Read below to learn more about Curtain Call, a romance novel set in the Deep South...
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Tomorrow is another day!
It’s also a plantation town in Georgia where cotton, peaches, and pecans are king, or perhaps more accurately, a harmonious triumvirate. But beneath the Southern charm, a vicious murderer waits.
The Whittakers operate Belle Maison, a huge plantation in Tomorrow. Sophy Whittaker, engaged to a powerful New York producer, has taken the Broadway stage by storm. Before threatening letters and a vicious attack can drive her back home—and straight into the arms of gorgeous Gideon Westmoreland—her parents are murdered, and she must face her own grief and her fiancé’s betrayal.
Past tragedy has forced Gideon into adulthood far too soon, making him responsible for his tribe of brothers and sisters and the Westmoreland Way Plantation, which lays adjacent to Belle Maison. When Sophy’s parents are killed, Gideon finds himself in the uncomfortable role of consoler, when what he really wants is her.
Passion, love, and violence take center stage as the terror and drama unfold in the luxury of the Old South. Flanked by their families, Sophy and Gideon must reconcile their dreams of the future with the nightmare of the present if they want to stop the killer from destroying his next target—Sophy.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Pay to Play
Dear readers,
At the urging of some smart friends, I've decided that protecting my book...is a good idea. Rather than make myself a target for intellectual theft, I'd rather be smart and proactive. To this end (with the invaluable advice of Marissa's husband Chris), I've created a Donation button on this blog. To protect all of us, I've set up the Donation button via PayPal, so your information and your money are secure. Simply donate whatever amount you think is appropriate, and I'll respond within 24 hours with the rest of Curtain Call.
Amber is quite correct in thinking that I have sincere doubts that strangers will pay to read an unknown author. :) Hopefully, the chapters you've read here assure you that I am dedicated to providing you with quality material that both entertains and inspires you. It is a full length romance novel, comparable to Nora Roberts or Amanda Quick length.
Anyway, that's how this particular cookie has crumbled. If you have any questions, simply comment on this post, and I will answer you as swiftly and succinctly as possible. You can also email me at mollyhtouchton at gmail dot com. Use all the regular symbols :) ; I wrote them out so I won't get crazy spam...
Thanks for reading,
Molly Touchton
At the urging of some smart friends, I've decided that protecting my book...is a good idea. Rather than make myself a target for intellectual theft, I'd rather be smart and proactive. To this end (with the invaluable advice of Marissa's husband Chris), I've created a Donation button on this blog. To protect all of us, I've set up the Donation button via PayPal, so your information and your money are secure. Simply donate whatever amount you think is appropriate, and I'll respond within 24 hours with the rest of Curtain Call.
Amber is quite correct in thinking that I have sincere doubts that strangers will pay to read an unknown author. :) Hopefully, the chapters you've read here assure you that I am dedicated to providing you with quality material that both entertains and inspires you. It is a full length romance novel, comparable to Nora Roberts or Amanda Quick length.
Anyway, that's how this particular cookie has crumbled. If you have any questions, simply comment on this post, and I will answer you as swiftly and succinctly as possible. You can also email me at mollyhtouchton at gmail dot com. Use all the regular symbols :) ; I wrote them out so I won't get crazy spam...
Thanks for reading,
Molly Touchton
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Chapter TWO
Sophy sat uncomfortably on the long leather couch in Adam’s sumptuous Manhattan penthouse. To keep from fidgeting, she wrapped her slender fingers around her steaming mug of chamomile. Given the way this conversation was going, she’d need something a little stronger than herbal tea to soothe her frazzled nerves. A nice shot of tequila sounded good.
A shame Adam didn’t stock any.
God, she was tired. The show had ended an hour ago, and the post performance buzz had worn off with a vengeance, as it usually did. Sophy reserved her energy during the day for the show and then spent every ounce of it on the stage. She didn’t believe in giving less than one hundred percent when she performed. The consequence was, of course, that she was ready to drop afterward. She wanted her soft pillow, down comforter, and a straight eight before having to face the world again. And yet here she was, sitting with Adam, and it was all against her better judgment.
She was tired of it, she thought again, sick and tired of this routine. He knew she didn’t like to stay out late after a show and had often made fun of her for it. Adam had said on more than one occasion, and frequently in front of his friends, how Sophy preferred “country hours” to town ones. He found her rural background amusing and often kidded her about it. It was beyond annoying.
Trying to be totally honest with herself, Sophy admitted freely that she was not firm enough with him. She allowed herself to be dragged out, and this was the price she paid—she got pissed off and had no one to blame but herself. Which brought her around to something else that was weighing on her mind tonight.
No matter how often she argued against herself, she knew this marriage would never work. No matter how good it looked on paper, no matter how much business sense it made, it just would not happen. She was attracted to him, of course, but well, she also enjoyed looking at Versace models. That didn’t mean she wanted to marry one.
What she felt for Adam, her longtime friend and manager, was warm enough, she supposed, but it was no raging inferno. When he kissed her, she didn’t see stars or feel swept away, or feel anything, dammit, that you should feel for the person you claimed to be in love with.
Besides all of that, her mother wasn’t crazy about him. It wasn’t that her mom didn’t like him, per se, just that she had never warmed to him. The whole situation seemed laughable now. Sophy couldn’t believe her mother’s opinion on this subject meant so much to her. In high school, the principle of that had been enough to make Sophy pursue a boy, but as she’d gotten older, well, she had learned to trust her mother’s “bad boy radar.” Elizabeth had yet to be wrong.
Sophy took a sip of her tea and let the hot fluid soothe her sore throat. She was still fighting a cold, (who knew they could last so long?) but—a professional to the core—she had performed tonight anyway. She felt a strong responsibility to her fans; they had paid to see her as Annie Oakley, and by God, that was what they were going to get. Sophy sighed. She was paying for it now. Shifting a little on the couch, she heard the faintest crackle of paper. The newest letter weigh like a stone in her pocket, adding another layer of unease to the already mounting pile.
“You’re not listening,” Adam said patiently, leaning back against the arm rest. In the low light and with the red and gold flickering of the crackling fire, he looked like a beautiful god who was gently chastising a recalcitrant acolyte.
She wondered briefly what it would be like to smack him across those self-satisfied lips.
“I’m sorry,” Sophy replied immediately, knowing he was right, but she thought somewhat angrily to herself, that she had heard it all before. Did she really need to hear it again? “Go ahead.”
He smiled gently at her, as if granting absolution. “It’s okay. I was just saying that I’m worried about you. You’ve seemed out of sorts lately, and I think maybe we should consider why.”
Maybe because she was considering calling off the wedding? Maybe because she was lonely and homesick? she thought briefly, trying almost desperately to avoid thinking about what was really concerning her.
Something about the letters lent itself to a shameful secrecy, and she had told no one, not even Faith or her best friend in New York, Katie, or her family. She took a moment to think about the implications of that. Adam was fourth on her list of who not to tell, when he ought to be first. Besides the fact that he was her manager, she was engaged to him. He should be the one, above all others, she could share anything with, no matter how silly or frightening or—shameful. And yet, here she sat, another letter in her pocket with her lips stubbornly sealed.
She must be more tired than she thought, Sophy mused. She could not even keep her mind on the same subject for more than a minute. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, knowing she had to call the wedding off. And when that happened, they’d part professional ways as well.
Something told Sophy that would be what actually bothered Adam the most. He would lose his cut of her fame and salary.
Well, that was cynical, Sophia Paige, she lectured herself. But was it? Was it really? Wasn’t that part of what was wrong with their personal relationship? That it wasn’t a personal relationship at all but merely an extension of their professional one? She truely felt, and now more than ever, that he was not interested in her heart but the dollar signs he saw whenever he heard her name or saw her face.
He was still smiling beneficently at her, waiting for her attention to return to him. It was a familiar expression, one she knew was supposed to be disarming and boyish but to her seemed downright patronizing. She’d been on the receiving end of it a lot recently, and it was really starting to piss her off.
“Consider what, Adam?” Sophy could not contain the note of aggravation in her voice, and Adam heard it as well and seized it as the perfect example with which to make his case.
“That’s what I’m talking about, darling. Do you hear yourself? You all but bite my head off when I express a genuine concern over your well-being.”
Sophy bit her lip. She had been snapping at him and felt badly about it. After all, it wasn’t his fault that she had suddenly become so uncomfortable with the idea of marrying him. Then she kicked herself mentally for being a pushover and a wimp.
Hell yes, it was his fault she was uncomfortable—he was a money grubber. Then she sighed internally. While his attitude had certainly not improved her mood, she had taken her unease out on him instead of actually doing something about it. She heard herself apologize again and cringed inwardly.
What precisely had she just apologized for anyway?
He nodded again, accepting her submission easily, as he always did. “What I think is that you’re having some natural, pre-wedding jitters. Planning the wedding so far has been tedious and nerve racking, what with rehearsals and performances and the other functions we’re required to attend.”
He paused and looked at her expectantly. Since everything he had said so far was pretty much true, she nodded noncommittally and took another drink from the tea. Of course, he didn’t know about the letters, and above all else, those were most on her mind.
Adam moved closer to her and took the mug from her hands, placing it on the coffee table. How she hated it when he did that. She could put her own damn mug down if and when she wanted to. Deliberately, and with her eyebrow raised, Sophy picked up her mug. He ignored her small rebellion.
“Not to mention that it’s not safe for a woman alone in the city. I worry about you in the apartment by yourself. I want to take care of you. I love you, Sophy.”
She shifted uneasily as her mind flickered back to the letter in her pocket. Perhaps he had a point. She should tell him about the letters. He was her manager after all, and he’d been in the business a long time. He would know if they were something to really be worried about, or just a part of the trade. You couldn’t have fan mail all the time.
Then Adam took her hand in his and placed his other gently, intimately on her thigh, stroking up and down from her knee. All thoughts of the letters evaporated in light of this new threat.
Instantly wary, Sophy tried to think of a diplomatic way to disengage herself.
Then something clicked inside her head—or was it her heart?—and she relaxed, having finally found the impetus to call off the wedding. When your fiancé put the moves on you, it should excite you, not make you want to run for cover.
Adam sensed her relax but misunderstood what it meant. Scenting victory, he leaned closer, brushed his mouth against her cheek. “Let me make love to you now, and then we’ll go away, maybe to Vegas or Tahoe and elope. You’ll be able to relax again. Things can be normal. I’ll take care of you.” He kissed her cheek gently, but his hand continued its foray up her leg.
Sophy supposed she would not have been more shocked than if he had asked her to give up the stage to make a career out of barreling down Niagara Falls.
Elope? Was he out of his mind?
Sophy gathered her wits and courage, pulled her hand from his. She put a hand on his chest and pushed him away none too gently.
“I’ve told you before, Adam, I’m not sleeping with you before we get married. Being stressed out is not going to change my feelings in that regard.” It sounded so lame, even to her, but she always stuck to her guns, and it was too late to change her grip now. “As for eloping—” she paused, steeling herself for the announcement she had not known she was going to make tonight, had only just decided herself. “As for eloping,” she began again, and then was relieved, in an admittedly cowardly way, when her cell phone rang. She reached for the welcome diversion, ignoring the look of frustration and missing altogether the anger in Adam’s face.
“Hi, Carter,” she said brightly, thrilled that God had blessed her with a brother in possession of such perfect timing.
“Sophia,” Carter began, his voice hoarse and low, “It’s Mom and Dad.”
***
While luscious and verdant during the spring, summer, and fall, when winter comes to Georgia, it comes with a vengeance. The only green visible on the drive from Hartsfield International Airport to Tomorrow came from the pines and magnolias along the highway. It was depressing to see the naked branches of the oaks and mimosas outlined against an equally bleak sky. Steel grey clouds promised rain before their journey was over. Sophy sighed and watched the brown grass whip by as Adam wove them skillfully in and out of traffic.
Sophy understood she was running strictly on autopilot. Adam had made all the arrangements, booked their flights, arranged for the time away from the show. He’d even packed her bags for her. Knowing she needed to pull herself together did not make it any easier for her to actually do it.
They were in Georgia now, she thought, watching the terrain pass from the window of the rented Mercedes. The crops were in; as they drove, she sat quietly, looking at miles of empty acres, the big irrigation units still standing sentinel over their fields.
It would be Thanksgiving next week, she thought dully. Thanksgiving without her parents. Adam reached over and gripped her hand tightly in his own, his thumb soothing a gentle pattern against her palm. He said nothing, which was uncharacteristically wise of him. She remained silent as well, grateful for the human contact, and continued to stare out the window.
As they entered her home town, a large freshly painted sign read, “Welcome to Tomorrow where it’s always another day!” It almost made her smile. Oh, how the town council had argued about that sign, over whether or not the famous Gone With the Wind line should be used, seeing as how the town had been established long before Ms. Mitchell was even born. She supposed the nay-sayers had finally been shouted down. Tourism, you know.
Tomorrow owed its existence to her family and the Westmorelands. Partners in a London-based shipping business, Michael Westmoreland and Richard Whittaker had moved their families to Georgia in the late eighteenth century in order to be near the crop they sold, some of the world’s finest cotton.
Well-to-do, they bought up as much land as they could, built their homes on an adjoining piece of property and the Whittaker-Westmoreland plantations, and the town of Tomorrow, were born. Fueled as most things are, by economy, the town grew quickly. There were people with money to spend or goods to barter living here, and merchants found a very willing market once they set up shop.
This was still true today, as most people who lived in Tomorrow either worked at the plantations, which now boasted peach orchards and pecan groves in addition to the original acres of cotton, or in the “support services” of restaurants, shops, schools, and markets. Even her sister’s stables were turning a very steady, extremely respectable profit.
The main bi-way of Tomorrow was Market Street. It opened onto a large square filled with live oaks and flower beds full of brilliantly colored pansies. In the spring, white and pink azaleas would open beneath the deep shade lent by the oaks, and the multi-colored heads of bearded irises would bob and sway in the breeze.
Adam drove around the square, steering them east off Market onto Spanish Moss Road, which ironically, boasted no Spanish moss. The police station flashed past, followed by a gas station, and an old diner.
Soon they approached the turn for her house, a long driveway flanked by enormous cross oaks, and she felt a weight lift away from her shoulders. No matter what there was to face, she could do it here, with her family.
She was home.
Before the car had even pulled to a complete stop, Sophy was out, running up the stairs, opening the front door. Her brothers and sisters were in the living room, just off the front door to the right. She stopped abruptly at the threshold, looking at her family. They were all here, and she knew they had been waiting for her.
She saw her sister Julia, the hard-as-nails veterinarian tomboy, try to smile and felt the tears slip down her own cheeks. Griffin grabbed her and held her tightly to him. The tears Sophy hadn’t been able to shed since she’d heard the news the night before came flooding out as he stroked her hair. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed like a child.
***
The planning wasn’t so bad, really. Sophy was goal-oriented, and having something specific to accomplish, a task to cross off the list she had made, took her mind off the awful reality. Julia and Carter still had stables and land to manage, but she was at loose ends. Broadway didn’t just up and move to rural Georgia because Sophy was there. With no work to occupy her, she appointed herself the One In Charge and made several lists of things she and her siblings needed to accomplish.
A million details were involved with death, she considered morosely. Maybe two million. Mass. Choir. Coffins. Tombstones. Wills. Insurance. Deeds. Company stocks. Wakes. Flowers. The gracious acceptance of all those goddamn casseroles people brought. Why did death always mean food? If she so much as laid eyes on another tuna casserole, she was going to scream. God, she hated tuna.
She glanced at her to-do list. The obituary still needed to be written. She’d have to light a fire under Sebastian’s ass to get it done. He was dragging his feet, not that she could blame him. She wouldn’t want to sum up her parents’ existence in five hundred words or less, reduce them to a morbid curiosity in a newspaper. And things still weren’t settled with the insurance company or the lawyer. Griffin could handle the lawyer, she decided, scratching a G next to it, and Jack and Ellie could do insurance if only because Sophy really didn’t want to. She was already handling the funeral and wake arrangements.
Closing her eyes, she set her pen down on the table and sighed deeply when heavy hands closed on her shoulders, gently massaging away some of the tension.
“It’s almost done,” Gideon said. It pained him to see her like this, looking bruised and broken. He remembered feeling the same way all too well.
Sophy reached a hand up to hold on to one of his. “Yeah. Two more days and this will be over. Sorta.”
With a last squeeze, Gideon walked over to a heavily laden kitchen counter. “Want something to eat? One of the ubiquitous casseroles, perhaps?”
“I was just thinking about how much I hate them.” She gave a weak laugh. “I suppose I ought to eat something. No tuna, though, okay? And I won’t eat alone. Grab yourself a plate too.” Sophy rose and took two glasses from a cabinet. “Coke sound good?”
“Yeah.” He watched as Sophy poured the drinks, and then he reached for a bottle of rum her dad had kept on top of the kitchen cabinets. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said, a charming smile on his lips. Anything to make her laugh, he thought.
“I won’t argue with you,” Sophy said. Gideon poured generous amounts of the Captain into both glasses and, casserole forgotten, they sat back at the table.
“Where’s Adam?” he asked. Gideon swirled the liquid in both glasses and handed one to Sophy.
“Back in New York. He’ll be here for the wake and funeral. There were just a few things he needed to take care of personally. We left the city pretty abruptly.”
Gideon wondered if Sophy knew she sounded defensive. Personally, he was glad the guy was gone. Something about Adam made him tense.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Something about Adam made Sophy tense, he amended, and that was what made him tense.
“Okay,” he said purposely keeping his tone neutral. Low key was the way to go with Sophy sometimes. He didn’t grow up in a house full of women and not learn something.
Sophy sighed. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m snapping at you. That wasn’t called for.” She looked guiltily at her drink.
Gideon leaned forward and laid a sympathetic hand on hers. “Goes with the turf.”
She smiled faintly. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Things are okay with the show? They’re not floundering without you?” God, that sounded stupid even to him. Why couldn’t he say something to make her feel better? Something that was more than just idle chit chat. He should probably just leave this part to his mother and sisters, but David and Lizzie had been like family, their children his brothers and sisters, their loss his as well.
“Nah. Alicia Cane is filling in for me. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She’s fabulous. They’re doing just fine without me.” He heard the exhaustion in her voice and wished again there was something he could do to help her.
After a lengthy silence, the easy kind shared by people who had known each other a long time, she said, “She’s actually going to replace me when my contract’s up. I won’t be renewing it. I’m going to take some time off. Come home and rest. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a vacation. That’s one of things Adam’s taking care of up there.” Adam had not been happy about it, but he had known better than to argue.
“Makes sense. You told the family yet?” He watched her throat work as she swallowed another sip of the rum and Coke and surprised himself by thinking about how beautiful Sophy truly was. It was strange, really. He knew his sisters were beautiful, and he had always placed Sophy under the same umbrella. Today, she seemed, curiously, to be outside of it. Today she looked different to him, and he wasn’t sure what the difference actually was. He only knew he didn’t like the sensation. It made him, suddenly, very uneasy.
“Not yet. I’m not hiding it or anything. I’ve really only just made the decision yesterday.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone’s going to object. God knows Carter and Julia will be thankful to have someone around who can cook,” he joked feebly, trying to rebound from the unsolicited bite of attraction.
Sophy laughed a little bit. “They’ll demand five course meals for the first month, I’m sure.”
“You can count on that.” Feeling completely inadequate in the role of comforter, Gideon pushed his drink away and stood rather abruptly. Better to end the misery now than make it worse. “Keep your chin up, kid. I’m going to go check on Carter, then head back to the house. I have a few things of my own to check on back there.” At least with Carter he knew where he stood. Sophy suddenly confused the hell out of him.
Sophy looked up at him, taken aback by his abrupt change of mood, and found herself distracted by his face. God, was he beautiful. His golden hair gleamed in the late afternoon light, and those eyes—every time he looked at her, her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t look away from him.
Afraid that she saw something in his eyes that was best left alone, Gideon kissed the top of her head, as brotherly a move as he could think of, and let himself out of the kitchen.
Sophy heard the rumble of Gideon’s ancient truck a few moments later. She watched through the big bay window as the truck faded into the distance. Thank God for Gideon, she thought. Carter needed someone to hold on to, and Gideon was a rock, always had been. She imagined he always would be. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle his calm. The only time she had ever actually seen him agitated was the night of his father’s wake, but by the next day, he had pulled even that fear in, putting up a strong front she doubted he had even let his family through.
Ellie walked in, pulling her long dark hair into a ponytail. “Gideon just leave?” she asked, taking his seat.
“Yeah. How did you know?” Sophy gave herself a mental shake.
“You’ve got that look in your eyes.” Ellie picked up Gideon’s glass and took a deep drink, then nodded appreciatively. “Captain’s good stuff.”
Startled and more than a little embarrassed, Sophy straightened in her seat. Looking down at her glass, she said, “What are you talking about? What look?”
“Oh please, Sophia. You’ve been in love with him for ages.”
Sophy bobbled the glass she had been lifting and spilled some of the amber liquid on the table. Dumb, dumb, dumb, she scolded herself. “Don’t be ridiculous, Elinor.” Sophy mopped the mess up with some napkins.
“Don’t you be ridiculous.” Ellie reached over and stilled the hand that was wiping at the now dry table. “You need to do something about Adam,” she said firmly, looking straight in Sophy’s eyes.
“I know,” Sophy said, and stood to throw away the wet napkins.
A shame Adam didn’t stock any.
God, she was tired. The show had ended an hour ago, and the post performance buzz had worn off with a vengeance, as it usually did. Sophy reserved her energy during the day for the show and then spent every ounce of it on the stage. She didn’t believe in giving less than one hundred percent when she performed. The consequence was, of course, that she was ready to drop afterward. She wanted her soft pillow, down comforter, and a straight eight before having to face the world again. And yet here she was, sitting with Adam, and it was all against her better judgment.
She was tired of it, she thought again, sick and tired of this routine. He knew she didn’t like to stay out late after a show and had often made fun of her for it. Adam had said on more than one occasion, and frequently in front of his friends, how Sophy preferred “country hours” to town ones. He found her rural background amusing and often kidded her about it. It was beyond annoying.
Trying to be totally honest with herself, Sophy admitted freely that she was not firm enough with him. She allowed herself to be dragged out, and this was the price she paid—she got pissed off and had no one to blame but herself. Which brought her around to something else that was weighing on her mind tonight.
No matter how often she argued against herself, she knew this marriage would never work. No matter how good it looked on paper, no matter how much business sense it made, it just would not happen. She was attracted to him, of course, but well, she also enjoyed looking at Versace models. That didn’t mean she wanted to marry one.
What she felt for Adam, her longtime friend and manager, was warm enough, she supposed, but it was no raging inferno. When he kissed her, she didn’t see stars or feel swept away, or feel anything, dammit, that you should feel for the person you claimed to be in love with.
Besides all of that, her mother wasn’t crazy about him. It wasn’t that her mom didn’t like him, per se, just that she had never warmed to him. The whole situation seemed laughable now. Sophy couldn’t believe her mother’s opinion on this subject meant so much to her. In high school, the principle of that had been enough to make Sophy pursue a boy, but as she’d gotten older, well, she had learned to trust her mother’s “bad boy radar.” Elizabeth had yet to be wrong.
Sophy took a sip of her tea and let the hot fluid soothe her sore throat. She was still fighting a cold, (who knew they could last so long?) but—a professional to the core—she had performed tonight anyway. She felt a strong responsibility to her fans; they had paid to see her as Annie Oakley, and by God, that was what they were going to get. Sophy sighed. She was paying for it now. Shifting a little on the couch, she heard the faintest crackle of paper. The newest letter weigh like a stone in her pocket, adding another layer of unease to the already mounting pile.
“You’re not listening,” Adam said patiently, leaning back against the arm rest. In the low light and with the red and gold flickering of the crackling fire, he looked like a beautiful god who was gently chastising a recalcitrant acolyte.
She wondered briefly what it would be like to smack him across those self-satisfied lips.
“I’m sorry,” Sophy replied immediately, knowing he was right, but she thought somewhat angrily to herself, that she had heard it all before. Did she really need to hear it again? “Go ahead.”
He smiled gently at her, as if granting absolution. “It’s okay. I was just saying that I’m worried about you. You’ve seemed out of sorts lately, and I think maybe we should consider why.”
Maybe because she was considering calling off the wedding? Maybe because she was lonely and homesick? she thought briefly, trying almost desperately to avoid thinking about what was really concerning her.
Something about the letters lent itself to a shameful secrecy, and she had told no one, not even Faith or her best friend in New York, Katie, or her family. She took a moment to think about the implications of that. Adam was fourth on her list of who not to tell, when he ought to be first. Besides the fact that he was her manager, she was engaged to him. He should be the one, above all others, she could share anything with, no matter how silly or frightening or—shameful. And yet, here she sat, another letter in her pocket with her lips stubbornly sealed.
She must be more tired than she thought, Sophy mused. She could not even keep her mind on the same subject for more than a minute. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, knowing she had to call the wedding off. And when that happened, they’d part professional ways as well.
Something told Sophy that would be what actually bothered Adam the most. He would lose his cut of her fame and salary.
Well, that was cynical, Sophia Paige, she lectured herself. But was it? Was it really? Wasn’t that part of what was wrong with their personal relationship? That it wasn’t a personal relationship at all but merely an extension of their professional one? She truely felt, and now more than ever, that he was not interested in her heart but the dollar signs he saw whenever he heard her name or saw her face.
He was still smiling beneficently at her, waiting for her attention to return to him. It was a familiar expression, one she knew was supposed to be disarming and boyish but to her seemed downright patronizing. She’d been on the receiving end of it a lot recently, and it was really starting to piss her off.
“Consider what, Adam?” Sophy could not contain the note of aggravation in her voice, and Adam heard it as well and seized it as the perfect example with which to make his case.
“That’s what I’m talking about, darling. Do you hear yourself? You all but bite my head off when I express a genuine concern over your well-being.”
Sophy bit her lip. She had been snapping at him and felt badly about it. After all, it wasn’t his fault that she had suddenly become so uncomfortable with the idea of marrying him. Then she kicked herself mentally for being a pushover and a wimp.
Hell yes, it was his fault she was uncomfortable—he was a money grubber. Then she sighed internally. While his attitude had certainly not improved her mood, she had taken her unease out on him instead of actually doing something about it. She heard herself apologize again and cringed inwardly.
What precisely had she just apologized for anyway?
He nodded again, accepting her submission easily, as he always did. “What I think is that you’re having some natural, pre-wedding jitters. Planning the wedding so far has been tedious and nerve racking, what with rehearsals and performances and the other functions we’re required to attend.”
He paused and looked at her expectantly. Since everything he had said so far was pretty much true, she nodded noncommittally and took another drink from the tea. Of course, he didn’t know about the letters, and above all else, those were most on her mind.
Adam moved closer to her and took the mug from her hands, placing it on the coffee table. How she hated it when he did that. She could put her own damn mug down if and when she wanted to. Deliberately, and with her eyebrow raised, Sophy picked up her mug. He ignored her small rebellion.
“Not to mention that it’s not safe for a woman alone in the city. I worry about you in the apartment by yourself. I want to take care of you. I love you, Sophy.”
She shifted uneasily as her mind flickered back to the letter in her pocket. Perhaps he had a point. She should tell him about the letters. He was her manager after all, and he’d been in the business a long time. He would know if they were something to really be worried about, or just a part of the trade. You couldn’t have fan mail all the time.
Then Adam took her hand in his and placed his other gently, intimately on her thigh, stroking up and down from her knee. All thoughts of the letters evaporated in light of this new threat.
Instantly wary, Sophy tried to think of a diplomatic way to disengage herself.
Then something clicked inside her head—or was it her heart?—and she relaxed, having finally found the impetus to call off the wedding. When your fiancé put the moves on you, it should excite you, not make you want to run for cover.
Adam sensed her relax but misunderstood what it meant. Scenting victory, he leaned closer, brushed his mouth against her cheek. “Let me make love to you now, and then we’ll go away, maybe to Vegas or Tahoe and elope. You’ll be able to relax again. Things can be normal. I’ll take care of you.” He kissed her cheek gently, but his hand continued its foray up her leg.
Sophy supposed she would not have been more shocked than if he had asked her to give up the stage to make a career out of barreling down Niagara Falls.
Elope? Was he out of his mind?
Sophy gathered her wits and courage, pulled her hand from his. She put a hand on his chest and pushed him away none too gently.
“I’ve told you before, Adam, I’m not sleeping with you before we get married. Being stressed out is not going to change my feelings in that regard.” It sounded so lame, even to her, but she always stuck to her guns, and it was too late to change her grip now. “As for eloping—” she paused, steeling herself for the announcement she had not known she was going to make tonight, had only just decided herself. “As for eloping,” she began again, and then was relieved, in an admittedly cowardly way, when her cell phone rang. She reached for the welcome diversion, ignoring the look of frustration and missing altogether the anger in Adam’s face.
“Hi, Carter,” she said brightly, thrilled that God had blessed her with a brother in possession of such perfect timing.
“Sophia,” Carter began, his voice hoarse and low, “It’s Mom and Dad.”
***
While luscious and verdant during the spring, summer, and fall, when winter comes to Georgia, it comes with a vengeance. The only green visible on the drive from Hartsfield International Airport to Tomorrow came from the pines and magnolias along the highway. It was depressing to see the naked branches of the oaks and mimosas outlined against an equally bleak sky. Steel grey clouds promised rain before their journey was over. Sophy sighed and watched the brown grass whip by as Adam wove them skillfully in and out of traffic.
Sophy understood she was running strictly on autopilot. Adam had made all the arrangements, booked their flights, arranged for the time away from the show. He’d even packed her bags for her. Knowing she needed to pull herself together did not make it any easier for her to actually do it.
They were in Georgia now, she thought, watching the terrain pass from the window of the rented Mercedes. The crops were in; as they drove, she sat quietly, looking at miles of empty acres, the big irrigation units still standing sentinel over their fields.
It would be Thanksgiving next week, she thought dully. Thanksgiving without her parents. Adam reached over and gripped her hand tightly in his own, his thumb soothing a gentle pattern against her palm. He said nothing, which was uncharacteristically wise of him. She remained silent as well, grateful for the human contact, and continued to stare out the window.
As they entered her home town, a large freshly painted sign read, “Welcome to Tomorrow where it’s always another day!” It almost made her smile. Oh, how the town council had argued about that sign, over whether or not the famous Gone With the Wind line should be used, seeing as how the town had been established long before Ms. Mitchell was even born. She supposed the nay-sayers had finally been shouted down. Tourism, you know.
Tomorrow owed its existence to her family and the Westmorelands. Partners in a London-based shipping business, Michael Westmoreland and Richard Whittaker had moved their families to Georgia in the late eighteenth century in order to be near the crop they sold, some of the world’s finest cotton.
Well-to-do, they bought up as much land as they could, built their homes on an adjoining piece of property and the Whittaker-Westmoreland plantations, and the town of Tomorrow, were born. Fueled as most things are, by economy, the town grew quickly. There were people with money to spend or goods to barter living here, and merchants found a very willing market once they set up shop.
This was still true today, as most people who lived in Tomorrow either worked at the plantations, which now boasted peach orchards and pecan groves in addition to the original acres of cotton, or in the “support services” of restaurants, shops, schools, and markets. Even her sister’s stables were turning a very steady, extremely respectable profit.
The main bi-way of Tomorrow was Market Street. It opened onto a large square filled with live oaks and flower beds full of brilliantly colored pansies. In the spring, white and pink azaleas would open beneath the deep shade lent by the oaks, and the multi-colored heads of bearded irises would bob and sway in the breeze.
Adam drove around the square, steering them east off Market onto Spanish Moss Road, which ironically, boasted no Spanish moss. The police station flashed past, followed by a gas station, and an old diner.
Soon they approached the turn for her house, a long driveway flanked by enormous cross oaks, and she felt a weight lift away from her shoulders. No matter what there was to face, she could do it here, with her family.
She was home.
Before the car had even pulled to a complete stop, Sophy was out, running up the stairs, opening the front door. Her brothers and sisters were in the living room, just off the front door to the right. She stopped abruptly at the threshold, looking at her family. They were all here, and she knew they had been waiting for her.
She saw her sister Julia, the hard-as-nails veterinarian tomboy, try to smile and felt the tears slip down her own cheeks. Griffin grabbed her and held her tightly to him. The tears Sophy hadn’t been able to shed since she’d heard the news the night before came flooding out as he stroked her hair. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed like a child.
***
The planning wasn’t so bad, really. Sophy was goal-oriented, and having something specific to accomplish, a task to cross off the list she had made, took her mind off the awful reality. Julia and Carter still had stables and land to manage, but she was at loose ends. Broadway didn’t just up and move to rural Georgia because Sophy was there. With no work to occupy her, she appointed herself the One In Charge and made several lists of things she and her siblings needed to accomplish.
A million details were involved with death, she considered morosely. Maybe two million. Mass. Choir. Coffins. Tombstones. Wills. Insurance. Deeds. Company stocks. Wakes. Flowers. The gracious acceptance of all those goddamn casseroles people brought. Why did death always mean food? If she so much as laid eyes on another tuna casserole, she was going to scream. God, she hated tuna.
She glanced at her to-do list. The obituary still needed to be written. She’d have to light a fire under Sebastian’s ass to get it done. He was dragging his feet, not that she could blame him. She wouldn’t want to sum up her parents’ existence in five hundred words or less, reduce them to a morbid curiosity in a newspaper. And things still weren’t settled with the insurance company or the lawyer. Griffin could handle the lawyer, she decided, scratching a G next to it, and Jack and Ellie could do insurance if only because Sophy really didn’t want to. She was already handling the funeral and wake arrangements.
Closing her eyes, she set her pen down on the table and sighed deeply when heavy hands closed on her shoulders, gently massaging away some of the tension.
“It’s almost done,” Gideon said. It pained him to see her like this, looking bruised and broken. He remembered feeling the same way all too well.
Sophy reached a hand up to hold on to one of his. “Yeah. Two more days and this will be over. Sorta.”
With a last squeeze, Gideon walked over to a heavily laden kitchen counter. “Want something to eat? One of the ubiquitous casseroles, perhaps?”
“I was just thinking about how much I hate them.” She gave a weak laugh. “I suppose I ought to eat something. No tuna, though, okay? And I won’t eat alone. Grab yourself a plate too.” Sophy rose and took two glasses from a cabinet. “Coke sound good?”
“Yeah.” He watched as Sophy poured the drinks, and then he reached for a bottle of rum her dad had kept on top of the kitchen cabinets. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said, a charming smile on his lips. Anything to make her laugh, he thought.
“I won’t argue with you,” Sophy said. Gideon poured generous amounts of the Captain into both glasses and, casserole forgotten, they sat back at the table.
“Where’s Adam?” he asked. Gideon swirled the liquid in both glasses and handed one to Sophy.
“Back in New York. He’ll be here for the wake and funeral. There were just a few things he needed to take care of personally. We left the city pretty abruptly.”
Gideon wondered if Sophy knew she sounded defensive. Personally, he was glad the guy was gone. Something about Adam made him tense.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Something about Adam made Sophy tense, he amended, and that was what made him tense.
“Okay,” he said purposely keeping his tone neutral. Low key was the way to go with Sophy sometimes. He didn’t grow up in a house full of women and not learn something.
Sophy sighed. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m snapping at you. That wasn’t called for.” She looked guiltily at her drink.
Gideon leaned forward and laid a sympathetic hand on hers. “Goes with the turf.”
She smiled faintly. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Things are okay with the show? They’re not floundering without you?” God, that sounded stupid even to him. Why couldn’t he say something to make her feel better? Something that was more than just idle chit chat. He should probably just leave this part to his mother and sisters, but David and Lizzie had been like family, their children his brothers and sisters, their loss his as well.
“Nah. Alicia Cane is filling in for me. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She’s fabulous. They’re doing just fine without me.” He heard the exhaustion in her voice and wished again there was something he could do to help her.
After a lengthy silence, the easy kind shared by people who had known each other a long time, she said, “She’s actually going to replace me when my contract’s up. I won’t be renewing it. I’m going to take some time off. Come home and rest. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a vacation. That’s one of things Adam’s taking care of up there.” Adam had not been happy about it, but he had known better than to argue.
“Makes sense. You told the family yet?” He watched her throat work as she swallowed another sip of the rum and Coke and surprised himself by thinking about how beautiful Sophy truly was. It was strange, really. He knew his sisters were beautiful, and he had always placed Sophy under the same umbrella. Today, she seemed, curiously, to be outside of it. Today she looked different to him, and he wasn’t sure what the difference actually was. He only knew he didn’t like the sensation. It made him, suddenly, very uneasy.
“Not yet. I’m not hiding it or anything. I’ve really only just made the decision yesterday.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone’s going to object. God knows Carter and Julia will be thankful to have someone around who can cook,” he joked feebly, trying to rebound from the unsolicited bite of attraction.
Sophy laughed a little bit. “They’ll demand five course meals for the first month, I’m sure.”
“You can count on that.” Feeling completely inadequate in the role of comforter, Gideon pushed his drink away and stood rather abruptly. Better to end the misery now than make it worse. “Keep your chin up, kid. I’m going to go check on Carter, then head back to the house. I have a few things of my own to check on back there.” At least with Carter he knew where he stood. Sophy suddenly confused the hell out of him.
Sophy looked up at him, taken aback by his abrupt change of mood, and found herself distracted by his face. God, was he beautiful. His golden hair gleamed in the late afternoon light, and those eyes—every time he looked at her, her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t look away from him.
Afraid that she saw something in his eyes that was best left alone, Gideon kissed the top of her head, as brotherly a move as he could think of, and let himself out of the kitchen.
Sophy heard the rumble of Gideon’s ancient truck a few moments later. She watched through the big bay window as the truck faded into the distance. Thank God for Gideon, she thought. Carter needed someone to hold on to, and Gideon was a rock, always had been. She imagined he always would be. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle his calm. The only time she had ever actually seen him agitated was the night of his father’s wake, but by the next day, he had pulled even that fear in, putting up a strong front she doubted he had even let his family through.
Ellie walked in, pulling her long dark hair into a ponytail. “Gideon just leave?” she asked, taking his seat.
“Yeah. How did you know?” Sophy gave herself a mental shake.
“You’ve got that look in your eyes.” Ellie picked up Gideon’s glass and took a deep drink, then nodded appreciatively. “Captain’s good stuff.”
Startled and more than a little embarrassed, Sophy straightened in her seat. Looking down at her glass, she said, “What are you talking about? What look?”
“Oh please, Sophia. You’ve been in love with him for ages.”
Sophy bobbled the glass she had been lifting and spilled some of the amber liquid on the table. Dumb, dumb, dumb, she scolded herself. “Don’t be ridiculous, Elinor.” Sophy mopped the mess up with some napkins.
“Don’t you be ridiculous.” Ellie reached over and stilled the hand that was wiping at the now dry table. “You need to do something about Adam,” she said firmly, looking straight in Sophy’s eyes.
“I know,” Sophy said, and stood to throw away the wet napkins.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Chapter ONE
Sometimes you were just lucky. The sky was a bright crystalline blue. Birds were singing. A few late flowers bobbed their heads in time with the cool breeze tunneling down the street. Children were playing on their front stoops, and she could hear the street vendors hawking their wares on the sidewalks, and horn-honking was at a minimum. In other words, it was one of those rare, perfect autumn days in New York City.
Despite what appeared to be the beginnings of a miserable cold, Sophy Whittaker set out, ostensibly, to pick up some fresh fruit and bagels from the corner mom and pop store, but the day was just so fine, she decided to take a stroll; the fruit and bagels could wait. It was late afternoon on a Saturday, so her little neighborhood in Chelsea was awash with people, from the tourists looking frustrated with their crumpled-up maps to the New Yorkers who were silently laughing at them. It was a perfectly normal day in the Big Apple, all right, she smiled, revealing perfectly white, even teeth—teeth her parents had paid a fortune for when she was a teenager.
After Sophy won her first Tony, her parents laughingly decided the orthodontics had been well worth the money.
As a Broadway actor, Sophy understood her appearance was as important as her talent. A producer couldn’t sell you if you didn’t look good. In some ways, Broadway theatre was just as brutal as Hollywood, almost more so, if you counted the fact that you, generally, had to be more talented than the average silver screen star if you wanted a role.
In the theatre, jobs were usually won based on simple facts like an attractive actor could act, dance and sing, not just some combination of the four; roles for less-than-perfect people were few and far between. People who lacked one of those gifts were often forced to resort to less savory means of acquiring roles in order to pay the rent and feed themselves. Sophy counted herself lucky. She hadn’t had to lie on any casting couches or under any doctor’s scalpel to land the roles she wanted.
Stopping to examine the goods of a sidewalk vendor, she tucked her long dark brown hair up under her Yankees cap. The vendor’s folding tables were covered in goods. Designer sunglass of dubious origin lay alongside designer knock-offs. Purses, wallets, NYC key chains, magnets, and mugs were laid in neat rows beside one another, and of course, there were no prices. Haggling was the name of this game.
Finding what she wanted, Sophy started her bid at a ridiculous five dollars, and eventually, they came to a satisfactory agreement. The fresh breeze felt fabulous on her neck as she dug in the pocket of her jeans for some money. She’d spilled red wine on her “I ♥ New York” t-shirt and hadn’t been able to remove the stain. And truly, besides the newest stain, she’d worn it so often and washed it so many times, the neck band was starting to unravel, and there was a hole under one of the arms. But Sophy didn’t care how touristy the shirt was. She liked what she liked, and that was all there was to it. Generally, when she made up her mind, no amount of outside influence could force her to change it.
That was not to say that she flouted public opinion. She just didn’t give a damn. Raised with six brothers and sisters by parents who ran an enormous plantation that supplied peaches and cotton internationally, it had been hard, occasionally, to attract their undivided attention. Sophy, that poor creature known as the middle child, had resorted to theatrics—and a kooky wardrobe.
As a teenager, Sophy had based her clothes buying decisions almost entirely on what her Cosmo-reading little sister Ellie scoffed. In the end, Sophy thought somewhat ruefully, the quirky fashion sense had stuck. But then, that was who she was—a person who went her own way. Nothing wrong with that. It was what had landed her in Julliard at seventeen.
When she had been accepted to the prestigious university, she had not hesitated in departing her home in Georgia. Even the strong trepidations her parents felt at her living in New York alone had not been enough for her to consider giving up the opportunity. Though her heart twinged at leaving her family, it had not held her back. Then, while still a student, her career had taken off. She starred in a school production of My Fair Lady, and it was then that a Broadway producer, Adam Tiller, had offered her the leading role in the new revival of the same show.
Arranging her classes around her work schedule had been agonizing, and some weeks, she had no more than three hours sleep a night, but she had performed brilliantly, never missing a rehearsal, performance, cue, or note. Critics had proclaimed her this generation’s Julie Andrews, and the summer before her senior year, she received the Tony for best actress in a musical revival.
Realizing she was woolgathering, Sophy checked her grip on the plastic bag containing the t-shirt and began the walk back to her apartment. She had a show soon, and she needed to get ready. Sophy made quick work of her grocery list and then bustled over to her building, a friendly red brick structure that had been built around the turn of the century. She fished in her pocket for the keys and let herself in.
The warm air of a prematurely heated lobby washed over her. Since it reminded her so much of home, she didn’t mind the warmth and humidity. Home was far worse right now, anyway. October in Georgia was rarely any cooler than August there.
After unlocking the door, Sophy nudged it open with her hip. For a moment, she stood and looked out over her apartment. She had been lucky to find it, she knew. Or rather, her parents had been lucky since they’d been the ones to buy it when she moved to New York eight years ago. The kitchen, living room, and dining room were all one huge space, divided only by furniture arrangement. Her kitchen had a long L-shaped counter to demarcate its space, while the placement of her blonde pine dining room set distinguished itself from the living room.
Due to the high ceilings, the apartment possessed very good acoustics, something the gleaming hardwood floors complimented. Since furniture absorbed sound, she had very little of it—a long overstuffed couch in soft baby blue and a large matching recliner with footrest. Arranged in front of the couch was a low black walnut coffee table; it had matching two-tier end tables on either side of the couch, and scattered throughout lay some cushy jewel-tone rugs. Bookshelves lined the wall on either side of the entrance, and several paintings, mostly the work of her best friend Faith Westmoreland, hung on the walls.
Sophy tossed her keys in a charming porcelain bowl resting on one of the bookshelves, then locked the deadbolt and the knob, and engaged the chain lock. It was her usual practice to do it that way every time—key toss then door locks. She had very specific procedures in her life. She supposed it was because the theatre world was so chaotic; having a set routine outside her job, certain patterns to follow, helped keep her topsy-turvy world on kilter. Or, as Faith would argue, it was because sweet, free-spirited, head-in-the-clouds Sophy was actually obsessively anal retentive.
Sophy much preferred her own theory.
She shifted the heavy bag of groceries. She was always buying more than she needed. Maybe she should have a dinner party soon, she considered. It might be fun, and she could get a feel for what roles were going to be open soon. Networking was another important aspect of theatre life.
With only a few months left to go in Annie Get Your Gun, she needed to find something, and none of the scripts she’d been reviewing had gripped her. None had caused that tingle of excitement that started in her fingers and spread throughout her whole body until, caught up in the characters, the drama, the music, she raced to her piano to let the storm burst free at the ivory keys.
As she moved toward the kitchen, the toe of Sophy’s loafer caught on the door mat, and in a split second, she, the blueberries, and all the rest were airborne. Moments of grace such as these were why Faith could smugly assert Sophy had her head in the clouds.
Sophy landed hard on her knees, swearing as blue bullets shot out of their box and fat ripe tomatoes rolled across the gorgeous hardwood floors. Not wanting to squash any of the fruit, she decided the best course of action would be to stay on her knees until the majority of the blue and red bandits had been found.
Had she not dropped the fruit, she might not have noticed that the corner of a plain white envelope was barely visible beneath the welcome mat in front of her door. Dropping her collected berries back in the carton, she brushed off her hands and picked up the envelope. It had no writing on it, nor did it bear any marks that distinguished it from any other business size envelope in the world.
Maybe it was a note from the super, she thought, ripping in to it. Well, that would be weird. He usually called if he needed something. Quickly, she scanned the single line of the note. Groceries forgotten, she sat back on her heels and read it again in disbelief as annoyance built within her.
On plain writing paper, someone—some bastard with too much time on his hands, she corrected herself—had cut and pasted her a note. Quite simply it read, Whores like you need a man with a firm hand.
Her first objection to this letter was that she was no whore. She’d been called an awful lot of things in her time—show biz was a hard place, after all—but she at least wanted to deserve what she was called. And by God, she wanted to know the reason why.
Her second objection was, she supposed, totally feminist. ‘A man with a firm hand?’ This bastard thought she needed someone to slap her around a little to keep her in line? What the hell was this?
Sophy sat back on her heels and took a deep breath, considering the implications. Okay, so someone had gotten in her building. Her address wasn’t a secret; no addresses were—her thoughts flicked to the map of the stars she’d bought while doing a national tour in L.A—so maybe the guy knew someone in her building. Could another tenant have held the door open for a stranger and let him in?
She rubbed her eyes for a moment, then stood up, carrying the letter to her kitchen. Sophy continued to reassure herself as she put on a kettle for tea. It wasn’t as if she had never received hate mail before. That was part of the job too. Every job had its occupational hazards. In her world, everyone was a critic. Nothing new there.
But this—this wasn’t about her work. It was…personal. Personal enough that mailing it hadn’t been good enough for this guy; he’d had to hand deliver it, and that had never happened to her before.
The tea kettle whistled shrilly, scaring her. Sophy laughed at herself for being jumpy. After all, what was she really upset about? A note had been stuck under her door. It was pretty juvenile. Sophy spooned some tea into her pot and left it to steep. Several times, she went to throw the letter away, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Sophy sighed and opened a cabinet, looking for her Zip-Loc bags. She’d keep it, for awhile, and see what happened.
After she poured herself a cup of Irish Breakfast, she walked over to her cherry secretary and placed the envelope in a drawer. She would just hold on to it for now, she thought. If any more came, she would tell Adam and let him handle it. That’s what managers who were your fiancé did. They took care of things.
Sophy laughed at herself, this time somewhat bitterly. She knew she wouldn’t be telling Adam anything about these letters, even if a hundred more came. There was this space between them she’d never felt before, and it effectively sealed her lips. Maybe it was just cold feet. Maybe all brides-to-be felt jumpy around their grooms until the ceremony actually happened.
Nah, she couldn’t kid herself that much. There was something wrong with Adam and her as a couple, and she had no idea what it was, no idea how to fix it.
Setting her tea cup down in the sink, she went to prepare for the show.
***
Gideon’s cell phone jangled harshly in the early evening quiet, surprising him. He swore ripely when he dropped the pruning shears in his efforts to answer the damn thing. This had better be good, he thought, leaning over to pick up the shears.
“Westmoreland.” He began brushing the mud off the tool.
“Gid, it’s Mike.” His voice was weary, deeply grieved. Gideon’s stomach dropped as he tried to mentally account for all the members of his family. Mike Schaefer was the sheriff, as well as a friend, but a call from him sounding like that, couldn’t
be good.
“What’s wrong, Mike?” Gideon asked, pruning forgotten.
“You need to come down to the station. Carter’s here, and he needs you. There’s been an accident. David and Elizabeth are dead.” It came out in a rush, as if saying it faster made it hurt less.
“I—what?” Gideon stuttered, knowing he must have misheard.
“They’re gone, Gideon,” Mike repeated, pain evident in every word. “They’re gone.”
“I’ll be right down.” Bemused, Gideon shut the phone and headed straight for his beat-up truck. It wasn’t very far from these fields to the police station in Tomorrow, something Gideon was glad for. Still, the weight on his chest urged him to drive as fast as he could.
It was full dark before Gideon reached the police station, located at the corner of Turner Square, just off Main Street. Despite the town’s small size, the street was busy at this hour with both pedestrians and motorists. Gideon quickly found a spot in front of the police station.
He sprinted inside, and Ava Green, the deputy sheriff, solemnly waved him back to the office where Carter and Mike sat. Gideon walked to them, and Mike stood, clapping a hand in sympathy to Gideon’s shoulder before leaving the room, a file in hand.
Carter sat in an ancient plastic chair, staring at his hands which were clasped loosely between his legs. He looked up only when Gideon dragged a chair over and positioned it so they were facing each other, knee to knee.
“Carter?”
“Gideon? It feels—this just can’t be—” he stuttered after several long minutes. His voice was hoarse. “They’re really gone.” His grey eyes were almost black with his grief. “I had to identify them.”
Christ almighty. “What happened?”
“They went off the road and into the river. They don’t know why Daddy lost control of the car.” Gideon blinked back the moisture in his eyes. “Another car saw them go in. They called the police.” The rain had been heavy the last week, and the Chattahoochee was treacherous on the best of days. Swollen by a week of heavy rain, the undertow would have been horrific. Gideon shuddered to think of his godparents trapped, drowning.
“Christ, Carter. I’m so sorry.” Gideon raked a hand through his hair and knew he was helpless to do any more than just sit with his friend.
Carter stood abruptly and Gideon rose with him. Unsure of how to help him, Gideon stood there a moment and watched Carter’s shoulders shake with the emotions he couldn’t contain anymore. Gideon drew him up in a rough hug. “It’s okay, Carter.” The sound of harsh sobs filled the room. After a while, Carter pulled himself together, awkwardly.
“I need to call the kids,” he said, referring to his brothers and sisters. “But I don’t think I can do it just yet.”
“Where’s Julia?” Gideon asked about Carter’s sister who ran the Whittaker stable. She and Carter still lived in the big plantation house, Belle Maison. Alone now, Gideon realized.
“She’s in Kentucky picking up a stud. She should be home late tonight. I’ll wait ’til then to tell her. I don’t want her driving back upset.”
“What about the twins?”
“Hopefully they’re at the house in Boston.” The youngest children, Ellie and Jack, were at Harvard, in medical school. “Sebastian and Griffin are in Atlanta, of course.” Carter glanced at his watch. “Sophy’s about to go on.” He turned stricken eyes to Gideon. “I can’t call her with this, Gideon. Not now, not before a show.”
“Of course not.” Gideon took Carter’s arm and led him out. “You can call her afterwards. I’ll drive you home. We’ll have a drink, and when you’re ready, we’ll make the calls together.”
***
His daddy had died when he was twenty-two, leaving the family flat broke. Bad investments, the bankers had said. Heavy losses. Saving the legacy of Westmoreland Way Plantation had fallen to Gideon, and despite the odds—and the doubts of the old-fashioned farmers in the area—he, Gideon thought, had managed to pull Westmoreland Way out of the red. Mixing the tried and true ways of cotton cultivation with some of his new ideas, he’d put them back in the black in less than five years, easily meeting the mortgage on his house and land. Gideon felt no real pride in this; it was his duty to protect his family and their legacy.
That was not to say he had done it alone, though. That was far from the truth. His younger brother Nathan had taken a year off from college to help implement Gideon’s new ideas as well as lend a hand in the fields. His other siblings, still at home, had done everything they could to help as well.
The only people outside the family to whom Gideon had turned during those times of trouble were the Whittakers. David and Elizabeth had offered only the soundest business and personal advice, and more importantly, they had given their unshakable friendship. Their oldest son and his best friend, Carter, labored with him in the fields and at the books, working to get the plantation back on an even keel.
In order to raise the money needed to back some of his innovative ideas, Gideon had had to do the unthinkable and sell a good portion of the Westmoreland Way stock. Dressed in his best suit and armed with a five year plan, Gideon had gone from landowner to landowner to pitch his business proposition. The Whittakers had been the only takers. When David bought the shares, he assured Gideon it was just a sound investment on their part and not charity.
At a time when the entire agricultural community had turned its back on the Westmorelands, David and his family had been there to lend a hand. Their ties ran too deeply for there to be any question about that.
“I fully intend to make a mint off of this, Gideon, make no mistake,” David had said seriously, his green eyes inscrutable as he wrote out the check. “These are just hard times. You’ll come through it. And when you do, son, I’ll expect you to buy back every single share at twice the price.” Gideon, desperate not to appear desperate, had accepted the check quietly, promising himself he would not let his family, or the Whittakers, down.
As if he were one of his own sons, David had celebrated with Gideon after he paid off the last note on his land. Then Gideon and Carter had gotten drunk as hell in an empty stall in the Whittaker stables and passed out, waking the next day with ferocious hangovers but buoyant spirits.
But now, the man who had been a second father to him was gone. And his friends were in need.
There was no justice in the world, Gideon thought resentfully. No justice at all. He could imagine only too well the shock and anger Carter and the others were feeling, and for Carter now, the heavy weight of responsibility.
Gideon walked up the stone stairs to the old plantation house, pulling his worn leather work gloves out of his back pocket where he had hastily stuffed them earlier. He tossed them on the railing of the wrap-around porch before sitting heavily in a rocking chair. Faith, ever thoughtful, had left a couple beers in an ice chest nearby.
Though it was now early November, the Georgia heat was heavy, but the cicadas were singing sweetly, and the air smelled of wet grass and more rain. The humidity was enough to strangle on, and even sitting quietly in the chair didn’t keep him from sweating.
Behind him, the house was quiet. His family had long since gone to bed, but he knew well enough how the night had gone, could easily imagine the sound of his family bustling around, cleaning up after dinner. The clatter of plates and glasses and the clinking of silverware would have carried on the air and through the open door and windows as his mother’s rich laughter rang out in answer to the light sound of his sisters’ voices and the lower rumblings of his brothers’.
They were comfortable sounds, ones he had heard all his life. Usually they filled him with a quiet sense of joy and fulfillment. But tonight, sitting alone on the porch, he felt restless. He knew it was in part due to the blow of losing David and Elizabeth, but, as if that hole in his heart weren’t big enough, this new grief only seemed to heighten his awareness of another nagging emptiness.
As he sipped his beer, he surveyed the acres laid out before him. Gideon knew his lands intimately, having walked them and worked them since he could toddle. Some of his fondest memories were of working the cotton gin with his daddy and later, harvesting the pecan crop with the men as the late September sun slanted through the thick green foliage far above his head.
He knew the deep satisfaction a man felt from doing a day’s back-breaking work and doing it well. The plantation was as much a part of him as his blood, and he could no more leave it than cut off his arm.
Gideon wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore—not his land, his crops, his family—none of it seemed enough. Westmoreland Way had always absorbed the majority of his time, and he liked it that way. It was a very large business, a global business, and it required his constant attention. This feeling of dissatisfaction was as surprising as it was unwelcome. He didn’t know where it had come from or what he was supposed to do about it. That was, perhaps, the most unsettling thing about it. Gideon always, always knew what to do. But now he was at a complete loss. As a farmer, Westmoreland Way was as it had always been, a source of great joy and satisfaction. As a man, it just wasn’t enough for him anymore.
Gideon was a homebody at heart, knew as surely as he knew his name that he’d never be happy away from Georgia and his legacy, but something was missing, and he had no idea what it was or how to go about finding it. There was an ache he thought had healed, but now it felt like the wound had been ripped open.
He poured the last few swallows of his now-warm beer behind his mother’s gardenias, guiltily looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the unauthorized bit of fertilizer. Then, knowing there was nothing to be done about the Whittakers tonight, he picked up his gloves and entered the house, his mind and heart heavy with the news he had to bear.
Despite what appeared to be the beginnings of a miserable cold, Sophy Whittaker set out, ostensibly, to pick up some fresh fruit and bagels from the corner mom and pop store, but the day was just so fine, she decided to take a stroll; the fruit and bagels could wait. It was late afternoon on a Saturday, so her little neighborhood in Chelsea was awash with people, from the tourists looking frustrated with their crumpled-up maps to the New Yorkers who were silently laughing at them. It was a perfectly normal day in the Big Apple, all right, she smiled, revealing perfectly white, even teeth—teeth her parents had paid a fortune for when she was a teenager.
After Sophy won her first Tony, her parents laughingly decided the orthodontics had been well worth the money.
As a Broadway actor, Sophy understood her appearance was as important as her talent. A producer couldn’t sell you if you didn’t look good. In some ways, Broadway theatre was just as brutal as Hollywood, almost more so, if you counted the fact that you, generally, had to be more talented than the average silver screen star if you wanted a role.
In the theatre, jobs were usually won based on simple facts like an attractive actor could act, dance and sing, not just some combination of the four; roles for less-than-perfect people were few and far between. People who lacked one of those gifts were often forced to resort to less savory means of acquiring roles in order to pay the rent and feed themselves. Sophy counted herself lucky. She hadn’t had to lie on any casting couches or under any doctor’s scalpel to land the roles she wanted.
Stopping to examine the goods of a sidewalk vendor, she tucked her long dark brown hair up under her Yankees cap. The vendor’s folding tables were covered in goods. Designer sunglass of dubious origin lay alongside designer knock-offs. Purses, wallets, NYC key chains, magnets, and mugs were laid in neat rows beside one another, and of course, there were no prices. Haggling was the name of this game.
Finding what she wanted, Sophy started her bid at a ridiculous five dollars, and eventually, they came to a satisfactory agreement. The fresh breeze felt fabulous on her neck as she dug in the pocket of her jeans for some money. She’d spilled red wine on her “I ♥ New York” t-shirt and hadn’t been able to remove the stain. And truly, besides the newest stain, she’d worn it so often and washed it so many times, the neck band was starting to unravel, and there was a hole under one of the arms. But Sophy didn’t care how touristy the shirt was. She liked what she liked, and that was all there was to it. Generally, when she made up her mind, no amount of outside influence could force her to change it.
That was not to say that she flouted public opinion. She just didn’t give a damn. Raised with six brothers and sisters by parents who ran an enormous plantation that supplied peaches and cotton internationally, it had been hard, occasionally, to attract their undivided attention. Sophy, that poor creature known as the middle child, had resorted to theatrics—and a kooky wardrobe.
As a teenager, Sophy had based her clothes buying decisions almost entirely on what her Cosmo-reading little sister Ellie scoffed. In the end, Sophy thought somewhat ruefully, the quirky fashion sense had stuck. But then, that was who she was—a person who went her own way. Nothing wrong with that. It was what had landed her in Julliard at seventeen.
When she had been accepted to the prestigious university, she had not hesitated in departing her home in Georgia. Even the strong trepidations her parents felt at her living in New York alone had not been enough for her to consider giving up the opportunity. Though her heart twinged at leaving her family, it had not held her back. Then, while still a student, her career had taken off. She starred in a school production of My Fair Lady, and it was then that a Broadway producer, Adam Tiller, had offered her the leading role in the new revival of the same show.
Arranging her classes around her work schedule had been agonizing, and some weeks, she had no more than three hours sleep a night, but she had performed brilliantly, never missing a rehearsal, performance, cue, or note. Critics had proclaimed her this generation’s Julie Andrews, and the summer before her senior year, she received the Tony for best actress in a musical revival.
Realizing she was woolgathering, Sophy checked her grip on the plastic bag containing the t-shirt and began the walk back to her apartment. She had a show soon, and she needed to get ready. Sophy made quick work of her grocery list and then bustled over to her building, a friendly red brick structure that had been built around the turn of the century. She fished in her pocket for the keys and let herself in.
The warm air of a prematurely heated lobby washed over her. Since it reminded her so much of home, she didn’t mind the warmth and humidity. Home was far worse right now, anyway. October in Georgia was rarely any cooler than August there.
After unlocking the door, Sophy nudged it open with her hip. For a moment, she stood and looked out over her apartment. She had been lucky to find it, she knew. Or rather, her parents had been lucky since they’d been the ones to buy it when she moved to New York eight years ago. The kitchen, living room, and dining room were all one huge space, divided only by furniture arrangement. Her kitchen had a long L-shaped counter to demarcate its space, while the placement of her blonde pine dining room set distinguished itself from the living room.
Due to the high ceilings, the apartment possessed very good acoustics, something the gleaming hardwood floors complimented. Since furniture absorbed sound, she had very little of it—a long overstuffed couch in soft baby blue and a large matching recliner with footrest. Arranged in front of the couch was a low black walnut coffee table; it had matching two-tier end tables on either side of the couch, and scattered throughout lay some cushy jewel-tone rugs. Bookshelves lined the wall on either side of the entrance, and several paintings, mostly the work of her best friend Faith Westmoreland, hung on the walls.
Sophy tossed her keys in a charming porcelain bowl resting on one of the bookshelves, then locked the deadbolt and the knob, and engaged the chain lock. It was her usual practice to do it that way every time—key toss then door locks. She had very specific procedures in her life. She supposed it was because the theatre world was so chaotic; having a set routine outside her job, certain patterns to follow, helped keep her topsy-turvy world on kilter. Or, as Faith would argue, it was because sweet, free-spirited, head-in-the-clouds Sophy was actually obsessively anal retentive.
Sophy much preferred her own theory.
She shifted the heavy bag of groceries. She was always buying more than she needed. Maybe she should have a dinner party soon, she considered. It might be fun, and she could get a feel for what roles were going to be open soon. Networking was another important aspect of theatre life.
With only a few months left to go in Annie Get Your Gun, she needed to find something, and none of the scripts she’d been reviewing had gripped her. None had caused that tingle of excitement that started in her fingers and spread throughout her whole body until, caught up in the characters, the drama, the music, she raced to her piano to let the storm burst free at the ivory keys.
As she moved toward the kitchen, the toe of Sophy’s loafer caught on the door mat, and in a split second, she, the blueberries, and all the rest were airborne. Moments of grace such as these were why Faith could smugly assert Sophy had her head in the clouds.
Sophy landed hard on her knees, swearing as blue bullets shot out of their box and fat ripe tomatoes rolled across the gorgeous hardwood floors. Not wanting to squash any of the fruit, she decided the best course of action would be to stay on her knees until the majority of the blue and red bandits had been found.
Had she not dropped the fruit, she might not have noticed that the corner of a plain white envelope was barely visible beneath the welcome mat in front of her door. Dropping her collected berries back in the carton, she brushed off her hands and picked up the envelope. It had no writing on it, nor did it bear any marks that distinguished it from any other business size envelope in the world.
Maybe it was a note from the super, she thought, ripping in to it. Well, that would be weird. He usually called if he needed something. Quickly, she scanned the single line of the note. Groceries forgotten, she sat back on her heels and read it again in disbelief as annoyance built within her.
On plain writing paper, someone—some bastard with too much time on his hands, she corrected herself—had cut and pasted her a note. Quite simply it read, Whores like you need a man with a firm hand.
Her first objection to this letter was that she was no whore. She’d been called an awful lot of things in her time—show biz was a hard place, after all—but she at least wanted to deserve what she was called. And by God, she wanted to know the reason why.
Her second objection was, she supposed, totally feminist. ‘A man with a firm hand?’ This bastard thought she needed someone to slap her around a little to keep her in line? What the hell was this?
Sophy sat back on her heels and took a deep breath, considering the implications. Okay, so someone had gotten in her building. Her address wasn’t a secret; no addresses were—her thoughts flicked to the map of the stars she’d bought while doing a national tour in L.A—so maybe the guy knew someone in her building. Could another tenant have held the door open for a stranger and let him in?
She rubbed her eyes for a moment, then stood up, carrying the letter to her kitchen. Sophy continued to reassure herself as she put on a kettle for tea. It wasn’t as if she had never received hate mail before. That was part of the job too. Every job had its occupational hazards. In her world, everyone was a critic. Nothing new there.
But this—this wasn’t about her work. It was…personal. Personal enough that mailing it hadn’t been good enough for this guy; he’d had to hand deliver it, and that had never happened to her before.
The tea kettle whistled shrilly, scaring her. Sophy laughed at herself for being jumpy. After all, what was she really upset about? A note had been stuck under her door. It was pretty juvenile. Sophy spooned some tea into her pot and left it to steep. Several times, she went to throw the letter away, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Sophy sighed and opened a cabinet, looking for her Zip-Loc bags. She’d keep it, for awhile, and see what happened.
After she poured herself a cup of Irish Breakfast, she walked over to her cherry secretary and placed the envelope in a drawer. She would just hold on to it for now, she thought. If any more came, she would tell Adam and let him handle it. That’s what managers who were your fiancé did. They took care of things.
Sophy laughed at herself, this time somewhat bitterly. She knew she wouldn’t be telling Adam anything about these letters, even if a hundred more came. There was this space between them she’d never felt before, and it effectively sealed her lips. Maybe it was just cold feet. Maybe all brides-to-be felt jumpy around their grooms until the ceremony actually happened.
Nah, she couldn’t kid herself that much. There was something wrong with Adam and her as a couple, and she had no idea what it was, no idea how to fix it.
Setting her tea cup down in the sink, she went to prepare for the show.
***
Gideon’s cell phone jangled harshly in the early evening quiet, surprising him. He swore ripely when he dropped the pruning shears in his efforts to answer the damn thing. This had better be good, he thought, leaning over to pick up the shears.
“Westmoreland.” He began brushing the mud off the tool.
“Gid, it’s Mike.” His voice was weary, deeply grieved. Gideon’s stomach dropped as he tried to mentally account for all the members of his family. Mike Schaefer was the sheriff, as well as a friend, but a call from him sounding like that, couldn’t
be good.
“What’s wrong, Mike?” Gideon asked, pruning forgotten.
“You need to come down to the station. Carter’s here, and he needs you. There’s been an accident. David and Elizabeth are dead.” It came out in a rush, as if saying it faster made it hurt less.
“I—what?” Gideon stuttered, knowing he must have misheard.
“They’re gone, Gideon,” Mike repeated, pain evident in every word. “They’re gone.”
“I’ll be right down.” Bemused, Gideon shut the phone and headed straight for his beat-up truck. It wasn’t very far from these fields to the police station in Tomorrow, something Gideon was glad for. Still, the weight on his chest urged him to drive as fast as he could.
It was full dark before Gideon reached the police station, located at the corner of Turner Square, just off Main Street. Despite the town’s small size, the street was busy at this hour with both pedestrians and motorists. Gideon quickly found a spot in front of the police station.
He sprinted inside, and Ava Green, the deputy sheriff, solemnly waved him back to the office where Carter and Mike sat. Gideon walked to them, and Mike stood, clapping a hand in sympathy to Gideon’s shoulder before leaving the room, a file in hand.
Carter sat in an ancient plastic chair, staring at his hands which were clasped loosely between his legs. He looked up only when Gideon dragged a chair over and positioned it so they were facing each other, knee to knee.
“Carter?”
“Gideon? It feels—this just can’t be—” he stuttered after several long minutes. His voice was hoarse. “They’re really gone.” His grey eyes were almost black with his grief. “I had to identify them.”
Christ almighty. “What happened?”
“They went off the road and into the river. They don’t know why Daddy lost control of the car.” Gideon blinked back the moisture in his eyes. “Another car saw them go in. They called the police.” The rain had been heavy the last week, and the Chattahoochee was treacherous on the best of days. Swollen by a week of heavy rain, the undertow would have been horrific. Gideon shuddered to think of his godparents trapped, drowning.
“Christ, Carter. I’m so sorry.” Gideon raked a hand through his hair and knew he was helpless to do any more than just sit with his friend.
Carter stood abruptly and Gideon rose with him. Unsure of how to help him, Gideon stood there a moment and watched Carter’s shoulders shake with the emotions he couldn’t contain anymore. Gideon drew him up in a rough hug. “It’s okay, Carter.” The sound of harsh sobs filled the room. After a while, Carter pulled himself together, awkwardly.
“I need to call the kids,” he said, referring to his brothers and sisters. “But I don’t think I can do it just yet.”
“Where’s Julia?” Gideon asked about Carter’s sister who ran the Whittaker stable. She and Carter still lived in the big plantation house, Belle Maison. Alone now, Gideon realized.
“She’s in Kentucky picking up a stud. She should be home late tonight. I’ll wait ’til then to tell her. I don’t want her driving back upset.”
“What about the twins?”
“Hopefully they’re at the house in Boston.” The youngest children, Ellie and Jack, were at Harvard, in medical school. “Sebastian and Griffin are in Atlanta, of course.” Carter glanced at his watch. “Sophy’s about to go on.” He turned stricken eyes to Gideon. “I can’t call her with this, Gideon. Not now, not before a show.”
“Of course not.” Gideon took Carter’s arm and led him out. “You can call her afterwards. I’ll drive you home. We’ll have a drink, and when you’re ready, we’ll make the calls together.”
***
His daddy had died when he was twenty-two, leaving the family flat broke. Bad investments, the bankers had said. Heavy losses. Saving the legacy of Westmoreland Way Plantation had fallen to Gideon, and despite the odds—and the doubts of the old-fashioned farmers in the area—he, Gideon thought, had managed to pull Westmoreland Way out of the red. Mixing the tried and true ways of cotton cultivation with some of his new ideas, he’d put them back in the black in less than five years, easily meeting the mortgage on his house and land. Gideon felt no real pride in this; it was his duty to protect his family and their legacy.
That was not to say he had done it alone, though. That was far from the truth. His younger brother Nathan had taken a year off from college to help implement Gideon’s new ideas as well as lend a hand in the fields. His other siblings, still at home, had done everything they could to help as well.
The only people outside the family to whom Gideon had turned during those times of trouble were the Whittakers. David and Elizabeth had offered only the soundest business and personal advice, and more importantly, they had given their unshakable friendship. Their oldest son and his best friend, Carter, labored with him in the fields and at the books, working to get the plantation back on an even keel.
In order to raise the money needed to back some of his innovative ideas, Gideon had had to do the unthinkable and sell a good portion of the Westmoreland Way stock. Dressed in his best suit and armed with a five year plan, Gideon had gone from landowner to landowner to pitch his business proposition. The Whittakers had been the only takers. When David bought the shares, he assured Gideon it was just a sound investment on their part and not charity.
At a time when the entire agricultural community had turned its back on the Westmorelands, David and his family had been there to lend a hand. Their ties ran too deeply for there to be any question about that.
“I fully intend to make a mint off of this, Gideon, make no mistake,” David had said seriously, his green eyes inscrutable as he wrote out the check. “These are just hard times. You’ll come through it. And when you do, son, I’ll expect you to buy back every single share at twice the price.” Gideon, desperate not to appear desperate, had accepted the check quietly, promising himself he would not let his family, or the Whittakers, down.
As if he were one of his own sons, David had celebrated with Gideon after he paid off the last note on his land. Then Gideon and Carter had gotten drunk as hell in an empty stall in the Whittaker stables and passed out, waking the next day with ferocious hangovers but buoyant spirits.
But now, the man who had been a second father to him was gone. And his friends were in need.
There was no justice in the world, Gideon thought resentfully. No justice at all. He could imagine only too well the shock and anger Carter and the others were feeling, and for Carter now, the heavy weight of responsibility.
Gideon walked up the stone stairs to the old plantation house, pulling his worn leather work gloves out of his back pocket where he had hastily stuffed them earlier. He tossed them on the railing of the wrap-around porch before sitting heavily in a rocking chair. Faith, ever thoughtful, had left a couple beers in an ice chest nearby.
Though it was now early November, the Georgia heat was heavy, but the cicadas were singing sweetly, and the air smelled of wet grass and more rain. The humidity was enough to strangle on, and even sitting quietly in the chair didn’t keep him from sweating.
Behind him, the house was quiet. His family had long since gone to bed, but he knew well enough how the night had gone, could easily imagine the sound of his family bustling around, cleaning up after dinner. The clatter of plates and glasses and the clinking of silverware would have carried on the air and through the open door and windows as his mother’s rich laughter rang out in answer to the light sound of his sisters’ voices and the lower rumblings of his brothers’.
They were comfortable sounds, ones he had heard all his life. Usually they filled him with a quiet sense of joy and fulfillment. But tonight, sitting alone on the porch, he felt restless. He knew it was in part due to the blow of losing David and Elizabeth, but, as if that hole in his heart weren’t big enough, this new grief only seemed to heighten his awareness of another nagging emptiness.
As he sipped his beer, he surveyed the acres laid out before him. Gideon knew his lands intimately, having walked them and worked them since he could toddle. Some of his fondest memories were of working the cotton gin with his daddy and later, harvesting the pecan crop with the men as the late September sun slanted through the thick green foliage far above his head.
He knew the deep satisfaction a man felt from doing a day’s back-breaking work and doing it well. The plantation was as much a part of him as his blood, and he could no more leave it than cut off his arm.
Gideon wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore—not his land, his crops, his family—none of it seemed enough. Westmoreland Way had always absorbed the majority of his time, and he liked it that way. It was a very large business, a global business, and it required his constant attention. This feeling of dissatisfaction was as surprising as it was unwelcome. He didn’t know where it had come from or what he was supposed to do about it. That was, perhaps, the most unsettling thing about it. Gideon always, always knew what to do. But now he was at a complete loss. As a farmer, Westmoreland Way was as it had always been, a source of great joy and satisfaction. As a man, it just wasn’t enough for him anymore.
Gideon was a homebody at heart, knew as surely as he knew his name that he’d never be happy away from Georgia and his legacy, but something was missing, and he had no idea what it was or how to go about finding it. There was an ache he thought had healed, but now it felt like the wound had been ripped open.
He poured the last few swallows of his now-warm beer behind his mother’s gardenias, guiltily looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the unauthorized bit of fertilizer. Then, knowing there was nothing to be done about the Whittakers tonight, he picked up his gloves and entered the house, his mind and heart heavy with the news he had to bear.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Prologue
10 years earlier
Tomorrow, Georgia
Westmoreland Way
After his father’s wake, Gideon Westmoreland stood on the veranda of the big plantation home—his now—and wondered what the hell he was going to do. The sweet scent of his mother’s gardenias hung heavy in the humid air, almost suffocating him. Night birds called to one another as the grasshoppers and cicadas made themselves known somewhere in the grass.
He could hear muted laughter coming from within. The wide French doors lining the back of the house were thrown open to catch the fresh spring breeze. Gideon stood at the farthest end, away from the noise and the light, a creature shrouded in darkness, with a weight on his shoulders too heavy to carry.
The full moon shed its brilliant light on the manicured lawn before him, but its beauty failed to affect him. His father was dead, and they were broke. Now, it was up to him to figure a way out for his family. He clenched his fists in an anger he didn’t think would ever leave him.
Sophia Whittaker came out after him. She was only fifteen, and his anguish, though he tried to hide it, was all too apparent to her.
She loved him after all.
Sophy had grown up as much in his home as he had in hers. Their families’ bonds were tight and drew them together as closely as if they were related by blood.
Knowing his grief was too profound in this moment for her to intrude upon, she nevertheless walked over. Gideon’s head was bowed, his shaggy dark blonde hair falling in his face, his hands shoulder width apart on the rail.
“Gideon?” she called softly.
He glanced up at her, and the pain in his eyes was so sharp, she felt it as a direct stab in the heart. There was nothing she could say, so she wrapped her arms around his waist and held him as tightly as she could. After a moment, his arms crept up, gripping her just as fiercely. He needed someone to hold on to so badly, and she had appeared, like a dream, to offer him solace.
Sophy’s head rested against his chest, and she could hear the steady rhythm of his heart. It soothed her somehow, and reassured her, though she knew it was he who needed the comfort right now.
“I don’t know how you’re going to do it, Gideon, but you will. I know it. Everything will be all right,” she whispered fervently, her faith in him unflagging.
It struck him like a blow. No one knew how he was going to do it, but they all knew he could. Thanks a helluva lot. No one had any advice for him, just faith. It was too fucking much.
“Christ, Sophia. There’s nothing left. Can you even begin to imagine what that means? There isn’t a dime left, and I don’t mean not having a vacation in the Hamptons this year,” he said bitterly, shaking her. He shoved her away from him, disgusted with her, himself, the whole fucking world in general, and his daddy in particular for putting him in this position.
Twenty-two and fresh out of college, he was brimming with new ideas on the cultivation of cotton and pecans. Gideon had looked forward to coming into his own as his father’s partner in the family business.
This path had been laid out before him before he had been born, but he had never resented it. No, it was precisely the life he would have picked out for himself, had he been given a choice.
His father’s death was a terrible shock to his family and the people who depended on the plantation for their livelihood. It came on the coattails of a terrible four year drought which had afforded low yields of cotton, and not just for the Westmorelands. But Gideon, although concerned for the crops, had not been worried about the family plantation as a whole. It was strong enough to survive most anything.
Then just that morning, several men in black suits had come from the bank to speak with Gideon. Sitting in his father’s study, he had listened in shock to the news the president of the bank shared. The family was broke. The bankers had no explanation other than that Jacob had invested heavily and lost. To keep the bank from foreclosing on the land Westmorelands had held almost since the colonization of Georgia, Gideon had had to mortgage the house and several thousand acres of cotton.
How could this have happened? In his wildest imaginings, he’d never thought he’d have to build his dreams from the dust up—and that was precisely what his daddy had left him to do.
Gideon gritted his teeth and stared down into the face of innocence before him. Sophy looked gently into his eyes. She could see he was afraid, so afraid he could taste it. His family was depending on him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to bring it all together.
He glanced away, unable to look at her trust in the face of what he knew to be the truth. Without someone else’s money to back him, Westmoreland Way was over. His mother would have some ideas, he knew, but as smart as she was, she didn’t have a head for business, or the heart. He had five brothers and sisters still home, and Nathan in college to worry about. How the hell could he make it all right?
He saw the tears in her eyes, on her cheeks, and remembered she couldn’t even drive yet, remembered he had big hands, rough hands that he had just dug into her tender skin. More guilt crashed down on him. His sister Faith was her age. They were just babies, for Christ’s sake, unable to provide for themselves yet. That was up to him now; he was the one responsible for everything.
“I’m sorry, Sophia. I’m not mad at you. I’m just so damned worried.” He hugged her tightly again, savoring the way she smelled, the way she held him even though she should have smacked his face for shaking her.
“Gideon, I’m not crying because you sniped at me. God knows you’re entitled.” She took a deep breath and made her declaration. “I’m crying because I love you.” Sudden fear made her amend quickly, “Because I’m so sorry.”
And Gideon, being a young man and overwhelmed with grief and worry, didn't understand. “I love you too, Sophy,” he said, touched. With a final squeeze, he released her. “At least one of us has faith in me.”
“We all have faith in you, Gideon,” she said quietly. Her heart tore a little, knowing his returned sentiment was not the requiting she most desired.
“I know you do. And it means a lot to me to know that.” Better a lie to soothe than anymore of the awful truth. He checked his watch tiredly. “We’d better get back in. They’ll be wondering where we are.” His arm slung casually around her shoulders, they entered the house to face the uncertain future.
Tomorrow, Georgia
Westmoreland Way
After his father’s wake, Gideon Westmoreland stood on the veranda of the big plantation home—his now—and wondered what the hell he was going to do. The sweet scent of his mother’s gardenias hung heavy in the humid air, almost suffocating him. Night birds called to one another as the grasshoppers and cicadas made themselves known somewhere in the grass.
He could hear muted laughter coming from within. The wide French doors lining the back of the house were thrown open to catch the fresh spring breeze. Gideon stood at the farthest end, away from the noise and the light, a creature shrouded in darkness, with a weight on his shoulders too heavy to carry.
The full moon shed its brilliant light on the manicured lawn before him, but its beauty failed to affect him. His father was dead, and they were broke. Now, it was up to him to figure a way out for his family. He clenched his fists in an anger he didn’t think would ever leave him.
Sophia Whittaker came out after him. She was only fifteen, and his anguish, though he tried to hide it, was all too apparent to her.
She loved him after all.
Sophy had grown up as much in his home as he had in hers. Their families’ bonds were tight and drew them together as closely as if they were related by blood.
Knowing his grief was too profound in this moment for her to intrude upon, she nevertheless walked over. Gideon’s head was bowed, his shaggy dark blonde hair falling in his face, his hands shoulder width apart on the rail.
“Gideon?” she called softly.
He glanced up at her, and the pain in his eyes was so sharp, she felt it as a direct stab in the heart. There was nothing she could say, so she wrapped her arms around his waist and held him as tightly as she could. After a moment, his arms crept up, gripping her just as fiercely. He needed someone to hold on to so badly, and she had appeared, like a dream, to offer him solace.
Sophy’s head rested against his chest, and she could hear the steady rhythm of his heart. It soothed her somehow, and reassured her, though she knew it was he who needed the comfort right now.
“I don’t know how you’re going to do it, Gideon, but you will. I know it. Everything will be all right,” she whispered fervently, her faith in him unflagging.
It struck him like a blow. No one knew how he was going to do it, but they all knew he could. Thanks a helluva lot. No one had any advice for him, just faith. It was too fucking much.
“Christ, Sophia. There’s nothing left. Can you even begin to imagine what that means? There isn’t a dime left, and I don’t mean not having a vacation in the Hamptons this year,” he said bitterly, shaking her. He shoved her away from him, disgusted with her, himself, the whole fucking world in general, and his daddy in particular for putting him in this position.
Twenty-two and fresh out of college, he was brimming with new ideas on the cultivation of cotton and pecans. Gideon had looked forward to coming into his own as his father’s partner in the family business.
This path had been laid out before him before he had been born, but he had never resented it. No, it was precisely the life he would have picked out for himself, had he been given a choice.
His father’s death was a terrible shock to his family and the people who depended on the plantation for their livelihood. It came on the coattails of a terrible four year drought which had afforded low yields of cotton, and not just for the Westmorelands. But Gideon, although concerned for the crops, had not been worried about the family plantation as a whole. It was strong enough to survive most anything.
Then just that morning, several men in black suits had come from the bank to speak with Gideon. Sitting in his father’s study, he had listened in shock to the news the president of the bank shared. The family was broke. The bankers had no explanation other than that Jacob had invested heavily and lost. To keep the bank from foreclosing on the land Westmorelands had held almost since the colonization of Georgia, Gideon had had to mortgage the house and several thousand acres of cotton.
How could this have happened? In his wildest imaginings, he’d never thought he’d have to build his dreams from the dust up—and that was precisely what his daddy had left him to do.
Gideon gritted his teeth and stared down into the face of innocence before him. Sophy looked gently into his eyes. She could see he was afraid, so afraid he could taste it. His family was depending on him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to bring it all together.
He glanced away, unable to look at her trust in the face of what he knew to be the truth. Without someone else’s money to back him, Westmoreland Way was over. His mother would have some ideas, he knew, but as smart as she was, she didn’t have a head for business, or the heart. He had five brothers and sisters still home, and Nathan in college to worry about. How the hell could he make it all right?
He saw the tears in her eyes, on her cheeks, and remembered she couldn’t even drive yet, remembered he had big hands, rough hands that he had just dug into her tender skin. More guilt crashed down on him. His sister Faith was her age. They were just babies, for Christ’s sake, unable to provide for themselves yet. That was up to him now; he was the one responsible for everything.
“I’m sorry, Sophia. I’m not mad at you. I’m just so damned worried.” He hugged her tightly again, savoring the way she smelled, the way she held him even though she should have smacked his face for shaking her.
“Gideon, I’m not crying because you sniped at me. God knows you’re entitled.” She took a deep breath and made her declaration. “I’m crying because I love you.” Sudden fear made her amend quickly, “Because I’m so sorry.”
And Gideon, being a young man and overwhelmed with grief and worry, didn't understand. “I love you too, Sophy,” he said, touched. With a final squeeze, he released her. “At least one of us has faith in me.”
“We all have faith in you, Gideon,” she said quietly. Her heart tore a little, knowing his returned sentiment was not the requiting she most desired.
“I know you do. And it means a lot to me to know that.” Better a lie to soothe than anymore of the awful truth. He checked his watch tiredly. “We’d better get back in. They’ll be wondering where we are.” His arm slung casually around her shoulders, they entered the house to face the uncertain future.
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