Her Secret Affair Read online

  But not yet. Please. Not yet.

  Eventually, some day in the distant future, without any doubt, he would fall in love again, laugh with someone else, dance with someone else, make love with someone else. She couldn’t let that happen. She put her hand over her mouth, afraid she might sob aloud otherwise. Georges suddenly sounded worried.

  “Chey?”

  She just shook her head.

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to make you cry. He hasn’t—”

  “Go,” she managed to gasp. He stood there looking like a puppy that had stained the carpet. “Please.” Georges set his coffee cup on the counter and left the room quickly, silently.

  She laid the invitation on the blotter and smoothed it with the fingertips of both hands, tears slipping down her cheeks. What a fool she was. Her worries and convictions about parenthood didn’t matter anymore. She still believed wholeheartedly that resignation was not the correct attitude in which to bring a child into the world, but if that’s what it took to make the man she loved happy, then that was what she would do. If she could be a mommy to Seth, and she felt that she could, what difference did another child make?

  An insidious little voice inside her head asked, And if you should come to resent such a child?

  Well, she’d just have to see that she didn’t. She’d stay aware of the possibility, guard against it, and she’d have Brodie and her family and Viola to help her. Even if she did find herself resenting having her world turned upside down by the demands and needs of an infant she had never expected or dreamed of or planned to have, the child would never know. Surely. But perhaps it wouldn’t come to that. She had often been told that pregnancy was wondrous, a time of miracles. She could be worried for nothing. She could even turn out to be the most obnoxiously adoring mother ever! In fact, she planned on it. If it wasn’t too late.

  Please, God, do not let it be too late.

  Resolved, she removed the RSVP card and tiny, corresponding envelope from the larger one on her blotter. An ink pen lay close to hand. She picked it up and quickly signed the card before slipping it into the stamped, self-addressed envelope and sealing it. After that, she dried her eyes, calmly stood, picked up the sealed envelope by one corner and carried it into the show room. She walked up to Georges, who was dusting a display of Victorian chandeliers, and held out the card.

  “It’s too late to mail it. Think you could take it over to Fair Havens for me?”

  He put down the feather duster, glanced at the address on the envelope and smiled hugely. “Yes, indeed!” But then his smile faltered. “It isn’t just business considerations, is it? Because if it is, you better rethink.”

  Smiling wryly, she shook her head. “No. It’s not just business considerations.” She met his gaze and said flatly, “I love him.”

  Georges laughed, immediately taking on an I-knew-it air. “Hallelujah! The light finally shines!” He started for the door, but his footsteps slowed again almost at once. “Uh, Chey, what I said earlier about him replacing you…”

  She waved that concern away with an airy sweep of one arm, but inside her chest, her heart was pounding painfully. “I’ve already removed Brodie Todd from the clutches of one woman. I think I can do it again if I have to.”

  “You won’t,” Georges blurted. “He’s barely left the house since you walked out on him. Viola’s been worried about him, and frankly so have I. I just said that about another woman to get to you.”

  Chey smiled and admitted, “Well, it worked.” He slumped in relief. “You aren’t mad?”

  “No.”

  “You’re doing the right thing, Chey. That man loves you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” He waved the envelope at her. “Sure you don’t want to deliver this yourself?”

  She considered, then shook her head. “I’m not quite ready for that. I think a social situation might ease the way a bit.”

  He nodded. “Okay. And for what it’s worth, girlfriend, I think you’re right.”

  She widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Well, that’s a first.”

  He widened his right back at her and retorted cheekily, “Ain’t it just.” She was laughing when the door closed behind him.

  Her heart pounded like a big bass drum as she slipped from the car and handed the keys to the white-coated valet hired for the occasion. She knew she was doing the right thing, so why this sudden heart-pounding? It made no difference, however. There could be no going back now. Her decision was made, all the ramifications reconciled. She only hoped that Georges was right and Brodie would be as glad to see her as she would be to see him.

  “Enjoy your evening, Miss Simmons,” the valet said deferentially, nodding at the doorman stationed on the front steps.

  She hadn’t given him her name, but obviously he had been told to look out for her. He’d probably received a description of her and her car and alerted the house the moment she’d turned into the drive. Sweeping around the end of the car, the satin edges of her stiff, black petticoats swishing about her knees, Chey walked across the drive, black beaded high heels crunching across the gravel. Squaring her shoulders, chin high, she climbed the front steps.

  The dress was strapless and fitted to the waist, with a full skirt that had made her think of ballerinas when she’d seen it in the shop window. A dark royal blue, not quite navy, the dress seemed to bring out her eyes, or so Georges had told her. She had coiled her hair into a sleek cornucopia twist that curved from her nape to her crown. A pair of antique sapphire clips at her earlobes and a matching bracelet on her wrist comprised the total of her jewelry. Dark, berry-red lipstick and a subtle stroke of dark blue eyeliner and mascara completed her makeup.

  She’d taken great care with her appearance, so much so that she was running quite late. Knowing that she was looking her best, she had been satisfied with the reflection in the mirror at home, but now, as the doorman moved to admit her, she felt sudden doubts. Her appearance could not undo what she had done. She had walked away from the man who loved her. He was bound to be angry and hurt and wary.

  The door swung open, and her heart turned over. Brodie stood at the foot of the stairs, resplendent in a black tuxedo, white shirt and bow tie. He stared at her, his hands in pockets, and she had the distinct impression that he had been waiting there, pacing, even. Hope fluttered inside her chest. Resisting the urge to pick up her pace, she walked toward him, taking in every detail of his appearance. Both the slacks and the jacket were pleated, loose and yet fitted. The shirt, conversely, was smooth-fronted and tailored to a breath. The gleam of his black hair rivaled that of his patent shoes and belt, while his goatee and mustache had been ruthlessly clipped and his jaws so closely shaved that the skin looked new. The very sight of him brought tears to her eyes. Opening her lids a little wider, she willed them away.

  He turned to meet her and rocked back on his heels as she came to a stop in front of him. Staring down at her, he stood so very still that he might have been a handsome mannequin, except for the pronounced rise and fall of his chest. Then suddenly he pulled his hands from his pockets and fixed them about her wrists.

  “I was in terror that you would not really come.”

  Something tight and fearful within her gave way, and she blurted, “I couldn’t stay away. I’ve been so unhappy without you!”

  He closed his eyes briefly, then pulled her against him, wrapping her arms about his waist. “You won’t go again.” His voice held a double edge, that of an order, that of a plea.

  “I won’t go again,” she vowed.

  “Thank God!” He wrapped his arms around her, rocking her gently side to side. Then he cupped her face, turning it up to his. “But I need to understand why you left. Just tell me why.”

  “Brodie, I’m a coward,” she admitted, sliding her hands over his. “A few of the ramifications of loving you have taken some getting used to. I had a safe little life all planned out for myself, then you turned it all upside down.”

  “
Likewise,” he retorted, and she knew suddenly that he needed more than explanations. She gave it to him.

  “I love you, Brodie. I love you with all my heart, you and Seth.”

  He closed his eyes, and whispered, “I love you, too.” He lowered his mouth toward hers.

  Suddenly heels clacked on the hardwood floor behind him. “Meestair Bro-dee, I ask yew, please.”

  Brodie moaned softly, then lifted his head, dropped his hands and turned. A short, dark, plump woman encased in heavy, yellow-gold, figure-hugging brocade silk from her chin to her ankles descended upon them. The hem of the sheer veil, which was draped over her head and fixed there with a band of jet beading, fluttered about her shoulders. One corner of the veil had been caught up in front of her face, shadowing full, red lips and calling abrupt attention to the large, kohl-darkened eyes above.

  “Highness,” Brodie said, bowing slightly. “How may I help you?”

  “I beg pardon,” the woman said in heavily accented English, nodding regally at Chey.

  “Princess, allow me to introduce Miss Chey Simmons. Darling, the Princess Liana Sadhoturan, wife of the Legantine ambassador, daughter of the Shah of Legan.”

  The princess tilted her head in that regal manner again, and Chey found herself dipping in a slight curtsy. The princess smiled, her teeth flashing white behind her veil. Then she lifted a hennaed, heavily jeweled hand, gold-tipped fingers uncurling about a small object cradled in her palm.

  “I must ask, Meester Bro-dee, what is this so tasting good?”

  Brodie didn’t blink so much as an eyelash at the oddly phrased question or the half-eaten candy in the woman’s palm. “That, Princess, is a New Orleans speciality, a praline.”

  “Prah-leen,” the woman repeated with a nod. “I must know this. Tell me, please.”

  Brodie smiled. “I’m afraid I cannot, but my chef will be delighted to give you his recipe, I’m sure.”

  “Ah, the dark one,” the princess said knowingly. “You take me there, please.” It was little less than a command.

  “Delighted to,” Brodie answered, glancing apologetically at Chey as he offered the princess his arm. The princess deftly pirouetted, kicking the small train of her skirt behind her, and laid her hand on his. Brodie looked to Chey apologetically. “Will you join us, darling, or go on out to the garden? They’re all anxious to see you.”

  “I’ll go out,” she said, suddenly anxious to see everyone.

  “We won’t be long,” he promised, and she nodded as he led the princess toward the kitchen.

  Chey walked through the oddly quiet house, wondering what it was that swelled within her as she did so. Pride, certainly, but also something more. As she stepped out into the garden, she knew an instant of intense clarity. Home. That’s what she was feeling. She had come home. Smiling, she walked with growing confidence and delight toward the guests milling about the pool.

  A great many people were gathered there, perhaps two hundred. Extra tables and chairs had been set up outside the pool fence, all gates of which were standing open. Two long buffet tables had been set up at angles to an elaborate champagne fountain at which guests could serve themselves. Behind it, using the fully opened pool house as a stage, a string quartet played a lilting, funky, jazzy tune. Chey eagerly looked for familiar faces, a wide smile upon her face, when suddenly she stumbled to a halt. Could that be? Surely not! And yet…. Dear heavens! Hurrying forward, she automatically lifted a hand.

  “Mary Kay?” The redheaded woman in the simple beige sheath turned, champagne flute in hand. The two men flanking her turned as well. One of them wore a gold-embroidered scarf draped over his head and held in place with a gold cord. He held a tall glass of iced coffee in one hand. The other had on his good blue suit, a nice white shirt and a striped bow tie. In his hand was a champagne flute. “Sylvester!”

  “Hello, sis-in-law!” he boomed. “Wow! Looking good.”

  Chey stood there and gaped until her sister stepped to her side and kissed her cheek. “You really do look marvelous, sweetie. Here, let me introduce you to this nice gentleman. Some sort of prince, I think. The nephew of a shah, is that right?” she asked the man.

  Grinning, the gentleman in question executed a deep bow, fixed Chey with a languid gaze and gave her his name, “Fahoud Mohammed Leganza.”

  She dipped another perfunctory curtsey, murmured, “How do you do?” and immediately asked her sister, “What are you doing here?”

  Mary Kay beamed. “We were all invited, you know, for all the work the guys did on the house. Looks great, by the way. But there are only about twenty-one of us here, I think, all the brothers and sisters and the older nieces and nephews, oh, except Fay and Carter. She is so very pregnant,” Mary Kay confided to Fahoud Leganza, who merely lifted an eyebrow. “Anyway, Mom’s over there by the pool with Brodie’s grandmother. Isn’t Viola a dear?”

  Chey nodded absently, too astounded to speak.

  “Old Brodie sure knows how to give a party,” Sylvester commented in his usual near-shout. “I could use a beer, though. Champagne’s a little rich for my taste.” He winced as Mary Kay elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “What?”

  Chey was already moving toward the pool again, searching for her mother.

  Mary Louise was not hard to find. She reclined on a chaise next to Viola, chatting amiably. She’d had her hair done in an elaborate French braid and had bought a new dress. The sensible plum silk featured a simple shirtwaist and slender, ankle-length skirt that buttoned up the front. The antique amethyst brooch Chey had given her one Christmas adorned the bodice, and the matching ear bobs were clipped to her dainty lobes. Most amazing of all were the gold wedge sandals on feet. The effect was most becoming, even elegant.

  “Mama?”

  Louise Simmons looked up and smiled, raising one arm. “Hello, sweetheart. My, how lovely you look.” Chey bent dutifully and accepted her mother’s embrace, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  “Indeed, you do,” Viola agreed. “Come and sit with us for a minute. I haven’t seen you in far too long.” Viola wore her usual green, almost an olive this time, with elegant silver accessories that brought out the silver of her hair.

  Chey sank down on the little table next to her mother, saying, “I can’t believe Brodie invited everyone for this! You look wonderful, by the way, Mama. You, too, Viola.”

  “Hello, Aunt Mary,” called one of her nieces, hurrying toward the buffet with a young man wearing a tuxedo coat, string tie, blue jeans, boots and a black cowboy hat. Chey recognized the dress that the girl wore as one she’d bought for the prom.

  “I can’t believe this,” Chey murmured, looking around her. She spied Anthony looking breathtaking in a double-breasted tux, Frank uncomfortably adjusting a new black suit, Bay strutting in his more trendy one. Thomas, bless him, looked like a waiter, and Matt looked like exactly what he was, a redneck who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a tie even if he did have to put up with a collar and a dark blue suit. She gaped at Mary May giggling like a school girl with Frank’s wife, Genevive, and a young woman veiled and draped in scarlet. Simmonses were mingling and chatting with turbaned Legantine royalty and New Orleans’s elite. She realized with a shock that Johnny and Dana were talking to the mayor! And one of her nieces was flirting shamelessly with a fascinatingly handsome Arab wearing enough gold to warrant armed guards. Unbelievable.

  She laughed. What else was there to do? Leave it to Brodie Todd to put together the Simmonses and the Legantines. And why not? He’d put himself, a dedicated single father, together with her, a determinedly childless and, she now realized, slightly neurotic, career-oriented businesswoman. Her heart felt as if it would burst right out of her chest for a moment. He had put together more than that, bless him. He had put together her life. Finally. Melded it into one lovely, rich collage. She looked at her mother, with whom she had so often been irritated with absolutely no good reason, and picked up her hand.

  “I love you, Mama,” she said softly, “and I’
m glad you’re here.”

  Mary Louise squeezed her hand. “That’s nice to hear.”

  Suddenly something barreled into Chey and nearly knocked her off her perch. “Chey-Chey!”

  She caught her balance and looked down. Seth grinned up at her. Dressed in a suit with short pants and an adorable bow tie beneath a white Peter Pan collar, he looked utterly sweet, and she was surprised by how delighted she was to see him.

  “Hello, sweetie!” She opened her arms, and he climbed all over her, arms locking around her neck, to kiss her three times on the cheek. She laughed again, completely uncaring that her skirts were crushed or her makeup undoubtedly smeared. “How are you?”

  “I not go sleep now,” he said solemnly, shaking his head to emphasize his abhorrence for the idea. Chey smiled, knowing she was being both charmed and used. She couldn’t have been more pleased. It meant that the child trusted her. Chey looked at Kate, who obviously had been assigned to watch over him.

  “It’s past nine o’clock,” Kate told the boy gently.

  “I not go sleep!” he insisted.

  “You promised your father you wouldn’t argue,” Viola reminded him firmly.

  “Tell you what,” Chey said, setting Seth on his feet again, “you go up to your room now and get all ready for bed, but you won’t have to go to sleep until I come up to say goodnight, okay?” He considered that skeptically. Any moment now, he’d see the flaw in her plan. Once in that bed, he would undoubtedly slip off to sleep. She quickly amended. “Better yet, you won’t have to go to sleep until you’re ready. You can play in bed until you’re tired. How’s that?” Obviously feeling he’d won a great concession, he nodded vigorously. She bent forward and kissed him. “All right then, sweetheart. I’ll see you later. Go with Kate now.”

  He stuck out his bottom lip mulishly.

  “Hmm, I believe I see Brodie headed this way,” Viola said.

  “Oh, we’d better hurry,” Kate whispered urgently, and Seth immediately grabbed her hand. The two of them hurried off together. Chey laughed.