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The eating area held a bay window and an elegant Regency dining table, which was surrounded by a comfortable hodgepodge of Chippendale, Louis XVI, and Early American chairs covered with unmatched, but coordinating, fabrics. The polished tabletop reflected another spray of flowers, this one arranged in an earthenware pitcher.
“Everything’s so beautiful.”
“It was risky, but Kenneth needs cozy roots.” Patrick made a small, fluttering gesture.
Emma didn’t mean to stare, but Patrick’s presence had definitely taken her aback.
He brushed his hand over the top of the table. “You’re wondering what someone like me is doing here, aren’t you?”
“Wondering?” She was dying of curiosity, but much too polite to make any inquiries on her own.
“Small Texas towns aren’t terribly kind to a gay man.”
“No, I don’t imagine so.”
A flicker of unhappiness crossed his face, then disappeared. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Chapter 8
Emma ate by herself that night. After announcing that Kenny had gone off to practice, Patrick served her a delicious pasta salad, along with fresh green beans drizzled with olive oil and garlic, a crusty French roll, and a thick wedge of blueberry tart for dessert. She ate on the sun porch, which was furnished in shiny black rattan covered in a crisp green and white awning stripe. More flowers overflowed from a collection of rustic vases sitting on antique tables. Behind the house, a grove of pecans grew, while a patio and swimming pool sat off to one side, and the white-fenced pasture where the horses grazed stretched in the distance. Earlier she had taken a walk along the river to enjoy the wildflowers.
Despite the peaceful atmosphere and the scented air blowing in through the screen door, she felt restless. Why hadn’t Kenny returned? Even though she’d told him she’d stay out of his way, she wished he didn’t find her presence so unpleasant.
Patrick refused her offer to help with cleanup, so she spread out her research notes and worked for a while as it grew dark. Bugs, attracted by the lights on the porch, slammed into the screen, while crickets sawed away. She heard the quiet hum of the dishwasher, the call of a night bird. The peacefulness reminded her of St. Gert’s after the girls were asleep.
Her spirits dipped lower. At this rate, she would return to England with her reputation more intact than ever. She saw Patrick crossing the lawn toward the small apartment he’d told her he maintained above the garage. Impulsively, she called out, “Do you have Torie’s number posted somewhere?”
“There’s a list on the side of the refrigerator.”
A few moments later, she had Kenny’s sister on the phone.
“No, I don’t have any plans,” Torie said after Emma explained what she wanted. “But I don’t think Wynette’s bars will exactly suit your taste.”
“What’s the fun of going on holiday if I don’t try new things?”
“Well, all right. If you’re sure about this, I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
Emma dressed in the pair of dungarees she’d bought the day before along with a stretchy white bubble-knit just short enough to reveal a thin band of skin at her waist and just tight enough to emphasize her breasts. Although the short sleeves hid most of the Lone Star tattoo, they revealed the banner bearing Kenny’s name. Humiliating, but necessary, she decided, and vowed not to look in the mirror. She only hoped Beddington’s henchman was bright enough to bring along a camera.
Torie picked her up in a dark blue BMW, which she drove at an alarming rate of speed. Emma closed her eyes and clutched the armrest.
“You look nervous.”
“I’m not good in cars.”
“That makes life hard, especially in Texas.” Torie slowed down.
“It rather does everywhere.”
Now that they weren’t moving so fast, Emma took a moment to study her companion. Torie wore a turquoise body suit with fitted black jeans that displayed a pair of endlessly long legs. A concho belt glimmered at her waist, and Mexican silver earrings swayed from her lobes. She looked rich, lovely, and wild. Not for an instant would Beddington ever have considered making Torie Traveler his wife.
Torie glanced in the rearview mirror. “You really should learn to drive.”
“Uhmm . . .”
“Really. I could teach you.”
“That’s lovely of you, but I don’t think so.”
