His Uptown Girl

“No, ma’am.”

Eleanor looked hard at him and nodded. “She’s lonely.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he met her gaze. “Yeah, I guess she is.”

For a moment they were both silent. Her studying him. Him bearing her scrutiny, defensive on the outside, hoping she believed him on the inside. As the seconds ticked by, Eleanor’s posture changed. Relief gathered in him because he knew she’d worked out the facts rather than jumping to conclusions.

“Winnie propositioned you?”

“What you mean?”

Eleanor rolled a hand, still looking as though she’d rather clean toilets than have this conversation with him. “Make a pass? Come on to you?”

“Why you think that?”

“Because the more I think on it, the more I see the flaw in this accusation. Winnie’s husband ignores her, she’s lonely and you’re awfully nice-looking,” she said, holding open the heavy steel door and jerking her head toward the black yawn that led into the back room. “She’s a good customer, but I don’t necessarily believe you’d have to hit on older ladies when you’ve likely got plenty of girls your own age blowing up your phone.”

The knot in his gut unraveled as he started up the steps. Eleanor believed him over Winnie Dupuy. The thought startled him, put a dent in the shield of mistrust he kept between him and his employer. Between him and everyone. “Did you just say ‘blowing up my phone’?”

Eleanor made a face. “Blakely says that all the time. Guess it seeped into my vocabulary without me noticing.”

Tre didn’t smile much, but he had to smile at her admission. He hadn’t yet met her daughter, since Blakely was away at college, but from the way Eleanor talked about her, she had attitude to spare. He liked a girl with attitude. Someone who wasn’t all mealymouthed. His Big Mama had always said to never trust mealymouths. They’re the sneaky ones.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Dupuy accused you of something so awful.”

He shrugged. “Don’t matter.”

Eleanor stopped him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. “It does matter.”

“She just embarrassed is all.”

He met Eleanor’s gaze and an understanding lit in them. He knew she saw he tried to be an honorable man—the kind of man Big Mama would be proud of. The kind of man who didn’t screw lonely old white women just ’cause he could. He had pride, integrity and respect for himself.

Eleanor could see all that in his gaze.

The dent grew wider.

“Maybe so, but I’ll take care of it. She can’t make those kinds of accusations against my employees and think it’s okay. Go ahead and wrap the Queen Anne and get it over to the Wilkies. Sign out for three o’clock and then you should be able to make Shorty D’s game.”

Devontay’s nickname sounded funny on Eleanor’s lips. “Thank you.”

Eleanor closed the door and started for her office. “Oh, and tell Shorty D I’ll buy him a Tastee doughnut for every point he scores.”

Tre shook his head. “He scored ten last time.”

She smiled. “I know. I’ll plan on picking up a dozen.”

* * *

ELEANOR SHRUGGED OUT of her khaki pants and tossed her new T-shirt on top of the laundry hamper in the corner of her bathroom. Fragrant lavender perfumed the air as her bath filled, automatically soothing her, pulling her mind away from Winnie Dupuy’s tirade, Blakely’s request for more money and her mother-in-law’s message on the answering service. Margaret Theriot didn’t like to be ignored. Or so she said.

So many people giving her grief.

And no one to take it away.

Eleanor eyed the old claw-foot tub, hoping her best bath salts would do the trick. Her day had been longer than most because she’d had to run errands after work, including the dreaded grocery store. Before she could blink it was a quarter of eleven o’clock and past her bedtime.

She snorted as she grabbed her toothbrush. “God, you’re acting like an old person, Elle. In bed by ten o’clock is sealing your doom, baby.”

She didn’t respond to her own taunts. What could she possibly say? Then the cell phone sitting on her dressing table buzzed. She picked it up and eyed the number. Margaret. Again. Shouldn’t her mother-in-law be in bed?

She tossed the phone down, peeled off her underwear and put her hair in an old scrunchy. No friggin’ way would she let Skeeter’s mother ruin the most precious time of the day: her cocktail bath.

Grabbing the highball glass, she sank into the tub and used her big toe to turn off the hot water.

“Ahhh,” she said to the wall on her right.

The wall said nothing in return...as well it shouldn’t. After all, she’d only started on the drink.

The swirl of the water around her felt like a sweet embrace as she slid down, burying her nose in the soft bubbles as the phone jittered again. And then again. Then the home phone jangled in the hallway.

“I’m not answering you, damn it!” she called out, studying the chipped polish on her left toenail as she took a sip of her vodka tonic.

Vodka tonic—one of the many good things her late husband Skeeter Theriot had taught her to love. Every night before they’d gone out to art exhibits or political fund-raisers, they’d indulged in the drink and conversation about what they should say, who they should pander to and why they needed to keep the goal in mind.

Ha.

An illusion built like a house of cards.

But the past didn’t bear dwelling upon, did it? All that hurt and bitterness was supposed to be locked up, chained with determination and dumped in the nearest pit of forgotten dreams.

Eleanor closed her eyes and focused on the good things she had in her life—a store, a healthy daughter, another year before she turned forty. And Nutella. A whole new jar in the pantry.

She’d just grabbed the handmade green-tea soap and a soft cloth when the doorbell rang.

“Really?” she said to the ceiling, blowing an errant bubble off her shoulder. “All I want is a bath. And a drink. And some blasted peace!”

She stood, grabbed her plush terry-cloth robe and padded to the door, not bothering with the water streaming down her legs. She’d mop it up once she dealt with whatever person continued to lean on her doorbell. Eleanor stomped down the stairs, shouting, “Coming!”

When she peeked out the door peephole, her heart stopped.

A uniformed police officer stood beneath her gas lantern porch light, hat in hand. A cruiser was parked in her drive.

With a shaking hand, Eleanor set the crystal tumbler on the late-nineteenth-century telephone table next to the door. A cannonball landed in her stomach; her mouth suddenly became a desert. Last time a policeman had stood on her porch, she’d learned her husband had been murdered...by a mistress she hadn’t known existed.

Please, dear God, don’t let it be Blakely. Please.

Eleanor tugged the belt tighter and turned the lock, pulling the door open. Cold crept in, matching the fear in her heart. “Yes?”