Pillow Talk Page 5

  He had to give it to her. She was handling the greetings and thinly disguised scrutiny of the assemblage without stuttering, faltering, or fleeing out the door. None of his family were the sweet and sympathetic type. Aunt Mathilde, his father's older sister, had no use for anyone born west of the Seventeenth Street Canal, let alone some stranger who hailed from Las Vegas. His aunt was eyeing Meg through the tiny eyeglasses she wore on a silver chain.

  Meg gazed straight back. "What a lovely pince-nez."

  Mathilde allowed the solid line of her mouth to edge upwards. "It is, isn't it." Then she thumped her cane on the floor and reclaimed her seat beside the fireplace opposite where Parker stood.

  Teensy sighed and fidgeted her hands together. "You may as well meet Kinky."

  That got her! Parker almost laughed aloud as an expression of astonishment chased across Meg's face. How odd she must find them. Now that she wore that demure suit rather than the Hotel Maurepas bathrobe, Meg demonstrated a squeaky clean, All-American look. She'd no doubt grown up in a tract house with a father who worked a nine-to-five job, and a mother who cooked, cleaned, and read bedtime stories to Meg and her siblings.

  So how had she ended up married to Jules?

  Parker frowned, then watched as his brother's childhood friend and all-around bad influence Kincaid "Kinky" de LaSalle jerked himself off a sofa and sketched a brief bow to Meg.

  "If you were a friend of Jules's," he said, thrusting back the hair that always fell across his forehead, "you may call me Kinky. If not, the name is Kincaid."

  "I'm Margaret, but call me Meg, please." In a lower voice, she said, "What do you mean 'If I was a friend?' That's a rather odd thing to say to a man's um"—she stumbled, then finished with—"w-widow."

  Kinky kinked a brow, a gesture for which he was famous. "You obviously haven't met your predecessors."

  "Predecessors…" She trailed off and Parker realized with a shock that Meg had no idea Jules had been married before, not once but twice.

  Kinky repeated the brow gymnastics. "My, my, but don't you have a treat in store for you. Well, I do hope Jules found peace in his last days." Kinky's look was close to a leer. Parker thought of moving over, standing beside her to give her a semblance of protection, but checked himself. He smoothed his hand over his cheek where she'd slapped him. Meg could take care of herself.

  "If you need any comforting—" Kinky had leaned over and gathered her hands in his "—just give ol' Kinky a call." His innuendo was clear.

  Meg extracted her hands. "Please accept my sympathies on your loss. I'm sure you must be suffering.”

  Kinky shook his head. "Live in the fast lane, die on the curves, I always say."

  Meg wrinkled her brow.

  Teensy fluttered her hands. "Kinky, do sit down and behave," she said. Then, as if the effort of that command had been too great for her, she said, "I believe I'll have a drink." She drifted to the bar set up at the far end of the room and proceeded to mix a bourbon and water.

  Parker shook his head.

  Meg now stood alone in the center of the Aubusson rug. Aunt Mathilde had gathered her daughter Amelia Anne to her side and Kinky had joined Teensy at the bar. Isolde, Amelia Anne's sixteen-year-old daughter, hadn't bothered rising from the chair where she sat curled up, her ears covered by her Walkman, her nose buried in a book.

  Meg half-turned, glancing towards Parker. In that swift instant, he saw a vulnerability she hadn't so far displayed. No female Daniel in a den of wild animals at this moment. Again, he felt himself softening his stance towards her. Perhaps she had married his brother for love, impetuously, but possibly out of pure motives.

  If that were the case, Parker, he said to himself, where were her tears back there in the hotel room when you broke the news to her? She'd been shocked, but he'd wager a month's profit that she'd been thinking of her own welfare.

  She'd taken a step toward him. Some indication of his thoughts must have shown on his face because she halted and gazed at him with a questioning look. Parker, who prided himself on his poker face, forced a smile into place and decided to play along with her game. Shoving himself from his post at the fireplace, he strolled towards her.

  Instead of relief, he saw a hint of nervousness. Good. Let her get a little bit ruffled.

  He'd just reached her side when the booming voice of Dr. Prejean split the room.

  "Ah, there you are!"

  All heads turned toward the doorway. The doctor, one of Parker's least favorite people, stood there, rubbing his hands together. His wisp of a goatee stood almost straight out and his toupee had settled slightly askew on his head. Round rimless glasses winked on his bulging eyes and his red lips formed a pout. His pipe protruded from his coat pocket, so Parker assumed he'd stepped out for a smoke.

  "Teensy, why aren't you sitting down, you naughty patient?" The doctor advanced into the room.

  As Teensy hadn't left her station near the bar at the far end of the room, the doctor first encountered Meg and Parker, who'd just reached her side.

  The doctor paused, teetering on the balls of his undersized feet. Not only had this man made Parker's life hell as he'd insisted on treating him for illnesses Parker knew quite well he didn't suffer from, but Parker couldn't stand any man with the pretensions Dr. Prejean exhibited. The man had attached himself to Teensy years ago and scarcely saw any other patients, other than the acquaintances Teensy foisted on him. He lived high on the hog off the money the sadly scattered, utterly spoiled, and unstable Teensy funnelled to him.

  He held forth both hands, collecting Meg's in his own hammy paws. "You must be Jules's widow." He made a tch-tch sound that set Parker's nerves even further on edge.

  "I prefer to think of myself as his bride," Meg answered, in a spirited tone. Parker lifted his brows. This could prove interesting.

  Evidently the Vegas vamp was a quick study and didn't care for the good doctor, either.

  "Oh, of course," he said, patting her hand. "What a sad loss. Such a young man, in the prime of his life. Taken from us in a tragedy that will live long in the annals of this city's crime-ridden social history."

  Meg pulled her hand from the doctor's. "I thought he died trying to score cocaine."

  All conversation in the room died. Not a sound could be heard as everyone, but everyone, turned to stare at Meg.

  Parker suppressed the smile that wanted desperately to rend his lips. No one, but no one in this room would have acknowledged publicly that Jules had gotten himself into the trouble that resulted in his death. They spoke in platitudes and generalities, murmuring words of sympathy to Teensy and the other family members. For an outsider to call a strike a strike and not dress it up in pretty language shocked them.

  They'd have her for breakfast, of course, but Parker had to admit he did find it refreshing. If someone, somewhere along the way in Jules's life, had been willing to speak straight to him, maybe he wouldn't have ended up at the wrong end of a policewoman's gun.

  Teensy advanced on Meg, her drink forgotten in her maternal rage. "How dare you say such a thing!" She raced over, stabbing her finger towards Meg. "My baby was a victim. He did nothing to get himself in trouble. Why, I don't know who you think you are, but you're not welcome here at all. Just get your things and get out!" She stamped her foot, then glared at Parker. "You, get her coat and call her a cab. Or have Horton do it." She broke into a sob and Dr. Prejean moved over to her, his arm wrapped tight around her shoulders, crooning words of comfort.

  Parker stood his ground.

  So did Meg.

  Then she turned on him. Sotto voce, she said, "Did you make up that story you told me?" Her eyes were wide and large and full of unshed tears.

  Parker shook his head. "I told you the truth," he said softly.

  She faced the others. "I'm Jules's widow and I'm not going anywhere."

  Aunt Mathilde had raised her eyepiece and was studying Meg as if she'd discovered a cockroach on her chandelier. Amelia Anne had retreated to the chair opposite
that of her daughter's. Isolde hadn't bothered to glance up. Kinky was looking highly amused and was no doubt about to escape himself, off to score whatever his drug of the moment happened to be.

  Teensy lifted her face from where she'd buried it against Dr. Prejean's chest. In a voice that shook, she said, "I asked you to leave!"

  Meg looked from her mother-in-law back to Parker. Parker found himself shaking his head in the negative, and wondering at the same time why he did so.

  "Of course she's not going anywhere!"

  Once more, everyone turned toward the doorway. Framed within the archway sat Grandfather Ponthier, his hands poised on the power controls of his rather souped-up wheelchair.

  "Who is that?" Meg asked the question.

  Parker smiled. "Grandfather Ponthier," he said. "He always did have a great sense of timing."

  Five

  A great sense of timing? Meg had to smother a hysterical giggle. She stared at the wisp of a man advancing on her in a wheelchair. His body looked shrunken, but the masterful way he held his head signaled Meg that here was a man used to being in charge.

  “Well, you've got more sense than CeCe or Marianne, I'll give you that," he said as he braked to a stop next to her and Parker, who remained by her side.

  Very much used to being in charge. Meg smiled and the old man glanced sharply at her.

  "Grandfather," Parker said, "may I introduce—"

  "You think you have to tell me what goes on in this house?" He fixed Meg with one eye. The other remained half-hidden behind a drooping eyelid. With the good eye, he winked.

  Meg decided instinctively to accept the wink for the friendly gesture it was and ignore the bark. What the heck? If she misjudged him, he'd only snap her head off. After jumping feet first into this misadventure, she might as well shoulder her way through it.

  Winking back, she said, "Why, then you know my name is Margaret, but call me Meg, please!"

  The old man nodded. Shooting a glance at Parker, he said, "Couldn't help but hear what with Teensy carrying on to wake the dead. So, Meg, what brings you to New Orleans?"

  Meg involuntarily exchanged a look with Parker, who was looking just as surprised at his grandfather's question. Why say he knew everything that went on in the house and then ask that question?

  Parker lifted one shoulder slightly and Meg figured she was on her own. "Jules brought me," she said. "As I'm sure you know."

  He laughed. "Oh-ho, you're no shrinking violet." He slapped his knee with his right hand. Meg noticed his left one lay in his lap, unmoving. That was the same side of his body as the eye that drooped. A stroke for this powerful man must be very hard to bear. Considering that made any strong words much easier for her to accept. Much easier than the coldness of the stone-faced Mathilde, who'd approached them, her grown daughter in tow.

  "He may or may not have brought you here," Mathilde said in a frigid voice, "but it doesn't speak well of his regard for you that he failed to notify his family of his nuptials."

  Meg heard what Mathilde really meant— that she held Meg responsible for Jules's decision and for the unnaturally rushed marriage. Of course she'd blame Meg rather than Jules now.

  As the dead grew colder, their sins forgotten, forgiveness followed proportionately. Meg had learned that lesson from Ted's parents after his death. Somehow the financial crises of his company and personal life they'd pinned on Meg. She should have done more, been a better wife. Perhaps if she'd gotten a job and helped out, the pressure on Ted wouldn't have been nearly so great. Oh, yes, they might as well have cried out, “You killed our son."

  She shook herself mentally. That was then and this was now. Meg eyed the group and noticed even Dr. Prejean had left Teensy's side to edge closer, as had Kinky. Well, if they were expecting a scene, they were going to be disappointed.

  For once they held silent, waiting no doubt to see if she'd choose to spar with Mathilde. And if she lashed out, that would only give them more reason to lynch her. Parker was studying her. No doubt he was looking to see what fib she'd tell next, hoping for something he could catch her on. Something like “Oh, we've been lovers for years and just now decided to marry.''

  Meg said slowly, “Jules thought you would find his marriage a"—she almost stumbled, then continued with—"pleasant surprise. He intended to introduce me…" then she did trail off. She'd almost said "at the family meeting."

  What a faux pas that would have been! Parker would have known in a heartbeat Jules had been intent on using Meg to help him maneuver against his brother in the Ponthier's business dealings.

  "Introduce you when?" To her relief the grandfather snapped out the question rather than Parker. But she felt his gaze probing her every expression.

  "Today." Meg lifted her hands and let them flutter in a gesture of surrender.

  Across the room, Teensy broke into a sobbing wail. "B-but he can't because he's d-dead!"

  Meg nodded, lowering her head and dabbing at her eyes. She wasn't actually crying but next to Teensy's sodden display of grief she didn't think she'd be too believable as a grieving widow if she didn't at least try to show some emotion.

  She hadn't cried when her husband of twelve years died so she didn't find it at all surprising that she felt no tendency to shed tears at Jules's regrettable ending.

  Amelia Anne moved forward and lifted one hand timidly toward Meg's shoulder. "There, there," she said, "we know it must be a painful loss."

  "Really, Amelia Anne," Mathilde said, "I don't see that you need to concern yourself so with this matter."

  Amelia Anne dropped her hand and shrank back beside her mother.

  Meg raised her head and smiled at Amelia Anne. She wouldn't forget the woman's instinctive kindness. There had been a few people like that in her growing-up years; people whose hearts had led them to extend friendship to an orphan knocked about from foster home to foster home then plopped back in the girls' home. And she'd met more than her share of Aunt Mathildes, those paragons of propriety whose hearts bled lumps of coal.

  "I know everyone here has suffered a great loss. Jules was woven into the fabric of your lives." She glanced over at Dr. Prejean, who'd returned to Teensy's side and was standing with an arm draped around her shoulders. His plea was the reason she'd consented to come to the house and continue this charade. "I'll do whatever I can to help in any way."

  Mathilde looked down her nose. Meg just knew the woman was itching to say something cutting, perhaps something like "the only help you want to offer is to take away Jules's money." But breeding required her to hold such comments inside. Well, Meg hoped her uncharitable thoughts caused her a nasty stomachache.

  She liked to tell her kids that thinking naughty thoughts brewed bad body juices.

  They'd wrinkle their noses and make gagging sounds and invariably end up laughing, which chased away the naughty thoughts, of course, and made them feel much better.

  Her children.

  Meg sighed.

  Parker said in a surprisingly gentle voice, "Would you like to get settled in your room now?"

  Her room? The words caught her off guard and in a flash she might have been fourteen again and facing yet another new foster family. Strangers who might claim to want her. Strangers who'd never really tried to know her.

  Meg found a brief smile for Parker and shook her head. She'd come here in the role of Jules's widow out of a sense of commitment to help ease the situation in any way she could before she left New Orleans.

  Sense of commitment? Meg's conscience started giving her a talking to. You're here because you're guilty over the ten thousand dollars. Give it back and leave now. That's not your room Parker's talking about. It doesn't belong to you. You don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere.

  Yet she did belong to the family she and Ted had created and it was for that family, for her children, she'd leapt into this abyss. And for them, she'd hang onto that ten thousand dollars if she could clear it with her conscience.

  "Let's all sit down." F
rom Grandfather Ponthier, the words sounded a lot more like an order than an invitation. He fingered the controls of his electric wheelchair. Suddenly it skewed to the right towards Meg.

  In a flash, Parker clasped Meg's arm and pulled her to safety. She slid against him, her back brushing against his chest, rocklike and steady under his expensively tailored suit.

  Her heart fluttered and she knew Parker's touch had far more to do with her reaction than the near-miss.

  Safety? Parker's dangerous attraction held far greater peril than any runaway wheelchair.

  "Dang stickshift," Grandfather said. "Excuse me."

  Mathilde raised her eyeglass. "I see you're in your usual rare form, Augie." She settled onto a loveseat, patting the space beside her. Amelia Anne, seemingly ever faithful and obedient, joined her there.

  "Well, at least I'm still alive, which is more than I can say for my wastrel grandson."

  Parker's hold on Meg's arm tightened. She glanced up at him and saw again the same expression of pain that had etched his face when he'd first encountered her in the hotel suite. He truly grieved for his brother. Despite how Jules had told her the two of them were at odds and never got along, it seemed Parker had deep feelings for his older brother.

  Meg patted the back of Parker's hand, instinctively comforting him. Unlike earlier in the hotel room when she'd touched him, he didn't jerk away, but very slowly released her. With a brief smile, he said, "Looks like you're safe now."

  Right. Meg's heart skipped and it wasn't from the shock of the wheelchair just missing her size-eight feet. If she reacted that way to that man's touch, she wasn't safe. Far from it. Then she noticed Mathilde had raised her eyeglass again and fixed it on Meg's face. Choosing bark over bitter, Meg pulled a chair over next to where Grandfather Ponthier had parked his wheelchair.

  Over by the bar, Teensy had completely collapsed against Dr. Prejean's chest. He now had both arms around the sobbing woman. Meg noticed no one else seemed particularly concerned over Teensy.

  Mathilde was commenting to Amelia Anne that she didn't know what that man who called himself mayor would be up to next. Kinky had draped himself over the arm of the chair where Amelia Anne's daughter remained hunched over her book, oblivious to the rest of the gathering. With his fingertips, Kinky began drumming a beat on the girl's head and even then she didn't glance up.