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"I brought Scotch." He lifted the cylinder containing the fifteen-year-old Highland Park.
Hilda raised her perfectly waxed eyebrows. "You do know the Baptist preacher's wife is on the committee?"
"She can have some, too," he said, giving her his most charming smile.
Hilda's lips twitched. "You're naughty boy. I like you."
She set down the teacup and walked across the parlor to pull two whiskey glasses from the cabinet. No one else had arrived yet. Leif had come early, hoping to find out a little background on the festival and Simeon Harvey.
"Thank you," he said, accepting the Glencairn glass and pouring for himself. "I like you, too."
Hilda folded herself into a chair. "Really? Most people dislike me upon meeting, but I rather like that about myself. Approval is given too easily these days."
Leif crooked an eyebrow. "Maybeso, or perhaps some of us are simply born less intriguing."
"I gather you consider yourself to be not as intriguing? Ha."
"I'm an open book,'' Leif said, sipping the Scotch and looking around at the virulent pink parlor. The decor didn't fit the sleek, droll Hilda in the least.
"It's interesting you see yourself as such when no one in this town knows anything about you."
He lifted a shoulder. "No one asks much about me. They just look at me like I'm an alien. The little green kind.”
“You're easy to look at, alien or otherwise. So whyareyou here?"
He pointed down and lifted a questioning eyebrow.
''Not my parlor. Magnolia Bend."
"I needed a job."
"Hogwash. A man like you taking a job like the one at St.George's? Don't get me wrong, it's a fine school, but it's a small school. Feels to me as though you're hiding.” Hilda crossed her thoroughbred legs. ''Are you?" ·
A frisson of alarm slithered up his spine. "Of course not."
"Then you're seeking."
Damn sneaky woman. He'd been wrong about her. He would get nothing from her until she got something from him. "I suppose that's part of it. I am looking for something."
"Ooh," she drawled, her dark eyes brightening. "Do tell."
"You know, perhaps there's something to this intriguing business. I might want you to work a little harder to get my secrets. As you said, things are so readily given these days. He smiled so she knew he teased, but he could see Hilda had found a thread to tug. She'd pull until she unwound his story... or rather his mother's story.
Calliope.
His beautiful, tragic mother.
What reaction would Hilda have if he mentioned his mother's name?
Hilda would have known of Calliope. Of that he felt sure. But something held him back from bringing up the artist who'd once lived on the grounds of Laurel Woods. Even as a small child, he'd sensed that his mother held on to some sort of sadness from her past. And on the day she died, a mere hour before she took her last breath, Calliope had whispered to him, "Baby?"
"Right here, Mother."
"I never told you. Never did," she said between shallow breaths. "He doesn't know about you. I should have told him, but I couldn't."
"Wait, who doesn't know about me? My father? You never told him he had a son?" He'd tried not to sound accusing but the emotion was there. He took her hand and stroked it, tried to calm himself. "Who is he?"
"I'm scared. They think I murdered a man. He made me leave. He said no one would believe me. You have to understand. I couldn't let anyone hurt you. You were- " Her words faded and she gasped for air, shuddering.
