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Unfortunately, each of these good intentions was blown all to hell on Tuesday evening.
Just two days after she moved into her little apartment, an unexpected event made her ignore every promise she’d made to herself.
Tired of reading, bored with dusting and totally disinterested in popping a frozen dinner into her microwave, Louise wandered down to the Kettle, where she’d eaten most of her meals the last couple of days. There was a good supper crowd gathered in the diner, but she found a small table and sat down.
After a few minutes Bobbi Lee came to take her order. “Hey, girl, how’s it going?” she said, her red lips curving into a welcoming grin. “How’s that place of yours working out?”
“Just fine, Bobbi Lee,” Louise said. She and Bobbi had established a friendly relationship. In fact, Louise was now beginning to worry about how this steadily increasing bond with the waitress might translate into fat grams.
“What’ll it be tonight?” Bobbi asked.
Louise folded the menu so she couldn’t see the words sausage gravy. “Just a salad.”
Bobbi sauntered off to place the order and Louise sat back and watched the people around her. Four women at a nearby table caught and held her attention. Each lady had a full bottle of Budweiser in front of her. Twice the number of empties sat waiting for the busboy to take them away.
Occasionally the women’s conversation was interrupted by boisterous laughter. But without fail, they quickly resumed a serious discussion once the joviality passed. Other sounds of the restaurant faded as curiosity made Louise tune in their voices. The ladies were obviously close acquaintances even though there was a wide range in their ages.
“All I know is that I couldn’t afford to give up another day’s wages at the factory to stay home with my son,” a young, olive-skinned Hispanic woman said. “Thank goodness he was well enough to go back to the baby-sitter today.”
“Did you tell Justin why you needed to stay home?” an older woman with a long gray ponytail asked.
“I did, hoping he’d be sympathetic. He said, ‘Go ahead, Miranda. Take all the time you need, but come payday—’”
“Wait, don’t tell us,” a slim woman with short blond hair interrupted. “He said, ‘Come payday, your check might be a little less than you expected.’”
Empathetic laughter erupted around the table until the older woman lifted her bottle into the air. “Let’s drink one to Justin Beauclaire, in honor of his unending compassion for his employees and his sense of fair play,” she said.
Something of an expert herself in the subtle deployment of sarcasm, Louise appreciated the old gal’s admirable use of it. She smiled and raised her glass of iced tea in silent commiseration.
Four bottles met and clinked above the center of the table, and each woman took a long swallow of beer. The older woman set down her bottle, wiped suds from her mouth with a napkin and gave her friend a serious look. “You know, Miranda, you could have brought Lorenzo to my house yesterday. It was my day off, and I would have watched him.”
Miranda smiled in gratitude. “Thanks, Bessie, but you’ve got enough to handle just taking care of your husband. Besides, who knows what germs Lorenzo could have brought into your house? If Pete had caught something from him, his emphysema might have gotten worse.”
“How’s Pete doing, anyway?” a woman with coffee-brown skin asked.
“Not too well, Yvonne,” Bessie said, “but thanks for asking.”
“You’ve got to get some help,” Yvonne said. “Between work and Pete, you’re wearing yourself out.”
“Without health insurance, I can’t afford to get outside help,” Bessie said. “Even if I could afford insurance, I doubt I could get coverage for Pete at this stage of his illness.”
Not an individual policy, Louise agreed to herself. But it would have been nice if you’d had family coverage provided by your employer when you started working.
Yvonne, the African-American woman, shook her head slowly. “That’s a shame. My sister’s husband over in Raleigh got coverage for the whole family when he went to work for the paper mill….”
Louise nodded. Right. That’s the way it should be.
“…and tight ol’ Justin Beauclaire won’t even provide coverage for his employees,” the woman continued.
The blonde, the youngest by several years, downed the rest of her beer in one long gulp and curled her lips into a catlike grin. “Yeah, but we get all the candles we can steal,” she said.
Candles? These women must work for the Bayberry Cove Candle Company, which Vicki had mentioned a couple of days ago. The factory was the town’s largest employer.
The young woman unzipped a huge canvas purse sitting on the floor beside her chair and pulled out an eight-inch pillar candle. “I figure this pretty one will set the mood when Luke and I are alone at his place later.”
“Shame on you, Darlene Jackson,” Bessie said. “You took that from work?”
Darlene shrugged. “Why not? I haven’t had a raise in three years. I figure the company owes me.”
Bessie sighed. “The last thing I want to see when I leave the factory every day is another candle.”
“Yes, girl,” Yvonne said, and then shook a finger at Darlene. “Especially when you’re wasting it on Luke Plunkett. When are you gonna wise up and find yourself a nice fella?”
Darlene stuffed the candle back in her purse and frowned. “As soon as Justin Beauclaire pays me a wage that allows me to put a little away each week so’s I can walk outta that factory for good. And you all know that’s not likely to happen.” She set her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. “Until I can afford to get outta here, Luke is about all I got to look forward to each night.” She gazed at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with her friends. “Besides, he can be nice.”
Yvonne stared at Bessie and said in a conspiratorial voice, “Is it snowing in hell, Bess?”
Darlene stood up, dug into the pocket of a pair of skin-tight jeans and tossed a few bills onto the table. “I heard that, Yvonne,” she said. “But even you’ve got to admit that a girl can’t sit home with her momma and daddy every night on a big, lonely farm. And like I said, Luke can be nice.”
She draped the purse strap over her shoulder and pushed in her chair. “I’m off to the Brew and Bowl. Luke will be wondering where I am.” She straightened her spine defiantly and lifted her chin. “See you all next Tuesday night, I guess. And tomorrow at work.”
Louise munched on the last of her salad and watched with the three other women as Darlene strutted from the restaurant.
“I don’t know what will become of that girl if she stays with Luke,” Bessie said with a shake of her coarse gray ponytail. “She’s got a big heart, but I don’t think that boy will ever appreciate the goodness in her.”
Miranda ran a hand through her long dark curls and sighed. “I worry that Luke will get drunk and really hurt her. Deputy Blackwell has broken up a couple of fights between them, but one day Darlene won’t be so lucky. She needs to get away from that devil before it’s too late.”
Yvonne smirked. “Not much chance of that as long as she’s working for Beauclaire and earning minimum wage. She can’t afford a place of her own.”
Louise had heard enough. The problems at the candle factory were issues she understood well in her capacity as a corporate lawyer, though she’d never really studied them from the employees’ point of view. Her promise to avoid work-related entanglements abruptly abandoned, Louise stood up and went to the table.
“Pardon me, ladies,” she said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m Louise Duncan, attorney. Do you mind if I sit down?”
None of the women spoke, apparently too surprised to respond. Finally, Bessie pressed her booted foot on the leg of the chair Darlene had just vacated, and pushed it away from the table. “It’s a free country,” she said.
Miranda narrowed her dark eyes suspiciously. “Not to an attorney it isn’t.”
Louise dropped onto the chair and scooted close. She waved off the Hispanic woman’s comment with a flutter of her hand. “Don’t concern yourself with what you’ve heard about lawyer fees,” she said. “If you ladies and I come to an agreement about some things, and I decide that I can help you, I’ll take on this project strictly for the experience—and the fun of it.” She smiled at the women.
“I know a little about corporate law, ladies,” she continued. “And a thing or two about labor regulations.” She looked at each woman. “If you three have a little more time this evening, I’d like you to tell me all about the factory and your employer, Justin Beauclaire.”
The two younger women looked to Bessie, who chewed her bottom lip a moment and finally said, “Girls, I can’t see as it would hurt to talk to her.”
CHAPTER FIVE
WESLEY CAME AROUND the third corner of the town square jogging path and slowed to an easy trot, just as he’d done the last two mornings. He looked up at the three windows above McCorkle’s New and Used Furniture Store on Main Street—just as he’d done the last two mornings. He knew his actions must be conspicuous, and he felt like a fool. If Louise were looking out one of the windows, she’d surely notice that he altered his pace each time he passed this particular part of the track.
She wasn’t there. In fact, she hadn’t shown her face since Sunday when, in front of half the population of Bayberry Cove, she’d hollered a greeting from her window and cheerfully wished him a good morning. And now it was Wednesday, and he hadn’t felt nearly as cheery since. He waved at his grandfather, seated, as always, on a bench, and picked up his speed, heading into his second lap. “Forget about her, Wes,” he puffed to himself on short, choppy bursts of air exploding from his laboring lungs. “Louise Duncan is the last woman on earth you should be interested in.”
At the next corner, he ran faster. Louise was still in town. He’d heard that from several sources, including Jamie Malone. In fact, Jamie couldn’t seem to talk about her without aiming a knowing grin at Wes.
Surely Jamie didn’t think he was interested in Louise. She was about as alien to Bayberry Cove as nouveau cuisine was to the Kettle. If Wes ever did settle down with one woman again, it wouldn’t be with an independent, wisecracking, sexy-as-hell city girl like Louise Duncan.
Jamie wasn’t the only one in town who’d taken a liking to Louise. Bobbi Lee referred to her as “the princess” without the slightest hint of malice in her voice. Lots of folks in town seemed to like her. Wes wasn’t at all sure how he felt about her, but as each day passed, he found himself wishing the warning bells in his head would cease their clamor so he could have the opportunity to decide how he did.
And then opportunity knocked—or dashed—right smack into his exercise regimen. In the middle of the long section of track opposite Main Street, Louise suddenly appeared next to him, jogging with all the vigor he had begun to lose. Long, lean legs extended from clinging midthigh shorts and ended in sparkling white running shoes. A form-fitting tank top revealed a slash of creamy abdomen each time her fists pumped away from her body. The material stretched tightly across her breasts, permitting just enough of a subtle bob to make his throat feel as if it were stuffed with cotton. A brazen red baseball cap completed her outfit. She wore it low on her forehead, and a swath of raven hair swung from the opening at the back, reminding him of the tail of a Thoroughbred twitching at the starting gate.
“Nice day for a run, isn’t it, Wesley?” she said, her voice even and controlled, and irritatingly unlabored.
He huffed out an answer. “A beautiful morning, Louise. I haven’t seen you run before.”
“I’ve indulged in entirely too much Southern cooking at the Kettle,” she said, patting a tummy which, now that he looked, might be straining her zippers a little. “I run three days a week at home.” She smiled at him. “Can’t let myself go just because I’m on vacation.”
Ordinarily Wes might have slowed as he approached the third curve for the second time. But he wasn’t about to exhibit a lack of endurance in front of Louise. He sucked in his diaphragm, straightened his back and kept up the pace that somehow in the last minute he’d let her establish. “So how’s that vacation thing working out for you?” he asked.
“Fine, but I’m counting on you to help make it better.”
He stumbled on absolutely nothing. In disciplined military fashion, he covered his blunder and kept running. But he knew from the quick upturn of her lips that she’d seen him falter. “Oh?” It was all he could manage to say.
“I figured, who better to show me the sights than one of the town’s most respected citizens.” She cast him a sideways glance. “And from all I’ve heard, that’s you, Commander.”
The sun glinted off a silver medallion that bounced against her chest above the scooped neckline of her top. Wes couldn’t take his eyes off it.
Her voice jolted him back from a dangerous place. “Wes? Are you interested?”
He snapped his eyes to hers. “Well, okay. Where would you like to go?”
“I thought we’d start with the candle factory.”
The candle factory? He’d expected…deep down he’d hoped she would request a boat ride on Currituck Sound. In fact, he could picture her in his speedboat or the lively little skiff he’d brought out of dry dock and kept by the shore at the cottage. Or he thought she’d ask to see Bayberry Park with its thirty-foot waterfall, an anomaly in an area that boasted few attractions above sea level. But no, she wanted to see the candle factory.
As if sensing his confusion, she elaborated. “I love candles. I have dozens in my condo in Florida. What about this afternoon? I want to see the factory from the inside out, how candles are mass-produced, all the details I wouldn’t get if I didn’t go with someone who knows the territory.”
Of course he could accommodate her. His father and the candle factory president, Justin Beauclaire, had been friends, fishing buddies and poker-playing rivals for years. The factory was certainly a safe place to take the bewildering Miss Duncan, but Wes’s thoughts kept returning to a vision of a more intimate afternoon at the park or skimming over the crystal water of the sound. “Okay, the candle factory it is,” he said, trying to hide a disappointment that surprised him with its intensity. “I’ll pick you up behind the furniture store at two?”
They’d reached the path by Main Street again, and Louise veered off toward her apartment. “Great. See you then.”
As soon as Wes was certain she couldn’t see him, he stopped running, bent his knees and placed his hands on his thighs. He expelled a long, exhausted breath and heard his grandfather chuckling. Wes looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “What’s so funny?”
“I’m just sympathizing with you, boy,” Mason said. “That woman can knock the wind right out of you.”
HER LEGS ACHING, her heart pounding and her breathing as ragged as if she’d climbed a hundred steps instead of eighteen, Louise flung open the door to her apartment, grabbed a bottle of water from her small refrigerator and collapsed onto her sofa. “You idiot,” she said. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Running a mile-long track around the square was nothing like hitting the treadmill for fifteen minutes at her Fort Lauderdale gym before getting a smoothie and a massage. She gulped the water and lay on her back, propping her head on the arm of the couch. Her gaze connected immediately with her coffee table and the single item sitting there, the blue candle.
“I just love candles,” she said in a sing-song voice that mimicked her previous comment to Wes. “I have dozens in my condo.” She flung her ball cap and hit the candle dead center, hiding it from view. “Candles, my ass,” she groaned.
The only ones she’d ever bought in her life had been skinny little things to stick into birthday cakes, and those she’d bought for someone else. Louise was a firm believer in electric light—bright, soft, sexy, whatever. As long as it illuminated without threatening to set the house on fire. But what the heck? She was getting inside the candle factory, and she was going in on the arm of Wesley Fletcher.
BY TWO O’CLOCK that afternoon, Louise had showered, applied makeup and slipped into a coral shirt-waist dress with what she considered a respectable hemline. On impulse, as she went down the back staircase from her apartment, she popped open the top two buttons and spread the yoke of the dress just enough to distract Wesley from the questions she intended to ask.
He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a tan knit shirt that fit his military-sculpted chest as if it had been molded to him at the factory. He leaned on the hood of an immaculate dark green Jeep.
“Nice car,” she said, figuring a compliment to his vehicle would go a long way with a guy like Wes.
He opened the passenger door, and she slid onto a spotless tan leather bucket seat. “It gets me where I need to go,” he said.
He bolted to the other side, got in and started the engine. With one wrist draped over the steering wheel, he turned to her and asked, “You sure about this? You really want to see the candle factory?”
She swiveled toward him so her knees were mere inches from his thigh, and stared at the handsome, rugged face that had invaded her thoughts for the last few hours. “I’ve been thinking about this excursion all day.” That was the truth. “I can’t wait to see how candles are made.” That was a lie. “I hope you can take me behind the scenes—you know, introduce me to the movers and shakers at the factory.”
He laughed. “I’m afraid the only moving and shaking you’ll see is when Justin Beauclaire walks across his office to the bar and shakes the martini pitcher.” He pulled out of the lot and headed down an alley. “But whatever your pleasure…”
The factory was located a couple of miles outside of town on a two-lane county road that curved past the Brew and Bowl Alley, a few blue-collar businesses and three trailer parks. Louise recognized the name of the mechanics garage where Miranda Lopez’s husband, Pedro, worked, as well as the Lazy Day Mobile Home community where the family lived.
Louise knew she might see the women she’d talked to the night before at the Kettle. They’d all agreed that if they encountered each other at the factory, they would pretend to be strangers. Their association would be public soon enough, but for now, Louise was concerned with getting information, and her guise of being a tourist interested in candles was the best way of doing that.
Wesley parked near the double doors of the two-story colonial offices. This part of the building resembled a modest but gracious Southern mansion. The rest of the business, the production area extending behind the offices, was a long, single-story metal building with windows along the roofline.
Wes and Louise entered a lobby furnished in Wedgwood-blue wing chairs, Queen Anne tables and peaceful pastoral prints. And of course, candles. A half-dozen mahogany shelves displayed the products, which came in many shapes and sizes. The receptionist, a middle-aged lady, gushed over Wesley while Louise scanned the racks, picking up samples. One fact was abundantly clear. This company didn’t miss a holiday sales opportunity or the chance to permeate the world with all sorts of intoxicating smells, from light floral to exotic spice.
After answering questions about where he’d been, how long he’d been home, and thanking the receptionist for expounding on what a handsome young man he’d become, Wes waved for Louise to follow him through a door that led from the lobby. “I called ahead,” he told her. “Justin Beauclaire, the CEO of the company, is expecting us.”
Louise walked beside him down a short hallway to an elevator. This was exactly what she’d hoped for. She whistled in appreciation. “Wow, are we getting a tour from the president?”
“Looks like it.”
“I’m impressed with your contacts, Wesley.”
“Don’t be. This is a small town. Justin and my dad go way back.”
They exited the elevator on the second floor and were met by a portly, balding man. He shook Wes’s hand and introduced himself to Louise as Justin Beauclaire. While he openly admired his visitor, Louise gave him her sweetest smile, slipped her hand into her shoulder bag and discreetly turned on her tape recorder.
BACK ON THE MAIN FLOOR, Justin Beauclaire took his guests past offices on either side of a long hallway. They ended at a metal door. “Through here lies the pulse and energy of the factory,” Justin said. “This is where tons of paraffin is turned into the beauties I hope you saw on display in the lobby.”
“I did indeed,” Louise responded. “I was truly amazed by the number and variety of candles produced here.”
“We’re trying new designs all the time,” Justin said. “We have a research department entirely devoted to market analysis, product testing and nationwide sales.” He opened the door and held it for Louise and Wes to precede him. “Ordinarily I don’t allow any visitors into this part of the business,” he explained. “Insurance issues, you understand.”
She stopped just inside the warehouse and waited for Justin to close the door.
“’Course, I don’t mind breaking the rules for old Wes, here,” he said. “Even if I do remember wiping his nose a few times when he was just a little sprout.”
Wes, clearly embarrassed, forced a snicker.
“We have a lot of expensive and sensitive machinery in here,” Justin added. “Plus nearly every employee inside this building is working with wax in one form or another. In the beginning stages of candle production, wax can be tricky to handle. We melt ours to one hundred eighty degrees.” He gave Louise a sly grin. “Can’t have any novices poking their pretty noses, or fingers, into a vat of hot wax, now can we?”
Louise tsked in sympathy. “Certainly not. I promise to stay safely away from any bubbling cauldrons.” She studied the huge metal tanks across the warehouse. Suspended above each were large circular racks, each holding dozens of taper candles of varying thicknesses. “Has anyone ever gotten badly burned?” she asked.
