Zoya arranged soap bars into stacks while Mariana admired the final artwork for the wrappers.
"These are so perfect, Zoya. I hate that I can't pay you for them. But if my business catches on, I promise I will."
Zoya considered drawing and painting a hobby and never expected to make money from it even though Dad had claimed she could. When she was twelve, he'd entered some of her work in Baton Rouge's Art competition, and the ribbons she'd won got her a showing in the Zimmer Gallery. It made her happy for people to like her work, but she hated the promotion. Interviews with TV and radio stations made her uncomfortable.
"I don't want you to pay."
"Are you kidding? Do you know how much package design costs? A fortune." She giggled. "But I can barter with a lifetime of free soap."
"I need a favor."
She raised an eyebrow. "Now we're talking. What?"
"The funeral home is having a banquet to celebrate their golden anniversary. I need a dress."
"Formal or church fancy?"
"Church."
"I have just the thing. Still has the tag on it. I bought it right before I got pregnant and never wore it. After Tommy was born, I got back to my pre-baby weight but increased a dress size! Anyway, I've kept it all these years thinking I'd get back into it, but that ain't happening." Mariana put the stacks into baskets and carried them to a nearby shelf. "It's baby blue. It'll look beautiful with your skin tone. When we're done, you can try it on."
"Okay. Is Roman Tommy's dad?"
Mariana gasped and widened her eyes. "Why do you think that?"
"You didn't want me to mention him, so I thought... never mind, it's none of my business. I shouldn't have asked."
Mariana sat again. "It was a stupid request. I mean, if Roman plans to make Arcadia his home, sooner or later, he'll find out. I just wanted to put it off as long as possible." She took a deep breath. "How are things going with him? It's been what? Three weeks since the truce?"
"Yeah. He doesn't talk about me leaving anymore, but he doesn't say much of anything."
"Well, that house has to feel like a tomb."
"I don't know how to talk to him." It never bothered her previously, or with anyone else, and Zoya didn't readily understand why she suddenly felt the need to want to talk to him, with him.
"Ask about his day. The construction. If he needs help with painting? Tell him about your day. Maybe something that happened at work." She tapped her chin. "Oh, here's an idea. If you can invite someone to the banquet, ask him."
"Why?"
"You said Joshua keeps asking you out, so if you go alone, he'll probably arrange for you to sit together. Plus, doing something social with Roman might help your relationship."
Zoya frowned. "He doesn't really like me. I mean, he doesn't fuss anymore or use that gruff tone like he did, but mostly he ignores me. Besides, why would he go on a date with me? I look nothing like the women he brings home."
"It won't be a date. It'll be a plus one. The two of you live together, so you might as well try to become friends. Tomorrow night at dinner, promise you'll say at least one thing to start a conversation."
"Okay."
"Good, now let's go try on that dress."
The next day, Zoya couldn't concentrate on work for thinking about the promise she'd given to Mariana. Idle conversation had never come easy and the idea of making small talk with Roman caused Zoya's stomach to cramp. She'd practiced talking to her clients, and it was a good thing they were deceased or all of them would have complained. She'd smeared Mrs. Elmore's nail polish, gotten Mrs. Hadsten's hair too puffy, and nicked Mr. Rockwell's chin.
The more she thought about it, asking Roman to the banquet was not a good idea. Why would he even consider it? But a promise was a promise. Roman made her nervous, a new kind of nervosa, the kind that feels like at the top of a roller coaster. It was different than the unease she generally felt around new people and situations.
That evening, she took a seat at the table and spooned a helping of chicken spaghetti onto her plate. The pasta dish was one of her favorites and from the way Roman was inhaling it, one of his too.
She pushed noodles around with her fork. "I couldn't use my word today."
"What?" He raised an eyebrow at her, but she was too invested with pushing around food rather than meeting his eye. He didn't know when it happened, but he was accustomed to her now; knew when something was off. It was a subtle change - Zoya never seemed to divulge anything worthwhile, but he could feel it.
"My word-of-the-day. I didn't use it." Her chest tightened. "Never mind. How was your day? How is the building going? Can I help with anything? Are you interested in going to a banquet?" The last question squeaked out because her mouth had gone dry. She reached for her glass of water and gulped.
He laid down his fork and half-smiled. "What's the word?"
She looked away. "Uxorial."
"Hmm. What's it mean?"
She squinted at him, suddenly suspicious at his prompting, almost like he wanted to talk to her. But she could see none of his typical sarcasm lined in his features, and his tone seemed genuine. As if he really was interested in her weird word of the day quirk.
"Befitting of a wife," she said finally.
"Can't help you there, but even if I could, it wouldn't count, would it? I mean you have to come up with the sentence on your own, right?" The corners of his lips twitched, as if involuntarily.
Zoya looked back down at her half-eaten dinner. "Yeah."
He swallowed another bite, then looked at her. "They got the john working in the new bathroom, so I won't have to use yours anymore. As for you helping, maybe when the rooms are ready to paint, I'll let you pitch in. You're good at it. And this spaghetti is delicious."
He took another bite, and she thought he was finished talking. Better he ignored the banquet question, anyway. She shouldn't have listened to Mariana.
He leaned back and rested his hands on the chair arms. "Hey, look at me."
She raised her eyes to his and braced herself.
"Is talking to me making you uncomfortable?"
She wanted to answer, but couldn't get the words out, so she nodded.
"Why?"
She lowered her head. "It's just hard for me."
He reached over and placed his finger under her chin and tilted it up. "I want to understand. Can you explain it for me?"
His gentle touch and the tenderness in his tone surprised her. Her cheeks warmed. "I don't always say the right thing, so it's better not to talk."
"You can say anything around me. If I don't understand, I'll tell you. Okay?"
"Okay."
He leaned back into his seat. "Now, about this banquet."
"It's a work thing. Fifty-year anniversary."
"And the dress code? Date? Time?"
"Oh, it's not a date. It's a plus one."
He laughed out loud. "I meant the date of the event."
Her face flamed, and she turned away again. "See what I mean?"
"I wasn't laughing at you. Your answer was cute."
"Oh. Two weeks from Saturday. Dressy casual. Seven in the evening."
"I'll have to check my social calendar."
"All right." She placed her hands on the table and scooted her chair away but before she stood, he caught her wrist.
"That was a joke. You know I don't have a social calendar."
She pulled her hand free. She appreciated his attempt to let her down easy, but she'd been right. This was a bad idea. "I know you don't like me, so you don't have to go."
"Whoa. I've never said that."
He frowned around the garlic bread between his teeth, and something churned in her stomach. Longing. Desire for his approval. What was that about? She searched for something to say but came up short. An awkward silence hung between them and finally she found her voice.
"I'm not stupid. I know I'm odd and people don't like different." She turned her gaze to her hands, clasped tightly together, as if she were trying to ground herself. "I dealt with it all my life," she added as an afterthought.
Her voice seemed so small and far away. He looked at her, really looked at her, shrinking in on herself, and it hit him. She really was alone, not just physically, it stabbed deeper than that. He didn't know much about her, but he could understand that.
She had a friend in Mariana, but even kept her at arm's length, and he knew Mariana López was the closest thing Zoya had since Charamel. At least he had always had Ophelia, and Charamel, and even Flynn.
"Hey. Look at me," he hesitantly covered her hand with his and her head snapped up. "When I got here, you were a surprise. I didn't handle it well. But I'm past that now. It isn't that I don't like you, it's I don't know you. But since you're in such a chatty mood, maybe we should try to fix that. I'll go first."
Panic rose in her throat. She didn't want to play this game because she wasn't sure she could trust him with her secrets.
"What's your connection to my lola?"
After a minute to consider her answer, she decided it safe enough. "My dad knew her."
"How?"
"He and your mom were friends in college."
"Interesting. Your turn."
"What are your nightmares about?"
In the blink of an eye, his expression went grim. "That's the one thing I can't talk about."
"Why?"
"I just can't. Ask something else."
"Why do you have to bring women home? Why can't you go to their house?"
"Here, I'm in control. Somewhere else, I don't know who has a key, who might show up unannounced, and sometimes the woman has kids. Besides, it's been at least two weeks since the last one."
"Nine days."
"What?"
"The last one was here nine days ago. Not two weeks."
"Damn. Sure seems longer."
She straightened in her chair. "Well, I don't like hearing the uxorial duties they exhibit."
A wide grin replaced his harsh demeanor. "You're welcome."
"What?"
"Because of my bad behavior, you used your word, so you're welcome."
"Is that another joke?"
"Yeah. A sarcastic one. You're on a roll so what else don't you like about me?"
"You smoke and drink too much."
"Noted. That's three negatives. Any positives?"
There were a lot of things Zoya liked about him. He made her feel safe. Now that the cats were gone, she liked having another person in the house. And the biggest surprise, she liked talking to him. It had come as a surprise to her; she hadn't anticipated finding anyone she actually enjoyed talking to, not since her dad died.
"I like that you started washing your own sheets."
He chuckled. "Yeah, well, I wasn't sure my heart could take many more times of seeing you in that crazy get-up when you changed them."
"You've started to thank me for cooking."
"You go to a lot of trouble. The least I can do is be appreciative."
"I like the way you look without your shirt." She wrung her hands together, a nervous gesture, and wondered why she was nervous to begin with.
Roman choked on his drink. "What?"
"I like the way you look...."
He held his hand up to stop her. "I heard you. I'm just shocked."
"Why? It's very muscular and defined."
"Uh... okay... thanks."
"You're welcome," she said as a matter-of-fact, as if she were talking about the weather, and gathered up the dishes to place in the sink. He watched her, wondering what the hell had just happened.
Miles Landry parked on the street in front of Stella Jackson's house, a modest white frame with green shutters and small front yard. Marigolds and pink flowers he didn't recognize filled beds on either side of the cracked sidewalk.
Even though he had all the notes from the previous investigators and the police report, he liked to treat cases as if starting from zero. Ask his own questions. Draw his own conclusions.
According to his information, and given her vocation, he'd expected a woman wearing sensible shoes, with her hair pulled into a bun. Stella was anything but that. The woman standing in the doorway wore a bright green yoga outfit accenting her hazel eyes and looked to be in her early thirties. A tangle of long, curly black hair secured into a ponytail at the top of her head. She looked like a genie who'd just escaped her bottle.
"Come in, Mr. Landry."
She flashed him a warm smile and his chest tightened. "Ms. Jackson?"
"Please, call me Stella. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water? Tea?"
"A cup of coffee would be great."
"I just made a fresh pot. We can talk while I get it."
He followed her into the kitchen, pulled out a stool at the end of the counter, and sat.
She took cups from the cabinet. "So, you're what? Number four?"
"Guilty as charged."
Stella laughed as she delivered the drinks and took the seat across from him. "That Marion. She just won't give up."
"You say that as if she should."
"Miles...may I call you Miles?"
The tone of her voice stirred something in him. Five years since Sasha died, he'd been alone too long. He shook the thought of his wife away and refocused. "Please do."
Stella sipped, then set her cup on the saucer without a sound. "I suspect you'll be the last. Time's running out for Marion."
Removing a pen and a small spiral from his pocket, he made a notation. "What does that mean?"
"Once the girl turns twenty-five, she gets control of the company and there won't be much the gold digger can do. David... Mr. St. Clair made sure of that. She'll lose her place on the board and the salary that goes with it, so she's desperate."
Miles swirled cream into his cup. "Maybe you should start at the beginning."
"I suppose you know the basic background. Brenda, Mr. St. Clair's first wife and the girl's mom, died in a car accident when the little girl was five. Terrible thing. Happened during a strong storm. Poor girl was in the car with her dead mother for almost a day before help came. Anyway, back to Marion. She came into the picture four years later. Mr. St. Clair was lonely, and she was beautiful... and young. No offense, but most men are idiots when a pretty woman gives them attention."
He grinned. Couldn't deny that. Stella was younger, and he was already enjoying her company. "None taken."
"You married, Miles?"
Damn, there was that gut feeling again. "Widowed. You?"
"Nope. Not for three years, when I caught him face deep in my next-door neighbor."
He couldn't help but laugh. This woman had spunk. "Sorry."
"Yeah, well she was younger, too. Sorry, I keep getting sidetracked. For a while, Marion was okay. As long as David could keep pace with her, then he got sick. The first round of chemo got him in remission, but eventually the cancer came back. The last eighteen months of his life were awful."
Miles ran his hand over his jaw. "Mrs. O'Donnell-St. Clair seems to think the girl had some type of mental break when her dad died."
Stella flapped her hand in the air. "She wishes. Let me clue you in on the widow. The day of the funeral, she fired every last one of us. Brought in her own people."
Miles jotted something in the notebook and looked up at his hostess. "I understand that's the day the girl went missing."
"It's the day she left because she knew it was the only time she'd be safe from Marion. If you solve the case, she'll have a doctor drug her in order to get power of attorney. Once she has that, she'll stick her in some institution, and Marion will sell the company and become a very rich woman."
"I thought she was already rich."
"Not hardly. Like I said. A house and company salary that's about to expire. Besides, greedy people never have enough."
"If the woman is as evil as you say, why hire me to find her? Why not a hit man instead?"
Stella laughed. "Like I said, Mr. St. Clair arranged things. If his daughter dies, then the company will be sold, and the proceeds divided between different charities. Marion's only hope is to have things happen the way I mentioned."
Miles glanced at his watch, then pushed away from the table. "Well, I appreciate the information and coffee. I know from our earlier conversation you have an appointment so I'll get out of your hair."
Stella rose too, stepped closer, and laid her hand on his forearm. "I can tell you're a man with a big heart, so do the right thing and forget about finding Miss St. Clair. Wherever she is, she's better off."
Good thing Zoya's got people in her corner.
Do you think Roman really is Tommy's dad?
TEASER: "And if I have to do that, you're going to see a lot more than my bare chest."
What's going on here?