Ain't She Sweet? (14 page)

As she came out of the dry cleaner, she met Sherry Wilkes, a former classmate, who backed her into a corner and filled her in with a description of all her health problems, which included acid reflux, eczema, and early-stage endometriosis. Sugar Beth supposed she should be grateful that someone female wanted to talk to her, but the encounter only made her think about how much she missed the Seawillows. So far she hadn’t run into any of them, but that wouldn’t last forever. She wasn’t looking forward to being cut dead by the women whose friendship she’d held so cheaply.

She found the town’s new bookstore catty-corner across the street from Winnie’s antique shop. Hand-painted African animals formed a border around the plate-glass window, which displayed current best-sellers, biographies, and a wide selection of works by African American novelists. A toy train surrounded a display of autographed copies of
Last Whistle-stop
designed to attract the tourists. In the center of the window, the store’s name, gemima books, was printed in bold brown letters outlined in black. Beneath that, a smaller inscription read
All people with free hearts are welcome here.
The only sign Sugar Beth could remember from Parrish’s former bookstore had read no food or ice cream.

She heard the sounds of Glen Gould playing Bach’s
Goldberg Variations
as she entered.

Two elderly women chatted by the cookbooks, and a mother with a toddler browsed through the parenting section, aided by a clerk with curly blond hair. Sugar Beth used to believe nothing smelled better than the perfume aisles of a department store, but that was before she’d discovered the companionship of books. Now she breathed in the smell of the store.

A tiny woman, her head shaved to reveal the elegant shape of her skull, came toward her.

She wore a close-fitting saffron, long-sleeved top, wooden beads, and a slim, calf-length wrap skirt made of kente cloth. She had a dancer’s body, what little there was of it, and she smiled as she slipped behind the cash register.

“What can I do—? Well . . .” She lifted her eyebrows. “Well, well, well.”

They were probably close to the same age, so they might have gone to school together, but Sugar Beth didn’t recognize her. There’d been little social interaction between the black and white kids, although they’d been expected to get along together, thanks to the influence of her father’s hiring policies at the window factory. Although Griffin Carey had been a Southern traditionalist in many ways, he’d held liberal social views, and he’d used his economic clout to enforce them. Modern-day Parrish, with a relatively prosperous African American community and a forty-year history of racial cooperation, had reaped the rewards.

Sugar Beth braced herself for the worst. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”

“I’ll just bet I do. I’m Jewel Myers.”

“Jewel?” She couldn’t believe this beautiful woman was Jewel Myers, the scruffy tomboy daughter of Diddie’s housekeeper Ellie. “I—uh—didn’t recognize you.”

“I grew up while you were gone.” She seemed amused. “I became a radical lesbian feminist.”

“No kidding. Interesting career path for a Mississippi girl.”

A customer interrupted with a question, giving Sugar Beth a chance to reorient herself before Jewel turned back to her. She took her time looking Sugar Beth over. “I used to wear your hand-me-downs. Mom made them over so they’d fit.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You never said a word about it. Year after year I’d show up at school in your old clothes, but you never once made fun of me.”

“I wasn’t entirely evil.”

“Honey, you were the biggest bitch in school. If I’d been a threat like Winnie, you’d have taken out an ad in the school newspaper. I gotta say, though, you didn’t bother the black girls much. Not unless somebody got in your face. Now how can I help you, Miz Sugar Beth Carey?”

Sugar Beth couldn’t keep the wistful note from her voice as she gazed around her. “You could give me a job. I love bookstores.”

“Afraid I don’t need anyone. Besides, I only hire lesbians and other persecuted minorities.” She grinned and took in Sugar Beth’s black lace top. “You’re not a lesbian, are you?”

“I haven’t been in the past. Which doesn’t say I wouldn’t consider it for the right employment opportunity.”

Jewel chuckled, an amazingly big sound coming from someone so petite. “So you’re looking for a job?”

“Technically, no. But my current employer is a heartless bastard, and I’d drop him in a second if something better came along.”

“The rest of us like Colin.”

“News travels fast.”

“A lot of people are holdin’ their sides laughin’. Even I, a fair-minded person with no overt reason to hate you, find it amusing. Did you know that Colin’s the one who helped me get a college scholarship? The counselors couldn’t be bothered.”

“He’s a real saint, all right.” Sugar Beth cast another wistful glance around the store. “I’m supposed to pick up the books he ordered. He said to put it on his account. And toss in some of Georgette Heyer’s regency romances while you’re at it.”

“Not Colin’s normal reading taste.”

“He’s broadening his horizons.”

Sugar Beth followed Jewel as she headed for the best-seller aisle. Gemima Books was both cozy and well stocked. Index cards dangled from the shelves with Jewel’s handwritten comments recommending a particular book. Comfortable chairs welcomed customers to sit and browse. Only the children’s section seemed neglected. “This is a great store.”

“I’m lucky. Even with all the tourists the community association has attracted, Parrish is too small to interest the big chains.”

“Where did the name come from? Gemima Books?”

“Jewel is a gem.”

“But Gemima?”

“I like reinterpreting African American female icons. Originally I was going to call it

‘Mammi’s’ with an
i,
but my mother had a fit. Thanks for that note you wrote when she died, by the way.”

They talked about books for a while. Jewel’s preferences ran toward socially relevant fiction, but she wasn’t a snob about it, and Sugar Beth could have followed her around all day. More customers entered the store, and Jewel greeted all but the tourists by name.

She pointed out a book by a Hispanic author she said Sugar Beth should read, and a new commercial women’s fiction author destined to be a best-seller. It felt so good being with someone who wasn’t hostile that Sugar Beth had to resist the urge to throw her arms around Jewel and beg her to be her friend. Which just went to show how far loneliness could drag you down.

Jewel rang up her order and gave Sugar Beth an impish smile as she handed over the package. “Tell Colin to enjoy those Georgette Heyers.”

“I sure will.” She toyed with the strap of her purse, then shifted the package from one hand to another, trying to be casual about it. “If you get bored sometime and want to grab a cup of coffee, let me know.”

“Okay.” Jewel’s response wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but it wasn’t entirely unfriendly either, and Sugar Beth had heard that miracles did happen, even if they never seemed to happen to her.

She glanced at her watch as she got back into the car. She had more errands to run, but she’d stayed away longer than she should have, and she’d better put off the rest until tomorrow.

A good decision, as it turned out, because trouble lurked at the ducal estate. His Grace, it seemed, had grown restless waiting for the return of his lowly housekeeper . . .

“You are shameless!” he said angrily.

“Nonsense! You only say so because I drove your horses,” she answered.

GEORGETTE HEYER,
The Grand Sophy

CHAPTER SEVEN

Where the devil have you been?”

Colin stalked into the kitchen with Gordon padding at his heels, just as Sugar Beth set the last of the grocery sacks on the counter. “Running your errands, your lordshit.”

“You took my car.”

“Did you expect me to walk?”

“I expect you to take your own car.”

“I like yours better.”

“Undoubtedly.” He loomed over her. “Just as I liked that brand-new red Camaro you used to drive in high school. Nevertheless, I didn’t take it upon myself to run off with it, now did I?”

“I bet if I’d left the keys lying around, you would have. That junker you drove was a major embarrassment.”

“Which was the only reason I could afford to buy it.” He swept his keys from the counter and pocketed them. “Where’s my lunch?”

“I thought famous writers drank their lunch.”

“Not today. It’s two o’clock, and all I’ve had is coffee and cold poached eggs.”

“They wouldn’t have been cold if you’d eaten them right away like I told you.”

“Spare me the stereotype of the sassy servant.”

“Fine.” She slammed a box of rice on the counter. “Leave me the hell alone, and I’ll bring your lunch as soon as I get to it.”

He regarded her glacially. “Hostility already?”

“Hostile or sassy—it’s all I’ve got. Take your pick.”

“Let me remind you that one of your duties is to prepare my lunch, which I expect to have served at something approximating lunchtime.” He turned his back on her, effectively ending the discussion, but instead of going back to his office, he wandered into the sunroom and threw himself in the big chair by the windows, all long, lithe grace and surly attitude.

She studied him as she put away the perishables. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, then crossed and uncrossed his ankles. By the time she’d tucked the onions in the pantry, she decided something more than her attitude was bothering him. She picked up a grocery sack that had fallen to the floor. “You probably didn’t know this, but in addition to being a stuntman, the late, and pretty much unlamented, Cy Zagurski fancied himself a songwriter.”

“You don’t say.”

“Bad country western. Cy was generally sweet, even when he was drunk, which, I’ll admit, tended to be most of the time. But drunk or sober, the minute he had trouble thinking up his next lyric, he’d start yelling at me.”

“In what part of this conversation am I supposed to express interest?” He sounded snooty as hell, but he didn’t make a move to get out of the chair, and as she set more oranges in the bowl, she congratulated herself on having acquired at least a little insight into human nature. “So tell me about your new book.”

“Which one?”

“The one that’s making you act like a prick, bless your heart.”

He leaned his head against the back of the chair and sighed. “That would be all of them, at one time or another.”

“All?” She peeled the cellophane from a two-pack of Twinkies, took one out, and wandered into the sunroom. “I know about
Last Whistle-stop,
and you said you’d written a novel a long time ago. Anything else?”

“The sequel to
Last Whistle-stop.
I finished it in July. It’s called
Reflections,
if you must know.”

Last Whistle-stop
had ended in 1960, and if
Reflections
was a sequel, it stood to reason that her parents would be major characters. Considering Byrne’s feelings for Diddie, Sugar Beth decided she needed to get her hands on a copy as soon as she could. “When’s it coming out?”

“In about two months.”

“I’m guessing from the title that my parents and the Carey Window Factory might be major players.”

“Without the factory, Parrish would have died out after the 1960s like so many other small Southern towns. Is my lunch ready yet?”

“Just about.” She took a bite from her Twinkie and played with danger by sitting on the edge of a small rattan slipper chair near him. “What have you been doing since July?”

“Some traveling. Researching a novel.” He rose and walked toward the windows, his big frame blocking the sun. “A family saga. I’ve had it in mind for years.”

She remembered the crumpled paper scattered over the floor in his office. “So how’s it going?”

“Beginning a book is always difficult.”

“I’m sure.”

“This one is roughly based on my own family. The story of three generations of an upper-class British family set against the same three generations of a poor Irish one.”

“With everybody meeting up when the upper-class daughter falls in love with the bricklayer’s son?”

“Something like that.”

“Writing a novel is a big change.”

“Just because I’ve become known for nonfiction doesn’t mean that’s all I can do.”

“Absolutely not.” She wasn’t surprised that he sounded defensive. He’d been wildly successful writing nonfiction but failed at his early attempt at fiction. “You don’t seem to be brimming with confidence.”

He gazed at her Twinkie. “Is that organic?”

“I’m guessing not.” She went after a dab of filling with the tip of her tongue.

He grew very still, and the way his eyes lingered on her mouth told her he was reacting to her, whether he wanted to or not. She used to be mystified by women who didn’t know how to turn men on, since she could do it so easily herself. Then one day she’d realized that intelligent women relied on their brains to get ahead in the world, instead of sex. And hadn’t that been a real
well, duh
moment?

Still, sometimes you had to use what God gave you, and she continued to make oral love to the Twinkie, nothing even close to blatant—that would be too tacky for words—only a few slow swirls of her tongue to show this arrogant Brit he didn’t intimidate her. Or not much anyway.

His gaze stayed on her mouth. “You do enjoy playing games, don’t you, Sugar Beth?”

“Us tarts like to keep ourselves amused.”

He gave her an enigmatic smile, then turned away from the window. She expected him to head back to his office, but instead he walked into the kitchen and began examining the groceries she hadn’t finished putting away. “Apparently you didn’t read my instructions about buying organic food.”

“Dang, you were serious. I thought that was some kind of test to see if I could think for myself instead of being a blind follower of the ridiculous.”

Another of those arched eyebrows. She polished off the Twinkie and headed back to the kitchen.