“Don’t do this,” Bart said, his color fading, a look of panic emerging. “We’re family. I’m—”
“Going to be better off depending on yourself rather than the money my father made. Trust me. You’ll thank me one day.”
A thump below drew their attention.
“Simeon?” a woman called out. “Are you presentable? I wanted to show you the new sketch for the library piece.”
“I’m up here, Calliope,” he called, turning to shoot Bart a warning. He didn’t like to discuss personal affairs in front of his artists, especially the lovely Calliope. Of course, they weren’t “his” artists, but they stayed at Laurel Woods because he fed and housed them, as well as commissioned their art for the town and surrounding businesses. The house and grounds his mother had loved so had been turned into a place of solitude, a place birthing beauty. It was a legacy that would continue with the huge allocation of resources upon his death. Until then, he’d continue to provide for the foundation.
“Oh, shall I come up?” she called.
“Make her go away. We’re not finished yet,” Bart said.
“No, we are finished,” Simeon said, rising. He didn’t want Calliope to see inside his rooms. Hattie hadn’t come to clean in a few days because her grandson was ill. A pair of pajamas on the floor and rumpled bedclothes weren’t an acceptable tableau for receiving a lady. “I’ll come down.”
Even if it meant another flare-up of pain.
“Is that the one the town says is after your money?” Bart asked, his voice low, still panicked.
“Pish posh, that girl isn’t after my money. But Calliope is the person I’ve chosen to run the foundation. She’s bright, talented and—”
“A whore. I’ve heard about her. Seducing all the men in town. Barefoot, no bra—she’s a dirty heathen. And that’s who you want to give the money to? Some fruitcake hippie who has slept with half the men in town?”
“Well, if it isn’t the pot,” Simeon said, picking up the ebony cane and moving at a turtle’s pace toward the open door. “Seems rather a double standard from a man who’s paid for two abortions.”
As Simeon entered the upper hall, he caught sight of the loveliest artist he’d ever had the pleasure of hosting. She’d already turned and was heading down the stairs toward the marble-tiled foyer, her elegant hands gripping a sketch pad. She wore a broom skirt and her unbound blond hair just touched the curve of her buttocks. She padded barefoot, soundless on the curving staircase, a lithe sprite, full of energy and light. He’d never felt an attraction for a woman before, his tendencies leaning toward nubile young men, but he fancied he had a crush on the ethereal sculptor.
Something about her pulled at him.
Just as he reached the stairs, he felt Bart behind him.
“Please,” Bart begged. “Please don’t do this, uncle. We’re family.”
Simeon shook his head, turning back to tell Bart to stop groveling. Simeon felt his weight shift oddly, the foot that dangled over the first step downward found only air. He grasped for the banister, the cane falling from his hand and clattering to the tile below. And then he fell, slamming into the wall with enough force to make the sconce flicker, striking his head hard. Needles of pain flew at him from all directions as his body crashed down the marble staircase.
He heard the terrified scream and didn’t know if it came from him or someone else. And just before he surrendered to the darkness coming for him, he saw the angel. Her eyes were wide, the color of the hydrangea still blooming at his door. Her silken hair, golden like the sunrise. She reached out for him, radiating comfort.
And then he was no more.
December, present day
ABIGAIL ORGERON GLANCED back at her twelve-year-old daughter as they approached the small white house located directly behind the antebellum home where they lived. Birdie resembled a prisoner sentenced to hang, trudging as if the happy cottage was the scaffold.
Birdie looked at the house with the stained glass and bamboo wind chimes, soulful eyes roving the charcoal shutters, regret shadowing her face. Not even the string of large-bulb Christmas lights could erase the dread from her face.
Well, Birdie shouldn’t have stooped to spying on the lone occupant of the house if she didn’t want to face the consequences of her actions.
“Please, Mom,” her daughter said, her glance sliding to meet Abigail’s.
“Sorry, but you must,” Abigail said, her lips automatically dipping when she noticed the makeup Birdie had applied. Over the past year, her daughter had grown rebellious, doing things she knew her mother did not approve of. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”
Birdie looked away. “Yeah.”
Since muttering whatever or giving the silent treatment was Birdie’s typical reply, Abigail counted herself lucky to get an actual response. Her daughter had tucked away the manners Abigail had instilled in her from the time she began babbling. “It’s yes, ma’am, and I don’t want to see that crap on your face again. You’re too young.”
“I’m not too young. I’m in the seventh grade. All the girls wear makeup.”
“Except you.”
Birdie made a great show of sighing and rolling her eyes. They were pretty green eyes, lined in black. She’d also managed to find some awful bubblegum-pink lip gloss. She looked like a little girl playing dress up, but maybe in Abigail’s mind she always would look like her little girl.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this. It was no big deal and you’re making a federal case out of something stupid.” Birdie stopped on the walk and crossed her thin arms. Pink stained the girl’s cheeks, and Abigail was certain it hadn’t come from the cosmetic drawer. She also suspected this was a bigger deal than Birdie wanted to make it. Birdie had told her she’d spied on Leif Lively only twice last month, but Abigail doubted her claim. The kid had gotten awfully interested in drawing birds from the perch in the big tree out back.
“Spying on people is a crime. It’s called being a Peeping Tom...at worst, stalking.”
“I wasn’t stalking. Just, uh, looking a little. I didn’t intend to spy,” Birdie said, not moving another inch up the walk.
“All you have to do is apologize. Don’t worry. No beatings or stringing up by the toenails will commence.”
Birdie shook her head. “Don’t make me. He doesn’t even know.”
“That doesn’t change the fact your actions were wrong. You have to apologize, Birdie.”
“Stop calling me that ridiculous child’s name.”
Abigail sighed. “It’s not a child’s name. It’s cute.”
Birdie burned her with a laser glare. “I don’t do cute, Mom.”
No, she didn’t. Not anymore. Birdie had gone from fluffy tutus and sparkly shoes to skinny jeans and a black hoodie. The one thing that hadn’t changed was her size. Birdie may have been in the seventh grade, but she looked like a fourth grader. Slim, small and defiant, she had gone from funny Birdie to brooding Brigitte.
“Fine,