Eleanor sighed as she packed a few boxes to send to the Salvation Army. Two sets of dishes and several vases hadn’t sold in over two years, and with a new delivery expected from her English buyer in a few days containing dishes, Eleanor didn’t have the room to store the others.
Dez.
Her heart thrummed when she thought about him. He gave her space, she knew that, but still something inside her wanted him to demand more of her. Part of her wanted to be pushed into a corner in their relationship.
But it wasn’t his style to push her. He dropped hints, talked about growing and stretching, but he didn’t push.
She’d set the parameters and he’d played by them, but they both knew it had moved beyond friends with benefits long ago. Hell, they’d been past that when she’d declared the designation. Still, she missed him, wanted him to darken her doorstep and demand she forget her doubts.
“Your phone has been jittering like a june bug,” Pansy called from across the room. “Want me to get it?”
“No, it’s probably Margaret again. Or my mother. She’s feeling guilty about falling in with the Theriots, but I’m not ready to talk to her yet. I’m still pissed they showed up for that dog and pony show.”
Pansy walked over and set Eleanor’s phone on a nearby table. “What about Blakely?”
“What about her? I haven’t heard the first thing from her other than a message asking me if I’d pick up her monogrammed pillowcase from LaBourge’s and mail it to her. And that request was delivered with a condescending, you’re-such-a-horrible-person tone.”
Pansy tsked. “Maybe I need to talk to my monkey girl. She needs a come-to-Jesus meeting.”
“Don’t. I worked hard to instill the right ideals in her, so if she can’t realize what she’s doing on her own, then I’ve either failed or—” Eleanor grabbed the phone dancing on the surface of the table.
“What?”
There had been ten phone calls in the past thirty minutes—five of which were from Blakely. Two messages awaited her in the queue. “What in the world?”
“What?” Pansy said, craning her neck trying to see over Eleanor’s shoulder.
Eleanor punched the button and Blakely’s voice rang out. “What in the hell, Mom? I mean, really? It’s not bad enough you’re dating the guy I had dibs on, but letting him tell everyone about your sex life? Oh, my God. I’m so humiliated.”
The connection clicked.
“What does that mean?” Pansy asked, cocking her head at the phone like a dog when it hears a weird noise.
Dread curled around her gut as she pushed the next message.
It was Dez.
“Eleanor, you need to call me when you get this message. I can explain.”
“Oh, my God,” Eleanor breathed. “Explain what? Blakely said Dez told people about our sex life?”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Pansy said, crouching by the boxes Eleanor had been packing, and tucking the ends into each other. She grabbed the packing tape. “He wouldn’t do that.”
Just then the tinkle of the front doorbell sounded and both women stilled, a sense of foreboding in the air. Pansy dropped the roll of tape and headed toward the front of the store. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel good.” Eleanor followed her friend, dropping her phone into her apron pocket and wiping her sweating hands on the sides of her jeans.
A young woman stood in the middle of the aisle wagging her head from side to side as if she searched for someone. She wore a tight wrap dress, nude heels and her hair bore natural highlights...or the hand of a really good stylist.
“Can I help you?” Pansy asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said, with a big smile. “I’m looking for Eleanor Theriot?”
“For what?” Pansy asked, her shoulders rising defensively as she propped hands on her hips.
“I’m Natalie Primm from the Times-Picayune. I’m a feature writer for the Living section and wanted to talk to her about a piece on her and Dez Batiste.”
Eleanor stepped from behind Pansy. “A piece? On...what?”
The woman swept her from head to toe with a discerning look. “Mrs. Theriot, I remember you from that whole nasty affair with your husband.”
Eleanor didn’t say anything. Just stared back wondering what in the hell had happened in the past hour or two to bring a reporter to her door and so many strange calls to her cell phone.
The woman held out a hand as if they’d met at a social mixer. “Nice to meet you. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in