Abigail, for one, didn’t ask a single question, as promised, merely ordered a smartly dressed young man to ready the Rose Salon and take up the shopping bag Shelby carried before waving Shelby into the dining room where a carafe of tea sat along with some pecan-studded muffins and perfect tea cakes.
“John, why don’t you fetch some milk for the tea and call Birdie inside? The sun’s about to set and I don’t want her breaking her fool neck in that oak tree,” Abigail said to her brother, dismissing him as she sank onto a velvet flocked chair of crimson. “Sit down and I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
Shelby didn’t want to be there and didn’t want tea, but she sat down anyway. John glanced at her, concerned, but slipped through the swinging door no doubt leading to the kitchen. “You have a lovely place.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said, lifting the steaming pot and pouring the fragrant tea into a delicate cup. Handing it to Shelby, she smiled. “Hibiscus herbal tea. I can’t tolerate caffeine this close to bedtime. Stay awake all night.”
“Thanks,” Shelby said, taking the cup and balancing it on her knee, glad she hadn’t had to ask for decaffeinated.
“Sugar?”
“One spoonful, please.”
Swirling the spoon and clanking it on the lip of the cup, Shelby glanced up to find John’s sister staring at her with a curious expression on her face.
John’s sister looked older than him. She had an elegant silver forelock that swept her inky shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were a clear green, cheekbones high, chin long, mouth generous. Her navy slacks and trim apple-green cardigan portrayed no nonsense and easy sophistication. Soft tan leather ballet flats backed up the impression. Here was a woman who chaired committees, ran a house like a field general and...waited for others to explain themselves.
Silence sat fat between them. Abigail sipped her tea, never wavering in her stare, waiting for someone, presumably Shelby, to clarify the situation.
Shelby shifted in her chair as John reentered carrying a carton of milk and dragging a young girl with tangled hair and a pair of binoculars around her neck.
“Mom, I can’t believe you’re making me come inside. I had just gotten my ’nocs trained on that woodpecker. How am I supposed to draw him in his habitat? This is preposterous,” the tiny girl declared with a stomp of her sneaker.
“Birdie, you’ve been out there for the past hour and still have some reading to complete,” Abigail said, her eye going immediately to the dirt left by the sneaker stomp. “You’re tracking in the house.”
The girl wore glasses that made her blue eyes look impossibly large. The skinny jeans made her more waiflike and the oversize Flash Gordon shirt didn’t help. She looked exactly like her name. “It’s Thanksgiving break, Mom. I’m not reading that stupid AR book over my holiday.”
Abigail’s eyes widened but she said nothing, turning instead back to Shelby. “Shelby, this is my daughter, Eva Brigitte. We call her Birdie.”
“Hi,” Shelby said.
The girl glowered but muttered, “Hey.”
“Now, get cleaned up for dinner. Shelby is one of our guests tonight and doesn’t want to hear our squabbling over homework.” Abigail’s voice brooked no argument.
Birdie flashed her mother a withering look and ran toward the stairs, leaving more zigzag dirt on the polished floor. She may or may not have muttered “whatever” on her escape.
John stared after his niece looking as perplexed as Shelby felt. “Since when has she been fond of sketching woodpeckers?”
“Oh, it’s those Audubon prints scattered all over the inn. She’s so strong willed and—” Abigail waved her hand. “Let’s not do this right now. Birdie is Birdie.”
John’s lips tipped up, softening him. “She’s something else.”
His sister nodded. “That’s one way to put it. So, Shelby, how long will you be with us?”
“I’m not sure. Through Saturday?”
Abigail gave her the “you don’t know?” look and then glanced toward John, the unspoken question in her eyes.
“At least through Saturday. Actually, I’m bringing Shelby to Thanksgiving dinner.”
Abigail’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “Really?”
Shelby swallowed, wondering if she should correct him or merely accept the fact she was stuck with John in Magnolia Bend for a week.
“It’ll be nice to have a guest at our table. Friends are always welcome,” Abigail said, sliding another glance to John. The unstated questions literally pulsed in the quietness.
Shelby knew Abigail wanted to grill John, but likely relied on Southern graciousness in order to bite her tongue. Shelby wasn’t from the South so she said, “Just so you know, we’re just friends. Met a few months back.”
“Oh,” Abigail said, her gaze meeting Shelby’s. “I didn’t know John had started dating again.”
“We’re not dating,” John said, settling his hands on his lean hips. “Like Shelby said we’re just friends.”
“Yes,” Shelby agreed. “Just friends.”
“But he’s brought you home to meet his family,” Abigail persisted, unconvinced.
“I had some business to take care of down here,” Shelby said, setting the half-empty cup back on the antique tea cart with a clatter. “Getting to spend time with John is a bonus of sorts. Unfortunately, my health prevents me from flying back to Seattle and spending the holiday with my own family. John volunteered to help me get settled here for a few days, thinking I’d enjoy the small town atmosphere better than the busyness of Baton Rouge.”
“I knew she’d like Laurel Woods...just wasn’t sure you’d have room,” John said.
“I have room until Friday. This weekend the Candy Cane Festival starts, and I’m booked solid for a week. You’re welcome to stay until then. What about your health? Is there anything special I need to know?” Abigail looked worried, as if at any moment she might whip out Lysol and start spraying.
“No, nothing contagious,” Shelby said, almost laughing. Almost. ’Cause there wasn’t anything really funny about being an unwed, unemployed single mother who’d conceived a baby in the bathroom of a roadside honky-tonk that also sold bait and beer during daylight hours. “I appreciate you putting me up on such short notice, but I think I’ll head to my room for a shower and an early night.”
“Can I at least make you a sandwich?” Abigail volunteered. She didn’t look as worried anymore. “Ham? Turkey?”
“If you have peanut butter and jelly, that would be perfect,” Shelby said, rising and scooping up her purse. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Sure,” Abigail said, setting her cup on the cart and standing. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“I’ll walk her up,” John said to Abigail.
Seconds later, they climbed the grand staircase to the second floor. The rooms were all marked by placards, most named after flowers. Shelby withdrew the old-fashioned skeleton key and inserted it in the keyhole, the whirring machinations releasing the lock. Vintage outside, modern inside.
John pushed open the door and Shelby sucked in her breath.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed out.
“Yeah, pretty grand,” John said.
The room had raspberry walls stretching up to a ceiling with insets and heavy crown molding.