needed coffee for me.”

Reaching for her cup, Tori narrowed her eyes on her friend. “I’m surprised you’re here at this time. I thought you always left the dinner hour to Emma so you could go home and eat with Colby and the kids.”

“I do. But Colby took the kids to Tom’s Creek to catch a fellow author’s talk at one of the independent bookstores. I thought about going with them but decided I’d use the opportunity to get some work done so I can spend more time at home tomorrow afternoon and evening.” Debbie propped her elbows on the edge of the table and wrapped
her hands around her own mug, her eyes nearly rolling back in her head as she did. “I’ve been working the books all afternoon and I can’t tell you how good it is to sit down.”

“Actually you can,” Tori muttered. “The library board meets on Thursday night so I spent my whole afternoon doing the same thing.”

Debbie scooted her drink into the middle of the table and then lifted it into the air. “Then to us! And a well-deserved break.”

“To us.” Tori lowered her hot chocolate enough to take a sip and then still farther until it was back on the table next to her brownie. “Have you, by any chance, talked to Leona since the meeting last night?”

A cloud of something resembling disgust rolled across the thirty-something’s normally cheerful features just before the grunt that preceded her verbal answer. “No. And I don’t intend to. What she did to Rose on that TV show of hers Sunday night is unforgivable.”

It was hard to argue against Debbie’s words, even harder to entertain the notion of defending Leona, but Margaret Louise’s twin was their friend, too, prickly exterior and all. “I agree, and I think, on some level, even
Leona
knows she was out of line.”

“I don’t know how you can say that when she was as belligerent as she was at our sewing circle meeting.”

Tori closed her eyes briefly against the memory of Leona, hands on hips, facing down her accusers the previous night, her initial confusion over the planned attack quickly giving way to a defiance that hadn’t helped her case in the slightest.

“That woman is mean ninety-nine percent of the time, Victoria, and she seems almost proud of that fact.”

There was a part of her that knew Debbie’s description of Leona wasn’t far from the truth. After all, Leona’s claws came out often. But there was also the part of her that had seen glimpses of a very different Leona throughout the past two-plus years. It was
that
Leona she adored, and
that
Leona she simply had to try and defend . . .

“She left a message on my answering machine last night. She wanted to check in and see how Beatrice was doing.” She knew it sounded lame in light of the horrific humiliation Leona had inflicted on Rose, but at least it was something. And if need be, she could always remind Debbie of the baby rabbit Leona had bestowed on Rose the previous year. The gift of Paris’s unexpected offspring surely had to count for something, didn’t it?

“She left a message? Well, whoop-de-do.” Debbie reached behind her head, pulled the ponytail tie from her hair, and let her dark blonde hair rain down over her back for just a moment before gathering it into its previous hairstyle once again. “And I suppose, when you called her back, she spent a nanosecond listening to your update on Beatrice and the rest of the time talking about her manicure, her clothes, her latest date, and the shortcomings of everyone in Sweet Briar except, of course, her own.”

It was the first time since Tori had moved to Sweet Briar and met Debbie Calhoun that she’d ever seen the woman truly angry about something. She’d seen her friend upset and scared during that time, but angry to the point of making her pale blue eyes dark as night? Never.

“Actually,” she half whispered, half mumbled, “she didn’t answer when I returned her call—last night or either of the times I tried today.”

Debbie shook her head as her previous grunt returned
with a more snortlike edge. “So what you’re saying is Beatrice didn’t even
get
her nanosecond. Hmmm, how very caring of Leona.”

“I don’t know, Debbie. Maybe something came up with Annabelle.”

“If Margaret Louise’s mother was ill, I’d know.” Debbie took another sip of her coffee and then gently swirled the remaining liquid around inside the mug. “No, Leona is doing exactly what Leona always does, which is why I’d much rather talk about someone who has earned our concern by being an absolute sweetheart since the moment she arrived in this town. So how
is
Beatrice?”

Beatrice . . .

Oh, how she wanted to keep the subject on Leona in an effort to find a way to undo some of the damage the self-proclaimed hottie had brought down on herself, but it was no use. Debbie and the rest of the circle would need proof of Leona’s goodness from Leona herself. When that would happen was as much Tori’s guess as anyone else’s.

“I tried to call her once this afternoon, but her line was busy.”

She forced herself to focus on the conversation that was happening rather than the one that wasn’t long enough to acknowledge Debbie’s statement. “Depending on when you tried to reach her, that busy signal may have been during one of the times she called me.”

“Is she holding up okay, the poor thing?” Debbie pointed at the untouched brownie on Tori’s plate and made a face. “You can eat and talk at the same time, you know.”

Suddenly, the caramel drizzle that graced the delectable-looking brownie wasn’t cutting it for her anymore. In fact, the gurgling in her stomach that had propelled her to stop
at Debbie’s in the first place was now absolutely silent. Still, Tori took a bite if for no other reason than to keep from hurting Debbie’s feelings. When she was done chewing, she posed a question of her own. “Have you heard anything about Miss Gracie’s fall around town this morning? Anything that might give a clearer picture as to how it happened? Chief Dallas didn’t have much to say other than she fell.”

Debbie glanced around the empty seating area and then back at Tori, her shoulders pitching forward across the table as she did. “I ran into someone at the school this morning who was there when it happened. She’s the mother of one of Jackson’s classmates.”

“She was there?”

A quick nod gave way to more information. “It seems Julie Brady had a pot luck dinner with a few women—mostly moms of kids in Reenie’s and Kellie’s classes. Wealthy moms like herself who employ nannies to look after their children. Anyway, from what I heard, Julie was gushing about Miss Gracie and how she was amazing with all three girls . . . attentive, encouraging, gentle, you name it. By the time she was done, Julie was giving out the phone number of the agency in England where Beatrice and Miss Gracie were both found. And she did this with some of their current nannies, and her sister-in-law, in the next room!”

Tori stopped picking at her brownie and met Debbie’s wide eyes with her own narrowed ones. “I don’t understand.”

“The kids of these women were there, too. In the playroom with Julie’s kids. Of course, their assorted nannies were there, too.” Debbie flung herself back against her chair and sighed. “Can you imagine being there—doing
your job—and hearing your employer discussing the many benefits of hiring someone else for your position? Even if you have to know you’re not very good?”

“Not very good?”

“This is Sweet Briar, South Carolina, Victoria. Most of the really good nannies want to work in New York City or L.A., and for one of the reputable agencies that can get them those assignments. The ones that stay here and work out of the Nanny Go Round Agency really have no aspirations beyond the paycheck and a chance to hobnob with some of Sweet Briar’s more well-to-do families.”

She tucked the information aside and brought the conversation back to the previous night’s tragedy itself. “Do you know why Miss Gracie was going down to the basement during all of this?”

Debbie stopped mid-shrug to smile at a customer who came into the shop with a gaggle of kids. To Tori, she said, “Oh, this is going to be a big order. I probably better go help Emma. Maybe we can chat more later if you’re still here when they’re done?”

She looked from her near-empty mug, to her half-eaten brownie, to her still silent phone and shook her head. “Actually, I better be wrapping this up. I’ve got one more stop to make before I head home for the night.”

“Does this stop happen to include a handsome third grade teacher who is just eleven days away from marrying one of my best friends?” Debbie teased.

Slipping her phone back into her purse, and the last bite or two of brownie into her mouth, Tori stood and brushed a parting kiss across Debbie’s cheek. “If only I could say it did.”

“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .
Leona
,” Tori said as she pulled to a stop outside the condo Leona shared with her long-eared, nose-twitching daughter, Paris. Like the four units to its right, and the single unit to its left, the brick face of Leona’s building was a ruddy red color with wide steps leading to the half-glass/half-mahogany front door.

Tori knew the interior layout well, including the narrow staircase that had all but sealed the fate on Leona’s decision to take in her aging mother. Yet the fact that the sewing circle’s current arch enemy had even offered had to say something about Leona’s underlying spirit, didn’t it?

“Stop it, Tori,” she mumbled. “Stop trying to plead Leona’s case. She got herself into this mess and it’s her job to get herself out.”

It was the same mantra she’d told herself throughout
the day as call after call went unanswered, and neither Margaret Louise nor Debbie seemed to care. Still, her heart was having a difficult time getting in sync with her brain. After all, she knew there were good sides to Leona—special sides that made her worthy of a second chance and the nagging sensation that something wasn’t right.

Sliding her hand forward, she slipped the gear shift into park and contemplated her next move.

If she knocked on the door and out and out told Leona she was worried about her, Leona might get the mixed message that what she did to Rose on Sunday night was somehow okay. And it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Then there was the reward for bad behavior aspect. Leona had been nasty, plain and simple. It was why Dixie, Georgina, Debbie, and Leona’s own sister, Margaret Louise, had all but shunned her the previous evening. Would stopping by to make sure she was okay be akin to Tori undermining her sewing sisters’ clear and concise message that nastiness would no longer be tolerated?

Conflicted, she let her gaze travel up the partially lit exterior steps to Leona’s front stoop and the morning newspaper that sat, untouched, outside the woman’s front door. Something inside her gut twisted ever so slightly and she reached for the handle of the driver’s side door, only to let her arm drop back down.

No. She knew the game Leona was playing and she refused to indulge the attention-monger.

When Leona finally admitted she’d been cruel, apologized to Rose, and cared enough about Beatrice to actually
hear
whether she was okay or not, they would speak again. Until then, Tori would focus on Milo and her
wedding and the friends in her life that treated one another with respect and kindness.

Her mind made up, she placed her foot on the gas and headed toward the next and final stop on her list.

Block by block she made her way across a darkening Sweet Briar. Streetlights clicked on, porch lights shone brightly, and streets cleared of playing children as another day bowed to the promise of a new one.

At the entrance to one of the town’s older neighborhoods, she turned left and then right, slowing the car to a crawl as she reached her final destination. Like so many of its immediate counterparts, Rose’s home was small—maybe twelve hundred square feet, but the second-to-none landscaping attended to by the eighty-something woman herself made it the most enviable place on the block.

The hint of light on the other side of the living room drapes told her what she needed to know: Rose was awake. Or at the very least, propped up in a chair in front of the television dozing.

This time, when she slid the car into park, she followed it up by cutting the engine and stepping out onto the road. The promise of some alone-time with the woman who’d become like a surrogate great-grandmother helped quicken her steps all the way onto the porch and over to the front door.

Rose answered on the fourth knock.

“Good heavens, Victoria, how many times do I have to tell you you don’t have to knock?”

She stepped into the house and turned to match the elderly woman’s reprimand with one of her own. “Probably as many times as I remind you to lock your door whether you’re awake or not.”

“That door hasn’t been locked in the sixty years I’ve owned this place and I’m not about to start locking it now.” Rose leaned her tired body forward, planted a kiss on Tori’s cheek, and then shooed her into the tiny living room. “So did you get the wedding rings?”

“I did.” Tori crossed the carpet that separated Rose’s favorite chair from the love seat on the other side and sat down. “They’re out in the car.”

“Which is locked, I hope.” Without waiting for a reply, Rose moved on, her words bringing Tori’s mental checklist into the foreground. “And the minister? He’s all set for the big day?”

“I’ll check in with him tomorrow. I’m taking the morning off to go through as many things on my list as I can.”

Rose lowered herself onto her chair, wincing as she did. “You’ll get it all done, I’m sure.”

“Rose? Are you okay?” she asked as the woman’s eyes closed tightly for the briefest of moments. “Is something hurting?”

Slowly, Rose opened her eyes and focused on Tori with a sadness that was impossible to miss. “That question implies there are things that don’t.”

In a flash, Tori was off the love seat and crouching beside Rose, her hand finding her friend’s and holding it tight. “Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to get you your medicine? Or some hot tea?”

Rose returned the squeeze and then released it long enough to wave the questions and their accompanying worry aside. “You can visit with me like you came to do. And hear me out about this ridiculous business of me being in your bridal party.”

“You’re in my bridal party, Rose.” She took a moment
to study the soft wrinkles that lined the woman’s face, the lifetime of joy and anguish that had created them not much different than the highways and byways that came together to make up a treasured road map. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Silence fell around them as Rose dropped her focus to the afghan she’d tucked across her lap within seconds of sitting down. “But fifty years from now, when you look back at your album with Milo, I don’t want to be the one who stands out for looking ridiculous.”

“Rose,” Tori said, swallowing over the lump created by her friend’s words, “fifty years from now, when I look at my wedding album, you will stand out. Of that, I have no doubt. But it won’t be for something as absurd as you looking ridiculous. It’ll be because of how truly special you were to me, and how incredibly blessed I was to have you in my life.”

A single tear from each eye made its way halfway down Rose’s pale cheeks before being wiped away by a trembling hand. “I don’t want to throw off the look of your wedding. I—I’m too old and hunched over to be anything more than the old woman seated in the front row—the one who doesn’t get the concept of a mirror.”

“The one who doesn’t get the concept of a mirror?” Tori echoed. “Wait. That’s what Leona said the other night on that stupid show of hers, isn’t it?”

Rose’s silence was all the answer she needed.

Rising to her feet, Tori began to pace around the room, five strides one way, five strides the other. “So many times I’ve heard everyone comment on how mean-spirited Leona can be, and sure, I saw it at times. I tried to push that aside and instead focus on the
good
she did. But just
because she gave you a bunny and me a sewing box that reminded me of my great-grandmother doesn’t really change her heart, does it?”

Rose stamped her foot on the ground then pinned Tori with a stare. “That woman may have a fuzzy knowledge of what love is, Victoria, but she loves you every bit as much as she loves Paris.”

Heat rose up Tori’s neck and into her face as she sank onto the love seat once again. “I can’t believe you’re defending her after what she did to you the other night.”

“That betrayal she experienced at the hands of her best friend and her fiancé shortly after college hurt her deeply. I have no doubt that experience is responsible for so much of the Leona we see now—the one who pushes people away with her words and her actions.”

Oh, how she wanted to believe Rose, to finally have what she needed to justify her lingering warm feelings for Leona, but—

“What she said about you the other night was awful. There’s no way you can tie that to a forty-year-old hurt.”

“You don’t think so?” Rose challenged. “All Leona wanted back then was to marry the love of her life, with her best friend looking on. It didn’t happen. Now, it’s happening for the one person who sees something good inside her. She can’t lash out at you, so she lashes out at the easiest target she can find.”

“With the easiest target being you, I take it?”

“Of course. There’s no way on God’s green earth I’ll ever be able to show her up. I’m too old, too wrinkled, too tired.” Rose shifted in her chair and then leaned her head against its upholstered headrest. “Oh I’ll give her what-for when I can, but in the end, we all know she’s
right. I
am
an old goat. I
am
fashion-challenged. And I
don’t
consult a mirror.”

She tried not to laugh, but it was hard. Here was this woman who’d been on the very public receiving end of Leona’s meanness, pleading Leona’s case. From anyone other than Rose, it would be impossible to comprehend.

“You are amazing, Rose Winters. You really are,” Tori mused. “And
that
is why you will put on that gorgeous Harvest Wheat–colored dress with your silver flats and stand beside me as my matron of honor when I marry the love of my life in eleven days.”

Rose rolled her eyes skyward, releasing an exhausted sigh as she did. “That woman is right, you know. You don’t listen.” Then, with a pained shrug of her frail shoulders, she moved on, all talk of Leona now in her rearview mirror. “Now tell me about Beatrice. Margaret Louise told me what happened to her governess and that you drove her home after the meeting. How is she holding up?”

“She is beside herself with grief . . . and guilt.”

“Guilt?” Rose repeated. “What on earth does that one have to be guilty about besides being too much of a doormat?”

For the first time since arriving, Tori allowed herself to relax, going so far as to kick off her shoes and pull her stocking-clad feet up and onto the comfy cushion. “She keeps saying Miss Gracie wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for her.”

“And maybe that’s true. But that doesn’t mean she’s responsible for the woman losing her footing and tumbling to her death.”

She grabbed one of the throw pillows from the far end of the love seat and pulled it against her chest as she
compared Rose’s words against the ones she herself had shared with Beatrice. “And I told her that. But now all she keeps saying is that Miss Gracie didn’t lose her footing.”

“She fell, didn’t she?” Rose snapped.

“That’s the version the police have given, yes.” Resting her chin against the top edge of the pillow, she allowed herself to close her own eyes for just a moment. “But Beatrice isn’t buying that version.”

“What other version is there?”

She opened her mouth to share the ludicrous notion Beatrice had dropped on her earlier that day, but something inside her made her stop.

Cynthia Marland staring at Beatrice and Luke across a playground . . .

Cynthia Marland’s inability to find another job in Sweet Briar for the time being . . .

Could Beatrice be right?

“What other version is there?” Rose asked a second time.

“Beatrice’s version,” Tori finally answered. “The one that has Miss Gracie being
pushed
to her death.”