Treacherous (The Wolf Pack Series) (6 page)

“Do you have any other reason to suspect he’s having an affair?” Celeste prodded. “Has he been staying out later than usual? Lying about his whereabouts?

Getting strange phone calls at all hours of the night?” Prissy frowned, shaking her head. “No to all of the above.”

“And you haven’t found a woman’s phone number in his pants pocket?”

“Of course not. He wouldn’t be that careless.” Prissy pushed out a long, deep breath. “Look, I don’t have any proof that he’s cheating on me. It’s just a feeling I have. An instinct.”

“An instinct,” Celeste repeated skeptically.

“Yeah. You know, women’s intuition.” Prissy searched her face. “Don’t you think you’d be able to sense something was wrong if Sterling was cheating on you?”

Celeste glanced away, her face heating with shame at the thought of her forbidden feelings for Grant Rutherford. She wished she could confide in her sister-in-law and get some advice, but that was out of the question. No one could know her guilty secret. Absolutely no one.

“Well?” Prissy prompted.

“ ‘Well’ what?” Celeste mumbled.

“Don’t you think your instincts would warn you if Sterling was cheating on you?”

“Sterling would never cheat on me,” Celeste said with quiet certainty. “Just like Stan isn’t cheating on you.”

Prissy was silent.

When Celeste looked at her, tears were shimmering in the other woman’s eyes.

“That man loves you,” Celeste said gently. “Anyone can tell by the way he looks at you.
You
might think you need to lose weight, but whenever Stan sees you, it’s obvious to me that he thinks you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. He can’t keep his hands off you, Pris. Every time I turn around he’s touching your face, or running his fingers through your hair, or playfully swatting you on the ass.” She smiled wryly. “Do those sound like the actions of an adulterer?”

But Prissy, staring off into the distance, seemed not to have heard her.

“Maybe it’s worse than an affair,” she whispered.

Celeste frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe he secretly resents me for being the breadwinner. Maybe he resents me for putting him and the boys on the backburner while I was getting my Ph.D.

Maybe he resents the long hours I work, the endless meetings I have to attend, the numerous social functions he’s forced to escort me to.” Celeste said nothing, contemplating her sister-in-law’s words. She’d never suspected that Stan and Prissy’s marriage was in trouble. They’d been together since high school and had always seemed like the perfect couple, so madly in love that nothing could ever come between them. Celeste couldn’t conceive of Stan harboring animosity toward his wife, let alone cheating on her.

But wasn’t
she
living proof that appearances could be deceiving?

Suppressing a grimace at the thought, Celeste reached over and laid a gentle hand on Prissy’s arm. “I didn’t know you and Stan were having problems. As often as we talk on the phone, you never mentioned any of this.”

“I know,” Prissy admitted glumly. “It’s not that I didn’t want to confide in you. Believe me, I did. But at the same time, I didn’t want you worrying about me. And I guess I was hoping that things would eventually get better between me and Stan. But they haven’t, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Celeste rubbed her arm consolingly. “Well, the first thing you need to do is share your concerns with him. Give him a chance to tell you where he’s coming from before you assume the worst of him. It sounds like you both have a lot to get off your chests. The sooner you talk, the better.”

“I know.” Prissy sniffled, dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes. “You’re absolutely right.”

“Of course I am.” Celeste smiled softly. “You and Stan are going to pull through just fine.”

Prissy gave her a watery smile. “Thanks for saying that.”

“I mean it. Whatever happens, I know everything’s going to work out.” If only she could say the same of her own marriage.

***

“Look at our boys, Sterl,” Stanton said. “Just
look
at ’em.” Sterling was already staring across the manicured front lawn, where their sons were engaged in a rough and tumble football game. They ran up and down the yard—shoving, blocking, catching passes, and tackling one another. All of them were fiercely competitive, from Michael down to Mason, who was holding his own against the older, bigger players.

“You’re looking at the future starting lineup for the Atlanta Falcons,” Stanton declared, his broad chest puffed out with pride.

Sterling chuckled, sipping from a glass of lemonade. “Nothin’ wrong with aiming for the stars.”

“Damn straight.” Stanton rapped his knuckle on the arm of his chair.

It was the day before they were supposed to go home. After lunch, their wives had gone shopping with Mama Wolf while the boys raced outside to play football, heedless of the steamy temperature that gave even the moss-draped oaks the appearance of sweating. Declining their sons’ invitation to join the game, Sterling and Stanton had chosen to watch from the cool, relaxing shelter of the porch.

Sterling grinned. “Look at us, Stan. Sitting here in the shade, sipping lemonade and watching our kids play like a couple of old fogies.” Stanton snorted. “Speak for yourself.
I
ain’t no old fogie.”

“You’re only two years younger than me. If
I’m
old, so are you.”

“Nothing old about this body,” Stanton boasted, dark eyes glinting wickedly.

“If you don’t believe me, just ask my wife.”

Sterling laughed. “No, thanks. I don’t need more of a mental picture than the one I’ve been getting every morning when you two show up late for breakfast.” Stanton grinned. “Hey, what can I say? There’s a reason three of my kids were conceived right here in this house. Something about being in Savannah brings out the freak in Prissy. It’s incredible.”

Sterling smiled to himself, savoring the memory of what he and Celeste had shared in Forsyth Park five nights ago. He knew he’d never see that park the same way again.

Catching his satisfied expression, Stanton grinned slyly. “Looks like Savannah’s been good to someone else, too.”

Sterling’s lips twitched. “True gentlemen never kiss and tell.” He paused.

“But, yeah, it’s been a good week.”

The two men laughed.

Sobering after several moments, Stanton glanced sideways at Sterling. “So everything’s all right between you and Celeste?”

“Oh, yeah. Most definitely.” Wishing he felt as confident as he sounded, Sterling met his brother’s steady gaze. “What about you and Prissy? Everything okay?”

A shadow crossed Stanton’s face, disappearing so swiftly Sterling might have imagined it. “Oh, yeah,” Stan replied, nodding vigorously. “We’re good. Most definitely.”

An odd silence fell between the two men.

As if by mutual agreement, they returned their attention to the yard, where Marcus had just thrown a deep spiral to his wide receiver. Manning had barely caught the pass before he was tackled by Michael, who drove him into the ground. Taking umbrage, Manning bounded to his feet and charged at Michael.

The two cousins shoved and shouted at each other until Marcus intervened, stepping between them to prevent one of their notorious brawls.

Stanton chuckled, wagging his head. “Forget what I said about all of them playing for the Falcons. I think Marcus is gonna be a lawyer.” Sterling grinned. “I think you’re right. He seems to be the only one who can talk Mike and Manny out of killing each other.” Laughing, they watched as their firstborn sons made up, slinging their arms around each other’s shoulders as they sauntered back to their teammates.

Stanton smiled quietly. “Nothing’s ever gonna break up the Wolf Pack.” Sterling hesitated, then raised his glass to his brother’s. “Long live the Wolf Pack.”

Celeste nosed her Volvo into the empty space in front of her home and cut off the ignition. Instead of climbing out of the car, she sat there staring out the window, dismally surveying the block of row houses made of brown and yellow brick. The facades of several homes were crumbling with decay, and the surrounding lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds. Though Sterling kept their own yard neatly groomed, and Celeste had planted pretty flowers in the window boxes, their efforts—along with those of a few other conscientious residents—were not enough to change the look of neglect that plagued the neighborhood.

Sitting there in her Volvo, Celeste was struck by an overwhelming urge to restart the car and get out of there. Just keep driving until she’d put this miserable place in her rearview mirror.

A sudden tap on the glass made her start violently.

Heart thumping, she whipped around to find her son’s best friend, Quentin Reddick, standing at the window.

He flashed his trademark crooked smile. “How ya doing, Mrs. Wolf?” Celeste smiled wanly. “Hello, Quentin.”

He held the door open for her as she got out of the car. He was so tall that she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“How’s your mama doing?” she asked him.

“She’s doing good. Working hard, keeping herself busy.” Celeste nodded understandingly.

Georgina Reddick’s husband had been killed in the line of duty three years ago. The senseless tragedy had devastated her and Quentin, who’d been forced to grow up faster than most boys his age. He’d become his mother’s rock, and she, in turn, became the center of his universe.

Celeste smiled, gently patting his cheek. “You tell her I said hello.”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure will.”

“Good. Now since you’re here,” Celeste said, rounding the fender to open the trunk, “you can help me carry the groceries into the house.” Quentin bowed gallantly. “Your wish is my command.” She laughed, shaking her head at him. With his golden complexion, hazel eyes, and devilish smile, Quentin was a natural-born heartbreaker. Celeste felt sorry for all the unsuspecting females who would fall prey to his irresistible charm in the future.

“Hey, man, stop flirting with my mom.” Michael had emerged from the house, followed by Marcus.

Quentin grinned at his best friend. “What’s up, man? How was the trip?”

“Not long enough. Hey, Ma. How was work?”

“Tiring.” Celeste kissed Michael’s cheek, then affectionately rubbed the back of Marcus’s head. “You boys get the groceries so we can go inside. It’s hot out here.”

After they’d grabbed all the bags, Celeste closed the trunk and followed them up the walk. As soon as she entered the house, the appetizing aroma of garlic, oregano, and tomato sauce filled her nostrils.

“Mmm. Something smells delicious.”

“I made spaghetti for dinner,” Michael told her, leading the way to the small, utilitarian kitchen. “Garlic bread’s in the oven.”

“Oh, darling,” Celeste said tenderly, overcome with gratitude. “What would I do without you?”

He shrugged, setting down his armload of grocery bags. “It’s just spaghetti.

No big deal.”

“
Of course
it’s a big deal,” Celeste countered, smooching his cheek until he groaned with embarrassment.

“Ding Dongs!” Marcus exclaimed, waving the package of snacks in the air.

“Thanks, Ma!”

She smiled indulgently at him.

“My mom’s working late tonight,” Quentin announced, giving Celeste one of those deceptively guileless Eddie Haskell grins he’d perfected over the years.

“So can I stay for dinner?”

“No,” Michael said flatly.

“Of course,” Celeste replied at the same time.

Michael frowned. “Ma—”

She tsk-tsked him. “Don’t be rude, baby. Girls will come and go, but Quentin will always be your best friend.”

“That’s right,” Quentin averred, lazily sprawling in a chair at the small breakfast table in the corner. “Besides, I’m not even messing with Kiara anymore.”

Michael glanced up from unpacking groceries, his eyes alight with interest.

“Why not?”

Quentin sucked his teeth. “Man, that girl don’t know what she wants. Every time we’re together, all she talks about is you. Later for that.” Michael could barely keep a satisfied grin off his face. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Quentin snorted out a laugh. “Sure you are!”

Chuckling at the exchange, Celeste grabbed a stack of mail from the counter and left the kitchen.

By the time she reached her bedroom, her humor had evaporated.

Nestled between the junk mail and bills was a letter from the bank. With a sinking sense of dread, she closed her bedroom door and tore open the envelope. It was an overdraft notice. When she read the details of the transaction, she rushed over to her nightstand, snatched up the phone, and dialed Clayton University’s admissions office.

When a clerk answered the phone, Celeste quickly explained her dilemma. “I applied for the master’s in nursing program, but my application fee didn’t go through. I just received the overdraft notice from my bank. Is there any way I can resubmit the payment? I have the money now.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the clerk said sympathetically, “but the application deadline for the fall semester has passed.”

“I know, but—”

“We have a limited number of spaces for the nursing program, and they’ve all been filled.”

“I realize that,” Celeste argued, “but it’s not like I didn’t turn in my application on time.”

“Yes, but the fee is part of the application, and yours wasn’t processed. I’m sorry. You’re more than welcome to apply for the spring semester. The deadline is—”

“I know what the deadline is,” Celeste interrupted, flopping down heavily on her bed. “Thanks for your time.”

She hung up the phone, trembling with anger and frustration. She was still sitting there clutching the overdraft notice in her hand when Sterling walked through the door ten minutes later.