Belle Pointe. Karen Young
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trying to catch my breath over that, you announced you were marrying again?”
Franklin reached for his wife’s hand, brought it up and kissed it. “I’d have done the same thing you did,” he said, still smiling. “I’d have ignored you.”
Watching them, Anne realized how right her father’s decision had been to marry Beatrice. They seemed so much in love. And yet, shock had been her first reaction when, shortly after the death of her mother, Franklin suddenly retired from his job at a major newspaper in New England and moved to Mississippi to edit the town’s small weekly Tallulah Spectator. Anne had worried he was having a midlife crisis. Buck, with a shrug, said she should be relieved that Franklin’s crisis prompted only a job change rather than falling for some big-breasted gold digger. But even Buck was taken by surprise when Franklin called a year later and said he intended to marry a Tallulah woman. Fortunately, on meeting Beatrice, Anne had been instantly reassured.
“Were you serious when you said you needed a journalist at the Spectator?” she asked Franklin as they cleared the town square.
“As a heart attack,” he quickly replied.
“I’m rusty,” she warned him. “I’ve worked only sporadically since marrying Buck. I don’t know if I can meet the Spectator’s high standards.”
Franklin met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “You must be joking. Your career was on the upswing when you were able to pursue it. Even if you weren’t my daughter, I’d consider a journalist with your talent and credentials an asset to the Spectator.”
Anne flushed at the warmth of her father’s approval and, again, found herself on the verge of tears. Oddly, at the same time, underneath her emotional reaction was a sense of the rightness of what she was doing…and a stir of anticipation at the prospect of working again. She’d been too long without any true purpose in her life other than fulfilling her role as wife of the Jacks’ star pitcher. She realized that her stepmother was watching her with a gentle smile on her face.
“Don’t look now, Franklin,” Beatrice said, “but I think you’ve just hired a reporter.”
The Marshes’ house was a classic Victorian built at the turn of the century. Franklin had bought it upon arriving in Tallulah and, although it was in good shape, he’d set about restoring many of its original features with as much attention to detail as he put in his books and articles. Anne had seen it only once—when she came for the wedding. She wondered about its history now. Who’d built it? Who’d had children and raised them here? Who had lived and loved and died here?
“I love your house,” Anne told them as she climbed out of the car.
“So do I.” Beatrice stood gazing at it fondly.
Franklin looked up after retrieving her luggage from the trunk of the car. “Ask her if she has any special reason for loving it.”
“It once belonged to my family,” Beatrice said, linking her arm with Anne’s to walk with her to the front door. “Four generations of Joneses, for what it’s worth,” she added.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Anne cried, genuinely thrilled. “I was just thinking about the people who’d lived here, imagining births and deaths and marriages. Now I can find out from my very own stepmother.” She gave Beatrice a little hug. “How neat is that?”
“Bea is full of Tallulah history,” Franklin said, pulling up the rear with Anne’s luggage. “And she’s probably dying to share it with you. But I have first dibs. For this reason. I can’t see Buck letting you stay away all that long. With his injury and enforced downtime and the season just opening, he’ll be in a very unsettled frame of mind. He’ll want his wife nearby.”
What Buck wanted did not concern her at the moment, but Anne didn’t comment. She knew people often regretted saying things to others while in the throes of a personal crisis. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair to Buck when he wasn’t around to defend himself.
Beatrice seemed to sense her struggle to come up with a vague reply. “We’ll both have lots of time for talking,” she said, sweeping her over the threshold. Once inside, she turned and spoke softly. “Welcome to our home, Anne.”
The woman was really a sweetheart, Anne thought. No wonder Franklin had fallen head over heels for her.
“And now,” Beatrice said brightly, “what we need is tea. Franklin, if you’ll take Anne’s luggage to her room, I’ll brew some of that nice Darjeeling.” She turned to Anne. “I think I recall from your last visit that you’re partial to Darjeeling.”
“I am and thank you. I’d love it.” As her father disappeared up the stairs, Anne followed Beatrice to the kitchen and found it stamped with her stepmother’s warm personality. The walls were painted a buttery cream and the cabinets were a soft off-white. In the middle of the room was a polished oak pedestal table with four chairs set for tea. It was difficult to decide which was older, the table and chairs or the delicate china.
“You’ve made lots of changes in the house since Dad bought it,” she said, admiring the room. “It was nice before, but now it’s wonderful.”
“We make a nice team,” Beatrice said, her gaze following Anne’s. “I’m not quite such a stickler for detail as your father, but I think I do have an eye for style. Franklin had furnished the house with antiques, but they were arranged without much style.” She touched Anne’s shoulder, gently urging her to sit. “Here, let me pour the tea. There’s sugar and lemon…and if you like it, cream.”
“No, it’s fine just like this.” Holding the cup with both hands, she closed her eyes and inhaled the bracing aroma before sipping cautiously. When she looked up, she found Beatrice watching her with a faint smile.
“There’s just something about tea, don’t you think?”
Anne nodded. “Yes, I do. It’s so…comforting.” She set her cup down with hands that weren’t quite steady. “I don’t know why I keep tearing up like this,” she said, her voice rising with emotion. “Ordinarily, I never cry. Just do me a favor and ignore it, please.”
“I would hardly call your present circumstances ordinary,” Beatrice said gently. “You’re dealing with two emotional crises, trouble in your marriage and a miscarriage. You’re entitled to tear up. In fact, you’re entitled to cry your heart out. In your shoes I know I would.”
Anne studied the tea swirling in her cup. “I’m still having trouble believing all that’s happened. If you’d asked me last week where I’d be and what I would be thinking, it wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be contemplating a divorce.”
“Is it that serious, Anne? I know absolutely nothing about your personal life and I won’t presume to make any judgments. I will only say that you’ve gone through an emotional upheaval with your miscarriage. Are you sure you want to end your marriage as well?”
“I’m not sure at all,” Anne said with a sigh as her cell phone rang. Although there was nothing intrusive about her stepmother’s remarks, Anne wasn’t ready to confide in anyone that Buck hadn’t wanted their baby and now that she’d miscarried, was probably relieved that their lifestyle was unchanged. It made him seem insensitive and selfish. She found she didn’t want Beatrice—or her father—thinking of Buck that way.
Checking the caller ID, she saw that it was Buck calling. Feeling Beatrice watching, she let it ring and ring without answering, then turned it off. “It’s Buck. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Oh, Anne…”
“He’ll keep trying. He’s as tenacious as a bulldog.” She crammed the phone in a deep pocket of her purse. “I told him I needed time to think, time away from him. So when I don’t answer my cell, he’ll try calling your number. I’m not taking his calls, Beatrice. I’d appreciate it if you would simply tell him that.”
“If you’re sure…”
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