In a Manner of Speaking

By Barbara Cutrera

Neile Landry, a talented corporate interpreter, is forced to face her past fears and rethink her future plans as she is confronted with deception, threats to her life, and murder. When Neile’s wealthy employer dies in a suspicious car accident that also critically injures her co-worker and best friend, she forms an unlikely partnership with Scotsman Ewen Erskine, a recent business acquaintance. As secret plans for a global healthcare network are revealed, more deaths follow. Neile soon finds herself in a personal as well as professional relationship with Erskine as they work together in their efforts to uncover the truth about those who have fallen prey to foul play. As they grapple with personal threats and insidious attacks by an elusive sociopath, Neile struggles to overcome increasing difficulty with a congenital cardiac condition and her painful past, while Erskine tries to deal with terrible secrets from his youth that have troubled him most of his life. In the terrifying inevitable confrontation with the killer, Neile realizes that more is at stake than she ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Cutrera
• Release date: Jun 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301568574

Barbara Cutrera

Barbara Cutrera has been a writer since childhood but didn’t begin writing novels until 1999. She decided to pursue publication in 2012. Cutrera is an author who likes to write in various genres – fiction, mystery, contemporary romance, fantasy romance, and romantic suspense. A member of the Romance Writers of America, the Florida Writers’ Association, and the Tampa Area Romance Authors, Cutrera was born and raised in Louisiana and moved to Florida with her family in 2004. She works with the visually-impaired and is visually-impaired herself. She believes that our minds are only limited by the restrictions we place upon them. Her literary credo? “Transcending reality by exploring it one story at a time....”

Book preview

In a Manner of Speaking

Barbara Cutrera

Dedicated to my wonderful family, friends, and beta readers

Copyright © 2009 by Barbara J. Cutrera.

All rights reserved.  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the photocopying, scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. 

Published by On My Way Up, LLC at Smashwords

P.O. Box 1962, Bradenton, FL 34206

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the result of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Second ebook edition: November 2016

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Works

Chapter One

When I was a little girl, my father used to say, Life’s not fair, Neile. People are crap. Things are always stacked against us. Suck it up and deal with it.

I was suitably unimpressed by his attitude. At a young age, I vowed to prove my father wrong and show him that most people were inherently good. That was the main reason I’d decided to become an interpreter. My goal was to help others communicate more effectively. I was determined to do my part in order to make the world a better place.

I personally understood how important it was for people to be clear when it came to what they wanted to say. I secretly wished that others automatically knew how to pronounce my first name. When my mother had announced she was pregnant with me, my father expected her to deliver a son and planned to call him Neil. When his son turned out to be a daughter, he refused to change his mind. His only concession was to add an e at the end in order to ensure there was no confusion on standardized forms and documentation. It hadn’t always worked. I was often teased as a child, and my childhood was already less than idyllic from the beginning.

However, as an adult, I believed I was happy and comfortable in both my personal and professional lives. Little did I realize how my own world would change not long after I turned twenty-six. Not only would I be forced to face my own fears regarding my past and my plans for the future, but I would also be confronted with deception, threats on my life from without and within, and murder.

It all began on a Friday in early December. I was in New York on business, and my day had started with a brief but annoying round of irregular heart rhythms, something related to a benign cardiac defect. The discovery that my favorite ring was nowhere to be found followed. Not willing to be late for work, I ate a muffin while I continued to search the hotel room to no avail. Disappointed, I eventually gave up and hurried to the lobby with my bags and explained the situation to the clerk, who assured me the staff would be certain to look for the ring when they cleaned the room. Then I was off to my job as an interpreter within the corporate world.

The remainder of my morning was booked with business meetings fraught with haggling and maneuvering by all parties involved. The meetings ran late, and my boss, co-worker, and I almost missed our flight. The plane had mechanical problems that forced the passengers to return to the terminal to wait for another plane to be rerouted in order to take us from New York to Louisiana. Baton Rouge rush hour traffic was horrendous, and a heavy downpour hit just as I pulled into my parking slot. I was soaking wet by the time I reached the front door of my townhouse. At this inopportune moment, my key broke off in the lock.

I looked at my watch: 6:15. The formal holiday party I was to attend would begin at 8:00. There I would put in a few more hours of work. Well, that was the plan anyway.

I paused and leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the dark wood of the door. Behind it, I could hear my little Cairn terrier, Hot Sauce, barking and pacing in agitation. Too bad she couldn’t undo the lock for me. The door of the townhouse to my right opened.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I grumbled.

Howdy do, Neighbor!

I stared sourly at Ted Zolan. Normally, I would have pushed myself to be neighborly to this man. But on that particular night the effort was too much for me. Ted had been pestering me for a date ever since he’d moved in two weeks earlier. He was at least thirty years my senior. He also had a pot belly, squinty eyes, and a toupee that reminded me of a small woodland creature. Mentally, I had dubbed him Squirrel Boy.

Hello, Mr. Zolan.

Ted, remember? How’s it hanging? Have you thought any more about my invite? It doesn’t have to be pizza and a movie, you know.

I appreciate the offer, but I already told you how swamped I am at my job right now.

A pretty young thing like you shouldn’t be working yourself so hard. What do you do for a living anyways? It can’t be that big of a deal. What are you? Twenty?

I wanted to tell him that my work was important and that my age was none of his business. Instead, I said tersely, You’re about six years off.

You’re fourteen? he cried in mock incredulity. I wouldn’t want anybody accusing me of taking advantage of a minor!

As I listened to the peals of obnoxious laughter, I ruminated on the best way to escape. Luckily, the door of the townhouse to my left opened, and Laurie Tastet, my closest female friend, stepped into the doorway and observed the scene.

Laurie and I were great friends despite our totally different styles and personalities. Whereas she was boisterous, I was reserved. She preferred bright colors and patterns, while I opted for more subdued tones in classic styles. She was tall and rather large, while I was short and slim. Her hair was dyed a different color each month, while mine remained the same chestnut brown it had been since birth.

Neile Landry! Laurie exclaimed. There you are! You are so late! Did you forget?

Ted looked blankly from Laurie to me and back again.

Um, no, of course I – I didn’t forget, I stammered lamely. I’m coming. Goodnight, Mr. Zolan.

Hastily moving into my friend’s home, I walked over to what she called her Jolly Green Giant couch and sprawled across it. Laurie shut the door and plopped down in the purple chair next to the sofa.

Thank you for saving me, I said gratefully. I’d much rather be lying here than standing in the rain with Ted Zolan.

"I wouldn’t want to be standing anywhere with Ted Zolan! Laurie scowled. He acts like a lecherous old man! Why don’t you tell him off?"

I was almost tired enough to do it tonight. By the way, I need your help.

Boy, do you! You look like a drowned rat.

I feel like one, too. I yawned then sat up and said, Seriously, I have a party to get to at Hathaway House in St. Francisville; Hot Sauce needs to be let out; and my key broke off in the lock.

Never fear! Laurie the Interior Designer is here! Only tonight I think I’ll be doing some exterior designing on your person. Isn’t it fortunate for you that my boyfriend is sick? I’m actually home on a Friday night. She rose from her chair, removed a poker from beside her fireplace, and pushed at one of the smoldering logs. Miss Beulah let Hot Sauce out at 5:00. I know because I saw her in the courtyard. I got to hear all about her arthritis acting up and how frisky Hot Sauce was this afternoon. She gets so excited about their walks.

She’s such a nice lady, but I know she’s lonely. I really appreciate her taking Hot Sauce out for me. I thought about getting her a dog for her seventieth birthday, but that wicked nephew pitched a fit.

Laurie replaced the poker and headed toward the stairs then said, We have other problems to worry about right now besides that nasty nephew of hers, but I have solutions! I have a dress you can wear. You go to the party, and I’ll get the complex manager to come fix the lock.

I looked dubiously at my friend as I followed her upstairs and said, I appreciate your offering to see about the lock, but I don’t know about the dress thing. We’re not exactly Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

No, we’re not, but just because I’m one of those big and tall girls and you’re weight and height challenged doesn’t mean we can’t share clothes, right? Laughing, she said, It’s not my dress, so relax.

Raising my eyebrows, I waited. Half of me was intrigued by whatever it was she had in mind. The other half was petrified.

Here, Laurie said from somewhere in the back of her walk-in closet. As I approached, she pulled out a garment bag. Let’s see how this fits. She slipped the bag up and over the gown underneath. It was stunning – and scandalous.

I don’t think so! Where on earth did you get it?

Jeez, Louise! You haven’t even tried it on. Where’s your sense of adventure? Anyway, what choice do you have? What time’s the party? It’ll take you at least forty-five minutes to get there. Are you going to run out and buy a gown in the next few minutes? As she slipped her arm under the mid-section of the dress, she went on, My sister got it years ago before she decided to go commune with nature in Montana. I think she only wore it once. It was so pretty I didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. It’s a little tame for me, but I think it will do just fine for you. I even have the shoes up here somewhere. Maybe a purse, too.

Lowering the gown onto the seat of her zebra-patterned futon, she began to search through a pile of shoeboxes in one corner of the closet. I looked at the dress and thought, I should at least try it on. I really didn’t have many options.

I carried it to the bathroom and stripped off my wet clothing then looked at the tag: Size 2. I wore size four. Holding up the dress, I attempted to imagine myself underneath the fabric. It was impossible.

The material was loaded with beads. The background was brilliant red with white beads scattered in splashy thin lines along the edges. The gown was long and straight, and there was a high slit on one side. No sleeves. No straps.

I groaned and proceeded to struggle into the thing. After several moments of tugging and holding my breath, I managed to get the dress on and zipped it up. Relaxing the muscles of my diaphragm, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I could still breathe. I turned to look at myself in the full-length mirror, and my heart skipped a beat. Yes, I had wiggled my way inside, but the fact that the dress was too small for me was evident. My breasts had been pushed to new heights as the band at the top attempted valiantly to contain them.

My hair was a long, tangled, wet mass of chestnut. I would have to redo my make-up. Even my brown eyes looked bedraggled. It was hopeless.

Hey! You look great! Well, the bottom part of you does. The hair and face need some work, but it’s nothing we can’t handle, Laurie assured me from the doorway. You should dress like that more often. Maybe you’d have a few more dates.

And catch a few more colds. I retorted. I’m taking it off.

Laurie held out a matching pair of beaded red shoes and declared, Not for me you’re not. Save it for some guy at the party.

"You don’t really think I can go like this, do you?"

An hour and a quarter later, I arrived in St. Francisville. I’d gotten a hasty makeover from Laurie, who had been a little too dramatic with the cosmetics. At least my hair was fine. I’d brushed it out and pulled the front back, pinning it into a decorative clip Laurie had offered me. The rest of the mass hung in waves down my back. I liked the way it felt behind my bare shoulders.

Not too shabby, I reflected. If only it weren’t for the dress.

I pulled up to the gates of Hathaway House and fumbled for my employee identification in the matching, beaded evening purse Laurie had unearthed for me. Removing the card, I edged up to the attendant and was allowed through the gates. Maneuvering my Honda around the circular driveway, I joined the line of cars inching toward the front of the plantation-style mansion. When my turn came, I stepped obligingly out of the car and allowed an attendant to climb in and drive it away.

The interior of the mansion never failed to remind me of a huge Ethan Allen showroom. That night, it was lit up like a Christmas tree. Actually, there were several Christmas trees scattered about, one for every room it seemed. Each one had a different theme. There were thousands of white bulbs intertwined with greenery throughout the house. Wrought-iron candlesticks, loaded with tapered candles, were crammed into the empty corners. It was blessedly warm.

Hathaway House seemed elegant, yet cozy. I felt slightly guilty. I didn’t have a single decoration up at my place, and Christmas was less than three weeks away.

Neile! I can’t believe you’re late for once in your life.

Harry Jorgensen, my co-worker and best friend, bounded over to where I was standing. We had shared an office for four years, so it was a good thing that we got along so well. Despite his gregarious nature, Harry was a true professional when it came to work. We were a good team.

Outside of work, we’d been there for each other, too. When Harry’s happy marriage had disintegrated into a bitter divorce and custody battle, I’d listened patiently, given him a shoulder to cry on, and had let him sleep on my couch off and on for several weeks. He’d helped me through a rough period when my grandmother died, and I’d attempted to re-establish a relationship with my parents. Both of us were only children, so we had agreed to be siblings in fact, if not in blood.

Hel-lo! Harry whistled. "You look hot, Girl. What happened to you?"

Thanks so much. I love you, too. You look hot yourself this evening.

He made a slow three hundred and sixty-degree turn so I could view his black tux and plaid Christmas bow tie.

Do you like it? This old thing?

At five foot six, Harry was several inches taller than I. His ancestry was evident in his features, blonde hair, and blue eyes. His energy levels knew no bounds.

Harry, did you spike your hair tonight?

He grinned and said, I cannot tell a lie. I bought some hair gel stuff for the occasion. I thought maybe it would help me to look more suave.

Well….

Neile! Harry! Happy holidays! I guess that sounds pretty stupid, since I just saw you two a couple of hours ago. It’s become my standard greeting for the evening.

Leonard Hathaway stood in the living room near an enormous Christmas tree that had been adorned with purple and gold ribbons, sports-related ornaments, and Louisiana State University footballs. Harry and I went quickly in his direction, dodging guests and waiters bearing trays full of food and drink. We finally made it across the room and came to stand next to our employer, who remarked that he had never seen me in such festive dress. I bit my lip and nodded.

Harry and I surveyed the room while we waited for our cue from Mr. Hathaway. Over two hundred and fifty invitations had been mailed nationally and internationally to business associates for this holiday affair. Mr. Hathaway preferred the more intimate setting of his home for visiting with friends and business acquaintances. Intimate was not the image that came to mind as I looked around at the multitude of people in attendance.

Ready for some business mixed with a little pleasure? Hathaway boomed jovially.

Of course, I replied automatically.

Always, Harry put in.

Then let’s get to it.

Hathaway began to move around the room and mingle with his guests. He was tall and trim with angular features and an energetic demeanor. His hair was dark brown, almost black. If he wore a toupee, then it was an excellent piece.

Harry and I hovered in close proximity, always on hand in case the boss needed our services, which was quite frequently. To casual observers it would appear that we were simply out for the evening, enjoying ourselves. In reality, we were on constant alert. Sometimes, I felt more like a security guard than an interpreter. The way Harry and I behaved at work-related functions was almost identical to the way Butch and Hank, the two bodyguards, surveyed crowds for threats.

Oh, Neile! There you are!

I tilted my head upward. Olympia Hathaway stood poised halfway down the staircase. The wife of Leonard Hathaway was not a beautiful woman; she was striking. Her hair was so blonde that it seemed to shimmer. Her blue eyes twinkled with humor although it was a tactful humor held loosely in check by a genteel background. She possessed what I’d always called apple cheeks that plumped up whenever she smiled. Faint lines spread from the corners of her eyes.

That evening, she wore a gown of purple taffeta edged in gold. Her hair was swept up away from her face and tucked behind her head in a hidden comb. A tall woman, she wore low heels. An elegant diamond necklace encircled her throat, and diamond earrings framed her jaw.

Olympia held a special place in my heart. She reminded me of my beloved grandmother, not that Olympia was old. She and Leonard were in their early fifties and going strong. It was simply that the woman was dignified and kind-hearted and had a backbone of solid steel.

Olympia was standing next to a tiny Asian woman who was about my age. She wore a white sheath dress embossed with silver thread flowers. Both women looked relatively at ease, but an air of frustration surrounded them.

I ascended the steps until I was at their level.

How may I help you, Mrs. Hathaway?

Mrs. Chen and I are just having a dreadful time communicating! She barely speaks any English, and Chinese wasn’t part of my degree program at Loyola.

I turned to Mrs. Chen and bowed slightly. In my most formal Chinese, I began by saying, Mrs. Chen. Mrs. Hathaway would like to extend a warm welcome to you. She would like to thank you for gracing her home with your presence.

Mrs. Chen smiled and bowed in acknowledgement and replied, My most sincere thanks to the lady of this beautiful house. It is an honor to join her for this celebration and a pleasure to have a translator present.

I relayed the message, and it was Olympia’s turn to smile.

We aim to please. She glanced at me then added, You don’t have to translate that part.

Within minutes I fell into the familiar roll of invisible interpreter. Mrs. Hathaway and Mrs. Chen conversed as they moved about the house. It was as if I weren’t there. This, according to me, was as it should be. When people refused to allow me to fade into the background while I interpreted, it could be an agony for everyone.

Eventually, Mrs. Chen excused herself in order to locate her husband, and Olympia and I were momentarily alone in the center of the throng, milling about in the den.

Why don’t we sit? Olympia offered, motioning to the loveseat. By the way, I like your dress.

I blushed and thanked her then added, I like yours, too.

I borrowed it from a friend. The one I was going to wear tonight got a lipstick stain on it somehow, and I had to send it to the cleaners. Nothing else in my closet was quite what I had in mind. And yours?

We rose and began to stroll around the room as more guests entered. It was unusual for us to have any time to speak privately at these functions. Olympia reflected out loud that it had been weeks since she’d had a decent conversation with me and asked again about the dress.

A friend lent it to me. The lock on my townhouse broke, and I couldn’t get in.

Olympia looked concerned and asked, What about your little dog?

My friend is going to take care of things for me. It –

I was cut off, as I collided with a petite middle-aged woman who was emerging hastily from the kitchen.

Oh! the woman cried. Are ye hurt?

Shaking my head, I glanced down to make sure I was still securely inside the dress. In truth, I’d impacted rather solidly with the woman and was slightly out of breath. It was amazing that we’d hit each other so hard. The woman, who had dark eyes and henna-colored hair, was perhaps four feet ten. Since I was only five feet two, if Harry had been around, he would have surely made some comment about diminutive women colliding and the gravity and friction involved. Of course, I would have had some witty retort for it, but I wasn’t in the mood just then.

I – I was looking for the powder room, the woman declared in a British accent laced with Scottish inflections. I’m getting rather desperate.

Olympia gave her directions, and she rushed off in a flurry of apologies.

Ah, Pia! I was wondering where you were in all this melee! Leonard Hathaway came up next to his wife and put an arm around her shoulders, as Harry ambled up behind them. If you two will excuse us, I’d like to have a word with the missus alone. We won’t be long.

Len, what is it?

We watched our employer and his wife head off toward the back of the house where the home office was located. It was the only place besides the master suite that was off-limits to guests.

What was all that about? I asked Harry when the Hathaways were out of earshot.

Beats me. We’ve talked a lot of business tonight since you and I split up. Let’s see. There was a Norwegian manufacturer, a German financier, and a retired French General. Maybe it has to do with that. How ‘bout you?

Only one so far, the wife of a Chinese industrialist entrepreneur.

I didn’t realize there were Chinese industrialist entrepreneurs.

"It is the twenty-first century."

Still….

"Well, they’re from China. I don’t think they live there anymore. She mentioned something about an apartment near Central Park."

I shook my head, still perplexed over the abrupt departure of the Hathaways. Harry put a hand on my elbow and proceeded to guide me toward the buffet to our left.

Don’t worry about it. Let’s eat while we can. They probably went off to fool around.

Puh-leeze, Harry! In the middle of a party? That would be very uncharacteristic.

Sometimes people need a change, right?

As the minutes ticked by, I began to wonder if Harry’s assumption had been correct. Forty minutes later, Leonard Hathaway located us sitting in the den. Harry was nursing a ginger ale, while I was indulging in a Sprite.

Well, it’s back to work. Sorry to keep you waiting. We’ll head for the dining room and see who needs attention.

He seemed subdued, as we followed him across the Great Room.

Where is Mrs. Hathaway? I asked. Does she need me?

Or maybe she’d prefer me? Harry suggested.

His tone was innocent enough, but the way he’d phrased his question made me uncomfortable. Since his divorce, Harry had been playing the field quite a bit, and I worried about him. I’d lectured him on AIDS and STDs, but he’d refused to be careful.

Mrs. Hathaway has a headache and won’t be coming back to the party. Hathaway shot Harry a glance over his shoulder that dared him to make any further comments. Then he added, At least not right now.

Harry and I exchanged confused looks but said nothing. Soon, we were at one end of the dining room, standing in front of the enormous brick fireplace. Hathaway became deeply engrossed in a conversation with a neighbor who’d recently moved into an old historic home down the road.

Think he needs us? Harry asked, nudging me in the ribs. The new guy is from Gueydan, Louisiana. What, with that heavy Cajun accent, his speech is probably unintelligible.

Shame on you! I scolded but turned away, not wanting him to see my smile.

Hathaway finished his conversation, and we mingled once more. As I usually do while working, I lost track of the time. Before long, the old grandfather clock in the study struck 11:30. Only then did I realize how much my feet hurt and how tight my dress was. I was ready to go home. Unfortunately, the party was still in full swing.

You look terribly tired, said a man from beside me. May I get you a drink?

His was a British accent laced with a hint of Scots, and I wondered idly if he was related to the woman who’d barreled into me earlier.

I turned slowly and looked up with irritation at the brown-haired stranger. My challenging day had begun at 5:00 a.m., and my diplomatic facade was wearing thin.

It’s impolite to tell a lady that she looks tired, I pointed out. And please get a new pick-up line.

Normally, I would never have responded in such a fashion. Any person in the room could be a past, current, or potential business associate. Perhaps I was coming down with something.

Forgive me. I suppose that was rude. However, the second part wasn’t a ‘pick-up’ line. I really was simply trying to help.

Well, thank you, Mr. –

Erskine.

Erskine, but I don’t drink while I’m on duty.

Duty? He glanced at my attire and asked, Are you a police officer?

Interpreter. I work for Mr. Hathaway.

"Oh. Right, then. If you don’t mind, I would like some Guinness. With an expectant tone in his voice, Mr. Erskine asked, May I get you a glass of water?"

I couldn’t discern whether he was being sincere or sarcastic, but I was thirsty.

Sounds divine.

There was a lull in the conversation as he scanned the room for servers. While he was suitably occupied, I studied Erskine. I estimated his age to be thirty-five. He was about six feet tall, trim but muscular. His mint-colored eyes were the oddest shade of green I had ever seen. His hair was a rich, dark brown. The tuxedo he wore had obviously been tailored for him. Underneath it, I imagined he was –

Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, Harry whispered, jostling my shoulder slightly as he walked past.

Startled, I came back to reality and reflected that I really did need to cultivate a more active social life. Erskine was patiently standing in front of me holding his Guinness and a glass of water. Those green eyes….

So, are you from around here? I floundered, casting about for something to say.

He handed me the glass of water, chuckled, and muttered, Talk about pick up lines! You’re the interpreter. Where am I from?

Scotland, I said immediately. Although you must have been educated by the British somewhere along the line. The English accent is good but not quite pure. You use slightly different inflections on certain words or syllables.

Now that I was on familiar territory, I felt more at ease, which was certainly what Mr. Erskine had in mind.

And what brings you here, Mr. Erskine? Perhaps you’re an interpreter yourself.

Of sorts. I work for Mr. MacChruiter. His company has a subsidiary business that makes the plastics used to house computer hardware for people like your employer. He was born and raised in a very remote area of Scotland. Unlike the rest of his family, he refused to conform when it came to his manner of speaking. Sometimes, people have trouble understanding him. When that happens, I change from Mr. Corporate Executive to Mr. Interpreter. I’m good at it.

Let’s see how good your other linguistic skills are, I said, challenging him. "Where am I from?"

Well, we are in Louisiana. New Orleans?

I tried not to smirk then declared, It seems as though people who aren’t from around here assume that everybody in Louisiana must somehow come from New Orleans.

My mistake. Are you from Louisiana then?

I was born at the air base in Alexandria. It’s gone now. I guess it’s comforting to know that there are some things those military yahoos and I agree on.

Erskine began to grin then to laugh and commented, "Your party conversation is refreshing. Most people talk a lot but never say anything. He held out his hand and said amiably, I’m Ewen. And you are…?"

Neile Landry.

Neile? That’s an odd name for a woman, isn’t it?

"For the record, I think Ewen is a pretty odd name for anyone."

"Perhaps around here. Is Neile a common Southern name?"

Oh, yes, I laughed. "Right up there with Scarlet."

I see, he said with mock seriousness. Say, you are really a woman, aren’t you?

You can ask me that when I’m standing here in this get-up?

Actually, I had no doubts, Miss Landry.

Neile.

Neile, it’s an honor. You’re very engaging. Straightforward, I should say. Nice quality. It makes me wish I were staying in town a little longer.

There was a twinge in the pit of my stomach. I was enjoying Erskine’s company immensely. I forced myself to sound lighthearted and asked, You’ll be moving on soon?

Two more days. Mr. MacChruiter will be heading back to New York once he’s finished his business with your employer.

What business? I wondered.

Ewen!

I couldn’t see the man through the crowd but assumed it was Erskine’s boss. Erskine leaned to the left and waved in acknowledgement. Then he said reluctantly, I have to go. Maybe I’ll be seeing you again.

It wasn’t exactly a statement or a question. I decided to answer in kind.

Maybe. It was nice to meet you.

I watched Erskine shoulder his way across the room toward a large man wearing a kilt.

My mother always used to say ‘Don’t frown so hard,’ Harry muttered from beside me. ‘Your face will freeze up like that!’ she’d say. It would be a shame to have to look at you with that expression for the rest of my days.

Please be quiet, Harry!

Yeah, she used to say that, too.

I sighed then asked, Will you stick around Hathaway for a few? He hasn’t needed me in a while, but I’ve still been keeping my eye out. Speaking of which, where have you been?

I don’t mind, and I plead the Fifth.

I was afraid to ask but speculated, The broom closet again?

Nah. The pantry actually. When I stared open-mouthed at my friend, he said, Don’t be such a stick in the mud! She was Spanish and said she needed my services. Little did I know what she meant at the time. But the sex was fantastic. He straightened his bowtie before adding, By the way, while I was in the pantry, I saw that someone brought a box of those dark chocolates that you and the boss like so much. It’s on the third shelf. He wrinkled his nose then asked, How can the two of you stand those things? They’re so bitter!

It’s just as well that nobody else likes them. More for us.

Thank God, he’s gracious about sharing them.

Kindred palates must stick together. At least I chew mine; Hathaway inhales his. But seriously, Harry, the pantry? I don’t know if I want to eat anything else from there ever again.

I told you she was Spanish, he pouted.

I threw my hands up toward the ceiling and proclaimed, Why do I even bother?

Because you’re my bestest friend in the whole wide world.

Unable to argue with that, I made my way toward the stairs and began to climb. Once on the second floor, I veered right and followed the Oriental runner until I reached the last door at the end of the hall. I rapped tentatively on it. There was no response. After thirty seconds, I decided to give up and go back downstairs. I’d taken three steps when I heard the familiar voice.

Who is it?

Neile.

Come in.

Olympia stood at the doors leading out onto the upstairs balcony. I had expected her to be in her nightclothes and robe. However, she was still fully dressed in her evening gown and jewelry. The two things discarded had been her shoes, which lay helter-skelter next to the bed. Moonlight provided the only illumination for Olympia. I let my eyes adjust to the dim light then walked toward her.

I wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything. Mr. Hathway said you weren’t feeling well.

A sad smile flickered across Olympia’s face as she asked, Is that what Len said? Well, I guess I’m not. Len and I are having a disagreement. She reached out and took me gently by the wrist. Do me a favor and come out on the balcony with me for a while. Maybe it will help me to settle down.

I was tired and uncomfortable in my borrowed dress and shoes, but I didn’t hesitate to walk out and sit in one of the rockers. Olympia sat to my right. For five minutes we rocked in silence.

Did you know that Len and I started out in a little one-bedroom apartment? Just him, me, and the children. We were all crammed in tight like anchovies in a tiny box.

Children? But I thought you only had the one.

Stephen is our only surviving child. We also had a daughter.

I wanted to ask what had happened, but I kept my mouth closed. Olympia seemed lost in thought for a full minute then continued, She had a heart defect. Nobody knew. One day, we were at the park, and she fell to the ground and died. It was such a shock. Thank God, Stephen didn’t have any physical problems like that.

I said nothing. No one except Harry knew that I suffered from a heart condition, although mine had been diagnosed early and was not considered life-threatening.

I don’t mean to go on and on, Olympia said. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I suppose because there’s no one else to talk with about it, except for Len and Stephen. Sometimes, it helps to talk with another woman. She turned to face me and declared, I like you, Neile. I’ve always liked you and Harry, but you especially. Maybe it’s because you remind me of my little girl. She would have been about your age, and you do have the same coloring and features. I’d like to think that she would have been as sweet and as smart as you.

I appreciate that so much. I wish that my mother had been like you. My grandmother was, but she died. I haven’t spoken to my mother and father in three years. There are no other surviving members of our family. I shifted in my chair and shifted the topic of conversation back to her by asking, Don’t you have another woman you could talk to? Not that I mind talking with you about it.

It’s not the same. We don’t have anyone left in our family either, and you’re more qualified than anyone else around us to understand since you see all aspects of our lives. It’s a little more all-encompassing than the Garden Club.

Do you want to talk about whatever’s really bothering you?

She paused for several moments. Finally, she said, I’d like to, but perhaps it’s not the right thing to do. It could cause a conflict within the business. It’s best not to prejudice you against something that might, indeed, be for the best. I could be wrong. I don’t think I am, but I could be. Leonard is the one I should talk with at length once the party’s over. She sighed and confided, I don’t like it when Len and I disagree like this. We both have our faults. Being excessively argumentative isn’t among them. A long discussion might be the solution to this difference of opinion.

I rubbed absently at my eyes. I suppose Olympia could see how exhausted I was.

Why don’t you go home and get some rest? It’s well past midnight now. Things should be winding down, and I’m very tired myself at this point.

Stifling a yawn, I rose to leave and proposed, We can talk again soon.

Do you think Len could spare you for a day? I’d like to do some shopping and might need an interpreter. I know you speak something like seven languages. Is Retail one of them?

I’m sure I could get by, I answered with a grin. I think if you asked him, Mr. Hathaway would give you anything you wanted.

If that’s true, then I’ll be able to rest tonight, Olympia Hathaway said, as she shut the door behind me.

Chapter Two

I trudged wearily down the sidewalk toward Laurie’s apartment. All I wanted was to go straight to my own place and fall into bed, but, even if the lock had been fixed, my key had still broken off in the old one. I’d have to get the new key before I could get to my bed.

Tapping lightly on the door, I listened for the familiar sounds of my friend moving across the living room toward the entrance. I knew that Hot Sauce was supposed to be keeping her company. So, why wasn’t the dog barking?

I knocked again, a little louder this time. Suddenly, there came a bark! and hurried footsteps.

Who is it?

Me.

Locks turned, and the door swung back. Laurie stood in the doorway in a long, peach-colored satin gown. Hot Sauce was running around in circles at her feet. I stooped down to pick up the dog.

Hello, Sweet Pea! I guess you missed me, huh? I doubt you were lacking for attention. I took in the gown Laurie was wearing and said, What gives? I thought Gerry was sick.

A sneeze emanated from the darkened living room.

I am.

I stared in confusion at the man. What was he doing there?

Gerry was a big man. Bulky was a good word for him. He’d been a linebacker