THE BACHELOR PARTY Read online

  Ford had grown up with little C.T.'s daddy, Charles, Sr. They'd fished together most summers, run traps in the winter and shared cheap cigars behind the schoolhouse whenever Charles managed to swipe a decent-size butt from his granddaddy.

  Ford had thrown passes to Charles for three years at Clover High and they'd gotten hammered together on 'shine graduation night. The next day Ford had sat in the front row of the pretty white Baptist chapel out on Charleston Road

  when Charles had married his sweetheart, Mareena Sue.

  Two weeks later Charles had stood next to Ford in the rain while the minister of the Community Church had read the burial service over Ford's parents, and through the years Charles and Reeny had served as uncle and aunt to Lucy when she'd been growing up. It had been a sad day a year ago when Ford had been forced to arrest Charles for nearly killing Reeny in a drunken rage.

  Some folks still held that Ford should have let his friend off with a stiff warning instead of hauling him off to jail. Others claim Ford did right to arrest the man, but owed it to Charles to put in a good word with the judge at the trial instead of testifying for the prosecution. Those same folks blamed Ford for the stiff sentence Charles had received. What earthly good was a conscience to a man if he couldn't make it bend in a good cause? they'd asked one another over a beer at Fitzgerald's Bar and Grill or a cup of coffee at Peg's.

  There were times during his all-too-frequent sleepless nights when Ford wondered if those folks weren't dead right. Maybe it would have been better to bend the rules by which he ran his life in order to keep the next best thing to a blood brother he'd ever had.

  "How's C.T. doing with his trumpet playin'?" he asked when the old man had settled his bones. "Still fixin' to be the next Louis Armstrong?"

  The old man chuckled. "Way he's apracticin', he'll be that, sure enough. Last time I saw Charles we spent the entire hour takin' turns braggin' on C.T."

  Ford thumbed the thick handle of his mug and thought about the one and only time he'd gone to visit his old friend. Charles had called him every name in a very thick book before making it plain that Ford wasn't welcome to visit again. And Reeny, who worked for Ford as a night dispatcher for the sheriff's and fire departments, treated him more like an employer than a friend these days.

  "How's Charles doin'?"

  The old man sighed. "Middlin'. It's hard for him to be caged like he is."

  Ford winced inwardly, but habit kept his facial muscles immobile. "Is he still takin' those college courses?"

  "Says he is."

  While C.T.'s granddaddy studied the menu he knew by heart, Ford watched Sophie serving ham and grits to a slick-looking stranger in a shirt and tie at the far end of the counter. Ford marked him as a salesman, and harmless. When Sophie laughed at something the guy said, however, Ford found himself scowling at that good ole boy like a jealous lover.

  Disgusted at himself, he jerked his gaze back to his plate. Mooning over a woman he barely knew was a risky way to start out his day.

  "Good morning, Mr. Washington. What are your bunions saying today?"

  Lost in his own dark thoughts, Ford hadn't seen Sophie approaching. Glancing up, he caught her smiling at Bram with more warmth than he'd gotten on his best day. His mood edged from grumpy to foul. Too much coffee, he figured. Or not enough sleep.

  "Well, I tell you true, Miss Sophie, I haven't heard a peep from those bunions at all this mornin'." The old man's eyes twinkled brightly in his brown face, and Ford could tell he approved of Peg's latest hire. It wasn't exactly the kind of scientific evidence most cops swore by these days, but Ford had never known Bram to be wrong about a person's character. Heck, he'd been the first to support Ford's decision to arrest Charles. And he'd never once voiced even the mildest criticism since.

  "What can I bring you this morning, Mr. Washington?" Sophie asked, her pencil poised over her pad. One of the first things Ford had noticed was the bare ring finger of her left hand. According to Lucy, who'd been at Kate's house when she'd arrived, she had her a child to support, a little baby girl, he seemed to recall.

  Maybe the sadness he caught in her eyes now and again had to do with her husband's death. Ford had seen others go plum crazy from grief after the loss of a spouse, which was one reason he'd made up his mind to live and die a bachelor.

  The other reasons were a lot more personal—and a lot more painful. He'd grown up listening to his parents arguing, then fighting, and finally hurling bitter insults and accusations at each other. After a while, he'd learned to sleep with his head under his pillow instead of on it.

  During the day, however, he'd had no such protection. His mama had cried a lot, and Ford had tried to comfort her. He still winced when he remembered coming home from school one fall when he'd just turned twelve to find her gliding downstairs in her best dress, smelling like summer roses. "Hurry and wash up, honey, 'cause I'm takin' my best beau out for a late lunch," she'd ordered in that shivery Charleston drawl he still heard sometimes in his dreams.

  They'd gone to Clarke's Steakhouse. He could still remember how heads had turned when they'd walked in. And how the men at the bar had stared at his mother's legs.

  When she'd given him money to attend a matinee at the movie house while she did some boring old shopping, he'd never once suspected that she'd been carrying on with Race Clarke in the room above the restaurant. Or that the pink he'd noticed in her cheeks when he'd met her back there after the movie let out had been caused by whisker burn instead of fast walking the way she'd claimed.

  He was smart enough now to know that not all women were like his mama. He just wasn't sure he was smart enough to pick one who wasn't.

  "Guess the number three would go down right this mornin'," Bram answered after due reflection. "I like my eggs over hard."

  Sophie glanced up from her pad and narrowed her gaze. "You had eggs yesterday. Remember your cholesterol count."

  "Hmm, can't say as I do."

  "Two sixty-five." Leaning forward, she pointed with the pencil to the number six breakfast. "How about some oatmeal and fruit?"

  "How about grits instead?"

  She shook her head. "Too much butter."

  Blatantly eavesdropping, Ford had to work at keeping his poker face. Bram was as stubborn as the gray-haired mule he kept in a pen behind his place. It seemed that Sophie had some of that same stubbornness hidden behind those solemn blue eyes.

  "A mess of hash browns, then," Bram bargained, his eyes taking on a cagey glint.

  "Whole-wheat toast would be better."

  Bram shared a look of pure misery with Ford before grudgingly giving in. "That toast better come with some of Peg's strawberry jam," he added in a last-ditch effort that had her soft lips curving. Sucker punched by a sudden yearning to feel that sometimes-sad mouth moving under his, Ford concentrated on his coffee. Hell, he didn't have a problem with wanting to take the woman to bed. He just wanted to make sure he was calling all the shots.

  "Someday I'll have to introduce you to my daughter," she chided Bram as she took back the menu. "The two of you have a lot in common."

  "Now that would be a pleasure, yes, ma'am," Bram answered, grinning. "How old is that young un' of yours, anyway?"

  "Nine months, and growing like a weed."

  "Most likely one of our Carolina wildflowers, if she's like her mama."

  She blushed a pretty shade of pink, but her eyes narrowed. "Now, Mr. Washington, that is a charming thing to say," she said, smiling so sweetly Ford felt something ease inside him. "But don't think you can sweet-talk me into bringing you grits, because someone has to watch out for you, and it's sure not you."

  Before she left, she glanced Ford's way. "More coffee, Sheriff?" she asked politely. She didn't waste a smile, sweet or otherwise. Is that all she had to say to him—More coffee, Sheriff?

  "No, ma'am, but thank you for asking."

  "You're welcome." Calmly, efficiently, she collected his dirty dishes and headed toward the kitchen, her tidy little backside catch
ing his attention one more time.

  He felt another slam of sexual interest, stronger than before, and not as easily dismissed. Damn, he thought, downing the rest of his coffee in one bitter gulp before getting to his feet.

  "Something botherin' you, son?" Bram asked, lifting one bushy eyebrow.

  "Nothin' special. Just figured it was time I did somethin' to earn my salary today."

  Maybe it was also time to take him a trip down to Clay City. Get in some Christmas shopping while he was at it, and treat green-eyed, blond-haired Sissy Tyrone to one of those expensive dinners she liked so much. If history repeated itself, she'd invite him back to her place for brandy and a wild few hours on those silk sheets she fancied.

  He dropped some bills on the counter next to his empty plate, aware that he was tipping way too much. He figured a widow with a baby to support needed the money more than he did, and besides, it was the least a man could do for a woman he'd just decided to get into his bed, come hell or high water.

  Jessie's laughing brown eyes followed the spoon as Sophie made circles in the air, coming closer to her daughter's mouth each time.

  "Zoom, zoom, zoom," she buzzed, then beamed as Jessie imitated her eagerly, "Zoo', zoo'."

  "Here comes the airplane, Jess," she murmured. "Get ready now … zoom, zoom, zoom!"

  Jessie laughed, clapping her chubby hands excitedly. Laughing, too, Sophie shoved the spoonful of pureed peas into the rosebud mouth.

  "Uh-oh," she muttered as Jessie's silky eyebrows drew together in a furious frown and her lips puckered. Hastily, Sophie set the jar of peas on the table and grabbed the towel she'd readied just in case. Sure enough, out came the peas, helped along by Jessie's little pink tongue.

  Sophie and Miss Fanny exchanged looks over Jessie's curly head. "Gracious, how that child does hate anything green," Miss Fanny murmured, her faded blue eyes mirrors of distress.

  Once lauded as the belle of three counties and now well into her seventies, Frances Beaulieu Bedford was the last living member of two of Clover's four founding families.

  Though well-educated and well-read, she'd been gently but persistently guided by her genteel mother toward the express goal of marrying well. Now almost sixty years after the fact, Sophie still heard accounts of the joy that had spread through the town's best families when eighteen-year-old Fanny had become engaged to John Raymond Hampton IV, the scion of another of Clover's first families.

  But Johnny Ray had died at Anzio during the Second World War and Miss Fanny had put her heart into lavender-scented storage along with her heirloom wedding gown. She'd spent fifty of those lonely years giving piano and deportment lessons to other people's children and now filled her days with volunteer work at the library and the hospital.

  As soon as she'd heard Sophie questioning Katie about day-care for Jessie, she'd volunteered her services as a live-in sitter, and Sophie had wholeheartedly accepted, only to realize soon thereafter, that by accepting Miss Fanny's offer, she had unwittingly offended Miss Rose Ruth Adamson, the third resident on the top floor, who'd been about to offer her services. As a result, the ladies took turns caring for the baby and everyone, especially Sophie, was satisfied.

  None of them, however, had been able to entice Jessie to swallow that first bite of peas or green beans or spinach, and as Sophie swiped the last of the peas from Jessie's now pouting mouth, she fought down a rush of panic. At her last checkup, Dr. Gossely had wondered aloud if Jessie wasn't just a tad overweight. More vegetables and less fruit had been his prescription, and Sophie was determined to follow his advice to the letter.

  "You have to eat your veggies, sweetheart," she crooned to her now red-faced daughter.

  "How about mashin' up some of the zucchini squash I canned last year?" Katie suggested, looking up from peeling potatoes for the evening meal.

  "Rose Ruth and I tried that first," Miss Fanny assured her in a soft-spoken drawl. "Didn't we, sugar?" she added in an aside to the baby who started to wail.

  "And I've tried everything else the grocery store had on its shelves. Peas were my last hope." Sophie quickly opened a jar of strained plums and offered Jessie a spoonful. Furious now, Jessie turned her head to the side and wailed louder.

  "Now, now, sugar, don't fuss, hear?" Miss Fanny captured one of Jessie's flailing fists and attempted to pat it. Jessie refused to be distracted.

  "She's never been a fussy eater before," Sophie said, sharing a helpless look with her elderly friend.

  "Do you think she's sick?" Katie asked anxiously, leaving the sink to hover next to the other two women.

  "She seemed fine when I got home from work." Just in case, Sophie touched her fingertips to her daughter's cheek, then shook her head at the others. "It doesn't feel as though she has a fever."

  "Aunt Peg mentioned something about a bug goin' around," Katie said, still holding a half-peeled potato in one hand and a paring knife in the other.

  "Maybe I'd better call Dr. Gossely just in case." Without bothering to hide her fear, Sophie plucked Jessie from the chair and settled her on her lap. Jessie let out one more wail, hiccuped a few times before planting her minuscule thumb firmly in her mouth and nestled against Sophie's breast. Soon she was jabbering away in a language all her own.

  "Why the little dear just wanted some cuddlin' from her mama," Miss Fanny asserted, beaming first at Jessie and then at Sophie.

  Katie's mouth popped open, and then she laughed. "I think I'd hold off on callin' Doc Gossely if I were you," she commented before returning to the sink.

  "I believe I'll just take that advice," Sophie decided, hugging Jessie close. It felt so good to have the warm weight of her baby pressed against the breasts that had ached for weeks after they'd taken Jessie away.

  Her grief had been bottomless, and Darlene had feared for her sanity. The days had blurred together in an smothering black haze, broken only by frequent bouts of uncontrollable sobbing. Only when Sophie had come up with the plan to get Jessie back had she begun to come alive again.

  She'd been terrified, and yet determined. It had been surprisingly easy to gain admittance to the Manwaring house while Anita and Wells, Sr., had been attending a political gala, even easier to slip past the nanny who'd been watching TV in her room. Jessie hadn't been discovered missing until early the next morning, by which time Sophie and the baby had already crossed three states.

  She knew there were people looking for her. The Manwarings had plenty of money and, more importantly, political clout. All Sophie had was her determination to keep Jessie from growing up in the same sterile, repressive, joyless house that had produced Wells.

  Bending her head, she kissed Jessie's shiny curls before breathing in the sweet scent of her. "Mama loves you dearly, my sweet precious baby," she murmured as she nuzzled Jessie with her chin.

  A pale brown at birth, the baby's hair was slowly but surely turning darker, like hers. Jessie had her chin, too. And her slanting eyebrows. But Jessie's eyes were very like her father's.

  Sophie felt a wave of deep sadness pass through her. She and Wells had started their marriage with such high hopes—at least she had. After all that had happened, she would never be sure that she'd known what Wells had felt about anything, even her.

  Glancing up, she discovered Miss Fanny gazing at her with sad longing. "If my dear Johnny Ray hadn't gone into the service in 1941, I would have filled our lives with babies," she murmured. "He wanted at least nine, for a baseball team, you see. My Johnny was right partial to baseball."

  Sophie smiled, her heart going out to the older woman who had treated her with generosity and kindness from the moment they'd met. "He sounds like a wonderful man, Miss Fanny. No wonder you loved him so very much."

  "Aunt Peg remembers him from when she was a girl," Katie called over her shoulder. "She said he and Lucy's grandfather were the two handsomest men in Clover County."

  Fanny pursed her lips and took her time thinking that through before nodding slowly. "I do believe my Johnny was a mite bette
r looking than Buchanan Maguire."

  "Old Buck must have been something, though, you have to admit." Katie dropped the last potato in the boiling water on the back burner of the big stove and adjusted the fire. "Has Aunt Peg ever told you about him, Sophie?"

  "No, although she's mentioned Miss Fanny's Johnny Ray."

  Katie dried her hands before carrying a mess of winter peas and a large bowl to the table. Before she sat down, however, she poured herself a glass of iced tea and then refilled Sophie's glass for her. Miss Fanny preferred her tea hot, and the teapot was still half-full under the knitted tea cozy.

  "Old Buck could have stepped right out of a Civil War novel, drooping cavalry mustache, swaggering walk, shiny boots and all," Katie continued, settling into her chair. "What was he, Miss Fanny? Six feet seven?"

  Miss Fanny's eyes took on a reminiscent sheen. "In his boots, taller than that. I remember because I danced with him once when I made my debut, and my nose was just even with the middle stud of this beautifully ironed dress shirt."

  "Do girls still have coming-out parties in the South?" Sophie asked curiously.

  "Very rarely," Miss Fanny said with a sigh. "It's such a shame, too. In my day a girl looked forward to her debut almost as much as she did to her wedding."

  "Do y'all still have debutante balls in Montana?" Katie asked, snapping open a pea pod.

  Sophie shook her head. At least none of the girls she'd met in the six weeks she'd spent working on a ranch there when she'd been a sophomore at Oregon State had mentioned being a debutante.

  Still cradling her now-sleeping baby, she reached for a handful of peas and set about shelling them into the bowl. Initially reticent to stray far from her room unless she was taking Jessie for an outing or preparing her bottles, she had gradually come to feel at home in the big old kitchen with frilly yellow-and-white-checked curtains at the tall windows and a redbrick fireplace taking up one wall.