Authors: Alexandrea Weis
Recovery (10 page)
“Oh,” Aunt Hattie snorted once more at me, “he’s good.” She turned from me to Dallas, smiled, and as quickly as she had entered the kitchen, was out the door again.
Dallas grabbed the counter. “Where’s Val’s champagne?” he asked.
“In the fridge, why?”
“Because I’m going to need a whole bottle to get through an afternoon with your aunt,” he said as he pointed to the kitchen door.
I grinned at him. “Just wait. You haven’t met Colleen yet.”
Dallas and I entered the den to find my family gathered about a petite woman dressed in a pink sweater and tight pink jeans. Her bleached blond hair was teased out to monumental proportions. She was arm in arm with a tall, very thin young man with reddish hair and deep brown eyes.
Colleen came trotting over to me in her high-heeled pink shoes. “Nicci!” she squealed.
I hugged my cousin and for a moment I was back in time at Myra Chopin’s debutante tea party, giving encouragement to an insecure girl who did not think she was pretty enough for the boys.
“So who’s the hunk?” Colleen whispered in my ear.
“Colleen,” I motioned to Dallas, standing behind me, “this is Dallas August. He’s an architect from New York.”
Colleen extended a hand covered in gold rings and tinkling bracelets.
“Colleen. I’ve heard so much about you,” Dallas said as he leaned forward and took her hand.
Colleen started laughing, or should I say vacuuming. “Oh, he’s a charmer, Nicci.” Colleen snorted. “Ray?” she turned to the lean man standing behind her. “Ray, this is my cousin Nicci and her boyfriend Dallas.” She put her arm around the young man’s waist. “This is Ray Phillips. We met in astrology class.”
“Astronomy class,” Ray’s unusually deep voice corrected her as his brown eyes darted nervously from me to Dallas.
Colleen tweaked Ray’s nose playfully. “It’s all about the stars, right, dear?”
I noticed Dallas was standing beside me, his mouth slightly ajar.
A tall, slender, gray-haired man casually sauntered up to me and kissed my cheek. “Hello, Nicci.”
I smiled at him. “Hello, Uncle Ned.”
Uncle Ned’s mellow demeanor always contradicted his overly excitable wife and flamboyant stepdaughter. I noticed how Uncle Ned’s deep-set brown eyes made him look more skeptical than sinister as he turned to Dallas.
Uncle Ned extended his hand. “So you’re the architect?”
“Yes, I am,” Dallas confirmed, shaking my uncle’s hand.
“Dallas,” I said as I nodded to my uncle, “this is Aunt Hattie’s husband, Ned Vasterling. He’s an attorney and works with my father.”
The two men gave each other a friendly nod, and then Uncle Ned went to the couch to join my father and Uncle Lance, who were parked in front of the big screen television waiting for the football game to begin. Val was at the bar talking with Aunt Hattie, and Colleen was staring into Ray’s brown eyes.
“We eat in about half an hour,” I announced to the room, but no one noticed. I shrugged and headed back toward the kitchen with Dallas following close behind.
“Now I see why you became a writer,” Dallas remarked as we entered the kitchen. “With characters like that in your life, what else could you be?”
I laughed. “A serial killer?”
He went back to his dessert. “Are there any more family members I should know about?”
I went back to preparing the biscuits. “No, this is it.” I sighed. “Before the storm, Christmas Day was always a big formal affair at Val’s house by the lake with Val’s two sons, Ned and Ed, and a few friends. So this year is a bit of a change.”
Dallas laughed as he spooned the mousse into some dessert cups. “I can’t wait until New Year’s.”
I laid some of the biscuits on a baking sheet and looked over at Dallas. I watched how his hands skillfully filled the dessert cups with the thick chocolate concoction.
“You’re pretty good in the kitchen,” I professed. “Where did you learn to cook?”
He tossed the spoon into the empty bowl, pushed it away, and glanced over at me. “My mother was a chef. She had a little restaurant in Connecticut where I was raised. I would help her after school and on weekends. She taught me a lot about food.”
“And what did your dad teach you?”
“How to sail and how to build boats.” He smiled, and I noticed how his eyes seem to warm with fond memories. “I have an uncle who would rather see me return to the family yacht building business my father started than have me doing what I do.” He shrugged and picked up a bowl filled with whipping cream from the counter next to him.
“And which one of your parents are you like?”
He looked up from his bowl. “Neither. I was adopted.”
“Oh.” My heart sank a little. “I didn’t realize.”
He shook his head. “It’s all right. I was loved, and the three of us had a great time together while it lasted.” His eyes were watching me intently. “What about your mother? Are you like her?” he asked as he started beating the cream in the bowl with a whisk. “You don’t look like your father.”
“I look like her, but I’m not like her at all. Her name was Ellen and she was beautiful, calm, and everyone loved her. I’m more like my grandfather, I think. His name was Lionel Beauvoir and he was said to be suspicious and distant.”
“I don’t see that. I’m sure there is a lot more of her in you than you think.” He carried the bowl of whipped cream over to the dessert cups filled with mousse. “She died when you were how old?”
“Nineteen,” I replied.
“Seven years. It never gets easier, Nicci. But at least you have your father, your uncle,” he winked at me, “and the Hoovers.”
After the turkey, oyster dressing, ham, mashed potatoes
, green beans, gravy, and biscuits had been laid out on our long mahogany dining table, we were ready to begin the feast. Val opened two bottles of her champagne and made sure everyone’s glasses were filled to the brim. Dinner began with the usual rounds of toasting to all present and hopes for better times ahead. My father, who sat at the head of our table, then began carving, or should I say, hacking, into the turkey.
“You know, Billy,” Uncle Lance stood up from his place at the table, “you could get some lessons on how to carve that damn thing.” He walked over to my father’s side and took the carving knife away from him. “For once I would like to eat something at Christmas that doesn’t look like road kill.”
Dad frowned. “And you think you’re better at this than me? I don’t know why we even bother to have you over at Christmas dinner every year. Why don’t you go back to that bachelor pad condo of yours and leave me to cut this damned turkey in peace?”
“Would you two stop,” Val reprimanded. She then turned to Dallas sitting on her right. “Every year we have to listen to the Beauvoir bravado contest. When my Dan was alive we always let him do the carving.” She gazed over at Uncle Ned. “Ned, perhaps you should start taking over the honors?”
Uncle Ned waved his large hands and shook his head. “I’m an attorney, Valie, not a surgeon.”
Aunt Hattie sighed. “A shame we don’t have a doctor in the family for such occasions.”
I shot her a dirty look.
Aunt Hattie frowned at me. “I merely meant having a doctor in the family would be a nice thing. Just because you dumped Michael for that gigolo—”
“Artist, Hattie,” Uncle Ned interrupted her.
“Artist, gigolo, is there a difference?” She paused. “Nicci would not have had her heart broken so if she had stayed with Michael.” She turned to Dallas. “He was so in love with her. She would have been happy being married to a doctor.”
“No, she would have been miserable with the moron,” Val countered. “Hattie, were you so blind to see how empty the kid looked after David went back to New York following that fiasco of a wedding for Colleen and Eddie? Besides, the moron was an asshole.”
Aunt Hattie reached for her champagne. “Val, do you have to be so crude? And Colleen and Eddie had a wonderful wedding.”
“Yeah, great wedding,” Uncle Lance commented. “I especially liked the part where Eddie fell down the steps at Gallier Hall and had to be hauled away in an ambulance.”
“David didn’t tell me about that,” Dallas whispered to me.
“Shh,” I said softly to him, “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Val pushed onward. “You know, Hattie, the moron reminded me a lot of your second husband, what was his name?”
“Lester,” Colleen replied. “Now there was an asshole.”
“Colleen!” Aunt Hattie shouted down the table at her daughter. “Don’t you dare use such language!”
“I’ve heard you use a lot worse than that, Mother,” Colleen called out from across the table. “Like the other day when that guy cut you off in traffic you called him a—”
“That’s enough out of you, young lady!” Aunt Hattie barked.
“She ain’t no lady,” Val said under her breath so only Dallas and I could hear.
Dallas tried desperately to stifle his laughter.
“Hattie,” Uncle Ned was back, “why don’t you stop talking about the past.” He nodded at Dallas. “Nicci has a new man now.” Uncle Ned’s intrusive eyes zeroed in on Dallas. “What firm do you work for in New York?”
“Lewis, Schribbner, and Libby,” Dallas answered, trying to look serious.
“How long have you been with them?” Uncle Ned persisted.
“Ten years.”
“And before that?”
“Before that I was in school, finishing my MBA.”
“So you live in New York? Why?” Uncle Ned continued, never taking his eyes off Dallas.
Dallas shrugged. “It’s where the money is.”
Uncle Ned shook his head. “We could use some good architects down here now, especially with all of the rebuilding that will have to take place.”
“Most definitely.” Dallas paused as he placed some mashed potatoes on his plate. “Nicci showed me some of the city. It’s quite unbelievable what happened.” He passed the potatoes to me.
Uncle Ned reached for the oyster dressing. “So do you plan on staying with that firm of yours or branching out on your own?”
“Really, Uncle Ned.” I glared across the table at him. “It’s Christmas. Save the interrogation for another time. The poor guy has already gotten an earful from Dad and Uncle Lance.”
“Sorry, Nicci.” Uncle Ned started filling his plate with the oyster dressing. “But you can’t blame me for being suspicious. If I had been this way with the artist we could have saved ourselves a lot of headaches.”
“He did paint pretty pictures though,” Aunt Hattie added. “Even if he was a gigolo.”
Everyone stared at her for a moment.
Val reached for the ham and stabbed two pieces with her fork. “You can’t investigate every man Nicci brings home, Ned.”
“You never questioned me about any of the men I was seeing,” Colleen said as she placed a rather large piece of turkey on her plate.
“That’s because you’ve never brought any men home,” Uncle Ned clarified as picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes. “Most of the boys you dated had the intelligence of a six-year-old.” He fixed his tired brown eyes on Colleen’s date. “Except you, of course, young man. What is your name again?”
“Ray Phillips,” the lanky, red-haired boy answered in between mouthfuls of oyster dressing.
Aunt Hattie scowled. “Neddie, you can be so rude!” She stuck her nose in the air. “Sometimes I can’t believe I am married to you.”
“Neither can I!” Val yelled back while chewing on her ham. “Tell me, Ned, why did you marry Hattie anyway?”
Aunt Hattie’s mouth fell open. “Can you believe the gall of her?”
I noticed my father and Uncle Lance snickering away at their end of the table, amused by another of Val and Aunt Hattie’s usual rows.
“Not gall.” Val stopped chewing. “Curiosity, Hattie. You and Ned always seemed so wrong for each other.”
Uncle Ned started laughing.
Hattie’s face turned red. “Of all the unquestionably offensive—”
“Oh, lighten up, Hattie,” Uncle Lance cut her off as he placed a large section of turkey breast on his plate. “Val does have a point. You didn’t have much in common with the first two men you were married to either.”
“And I suppose you’re an expert on marriage?” Aunt Hattie called back to Uncle Lance. “Five is it now? And all under the age of what, twenty?”
Uncle Ned leaned over the table, reached for the biscuits, and glanced down the table at Uncle Lance. “Which one of them tried to kill you with a butter knife, Lance?”
“Number three, Darlene!” Uncle Lance laughed and turned to Dallas. “Came at me one Thanksgiving with a butter knife because she thought I was cheating on her.”
My father nodded at his brother. “Which you were.”
Uncle Lance just shrugged.
Val looked up from her plate and laughed. “Oh, I remember her. The cocktail waitress with the big boobs.”
“Stewardess,” my father corrected, rolling his eyes. “The cocktail waitress was number four, Katie.”
Dallas leaned over to me. “Is it always like this?”
“You should have been here the year Val’s two boys tried to kill each other on top of the turkey.” I smiled and reached for the biscuits.
Val rolled her eyes at me. “You mean when my two worthless bastard children were fighting over that stupid slut.” She laughed as she slathered some butter on her mashed potatoes.
“I remember that,” Uncle Lance joined in while cutting into his turkey. “They had both found out over Christmas dinner that they had been sleeping with the same girl from school.”
Dallas laughed and tried to cover his mouth with his napkin.
“Oh, for goodness sake.” Aunt Hattie threw her fork down on her plate. “Do we have to talk about such lewd topics in the middle of Christmas dinner?”
Uncle Lance’s eyes became filled with mischief as he eyed his sister-in-law. “Well, I seem to remember a Christmas about thirty years ago, Hattie, when you got so drunk you wanted to go streaking through Audubon Park and Ellen was chasing you around the house trying to get you to put your clothes back on.”
Giggling could be heard around the entire table.
Aunt Hattie’s face turned red and her pale lips blanched as she frowned. “I can’t believe you brought that up, Lance!” She turned to her husband. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“No.” Uncle Ned smiled down at his plate. “I wish I had known you back then.”
“Now we know where Colleen gets it from,” Val remarked.
Colleen looked up from her plate. “Gets what from?”
After dinner, Colleen and I were on dish duty in the kitchen. She volunteered only to dry and help load the dishwasher, claiming she did not want to ruin her new acrylic nails with soapy water.
“So you and this architect,” she said as she dried a crystal glass, “is it serious?”
“No, we just met.” I nodded my head toward the kitchen door. “And you and Ray?”
She shrugged and smiled. “We’ll see.”
I handed her another glass. “He’s no Eddie, huh?”
“I thought marrying Eddie was all I ever wanted.” She rolled her large brown eyes. “Well, then I was with Parker and we were happy for a while.”
I furrowed my brow at her. “Whatever happened there?”
“Emily Thorne.” She grimaced. “You know, the slut that was supposedly my friend over at Newcomb College. She was in my wedding.”
I faintly recalled the young, round-faced girl with lovely blue eyes at Colleen’s house dressed as a bridesmaid so many years ago.
“I think I remember her.”
“I caught her and Parker in our bed together one afternoon when I came home early from class. Not as bad as what Eddie did to me, but there you go.” Then she gave a heavy sigh.
I had been wondering how to delicately question my cousin about her ex-husband since our dish duty began, so I seized on the opportunity.
“Do you talk to Eddie anymore?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
She raised her bleached eyebrows at me and laughed. “Only through a lawyer.” Her face grew serious once again. “You haven’t seen him lately, Nic. He’s not the same.”
I put the wet glass in my hand down and stared into her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sure you’ll run into him soon or later. Once he finds out you’re back in town, he’ll come looking for you. He’s still in love with you, you know.”
“Eddie was never in love with me,” I quickly asserted. “Besides, how would he know I’m back?”
Colleen’s puppylike brown eyes widened and she sucked in gasps of air, attempting to laugh. “Are you kidding? Mom has called every person she knows from her botany club to whatever other stupid group she has joined and told everyone you’re home.” Colleen paused and then put one of the glasses back on the tray beside her. “She, ah, even called Michael’s mother. You know she still hopes—”
“Oh God! No, Colleen!” I shouted, cutting her off. “Not Michael.”
“Yep!” Colleen laughed at my reaction. “So you better keep that fine man out there close to your side.” She stopped and tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s kinda cold, isn’t he?”
“Is he?”
“You know, emotionless, I guess is the word.” She shrugged again and picked up another glass. “It’s like he’s going through the motions, but underneath I get the impression he’s just using us.”
I studied my cousin for a moment, surprised at her intuitive nature. I had always thought of Colleen as a wandering snowflake just riding the wind, with no direction and no interest in where the wind took her. But she had changed since I had been gone. She had become, not more introspective, just a little more wary. I guess the cruel actions of others can do that to a person. We often learn self-preservation out of necessity rather than choice.
“What makes you think Dallas is using us?” I asked.
She waved the dishtowel in the air. “Oh, I don’t know, Nic. Maybe he’s out to get Beauvoir Scrap, like the other one. Maybe Sammy has sent another secret agent to destroy the business. You and your men.” She rolled her eyes again as she picked up another glass. “And I thought I had drama in my life. Compared to you I’m a Sunday school teacher.”
That made me laugh.
The next morning I was sitting in the
living room enjoying a quiet cup of coffee and the morning newspaper. Uncle Lance had headed out with my father to go over some papers at the office. I thought I was going to be left alone in the house with Dallas when he came bounding into the living room dressed in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes.
“I’m going to get out and stretch my legs,” he said, coming up to me.
“We could go for a walk in the French Quarter.”
“No, Nicci.” He patted his flat stomach. “I need to burn off that dinner from yesterday.”
“I didn’t realize you were a runner.”
“I like to stay in shape.”
I watched from the living room window as he jogged down the shell drive in front of the house and out onto the street, keeping up a brisk pace as he went.
“And what a nice shape it is,” I mumbled to myself, almost laughing at my own audacity.
When I turned from the window my eyes immediately fell on David’s portrait of me hanging over the mantle.
“Would you approve?” I asked the ghost of David.
I stared up into the eyes so filled with fire and life. The eyes of the girl I had been before his hasty retreat back to New York, before his loss, and before Katrina.
I was a woman who had loved and lost, but now I felt that hauntingly familiar twinge of desire inside of me once more. A year ago I would never have thought myself able to want a man again; now I was not so sure. The practical side of my nature insisted that I would love again, but my heart, still bruised from the past, was less convinced.
Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang and I got up from the couch fully expecting to see Dallas standing there on the verge of a coronary. But when I opened the front door, a pair of bloodshot green eyes and a mop of bright red hair greeted me.
“Eddie!” I screamed.
“Hello, Nicci,” Eddie said. He ran in the front door and hugged me, almost smothering me in his chest.
I could smell the sour aroma of whiskey on his tailored gray pinstripe suit. When he stepped back, I could see he was heavier than the last time we had met. His face was rounder, paler, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was barely twenty-six, but he looked like he was in his midthirties.
“Geez, you look great,” he said as his eyes traveled down my body. “I heard you were back in town.”
I searched the shell driveway behind him. “Eddie, this is unexpected.” I silently prayed to the gods of synchronicity above to send me some help, or at least a witness. “So how have you been?” I asked, trying to remain calm.
“Good,” he stated. He then he walked past me and into the living room.
I glanced once more out to the shell drive but saw no sign of Dallas. I decided to leave the front door open, despite the bitter December weather. When I turned and saw Eddie standing in the living room, I suddenly felt foolish. Here I was giving in to all this talk of one of my oldest friends being involved in David’s murder. As I watched Eddie’s eyes pan around the living room, taking in the tree and the Christmas lights, I knew then he was no killer. He was just a kid who had spent his life trying to be something he was not. His father.
The late Gerald Fallon had been a famous Louisiana attorney known for his unquenchable desires and his volatile marriage to Sammy Fallon. Eddie had been hearing stories about his corrupt and cruel father all of his life. And all the years of vicious gossip seemed to have finally taken their toll.
I shook my head and silently berated myself for thinking so foolishly about my childhood friend. I turned and went to close the front door when Dallas suddenly came running up the porch steps.
He was soaked through and his T-shirt clung to his upper torso. He stopped at the door and stared at me, immediately sensing something was up.
“Dallas,” I could hear the strain in my voice, “you must come and meet an old friend who just dropped by. Eddie Fallon.”
Dallas moved quickly to the door. “Follow my lead,” he mouthed to me.
I nodded and backed away from the open door. I turned and walked into the living room toward Eddie. I could hear Dallas following behind me.
“Eddie?” I called.
His green eyes instantly turned from the Christmas tree to me. Then Eddie saw the man standing behind me.
Eddie pointed at Dallas. “Who’s that?”
“Eddie, this is Dallas August. A friend from New York in for the holidays.”
For an instant, I thought I saw Eddie relax.
Dallas came out from behind me extending his hand. “Eddie!” Dallas looked down at his sweaty running outfit. “Excuse the attire.”
The two men shook hands, but I could see the shadow of uncertainty wavering in Eddie’s eyes.
“How do you know this guy?” Eddie asked, gazing back at me.
“We met at my publisher’s party. When I was in New York promoting my book.” I moved deeper into the room.
“Yeah, that book you wrote about you and David. I read it, well, almost all of it.” He studied Dallas for a moment. “You a writer too?”
Dallas laughed. I knew him well enough by now to know he was faking it.
“Oh, no. I’m an architect.”
Eddie’s face lit up. “I went to school to be an architect at Tulane.” He shrugged. “But I never finished. My mom wanted me to come and work with her so I had to leave.”
“Eddie, how is Sammy?” I asked.
He scowled. “You know Mom. The usual.”
“So, Eddie,” Dallas said as he moved toward me, “why don’t you and Nicci have a nice chat and I’ll just run upstairs and take a quick shower.” Then Dallas leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. “You should have come running with me, sweet cheeks. It was exhilarating.” He departed and I heard his footsteps clamoring up the stairs and into my room.
I stood there motionless for several seconds as I waited to see how Eddie would react. His green eyes nervously darted about the room, but he never looked over at me.
His voice was very faint, almost like a whisper when he finally did speak. “So you and this guy are…”
“Dating. Yes, Eddie,” I stated.
“Are you in love with him?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We are just getting to know each other.”
His eyes met mine. “But you brought him home for Christmas to meet your father and your uncle?”
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. “Yes, I did.”
“I guess I’ve always been trying to get you in between boyfriends, huh, Nicci?” he added and then moved quickly to the doorway.
“Eddie, we talked about this before,” I said as he stopped in front of me. “We are friends and we will never be more than that.”
He turned to me. “I’m not good enough, is that it?” His voice grew angrier. “I’m not some fancy artist or some doctor or an architect, so I’ll never be good enough for you.”
I felt my anger edge forward. “No, Eddie, you’re not good enough for me.” I raised my voice. “You beat the hell out of my cousin, your wife. You made her miscarry your child, and you still can stand there declaring your love for me? Do you think I could just forgive you for all of that?” I paused, shook my head, and tried to calm myself. “I don’t love you, Eddie. Why do you always do this?”
“Because I love you, Nicci!” he shouted, his green eyes pleading, his voice almost hysterical. “I’ve always loved you, but you never gave me a chance.” He reached out his arms to me.
I stepped back from him. “Eddie, please. Don’t do this.”
“I’m no good, huh?” He shoved past me out of the living room. “I’ll show you,” he called out over his shoulder as he ran out the front door.
I watched from the doorway as his blue Mercedes coupe peeled out of the drive, sending small white shells flying everywhere.
“You all right?” a deep voice asked behind me.
I turned to see Dallas standing at the base of the stairs, the Sig Sauer P226 in his hand.
I wrapped my arms about me. “Yeah, did you hear all that?”
He put the gun down on the table by the stairs, walked over, and closed the front door. “I heard. He sounds like a frightened and confused kid,” Dallas said as he came up to me.
“He was drunk. I could smell the whiskey on him when he hugged me.”
Dallas smiled. “Courage.”
“What?”
“Eddie had to find his courage in the bottom of a bottle before he could come here and declare his love for you.” Dallas nodded toward the front door. “How long has he been an alcoholic?”
“Since our early teens,” I answered, remembering those days with Eddie. “He always drank a lot, but I never realized how much until I saw him today. He looks bad.”
He grinned at me. “You were pretty good. You pushed his buttons. That’s what I was hoping my little kiss would do, but your words were much more effective.”
I unwrapped my arms from around me. “It wasn’t anything I planned to do. But how could he ever think I would be able to have any feelings for him, after what he did to Colleen and the baby?”
“Love blinds people. He thinks his love for you is all that matters.” Dallas let his eyes wander over to my portrait hanging above the living room mantle. “He’s a child. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t shoot a good man in the back of the head.”
The following afternoon I walked into the kitchen
and unexpectedly found Dallas up to his elbows in flour. He was rolling out pastry on our granite counter, and the old T-shirt he was wearing was covered with flour. He even had a dab of flour on his chin.
I casually strolled up to the counter. “What are you doing?”
He pounded the wooden roller against the dough. “Making you lunch. I figured it would give us an excuse to spend a little time together. You’ve been hiding up in your room so much lately I feel like you’re avoiding me.”
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” I lied. “I’ve been working on a new book.”
Dallas folded some of the dough with his hands. “You mean the one you started on the plane?”
I frowned at him. “And I thought you were sleeping throughout the flight.”
“Actually,” he turned to a pile of chopped turkey on the counter in front of him, “I was reading over your shoulder. I especially liked the part about the handsome spy named August Daniels.” He looked back up at me. “Any chance he gets the girl in the end?”
“Not if I can help it.” I smelled a hint of garlic and green peppers in the air. “And what are we having?” I inquired as I walked over to the stove and inspected the contents of the pan.
“Turkey pot pie,” he spoke up behind me. “Otherwise known as leftovers.”
I turned and studied him for a moment trying to figure out why he was suddenly being so unlike his usual chilly self.
“Any particular reason why you felt the sudden need to cook lunch for me?” I finally asked.
“I’m bored. When I’m bored I like to cook.” He placed some of the rolled-out dough into two individual smaller pie plates and looked over at me. “And like I said, I thought it would give us some quality time together.” He walked over to the stove and expertly flipped the sautéing vegetables into the air and back into the pan.
“And you made your own pastry dough?” I inspected the pastry waiting in the pie pans. “I have to say, I’m impressed.” I watched him move back to the counter and gather a handful of chopped turkey. “I bet the women just love you,” I added.
He furrowed his brow at me. “I don’t get it.”
I leaned against the counter next to the stove. “Many women find men who are skillful in the kitchen to be a real turn-on.”
He added the turkey to the simmering vegetables on the stove. “But I guess you’re not one of those women?”
I shook my head. “I tend to go for guys who know how to handle a stick shift, not a spatula.”
“Just my luck.” He removed the pan from the stove. “I don’t ever remember my cooking being a turn-on for women, but in college I was always very popular with the guys in my fraternity. Because of me, they didn’t have to order out for pizza every night.”
“Fraternity?” I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t see you in a fraternity.”
He spooned some of the sautéed vegetables and turkey into the pie pans. “I was a real all-around guy. Was on the sailing team at Brown, attended all the football games, and did all of the regular college fraternity activities until my parents died.” He shrugged and put the pan back down on the stove. “After that, I couldn’t relate to those people anymore.”
“After my mother died I felt the same way about the people here.” I ran my fingers through some of the flour on the counter beside me. “I only did the whole debutante thing because I thought it would please my mother. But after her death, I wanted to do something completely different with my life.” I looked up at him. “Is that why you joined the FBI?”
He nodded slightly. “I wanted to do something, anything, that didn’t deal with boats. One day a recruiter for the bureau was on campus. I talked to the guy for a while and decided to sign on.” He laughed as he placed some more pastry on the counter. “My Uncle Elliot had a fit when I told him.”
“I know what you mean. My father was more than a little upset when I told him I wanted to go to nursing school. He wanted me to take over the family business.”
“And you wanted a life of your own, right?” He started to roll out the dough on the counter. “I understand. I didn’t want my father’s life. I couldn’t go back to the boatyard and look at all of his things without thinking of him.”
“And then you left the bureau to forget about Carol?” I probed, knowing I was sliding into dangerous territory.
He stopped rolling out the pastry. Then he ran his hand over his forehead, leaving a white flour mark across his skin.
“Yeah, something like that.” He slapped the pastry with his hand. “The spy business didn’t have the same appeal after she died. That’s when I found Simon.”
“And became what you are.” I paused as he struck the wooden roller against the counter to remove the excess flour and dough. “When David left me I ran into the arms of another man, thinking it would make me happy. It didn’t. Instead of giving myself time, I just found what I thought was a replacement for all of my hurt and disappointment. That’s what you did, isn’t it?”
He never looked up from his pastry. “My situation was a hell of a lot different from yours, Nicci.” He then reached for a knife and began to cut strips of the dough.
“Was it?” I waited for his reaction, but he just kept on playing with the dough. “Loss is loss, Dallas, whether someone dies, walks away, or is washed away in a hurricane. Guilt has a funny way of eating at you no matter who was wrong or right.”
He stared at me with his cool gaze. “You deal with your guilt in your way, and I deal with my guilt in my way.” He went back to his piecrust strips. “I don’t need you analyzing me, Nicci. I am fine the way I am.”
He skillfully placed the piecrust strips in a decorative pattern over the pies. Then he put the completed pies in the oven and started to clear away the remnants of flour from the kitchen counter. I waited for him to look up at me but he never did. He just moved about the kitchen cleaning up, making sure he swept away every trace of evidence that he had ever been there. As he moved methodically around our kitchen, I realized something about Dallas: he was a ghost in many ways. Sweeping away all traces of himself from people’s lives, making sure he left nothing behind to be remembered by. He was the kind of man who wanted no links to the past haunting him. But no matter how hard he swept, cleaned, or scrubbed the world around him, I felt he was playing a precarious game with his soul. You can only sweep so much dirt under the rug, my mother had always said, until one day you trip over it and land flat on your face.
“I, ah,” I hesitated, “I have to go into my father’s office this afternoon, to sign some papers and—”
“Great,” he said, interrupting me. Dallas turned to me and smiled, removing all remnants of the cold, detached professional from his face. “I’ll go with you.” He paused and wiped his hands on a towel. “I would love to see the famous Beauvoir Scrap offices for myself. We can head out after we eat,” he said, ignoring my angry stare. “How does that sound, sweet cheeks?”
I shook my head and turned toward the door. “Stop calling me sweet cheeks!” I yelled, storming out of the kitchen.
We started out for the central business district of the city in my Nissan Pathfinder. On the way through the city, Dallas entertained himself by counting the piles of sheetrock and debris lining the curbs of the streets.
“It’s almost like a ghost town,” he said as he peered down St. Charles Avenue.
“Yes, it is. Hard to believe it was a real city once.” I paused and watched a few workmen cleaning up the street around me. “What Katrina did not destroy the looters took care of. Most of the central business district was in a shambles.” I pointed to the looming skyscrapers ahead of us. “My father’s offices took a month to clean up.”
We rode the elevator all the way up to the thirty-third floor, the home of Beauvoir Scrap for over fifteen years. When the elevator doors opened, an older petite woman with light brown hair and big blue eyes sitting behind a very long cherry wood-stained reception desk greeted us.
“Welcome to Beauvoir Scrap.” She smiled at Dallas. “Can I help you?”
“Hello,” I extended my hand, “we haven’t met. I’m Nicci Beauvoir, Bill’s daughter.”
The woman’s eyes became as big as blue marbles. She jumped up from her chair and hurried over to my side.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear. Silly me. I didn’t realize.” She shook my hand. “I’m Betty Webster. Your father hired me after the storm.”
Dallas held out his hand. “Dallas August. Boyfriend.”
I almost hit him in the gut with my elbow.
Betty shook his hand. “Your father is in his office in the back.” She nodded toward the large red leather doors that divided the reception area from the company offices. “Why don’t you go on through.”
“Thank you, Betty.” I smiled at the pretty woman and then turned to scowl at Dallas.
Once inside the red leather doors, I passed an assortment of offices lining a long hallway. I waved at a few of the faces I knew but didn’t bother to introduce any of them to Dallas. When we finally reached the end of the hallway, we were standing at the open entrance to my father’s expansive corner office with its stunning view of the Mississippi River.
The office had a few pieces of furniture, a deep chocolate-colored leather sofa off to the side and two warm brown leather chairs in front of my father’s massive oak desk. My mother had decorated the office in pale yellows and light browns when my father had first moved into the building.
Dad was there, as always, behind his desk, loaded down with papers and talking on the phone. He saw Dallas and me, smiled, and then quickly cut his phone call short. I noticed his red tie already had a mustard stain on it, and what appeared to be leftover French fries were still sitting in a cup on his desk.
“Hey, Nic!” he chirped happily as he got up from his chair. He came over and kissed my cheek. “She dragged you down here too, eh?” my father added as he reached out and shook Dallas’s hand.
Dallas took in the room. “Wanted to see the offices. Heard so much about your business.”
I pointed at his desk. “Dad, what did I tell you about salads for lunch, not fast food?” I scolded.
My father frowned. “Betty and I went down to the chicken place on the corner. You know I don’t like salads.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “You went to lunch with Betty?”
My father waved his hand at me. “Nothing like that. She’s a nice lady and we just like to talk.”
Dallas smiled at my father. “It all starts with conversation, Bill.”
My father cleared his throat and walked over to his window. He gazed down at the Mississippi River below. “Nic told you about what we do here?” he asked over his shoulder.
Dallas shook his head. “No. David told me.”
My father turned from the window. “Well, if it hadn’t been for David, I might not be here today.” He went back over to his desk and picked up a pile of papers. “He got me to dump my worthless brother and bring on my daughter as a partner.” Dad handed me the papers. “The bank needs your signature on some papers, Nicci. Just sign where Theresa has highlighted.”
“Nicci’s your partner,” Dallas calmly stated as he turned to me. “I didn’t know that.”
I ignored his reproachful stare and walked over to my father’s desk to hunt for a pen.
“I made Nicci my partner because I had to get Lance’s name off the books.” Dad paused and I could hear him sighing. “Lance was a bit of a liability.”
“A bit?” I chuckled as I started signing the papers.
“Well, more than a bit,” my father agreed. “But I couldn’t throw him out completely. He gets a percentage of the profits and still has an office down the hall from mine.”
I frowned up at my father. “Which he hasn’t visited in, what, two years?”
My father just grinned and shook his head.
Dallas stepped behind the oak desk to a short bookcase and surveyed the array of family pictures my father kept there. He picked up a silver-framed picture of a pale woman with fine features and auburn hair holding me against her when I was no more than five or six.
Dallas admired the photograph. “Is this your mother?”
“That was my Ellen,” Dad said, smiling. “That’s one of my favorites.”
Dallas turned to me. “You do look a great deal like her, Nicci.”
Then I saw his eyes travel across the room to the portrait of a rather stern-looking older gentleman on the far wall.
“Lionel Beauvoir,” I stated as I watched Dallas admiring the painting. “My grandfather.”
My father frowned. “Yes. That’s the old bastard himself.”
Dallas looked over at my father. “You didn’t care for him, I take it?”
“He was a cold-hearted man. He left Lance and me this business. But little else.”
“Is that the one you said you were like?” Dallas asked me.
My father nodded to me. “There is a lot of my old man in Nicci. She has his practical nature and his—”
“Cold heart,” Dallas interrupted.
I frowned at Dallas. “Gee, thanks.”
“No, Nicci.” My father looked from Dallas to me. “You do have some of your grandfather’s…aloofness perhaps is a better word.”
I finished signing the papers, threw the pen back on the desk, and then turned to confront my father. “I thought you were on my side?”
