Let it Sew (14 page)

Chapter 18

Tori pulled her finger back and listened as her presence on the front porch was announced
via a series of chimes discernible through the large mahogany door. Room by room the
sound reverberated around the large plantation-style home before staging an encore
through the front hallway.

Seconds gave way to minutes before the faintest hint of approaching footsteps reversed
her own back to the welcome mat in anticipation of a familiar face that didn’t materialize.
Instead, Tori found herself staring up, up, up into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Yes?”

Her gaze moved still higher, taking in the silky smooth hair that framed a classically
handsome face with its flawless nose, chiseled jawline, and perfectly proportioned
mouth of pristine white teeth. “Uh . . . hi. You must be Ethan Devereaux, yes?”

“I am. And you are?”

“Victoria. Victoria Sinclair.” She extended her hand toward the man, only to retract
it when it went unacknowledged in favor of a slow, head-to-toe visual inspection she
found herself copying.

Ethan Devereaux was tall. Very tall. Six foot three, at least. His workout shirt,
pulled taut across his chest, silently boasted the benefits of daily weight training
while the toned muscles in his thighs spoke to a regimen that surely included time
on a track as well.

“Victoria . . .” Faint lines appeared at the outer corners of his eyes at the sound
of her name. “Wait. You’re not the girl from the other night, are you?’

She shook her head at his inquiry but not before her cheeks warmed to the point she
was grateful for the outside air. “N-No. I’m here because I was hoping to have a moment
with Frieda?”

Any hint of ease disappeared from Ethan’s stance. “My mother is dead. So why on earth
would you think Frieda Taylor would still be here? She was an
employee
. My
mother’s
employee. And unlike my mother, who actually believed Frieda gave two hoots about
her, I’m not blind to that woman’s dishonesty and greed.”

Tori felt her jaw start to slacken but did her best to rein it in before Ethan could
register the reaction as shocked disagreement. To give him that window into her thoughts
would most certainly result in the door being slammed in her face before any snooping
opportunities could be realized.

“Wow. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I”—she glanced down at her purse long enough to concoct
a workable story that could be backed up by the leather-bound notebook it housed—“I
just saw her name alongside your address and, well, here I am. To say thank you.”

Ethan’s shoulders dipped ever so slightly as the bubble of tension began to ease.
“You’re thanking me? For what?”

“For the very generous book donation that was made to the Sweet Briar Public Library
in memory of your mother.” Again, she extended her hand, this time sensing at least
a flash of hesitation before he shrugged it away sans shake. Letting it fall to her
side once again, she continued on, the need for answers winning out over the desire
to walk away in disgust. “I’m the head librarian there and the donation came in just
in time to be part of our First Annual Holiday Book Extravaganza last weekend.”

“Oh, yeah. I saw those books.” A twitch in the left corner of Ethan’s mouth gave way
to a mischievous smile that spread from one side to the other. “Even added one to
the pile myself.”

Digging the tips of her fingers into the palms of her hands, she resisted the urge
to call him on the motivation behind his particular donation selection and opted instead
to keep him talking.

“I guess your mother was quite the reader,” she mused.

“Well, when you don’t do anything except spend your dead husband’s money all day long,
what else is there to do?”

Tori cast about for something, anything, to say. “I—I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Had I known my mother offed him five years ago, I wouldn’t have had
to keep asking her for money when I wanted to buy something.
She’d
have been asking
me
.”

“I don’t understand—”

“And I can tell you right now I’d have put the kibosh on her hiring Frieda as her
nurse these last few years. Nope, Frieda would have been out on her keister long before
my mother got sick and came up with the idiotic notion to give that woman even
more
of our money.”

This time when her jaw went slack, she let it go. Though, if he noticed, he gave no
indication, proceeding ahead with his rant. “Between my mother and my father and the
way they tossed money around, it’s a wonder there was even enough money for me to
get my Corvette and my sailboat at all.”

“Tossed money around?”

Ethan snorted back a brittle laugh. “Tossed it. Handed it. Threw it. Call it whatever
you will. But I stand to get a whole lot less now than I would’ve if my mom had tossed
my father into a hole
before
I inspired his case of the guilts where my older brother is concerned. But I’ll tell
you this much . . . That was my old man’s guilt. It sure as hell isn’t going to be
mine.”

She’d have to be an idiot not to hear the meaning behind Ethan’s words, his thinly
disguised innuendo all but shoring up speculation over the fate of the Devereaux Center
now that Parker Devereaux had been declared dead. All the work, all the time, all
the volunteer hours, all the love and care that went into making the lives of people
like Brian Devereaux better was about to come to an end. The writing was on the wall,
and Ethan’s comments and attitude were merely serving as a few extra exclamation points
at the end.

“Your older brother’s name is Brian, right?” It was a lame question but at least it
was something.

“Yeah, Lord Brian . . . Creator of All Delusion. He actually managed to make
my
father believe he could run . . . no, wait. You know what? I’m not gonna go there.
He obviously wasn’t persuasive enough, thank God.” Ethan crossed his arms and leaned
his shoulder against the door jam, Tori’s presence on his front porch obviously seeping
back into his conscious thought. “So, what about you? Don’t you think a package of
thank-you notes and a couple of stamps would be an easier way to pat your book donors
on the back?”

Uh-oh.

She tried to make her laugh sound natural, her efforts falling short to her own ears.
“Normally, a note would suffice, but for a donation as large as your mother’s—and
particularly one that was such a huge part of an event like last weekend’s—it seemed
to me as if a personal visit was appropriate. Especially in light of the fact that
the books were given in memory of such a well-respected member of our community.”

For a moment, Ethan said nothing, his gaze playing down her body in slow, even intervals.
When he reached her heeled boots, he skipped back to her face. “So how much did you
pay her for the books?” he asked.

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Dropping his arms to his sides, he left the confines of the open doorway and stepped
onto the porch, his sudden nearness making her swallow. “How much money did you give
Frieda for all those books?”

“I didn’t. We didn’t.” She heard the incredulousness in her voice but could do little
to soften it. “They were donated . . . like all the other books we get each year from
people in this town.”

“You didn’t grease her palms a little bit on account of the
volume
of books she dropped off or the fact that my mother was so meticulous with them over
the years? I mean, did you see most of them? They looked brand new.”

“Mr. Devereaux!” Tori spat through clenched teeth. “While we certainly appreciated
the fine condition of your mother’s books, we didn’t treat your donation any differently
than we did anyone else’s. To do so would be dishonest.”

His left eyebrow rose upward. “So you’re sticking with the notion that you didn’t
pay Frieda for the books?”

“You bet I am.” Turning on her heels, Tori began pacing back and forth across the
length of the porch, the gentle and rhythmic clacking of her boots against the wooden
slats doing little to calm her nerves. Who did this guy think he was?

When she reached the eastern side of the porch for the third time, she stopped and
faced Ethan Devereaux once again. “Where on earth would you get the notion that the
library would have paid Frieda for those books? I just don’t get it.”

He strode to the edge of the porch and perched himself on the top rail, hooking his
foot around one of the uprights. “It came from experience, that’s where.”

She narrowed her eyes in a near mirror image of his. “You’re telling me the Sweet
Briar Public Library has given money for donated books in the past? I don’t believe
that. Not for one second.”

He flashed a devilish grin. “Anyone ever told you how sexy you are when you’re angry?”

Tori splayed her hands in the air. “You know what? I’m done here. The woman who cared
for your mother until her last breath didn’t get a dime for the books she donated
to the library. Believe what you want.”

She spun around and made her way toward the front walkway, anger propelling her feet
off the porch and onto the circular driveway.

“I was referring to my experience with Frieda.”

Pausing beside her car, she simply looked at Ethan and waited.

“Frieda Taylor plays the part of the giving soul, constantly spouting off about the
importance of volunteering and donating. Help the less fortunate, she says. If you
don’t have money, give of your time, she says. But between you and me . . . she’s
a hypocrite.”

For the briefest of moments Tori considered asking him for specifics but opted to
let it go instead, yanking her door open and settling herself behind the wheel.

“Did you hear what I said?” Ethan called.

She gave him the nod he was after and the response she was craving. “I can’t say whether
Frieda Taylor is a hypocrite or not. But I
can
say that
you
, Ethan Devereaux, are a
jerk
.”

Chapter 19

Tori dropped her chin onto the heels of her hands and watched as Margaret Louise moved
between the refrigerator, the countertop, and the stove with the ease of someone who
not only knew their way around the kitchen but also savored the experience as well.
Egg after egg was cracked over a large metal mixing bowl then stirred into the flour
mixture with a practiced hand.

“I really think these cookies will be perfect for Mrs. Claus to have with all those
youngins at the Christmas party. And just to be sure I was right, I tried them out
on Lulu and Sally day before last.” When the mixture was at the desired consistency,
Margaret Louise set it to the side to make way for the Santa cookie jar Tori had been
eyeing over the past thirty minutes or so. “They ooh’d over ’em the whole time they
were eatin’ ’em and darn near emptied the jar before they went home.”

Her ears perked.

Darn near?

Buoyed by the promise of a cookie, she leaned forward on the stool and peered inside
the jar, it’s sparkling clean ceramic interior dashing her hope with a one-two punch.

“What they didn’t eat, I wrapped up and sent home with them for their brothers and
sisters.”

“Oh,” Tori mumbled.

“But don’t you worry your head none, Victoria. Because by the time we’re finished
here, that jar will be filled to the top once more.”

She peered around Margaret Louise and noted the time. “What time is everyone expected
to be here?”

“I reckon the first of ’em will show up on the porch in ’bout twenty minutes, but
don’t you worry none about havin’ to share with the circle. I’m makin’ two batches.
One for the circle and one just for you, Victoria. Think
that’ll
put a smile on your face?”

She forced her lips to turn upward but couldn’t maintain it convincingly enough to
chase the worried creases from her friend’s forehead. “I’m sorry, Margaret Louise.
I really am. I guess I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep all that well last night.”

And it was true. She hadn’t. But if she was honest with herself as well as Margaret
Louise, it was the
reason
she hadn’t slept that was on her mind at that moment, not the fact that she was tired.

“You must think I’m dumber than a box of rocks, don’t you?”

Tori gasped. “No! Of course I don’t think that!”

“Then why else would you be tryin’ to tell me those eyes are tired. Anyone with half
a brain knows those are sad eyes.” Margaret Louise grabbed a tiny scooper from a nearby
drawer and dipped it into the mixing bowl, retrieving a perfectly rounded ball of
dough and transferring it to a waiting cookie tray.

She considered her friend’s assessment and realized it didn’t quite match reality.
“I’m not sad. Not really anyway. Just worried a bit more than I thought I’d be.”

Then again, if she’d thought
at all
, she wouldn’t be sitting there in Margaret Louise’s kitchen, awaiting an emergency
sewing circle meeting with anything other than the usual anticipation.

No, this one was on her.

And her failure to keep her mouth closed.

Scoop by scoop she watched Margaret Louise empty the bowl in favor of filling the
metal trays awaiting their turn in the preheated oven.

“You ain’t gonna tell me, are you?”

Tori swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat at the hurt in the woman’s
voice. Knowing she’d been the one to put it there only made her feel worse. “No, it’s
just that I said something I probably shouldn’t have said today and I did it while
under the guise of library business.”

Margaret Louise slid the trays into the oven and set the time for nine minutes. When
she was done, she hoisted herself onto the stool across the countertop from Tori.
“We all put our fat feet in our mouths at some point, Victoria. Why, look at Leona . . .
she—”

“Yes, look at me. Don’t I look stunning in this dress?” Leona pranced into the middle
of her sister’s kitchen and struck a runway-style pose—complete with a garden-variety
bunny tucked under her arm. “I found it at a one-of-a-kind dress shop in Lawry last
week. When I tried it on, the salesclerk said it looked as if it had been made for
me.”

She saw Margaret Louise’s mouth open, knew an explanation of her dilemma was about
to be shared, and rushed to head her off at the pass with a pointed look and a throwaway
comment tossed in Leona’s direction. “That shade of red is really pretty on you, Leona.”

“It’s wine, dear, not red,” Leona corrected before retrieving a carrot from Margaret
Louise’s refrigerator and offering it to Paris. After several nibbles, Leona pointed
an accusing finger in their direction. “What’s going on between the two of you?”

“I’ve been knocking and knocking for the past five minutes and not a one of you came
to answer the door,” Rose groused as she shuffled into the kitchen and stopped short
at the sight of Leona. “What are you doing here?”

Leona’s chin rose, ready to do battle. “There’s an emergency sewing circle meeting
tonight, isn’t there, you old goat?”

“There is,” Rose sparred. “But unless you were able to fit your sewing needles and
thread inside that too-tight dress you’re wearing, I don’t think you have any intention
of sewing.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why on earth are you here?”

“Because I’m a member of this group just the same as you are,” Leona spat through
teeth that were suddenly clenched.

“Oh. That’s right.” When Leona’s mouth gaped open, Rose flashed a knowing smile at
Tori and Margaret Louise. “Good Lord, she’s fun to poke at, isn’t she?” Then, without
waiting for a response, the matriarch of the group continued on, the mischievous sparkle
leaving her eyes in short order. “Have you talked to Debbie yet today? Did you hear
what that Maime Wellington is trying to do now?”

“You mean, The Grinch . . .” Leona, Margaret Louise, and Tori clarified in unison.

Rose rolled her eyes and sighed. “Well, did you?”

“No, Rose.” Tori slid off her stool and offered it to Rose. “What’s going on?”

“She’s trying to put a limit on the number of decorations a person can put on their
lawn during the holidays.”

“She’s w-what?” Margaret Louise stammered. “But she can’t. We just said four years
ago that we weren’t goin’ to do that here in Sweet Briar the way them uppity folks
did in Lawry.”

Leona’s brows rose. “We?”

“Yes—
we
. The Christmas Decorating Committee . . .” Margaret Louise’s mouth pinched together.

Leona crossed behind Rose’s stool and grabbed a pot holder from its hook beside the
oven just as the numbers on the clock moved into single digits. Wrapping her hand
around the Christmas-colored square, the self-declared anticook opened the oven door
and proceeded to pull out each of the three cookie trays with nary a word to her sister
or anyone else.

Tori blinked, once, twice, three times, yet said nothing. Now was not the time to
call attention to Leona’s odd behavior.

Once the trays had been set on the counter to cool, Leona returned to her spot at
the head of the counter and cast a pointed look in her sister’s direction. “Ahhh.
Now tell everyone who was on the Christmas Decorating Committee four years ago when
that recommendation was made.”

Margaret Louise’s head dropped to her hands, muffling the names so that Rose and Tori
had to lean forward to hear. “Me, Sally Mae from Town Hall, and Kelly Sue Jordan.”

Tori leaned forward still farther. “Kelly Sue Jordan? Who’s that?”

“Councilman Jordan’s late wife,” Rose explained.

“Who was, of course, the drivin’ force behind that recommendation.” Margaret Louise’s
head snapped up to reveal eyes that were as close to steely as Tori had ever seen.
“Why—why, that Grinch is as crooked as a hound dog’s leg and twice as dirty, ain’t
she?”

Rose’s head bobbed along with Tori’s. “My daddy used to say folks like her were so
crooked, no one could tell from their tracks whether they were coming or going.”

“Or crooked as a barrel full of snakes,” Margaret Louise retorted before Leona shot
her hand in the air.

“Why use so many words to say what needs to be said? Maime Wellington is a witch.
And I think it’s high time we put her back on her broomstick and sent her on her merry
way. In style.”

The mischievous sparkle resurrected itself in Rose’s eyes. “In style, you say?”

Leona met her glint and raised it with one of her own. “Of course. Is there any other
way?”

Margaret Louise jumped back into the mix with a twinkle all her own. “It’s like I
always say—two wrongs don’t make a right, but they sure do make it even.”

“Amen, Twin. A-men.” Leona bent over, plucked Paris from the ground, and tucked her
safely inside the crook of her arm once again. “If it’s okay with all of you, I’d
like to do the planning on this one as my contribution to the event with Mrs. Claus.”

“I’d like to help . . . if you’ll have me.”

Leona’s hand paused atop Paris’s fur. “What was that, Rose?”

“I said I’d like to help . . . if you’ll have me.”

“
You
want to help
me
?” Leona asked, stunned.

Rose grabbed hold of Tori’s arm and slowly lowered herself off the stool. “Is your
hearing starting to go, Leona?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you heard what I said.” Rose shuffled over to the nearly cooled cookies and
slowly inhaled, a sweet smile playing across her lips. “You want the help or don’t
you?”

Leona remained glued in her tracks. “Will you be nice?”

“Nice as I always am.” Rose glanced toward Margaret Louise then plucked a cookie from
the tray at her nod.

“Are you going to tell me I’m getting old?” Leona asked.

Rose paused the cookie mere centimeters from her mouth and shrugged. “Depends on my
mood, I guess.”

Tori stood frozen in her spot beside the counter, unsure of what, if anything, she
should say. Conversations between the two battle-weary opponents were rare, offers
to lay down their weapons—even temporarily—still rarer.

Leona glanced down at Paris and then back up at Rose. “Will you bring Patches to all
strategy sessions?”

Rose chewed quietly for a moment or two and then offered a simple nod.

“Then Paris and I accept your offer, you old goat.”

*   *   *

Even with Leona and Rose holed up in the kitchen collaborating over the best way to
rid Sweet Briar and Kyle Jordan of The Grinch once and for all, the pile of homemade
Christmas stockings was almost complete. Cut by cut and stitch by stitch, they’d managed
to make nearly a hundred of the holiday goodie bags Mrs. Claus would give to the children
at the library.

“These are really very precious,” Debbie declared when she’d knotted off the final
stitch of her final stocking. “They’re not too little so they’re a why-bother, and
they’re not so big they’ll look silly with just a candy cane or two inside.”

Melissa opened her last stocking and peeked inside. “I talked to Jake after Monday
night’s meeting, and he said we could donate a few boxes of candy canes to the cause.”

Tori poked her needle through the front of her stocking and pulled it out the other
side. “That’s great, Melissa. Thank you. And please thank Jake for me, too.”

“Count me in for ten boxes,” Georgina offered from her spot on Margaret Louise’s well-worn
sofa. “You might talk to Chief Granderson, too. I know he tended to buy candy canes
in advance of Santa’s fire truck ride, and since that won’t be happening this year,
he might be willing to share.”

Melissa pulled her hand out of her stocking and slumped back against the recliner
she’d inhabited at her mother-in-law’s urging. “I can’t believe anyone would want
to do away with that tradition. The kids in this town look forward to that every year.”

“Don’t you worry none, Melissa. Santa might not be ridin’ into Sweet Briar on one
of them shiny red trucks this year, but I reckon that won’t be the case next year.”

“Yeah, it’ll probably be worse if that—that woman has anything to say about it,” Beatrice
mumbled from atop her seat on Melissa’s ottoman.

“My money is on my sister and Rose,” Margaret Louise boasted with pride. “In the meantime,
it’s ’bout time the youngins in this town get to meet Mrs. Claus. After all, without
her bakin’, Santa would be skinny as a rail.”

“And Mrs. Claus? What about her?” Georgina teased.

“Mrs. Claus must taste-test all her recipes before givin’ ’em to Santa, of course.”
Margaret Louise transferred her final stocking onto the pile and reached for the plate
of cookies she’d set on the oversized toy trunk that doubled as a coffee table. Slipping
a cookie into her mouth, she chewed her way around the edges, smiling between every
bite. When she was done, she scooted to the edge of her sofa cushion and gave her
hands a little clap. “Did I tell you them stockings are goin’ to have a small book
inside ’em, too?”

Tori stilled her needle mid-stitch. “A small book?”

“That’s right.”

“But—”

“I was out at the center in Tom’s Creek again today and I was tellin’ Jerry Lee ’bout
our event. By the time I was done yappin’, he was offerin’ to donate a box of them
little tiny look-and-find books some company donated to the center a while back.”

“Aren’t they for the folks at the center?” Georgina inquired.

“They were s’posed to be, but Jerry said they were given more ’n they needed and that
we could have the rest if we wanted.” Margaret Louise plucked a second cookie from
the plate and then passed it to Beatrice. “I told him we did.

“After all, the way I figure it, all them donations the center has gotten will be
findin’ their way into a Dumpster before long so we might as well take what’s offered.”

“Who would throw something like that away?” Beatrice asked before securing a second
cookie from the plate and passing it on to Georgina.

Margaret Louise’s smile disappeared along with any attempt at eating slowly. “The
same person that would throw somethin’ as special as that center away, that’s who.”