Taste for Trouble (42 page)
Bel
gave a short bark of laughter. “My God, you’re amazing. I have to assume you
think that’s some kind of blow to me?” She tipped her head and gave Kate a
searching look. “You do. Lord have mercy.” She shook her head. “Oh, Kate. The
Dower House is beautiful and I loved it there. But it’s not my home. It never
was. It belongs to you and you’re free to do whatever the hell you want with
it.” She smiled fiercely. “My home is the other direction. I live at the Annex
now, with James and his insane brothers and his housekeeper—”
Kate’s
lip curled. “The stripper?”
“—and
that precious little girl who came with her.” She folded her arms and gave Kate
some good, solid eye contact. “And Bob. Make no mistake about it, Kate.
I’m
Bob’s family now. He believed in me when I had nothing. Thanks to him, I have plenty
now. A decent savings, a nice résumé and a whole boat-load of love and
gratitude for the guy who saw something in me that nobody else ever did. I owe
him for that. More than I can ever repay, and that’s the only reason I’m here.”
“How
is being radically unpleasant to me a favor to Bob?”
“Oh,
the unpleasantries aren’t from Bob. They’re from me. The invitation is from
Bob.”
“What
invitation?”
“Didn’t
I mention? Bob’s proceeding with his death a little non-traditionally. He wants
his will read while he’s still around to hear it. And he wants you to hear it,
too.” She smiled coldly. “Ford will be doing the honors tonight at the Annex.”
Kate
stared. “Pardon me?”
“Tonight.
Will reading. Six o’clock. And you’ll want to be punctual. Bob doesn’t have
time to waste these days.” Bel turned her back on her old boss, her old job,
her old dream and walked out the door.
Bob’s
room in the Annex was right across the hall from Bel’s. If she left her door
open, she could see his bed from her own. She hadn’t gone so far as to set up a
formal sitting schedule but somehow Bob was rarely alone. And by six that
night, he’d packed in a crowd.
Bel
sat in the recliner James and Drew had hauled from their common room to Bob’s
bedside, pie recipes spread across her lap, James sprawled at her feet. Drew
had dragged in some folding chairs for himself and Audrey, and a bean bag chair
for Jillian. The girl curled up in it like a cat and read while Ford opened his
attaché case at the foot of Bob’s bed.
Kate
appeared at precisely the stroke of six. She stopped in the door jamb, her face
white, her eyes stricken. She stared at Bob. At the hospital bed, the morphine
drip, and the small army of beeping machines that tethered him to this world. That
fierce joy surged through Bel again.
Good
. She wanted Kate to hurt. To
hurt like Bel was hurting. To hurt
more
. But that vindictive joy was
laced with pity. With empathy. Bel knew how easily selfishness and fear could
put love on the ropes. She and James had come perilously close to going down
that road themselves.
James
leapt to his feet like the southern gentleman he was and Bel followed suit. She
gathered her recipes and silently offered Kate her chair. Kate glided across
the room and sank into the battered old recliner. Bob smiled faintly and stretched
out a hand. Kate took it between both her own, though her face could have been
carved from marble.
Bob closed
his eyes and nodded to Ford, who cleared his throat, and intoned some barely
comprehensible lawyer-speak for a few minutes. Finally he said, “It is Bob’s
wish that I now read to you the following, which he himself wrote and I
witnessed one week ago.”
He
adjusted his reading glasses, cleared his throat again and began reading from a
single sheet of paper.
“I,
Robert Daniel Beck, being of sound mind and shitty health do hereby ask that
Belinda West be named the executor of my estate, such as it is. As my defacto
family—and the daughter of my heart—I hope she won’t mind taking on this one
last task of sorting through what I’ve accumulated in my life, giving away what
others might need and keeping whatever speaks to her for herself. Aside from
those items which I will now detail, I leave her everything, including my love
and thanks for her astounding generosity of spirit. I also bequeath James a
swift kick in the ass if he doesn’t pony up a ring ASAP. A nice big one, as I
know what he gets paid.”
Bel
managed a watery laugh. James twined his fingers through hers and she leaned
into his shoulder.
Ford
read on. “I leave my agency, my client list, and all accounts, events,
agreements, licenses, etc., attached to it to William Yeats Blake.”
Audrey
leaned around Drew and gave James big eyes. “
Yeats
?”
“Mom
liked her poets.” James smiled. “Just ask Andrew Shelley Blake beside you.”
Drew
flipped him a lazy middle finger. Even Bob smiled.
“Like
the previously negotiated and now voided sale before it,” Ford continued, “this
gift is contingent upon Will’s successful completion of the in-patient rehab
program to which Bel sentenced him. The gift also assumes that he will apply
his lazy ass for once. Because I swear on all that’s holy that if he drives my
life’s work into the ground I’ll haunt him for eternity.”
Drew
grinned. “Fun. I’ll let him know.”
Ford
consulted the paper. “Also, tell him to get a damn good administrative assistant
and pay her double what he thinks she deserves. Trust me.”
Audrey
considered that. “I’ll round up a pool of candidates and start interviews this
week.”
Drew
gave her a startled look. “You want to help
Will
?”
She
shrugged innocently. “If by
help
you mean hiring him a schedule Nazi
with ideas about healthy eating and an iron-clad five year employment contract
before he busts out of rehab, then yes.” She gave a happy sigh. “I want to help
Will.”
“Audrey,
that’s terrible.” He grinned brilliantly. “Are you
sure
you don’t want
to marry me?”
“I’m
sure.” She patted his knee. “Please stop asking.”
“Hell,
no. One day you might say yes.”
“Yeah,
I don’t think so.” But her lips twitched.
Ford
waited for Drew and Audrey to refocus, then said, “And last, for my beautiful,
stubborn, terrified Kate.”
Bel
turned to look at Kate, but the woman didn’t so much as blink.
“To
Kate, I leave the ragtag bunch of idiots sitting around you right now. They’ll
be your family if you’ll let them. Start with Thanksgiving. I told Bel not to
serve unless you’re here, so don’t be late.”
James
shot Bel a
really
? face. She shrugged.
“Three
o’clock,” she told Kate. “You could bring a bottle of wine. Red would be nice.”
Kate
gave one small nod but otherwise stayed still and composed, her eyes fixed on
Ford who read on.
“There’s
also the diamond wedding ring I’d planned to give you upon your retirement, and
an open-ended plane ticket to the south of France. I know better than to rush
you, but one day you’ll wake up and you’ll be ready. When you are, go. And be
happy, Katie. I love you.”
Bel’s
throat closed. She reached over and touched Kate’s knee, but the woman simply
gazed at the far wall as if the room and all its inhabitants had ceased to
exist. Bel looked up at Ford.
“Is
that it?”
He
laid the paper down. “That’s it.”
She
glanced again at Kate, who didn’t appear to be even breathing. “Kate?” She
stood and put a tentative hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Could
I have a moment please?” Kate’s voice was as composed as her face. “Alone?”
“Oh.
Um, sure.” Bel turned to the assembled family but they were already on their
feet and pelting toward the door. Evidently Bel wasn’t alone in her wish to
avoid witnessing whatever came next between those two. But once she gained the
hall, she paused. Glanced back and watched with a dull pulse of surprise as
Kate—cool, aloof, no-nonsense Kate—toed off her Italian leather pumps and
climbed into the bed beside Bob. She laid herself alongside him, taking
meticulous care not to jostle the morphine drip, slipped her hand into his and
pressed her face into his shoulder.
Bob
didn’t open his eyes, but a smile ghosted over his dry lips. A smile so
peaceful and resigned and grateful that it hit Bel like an unexpected punch. Tears
sprang into her eyes and she all but fled down the stairs.
An hour
later, Bel was scooping pastry flour into her favorite mixing bowl at the
island counter. Across from her, James pitted a small fortune of off-season cherries.
“God, that guy’s fast.” He nodded at his iPad and Team Argentina’s star
defender.
“Fast
as you?”
“Well,
I’m ten years older than he is,” James demurred.
“Ten
years sneakier.”
“Well,
yeah.” He grinned. “I’ll be taking this young sir to school shortly. But it
still pays to know which way he likes to zig when a striker zags.”
Kate
stepped into the kitchen, silent and pale. James leapt to his feet. “Hey, Miss
Kate.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel. “You and Bob have a nice chat?”
“No.
He’s dying.”
James
shot a swift look at Bel. “I know it, ma’am. And I’m sorry.”
“He
won’t make it to Thanksgiving,” Kate said calmly. “I doubt he’ll make it
through the night.”
James
lifted a brow at Bel. She shrugged back. She’d had the same feeling. They all
had. And now that Kate had paid her respects, it was likely that Bob would just
let go. She’d heard of things like that happening.
“I
think Bob was pretty clear about his wishes,” Bel said carefully. “Thanksgiving
is on whether he’s with us or not. And he expects you to be there.”
“I
know.” Kate smiled and Bel had never seen anything so devoid of humor.
“You’ll
honor the invitation then?”
“Of
course. To do otherwise would be rude.” Kate walked briskly into the kitchen
and flicked an apron off the row of pegs next to the stove. “Now, what are we
doing here?” She lifted a brow at the sprawl of ingredients covering the
generous island.
James
caught Bel’s eye and looked a question. She gave him a tiny nod toward the door
and he all but sprinted for it.
“Sour
cherry pies with an almond-scented crust,” Bel told her as the door swished
shut on James’ hasty escape. “Bob’s favorite.”
“Oh?”
Kate slipped the apron over her head and Bel stared. How on earth did a woman
share a man’s bed for twenty years without knowing what kind of
pie
he
liked? “Heavens.” Kate eyed the mountain of cherries James had half-pitted. “How
many people are coming on Thursday?”
“I’m
not baking for Thanksgiving.” She met Kate’s gaze evenly. “I’m baking for the
wake.”
“I
see.” Kate’s didn’t flinch and Bel wanted to slap that serene composure off her
face. “How many mourners are you anticipating?”
Bel
shrugged. “Hell if I know. Bob knew a lot of people. I’m just going to bake
until I feel done.” She jerked her chin at James’ vacated seat. “If you want to
help, pit the rest of those cherries. If you don’t, there’s the door.”
Kate
approached the mountain of darkly glistening cherries and took up the pitter. Bel
checked her recipe, surveyed the mound of flour in the bowl, then made a vague
attempt at mental math.
“Which
recipe are you using?” Kate asked as her hands began the swift, economical
ballet of cherry pitting.
“That
one.” Bel nodded toward a stained and tattered index card under a magnet on the
fridge. “We used it on the summer harvest show two years ago, remember?”
Kate
squinted at it, then glanced at Bel’s bowl. Her brows shot up as she took in
the sheer amount of flour. “Good heavens, you must be tripling the recipe!”
Bel
shrugged. “At least.”
Kate
shook her head. “Belinda. You know how touchy recipes can be about doubling,
and this one in particular is—”
“It’ll
be fine, Kate,” Bel said. “Trust me. I’ve done this before.”
Kate
went back to pitting. “As you like.”
“Thank
you. I like it fine.”
Bel grappled
with ratios for a few more seconds but her brain just wasn’t up for the work
out. So she tossed in some salt, cut in what felt like enough butter and an
equal amount of shortening. A pinch of baking powder. She finished it off with
a single drop of white vinegar and the merest dash of almond extract. Just
until it smelled right.
Then
she dribbled in a little cold water, folded gently until it came together, then
set aside the wooden spoon to work it bare-handed. After a few minutes she
dashed a stray hair out of her eyes with a floury wrist, then gave the dough an
experimental pat. She hefted it out of the bowl and held it up to the light.
“Good,”
she muttered to herself. “Nice texture, good marbling.” She offered it to Kate
for a pinch. “What do you think of this? Too soft? I don’t want it to tear, but
I need a good drape in the pans.”