A Smile as Sweet as Poison (17 page)

She recognized her father’s booming voice when he replied, “We’ll think of something, won’t we? Malcolm did good work today. Earned himself a proper supper.” Laughter boomed out of his puffed up chest. “Ain’t that right, Mal?”

“Yes, sir.”

There were hundreds of thousands of Malcolms in the country, probably a few thousand right there in Missouri. But none of them had that lilting, honeyed voice. None of them laughed as if they knew a secret that set them apart from everyone else.

All at once, Hazel seized hold of the wooden frame of the living room doors. Mrs. Whitley glanced at her, shock and maybe a little flash of guilt twisting at her features. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was already too late. Rhonda came into view first, pale and pretty, her baggy shirt and mom jeans doing nothing to detract from her good looks, then Mr. Whitley, an ox of a man in his early sixties, a slightly grizzled version of Hazel’s older brother. A man and a woman stood with him.

Hazel recognized them both.

Somewhere, a camera flashed in a dark room. Through the blinding burst of light and color that blurred her vision, Hazel could just about make out Malcolm’s gleeful smile.

Chapter Twelve

New money
was once the first slur in Hazel’s limited vocabulary. Mrs. Whitley and her friends spat it under their breaths so often that in Hazel’s five-year-old mind, it acquired all kinds of nefarious connotations.

But the world changed and in twenty-odd years,
new money
became a gleeful whisper of courage and go-getter, bootstrap-pulling ethos. Her mother’s eyes sparkled when she mentioned additions to the town whose pockets were loaded. Hazel hadn’t understood how deep the shift went, until now.

Nothing to do with enlightenment—her family was in dire need of cash flow.

And apparently they needed it badly enough to do business with Malcolm Pryce.

“Hazel,” her father started, slightly bemused. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“I tried calling you,” Mrs. Whitley interjected, before Hazel could speak.

Her husband cut his eyes toward the stairs. “Ah, must’ve been poor reception.”

“That’s the first thing we’ll have to look into.” Malcolm beamed confidently. “New cell towers.” His tone was light as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Hazel.”

“Mal.” The word was poison on her tongue.

He grinned. “God, it’s been
ages
… You remember Penelope, don’t you?” With a warm smile, he squeezed his arm around the nipped-in waist of the willowy brunette beside him.

“Of course…”

Penelope moved when no one else did, stalking forward and taking Hazel’s shoulders. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so glad to see you.” Once, she’d been an adept of short leather skirts and tight jeans. She wouldn’t have left the dorm without thick black eyeliner and a studded collar to inform people in-the-know that she was taken and to shock everyone else. Raven hair done up in an asymmetrical bob and her lips painted a very light powder pink, she was a different kind of perfect now. She looked utterly at home in a Chanel blazer worn with riding pants and leather boots.

Hazel felt weirdly underdressed in her presence.

“Isn’t this a wonderful coincidence? We had no idea you were in town.” Penelope’s mouth formed all the appropriate platitudes, but her fingers were a death grip, French manicure digging sharp points into the meat of Hazel’s upper arms. Her breath was a caffeinated fog. She pulled away with smiling eyes. “Are you back in Dunby for good?”

“She’s just visiting,” Mrs. Whitley replied, in her stead.

For once, Hazel was grateful to be talked over. Penelope was so tall that the slope of her shoulder only offered a tiny glimpse of Mal standing a few feet away, watching them. Hazel couldn’t tear her gaze from his. She thought he looked so
proud.

“Didn’t realize you knew my daughter, Penelope,” said Mr. Whitley. “Then you must stay for dinner, catch up…”

Malcolm ducked his head, cheeks dimpling as he grinned. “It would be our absolute pleasure.” A shock of floppy blond hair drooped into his blue eyes when he slanted a knowing glance at Hazel.

It wasn’t so long ago that being singled out like that in a crowded room would’ve set her pulse racing. Now, Hazel had to dig her fingers into the door frame to keep from bolting. She didn’t want to be noticed.

She wanted to get away.

* * * *

“I can make your excuses,” Mrs. Whitley said, standing in the doorway of Hazel’s childhood bedroom with arms folded across her chest. “If you’re tired from your flight, I’m sure everyone will understand.”

“I’m not.”

Hazel didn’t need to turn to imagine her mother’s thinned lips, the displeasure she wouldn’t bother concealing.
Why can’t you do as you’re told?
She had lamented once, not knowing what monster she was cursing into existence.

The silent treatment was difficult to bear, though and eventually, Hazel spun around. “Can I wear the white or will it clash with your décor?” The baggy peasant dress was badly wrinkled from the rucksack, but it was the only non-jean ensemble Hazel had thought to pack. She held it up for her mother’s scrutiny.

“You have nothing else?”

“I left my Donna Karan in LA.”

“Don’t be snide.”

Mrs. Whitley sauntered into the bedroom uninvited and opened the closet doors. She had done it often while Hazel was growing up, mostly to bemoan the state of her room but also to sigh and wonder aloud why Hazel didn’t wear the twin-sets Mrs. Whitley had ordered especially for her.

Because they make me look old and dowdy
was never an answer Hazel could get away with.

She breathed more easily now, knowing that whatever was left in her wardrobe couldn’t possibly fit her. College had been the perfect opportunity to make a clean break with her mother’s tastes. Hazel had left behind cashmere sweaters that had probably cost a fortune and demure, knee-length dresses that only exposed her mannish calves, and picked up fishnets, leather—metal chains.

Mrs. Whitley sighed. “I suppose the dress will do.” She didn’t even insist that Hazel pin up her hair or fix her face.

If Hazel didn’t know better, she might have thought her mother was turning a new leaf.
Not if hell froze over and all the demons turned into adorable penguins.

Halfway down the stairs, her suspicions were confirmed. Mrs. Whitley seized her arm. “About tonight—”

“Don’t worry.” Hazel didn’t bother forging a smile. “I won’t ruin the party. You won’t even know I’m there.”

Mrs. Whitley insisted on driving the point home. “This contract with Pryce is very important to our family. Whatever romantic history you two have… That is
all
this is, yes? He courted you, it didn’t work out. He married Penelope.”

“Sure. If that’s how you want to remember it.”

“Hazel—”

“
Relax
. I didn’t come here to cause a scene.” No matter how much she might have felt like screaming in rage, she could keep that bottled up until she went home, back to Dylan and Ward, back to forgetting this place existed.

She tore free of her mother’s arm and trooped the rest of the way down the stairs. The layout of the house offered plenty of corridors and doors to put distance between herself and the rest of her family. The best choice by far was the kitchen.

When Hazel had been a little girl, she’d been banned from the fridge and pantry, stuck with injunctions against snacking between meals. Covertly, though, the maids would sneak her contraband candy bars and set aside dishes of biscuits when Mrs. Whitley wasn’t looking.

The kitchen was a place of mischief and comfort, a source of gossip and warmth absent from the rest of the house. But the maids Hazel had known were long gone, replaced by a uniformed stranger standing at the kitchen island, methodically slicing celery sticks.

Hazel mustered a smile, then grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl and made for the back door.

The smell of gardenias hit her like a slap as soon as she set foot on the flagstone path. It was the scent of late summer, the stark white blossoms swaying gently in the faint, dry breeze. Further away, the tree boughs shimmered and shook, already shedding the first of their sun-scorched leaves.

The Whitleys prided themselves on a grand house—by Dunby standards—and a well-tended yard. In winter, their Christmas decorations were subtle and tasteful. In summer, the backyard bloomed in shades of white and purple, a few pink roses elegantly climbing the trellis of the gazebo.

Hazel didn’t realize someone was already inside the small, hexagonal structure until Penelope turned around.

Her smile was sharkish. “No, that’s all right,” she chirped into the phone pressed to her ear. “We’ll see you when we get back. Kisses!”

It was too late to run. Hazel was already caught in her sights.

“
That
was Candice.” Penelope reported. “You remember her, don’t you? From college?”

Wyoming-meets-Florida, they’d called her during their less-than-charitable moments—and there had been a lot of those. Penelope had had a list of gripes about everyone they’d known. Club members only got a pass if they happened to be holding the right end of the leash.

“I remember everything.”

Something flashed in Penelope’s eyes. Hazel knew better than to mistake it for remorse.

“You look nice,” Penelope noted lightly, her gaze journeying down Hazel’s white dress and unremarkable flats. Her motto had once been that if something seemed cheap, then it probably was.

Hazel wished she could have left that detail buried in the dusty vaults of memory.

“So do you.”

“I know.” Penelope slid her cell into the Hermès bag dangling from her forearm. “We heard you were in California.”

Or you would’ve stayed the hell away?
Hazel bit back the retort. “My brother had a baby.”

“I heard. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Wind swept through the trees, combing back the leaves of the climbing rose and shaking off a few loose petals. The utter stillness of the grounds was unnerving. Hazel folded her arms across her chest and feigned a shudder. “I should go back inside. Cold out here—”

“You understand that Malcolm’s money is what’s keeping your family afloat, don’t you?” Penelope asked. She would’ve had to lob a brick at Hazel’s skull to be any blunter.

There was, Hazel knew, no diplomatic way to say
go to hell and take your husband with you
, so she kept her mouth shut. She’d sort of promised not to raise a ruckus and she could well imagine that her mother was watching from the house.

Penelope negotiated the three low steps that separated gazebo from flagstone path at a slow, leisurely pace. She ignored the bee buzzing at the buckle of her massive handbag. “I guess what I mean is…if you make trouble, it’s your parents who’ll suffer.”

“Why would I make trouble?”

Blue eyes met hers. She could’ve sworn Penelope’s irises were brown. God knew they’d spent a lot of time looking at each other while trying to navigate Malcolm’s mood swings.

“Don’t play the fool with me,” Penelope warned. “I know what you are. I know what you told people after you dropped out… Poor little Hazel couldn’t hack it in college, so she blames everybody for her absent backbone.”

Hazel stiffened when she reached up, but Penelope only brushed a stray curl behind her ear, fingertips lingering in a gentle, creeping caress.

“I could’ve forgiven that, you know—we all thought you weren’t strong enough back then—but you broke his heart. He pined for months. Even now, there are nights I’ll come downstairs and find him in the living room, your pretty little face splashed all over the flatscreen,” Penelope’s voice had dropped so low it was barely audible—a song stripped of all harmony save for the steady thump of the bass line. “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“Pen?”

Malcolm’s voice had them both whirling around—Penelope with a perfect, smile in place, Hazel nursing a gut-punch.

He looked from one to the other, expression unreadable. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Then we should head in.” Penelope looped her arm around Hazel’s and spurred them into motion. “We were just catching up,” she told Malcolm. “I’m so sorry we kept everyone waiting. Make it up to you later?”

Hazel’s skin prickled at what sounded like a private whisper between husband and wife, but she couldn’t turn away without pulling free of Penelope’s hold—and they both knew she wouldn’t do that.

“You know you will,” Malcolm said, low and intimate, and leaned in to kiss Penelope square on the lips.

We’ve been here before.

In another house not so different from this one, with the swell of Penelope’s breast flush against her upper arm and the scent of Malcolm’s cologne wrapped around them both, they’d stood like this, limbs entwined against any forces that might threaten to tear them asunder.

It was a lifetime ago and a heartbeat away. Hazel shuddered.

Malcolm peeled free with a sigh, cupping his wife’s cheeks with both hands. For a breathless moment, Hazel half suspected he’d kiss her, too, and wondered if
that
would be enough of a wake-up call to have her wrench free of Penelope’s hold. But much to her chagrin, he seemed to think better of the impulse and didn’t follow through.

As Penelope relinquished her hand, Hazel found herself trailing behind them into the dining room.

Her mother’s table was a point of pride. Whenever Christmas or Thanksgiving rolled around—or even for less illustrious occasions, such as Hazel’s birthday—there was always a generous spread to be had at Mrs. Whitley’s. The centerpieces tonight were a trio of pink and white roses, baby’s breath, and fragrant mint leaves clumped together in small, Pottery Barn-bought ceramic vases. Between them lay platters of potato salad, grilled tomatoes and eggplant, summer greens in a variety of combinations each more vibrant than the last, and, naturally, a still-steaming porterhouse tenderloin already sliced and served on a bed of lettuce.

“A lot, isn’t it?” Rhonda murmured, coming up behind Hazel. Her tread was so soft that Hazel hadn’t even heard her approach. “We could feed a regiment. Come sit by me.”