Forever in Love (2 page)

Thank you, Mother!

The situation with Jacob
is
disappointing
,
I must confess
.
Starting over at your age will be difficult
.
But Catherine
,
when God didn’t give you intellect
,
it was for a reason
.
He wished to be fair and gave you something even more potent
—
beauty
.
You still have it
.
So use it
. Despite her smooth moneyed diction, Olivia’s words always had edges that never failed to cut.
You’re not like some common beer that any man can swill
.
You
,
my dear
,
are a 1787 Château Lafite
.
Get a man who appreciates you and can give you the kind of life you deserve
.

Beethoven’s Fifth started again. What
could
her mother want?

Taking a deep breath, Catherine answered it. “Hello, Mother.”

“My goodness, it is difficult to get ahold of you. Where are you?”

“Driving.”

“What happened? You left so suddenly.”

“I wasn’t planning on staying long.” A lie. Catherine had hoped to stay in Charleston for at least a few weeks to regroup and figure out what to do.

“Well.” There was a short pause. “It would’ve been nice of you to say goodbye.”

“Terribly sorry, Mother. It was thoughtless of me.” After half an hour of Olivia’s sweetly cutting remarks, Catherine hadn’t been able to sit in the house any longer. It was full of things that carried the burden of maintaining the veneer of old money when in reality there was no money at all. The family hadn’t had any money even before her father Sebastian’s death over a decade earlier.

“Well, there’s nothing for it. I should’ve taught you better.”

Catherine’s grip around the phone tightened. Olivia’s tone made it clear who was truly to blame for the lapse in manners. Just once, Catherine would have liked to hear something warm and comforting from her mother. “Is that all?”

“No. Did I tell you about the new restaurant Mark Pryce is planning to open in Houston? It’ll be a fabulous opportunity for you.”

“How so?”

Olivia sighed impatiently. “It’s in
Houston
. You’re in a perfect position to help him.” By “help” she meant lure him into marriage.

“Mother, he’s Gavin’s best friend.” Gavin was not only brother to her faux-husband Jacob, he was also Catherine’s ex-boyfriend. Given the way they’d parted the last time, Catherine doubted Gavin had told Mark anything good about her. Mark probably thought her to be the Antichrist, the Whore of Babylon and the Beast of Revelation all rolled into one.

“Past history. You know that Salazar and Ceinlys like you,” Olivia said.

“So?”

“Every advantage helps. Especially for a woman who’s already twenty-eight.”

“That’s hardly ancient.”

“Compared to eighteen year-olds? You’re a fossil.”

Catherine suddenly couldn’t draw in any air. She lowered her window, but even then the car seemed too stuffy. “I have to go. There’s a tunnel ahead,” she lied.

“All right then. We can talk about this some more. I’ll call you—”

No. No more. Catherine pressed the red button on her phone and hurled it out of the car. She watched in the mirror as it smashed against the dark pavement, bouncing and splintering into pieces.

I’m simply trying to help you face reality
, her mother would say.
Why don’t you want to acknowledge what’s real?

Maybe it had something to do with how cruel reality was being to her. Catherine didn’t want to think about her “learning issues”, how old she was or how poor she had suddenly become last year. She had no one she could call and ask for help, knowing that just the friendship between them would be enough to rely on. If she hadn’t been such an insecure idiot all her life, she might have been able to reach out to her cousin Amandine, but that too was impossible now. Amandine was married to Gavin and would side with her in-laws. Catherine hadn’t been the nicest to her cousin when they’d been growing up, although now she couldn’t fathom her own behavior. Why had she been so jealous of Amandine?

All of a sudden, everything just seemed too much. Catherine pulled over with shaking hands. Covering her ears, she hopped out of the car and screamed. Maybe the sound would drown out her mother’s words and her own regrets.

When her throat hurt too much to scream anymore, she leaned back against her car, breathing hard. The wind had a bite to it, and she pulled the lapels of her black lambskin coat closer. She was surprised to find they were wet.

Sniffing, she pulled out a handkerchief and patted her face dry. Why was she crying? It wasn’t like tears would do her any good. She’d shed plenty when she’d discovered Jacob’s bigamy, but things had only gotten worse.

Her mother might be right. Mark Pryce was perfect husband material. He was from a good family, his parents liked her and most importantly he was rich and successful. A man’s status was everything; his accomplishments trumped anything else about him. Accordingly, her station in life rose and fell depending on the man she was with. The fact that Mark was good-looking was a bonus. There was a lack of spark, at least on her part, but she could manage. It wasn’t like she’d dated the captain of the football team in high school because of the amazing chemistry. She could always lie back and think of something to get herself excited for a guy. He didn’t have to know it wasn’t him doing it for her.

Besides… Catherine straightened. She wasn’t a fossil, not yet. Her skin showed wrinkles only in the strongest of magnifying mirrors, and she kept herself fit with tennis, yoga and Pilates. Her closet was full of the latest designer and custom-tailored clothes.

Everything would be okay. She would get a new phone with a number that nobody—especially her mother!—knew. Then she would go to Salazar’s small town and relax. Make a fresh start. It would do wonders for her mental health and self-esteem.

The GPS in her car said Cooter’s Bluff was only another sixty minutes or so. She dragged herself back into the driver’s seat, got out her compact and repaired her make-up. A few artful finger-drags through her hair put it back into place.

An hour. She could pull herself together for that long.

This couldn’t possibly be Salazar’s place.

Catherine stepped out of her car and stared for some time at the house she was going to stay in. Where were the turrets? The huge orange grove? The frothing water fountains surrounded by topiary animals? Salazar liked to live big, and this wasn’t what she’d imagined he’d own, even in a small town.

The house itself didn’t look too bad. It was a decent-sized three-level unit. The azure blue of the roof was charming, as were the pale blue exterior walls and a meticulous garden that reminded her of her former mother-in-law Stella Lloyd’s. There was a wide lawn that blended seamlessly into the neighbors’ yards, and a porch that took up a third of the house’s frontage and stuck out like a tongue.

A modest white Ford sedan was parked in the driveway. Did it belong to one of the neighbors? Catherine looked around. Plenty of places to park on the street, so it must be the housekeeper Salazar had mentioned. What kind of staff would he keep in Cooter’s Bluff? His main home in Los Angeles had a butler and an army of highly trained maids.

Catherine debated for a moment, keys in hand, then rang the doorbell. If someone was inside—even a housekeeper—it would have been bad manners just to barge in.

The door opened, revealing a woman short enough to look Catherine in the eye. Her well-wrinkled skin was as thin as her cropped and graying hair. Catherine caught herself before she arched an eyebrow at the clothes—worn blue jeans and a poorly fitting red sweater with a giant eagle emblazoned on the chest. And white tennis shoes? This couldn’t possibly be Salazar’s home.

For a split-second, Catherine found herself transported into one of many possible futures—she could very easily end up like the woman in front of her if she didn’t find a suitable husband soon.

“Hey there.” The woman smiled, revealing a crooked incisor. “You must be Catherine.”

Catherine smiled back graciously. “Yes. And you are…?”

“Irene.” She moved to the side, letting Catherine in. “I’m the housekeeper. Property management company called and told me you’d be coming either today or tomorrow.”

“The company? Not the owner?”

“Far as I know, the management company
is
the owner,” Irene said. “Which is a little strange for these parts, but… I changed the sheets, put some beer in the fridge, that sort of thing.”

Apparently Salazar was keeping his ownership of the place quiet. Was this where he’d stashed that Georgia Love woman so he could have his trysts whenever he was in town?

Catherine took a quick inventory of the living and dining rooms. Hardwood floors, Scandinavian furniture and a few abstract paintings on the walls said the interior had definitely been decorated to reflect Salazar’s tastes. The paintings made her wince a bit. Salazar was an excellent judge of many things, but with art he made the common mistake of confusing “original” with “good.” At least they’d come with nice frames.

“So. Anything I can help you with?” Irene asked.

“Yes. My luggage.”

The older woman tagging along, Catherine went outside again and popped her trunk for the bag she’d brought from Houston. Sadly the Aston Martin had such a teeny space. Otherwise she would’ve packed more.

“Land sakes. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a car like this.” Irene took the suitcase, grunting slightly. “Heavier than it looks.”

“It’s tightly packed,” Catherine said.

“I’ll say. Well, I got it. You go on ahead.” Irene jerked her chin at the house.

Though she felt a bit dubious, Catherine did as Irene asked. The woman pulled the wheeled luggage all the way into the house. “You want it upstairs?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. Which room’s mine?”

“The master bedroom, of course.” Irene started marching up the stairs with the suitcase, Catherine following closely behind. For such a tiny woman, the housekeeper was surprisingly strong. “The house has three bedrooms and three baths upstairs and two powder rooms on the first level and basement. Kitchen and basement both have fully stocked bars. You got phones in every room, and you can use anything you want in the house.”

Irene opened white double doors at the end of the hall and showed Catherine inside. “Towels are in the bathroom, but you got more in the mini-closet right outside the door there”—she gestured at the hall—“and you can find extra shampoo and soap and that sort of thing under the sink.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said. The place was more like a hotel than a rental. This was definitely where Salazar had played domestic fantasy with that Georgia Love woman.

“The property manager was pretty specific. You’re supposed to get anything you want.”

“Well. That’s nice.”

“So?”

“…so?”

“Need anything else?”

“Oh. No.” Catherine smiled her most charming smile. “You know, you’ve done so much already. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

Irene frowned. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. But before you go, could you tell me where I can find a good restaurant or two around the town?”

“Could whip you up something before I leave. My steak burritos are to die for.”

“No need to trouble yourself. I just want to get something quick, meet some people and enjoy the hospitality of the town. It’s quite beautiful.”

Irene beamed. “Well, then.”

“And if you could also tell me where to find a drug store and supermarket, that’d be fantastic.”

* * *

Catherine sighed as she perused the contents of the refrigerator. It was a total disaster. Meat. Cheese. Beer. Fruit juice and cocktail mixes. Butter and fatty sauces and dips. A few carrots. Aside from the carrots, there was nothing she could eat.

It’s a good thing I asked for directions to a supermarket
. She checked her watch—already a quarter to six. Maybe she should just hit The Line. Why delay the inevitable?

Salazar wanted her to check Blaine out. So check him out she would…just as soon as she freshened up her makeup.

* * *

Blaine was frowning as he came down the stairs from his third-floor apartment to the first floor where his bar and restaurant were located. He would’ve been down sooner, but Salazar’s damn lawyer had called again.

Fifty million
,
Mr
.
Davis
.
Can you ignore that?

Like any amount of money could make up for the way Ceinlys Pryce had humiliated his mother. She wanted to be a bitch to him, fine. But not to his mother. And Salazar hadn’t done a thing about it. A man who couldn’t bother to stand up for the mother of his child didn’t deserve to be a father.

If he hadn’t had a business to run, Blaine might have shot the shit with the lawyer just to run up her billable hours. She sounded expensive. He hoped she charged at least a hundred bucks a call.

It was still early, so only a few seats were occupied. But later, the place would be packed. A playoff game was on tonight, and the bar had four giant flat-screen TVs—one for each wall. His best friend and bar manager Rick Shelton lifted his chin at the sight of him, and Blaine nodded in return. Gel spiked Rick’s sandy hair, and gold studs in his ears sparkled as he moved around behind the bar. A black turtleneck and a pair of old jeans completed his work ensemble.

“Studs?” Blaine said. “Didn’t you say they were lame?”

Rick cocked an eye at one of the waitresses. “Janey thinks they’re hot.”

Blaine made a whip-snapping sound, and Rick flipped him the bird. He chuckled, then frowned at the sight of Irene at the counter, nursing a beer. “Hey, Irene, what’re you doing here? Didn’t you have to get the Blue House ready for somebody?”

“I’m done,” she said in that gravelly voice of hers. She still puffed cigarettes, just not as much as she used to. Not even losing a chain-smoking husband to lung cancer had made her quit.

“What? You get fired?”