The Man She Married. Ann Defee
Читать онлайн книгу.
indicated the two women. “There they are.”
“Whatcha gals up to?” Bubba asked. His interrogation techniques weren’t exactly FBI approved.
Sue Belle started to speak, but Lucy interrupted. “She wants to—”
Not to be outdone, Sue Belle launched into her own spiel.
“That’s it! Bubba, get them out of here before I do something I’ll regret,” Maizie demanded. She turned to Lucy and Sue Belle. “You two are permanently banned from the Boudoir. Do not darken this door again. Do you hear me? Never ever come in here again.”
“Aw, Maizie. Don’t be that way,” Sue Belle wailed.
She was on the verge of tears, but that was too darned bad.
“Yeah.” Lucy never had been able to keep her mouth shut. “If we can’t shop at the Boudoir, we’ll have to drive to Atlanta to find decent stuff. You can’t really mean it.”
“Oh, I do. Believe me.”
Lucy’s next words sealed her fate. “I’ll sue you. Sure as shootin’ I will.”
Maizie managed to suppress a belly laugh. “Go ahead. My lawyer’s a lot meaner than yours.”
Cousin Kenni’s husband, Win, was a former member of the D.C. legal scene. He was also Magnolia Bluff’s newest and finest attorney and even though he specialized in criminal actions, he was perfectly capable of handling himself in civil court. That man could jump into a pool of sharks and come out without a scratch.
“Bring it on, baby.” Maizie waved her fingers in the universal sign for “come and get it.”
Bubba might’ve been a little slow, but even he recognized a good exit line. “Okay, ladies, let’s go.” He indicated the door. “One at a time, please.” He gave Maizie a conspiratorial wink and a piece of advice before he escorted the offenders out. “Be good, now, ya hear?”
Maizie plopped on the couch, suddenly aware that her knees were knocking. “I can’t wait to tell Clay. He won’t believe this.”
“Such dimwits.” PJ shook her head in disgust. “Can’t you just picture them rolling around on the floor and yankin’ each other’s hair out?”
PJ had been working for Maizie since she graduated from high school. When she wasn’t helping run the boutique she was the happily married mother of two little mop-heads. A chubby version of Rachael Ray with curly blond hair and Hershey-brown eyes, PJ was as cute as a speckled pup. Plus, she had a ready smile, a sharp wit and the common sense of Solomon.
“On that note I think we deserve some chocolate.” Maizie strolled to the back room and returned with a box of Belgian candy.
“Eat up,” she said. “To heck with the calories.” Maizie saved her “good stuff” for emergencies and celebrations, and this situation definitely qualified.
THE REMAINDER OF THE afternoon went by without incident. It was a typical Friday at the Boudoir—purchases were made, returns were processed and customers were accommodated.
The gold-leafed sign on the window read Miss Scarlett’s Boudoir, and if the inventory was any indication, Miss Scarlett had had herself a grand old time. It was a treasure trove of lace pillows, frothy undergarments and feminine apparel. Even the bell above the door sounded girly.
It was kitschy, it was fun and it had something for everyone. The blue-hairs loved the bath and beauty selection and the teens were hot for the trendy collection of jeans. Best of all, Maizie and PJ were known throughout the area for the exclusive line of French cosmetics they applied with a flourish. If you were in the market for a makeover, the Boudoir was definitely the place to go.
Under normal circumstances the boutique was a fantastic place to work, but this day had been a doozey and Maizie was dead on her feet.
“PJ, would you close the shop today?” she asked. “I need to run by the grocery store. We’re having a family football party at my house tomorrow.”
“No problem. It’s almost six o’clock anyway.”
“I won’t be in tomorrow. Bambi and Jerry Sue will be here to help you.”
“Gotcha. Don’t worry about a thing.”
MAIZIE PULLED INTO THE Piggly Wiggly parking lot. She was hoping to run in and out quickly but the chances of that happening in Magnolia Bluffs—where everyone knew everyone else’s business and loved to discuss it—were slim.
Before Maizie could make it to the cash register, Laverne Hightower, the town’s rumor maven, had managed to share a play-by-play of her gallbladder attack. Not to be outdone, Shirley Smith had launched into a full rundown on her daughter’s wedding preparations. And everyone wanted to talk about the commotion at the Boudoir. The next time Maizie needed food she’d go to the big box store out on the bypass.
By the time the groceries were bought, the errands were run and the day was over, she was ready to pull her hair out. No doubt about it—today had been one of those days.
Maizie breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled up to the detached garage behind her rambling white turn-of-the-century bungalow. Her home was typically Southern with green shutters, a wraparound veranda and a trellis of honeysuckle.
When things got too hectic, Maizie loved to sit on the porch swing with a frosty glass of sweet tea and watch the world go by. It was her way of sweeping out the mental cobwebs. However that was an indulgence for another day.
“Clay!” Maizie called as she dropped her purse and a bag of canned goods on the kitchen table. “I need some help.”
The television was blaring in the family room, and hubby dear was missing in action.
“Clay, where are you?” Maizie was perfectly capable of carrying in the rest of the food, but it was the principle of the thing.
“Clayton!”
That apparently got his attention. “What do you need, Babes?” he answered, not bothering to move away from the television.
“I want some help with the groceries.”
“Can you wait a minute? I’m watching something.”
Maizie stomped into the family room to see what was so important. Bass fishing? Clay wasn’t waiting for a touchdown to be scored or a home run to be hit. No—he was sitting in his favorite leather chair with his feet propped on the ottoman, watching some guy in an expensive boat troll for fish.
Maizie was normally even-tempered—except when she was in a snit, and she didn’t really count that—but she grabbed the remote, hit the Off button and marched out. Making a grand exit was a talent she’d learned at her mama’s knee, and she happened to be darned good at it.
CRAP. CLAY KNEW HE was in a mess of trouble, again. What had he done this time? All he’d wanted to do was see if Skeeter Jackson would win the tournament and the hundred-thousand-dollar prize. He could have used that kind of cash himself. It would go a long way toward solving at least one of his problems.
But immersing himself in that pipe dream had only irritated his sweetie, so clearly Clay had to make amends. Should he go with the “I’m so sorry, I’m an insensitive jerk” defense? That usually worked, especially if he followed up with some heavy necking—and a promise to do the dishes, take out the trash, clean the bathroom, yada, yada, yada.
“I’m sorry.” Clay was honestly remorseful. He hated upsetting Maizie.
“Why don’t you sit down and let me get you a Coke,” he suggested. Without waiting for an answer he retrieved a soft drink and handed it to her.
Clay was about to give himself a big pat on the back. Then he saw his wife’s face. Something was drastically wrong, and it had nothing to do with bringing in the groceries.
“Clay.”