Baroque and Desperate by Tamar Myers

Author:Tamar Myers [Myers, Tamar]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: aVe4EvA
Publisher: Avon Books, HarperCollins
Published: 2011-05-23T19:12:03+00:00

12

Edith answered the door. She made a poor substitute for Flora—even a real French maid would have been more polite.

“Yes?” she snapped.

“I’m Abby, remember?” I tried to push past, but her linebacker bulk prevented me.

“Who are you?” she demanded of Daniel.

“Daniel Triplett, ma’am. I’m here—”

“Danny? Little Wet Danny?”

Daniel turned the color of a maraschino cherry. “That’s Little Wet Tradd. Nobody ever called me that.” He took a step back, and I slipped behind him. “Who are you?”

“Edith, silly. You remember, Edith Burton—only now it’s Edith Jansen.”

“You’re kidding!”

She shook her head, her broad face glowing like a two-candle jack-o’-lantern. She was wearing even more gold than usual, and I heard the faint tinkle of eighteen-karat hoops.

“Hey, I haven’t changed that much, have I?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Daniel bit his lip.

“I have? How?” Foolish woman—even Tweetie knows that’s on the list of top ten questions a

130

woman should never ask, and that’s when dealing with a normal man.

“Well, uh”—Daniel struggled valiantly—“you’ve grown up, for one thing.”

“And?”

“And, instead of looking like the sweet, young girl you used to be, you now look like this season’s average recruit for the NFL.”

“What?”

“Well, not exactly, of course, since they’re guys and you’re a woman, and I did say average—and no one person can resemble a group average, strictly speaking. But with those shoulders you could play one hell of a defense, and the last time I saw a neck that thick, it was attached to a bull.”

“Well, I never!”

“Edith? Who’s there?” I heard the grande dame call just as Daniel was about to get the door slammed in his face.

“No one important, Grandmother. It’s just a tourist from Ohio looking for Myrtle Beach. I’m giving him directions.”

Daniel peered down the hall—that is to say, he jockeyed to see around the hulking Edith. “Mrs. Latham, is that you? It’s me, Daniel Chapman Triplett!”

“Who?”

Daniel repeated his full name.

“Ah, yes,” the old lady said, advancing slowly. “Little Wet Daniel. Shirley and Otis Triplett’s boy. There’s another one of you, isn’t there?”

“Yes, ma’am, my brother Rhett. But it wasn’t me who cried all the time. It was Tradd.”

“Nonsense. No Burton would blubber like that child did.”

“No, ma’am, you’re wrong. It was Tradd, for sure.” Daniel had his faults, but he was as brave as his biblical namesake. I’d sooner face a den of lions than an outraged octogenarian. A ticker that old has got to be a fragile thing, and this one had been through a lot already that day. At any moment, that ancient heart was liable to stop short, never to run again. It’s not something I’d want on my conscience.

“Step aside,” Genevieve Latham said to her granddaughter, who obediently and wisely stepped back into the foyer. That’s when the old lady saw me cowering behind Daniel.

“You—child!”

I froze. Perhaps her vision wasn’t as good as I thought. If I didn’t move she might think I was Daniel’s shadow.

“Abigail—that’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled.

She had no trouble hearing. “Come in, child, and step lively. You too, Little Wet Boy. I may seem rich to you, but I can’t afford to cool all of South Carolina.

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