CHAPTER One
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Sunny Chandler."
"You know her?"
"Since third grade."
"Really?"
"Might have been second grade."
"So she grew up here?"
"Yep."
"Where's she been?"
"All your life?"
The first man frowned as he looked down at the
second. "Where's she been?" he repeated sternly.
The second man was properly cowed. "New Orleans." His
syrupy Southern accent made the
pronunciation "Nawlins." "Moved there a few years back.
She's a seamstress."
"A seamstress?" He never would have guessed that by
looking at her.
"Something like that. Wanda could tell you more about what
she's been doing."
He had every intention of asking the other man's wife
later all about this Sunny Chandler. She had aroused his
curiosity. And his curiosity, like all his other
appetites, never went unappeased for long.
However, for the moment, he was content just to watch
Sunny Chandler as she circulated among the other party
guests. No longer a small-town girl, she stuck out like a
sore thumb.
Bad comparison, he thought. Sore thumbs were unsightly. He
had yet to find a single unsightly thing about this woman.
"Why did she leave town?" he asked.
His companion chuckled. "You'd never believe it."
"Try me."
"Well, it was like this." In a low voice, the man began to
share the juiciest piece of gossip ever to come out of
Latham Green.
The subject of the not-to-be-believed tale that was being
recounted across the room stifled a bored yawn. The sudden
burst of laughter startled her, as it did everyone else
nearby. Turning, Sunny saw two men standing by thewall of
windows, which overlooked the golf course. The tall blond
one was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
Probably telling each other dirty jokes, Sunny thought
with distaste. These yokels didn't know how to behave in
polite company. The back room at the pool hall and this
formal parlor of the country club were one and the same to
them. They had no sense of decorum.
The bridegroom's family had gone all out for this bash
they were hosting in honor of the wedding couple. Since no
expense had been spared, the chef had put his best efforts
into the buffet. The decorator had depleted the stock of
wholesale florists for miles around; the large salon was
festooned with bouquets of colorful flowers. While the
country club's budget was usually stretched to hire a
local sextet for their dances, tonight's music was being
provided by a jazzy dance band imported from Memphis.
They weren't bad, either, Sunny thought. She caught the
bandleader's roving eye and smiled up at him when they
began playing a Kenny Rogers ballad. He winked at her. She
winked back, then quickly turned her attention to the
buffet. Keeping her head down, she concentrated on filling
her plate.
"Sunny Chandler!"
Groaning inwardly, Sunny painted on a fake smile and
turned around. "Why, hello, Mrs. Morris."
"Long time no see, girlie."
Eloquent ol' biddy. "Yes, it's been a while."
"How long?"
"Three years." Three years, two months, six days.
Obviously not long enough for people to forget.
"Are you still in New Orleans?"
"Still there." And loving it. Loving any place that isn't
Latham Green.
"You're looking good."
"Thank you."
"Very citified."
The observation was intended as a dig. Sunny considered it
a supreme compliment. Mrs. Morris crammed a mushroom
stuffed with deviled crab into her mouth and chewed
vigorously. Then, as though afraid Sunny might run off
before she could ply her with more nosy questions, she
asked quickly, "And your folks? How are they?"
"Fine, just fine." Sunny turned her back on the woman and
picked up a raw oyster on the half shell--something she
wouldn't have eaten in a million years even though she was
now a resident of New Orleans--and set it on her plate.
Mrs. Morris, however, wasn't attuned to nuances and had
never heard of body language. She went on, undaunted.
"They're still in Jackson?"
"Um-huh."
"They don't come back very often. But then after . . .
well, you know what I mean. It's still difficult for them,
I'm sure."
Sunny wanted to set down her plate, leave the room, leave
the town, leave the parish, just as she had three years
ago. The only thing that kept her planted now in front of
the melon bowl was the determination not to give anybody
the satisfaction of having scared her off.
"Do y'all still own that cabin out on the lake?"
Before Sunny could fashion a response, the honoree of the
party came up to her. "Sunny, could I impose on you to
help me with my hair? I feel a strategic pin slipping.
Please? Excuse us, Mrs. Morris."
Sunny deserted her half-filled plate of food. She hadn't
wanted to eat, she'd merely wanted to keep her hands
busy. "Thanks," she said under her breath as her friend
linked arms with her and led her out of the formal salon
and down the hall toward the powder room.
Fran was laughing. "You looked as if you needed rescuing.
Or maybe Mrs. Morris was the one in peril. I was afraid
you were going to eat that Swedish meatball and then
skewer her with the toothpick."
They made certain they were alone in the powder room
beneath the stairs and locked the door behind them to
guarantee privacy. Sunny leaned against the door and drew
an exasperated breath. "And you wonder why this is my
first time back in three years. Do you blame me for
staying away? She was all but frothing at the mouth,
crazed with a lust to know all the titillating details of
my life in the big city."
Fran was sitting at the aproned vanity table repairing her
lipstick. "Are there any titillating details of your life
in the big city?" She cast Sunny a teasing glance in the
oval, framed mirror. Sunny's icy stare only evoked another
laugh.
"Relax, Sunny. This is Small Town, U.S.A. What else have
people like Mrs. Morris got to do?"
"Watch the grass grow?"
"Right. They have to occupy themselves with each other's
business. And, let's be frank, you gave them a lot of
material to work with several years ago."
"I wasn't trying to get their attention."
"Well, you got it anyway. For all these years, they've
been dying to know why you did what you did. Your parents
moved away soon afterward, so they were no help in
supplying an answer to the riddle. Now you show up looking
like a character straight off the set of Dynasty, by all
appearances unscathed by the incident. They're dying to
know what prompted you to do such an unheard-of thing. Can
you blame them for being curious?"
"Yes, I can blame them. The gossips practically drove my
parents nuts with their childish curiosity. Mom and Dad
couldn't go anywhere without being on the receiving end of
snide looks and prying questions. Even so-called friends
pestered them about it. They bowed to the pressure and
left."
"I thought they left because your dad got that job in
Jackson."
"That's the reason they gave me, but I never believed it.
I was the reason they relocated. I've got to live with
that, Fran." She took a lipstick from her miniclutch and
dabbed her lips with it. "But thanks for the compliment
about me looking like one of the women in Dynasty."
Fran smiled. "Ladies around here wear either short
cocktail dresses or long formals. They never heard of
matinee length. All their hems are even, not raggedy like
yours. No one would think of putting tangerine and violet
together, but it looks sensational on you," she said,
admiring Sunny's dress. It looked like the artful
crisscrossing and draping of several scarves.
"And, my word, my word," Fran exclaimed, clapping her
cheeks in theatrical horror, "have you really got two
holes pierced in one ear? You're bound to be a pinko! I
wouldn't be at all surprised if there were a Yankee or two
in your family tree."
Laughing, Sunny swatted the air inches from Fran's
nose. "Be quiet! You're making me laugh, and I don't want
to laugh."
Fran clasped Sunny's hand warmly. "I know you didn't want
to come back here, and that the only reason you did was
for my wedding. I realize what a sacrifice it was, and I
appreciate it."
"I wouldn't have missed your wedding, Frannie. You know
that. Although . . ."
"Although you don't understand why I want to get married
again," Fran finished for her.
"Something like that."
Sunny stared earnestly into Fran's eyes. It seemed to her
that Fran was only digging a deeper rut for herself. She
had had a chance to take her two children and leave this
backwater town after obtaining a divorce from her first
husband. But Fran had stayed, stuck out all the gossip,
and was getting married again.
"Sunny, I love Steve. I want to marry him, have a baby
with him." Fran's expression pleaded for understanding. "I
thought I was in love with Ernie, but I only saw what
everybody else did, a dashing football hero.
Unfortunately, that was the sum total of what he was. When
he couldn't be that anymore, he fell apart, turned to
drinking, turned to other women. They still cheered him on
instead of telling him to grow up as I, the nagging wife,
did.
"Well, Steve's as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. He loves
me, he loves the girls. He's not as handsome as Ernie, and
he hasn't got that built-like-a-brick-outhouse body, but
he's a real man, not an overgrown child."
Sunny patted Fran's hand. "I'm happy for you. You know
that. I think the world of Steve for making you whole
again. It's just that I can't imagine anybody actually
choosing that kind of life. I feel lucky to have escaped
it."
"Only because you haven't found the right man to share it
with." Fran arched her brow. "Speaking of which, I don't
suppose you've seen your ex-fiance."
"No, and I hope I don't." Sunny fiddled with her hair. "He
and Gretchen are still married, I suppose."
"Yes, but one hears things. The scuttlebutt is that--"
"No!" Sunny said. "I don't want to know. I won't stoop to
the level of everybody else in town and yearn for the
latest gossip." She looked at Fran's hairdo
critically. "Your hair is perfect. Where's that slipping
pin you mentioned?"
"That was only a ploy to get you away from Mrs. Morris."
Fran popped up off the vanity stool in a movement almost
too spry for a thirty-year-old mother of two children.
The friends left the powder room, giggling like girls, the
way they had done through junior and senior high school.
Fran drew a more serene face when they reentered the
salon. Her intended spotted her and moved toward her and
Sunny.
"Hon, the president of the company just arrived from Baton
Rouge," Steve told her. "He can't wait to meet you. Says
he wants to see the woman who convinced a confirmed old
bachelor like me to get married. 'Xcuse us, Sunny."
"Surely."
She watched as the successful insurance executive whisked
his future bride away to meet his boss. Steve proudly
introduced Fran and her two young daughters. Sunny was
delighted over Fran's newfound happiness. After being
married to Ernie, she certainly did deserve it.
Steve placed a protective and proprietary arm around
Fran's slender shoulders. Sunny saw the instinctive,
unconscious gesture. It wordlessly conveyed the way Steve
felt about his future wife. Sunny attributed the empty
feeling that suddenly seized her to hunger and decided to
give the buffet another try.
As if returning to Latham Green hadn't been bad enough in
itself, it was adding insult to injury that she had had to
return for a wedding. Don, the man she had almost married,
was a subject she knew she would be faced with. At least
she had survived the first mention of him and didn't have
to dread that milestone any longer.
Talking about him had brought back all the negative
emotions she had left behind her three years ago. She had
thought she was rid of them for good, but it seemed that
they had been perching like gremlins on the city limit
signs, just waiting for her to return. The moment she had,
they had reclaimed her.
She should have known better than to come back. But how
could she refuse Fran's request to attend her second
wedding? She couldn't. Nor would Fran settle for her
appearing only at the ceremony and making a hasty getaway
afterward. Before she realized what had happened, Sunny
had committed herself to attending this party and staying
until after the wedding. While she was here she planned to
take care of some business, but she still had to live
through the week. One week. One week in a town she had
sworn never to see again. Would she survive it?
Perhaps. But not without compensations. Compensations like
indulging a craving or two, she thought as she eyed the
array of desserts at the end of the buffet table. Little
transgressions like that would help to keep her sane. She
deserved a reward, didn't she? How could she lend Fran
moral support if she didn't fortify herself with little
treats?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she took two
triple-chocolate-dipped strawberries from a silver tray
and found a secluded corner in which to eat them.
Forbidden fruit they were, if a woman wanted to maintain a
svelte figure. But forbidden fruit was just the kind Sunny
needed at the moment.
Holding the tiny green stem between her thumb and finger,
she bit into the first strawberry. The dark chocolate
outer layer was bittersweet against her tongue. Then the
milk chocolate coated the roof of her mouth with its rich,
velvet texture. Next, almost like a benediction, the
mellow white chocolate soothed her palate and prepared it
for the succulent ruby fruit her teeth sank into.
She chewed it with slow, sinful relish, letting each layer
of chocolate melt and fill her mouth with its particular
degree of sweetness.
It was a sensuous experience, not only for Sunny, but for
the man watching her from across the room. Casually
propped against the wall, ankles crossed, long legs at a
slant, he watched Sunny Chandler's carnal destruction of
two chocolate-covered strawberries. She made eating them
such an erotic exercise that his own mouth watered, more
for a taste of the lips and tongue that did them such
delectable justice than for the strawberries themselves.
"Still got your eye on her, I see."
He shifted his weight but didn't remove his gaze from the
woman. "Sunny Chandler's an eyeful," he admitted to the
man who had rejoined him.
"Always was. One of the prettiest girls in school. Classy,
you know?"
"What she did before she left wasn't very classy. Why'd
she do it?"
"Well now, if I knew that, I'd be the only one."
The taller man looked down at his friend. "Oh, yeah? She
just pulled a stunt like that and left?"
"Like that." He snapped his fingers. "Left her bridegroom--
Don Jenkins, you know him--high and dry." He jabbed the
other man in the ribs. "No pun intended."
They laughed together, but not loud enough to detract
attention from the future bride and groom, who were busy
opening wedding gifts amid appreciative oohs and aahs.
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