A Smile as Sweet as Poison (21 page)

“Portageville?” Dylan guessed, anchoring a warm hand at the small of her back.

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose there’s gotta be a diner in Portageville, too.” She knew there was—all those school nights she’d been granted the keys to one of the family cars, she always drove out of Dunby. Her idea of freedom back then had been the next small town over.

Anything to feel like a rebel, cause or no cause.

“You were thinking of something else,” Ward noted, brushing his nose against her cheek. He smelled of cologne and soda—not altogether an unpleasant combination.

It didn’t occur to Hazel to deny it.

Once arrangements were made for the refueling and storage of the Cessna, they packed into the Durango with the suitcases, Ward in the back, Dylan in the passenger seat on Hazel’s right, and drove off.

The sun had come up over the Midwest in the time it had taken Hazel to go from bed to airstrip. It bathed fields and clumps of dogwood in its hot glare, leaving the countryside faintly sheened in morning dew.

Hazel kept to the back roads where few cars roamed, her hand warm between the gearshift and Dylan’s palm. No one spoke. The rumbling of the car engine was a low drone, muffled by the slowly lifting fog and the cotton wool that seemed to have enveloped Hazel’s senses.

Last night she’d been consumed with walking a fine line before talking to Malcolm like a decent, well-adjusted human being, and stabbing him in the neck with a dessert fork. That show of acrobatic skill couldn’t have been further from her thoughts in the cool light of morning.

Dylan stroked her knuckles with his thumb as he gazed out of the window. When she raised her gaze to the rear view, she saw Ward with his eyes closed, dozing upright on the backseat.

If last night had been a balancing act, then this was reaching the other end of the rope. A small, self-indulgent part of her almost wished they could keep driving on until they ran out of road.

* * * *

“Hazel? My God, it is you!” The elderly waitress took her by the shoulders. “Why, you’re nearly as tall as your daddy!”

“Almost, ma’am,” Hazel agreed with a forced smile. She hadn’t given much thought to people recognizing her in Dunby. The two days she’d spent with Rhonda had spared her the need to interact with the locals but there was no escaping it at Maud’s.

“You’ve grown a full head since I last saw you,” the woman crooned. “And put on a few pounds, too, I see. Big and beautiful, am I right?” She was equally portly, with a generous cleavage she showed off even at the ripe age of sixty-eight. For as long as Hazel had known her, she’d been an adept of too much make-up, too much product in her hair—too much perfume.

Everything Mrs. Whitley abhorred was on display here. Hazel bit the inside of her cheek as she thought of karmic justice.

Heedless of the customers waiting for her to refill their cups, Maud turned to Ward and Dylan with a critical eye. “And which one of you good lookin’ men is the boyfriend?”

“Well, uh…” Dylan glanced at Ward, who looked back, lips twitching.

“Can we get a table?” Hazel interjected, before he could say something damning. “I’m
starving
.”

“Oh, sure thing, darlin’. Come right this way…” Maud bustled them through to a booth a little ways from the kitchen with an unimpeded view of the parking lot outside. “You want your usual? Grits and taters?”

Hazel winced. “That’ll be great. And coffee?”

“Comin’ right up.” Maud patted Ward on the shoulder. “You take your time with that menu, sweetness.”

He craned his neck to stare after her as she sauntered away.

“Huh. I think he’s blushing,” Dylan teased in a stage whisper.

“No shit.” Ward turned back to the table with a grin. “Better step up your game, Hazel. You’ve got competition.”

Hazel returned his smile despite the knot of nervousness in her belly. “Should I let her know you have a private plane? Seal the deal for you? I have it on good authority she can cook up a storm and her children are all grown up, so…”

Ward touched his foot to hers under the table. “That your way of saying you want to make a baby with me?”

A rush of heat gained Hazel’s face. She laughed, but it came out a little strained.

“Well,” Dylan drawled. “That escalated rapidly, didn’t it? Let’s you and me keep quiet until we get some coffee, at least?” he suggested, nudging Ward’s elbow with his.

“Sure… Meanwhile, Hazel can tell us what she’s been up to.”

Three coffee mugs materialized before Hazel’s reluctant storytelling had made it past the drive down from St. Louis. They paused so Ward could order the same thing as Hazel, plus scrambled eggs and sausages.

Dylan, for his part, opted for blueberry pancakes. “Sweet tooth,” he added apologetically, as if Hazel needed an excuse.

“Hey, I’m the one having fried corn and fried potato for breakfast,” she pointed out. One of these days, she would not feel embarrassed about her eating habits.

One of these days, she wouldn’t feel herself going on the defensive when someone mentioned her weight. Not that Dylan had ever brought it up. He seemed surprised by the comment even now. Hazel waved a hand. “Anyway, what was I saying?”

“Your niece. You got to meet her and she’s perfect,” Ward supplied, swirling sugar into his coffee. “Or something.”

“Right.” She told them about Rhonda doing well and Bea looking happy and healthy, everyone fawning over her as if they’d never seen a baby. “You should see her,” Hazel gushed, no different from the rest of her family, “she’s so tiny and pink. Quiet, too—”

“We could,” Ward said, tucking into his still-sizzling sausage.

“What?”

“See her.” He flicked up his knife and fork. “I’m just saying. We’re in town. If that’s what you want.”

Beside him, Dylan had gone slightly pale. “
Only
if you want. We’re fine either way. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Okay.”

He frowned. Ward hitched up his eyebrows.

Under their scrutiny, Hazel took a scalding swig from her mug. “Oh, by the way. My family knows. About you two.” As they well should. Dylan and Ward were not a dirty secret Hazel meant to keep tucked away with all the rest.

She sipped her coffee, smug, as she waited for the boys to make sense of this latest bombshell.

Chapter Fifteen

“They do know we’re coming, right?” Dylan asked, for the fifth time.

Hazel sucked her cheeks in. “You nervous?”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Ward scoffed from the backseat. “It’s just lack of practice. Last time someone took him home to meet their folks, he was—what, twenty?”

Dylan reached behind him and smacked Ward’s calf. “Look who’s talking like an expert.”

“I’ll be the first to admit that this is new territory,” Ward announced cheerily as Hazel eased them to a stop, “but what’s the worst that can happen? I drop the baby on its head? Big deal, their skulls are still soft and squishy—”

“We’ll keep you away from the crib just in case,” Hazel promised. She patted Dylan’s thigh. “Relax. I know they’ll like you fine.”

He nodded. “It’s Ward you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

“You’re both crazy,” Ward swung open the backseat door and hopped onto the sidewalk. He’d been like a wound-up dynamo since Hazel had gotten the okay from Rhonda. His eagerness was as difficult to puzzle out at Dylan’s atypical dithering.

Maybe they shouldn’t. Maybe this was too much, too soon. Maybe Hazel felt pressured.

To that last hypothesis, she had offered a blunt certain
no
. Standing outside her brother’s front door now, Hazel wondered if she hadn’t been too hasty to dismiss the rest.

Dylan slid his hand into hers. “Ready?”

Before Hazel could reply, a shadow moved behind the tinted sidelight windows on either side of the door. The handle turned. Rhonda appeared, silhouetted in the yellow glow of the foyer light. “I thought I heard a car!”

Hazel took a breath.
Time to face the music
. She squeezed Dylan’s fingers as they trailed up the flagstone path with Ward in tow.

“Rhonda, this is—”

“Dylan, right?” Rhonda took his hand in both of hers. “Hazel wasn’t exaggerating when she said you were handsome.”

“Oh, then you definitely have us confused,” Ward scoffed and used the wine bottle he’d brought to carve a gap between Hazel and Dylan. “Ward.”

“Rhonda,” she replied, smiling wide.

Hazel wondered if it was a trick of the light or if her sister-in-law was honestly blushing.

“And you brought wine! Oh, you shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t get your hopes up
too
high. It’s only what we could find in Portageville…” Ward flashed her one of his cocksure smiles. “Besides, we wouldn’t be very good guests if we came empty-handed. Especially with your cooking. Something smells good.”

Rhonda snapped out of the giggly trance and ushered them inside, still clutching the wine bottle to her chest as if it was another baby. She caught Hazel’s sleeve as she was locking up behind her. “Your mother’s here.”

“
What
?”

“She insisted,” Rhonda hissed back, apologetic. “Buddy must’ve said something. I tried to downplay it, but she said it’s a family thing, so.”

Hazel’s stomach plummeted. “Dad’s here, too?”

To her dismay, Rhonda nodded.

“Rule number one of entering a firstborn household, boys,” she declared with brisk enthusiasm, “is washing your hands. I know it’s weird. Chalk it up to the pregnancy hormones. Hazel, that means you, too.”

She mustered a smile, partly welcoming the chance to get her legs under her before she had to face her folks. Then she pushed past the kitchen door.

Mrs. Whitley looked up from the salad she was meticulously tossing with two wooden spoons. Her gaze found Hazel’s, first, then swung over her shoulder to Dylan and Ward. Her expression betrayed no trace of surprise.

“Hello. You must be my daughter’s suitors.” Unhurried, she wiped her hands on a dish rag and extended the right to Dylan. “How do you do?”

“Mrs. Whitley,” Dylan’s voice didn’t shake.

Hazel knew him too well to believe that meant he wasn’t freaked out. Her mother’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized his response. A split second was enough for her to make a judgment, tack on a label and stick with it for years to come.

“Ward Parrish, ma’am,” Ward cut in, sliding gracefully around Rhonda to plant himself under the laser-hot spotlight of Mrs. Whitley’s keen stare. “It’s a pleasure.”

“I’m sure,” she replied, smile icy. “So nice of you to come all the way to Dunby for dinner.”

“We’ve heard a lot about your Midwestern cooking,” Ward replied. He didn’t miss a beat. “Anything we can help with?”

“Hand washing first!” Rhonda chirped.

Hazel mouthed
, thank you
. It was merely a reprieve, but as long as they were busy crowding around the sink or joining in the effort to set the table, Hazel could almost believe they weren’t being observed. She did her best to avoid eye-contact with her mother for as long as she could.

“They’re hot,” Rhonda murmured on kitchen threshold.

“You sound surprised.”

“I was thinking surfer dudes,” she confessed. “But they’re not.”

Hazel forced her lips into a tepid smile. “Doesn’t mean they won’t get chewed up and spat out. Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea?”

“Eternal optimism,” Rhonda suggested and patted her lightly on the shoulder.

In the dining room, the table was already laid out when Hazel stepped through the door. Rhonda had eschewed a tablecloth and gone for embroidered place mats instead. The white of the plates and bowls stacked before each seat marked a pretty contrast with the cherry wood table. Instead of flower arrangements, she had lighted floating candles in mason jars filled with water.

The ultimate effect was a comforting blend of old and new, tradition and personal touches. Even Mrs. Whitley would be hard-pressed to find something wrong with the arrangements.

Not that she has the time
.

Hazel ventured into the adjacent living room with heart in her throat.

“So, Ledwich,” her father mused. “I hear that’s hard to get into.”

“They have very few places available,” Dylan confirmed. He had taken a seat on the couch, where he was neither lounging nor stooping, his posture as perfect as the neat lines of his suit. Like Ward, they’d dressed down for dinner by exchanging shirt and tie for shirt, no tie, and loafers instead of lace-ups.

For once her parents’ brand of sartorial discrimination wasn’t so easy to deploy.

“It’s not Ivy League, though, is it?” Buddy asked, balancing a whiskey-filled tumbler on a denim-clad knee.

“Not that any of us would know the difference,” Hazel put in. She folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the wooden doorframe. “Y’all look cozy over there, but dinner’s ready.”

“And they’re doin’ the dishes,” Rhonda called out. She had to rise up on tiptoes to kiss her husband’s lips. “I’m gonna check on the baby. Hazel, you wanna come with?”

“I’m good here—”

“C’mon,” Rhonda insisted, holding out a hand. “Bea ain’t gonna see much of you after you head back to LA, right?”

Hazel dithered until she’d caught Ward’s eye. He nodded, a silent reassurance that nothing would happen while she was gone. He seemed to think that was up to him.

Her fingers laced through Rhonda’s, Hazel trudged up the creaking stairs.

Before Buddy had bought this house, it had belonged to one of their neighbors. Hazel had vague memories of running up and down these steps as a child. They may have been an invention. Most of the houses in Dunby had been built around the same time. The only dissimilarities were in the finishings and the skeletons buried in the foundations.

As soon as they were in the nursery, Rhonda shut the door behind them. “I heard Malcolm came by the house last night.”

“Where did you hear…? My mom?” The memory of Mrs. Whitley’s insistence on opening her door to Mal
after
Hazel said she didn’t want to see him churned in Hazel’s gut like raw onion.

“She was asking me all kinds of things about you two.”