Slow Heat in Heaven (37 page)

He caught her hand. "I'm proud of that Endicott deal. You did a good job, Schyler."

She hadn't told him why Endicott had stopped using them as a supplier. Until she could satisfy herself with an explanation, she didn't want to get Cotton worked up over it. '"Thanks, Daddy. I'm glad you approve."

For the first time in days, Schyler's step was springy as she crossed the hospital lobby on her way out. She had almost reached the sliding glass doors when they opened for a man coming in.

Upon seeing him, she stopped dead in her tracks. "Mark!"

Cash lit a cigarette with the smoldering butt of his last one. He inhaled the acrid smoke while staring at the facade of St. John's Hospital. At any moment, he expected someone to appear with a black wreath to hang over the sliding glass doors.

For the last half hour, he'd been sitting in a widening puddle of his own sweat in the cab of his pickup, smoking, and trying to work up enough courage to cross the street and inquire at the front desk whether or not Cotton Crandall had died.

He didn't want to know.

But he had a strong suspicion that's why Schyler had left the landing in the middle of the day. She wouldn't have done that unless there was a crisis of some kind. Her periodic reports to him on Cotton's condition had been fairly optimistic.

His heart was stronger, but still weak.

He was improving, but not altogether out of the woods.

The operation had been a success, but there was a limited amount of repair that could be done.

Cash knew that Cotton's life was still in danger. Any little thing could go wrong; obviously something had.

The endless cigarettes had made his throat dry and irritated. Impatiently he tossed the one he'd just lit out the open window of his truck. When he did, he noticed a man walking toward the entrance to the hospital.

He was arresting in that he was so different. He lit into the southwestern Louisiana backdrop about as well as an Eskimo would in Tahiti. He looked out of place in his white slacks and navy blazer. He had on white shoes. White shoes, for chrissake! A jaunty red handkerchief was sticking out of his breast pocket. His hair was blond and so straight it could have just come off an ironing board. It was neatly parted on one side and glistened in the sunlight. He was wearing dark sunglasses, but the eyes they shaded would have to be as blue as the sky.

He jogged up the steps of the entrance with the self-confidence of a man who knew that everyone he passed turned to get a better look. He looked polished and cosmopolitan enough to be at home in cities that the people who gawked at him had never even heard of. He was so handsome he could have stepped off the cover of a flashy magazine.

Cash got a real sick feeling deep in his gut.

His worst suspicion was confirmed when the man came face-to-face with Schyler in the doorway. Cash heard her squeal his name in surprise. A smile of pure delight broke across her face a split second before she launched herself against the man's chest. Well-tailored sleeves enfolded her. They hugged each other tightly, rocking together joyfully. Then the man kissed her full on the mouth.

Even from across the street, Cash could see that her face was radiant as she gazed up at the blond god, babbling questions while quick, excited little laughs bubbled out of her smiling lips.

One thing was for damn certain—the broad wasn't in mourning.

Cash nearly broke off the key in the ignition when he cranked it on. He nearly stripped the transmission of his pickup, making it to third gear before he reached the stop sign at the nearest comer. He wanted to get Schyler's attention. He wanted her to see just how unimpressed he was with her affluent, well-dressed, sophisticated roommate.

When Cash glanced in his rearview mirror, however, he saw that she hadn't even noticed him. She was engrossed with her lover.

"My God, it's Tara."

Schyler beamed beneath Mark's praise. "It's lovelier than Tara."

Mark Houghton glanced at her from the passenger side of her car. "And you're lovelier than Scarlett."

"You're an angel for saying so, but that's crap. I'm exhausted and it shows."

He shook his head. "You're gorgeous. I'd forgotten how much."

Schyler had forgotten how nice it was to hear a compliment. Her face glowed around her smile. "If I look pretty it's because I'm so happy to see you."

He clasped her right hand. "Hurry. I can't wait to take the grand tour."

She began honking the horn when she was only halfway down the lane. By the time she braked the car, Mrs. Dunne and Gayla were waiting expectantly on the veranda to see what all the commotion was about.

"Good news," Schyler called out to them as she alighted and ran around the hood of the car. "Mark is here. And Daddy's coming home tomorrow."

Mark placed his arm around her waist, not only in affection, but as a means of holding Schyler earthbound as she ran up the steps. She was as exuberant as a child at her first circus.

"You must be Mrs. Dunne," Mark said, addressing the housekeeper. "I'm the one you spoke with on the phone a
while ago. As you said, I found Schyler at the hospital. Thank you."

"Throw another chicken in the pot, Mrs. Dunne. There will be a guest for supper."

"What a coincidence. I'm baking Cornish hens with wild rice stuffing and I just happen to have an extra one," she said, smiling at the attractive blond couple.

"Good. Is the guest room still made up?"

"I changed the linens today."

"Then you go see to the extra hen. We'll get Mark's bag upstairs. He travels light." Mrs. Dunne went back inside. "Mark," Schyler said, "this is my dear friend Gayla Frances. Gayla, Mark Houghton."

"I
'm delighted to meet you, Miss Frances." Mark lifted her hand and kissed the back of it.

"Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Houghton," Gayla said, flustered. "Schyler has told me a lot about you."

"All good I hope." He smiled disarmingly.

Gayla looked nervously toward Schyler for help. She still found it difficult to make small talk, especially with men. She was spared having to when Tricia stepped out onto the veranda.

"What in tarnation is—" She broke off and gaped at Mark, her eyes going wide with stupefaction and then narrowing with feminine approval. "Hi, y'all." Her slow, honeyed accent matched her smile.

"Hello," Mark said blandly. He was accustomed to having people stare at him. He wasn't obnoxiously vain, but he wasn't oblivious to his good looks. He knew that the way he looked had been either an asset or a hindrance, depending on the situation.

Schyler conducted the introductions. Tricia laid a self- conscious hand at her neckline. "You should have told me, Schyler."

"I didn't know. Mark's visit is a complete and delightful surprise."

"I hope it's not an inconvenience," he said to Tricia politely.

"Oh, no, no. It's just that if I'd known we were going to have company, I would have dressed."

"You look very attractive to me, Mrs. Howell."

"Please call me Tricia." She glanced down at her designer dress with chagrin. "I just put this on to attend a meeting in town. I'll go call right now and tell them I'm not coming."

"Not on my account, please."

"Oh, I wouldn't hear of missing supper with you. Schyler's just raved about you so much," Tricia gushed breathlessly. "Excuse me while I change. Honey, would you bring up that dress I asked Mrs. Dunne to press for me?" She directed that to Gayla before disappearing through the screen door.

"Tricia," Schyler called out in vexation.

Gayla laid a hand on Schyler's arm and said, "It's all right. I was going upstairs anyway to check the guest room. You visit with Mr. Houghton."

"But you are not Tricia's handmaiden. The next time she orders you to do something, tell her to go to hell."

"I'll sell tickets to that," Gayla said, laughing good-naturedly as she went inside.

"Lovely woman," Mark observed when Gayla was out of earshot. "Is she the one who—"

"Yes." During one of their lengthy overseas calls, Schyler had told him about Gayla.

"Hard to believe," he said, shaking his head. "You've worked wonders for her."

"I've been her friend. She would have done the same for me."

Mark faced her and ran his hand over her hair. His eyes were full of love and adoration. "Is that a habit of yours?"

"What?"

"Collecting people who desperately need befriending? I recall a certain aimless wanderer in London, an expatriated American who was terribly lonely. You nurtured him, too."

"Your memory is bad. That's what
he
did for
me."
She went up on tiptoes and kissed his lips softly. "I'll never be able to repay you for all you've meant to me, Mark. Thank you for coming. I didn't realize how much I needed you until I saw you."

As always, when he didn't have an audience, his beautiful smile was tinged with sadness and self-derision. "Before this gets too pithy, show me Belle Terre."

"Where should we start?"

"Did you mention horses?"

Ken was the last one to meet Mark.

By that time they were having predinner drinks in the formal parlor. Mark had been given the grand tour of the house, including all the outbuildings. When they returned, Schyler had excused herself to freshen up before dinner. Mark, already impeccable, had nonetheless gone to his room, ostensibly to do the same.

When Schyler came downstairs wearing a cool, frothy voile print dress, Mark was being entertained by Tricia in the parlor. Schyler was amused by her sister's transformation. Tricia's dress was fancier than the occasion warranted, but Schyler wasn't surprised that Tricia had chosen to wear it. It showed off her voluptuous figure and an immodest amount of suntanned cleavage.

When Schyler entered the parlor, Tricia was saying, "I don't actually remember when Mr. Kennedy was president, but I've watched old films of him. You sound just like him. Of course you probably think I have an accent."

Mark's eyes lit up when Schyler entered. He went to greet her, taking both her hands and kissing her cheek. "You look wonderful. This stifling climate suits you like a hothouse does an orchid. Drink?"

"Please." Blushing with pleasure over his compliment, she sat down on one of the love seats while Mark, making himself at home at the sideboard, prepared her a tall gin and tonic. His thoughtfulness didn't escape Tricia, whose effervescence had fizzled since Schyler had come in. Schyler said to her, "Mark actually knows the Kennedys. Did he tell you that?"

Tricia's eyes went round with amazement. "No!
Those
Kennedys? Why I think that's simply fascinating." Mark carried Schyler her drink. He started to sit down beside her, but Tricia was patting the cushion next to her. Politely he sat down beside her again. "Tell me how you met them. Did you know Jackie, too?"

"Actually the Kennedys were neighbors of ours. My parents have a home at Hyannis Port."

"Really? Oh, I've always wanted to go there." She laid a hand on his thigh. "Is it truly beautiful?"

"Well—"

Just then Ken walked in. He took in the parlor scene with one sour glance. Schyler said, "Hello, Ken."

"I called the landing. The ignoramus who answered the phone said there was an emergency at the hospital. I called there. Nobody knew anything about it."

"No emergency. Daddy's coming home tomorrow." That piece of news did nothing to lighten Ken's dark frown. "Mark paid me a surprise visit," Schyler said hastily. "Everything happened so fast, I didn't have a chance to call you."

She introduced him to Mark. Mark stood up, causing Tricia's hand to slide off his thigh. He met Ken halfway and the two men shook hands. Ken's face was sulky. Schyler had known that Ken was prepared to hate Mark on sight, and it was obvious that he did. He took one look at Mark's bandbox appearance and excused himself to go upstairs.

When he came back down, he was dressed in a summer suit and pastel tie. He had also showered; his hair was still damp, and he smelled like the men's cologne counter at Maison-Blanche in downtown New Orleans.

"Can I refill anyone's drink?" he asked, crossing to the sideboard.

He glared at his wife who was monopolizing Mark and prattling on about her reign as Laurent Parish's Mardi Gras Queen. "I was eighteen that summer. Lordy, has it been that long?" she said with a sigh. "I can remember how anxious I was to get all my dresses made in time. You can't imagine how many parties there are. My parade float has never been equaled. Everybody says so. I loved it." She pursed her lips sadly. "Schyler missed out on all that. They passed her up
for. . .
Who was queen that year, Schyler?"

"Dora Jane Wilcox, I believe."

Schyler was furious. For almost an hour she had watched Tricia's hand slide up and down Mark's thigh. She had watched her simper and flirt until she wanted to throw up. Her sister's saccharine performance for Mark was nauseating.

Whether Tricia was doing it to make her jealous, or Ken jealous, or for the sheer fun of it, it was aggravating the hell out of Schyler. Tricia was dominating Mark and he was too polite to excuse himself from her.

"That's right," Tricia exclaimed. "Dora Jane Wilcox. Well I told you, Schyler, that you spent too much time with Daddy at the landing and not enough time at the country club getting to know the people on the selection committee."

"And I told you, Tricia, that I didn't give a damn about that society stuff. Then or now."

"I was involved for Mama's sake. Before she died, all she talked about was our coming-out parties and such. I felt like we owed it to her to participate in the things she loved."

Tricia made a taking sound and shook her head at Mark as if to say that Schyler was a hopeless case. "She still spends all her time at the landing. I invited her to join my clubs, but she won't hear of it.

"All she does is work, work, work. She's taken it upon herself to run Belle Terre even though it just wears her out. About the best thing you could do for her is whisk her right back to London." Flirtatiously she gazed at him through her eyelashes. "Not that I'm anxious for you to leave, of course."

"Dinner's ready, Ms. Crandall," Mrs. Dunne announced from the archway.

"Thank you." Schyler was so angry she could barely speak. "We're coming."

Tricia shot the housekeeper a dirty look for announcing dinner to Schyler instead of to her. Possessively she latched onto Mark's arm as they stood up. She nestled it against her breasts. "Mark can escort me to the dining room. Ken, you bring in Schyler."

Ken, who had been slamming back straight double bourbons at a reckless rate, carried the decanter with him. He gripped Schyler's elbow with his other hand. Together they crossed the wide entry hall and went into the dining room. Mark was holding out Tricia's chair. She was smiling up at him over her shoulder.

"Sit here beside me, Mark. Ken and Schyler can take the other side. Daddy always sits at the head of the table. It would be just about perfect if he was here, wouldn't it?"

Things were far from perfect. In fact they started off badly with the fruit compotes when Tricia, with no small amount of asperity, told her husband he was drinking too much. After that, she ignored him and directed her animated conversation to Mark, who responded with noble charm.

With each wonderfully prepared course, tension around the table mounted. Schyler got angrier, Ken was mad at the world, it seemed, and Mark was anxious because the light had gone out of Schyler's eyes. Tricia was the only one having a good time.

That came to an abrupt finish during dessert.

She had said something she thought incredibly witty. As she giggled, she leaned toward him, mashing her breasts against his arm. Mark laughed with her, but it was strained laughter. Then he blotted his mouth with the stiff linen napkin and said, "I'll spare you anymore efforts, Tricia."

Her laughter ceased abruptly and she gazed at him blankly. "Efforts? What do you mean?"

"You can stop pressing my thigh beneath the table. Give your fluttering eyelids a rest. And stop giving me glimpses of your breasts. I'm not interested."

Tricia's fork clattered to her plate. She looked at him whey-faced.