both.
“Do you need some help, Mamma?” She’d be just as glad to get into Mamma’s less volatile company until Daddy forgot about this.
“No, no.” Mamma waved the spoon. “It’s just about ready, so don’t settle down too much.”
She vanished again.
Amanda turned to her sister, ready to change the subject with a question about Annabel’s horses, but Daddy got in first.
“Amanda, where exactly were you last night?”
She pressed her lips together for an instant. This would be all right. She’d say where she’d been, and Daddy would comment on being in the same place, say he’d have come to her rescue if only he’d known, and her doubts would be wiped away.
“Down on Joslyn Street. The three hundred block. It’s where my intern lives.”
Where you were last night, Daddy. In a bar I’d never have expected you to touch with a ten-foot pole.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise.” Hugh sat up straight, bumping his legs on the coffee table. “I dropped her off, and I was coming back to get her.”
Daddy frowned. “At least you two had that much sense. If I hadn’t been stuck on base last night, I’d have taken her myself, if it was that important.”
It struck her like a blow to the stomach. Daddy. Lying. She could hardly put the words together. That just didn’t happen.
“Hugh took care of it,” Annabel said, with the air of someone who didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
“Actually, I didn’t.” Hugh’s gaze met hers and then slid away. “Manda got done a little early, so a friend drove her home.”
“Friend?” Daddy’s voice cut like a knife. “What friend?”
She swallowed. “Not a friend, exactly. My boss. Ross Lockhart.”
She saw the impact on her father. Saw it, saw him try to hide it. And knew that whatever had taken him to that bar last night, she couldn’t ask him about it. She couldn’t put him in a position where he’d lie to her again.
Amanda still worried about the situation the next evening when she walked the short two blocks to the home of Cyrus Mayhew. The Bugle’ s publisher was having a party, and apparently the whole staff was invited.
That meant she’d be seeing Ross in a social setting. A business setting was bad enough. He’d been cool and distant at the office, as if to deny that their kiss had ever happened.
At least Ross had allowed her to do some minor investigating into the landlord situation. She’d discovered the owner was an absentee landlord, living on one of the gated barrier island communities off Beaufort, not here in Charleston at all.
She crossed the street toward Cyrus’s place, cautious of the cobblestones of the historic district, never easy to navigate when wearing heels, and felt the breeze off the water. The Mayhew house proudly faced the Battery and Charleston harbor. Cyrus was fond of talking about the window glass that had broken during the siege of Fort Sumter, which was visible from his second-floor balcony during the day.
The wrought-iron gates stood hospitably open. She stepped into the walled garden where tiny white lights glistened in the trees, reflected from the surface of the oval pond and echoed the light summer colors of the women’s dresses.
She hadn’t gotten two feet when a waiter swept down on her with a tray of drinks, followed by a second with an array of canapés. She took an icy glass of lemonade and a mushroom tart, turned away and narrowly escaped the waving champagne glass of the Bugle’ s society editor, Juliet Morrow.
“Evening, Amanda.” Juliet beamed in her direction. Juliet did enjoy a party. “Be sure you get some of those crab turnovers, y’heah? They are superb.”
“I’ll do that.” She bit into the flaky pastry of the mushroom tart, feeling the flavors explode in her mouth. Cyrus had been a widower for years and showed no signs of wanting to change his marital status, to the despair of Charleston’s female population, which thought he needed a hostess, at
“Do you need some help, Mamma?” She’d be just as glad to get into Mamma’s less volatile company until Daddy forgot about this.
“No, no.” Mamma waved the spoon. “It’s just about ready, so don’t settle down too much.”
She vanished again.
Amanda turned to her sister, ready to change the subject with a question about Annabel’s horses, but Daddy got in first.
“Amanda, where exactly were you last night?”
She pressed her lips together for an instant. This would be all right. She’d say where she’d been, and Daddy would comment on being in the same place, say he’d have come to her rescue if only he’d known, and her doubts would be wiped away.
“Down on Joslyn Street. The three hundred block. It’s where my intern lives.”
Where you were last night, Daddy. In a bar I’d never have expected you to touch with a ten-foot pole.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise.” Hugh sat up straight, bumping his legs on the coffee table. “I dropped her off, and I was coming back to get her.”
Daddy frowned. “At least you two had that much sense. If I hadn’t been stuck on base last night, I’d have taken her myself, if it was that important.”
It struck her like a blow to the stomach. Daddy. Lying. She could hardly put the words together. That just didn’t happen.
“Hugh took care of it,” Annabel said, with the air of someone who didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
“Actually, I didn’t.” Hugh’s gaze met hers and then slid away. “Manda got done a little early, so a friend drove her home.”
“Friend?” Daddy’s voice cut like a knife. “What friend?”
She swallowed. “Not a friend, exactly. My boss. Ross Lockhart.”
She saw the impact on her father. Saw it, saw him try to hide it. And knew that whatever had taken him to that bar last night, she couldn’t ask him about it. She couldn’t put him in a position where he’d lie to her again.
Amanda still worried about the situation the next evening when she walked the short two blocks to the home of Cyrus Mayhew. The Bugle’ s publisher was having a party, and apparently the whole staff was invited.
That meant she’d be seeing Ross in a social setting. A business setting was bad enough. He’d been cool and distant at the office, as if to deny that their kiss had ever happened.
At least Ross had allowed her to do some minor investigating into the landlord situation. She’d discovered the owner was an absentee landlord, living on one of the gated barrier island communities off Beaufort, not here in Charleston at all.
She crossed the street toward Cyrus’s place, cautious of the cobblestones of the historic district, never easy to navigate when wearing heels, and felt the breeze off the water. The Mayhew house proudly faced the Battery and Charleston harbor. Cyrus was fond of talking about the window glass that had broken during the siege of Fort Sumter, which was visible from his second-floor balcony during the day.
The wrought-iron gates stood hospitably open. She stepped into the walled garden where tiny white lights glistened in the trees, reflected from the surface of the oval pond and echoed the light summer colors of the women’s dresses.
She hadn’t gotten two feet when a waiter swept down on her with a tray of drinks, followed by a second with an array of canapés. She took an icy glass of lemonade and a mushroom tart, turned away and narrowly escaped the waving champagne glass of the Bugle’ s society editor, Juliet Morrow.
“Evening, Amanda.” Juliet beamed in her direction. Juliet did enjoy a party. “Be sure you get some of those crab turnovers, y’heah? They are superb.”
“I’ll do that.” She bit into the flaky pastry of the mushroom tart, feeling the flavors explode in her mouth. Cyrus had been a widower for years and showed no signs of wanting to change his marital status, to the despair of Charleston’s female population, which thought he needed a hostess, at
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