Lucky's Lady (17 page)

“Yes,” Serena agreed. “It would be a pity to see it destroyed.”

“There are more things to consider here than architecture,” Mason said. “Chanson du Terre is a graceful old home, I grant you, but should it be placed ahead of the welfare of an entire community?”

“That's a good point, Mason,” said Burke. He looked across the table to Serena. “You don't live around here, Miss Sheridan. Maybe you don't realize how hard the oil bust hit. People moved out of Lafayette by the convoy. Many of those who remained in South Louisiana were faced with unemployment. The new Tristar plant will employ two hundred fifty people to start with and eventually many more.”

“But at what cost to the environment, Mr. Burke?” Serena asked. “I understand your company has a rather bad reputation in that area.”

Burke's eyes went cold. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I don't know where you get your information, but it simply isn't true. Tristar has never been convicted of anything regarding violations of pollution standards.”

Serena lifted a brow, singling out the word “convicted.” Tristar had never been convicted, that wasn't to say they had never been charged or had never committed any crimes. They had simply never been convicted, a fact that made her wonder what lengths they may have gone to to keep blemishes from their record. If Len Burke was an example of the kind of man they hired to make their acquisitions, she could well imagine the sharks they retained on their legal staff to help them work around inconveniences like EPA regulations.

Her gaze moved to Mason, the fledgling politician whose campaign would rely heavily on Tristar. She wondered if he realized just how neatly he was being maneuvered. Tristar was providing him with a platform on which to run. Directly or indirectly they would be providing him with funding. Had it occurred to him that eventually they would call in those markers?

“Isn't it true Tristar would dig a navigation canal that would contribute to the demise of the swamp?” she asked.

Burke snorted and shook his head. “You'd put a few acres of worthless mud and snakes ahead of the lives of the people around here?”

“The swamp isn't worthless to everyone,” she said quietly, thinking of the look in Lucky's eyes as he'd shown her his special place that morning. “It's an ecosystem that deserves respect.”

Shelby laughed without humor. “My, you're the last person I would have expected to hear that from, Serena. Why, you've hated the swamp as long as I can remember. You moved all the way to Charleston to get away from it.”

Serena regarded her sister with a look that barely disguised anger and hurt. “Be that as it may,” she said, “we are getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? The fact remains Gifford has strong feelings about heritage and tradition. He would prefer to see Chanson du Terre continue on as it always has.”

“How can it?” Shelby asked, tearing a biscuit into bite-size pieces. She looked askance at her twin. “Are you going to come back from Charleston and farm it, Serena?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what do you suggest? Mason's future lies elsewhere. Who else is left to run it?”

“Shelby's right,” Mason said. “Even if Gifford doesn't sell now, he'll only be delaying the inevitable. He's going to have to retire in the not too distant future. He'll be forced to sell in the end. Taking Tristar's offer now is the only practical thing to do. It's a very generous offer, certainly more than Chanson du Terre is worth as a going concern.”

“The place is falling down around Gifford's ears,” Shelby remarked. “You can't help but have noticed. The house is in need of major restoration. Why, just look at the ceiling in this room for example.”

All eyes traveled upward and widened at the sight of the heavy brass chandelier hanging down from the center of a sagging, water-stained, peeling spot of plaster. It looked as if one good tug could bring the whole expanse crashing down on their heads.

“There are other alternatives to selling,” Serena said, bringing them back to the matter at hand. “The land could be leased to another grower. The house must qualify for historical status; there's the possibility of grant money being available to restore it.”

“But to what end?” Mason questioned. “When Gifford passes on, I trust he will leave the place to you and Shelby equally and Shelby has already stated she no longer wants it. Are you prepared to buy her out, Serena?”

“If you are, perhaps you'll just run along and get your checkbook, darlin,'” Shelby suggested archly. “I have a life to lead and I'd sooner get on with it than wait.”

Serena's mouth tightened as she looked at her sister. “What happened to your dedication to the preservation of southern antiquities, sister?” she queried bitingly through a chilling smile. “Did that committee meeting conflict with your facial appointments?”

Shelby slammed her fork down on the table and straightened in her chair, her mouth tightening into a furious knot. “Don't you talk to me about dedication, Serena. You're the one who lives eight hundred miles away. You're the one—”

“Now, ladies,” Mason interrupted with the borrowed wisdom of Solomon shining in his eyes behind his glasses. “Let's not regress to pointing fingers. The fact is neither of you will take over the running of the plantation. What we must concentrate on is how to deal with Mr. Burke's offer and how to deal with Gifford. Might you have any suggestions in that area, Lamar? Lamar?”

Canfield had dozed off over his mashed potatoes. Shelby rolled her eyes. Burke huffed in impatient disgust. Odille, making the rounds with a fresh gravy boat, gave the old attorney a bony elbow to the shoulder. He jerked awake, confusion swimming in his eyes as his gaze searched the table and settled on Serena.

“A lovely meal, Shelby,” he said with a smile. “Thank you so much for asking me out.”

Serena groaned inwardly. If there had been any hope of finding a valuable ally in Gifford's attorney, it had just faded away.

“There's no place for sentiment in business,” Burke announced, helping himself to another mountain of sliced ham. “The place will be sold in the end. Y'all might as well face the facts and take the money.”

“It's not our decision to make, Mr. Burke,” Serena said tightly.

He gave her a long look. “Isn't it?”

“What are you saying?”

He lifted his shoulders and looked away from her toward Mason and Shelby. “Just that Tristar's offer is firm. We want this piece of property. If you want to collect on that, I suggest you strengthen your powers of persuasion where your granddaddy is concerned—one way or another.”

The addendum had all the nasty connotations of a threat. Serena sat back in her chair, her gaze on Burke as he shoveled food into his mouth. Gifford had been right; a simple no was not going to deter the Tristar rep. She wondered as she caught her sister looking her way just what it was going to take to put an end to this business once and for all, and whether there would be anything left of her family when it was over.

CHAPTER
                        

12

SERENA CHANGED INTO HER NIGHTGOWN FEELING
as if she hadn't slept in a month. Dinner had been an exhausting ordeal, not to mention depressing. And with no progress for the trouble. Burke was still set on acquiring Chanson du Terre; Shelby and Mason were still bent on selling it to him. She was still caught in the middle.

She had been glad to escape to the quiet and comfort of her bedroom. The room hadn't been changed at all in the time she had lived away from Chanson du Terre. Like the rest of the house, it seemed to possess a stubborn agelessness that defied change. The walls were papered in a delicate vine and flower pattern over a background of rich ivory. The rug that covered the floor had been trod upon by generations of Sheridan feet. The cherry bed and its hand-tied net canopy had offered rest to the weary a century before. Serena found the idea comforting. The sense of constancy appealed to her, especially now, when she was feeling tired and uncertain about so many things. She could at least look around her room in the soft light of the bedside lamp and feel welcomed.

Belting her white silk robe around her, she went to stand in the open doorway leading onto the gallery, leaning against the frame as if she hadn't the strength left to support herself. The night beyond was dark and starless, the air heavy with the promise of rain and the scents of wisteria and honeysuckle. How many other Sheridan women had stood in this exact spot and looked out into the night, pondering their futures? How many would do so in years to come? None, if Len Burke got his way. And if Burke didn't get his way . . . ?

A soft knock on the door roused Serena from her tormented musings. She turned as Shelby stuck her head into the room.

“May I come in?”

A shrug was the only answer Serena could muster. She was exhausted. The prospect of yet another conversational wrestling match with her sister was not inviting.

Shelby came in and closed the door behind her, leaning back against it, an uncertain look in her dark eyes. She had shed her pumps and let her hair down, making her look young and sweet in her feminine dress. She still wore an array of expensive rings on her dainty hands and demonstrated her hesitancy by twisting her topaz around her finger.

“I'm only trying to be practical, Serena,” she said with a suddenness that made it seem as if she had launched into the middle of the conversation instead of the beginning. “I should think you, of all people, would appreciate that. You've always been practical.”

“Practicality isn't the issue,” Serena said, coming away from the gallery door, sliding her hands into the deep pockets of her robe.

“Well, it should be. For heaven's sake, Serena, think about it!” Shelby insisted. She moved around the room with short, brisk strides, compulsively straightening things that didn't need straightening. “The place will have to be sold eventually. Here we have a buyer ready to hand us money on a platter, and I can tell you as a real estate professional, they don't come along every day. There's nothing but good in this for everyone, and Gifford is standing in the way just to be stubborn!”

“He's worked this land all his life,” Serena pointed out calmly, playing the devil's advocate out of habit and necessity. “He doesn't want to see it all wiped away.”

Shelby stopped her fussing and shot her sister a narrow sideways look, her mood flashing from businesslike to petulant to shrewd. “He's manipulating you.”

Serena didn't argue the point; it was true. She was too caught up watching her sister's chameleon qualities, at once fascinated and horrified by the rapid changes. They pointed toward problems Serena found herself wanting to deny.

“He's just that way,” Shelby went on, absently rearranging things on the dresser to suit her own tastes. “He's in his glory now, holding all of us hostage. He's a stubborn old man.”

“Would you give up your children for the sake of someone else's livelihood?” Serena asked.

Shelby turned toward her, offended and incredulous. “Give up my children? Don't be ridiculous! Of course not, but it's hardly the same thing.”

“It is to Giff. This land is as much a part of him as we are. Why should he be expected to give it up?”

Shelby's face flushed and she stamped her foot on the rug. Her hands balled into fists at her side. “Because it's what everyone else wants! Because it's going to happen anyway. For pity's sake, why doesn't he just give in?”

“Because he's Gifford.”

“Well, something has to be done, Serena,” she announced vehemently as she resumed pacing. “He's just being unreasonable and it's hurting us all. I told you I thought he was going senile and I believe it. And I'm not the only one who thinks so.”

Serena thought back to Burke's threats of a competency hearing and frowned at her twin. She refrained from pointing out that a man who had the ability to manipulate so many people so neatly couldn't possibly be senile. Instead, she simply said, “I will not see Gifford declared incompetent, Shelby. Don't even think about suggesting it.”

“It would serve him right,” Shelby said sourly, her lower lip jutting forward in a pout.

Serena was appalled by the suggestion and the attitude that accompanied it. She may not have been especially close to or fond of her sister, but still she didn't want to believe her own flesh and blood, her own twin, capable of such callous selfishness. She stared at Shelby now, disgust and disbelief stark on her face. “I can't believe your greed would push you to something so ugly.”

Shelby's eyes flashed wildly. Serena thought she could almost hear her sister's control crack. “Greed? Greed!” Shelby shouted, stepping toward Serena. Her lovely ivory complexion turned a mottled red. Every muscle in her body seemed to go rigid. “How dare you accuse me of greed! You're the greedy one! You and Gifford. Greedy and selfish! I want only what's best for everybody!”

Right, Serena thought. Businesswoman of the Year. Mason in the legislature. A healthy bank account and the unending gratitude of those who would profit from the deal. She didn't say any of those things, however. She stood silent, staring at her sister, a sick churning in her stomach.

Shelby paced back and forth along the length of the bed, huffing and puffing like a toy train. “Isn't this just like you?” she said bitterly. “You waltz in from Charleston and take Gifford's side just to please him and then you'll waltz back out and not give a damn that you've ruined everything for everyone else. You won't have to deal with it. You don't live here. You don't care. The rest of us have responsibilities here.”

“You don't seem to feel any responsibility toward Gifford or your family home or the environment,” Serena pointed out, knowing she would have been better off saying nothing. But she couldn't seem to find the cool restraint she used when confronted by an overwrought patient. She couldn't maintain objectivity with her own family, and the only way she could distance herself from them was in the physical sense. The minute she came back here she felt sucked into an emotional maelstrom, a thick familial quicksand that pulled her down from her safe perch above it all. It was a humbling experience and an exhausting one. She gave in to it now as her temper rose and her control slipped away.

“You know what the petrochemical industry has done down here already,” she argued. “Fouling land and water—”

“Feeding people, providing jobs, keeping towns alive—”

“—elevating the cancer rate, destroying animal habitat—”

“Oh, for the love of Mike!” Shelby threw her hands up in exasperation. “You sound like those lunatics up in Oregon, or wherever they are, harping on the loggers for scaring off a bunch of owls that don't have sense enough to go live someplace else. And all for a place you hate to begin with!”

Serena pulled herself back from the ragged edge of anger and sighed, crossing her arms defensively. “Just because it's not a place I like to be doesn't mean I want it wiped off the face of the earth. There are people who still make their living out there, you know.”

Shelby sniffed indignantly. “Poachers and white trash. If you ask me, Tristar would be doing us all a favor getting rid of them.”

Serena rolled her eyes. “A very charitable attitude.”

“Practical. Practical,” Shelby reiterated with a decisive nod. She calmed visibly as she put on her businesslike persona again, folding her hands primly in front of her. “It's the practical thing, Serena. And if you have no interest in staying here anyway, I don't see why you don't just side with us and get it over with. It's best for everyone. It's best for Gifford, if you come right down to it.

“He's seventy-eight years old and he's got a heart condition, for heaven's sake,” she said, warming to this new angle of showing concern for someone else. “He shouldn't be out in the cane fields. He shouldn't have to worry himself sick over the weather and the insects and the price of diesel fuel and whether or not that old John Deere is going to make it another season. He should be taking it easy. He shouldn't have to think about anything but going fishing with Pepper and swapping stories with the men down at Gauthier's.

“He almost went bankrupt last year, you know,” she added, looking genuinely saddened. “Many more things go wrong this year and he will. What good will all his stubborn pride do him then? It would kill him to go under. He can avoid it now, go out with dignity.”

Serena said nothing. Her sister's arguments were valid. They made perfect sense. They were neat and tidy and left no loose ends—except Gifford's heart's desire and the fate of Lucky's swamp. And how did one compare those things to the fate of a town? Was two hundred years of heritage more important than two hundred fifty jobs? Were a few jobs worth ruining a delicate wilderness that could never be replaced?

“I don't know,” she murmured half to herself.

She sat down on the foot of the bed and leaned against a slender post, twining her arm around it like a vine. She stared at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, looking for answers that weren't forthcoming. She felt as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, and all she wanted to do was shrug it off and walk away, but she couldn't. She couldn't walk away from Chanson du Terre or her need to please Gifford or her complicated relationship with her sister.

“I don't know what to do,” she whispered, a feeling of bleak desolation yawning inside her like a cavern.

The image in the mirror was duplicated as Shelby sat down beside her. They looked less like twins now, Serena thought, because she herself looked like hell. There were dark crescents beneath her eyes and she was pale and drawn. The emotional war was taking a toll on her. Shelby was bearing up better under the strain with the aid of a full complement of expensive cosmetics. She looked less troubled by the burden of it all, perhaps because she shouldered none of the load. Shelby had always possessed the convenient ability to shift blame elsewhere, so while she may have been frustrated with the current situation, she felt it was all someone else's fault. Serena had no doubt her sister slept like a baby. For all her talk of accepting responsibility, responsibility rolled off Shelby like water off a duck's back.

“My, you look all done in,” Shelby said softly, and her brows knitted in one of her rare shows of genuine concern.

She didn't look directly at Serena but assessed her appearance via the mirror, as if she were obsessed with their likenesses. It was a disturbing thing, and Serena forced herself to stand up and move to avoid it. She went to the French doors again and stood with her back against the frame.

“You didn't tell me you knew Lucky Doucet,” she said mildly, watching out the corner of her eye for a reaction.

Shelby jerked around in surprise, a multitude of emotions sweeping over her face like clouds scudding across the night sky. “What did he tell you?” she asked guardedly.

“Nothing much,” Serena conceded.

Apparently feeling safe, Shelby rose to her feet and moved in a leisurely manner, smoothing the bedspread, straightening the skirt of her dress. “I went out with him a few times back when I was dating Mason to make Mason jealous,” she admitted without remorse. “It was a long time ago. I never think about it. I mean, for heaven's sake, look at what became of him. I'm embarrassed to admit I ever knew him. Why did you want to know?”

“No reason.”

“Good Lord, Serena,” she said with genuine alarm. “You're not involved with him, are you? He's dangerous. Why, you can't imagine the things people say about him!”

Serena expected she could imagine quite vividly what the average person would have to say about Lucky. They would look at him and see exactly what he wanted them to see, and “dangerous” would only just begin to cover it. She had wondered if he had let Shelby see some other side of him. Obviously he hadn't.

It frightened her to think how happy that made her. This was dangerous territory—thinking she might be the one woman to reach beyond his barriers and touch his heart, taking joy in the knowledge that her sister had not been there before her. It was foolish. She had enough trouble without trying to take on a project like the reformation of Lucky Doucet. All he wanted from her was sex.

“He mentioned that he knew you,” she said. “I was just curious, that's all.”

“Oh.” Shelby shrugged and headed for the door. “Well, it was nothing,” she said, reducing the affair down to the level of importance it held for her. Lucky Doucet had served his purpose. She had gotten what she wanted. Nothing else mattered. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Serena watched her sister go. Nothing had been resolved. They had gone another circuit on the merry-go-round of their relationship once more, suffering through emotional ups and downs only to return to the place they had started.

She sighed as the door clicked shut and gasped in the next breath as someone grabbed her from behind. One brawny arm went around her waist and hauled her back into what seemed like a rock wall, and a hand clamped over her mouth, effectively snuffing out the scream that tore its way up the back of her throat.

“All dressed up for me, sugar?” Lucky said, his lips brushing her ear, his left hand moving restlessly over the silk that covered her belly. “You shouldn't have.”