My breath caught in my throat as the conversations and people around me came back into focus. “Historical society business, or something else?” Will was saying.
“Little of both,” he said with a wink. “Miriam’s got some cockamamy idea about a bookstore.” He backhanded Will’s shoulder. “Don’t know why we need that. Digital, I told her. E-books, now, that’s the wave of the future, but she wore me down. She found a site off the square. I happen to have a little extra capital to play with, so . . .”
Interesting. Mr. Kincaid was so buddy-buddy with Will Flores, yet according to what Gracie had said, Miriam had been shunned when Will had tried to help her. And if he and Miriam had been involved, it shouldn’t have mattered since there was no Mrs. Flores.
Another knot in Bliss’s tangled social web.
I looked up to find Will back and studying me. It wasn’t what I’d call a slow, steamy look, but it came darn close and had the same effect. I shifted my weight uneasily, raising my glass to my lips before I remembered how I’d so ungracefully finished my wine.
He took the crystal stemware right out of my hand. “Let me get you a refill, Cassidy. Anyone else?” The Kincaids both shook their heads no and Will sauntered off. Mere seconds later, he was back with a fresh glass of ruby red wine.
I thanked him, scrunching my nose to edge my glasses back into place. Then my stomach rumbled and all I could think was that I should have stayed home because I was much better behind the scenes, dressing people for their parties, than being one of the partygoers myself. Another reason it had been so easy to leave New York.
Keith Kincaid had launched back into talking about the new project he was cooking up with Miriam, shifting Will’s attention again. Which was fine with me. I wanted to find Josie. My stomach growled again, but I ignored it, taking another sip of wine as I looked around. I hardly knew anybody at this shindig. I’d been born and raised in Bliss, but at this moment I felt like a stranger in a strange land.
I scanned the room looking for Karen or Ruthann, or even Zinnia James, the only other people I did sort of know, but I couldn’t spot any of them.
Will’s voice snaked into my consciousness again. “Better slow down there, Cassidy. From the sound of it, your stomach isn’t gonna like all wine and no food.”
I’d hoped no one could hear my complaining tummy, but no such luck. Instead of food, I swallowed my embarrassment. There was something about the sound of his voice that wound right through me and gripped my insides in a bear hug. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’d heard slow Southern drawls all my life, so I didn’t think it was that. Maybe it was the gritty undertone of his tenor, or the way he somehow infused his words with a smile. Or maybe it was all three converging in a perfect storm.
Whatever it was, I kind of liked the feeling it created inside me.
“Will, my boy, you’re the man for the job.” Keith Kincaid’s John Wayne voice snapped everything back in place, including my fuzzy head. “Let’s talk details.”
He led Will away just as a waiter approached with a tray of appetizers. “Flatiron steak martini, miss?” he asked. I traded my wineglass for a martini glass as he rattled off the ingredients. Toasted juniper berries, Spanish olives, pickled onions, crumbled blue cheese, and thinly sliced grilled flatiron steak.
It could have been Froot Loops, for all I cared. Anything to stop the ruckus in my belly. One bite of the vermouth-marinated steak and my stomach quieted, my head cleared, and I knew I could make it through the rest of the evening.
Will threw me a glance over his shoulder, followed by an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. I responded by fluttering my fingers in a way that said he didn’t owe me a thing. I never expected anything from any man, and I was never disappointed. Early lesson from my father.
“There’s Josie,” Mrs. Kincaid said, pointing to a cluster of people next to the bar.
Josie stood slightly apart from the others, looking drawn and sallow, and like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Worry . . . or guilt? “I’m going to go—”
A familiar-looking woman edged between Mrs. Kincaid and me, cutting me off. “Lori, you look stunning, as always,” she said in a syrupy voice.
“Me?” Mrs. Kincaid pressed her diamond-bejeweled hand to her chest and batted her eyelashes. “Look at you, Helen. You look simply divine.”
I couldn’t place her after a minute or two, so I gave up. Twice I tried to interject, but twice I was cut off. I stood there, half listening, feeling like a third wheel while they chatted, waiting for an opening so I could break away. It was harder than it should have been.
“Such a tragedy,” Mrs. Kincaid was saying.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” the woman said. “I can only imagine what you and Keith must have felt. Buddy said . . .”
I tried to catch Josie’s eye, which was impossible since her back was to me.
“. . . paying for the funeral . . .”
That caught my attention. I had figured that without next of kin, Nell would be cremated without a service, which had struck me as so . . . so . . . sad. When I’d heard there would be a funeral, I’d wondered who was footing the bill.
“. . . least we could do for Josie,” Mrs. Kincaid was saying. “She’s broken up over it.”
As the conversation shifted to the church rummage sale, I turned my attention to the details of the room. There was an emphasis on flowers everywhere I looked. Floral upholstery on the overstuffed sofas. Both print and solid-colored pillows with elaborate trim and tassels artfully accented the room.
The women droned on.
“. . . or Nate will bring them by . . .”
“. . . too many dishes and books . . .”
“. . . whatever’s left to the 4-H for the girls to practice with . . .”
Mrs. Kincaid had a thing for dried flowers. Arrangements decorated the fireplace mantel, the center of the glossy mahogany coffee table, and a matching side table in the corner of the room. She should donate one of those to the rummage sale, I thought. Or all of them.
“. . . nice to have the Lincoln,” the woman was saying. “Buddy won’t let me buy a new . . .”
Cars? I had to escape. Now. “Excu—” I started, but Lori Kincaid tittered. “You know Keith’s rules. No exceptions. The Lexus comes home to mama tomorrow.”
Lincoln and Lexus. Those were two car makes I would never own. I had Meemaw’s beat-up old Ford pickup, but with a dead battery, it didn’t do me any good. In a pinch, I had a bicycle, but I’d spent enough time in New York that I preferred walking anyway.
I debated my options: stay put or slowly walk away. Finally, I realized I might never find a pause in their conversation. “Ahem.” Clearing my throat seemed like a cliché, but it worked. Mrs. Kincaid stopped talking about who could drive which car and they both focused on me. A lightbulb seemed to go off in Mrs. Kincaid’s head. “Oh, my stars, I do apologize, Harlow,” she exclaimed a little overzealously. “Helen, you were asking about the dressmaker.”
“I was,” she said in true East Texas form. “Was” became waaa-uz. She tilted her chin down, eyeing me through her lashes. Just like everyone else in town, Helen gave me a good once-over, from the streak in my curly Cassidy hair to my zipper-adorned heels. “Is this . . . ?” “This” sounded like the-is.
Mrs. Kincaid beamed, looking like she’d discovered her own personal diamond in the rough. “Yes, it is. This,” she said, sweeping her arm toward me, “is Harlow Cassidy. Harlow,” she said, “meet Helen Abernathy.”