Thigh High (25 page)

“Miss Hestia, Miss Calista, would you sign an autograph for me?” Eight-year-old Jennifer Travers stood with her toes on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the Dahl House and held up a crumpled sheaf of wide-ruled school paper. “My mom says you're famous.”

“Or infamous,” Nessa murmured while the aunts signed their names.

“Now, Nessa, that's no attitude.” Aunt Hestia waved at the photographers.

“All's well that ends well.” Aunt Calista was less interested in their fans and more interested in the front screen door Maddy held open. “I am glad to be home!”

“Hurry on in here!” Maddy called. “You would not believe what has happened.”

“After today, Maddy, I'd believe anything.” But as the hours went on, Nessa seemed to have lost her sense of humor. She kept thinking of Mac MacNaught and the way he looked when Rav ran in with the news of the robbery.

He had gotten to his feet.

She had laughed in his face.

Then he'd taken a step toward her, and for one second she thought…she'd taken a step back. He looked as if, well, not as if he would hurt her, but as if he would grab her by the hair and drag her away to his cave. The memory made her squirm even now.

He might have lost this round, but she would see him again—and even before she'd known his true identity, she'd been conclusively shown that he always got his own way.

Not this time, brother.

Hestia, Calista and Nessa walked into the house.

The entry was cool and lovely, an oasis of peace after the turmoil of the court and the streets where the riot of Mardi Gras continued in an ever-greater frenzy. Flowers decorated the tables, and a glance in the library showed three arrangements decorating the mantel. “Nice flowers,” Nessa said.

Maddy gestured them into the dining room.

“Oh, my,” Aunt Calista breathed.

It looked like the annual Mardi Gras party, but more so. Food covered every last inch of the table and sideboard. Pies and petit fours, Jell-O molds and aspics, mushroom casseroles and gumbos, breads, biscuits, corn muffins…

“Who sent it?” Nessa circled the table in awe.

“Everybody. Neighbors, friends, relatives…people we never met but who heard about Miss Calista and Miss Hestia on the news. FedEx and UPS have been delivering food and flowers all day.” Maddy joined Nessa in circling.

Aunt Hestia shook her head. “I haven't seen this big a spread since Mama's funeral.”

“Let's see. It's Thursday. Lent starts next Wednesday. Good thing, or we'd be bound to give it all away, and we don't know that many Protestants.” Aunt Calista poked her finger into the icing of Mrs. Lerner's famous caramel cake and licked it clean. “It's good. Nessa, have a piece with us.”

“I can't. I have to go quit the bank, and I want to get it over with before I celebrate.”

Mac's deep voice spoke from the kitchen doorway. “That's impossible.”

Nessa wasn't as surprised as she should have been.

He stood there, his suit coat open, his hands on his hips, a massive, overbearing, authoritative pain in the ass.

How did he get in here?

Knowing him, he'd jumped the fence. He certainly never respected the boundaries of civilization.

What was he doing here?

Telling her what she could and couldn't do.

No.
Yesterday, in the front yard, he'd lost the right to tell her anything.

Remembering how she'd begged him for leniency for her aunts, remembering how he'd so cruelly rejected her, she stepped toward him in a fury. “I don't care whether Stephanie Decker has my panties or you've been in them. I
quit
.”

Maddy gasped. “In your panties? Ionessa Apollonia Dahl—”

Hestia and Calista bundled her out of the room before she said another word.

“Stephanie Decker has your…why would she…your panties?” Comprehension shifted in his eyes. “From the vault? Of course. That must be what she was apologizing about in that e-mail.”

“Getting e-mails from her must be like Frenching a Hoover. She never stops sucking up.”

“She's the manager of my banks, and that's where she's going to stay for the rest of her life. Unless she proves incapable of maintaining her high performance standards, and then I'm afraid she'll have to be demoted.”

“How's she going to do that without me around?”

He circled the table. “You'll be around. You can't quit.”

Nessa matched his movements, making sure his long arms could never reach her. “I really can. Do you know why? Because Pootie DiStephano is teaching me day trading, and I'm good at it. I'm going to work for her, and I don't need you and your crummy job anymore.”

“You might not need my crummy job anymore, but you're not going to get from Pootie DiStephano what you get from me.”

“I'd have to agree with you there. Pootie doesn't lie to me.”

Picking up a pastry cheese stick, he eyed it. “It was necessary.” He took a bite, and flakes broke off and dusted his lapels.

“It was necessary?” Nessa's voice soared like an opera singer's. “You came to New Orleans knowing who I was. You spied on me with your video cameras and your private investigators. You invaded my privacy before I even knew you were alive. You've been sitting up in that office in Philadelphia, having people say ‘Yes, sir' and ‘No, sir' for so long, you think you're some kind of god. You thought—you still think—that you have the privilege of making assumptions and playing games with my life. You decided I was a thief and you did everything in your power to prove it was true. And that was
necessary
?”

“I had to know the truth, and you were the logical suspect.”

“The truth? The truth is that for years you've been screwing me over, letting me work toward an unreachable goal, and now you've screwed me in truth.” She could almost taste her bitterness.

“It was good.” He finished eating and dusted his front.

“It was
good
? What are you talking about—the cheese stick or the sex?”

“The sex.” Once more, he stalked her around the table.

His caveman logic kept her incoherent while her rage built and built. Then it burst forth in a flood of indignation. “
Good?
If
good
was all I was looking for, I could get
good
on the street from a practicing gigolo. I could get
good
from Daniel. I could sleep with almost any guy and train him to be
good.
I thought I was making love to a man I knew, a man who had grown from poverty and abuse into strength and control. I thought you were a man I admired. And all the while, you lied to me in the most basic way possible—you lied to me about what you were. Who you are.”

“It was necessary.” He sounded like a broken record.

“To lie? No, it wasn't.” She kept having visions of picking up the caramel cake and flinging it at him. Nessa's satisfaction would be overwhelming.

Miss Maddy's revenge would be dire.

“Why didn't you send one of your goons down here to investigate me?” He wasn't the only one who could be logical. “At least some person who hadn't devoted his life to believing I was a loser might have given me a fair shake and not tried to buy me with the biggest fucking ugly diamond on the face of the earth.”

“You took the biggest fucking ugly diamond fast enough.” He stopped chasing her and tasted his own bitterness, it seemed.

She laughed. To see his indignation was almost funny. “I thought it was
sweet
that you had such bad taste. I thought that proposal, which, by the way, was the worst in the history of the world, meant you had feelings for me you didn't know how to express. I thought I could show you how much I loved you, and over time you'd come to trust what we had between us. Stupid me!” She flung her arms up in exasperation. At her. At him. “I thought we were going to have a marriage, a relationship, and a love that would last for all time. Instead I find out that you are a bastard. Not because you're Nathan Manly's illegitimate son—which, by the way, you could have told me, but no, you had to let me find out from Pootie DiStephano, who knows an awful lot of good gossip once you get her going—but because you are a genuine, bona fide asshole who only loves two things: money and power. Well, Mr. Vycor the Second, have a lovely life sleeping in your bank vault every night, snuggled up to a bag of cash, because you threw away the best thing you ever had.
Me
.”

“I didn't throw you away. Nothing is over between us. You agreed to a contract with me.” He spoke precisely, as if what he said made sense.

“A contract?”
What does he mean?
“The prenup? You have the guts to talk about the prenup?” She could hardly breathe from outrage. “I agreed to a contract with Jeremiah Mac. Not you. Never you. I told you, I hate liars. Remember that teller who lied to me, who told me she had a sick child, then waltzed out of the bank with enough money to ruin my career? It was my fault I let her do that. I take full responsibility. I didn't bother to hate her—that would be a waste of time. But I'm not
stupid
, and I learned to hate a lie told to hurt another person. Your lies were told to
hurt
me.”

He shrouded his intensely green eyes with his heavy lids. “They were told to get at the truth.”

“Then I hope you like the truth, because that's all you're getting from me.” She walked toward the door.

His voice stopped her. “Does your truth include the fact that you lied to me, manipulated me into believing you loved me, to get information about my investigation? Or are we conveniently forgetting about that?”

I didn't lie about loving you.
But she would never admit that.

When she resumed walking, he said, “My lawyers will block any attempt to clear your aunts of the previous counts of bank robbery.”

She swung around. “What are you talking about?”

“Chief Cutter says he's going to prosecute that Skeeter person and the other guy for all the thefts, but you and I and everyone in New Orleans knows your aunts are the Beaded Bandits.”

“I don't know that,” she said quickly.

“Today, in the courtroom, you as good as admitted it. So one way or the other, your great-aunts will go to trial.”

“You wouldn't.”

But he looked implacable.

“You want me to beg.”

“That would certainly be a pleasant bonus. Would you like to try right here and now?” He must know her pretty well, because he didn't wait for her answer. “Also, there are discrepancies in the books at the bank.”

She couldn't believe he was so good at being a dirt-bag. “So?”

“The discrepancies appear to originate with you.”

“You are kidding.”

“You have two choices. Be involved in an extensive audit, or show up at the bank Monday morning for work and figure out who's doing this to you.”

“These discrepancies just popped up? I don't even believe you.” Would he lie to keep her at the bank? Would he go so far to win?

Of course he would.

So she knew she would be at the bank Monday morning. “I have an ancestor, Althea Dahl, and she married her husband and killed him for his money. You know what?” She stepped toward him, so close he could grab her if he chose.

But something about her must have held him back—or maybe he was satisfied with his win.

“I don't want your money,” she said. “I don't need your money. But I could feed you poison with my two hands and smile while I did it.”

That night the party at the Dahl House was spontaneous, spectacular, filled with great food and drink, and everyone agreed it was one of the greatest ever thrown.

Which was why, at two o'clock in the morning, Nessa found herself with the aunts, washing the mountains of family china in the kitchen sink.

“I don't think Ryan is coming back.” Calista stacked the dishes carefully. “So first thing in the morning, we're going to have to clean out his room and get it ready to rent.”

“I'll look on the waiting list and see who's up next. People call and beg to stay here, you know,” Hestia confided in Nessa.

“But it doesn't matter,” Nessa said. “You two don't have to keep boarders anymore.”

The aunts exchanged curious glances.

“Why not?” Calista asked.

“Because you don't. Because you've got money.” Nessa could scarcely comprehend the burden that had lifted from her shoulders. “Didn't Pootie tell you? You have enough money to pay off the loan on the house and have leftovers. And if you leave those leftovers with Pootie, she'll keep investing them and you'll never have to worry about money again.”

Hestia blinked at Nessa. “I know that. Pootie explained it all. But why would we not keep our boarders?”

“You'd have your house to yourself again. Think about it.” Nessa smiled blissfully and dried another plate. “No more cooking breakfast, no more changing sheets—just the quiet peace of the Dahl House.”

“And do what? Sit on the porch in a rocker?” Calista asked.

“Honey, peace is what you have when you die,” Hestia said.

“And we're not dead yet,” Calista added.

They weren't getting it. But Nessa could make them see. “I don't want to sound like Pootie the Second, but I'm tired of being pleasant to people. Sometimes I want to be alone to think and to just…be. Be messy, be silly, be naked if I want. I want to watch a chick flick in the living room without having Daniel make fun of me, or read a book without telling Debbie what I'm reading. And most of all, I want to sit down to breakfast and not talk to anyone.”

“It sounds as if you hate having boarders.” Hestia dug around in the soapy water, looking for anther plate.

“Oh yes,” Nessa said fervently.

“But you see, the thing is, Calista and I like them. We thrive on the bustle, on having people around all day. We like caring for people. Miss Maddy likes it, too.” Hestia grinned. “And we like supporting ourselves. Having boarders keeps us young.”

Hestia had to be kidding. “But…you never had them before you took out the loan.”

“We didn't know what we were missing,” Calista said.

“But…you work like serfs feeding them and cleaning up after them.”

“Serfdom is underrated,” Hestia said cheerfully. When she saw the expression on Nessa's face, she said, “Listen to yourself, Nessa.
You
want to eat alone.
You
want to watch a movie. You're not talking about what
we
want. You're talking about what
you
want.”

“You've been going through a lot of changes lately. Perhaps it is time you moved out.” Damp dish towel in hand, Calista hugged Nessa.

Maybe it was the hour, but Nessa felt bewildered. “But…you could go on vacation!”

“We talked about that, but who would take care of the boarders? Miss Maddy's too old.”

Nessa stared at the eighty-year-old Hestia and wondered when
too old
set in. “But…what are you going to do with the money? The money Pootie invested for you.”

“Oh. The money.” Hestia gestured carelessly, flipping bubbles across the kitchen. “Pootie's going to help us set up a scholarship fund—she calls it a charity fund, but you know Pootie, no sensitivity at all—and Calista and I will administer it, giving aid as we see fit. It's going to be so much fun!”

The aunts were going to give away their money. Their security.

They were keeping the boarders. Nessa had been working for seven years to get the damned boarders out of the house, and the aunts liked them.

And they had as good as told her to leave.

She had no direction. She had no home. And she certainly had no influence on the two strong-minded women who had raised her.

“You don't need to look like that, Nessa. Pootie won't let us be destitute.” Hestia gave her a sudsy pat on the arm.

“You're right. Pootie's been taking care of your finances for years, and you didn't even know it. She's not going to let you down now.” There was a bitterness in that, too, that despite Nessa's best efforts, it was Pootie who had saved them.

“Chère, come and put these dry dishes away.” Calista set a stepstool for Nessa.

Nessa climbed up and carefully stacked the china on the top shelf of the cabinet.

“Now, what about you?” Hestia asked briskly. “You have a new job—in fact, you still have your old job. You're moving out this weekend. But what are you going to do about your young man?”

Nessa's back went up. “I don't have a young man.”

Hestia sailed on as if Nessa hadn't spoken. “Calista and I were listening at the door while you two fought today.”

“Miss Maddy said we shouldn't, but how else are we supposed to find out what's going on?” Calista asked.

“Then you know what he did.” In the turmoil of the past few minutes, Nessa had managed to forget her resentment of MacNaught. Now it was back in full.

“He lied to you because he believed the worst of you,” Calista recited.

“The bastard,” Nessa mumbled, and reached down for more plates.

“Actually,” Hestia said carefully, “I believe in this case I should mention the saying about people who live in glass houses.”

Nessa almost overbalanced. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought you knew it.” Hestia frowned. “People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.”

“I know the saying, I just don't understand why you're bringing it up.” Nessa looked down at her aunts' earnest faces.

“Dear girl, don't take this wrong. We're not reproaching you,” Calista said.

“But you are as guilty as he is,” Hestia added.

A chill swept up Nessa's spine and her hands and feet turned cold, while a flame burned her cheeks.

Calista started to hand Nessa a pile of bowls; then, as if she had second thoughts, she put them down on the counter. “It is possible to believe the wrong thing about a person, to believe with all your heart that that person, or persons, are guilty of a crime they didn't commit, even though you've known them forever.”

“Why are you saying that to me?” Nessa asked.

“When you heard our robberies had been imitated, that violence had been done and twenty thousand dollars stolen, you believed that Calista and I were guilty.”

The aunts hadn't referred to that moment when Nessa blocked their path and accused them of the bank robbery. Somehow, she thought—hoped—that in their dotty way, they hadn't noticed.

But of course the aunts weren't dotty, really, only immersed in their own happily eccentric world where once a year it was right that they robbed an evil bank and gave the money to one needy soul.

“You have lived with me and Hestia since you had just turned five, yet you believed the evidence rather than what you knew of our characters.”

Hestia said, “I'm not saying it is right for Mr. MacNaught to assume the worst of you, but with his background, that seems almost inevitable.”

“His background?” Nessa couldn't believe they were having this conversation.

“He had a difficult upbringing, what with his father abandoning him and then his mother…dreadful! And no one to show him that there are noble causes and people of character.” Calista couldn't contain her disapproval.

“Oh, cry me a river. I can't believe he had the guts to whine to you.” Nessa almost spit in her wrath.

Hestia's usually pleasant tones grew sharp and stern. “He wasn't whining, Ionessa. He told us because we asked. Perhaps you should try talking to him rather than railing like a disappointed spinster after a three-day bacchanal.”

Nessa caught her breath. Hestia
never
talked to her that way. Yet now her blue eyes were icy and disapproving, and Nessa stung as if she'd been slapped. “I'm sorry you think that, Aunt Hestia.” But she was stiff and hurt, not really sorry.

“Nessa, come down here.”

Nessa hadn't heard Calista give a command in that tone since she was a child. She climbed off the stool and stood between them, hating MacNaught for ruining her life, for turning her aunts against her, for everything that had gone wrong.

The two aunts placed themselves in front of Nessa.

Hestia started. “All your life, Calista and I have worried about the frightening restraints you've put on yourself and your emotions.”

Calista continued, “When Jeremiah came along, we laughed for joy, because he cracked that shell you'd formed around yourself. For the first time, we saw how brightly the light of joy could shine in you.”

“That wasn't joy, that was lust.” If Nessa thought that would shake them, she was sadly mistaken.

Hestia nodded. “They're one and the same—pleasure not to be denied.”

“I should have denied him.”

“Should have?” Calista looked appalled. “For what reason? Life is to be lived, not shunted aside until all the days are aches and ashes.”

“If I'd denied him, you wouldn't be mad at me.”

“That's silly, Nessa. What we think isn't important to you,” Calista said.

Hestia laughed. “Well…it's not important except when we have a great wisdom to share, as we do now.”

Calista laughed, too. “Right. Your emotions are your emotions, and you have the right to feel each and every one of them.”

Hestia cupped Nessa's cheek and looked into her eyes. “But dear, darling girl, not everything that has happened has been bitter, and this year's Mardi Gras events have opened new doors for you. You're learning a new job, and you're good at it. Sister and I have money we didn't imagine, and I know that lifted a burden from your shoulders. So explore your unhappiness, then straighten your shoulders, smile, and move on. And maybe…don't judge Jeremiah harshly until you've talked to him yourself.”

“I did talk to him. This afternoon, remember? Do you know what he said? He said he was going to prosecute you for the robberies, anyway.”

Calista tsked. “That poor boy. He's angry at the world, striking out blindly, trying to get attention.”

“Is there nothing he can do that will make you see what an ass he is?” Nessa asked in despair.

Hestia turned toward the doorway. “Miss Maddy! What are you doing up?”

Maddy stood there in her red bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, and glared. “Are you girls going to stay up and chat all night long, or are you going to bed? Breakfast is coming blasted early in the morning.”

“We were just telling Nessa to talk to Jeremiah,” Calista said.

“I heard you. I've been listening for a while.” Maddy peered at Nessa. “You gonna do it?”

“I don't want to talk to him.” Even Nessa could hear the sulky tone in her voice.

“Of course not. You're enjoying your own private pity party far too much for that.” Hestia pinched the same cheek she had stroked.

Nessa didn't want to admit it. Not now. Not about him. But the aunts had an instinct about people.

Did they have an instinct about Mac MacNaught?

“Miss Maddy's right. We're all tired,” Hestia said.

“Of course Miss Maddy's right.” Maddy made a shooing gesture toward the stairs.

“Let's go to bed,” Calista said. “Nessa, tomorrow you can look for an apartment. This weekend you can move in. Monday will be the start of a new week, and a chance to clear things up with Jeremiah.”

“His name isn't Jeremiah. It's Mac.”

As the aunts drifted out of the kitchen, Calista said, “Jeremiah's his real first name, chère. Didn't you know?”