"It's nobody's business who Aunt Caroline sees," she said. "Besides, I don't hear you complaining about the fact that your other daughter lives with Caroline."
Vivian's perfectly painted mouth pressed into a tight line. "I quit concerning myself with Savannah 's actions long ago."
"Yes, you certainly did," Laurel mumbled bitterly.
"What was that?"
She bit her lip and checked her temper. No purpose would be served by pursuing this line of conversation now. Vivian was the queen of denial. She would never accept blame for her daughters' not turning out the way she had planned.
She pulled in a calming breath and turned away from the window, her arms folded tightly against herself, despite the fact that her clothes were soaking wet. "I said, what's so wrong with Jack Boudreaux?"
Vivian gave her a truly scandalized look. "What isn't wrong with him? For heaven's sake, Laurel! The man barely speaks the same language we do. I have it on good authority that he comes from trash, and that's no great surprise to me now that I've met him."
"If he were wearing a linen suit, would he be respectable then?"
"If he were wearing any less of a shirt, I would ask him to leave the house," she stated unequivocally. "I don't care how famous he may be. He writes trash, and he is trash. Blood will tell, after all."
"Will it?"
"My, you're snippy tonight," Vivian observed primly. "That's hardly the way I raised you."
She rose and went to the sideboard to prepare herself a drink. For medicinal purposes, of course. Very deliberately she selected ice cubes from the sterling ice bucket with sterling ice tongs and dropped them into a chunky crystal glass. "I'm simply trying to guide you, the way any good mother would. You don't always seem to know what's best, but I would have thought you had better sense than to get involved with a man like Jack Boudreaux. God knows, your sister wouldn't hesitate, but you… Coming away from your little trouble and all, especially…"
"Little trouble." Laurel watched her mother splash gin over the ice and dilute it with tonic water. The aroma of the liquor, cool and piney, drifted to her nostrils. Cool and smooth and dry, like gin, that was Vivian. Never mar the surface of things with anything so ugly as the truth.
"I had a breakdown, Mama," she said baldly. "My husband left me, my career blew up in my face, and I had a nervous breakdown. That's more than a 'little trouble.' "
True to form, Vivian sifted out the things she didn't want to discuss and discarded them. She settled on her chair once again, crossed her legs, took a sip of her drink. "You married down, Laurel. Wesley Brooks was spineless, besides. You can't expect a man like that to weather much of a storm."
"Wesley was kind and sweet," Laurel said in her ex-husband's defense, not impressing her mother in the least.
"A woman should marry strength, not softness," Vivian preached. "If you had chosen a man of your own station, he would have insisted you give up law and raise his children, and none of this other unpleasantness would have happened."
Laurel shook her head, stunned at the rationalization. If she had married her social equal, a well-bred chauvinist ass, then she could have avoided dealing with The Scott County Case. She could have given up the pursuit of justice and concentrated on more important things, like picking out a silver pattern and planning garden parties.
"We're having guests for dinner tomorrow." Checking the slim gold watch she wore, Vivian set her drink aside and rose, delicately smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. "The guest list will provide more suitable company than what you've been keeping lately."
"I'm really not feeling up to it, Mama."
"But, Laurel, I've already told people you would be here!" she exclaimed, sounding for all the world like a spoiled, petulant teenager. "I was going to call you today and tell you all about it! You wouldn't deny me the chance to save face with my friends, would you?"
"Yes" hovered on her tongue, but Laurel swallowed it back. Be a good girl, Laurel. Do the proper thing, Laurel. Don't upset Mama, Laurel. She stared down at her squishy sneakers and sighed in defeat. "Of course not, Mama. I'll come."
Vivian ignored the dolorous tone, satisfied with the answer. A smile blossomed like a rose on her lips. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed, suddenly fluttering with bright energy. She moved from table to mirror and back, smoothing her skirt, checking her earrings, gathering up her evening bag. "We'll sit down at one-after Sunday services, as always. And do wear something nice, Laurel," she added, casting a sidelong look at her wilted, rumpled daughter. "Now, Ross and I are already late for our dinner reservations, so we've got to rush."
"Yes, Mama," Laurel murmured, gritting her teeth as her mother bussed her cheek. "Have a nice evening."
Vivian swept out of the room, regal, imperious, victorious. Laurel watched her go, feeling impotent and beaten. If she hadn't been such a coward, she would have told her mother years ago to go to hell, as Savannah had. But she hadn't. And she wouldn't. Poor, pathetic little Laurel, still waiting for her mother to love her.
She snatched a glass off the sideboard, intending to hurl it across the room at the fireplace, but she couldn't manage to let herself go even that much.
Don't break anything, Laurel. Mama won't love you. Don't say the wrong thing, Laurel. Mama won't love you. Do as you're told, Laurel, or Mama won't love you.
The front door closed, and she listened to the engine of the Mercedes fire and the car's tires crunch over the crushed shell of the drive. Then she set the glass down, put her hands over her face, and cried.
Chapter Seven
Jack stood in the doorway to the parlor, in the shadows of the now-darkened entry hall. The sound of Laurel's tears tore at him, raked across his heart, and drew not blood, but compassion. He knew nothing of this house, these people, but he knew what it was to be part of a dysfunctional family. He could remember only too well the bitter words, the angry fights, the air of tension that had made him and his sister tiptoe around the house, afraid that any sound they might make would spark an explosion from their father and bring the wrath of Blackie Boudreaux down on one or all of them.
He knew, and that was all the more reason he should have just left. Beauvoir was a nest of snakes. Only a fool would poke at it. He was no fool. He was many things, few of them admirable, but he was no fool.
Still, he didn't move. He stood there and watched as Laurel scrubbed the tears from her face and fought off the next wave of them. She fought to school her breathing into a regular rhythm, blinked furiously at the moisture gathering in her eyes, busied herself cleaning her glasses off with the tail of her shirt. Dieu, she was a tough little thing. She thought she was alone. There was no reason she shouldn't have just flung herself down on the fancy gold settee and bawled her eyes out if she wanted to. But she struggled to rein her emotions in, fought for control.
Before sympathy could take root too deeply, Jack pushed himself into motion.
"You ready to go, sugar?"
Laurel jumped at the sound of his voice. Fumbling, she put her glasses back on and smoothed a hand over her hair, which had begun to dry. "I… I thought you went to pull the car out."
Jack grinned. "I lied."
Too aware of being alone with him, she stared at him for several moments while the grandfather clock across the room ticktocked, ticktocked. "Why?"
He was prowling around the room, carelessly picking up knickknacks that had been in the family for generations, absently looking them over, setting them aside. He glanced up at her as he picked up a lead crystal paperweight and hefted it in his hand like a baseball.
"'Cause I didn' like your beau-perè. And I can't say I was all too fond of your maman, either."
"They'll be crushed."
"Naw…" He grinned that wicked grin again, tossed the paperweight up, and caught it with one hand. Laurel 's heart jumped with it. "They'll be pissed. Late for dinner."