Kissing in the Dark (7 page)

Claire gasped and laughed in the same breath. “I was teasing.”

Dahlia dipped her fingers into the jar and scooped out a dollop of cream. She gestured for Claire to sit. “Let me show you how to apply it, so you can teach your husband how to pleasure you.”

Claire laughed. “Believe me, my husband knows all about that.”

Faith’s aunts all grinned like the four lusty prostitutes they were, and Nancy glanced at her daughter-in-law. “The only pleasure I get comes from a hot stove or holding my grandchildren. It’s been ages since anything has felt good enough to make me moan, so sit on that pail and let this lovely woman rub your feet while I enjoy myself for a spell.”

Cora patted Faith’s leg. “Why does she want to moan, Mama?”

Heat burned up Faith’s neck, and Nancy ducked her head.

With a hoot of laughter, Claire sat on the pail, hiked her dress to her knees, and stuck out her foot. “Cora, do you know how to unlace shoes?”

“Mama showed me how,” the child said, and joyfully helped remove Claire’s shoes and stockings.

Dahlia slathered cream over Claire’s slender foot and began kneading her toes. Cora sat knees-bent, heels-out on the floor beside Dahlia, rubbing Claire’s other foot.

Nancy hunched her back. “Iris, you must come live with me,” she said.

Warm laughter filled the greenhouse, and Faith let herself relax for the first time since moving to Fredonia. Maybe her aunts weren’t too outrageous. Their naughty sense of humor had won over the Grayson women. And maybe Nancy, Evelyn, and Claire would tell their friends about her business.

Maybe everything would work out after all.

“You all look so different,” Evelyn said, eyeing Faith’s aunts. “It’s hard to believe you’re sisters.”

Faith’s stomach plummeted.

“It’s a remarkable story,” Dahlia said, calmly reaching over to guide Cora’s hand. “Slide your thumbs around her ankle bone like this.” After she demonstrated, the woman lifted an amazingly serene face to Evelyn. “We all share the same father.”

Faith scoured her mind for a way to change the subject, wishing they’d taken time to think this through and invent a new history for themselves.

“Our father was a big, handsome, American-born German,” Dahlia said in the mystical sounding voice she used when telling a tale to Cora. “There wasn’t a woman alive who could resis—”

“Aunt Dahlia, the ladies can’t possibly be interested in . . . all that. It’s a painfully long history,” Faith said, doing her best to dissuade them from pursuing the topic. “Dahlia could waste half a day trying to explain it all.”

Nancy fairly purred as she closed her eyes. “Take all the time you like, Miss Wilde.”

Dahlia’s lips twitched. “As I was saying, we share the same father, but—”

“The sheriff’s here!” Cora leapt to her feet and ran to greet him.

Faith’s day went from bad to disastrous. The sheriff hadn’t taken five steps inside the greenhouse before his eyes widened and he jerked to a halt. He looked from Claire, barefoot with her dress hiked to her knees, to his mother, who sat with her back hunched and her head hanging, to Evelyn, who lounged cross-legged on her pail like a queen getting a manicure.

Evelyn waved him over. “Pull up a pail, Duke. You’re just in time to hear what promises to be an interesting history of the Wilde women.”

The instant the words left Evelyn’s mouth, Faith’s aunts howled with laughter.

Under less worrisome circumstances, Faith would have appreciated the wild women pun, but to flaunt their past as if they were beyond the bounds of social etiquette was foolish. And that is exactly what Iris had done when she came up with that suggestive last name.

“Can I play with your handcuffs?” Cora asked, poking at the sheriff’s thigh.

He pulled the cuffs off his belt without looking away from his mother. “What is going on here?” he asked.

Nancy half-raised her eyelids. “I’m having one of the best moments of my life. Now sit down and let Dahlia finish her story about how these lovely ladies came to be sisters.”

Faith scooted around a flat of wintergreen and stopped before him. She tried her best to get things on her own terms once more: “I assume you’re here to report on Adam’s first day at the store, so why don’t we go outside and talk?”

o0o

Duke heard Faith’s request. But, after walking in here and finding his respectable mother and sisters-in-law looking intoxicated, he wasn’t budging from this spot even if Faith promised to lead him to her bed. He was going to stand right here beside this flat of smelly green stuff until he figured out exactly what the hell was going on. His mother looked drugged out of her head. Had these crazy women fed her some of that jimsonweed Adam mentioned?

Duke nodded to Dahlia—at least, he believed the buxom woman was Dahlia—who was rubbing Claire’s feet. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said.

Dahlia turned her attention to manipulating Claire’s toes in a way that made his own toes jealous. “I was saying that the five of us had the same father.”

His mother’s head lifted. “Five?”

Dahlia nodded. “The four of us and Rose, Faith’s mother.”

“Rose? Oh, of course.” Duke’s mother’s lips pursed as if she were holding back a smile while listening to one of her grandchildren spin a wild tale, but she waved her fingers for Dahlia to continue.

Duke shifted his gaze between his mother, who was an excellent judge of character, and Faith, whose scowl said she didn’t like Dahlia sharing this information.

“Papa first saw Rose’s mother dashing through a field of wildflowers,” Dahlia said. “Violet. She was running away from her dreadful parents.”

Faith closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Papa said Violet was a beauty beyond compare, and claimed she inspired him to lus—love—um, to marry her and plant flowers.”

Duke’s mother’s hoot startled him.

“They named their first child Rose.” Dahlia rested Claire’s foot in her lap and sat back on her heels. “For some reason Violet left Papa before they could plant any more flowers.”

Duke watched Faith brush Cora’s hair off her forehead. “Sweetheart, go see if you can find that plate of cookies,” she suggested.

“Can I eat one?”

“Yes, but wash your hands first.”

When Cora dashed down a plant-shrouded aisle, and out of earshot, her mother blocked Duke’s view of Dahlia. “I’d like to talk with you. Would you step outside with me?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, “as soon as your aunt finishes her story.”

A sick look washed across Faith’s face, and she lowered her lashes.

“What happened to his daughter Rose?” he asked, prodding Dahlia to continue.

“She remained with Papa, which encouraged him to find a new wife fast.”

Duke frowned. “Wasn’t he still married to Violet?”

“He surely was, but he married his neighbor’s spinster daughter anyhow, and added Aster to his garden.”

Duke saw the soldier-like woman with white hair lift her snowy eyebrows as if this was news to her, but she didn’t comment.

“For some reason Aster’s mother took Aster and went back to her father’s house, leaving Papa alone with Rose. Papa saw no reason to stop planting flowers, so he moved to Georgia and promptly added a wealthy southern belle to his arrangement.”

“Oh, Dahlia! Honestly,” Faith exclaimed, her face flushing crimson. “This is more than these poor ladies need to know.”

But it was nowhere near enough for Duke—or for his mother, if her now-keen gaze was any indication of her interest.

“Well, it’s the truth.” Dahlia stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “Papa was married to three women at the same time. But the problem was diminished when Tansy’s mother died during childbirth.”

The blond woman gasped, her hands flitting to her throat, reminding Duke that Tansy was the butterfly of their group. Aster was the white-haired soldier, Iris the saucy Oriental, and Dahlia was the one with the cantaloupes on her chest. Crude, but it was the only way he could keep these women straight.

Dahlia planted her hands on her ample hips. “You didn’t know Papa was a bigamist?”

Tansy squinted. “A what?”

“A three-timing rat,” Aster said with an odd gleam in her eyes. “But the story gets worse. You see, Dahlia’s mother was the robust Italian kitchen maid who worked for Tansy’s mother.”

Even Duke felt his eyebrows lift with this revelation, but Dahlia just laughed and straightened her apron. “Aster is teasing you ladies. My mama was Italian, but I would call her voluptuous rather than robust. Papa met her in New York City . . . at the theater. When Tansy’s mother died, Papa was much improved in the pocket, so he packed up Rose and Tansy, and moved to the city. While he was establishing himself as a businessman, Aster was delivered to his doorstep with a letter saying her mother had been killed in a carriage accident.”

Aster cast a mean squint at Dahlia. “This, of course, left him free to marry your mother.”

“Not quite. He was still married to his first wife, Violet. But Papa met Mama that very evening.” Dahlia’s eyes softened and her voice lowered. “She was at the theater with her father, and she got so excited during the performance, she dropped her fan over the balcony. It hit Papa on the head.”

Iris’s hoot of laughter snapped everyone’s attention to her. She clapped her hands over her mouth, but another squawk of laughter slipped from her throat as she stepped away from Duke’s mother. “I . . . I remember Papa telling that story,” she said, pushing her shiny black hair out of her eyes.

“Well, that was the only thing humorous about him meeting that woman,” Tansy said. “She was a viper after she married Papa.”

“Truly wicked,” Aster agreed, her voice filled with sympathy that was contradicted by the gloating look in her eyes. “Dahlia’s mother left Papa with another child and an empty pocket, then got her wealthy father to buy her a divorce.”

“Who’s telling this story?” Dahlia asked irritably.

For some reason these women were taunting each other, and Duke’s attention sharpened as he searched their faces and words for clues.

“Dahlia!” Faith caught the woman’s elbow. “We’ve only just met these ladies, and this story is . . . inappropriate.”

Dahlia drew in her breath, lifting a good-sized bosom in the process. “There’s not much left to tell anyhow. Papa already had three girls he couldn’t take care of, so he hired a soft-spoken Oriental woman as a nursemaid and promptly forgot his vow to stop planting flowers. His new Japanese wife added Iris to the garden, then died with Papa shortly thereafter in an explosion aboard a steamer.”

“Good heavens! Can this be true?” Claire asked, her shoe dangling forgotten from her fingers.

Duke nearly laughed aloud. Of course it wasn’t true. These women were actresses of the finest caliber. And he wanted to know what they were covering up with their acting skills.

Everyone looked at Faith, but her jaw was clenched and her stony gaze was fixed on Dahlia.

“Not entirely,” Dahlia said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I can’t remember every detail, so I decorated the cake a little bit. It would have been a lifeless and sad story otherwise.”

“It’s tragic.” Evelyn pressed her hand to her heart.

Duke grimaced. Leave it to the ever-compassionate Evelyn not to see past a mountain of blarney, and that’s surely what this all was.

Her concern must have nudged Dahlia’s conscience, because the woman heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I was teasing my sisters a bit just now, because the truth is we spent our childhood away from each other. Rose set up a house in Syra . . . Saratoga, and one by one we found her and transplanted ourselves to her garden.” She flipped her palms up and grinned like a pleased child. “But wasn’t the first version more exciting?”

Duke was just working up a line of questions when his mother burst into laughter and clapped her hands like an enthusiastic fan at a rousing performance. “I’m taking you women home with me.”

Iris joined in the applause. “Well done, Dahlia.”

Dahlia curtsied to Evelyn, Claire, and his mother, then boldly winked at Duke over her shoulder. “Welcome to the Evergreen House, where we treat our female guests to a healing massage with our special herbs and balms while entertaining them with fabulous stories.” She stepped back and hooked her arm around Faith’s shoulders. “My niece here is so worried that the ladies in town won’t buy our herbs and special treatments, she can barely sleep at night.”

“That’s absolutely true,” Tansy said, all aflutter. “Why just last night—”

“We decided to offer one free massage to every lady in town,” Faith declared, not batting a lash for cutting in on her aunt. “Mrs. Grayson, we would be in your debt if you would pass word of our business to your lady friends.”

So that’s what these women were up to. Duke ground his teeth. They were swindling his family into promoting their business.

“Of course,” his mother said in her usual obliging way. She got to her feet and grasped Iris’s hands. “The girls and I will be happy to promote your business to every woman we know, and I’ll be your best customer. You are truly an artist, and well worth whatever price you’re charging.”

“Not a penny, Mrs. Grayson. Consider it our gift to thank you for such a warm welcome.”

“We are the ones who received the warm welcome.” Duke’s mother patted Iris’s hands, but spoke to all of the women. “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

Duke waited until his mother left with Evelyn and Claire, then he took Faith firmly by the elbow. “Let’s have that private talk now, Mrs. Wilkins.”

Chapter 7

Duke guided Faith outside, away from her daughter and out of earshot of the outlandish women she called her aunts. He’d wager his badge, or a win in the next election, that the women weren’t related to each other at all, much less related to Faith.

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the vertical board and batten wall of the building. “I stopped to make sure the gas line was secure, but that was some story your aunt just told.”

Faith fiddled with her apron, aligning the two large pockets with her hip bones, then smoothing the dark green fabric over her flat stomach. “Aunt Dahlia has a flare for drama.”