Scandal in Copper Lake (3 page)

Just north of downtown was a neighborhood of pricey old homes, each sitting on an acre or two of stately trees and manicured lawn. Holigan Creek, curving west to empty into the river, formed the boundary between that neighborhood, where Russ’s wife, Jamie, had once lived, and the poor white neighborhood where Rick’s wife, Amanda, had grown up. The lots were smaller there, the houses more cramped, the yards shaggier. A marshy patch separated that area from the poor black neighborhood, which had only one way in or out. Tillman Avenue led off to a half-dozen other streets, each with its own collection of sorry, run-down houses.

The Duquesne house was the last one in the neighborhood. Easy Street dead-ended at its driveway, and fifty yards separated it from the homes on either side. There was no paint on the weathered siding, and the roof showed spots where shingles had blown away, but other than that, there was a sturdiness about the house.

He parked behind Anamaria Duquesne’s two-door sedan
and got out to the accompaniment of dogs barking. There was no sign of anyone around, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, both from the houses behind him and from the one ahead.

He was proven right about the latter when he opened the screen door at the top of the steps. Anamaria sat in an old wooden rocker, one leg propped over the chair arm, the other foot planted on the floor. She wore a sleeveless dark orange blouse and a long full skirt in eye-popping orange, red and yellow print. The extra fabric was tucked between her legs, giving some semblance of modesty, and it rustled as she kept the chair in motion with the foot on the floor.

Her hair was up that afternoon, baring that long, lovely neck, and her lids were heavy, as if the heat of the day and the peace of the porch had lulled her someplace else. But that, Robbie thought, was an act. She was as aware of him as he was of her.

After a moment, the rocking stopped and she let her leg slide down. Both feet were bare except for a coat of deep red polish on the toenails. No toe ring. No bracelet circling her delicate ankle.

“Robbie Calloway,” she said at last.

“How did you know? Oh, my God, you must be psychic,” he said drily. Crossing the porch, he sat in another rocker that creaked with each backstroke.

She smiled at his response. “It’s been a long time since you’ve gone anywhere in Copper Lake without being recognized. After all, you’re not just a Calloway. You’re one of
the
Calloways. You, your brothers, your mother—you’re considered the best of the best.”

“And you know this…?”

“I’m psychic, remember? And I read the paper. I talk to people.” She leaned forward and extended her right hand. “I’m—”

“Anamaria Duquesne. You scam people for a living.” He took her hand as he spoke and felt her muscles tighten at his remark. She didn’t try to pull away, though, even if he was holding on far too long for a handshake. Her skin was soft and warm, and it made him wonder if she felt like that all over. She was gorgeous with her clothes on. He could only imagine how stunning she would be with them off.

When he let go of her hand, she sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “You know what they call ten lawyers at the bottom of the sea? A good start. You have some nerve, criticizing what I do for a living.” Her voice was soft, fluid, the accent pure coastal Georgia. It was a voice that could quiet a cranky child, soothe a troubled soul or arouse a man until he hurt. If she ever took her clairvoyant nonsense to the radio, every man within listening range, believer or not, would tune in just to hear that voice.

“I understand you used to live here,” he said.

“A long time ago.”

“Why are you here now?”

She smiled faintly. “Because I used to live here. Why are you here?” Before he could answer, she went on. “Let me guess. Harrison Kennedy asked you to check me out.”

“Do you blame him?”

Her brows arched as she shrugged. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You have an arrest record.”

Another shrug. “You would have one, too, if you weren’t a Calloway, and for more serious charges than my own.”

Robbie couldn’t argue the fact with her. He and his brothers had gotten into a lot of trouble when they were kids. There was no doubt that the family name, as well as Granddad, had kept them out of jail on more than one occasion.

“What do you call what you do?” he continued.

“A gift. Sometimes, not so much.”

He gestured. “Are you a psychic? Seer? Reader? Palmist? Do you have a sign outside your house in Savannah that says Sister Anamaria Sees All, with an evil eye and a palm, a moon and some stars?”

“I’m an advisor. No signs.”

“Then how do your customers find you?”

“Everyone in Savannah knows where to find Mama Odette’s girl.” Uncrossing her legs, she stood gracefully. Her skirt flowed around her in psychedelic ripples. “Would you like a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade? I use Auntie Lueena’s recipe. I’m sure you know who she is.”

“Sure. Why not?”

She went to the door, opened it, then turned back to give him a devilish smile. “And I promise, Robbie Calloway, I won’t doctor it with anything. Healing or otherwise.”

It took only a moment to fill two glasses with ice, another to remove the pitcher from the refrigerator. Balancing it all, she carried it through the quiet house and onto the porch. The pitcher was already sweating when she set it on a small table, then filled the glasses.

“What is it exactly that Mr. Kennedy wants to know about me?” She handed one glass to Robbie, careful not to touch him, then sat down again in Mama’s rocker, cradling her own glass between her palms.

“Who you are. Why you’re here. What you’re up to.”

“You know who I am. Do I need an explanation for coming to stay at a house I’ve owned for twenty-three years? As for what I’m up to…I’m resting. Taking a break from my regular life. Retreating.” After a long drink of lemonade, she went on. “I suspect Mr. Kennedy’s primary interest is what I want with Miss Lydia.”

“What
do
you want with Miss Lydia?”

“For me, nothing. My mother had a message for her that I agreed to pass on.”

Skepticism crossed Robbie’s face. “You talk to your dead mother?”

Ignoring the sting of pain deep inside, Anamaria shook her head. “I don’t have that ability. She speaks to my grandmother.” As a small child, Anamaria would have been afraid to suddenly hear Mama’s voice again. As a teenager, she would have given a lot to hear her say one more time,
Everything’s gonna be all right, baby doll.
As an adult, she felt snubbed. She hadn’t asked for any sort of abilities, but if she had to have something, why couldn’t it have been the one gift that would allow her to connect with the mother she missed so desperately?

“What are your abilities?”

She smiled the aloof, mysterious sort of smile that customers always responded to. “I can read your palm, your tea leaves or your cards. I can look into your future and tell you something so vague it could be taken a dozen ways. I can gaze into the crystal ball or throw the bones or study your astral charts and give you information so startlingly imprecise that it could apply to anything or nothing at all.”

“So you’re a total fraud.” He grinned. He was handsome enough when his mouth was set in a grim line, but when he grinned…That flash of blinding-white teeth made his dark hair darker, his blue eyes bluer, his bronzed skin damn near lustrous.

A warning sounded distantly in her mind. Men and love were the downfall of the Duquesne women, together more dangerous than anything else they might face. So far, she had managed to avoid feeling passionately about anyone, but she was always on watch, always drawing away.

But if any man was safe for her, it was this one. Robbie
Calloway was the most elite of an elite group. He was white, very socially aware, raised with two hundred years of teaching that the races didn’t mingle. His family, his church, his country club, his office, his circle of friends—all white. He’d dated enough women to populate a sorority house or two—all white. He wasn’t a threat to Anamaria.

Though he might make her a threat to herself.

“Did you take time from your busy workday just to check me out?”

His smile was wry. “Yeah, I lead a busy life. Twenty hours a week in the office is about ten too many for my tastes.”

“I thought you were a successful lawyer.” She hadn’t lied about reading the newspaper; reading back issues of the
Clarion
had been one of the first things she’d done once she’d decided to make this journey. His name appeared on a regular basis, as much for professional activities as for social ones.

“I am successful. I just don’t see the point of expending too much time or energy at it.”

“It’s not your passion?”

He drained his lemonade, then set the glass next to the pitcher. She asked with a gesture if he’d like more; he shook his head. “I feel passionate about some of my cases, but the job itself? No. Is scamming—sorry, I mean advising—people your passion?”

“One of them.” She loved her work, her family, her job at Auntie Lueena’s diner. The only thing that could make her life better was having her mother and baby sister in it.

“What are the others?”

“That’s an impertinent question to ask someone you’ve just met.”

Robbie shrugged, his deep-green shirt rippling over nice muscles. “What was the message for Lydia Kennedy?”

The change of subject caught Anamaria off guard, though she hid it. “That’s Miss Lydia’s business. It’s not my place to share.”

“If I ask her, she’ll tell me.”

“So ask her.”

He studied her a moment, then slowly smiled. “I’ll do that.”

She doubted Lydia would have any qualms about sharing. The message had been innocent enough: good wishes from a white-haired man who loved to garden, along with a reminder to look out for his prized irises. It really had come from Glory, through Mama Odette, though no doubt Robbie was skeptical. He was a lawyer who believed in evidence, hard facts. Anamaria was a dreamer who took many things on faith. His feet were firmly planted in his reality; she was adrift in her own.

“How long will you be staying in Copper Lake?”

“I don’t know. Maybe long enough for Mr. Kennedy to finance another toy for you.” She waved one hand languidly in the direction of the Corvette. Automobiles were transportation to her, nothing more. Mama Odette had never owned a car or learned to drive. Even now, closing in on seventy, she preferred her own two feet for getting around. That was why the good Lord gave them to her, wasn’t it?

Anamaria prayed the good Lord would let her grandmother continue getting around. She was having a hard time recovering from this last stint in the hospital. Her heart was weak, the cardiologist said. Maybe not so much, Mama Odette had declared with a wink.
There’s still livin’ left to do. Fortunes to tell, places to go, people to meet.

Robbie looked offended at her description of his car. “That’s the sweetest car this side of Atlanta. She has 327 cubes at 365 horsepower and tops out at 140 miles per hour.”

The words meant nothing to her. Duquesne women weren’t mechanically inclined, but they had a knack for finding men who were. “A high-performance toy. It won’t take you anywhere my Honda won’t go.”

“No, but I’ll get there in style,” he said with a grin as he
rose from the rocker. It creaked in protest a few times—at the movement? Or his leaving?

Anamaria stood, as well, and walked to the screen door with him. She was tall, five-ten in her bare feet, but he stood a few inches taller. He moved with the ease of someone who’d always known his place in the world. He did wondrous things for khakis and a polo shirt, and he smelled rich and sexy and very, very classy. He was most definitely what Auntie Lueena would call a fine catch—with four daughters, Lueena was ever hopeful that one would break the curse and marry—and yet he remained single.

It wasn’t Anamaria’s place to wonder why.

“Thank you for the lemonade and your time,” he said as he passed through the doorway. On the second step he turned back, the charming smile still in place but absent from his eyes. “Watch your step with Lydia. She’s like family to me, and you don’t want to go messing with my family.”

Anamaria leaned against the doorjamb, one arm outstretched to hold the screen door open. “You don’t want to go messing with Miss Lydia, either. She knows what she wants and how to get it.”

He raised one hand as if to touch the strand of hair that had fallen loose from its clasp and now brushed her shoulder, then, only inches away, lowered it again. “You know what you want, too, don’t you? And you know how to get it. Luckily, I know how to stop you.”

With those words, he took the remaining steps two at a time, strode across the dirt and got behind the wheel of his expensive little car. She watched him back out in a tight turn, then accelerate down Easy Street before she closed the door and returned to the rocker.

Robbie Calloway didn’t have a clue what she wanted. Like most skeptics, his distrust of her abilities also meant a distrust
of her. She was a fraud in his eyes, not just as an advisor but as a person.

Her business was her business. What she’d said to Lydia, why she’d come to Copper Lake, everything she did…in the end, she bore sole responsibility for her actions, and she carried no regrets.

When she returned to Savannah, she would still have no regrets.

Especially not one named Robbie.

Chapter 2

M
uch of Copper Lake’s downtown area showed its two-hundred-year-old roots: red bricks softened to a rosy hue, dimpled glass, wood glowing with a well-deserved patina. At the heart was the square, manicured grass bordered with flowers, war monuments and walkways leading to and from the bandstand that anchored the park.

Everywhere Anamaria looked, she saw beauty, prosperity…and the Calloway name—law offices, a construction company, doctors’ and dentists’ offices, investment and accounting firms, retail shops. Robbie Calloway’s office was on River Road, the building only a few years old but built to blend in with its vintage neighbors.