The Best of Everything
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 © Francine Craft
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is dedicated to my readers, with deep appreciation and heartfelt thanks. Many of you have been with me since the beginning, starting with Devoted and The Black Pearl. You all have my love and devotion, and I wish you always the best of everything.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Charlie K.., June Marie and Bruce Bennett, my fervent appreciation for your continued help. I write this so often to you, but how can I stop? You're just the greatest.
I really appreciate the expert and warm help two chemists and two administrative people at two well-known cosmetics manufacturing companies gave me. They thought it best that their names and the names of their companies not be published, and I respect their wishes. I would have been lost without them.
THE BEST OF EVERYTHING
Sherrie rushed past Byron and Jasmine, went into her suite and slammed the door, locking it.
In a few minutes, she heard Byron's soft knock.
"Sherrie, let me in!"
She didn't answer, but stood with narrowed eyes, hot tears dammed behind her eyelids. The tomcat! How dare he?
"Sherrie!" This was a command. "Open the door. I can explain."
Oh, I'll bet you can explain, she thought. River's unkind comment had been right, but what about him? He hadn't seemed to exactly fight Jasmine off.
"Sherrie," Byron said in a low lion's roar, "don't let me have to break this damned door down!"
She opened the door. He came in and gripped her shoulders. His eyes were sad. "Honey, don't walk away from me like that. I love you, and it kills me."
"You were otherwise engaged."
"She said it was a last kiss, that she wouldn't bother me again. She kissed me. I didn't kiss her. Sherrie, I love you. I've always played fair and square with you and I always will."
"People change," she said stubbornly. "Mike—
"Don't go there," he said sharply. "I'm not Mike. Stop comparing me with Mike. You're going to have to stop that."
His sharp words cut through the fog that had enshrouded her—jealous and raging—from a past she wanted and needed to forget. This man loved her in ways she had never been loved before and she didn't want to lose him. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Will you let me show you I'm sorry?"
Humbled, she moved closer to him, opening to him completely. He caught her to him fiercely and, relenting, said huskily, "Try me."
Beginning with Bitterness
Mid-March 2002
Chapter 1
Sherrie Pinson stood in front of her husband Mike's expensive, pale gray tombstone and stared at the inscription:
Michael Pinson
Beloved and loving
Husband, father, friend
Tears filled her eyes. This was the first anniversary of his death, a murder. When would the pain begin to ease? She walked to the head of the tombstone, bent and touched the big vase of lilies of the valleys she had brought.
In her mind's eyes she could see him as plainly as if he stood in front of her. Tall, handsome, caring, so vividly alive. To deflect her thoughts she looked around her at the beautifully landscaped cemetery, Minden, Maryland's finest. Weeping willows flourished, and a large fountain threw its waters into the spring air. A warm mid-March let yellow daffodils, white narcissi and early clusters of violets blossom in all their glory. Evergreens were massed around the borders.
Hearing a slight cough she turned and nearly fainted. Her vision blurred. A tall man with a short black beard, a big, virile body and a craggily attractive face stood before her as she whispered, "Mike?"
She swallowed hard and whimpered inside, facing Byron Tate who with his beard so eerily resembled his close friend, Mike.
"Hello, Sherrie. How are you?" His voice was tender, concerned.
Hot tears seeped behind her eyelids. "Hello, Byron. You've grown a beard," she said, as if in accusation, her voice flat. "You look so much like Mike."
This man had been clean shaven before he left Minden. He carried two vases of multicolored flowers to place on the graves of his wife and young daughter.
Her whole body felt weak, shaken, and he moved forward to steady her, but she stiffened. "I'll be shaving it, maybe today," he told her. "How have you been, Sherrie? And how's Tressa?"
Anger at him filled every pore of her. The core of her was hot with rage. She didn't answer his questions. Instead she said, "You're back earlier than you expected to be."
She was determined not to hate him. She couldn't help being angry; she had just cause, but she refused to let herself mire in hatred. He had been away for four months traveling the world, assuaging his grief over three deaths he could not exorcise.
Byron Tate was six feet, two inches tall, olive skinned, with soot-black, rough, curly hair and a long, handsome face with startling pale blue-gray eyes. He had heavy, smooth black eyebrows. His big body was well exercised, and he had a pensive, warm, humorous expression.
Why was she studying him? She should be running away. But she knew it was because he was so much like Mike, the husband, the lover for whom she ached.
"You didn't answer my questions," he said gently, and repeated them. "How are you? And how is Tressa?"
She drew a harsh breath. It was eight o'clock in the morning and the air was crisp, clear. She pulled her wool spring reefer tighter about her. "How am I, Byron? You tell me. I never stop hurting.
That's how I am. As for Tressa, she adored her father. She was nearly five when he died. Now she's nearly six...."
"Saturday," he said softly.
"Yes." Her eyes filled with hot tears again. "She can't seem to get over losing him. She doesn't sleep well. She wonders if I'm going to die, if she's going to die. She doesn't eat well, doesn't want to go anywhere, do anything."
"God, I'm so sorry."
"So am I." She looked at him then. "But you're hurting, too, with your loss."
"Yes," he said. Alicia and Ronnie had died in an accident a year and a half ago, then Michael a year ago. "I had to get away." His voice got husky then. "We were close friends once, Sherrie. Closer than close. Our families were so close. Michael and I were like blood. He saved my life. I can't ever forget that."
His saying it tore her up, and she couldn't stop the bitterness. "He saved your life," she said, "and you indirectly took his."
"Sherrie, don't." His voice went ragged.
She continued, "I don't know the whole story, but when you drove him out of Tate Manufacturing, it broke his heart, and it destroyed him."
"He hurt you a lot," he stubbornly reminded her.
"Because he changed." Her voice rose. "He was hurt. He couldn't take it anymore. The Tate company and you were his life. When you turned against him ..." She was choking on her words.
"You'll never know how sorry I am," he said humbly. "Perhaps one day you'll understand more. I'll understand more, then we'll both heal."
She swept on. "You know how sorry I am about Alicia and Ronnie, how I grieve for you, but I can't forgive you for what you did to Mike. Not yet. Maybe one day I can, but I will never forget."
Byron felt his heart squeeze dry as he looked at her. She had always meant so much to him, from the very beginning. The long, now chemically straightened earth-brown hair, the allspice brown, silken smooth skin. Her straight eyebrows gave her a tranquil look, and her even features were attractively placed. But it was the dark brown, once sparkling, almond-shaped eyes under thick, lush black lashes and the beautifully curved full mouth that made her a standout. And under that coat was a body that put Coca-Cola bottles to shame.
He had to come right out and say it. "I want to see you and I want to see Tressa. I have a present for her birthday. May I come by?"
Sherrie looked at him with amazement. How dare he ask? "I don't think so," she said slowly. "Tressa has said she doesn't want anything for her birthday." Her laugh was short, harsh, hopeless. "She just wants her daddy back."
"Sherrie," he said softly, "maybe I can help. Mike and I were so much alike. If I can ease her pain, your pain,"
She shook her head. "I don't think so."
"Will you think about it?" he asked stubbornly. "She'll love the present. I promise. I'll call you."
"I wish you wouldn't...."
"I'd like to salvage some remnant of friendship. It could help us both."
"We can't be friends, Byron, ever again. You betrayed Mike, and I can never forget that. Had it not been for what you did to him, he might still be alive."
"I'm sorry," he said again, and they were silent for long moments. He touched her arm. "You look well. You always handled things well."
"Not this. For what it's worth, you seem to be holding up well. I wish you all the best, Byron. I think we have to realize that our estrangement is permanent."
"Don't say that. I want to help."
"I don't think you can."
A beautiful Siberian husky dog came bounding out of the woods, stopped for a moment at Byron's side, then went to Sherrie, his tail wagging furiously. The dog sniffed her and moved closer.
"Husky!" she exclaimed. "How I've missed seeing you."
The dog's slanted brown-yellow eyes shone in his long, wide-jawed head with an almost-human understanding. The cream, buff, brown and black fur shone with love and good care. She had forgotten what an amazing animal he was, and he was Byron's constant companion.
Byron's heart lifted at her response to his dog. At least some things hadn't changed. He saw her long, slender hand reach out and pat Husky's head, then stroke his neck and shoulders, and he was reminded of their recent past steeped in friendship and love.
The dog only awakened her pain, and Sherrie felt herself weakening. Her body felt cold with regret and anguish.
"You're hurting," he said. "Let me take you home. I'll send someone back to get your car."
She shook her head. "No. I have a big day ahead. Thank you, but I'll make it. Byron?"
"Yes."
She had been going to say, don't call. I don't want to see you again save in passing, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn't want to talk to him. The past was dead. Let it die.
"Goodbye, Byron." Her voice trembled with finality.
"Tressa's my beloved godchild," he said urgently. "I've got to stand by her. She needs someone now and you need a friend."
She laughed shortly then, tears in her voice. "A friend, Byron? I think you mean well now, but surely you can understand that after what you did to Mike ..."
She started past him, leaving a saddened Husky who longingly looked after her. Byron's big hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Consider what I've said, Sherrie. Don't get revenge. Forgiveness is so much better."
He let her go and watched her walk away, watched until she got into her car and drove off. Was she crying? His feelings went deep for this woman and he hurt with her pain. He had to see his godchild, recreate his bond with her, even if Sherrie could never forgive him. It seemed to him the saddest day in his life since his wife and child had died.
Chapter 2
By the time Sherrie neared her beauty salon just off Connecticut Avenue in D.C., she had calmed somewhat. She drew deep breaths and willed herself to put Byron Tate out of her mind. She had a long, hard day ahead and tomorrow she would get up in the predawn hours and drive down to a spot between D.C. and Richmond for a beauty and fashion show. She had a very full plate these days.
She slowed her burgundy Volvo, selected for safety, as she got to the corner where she would turn. She slowed a bit more and looked at the big sign on her beauty shop. The large black scripted initial letters MBS never failed to excite her, even after six years of owning the salon. The words scrolled out from the script spelling out My Beautiful Self. The whole concept, she thought now, was dedicated to African-American women, a love offering, if you will. Giving Black America the well-deserved best in beauty care.
Going in, she was immediately surrounded by her staff. Catherine Aldano, the manager, a smartly coiffed woman in her early forties, held Tressa's hand for a moment until she broke free and ran to Sherrie.
"Mommy! Where have you been? I need a hug."
Bending, Sherrie hugged the thin, almond-colored little girl tightly and felt her heart beating rapidly.
"Where have I been? Well... places."
"Aunt Helena's in your office. We're not going to stay long. We've got things to do." The piping high voice was lyrical.
Sherrie smiled. Tressa's preschool was out for a teacher's conference. She would spend the day with Helena at the social service complex that Helena, a social worker, supervised. Standing, Sherrie was saddened to see that all too suddenly Tressa's little face was somber. Was she remembering her father again?
"What is it, honey?" Sherrie asked. When the child shook her head, Sherrie urged her, "Listen, reconsider having a little party for your birthday, won't you?"
The child shook her head vehemently. "No, I don't want to. Please don't make me."
"Of course I won't make you, but what do you want for your birthday?"
Tressa answered without hesitation. "I want Daddy to come back."
Sherrie bent and hugged Tressa tightly. "Sweetheart," she began, her heart breaking, "you know that isn't possible. Daddy's in heaven with God."
"Then God's mean," the child wailed. "Why did He take Daddy? Mommy, I don't feel too good."
Sherrie hugged her child tightly again, stroking her thin, fragile back. "Believe me, my love, God is wonderful, but things happen we don't understand. Do you feel sick?"
"No. I just don't feel good, you know."
"Yes, I know, sweetheart. I know." Sometimes Sherrie thought it seemed that Tressa hadn't felt good since Mike had died. Sometimes Sherrie thought it seemed that neither had she.
Tressa brightened a little in her mother's arms and took a deep breath. "It's so pretty in here," she said. "I like to come here."
"I'm glad. Come anytime. Come all the time." The child's mood had passed as quickly as it had come, but she knew from experience that it would shortly come again. Neither she nor Tressa was healing very well.
"Now," Katherine said, "Tressa and I have got to make sure the aromatherapy room is up and running. We're getting shows of interest and appointments from all over. Our ad people are the greatest"
Sherrie agreed and looked around her. Walking over to a long cream-colored counter, she selected a raisin bagel, spread it lightly with cream cheese and drew herself a cup of chocolate-flavored coffee from one of several coffee urns. My Beautiful Self was decorated in raspberry, rose, blush pink and cream, with both black and ivory swirled marble and plush dark mauve carpeting. She reflected now that it had been very expensive to get the salon started, but it had proved to be well worth it.
Mike had set her up, and now business could not have been better. She stayed on top of things, had the best operators, used the best products, and people were calling from as far as New York for the new aromatherapy services. Still, she sighed. How could one part of life be so rewarding and another so devastated?
In her office she found her best friend, Helena Crane, sitting in a deep, plush barrel chair. Helena looked up as Sherrie came in.
"I wondered whether you'd been hijacked." Then, looking at her friend more closely, she frowned. "You look a little peaked, love. What is it?"
Sherrie drew a deep breath, and her voice came out a little above a hoarse whisper as she sat down opposite Helena. "I saw Byron Tate at the cemetery."
"Oh dear. He's been back only a couple of days, I think."
Sherrie nodded. "He wants to see Tressa."
"And you don't want him to," Helena responded quickly.
"You know I don't. After what he did to Mike ..." Tears filled her eyes then. "I've even thought of moving away, Helena, selling out, going back to New Orleans. I don't want to run into him, to see him."
A dark haired, tall, slender woman, Helena sat up straight, her dark brown face full of concern. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. "Love, you may hate me for saying this, but I've always wondered what Byron's side of this story is."
"As far as I'm concerned, he has no side. Mike told me everything."
"Okay, then he was wrong, but he is Tressa's godfather, just as I am her godmother, and Tressa needs him. He loves the child and she loves him."
"One day she'll know the truth. She won't love him then."
"But she needs him now. Sherrie, please consider his request. You've got to think of Tressa."
"I am thinking of Tressa. He'll break her heart the way he broke Mike's."
Helena got up, went to Sherrie and stroked her shoulders. "You're so upset," she comforted. "Bite the bullet, love. Try letting him see her. Tressa is so unhappy. You know that. What could it hurt? You don't have to be around them when he sees her. He's suffered a terrible loss, too, Sherrie. Three terrible losses, because no matter what went down between Mike and him, they were bonded friends who loved each other. I think Byron Tate is the walking wounded because of these things. You believe in forgiveness. You know you do."
"Not Byron Tate."
"Even Byron Tate."
Helena sat down again and leaned forward. "Promise me you'll think about it. You have Tressa to consider. The God you serve is forgiving. I know that."
Sherrie leaned forward, putting her face in her hands. She was coming apart. "Not now," she said. "I can't let him see her now." Her mouth was bone dry, and her head ached with tension. How did you put back together something that had been so violently ripped apart?
When Helena and Tressa left, Sherrie pulled herself together and walked about her salon. Early morning customers were in varying stages of progress. Their rose-pink capes and hoods and the matching smocks of the operators gave them a lovely sensual air. She greeted each customer, grateful that Katherine was so effective, so efficient. The dark chocolate-skinned woman with her remarkably beautiful satiny skin and close-cropped cap of black, curly hair was a wonder who never ceased to amaze her. They were good friends as well as owner and employee.
Coffee, pastries and fresh fruit with varied drinks were served all day. Soothing, piped music flowed softly—Lionel Richie, Luther Vandross and all the beautiful classical music. A blend of many marvelous scents soothed the spirit. A large, lighted portrait of Madame C.J. Walker, eminent late founder of cosmetology, graced one wall niche. It was a wonderful place to relax, to just be.
One thing had long bothered Sherrie. Byron Tate owned and ran Tate Supreme Cosmetic Manufacturing Company. They made the best cosmetics in the world for African-American skin and hair, and since Byron had done what he did to Mike, she hadn't wanted to use his products, but her hands were tied. He had great customer loyalty who demanded his wares. Tate beauty products still lined the walls in their stunning containers, some black glossy labels with beautifully scripted gold lettering, some cream and gold with the same scripted lettering. Everything Byron Tate did was top of line, she reflected—even his betrayals.
She was standing near the entrance and the big plate-glass windows when she heard her sister's voice. "The light of the world is here. Pay obeisance!"
Laughing in spite of herself she moved toward her sister, Mallori, and hugged her. As always, Mallori didn't really hug back, just suffered herself to be hugged.
"How is my sister?" Sherrie asked, never giving up trying to really reach Mallori.
"Your half sister."
"I'll take that, but we could be whole sisters if you let it be so."
A sharp, hard glint came to Mallori's eyes. "We had different mothers. My own never cared much and yours didn't care for me at all."
"Mallori! That's not true."
The small, fair-skinned Mallori laughed shortly, tossed back her long, light brown hair and narrowed her brown eyes. "It's true all right. Minta tried, she really did. I'll give her credit for that, but she had you and that was enough. I used to hate you, Sherrie. Do you know that?"
Sherrie shook her head. "Look, this is no conversation for the middle of the salon. Let's talk in my office. What are you having done today?"
Mallori grinned sourly. "You're sure getting away from the hatred thing. You're such a Goody Two-shoes. I'm just having a trim and a facial. I could use six cups of coffee, and I've just had one. My darling husband served me breakfast in bed."
"How nice and how like him," Sherrie said as they stopped by the coffee urns and Mallori drew herself a big cup.
Seated in her office, Sherrie felt that Mallori looked rattled. "How's the job going?" she asked tentatively.
"Couldn't be better. I'm in line for a humongous raise and a promotion to manager and my beloved husband, Gus, isn't taking it so well. I thought he'd be way ahead of where he is now at the police department, but he's dying on the vine."
"Being a sergeant isn't too bad."
"I much prefer captains and above. He needs to be in New York, or at least D.C."
Mallori was a pharmaceutical representative for a world-class company. Sharp, savvy and well educated, the only thing Mallori Duenas lacked was a loving heart, Sherrie thought. Mallori had
always been a prickly pear, but she was so full of life, so beautiful, so openly and pleasantly aggressive that you liked her in spite of herself. And she made no bones about who she was or what she was. The world, according to Mallori, owed her everything, and she intended to get it.
"How's Gus?" Sherrie asked.
Mallori shrugged. "Same old, same old. And how are you since I just said for the first time ever that I hated you when we were growing up, hated all you had."
"You had just as much."
"You were loved. I wasn't."
"Surely you don't still hate me."
"Mind if I smoke? Oh, I know all about your no-smoking rules, and I've always observed them, but with this new upcoming raise I'm feeling my oats, and I intend to cut loose in more ways than one. I've got a new lover."
Sherrie's mouth opened. "You have a husband, Mallori, a husband who loves you very much. What about him?"
"What about him? He's free to roam. I certainly don't mind. The brother I'm hooked up with lives in Baltimore, and we're burning up the city." She opened her purse and removed a cigarette case and a small gold lighter. Swiftly she extracted a cigarette, lit it and drew in deeply. After a few drags, she finished her coffee as Sherrie pushed a paper-clip dish toward her. She had no ashtrays.
Mallori shook her head. "I'll just use the cup. I wouldn't want to cause you any extra trouble." She lowered her head as she drew in a deep breath of smoke.
"You're upset," Sherrie told her.
Mallori laughed harshly. "You bet I'm upset. I'm thinking about Mike today, more than usual, if that's possible." She glanced at the large photo of Mike, Sherrie and Tressa that sat on Sherrie's desk.
Her nerves went raw, and Sherrie drew her shoulders in as if to ward off what she knew would come next.
Mallori looked at Sherrie and through her, her eyes blank. "You never manage to get used to it, do you, half sister? With Mike, for the first time in my life I had something you no longer had—him. I've told you before. I'll say it again. He was going to divorce you. We were in love. We were two of a kind, taking the world only on our own terms."
Sherrie protested heatedly. "You never knew the real Mike. He changed, did so much he never would have done before. But he told me shortly before he ... was killed, that he loved me, that he'd never leave me, and he begged me not to leave him."
Mallori threw back her head, and her laughter was cruel. "Then he lied to you. He loved me, Sherrie, not you. Why do you keep deceiving yourself?"
Sherrie willed herself to calmness. "I don't think I am. Gus loves you, Mallori. Worships you. How can you mistreat him like this?" She was trying to change the subject.
"Oh, this new lover is no sop to my ego. He's someone who keeps me going." Her voice broke then. "I'm a bottomless well now, Sherrie. Dear God, I miss Mike." Her voice was raw with passion.
"He was my husband, Mallori," Sherrie said evenly. "Try to remember that."
Mallori shook her head. "But if he hadn't died, he wasn't yours for long. You can believe it or not believe it, but that changes nothing."
Sherrie began to get up. "This conversation is finished, Mallori. You're being cruel and I hate cruelty."
"Mike could be cruel."
"Not before he was so badly hurt. You're my sister, and I love you, but that love isn't endless." Rigid with anger, Sherrie told her, "I want you to stop throwing your and Mike's affair in my face. I'm
sick of it! He was wrong and you were wrong and you know it. You're acting like a cheap hussy, so cut it out."
Mallori expelled a harsh breath. The wind seemed to go out of her sails. "Forgive me for being so obnoxious. I think a major reason I loved Mike was that he was so tolerant of my cruelty. Look, Sis, I need a favor." Mallori was penitent, pleading. "Come by our digs. Gus and I are both off today. I'm thinking of buying an incredible big rocker recliner from Matt Smartt, the furniture designer. Matt sent it over; so now Gus is in a snit and thinks it way too expensive, but I want what I want. If you agree that it fits in with my decor, it stays."
"That puts me in the middle."
"Not really. Gus always gives in to what I want. Besides, you've got to see it. I value your taste. Will you?"
Mallori was charming now. It was a sad state of affairs, Sherrie reflected, when your sister told you your dead husband had wanted her, not you, and you knew it was true. But the Mike he had become was no longer responsible. Broken, bitter, crushed, he was killing himself long before the murderer's dagger struck his heart.
Chapter 3
Byron Tate sat at his desk in his spacious front office of Tate Supreme Cosmetic Manufacturing Company. Founded by his great-grandfather, the company had long been the premier company that brought the best in beauty aids to the African-American public. The new plant he had built was spacious, even imposing. Steel and black marble on fifty acres of impeccably landscaped grounds out from Minden, Byron always felt a lump in his throat thinking about his father and his forebears when he looked at it.
It was his first day back. Now he rocked slowly in his big, black soft leather executive chair and smiled at his right-hand man and right-hand woman, Curt Winters and River West.
"I said it before, and I'll never stop saying it. Thank you both for the way you ran the place while I was gone— increased sales, great progress on new products. Wow! Am I impressed. Maybe I should have stayed away longer."
"You're back, and we're happy about that," Curt said in his booming bass voice. A silver-haired man in his fifties, he had helped groom Byron for the job. He was his mentor. A widower with no children, he had loved him like a son. "We're no substitute for you. We just had pure, dumb luck."
Byron smiled. "I'm not accepting that. You're both the best, and I'm going to see that my appreciation is reflected in steep raises for you."
They both thanked him effusively, then River said, "You seem to be feeling much better, Byron. I'm glad to see that. I was beginning to worry before you left. I think it did you a lot of good to get away."
Byron nodded. "It did, but if I didn't have such a great right-hand man and right-hand woman, everything might not have turned out so well. Now, fill me in some more. River, how's your new perfume coming along? Will it be ready for the August ball?"
River laughed. "It better be—long before." A medium height, slender woman of thirty-eight with long, brown silk hair, she had a lovely elfin face and smooth pale skin. She had worked with Byron since she was just out of Howard and Duquesne. She had developed a line of perfumes that had some of the world's leading perfumers trying to woo her away.
River drew a deep breath and continued. "My new perfume is based on pheromones, you know. I keep wishing for ambergris to blend it, but if we were still using whale oil sperm, there'd be no more whales by now. I guess it's a good thing they outlawed the use of it in the seventies."
"Yeah," Byron said, "so what are you using?"
"I'm experimenting with rose oil, one of my favorites. It doesn't come cheap at two hundred and fifty dollars an ounce wholesale, but..." She shrugged. "I'm not quite pleased with the way the rose oil carries the fragrance, so I'm also experimenting with musk ambrette and musk rose oil.
"I have to be careful. Musk ambrette can cause photosensitivity and contact dermatitis. Some African-American skins are particularly sensitive. I'm probably going to wind up using musk rose oil. There're lots of good oils out there. I promise we'll both be thrilled with the result. Come by and sniff."
"I will," Byron said.
"What's up with you, Curt?"
"Just running the place as best I can."
"And doing a damned good job of it." Curt grinned. "Thank you. It helps to have a great guy to work with."
"I hope I am," Byron said. "God knows I try."
"What did you bring back from your travels?" River asked. "Although your just feeling better would be enough."
"I did more." Leaning back, he picked up a big navy, leather-covered book from the credenza behind him and put it on top of his desk. He stood it on edge so they could see the title, Rare Cosmetic Formulae.
Byron smiled. "Two thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars," he said
Curt's eyebrows raised. "For one book or the volume?" he teased.
"One pop, but Lord, it has the makings of wonderful discoveries. I'm itching to develop an antiwrinkle cream from one of the formulae. It's one of the cosmetic books of the century."
"Who published it?" Curt asked.
"A German publisher. It was written by a panel of experts drawn from the world over. One of the most effective formulae is said to be a Zimbabwean white mud pack with musk oils. I think they could more than quadruple the price and it would be a bargain."
Both people said they'd be anxious to look at the book.
"Now, how are you both?" Byron asked. "River?"
River's face brightened. "I couldn't be better now that our leader is back. I'm burning the midnight oil developing my new perfume and working with Curt to run Tate properly."
"Have you thought about a name for this new perfume wonder?" Byron asked.
"Not yet. I've put it in my creative womb, and I'm expecting something good."
"And your personal life? How's that coming along? You were a little unhappy when I left."
She didn't answer for a moment. "On target. I've got so much going on."
"Good. And you, Curt?"
"Lord, the sky's the limit." Curt laughed. "D.C. has discovered our products in a big way. The beauty salons are burning up the phone lines ordering. You didn't ask, but I can't complain about my personal life."
Byron nodded. "That's all good. I'm happy for both of you. The African-American community deserves the best and the best is Tate cosmetics."
River's head went up suddenly. "Funny. Michael and Sherrie Pinson used to say that all the time. They were great fans. Of course, Michael worked with us, but Lord, they both were such fans...."
Byron's eyes got sad. "Yes," he said. "They were."
Their conversation become desultory then. River and Curt left to begin their work.
At his desk, Byron rocked and thought about going to the company gym, but he decided to work out later. His secretary, Marcia Keely, came in, gracious and smiling. A woman in her mid fifties, cinnamon-brown and energetic, she moved with effortless grace.
"I just can't tell you how good it is to have you back," she said. "All the pieces come together now."
Byron laughed. "You flatter me."
"No, I don't. It's true. Now, how's your appetite this morning?"
"Well, I got up late, grabbed a glass of orange juice and a small cup of coffee and hustled out. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I got up at five and made my famous buttermilk biscuits that Hal loves, and I'm wondering, how does a huge biscuit topped with extra-sharp melted cheese and a thick slice of Canadian bacon, with a pot of wild plum jam and great Colombian coffee or fragrant chrysanthemum tea grab you?"
"Hey, I'm drooling at the thought! My stomach's standing at attention. Bring it on!"
Laughing happily, Marcia turned and went out.
Byron got up and went to the window. Marcia had taught his wife, Alicia, to bake buttermilk biscuits. Alicia. And Ronnie, his six-year-old daughter. They had been a happy, close-knit family until that fateful late November night when a very early ice storm had caused the car Alicia and Ronnie were traveling in to go down a steep embankment and crash into a big tree in a ditch. He wiped a tear from his eye and shook his head to brush aside the thick cobwebs of memory.
He and Alicia had been close companions; they were not impassioned lovers, but she said she was well satisfied with what they had. Their life together filled space and time in his life, but he was haunted by what might have been with someone else. Sherrie. Her hatred of him had torn his heart out this morning. He had met her in New Orleans before Michael Pinson had. They had dated, kissed lightly, and he had been blown out of the water by those kisses. His kisses had not seemed to matter as much to her. Her father had just died of cancer and he had been loathe to push her, so he had held back, waiting for a later time when she had healed more.
Then his best friend, Michael, had come to New Orleans and Michael hadn't waited. He had pursued the beautiful Sherrie with ardent persuasion, and she had fallen hard.
He and Michael had been friends since high school in D.C. Swimming in a Maryland creek, he had been seized with a cramp and nearly drowned. Michael had managed to save his life. After that, they were blood brothers. Both had attended Howard University, majoring in chemistry. The same age, both had matriculated further at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, both still majoring in chemistry. Byron had earned a doctorate, Michael an MS. Michael had actually begun full-time work at Tate before Byron had, but Byron had worked there part-time summers since he was a child.
The accident killed his wife and child and had devastated him, but he had already been devastated by the falling out between Michael and him. How could it happen? But it had. He had asked Michael to leave the company that had come to be Michael's life. He'd had to do it and even now he didn't want to think about it.
Then Michael had been murdered. His immensely charming, life-filled former buddy had been found in his car only a few miles from his house, stabbed to death through the heart. It was a cold case now, except as Lieutenant Danielle Steele often said, Minden had no cold cases; they never stopped working on them. There had come to be gossip about Michael, gossip about other women, drinking. Even drugs. He had inherited money and was trying to found a company of his own. Before he died, Michael had seemed harried, wired on the few occasions he'd run into him. He still grieved the loss, and his heart hurt for Sherrie who had loved her husband so.
Marcia came in with a big wooden tray. The food was tastefully served on china dishes. He always used the same big coffee or tea mug of sky-blue Royal Doulton china.
Setting the tray on a table near his desk, Marcia said, "Dig in and enjoy! I'm prejudiced, but I defy you to find better."
Once he had finished, Byron felt a sense of satisfaction come over him. His stomach felt soothed. He was a man who loved good food. Getting up, he lifted the tray and carried it out to the kitchen where he found Marcia.
She came toward him. "I never manage to train you to be a properly uppity, old-fashioned, chauvinist boss. We're supposed to carry your dishes."
Byron laughed heartily as he set the tray in the sink. "I enjoy working along with my staff. We're all kings and queens here. We run a happy shop."
"You can say that again," Marcia amended.
"Listen, I'm going to walk over the plant a bit," he said then.
"Fine. Some of the employees are having a meeting in the conference room, so don't go there. They'd be intimidated in spite of themselves." "I'll stay clear."
Tate Supreme Cosmetic Manufacturing was meant to be and was a beautiful place in which to work. Furnishings were for maximum accomplishment, beauty and comfort. Fitness rooms, a nursing station, a small library and a resting room all added to the comfort of the place. Piped music of varying melodies filled the air. Dr. Annice Jones helped with personal problems the staff may have been experiencing. Walking, Byron congratulated himself on setting up a good place and doing a good job. Too bad the emptiness in him kept getting deeper. Otherwise, he had it made.
In one alcove, oil portraits of his father, his grandfather and his great-grandfather hung. His great-grandfather, Claude, had been a Tuskegee graduate and later a confidant of George Washington Carver and Booker T. Washington. His grandfather and his father, David and Paul, respectively, had been Harvard graduates. All three had been illustrious men, and Byron was their only heir, his younger brother having died in childhood.
Byron felt himself fill with pride. His heart always expanded when he thought about his forebears, his heritage. He would make it somehow, but now he wished he were not a man who craved one woman, one romantic dream.
Employees came up to him, warmly welcomed him on his first day back. He was immensely proud of the enveloping spirit of warmth and caring that permeated his company. If only it reached into the rest of his life.
As he rounded the corner by the conference room, Marcia came out, closed the door and leaned against the edge of it. She caught sight of him.
"I think your employees have something to tell you," she said.
"Oh?" He wondered why she glowed.
Flinging the door open, she beckoned him in, and a number of employees greeted him with a banner proclaiming, OUR HERO! WE LOVE YOU FOREVER!
Happy laughter welled from Byron's heart and soul. Deep love, affection and admiration permeated this room and the people in it.
The credenzas were filled with luscious food, and a large punch bowl of pineapple-papaya-mango punch stood by. Other employees came in, and he was hugged again and again as Marcia grinned. It was the beginning of a great party.
Chapter 4
As she walked along Minden's Main Street late that afternoon, Sherrie reflected that it had proved to be a good day after all. Business had been brisk. Everything had gone like clockwork, and the discomfort over her run-ins with Byron and her sister, Mallori, had eased. No, she amended, she still felt Byron in her bones. She wouldn't forget what he had done to Mike.
Still she hummed to herself "Everything's Coming Up Roses," as she walked along. She was meeting Helena and Tressa at Scarf's drugstore and famous soda fountain. Tressa adored the drugstore's soda fountain as did so many people in the surrounding area. People came from Baltimore and D.C. to sample their wares. Tressa would spend the next two nights with Helena. The thought of her little girl warmed Sherrie's heart.
Ahead of her she caught two sights at once: Helena and Tressa getting out of Helena's car, then Byron coming toward them. She was close enough to hear Tressa screech excitedly, "Uncle Bye!" and go flying toward him. Byron squatted as he reached the little girl and hugged her tightly. He had shaved his beard. Sherrie hastened her steps as she got to them. She was surprised to see tears streaming down Tressa's face. The child seemed unaware of Sherrie.
"Pumpkin!" Byron exclaimed. "You're a sight for sore eyes. I'm so glad to see you."
"Oh, Uncle Bye, I love you." Tressa quickly stopped crying.
"Day after tomorrow's my birthday. I'm so glad you're back. Did you bring me a present?"
"Tressa," Sherrie admonished, "where are your manners?"
The child paid no attention to Sherrie. "Manners have long flown," Helena said, laughing. "This is serious birthday request time."
"You bet I brought you a present. Two in fact. I'm waiting for one to come, but the biggest one is here."
Sherrie couldn't help being happy that Tressa seemed livelier than she had in a very long time. Her little face was glowing.
"Will you bring it by?" Tressa asked. "Please?"
Byron looked up at Sherrie, seeking her approval. Suddenly he nodded, getting no response from Sherrie. "I'll bring it by if it's okay with your mommy."
"It's okay," Tressa said. "She wants me to have a good birthday. I haven't been feeling too good."
Byron looked at the child closely. "I'm really sorry to hear that. Maybe I can help." He patted Tressa's shoulder and stood with her in his arms. Looking levelly at Sherrie, he asked, "How about it, Sherrie? I wouldn't stay long. My present is guaranteed to make Little Miss Muffet feel a whole lot better."
Tressa's thin arms went around Byron's neck and the two held each other tightly as Sherrie drew a deep breath.
"All right," she said reluctantly. "For a very little while. I'll be tired from my short trip south." She stopped, her mouth tightening. She didn't need an excuse not to entertain Byron Tate in her home for any length of time.
Reluctantly, too, Sherrie accepted Byron's offer to treat them all to ice cream flavors of their choosing and they all went inside to Scarf's.
"I can't stay long," Sherrie said. "I've got to go by Mallori and Gus's, and I've got to get to bed early in preparation for a long day tomorrow."
Helena looked from Byron to Sherrie and smiled inside. These two were attracted, she thought, even if they didn't yet know it.
* * * *
It was early evening when Sherrie stood outside her sister's patio entrance. She tried to collect her riotous thoughts caused by her second encounter with Byron for the day. It was beautiful out here with stars beginning to come out and a new moon growing. She didn't want to go inside.
She caught her breath as she heard raised voices and wondered if she should leave. Mallori and Gus often battled fiercely. Mallori was sadistic, liked to draw emotional blood, and Gus was thin-skinned where Mallori was concerned. The voices grew more strident, and she stood transfixed, unwilling to go in, unable to walk away. Inside the den, Mallori and Gus squared off angrily.
"You're not going out of here tonight," Gus yelled.
Mallori laughed nastily. "Like hell I'm not. I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date," she chirped in a singsong voice, and her levity infuriated her husband.
"I'm your husband and I love you. You owe me some respect."
"I owe you nothing. My bill with you is paid in full. I've given years of putting up with you going nowhere, when I married you, thinking you were going to forge ahead. No, Gus, you owe me my dream."
"I've tried," Gus said brokenly. "You haven't helped. Being a sergeant keeps plenty of people happy. They support a family, kids. Why can't we?"
Mallori laughed scornfully. "With my newly promised raise, I'll make nearly twice what you make, and I don't want kids, Gus, not with you. Can't you understand that I've been bleeding ever since Mike died? He would have gotten a divorce and we would have been married. Then Happy City and kids, yeah. But not with you, Gus, not with you."
"Careful," Gus warned.
Mallori's voice got softer then. "I'm not just being mean, Gus. Mike rang all my bells. No one ever did before, and I don't think anyone ever will again."
"You're a verbal sadist," Gus grated, his lean, tan face reddening. "Por que? " But why? He was Puerto Rican and sometimes he thought the culture gap between him and Mallori was what caused their problems. But no, his wife was cruel as the grave, and he knew she wasn't going to change. Aching, he said, "Be careful that one day your own tongue doesn't cut your throat."
Mallori laughed nastily again. "Oh, so it's veiled threats tonight, is it?" She yawned. "You're wasting my time. I've got to make myself beautiful."
As if they hadn't quarreled, he said tenderly. "You are beautiful, and I keep wondering how you can be so beautiful outside and so ugly inside. Mallori, I used to feel some sympathy for you where Mike was concerned. I thought just maybe he was your one love of a lifetime, the way you're mine, and you couldn't help yourself. But this new guy, you don't love him; you're just using each other's bodies. You're acting like a slut."
"Sure, call me names. Name-calling's the refuge of the hopeless, the dispossessed."
For the moment, Gus ignored her taunts. "I know who the guy in Baltimore is," he said evenly. "I've had you followed."
With a sharp intake of breath, Mallori's eyes raked him furiously. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?" she asked sarcastically. "I'm sick of this, sick of you. I want a divorce, Gus, and I want it now. Your magic wand's quit working!"
His fingers were hot steel gripping her arms as he pulled her to him, breathed fire on her face.
"No!" he shouted. "There'll be no divorce between us. Damn you, Mallori."
Rigid with alarm, Sherrie knocked hard, then knocked and waited. She quickly knocked louder, demanding entrance. Someone had to interfere and who better than Mallori's sister? Her heart hurt for Gus, whom she liked, and the voices were quiet. She heard no movement.
At her fourth knock, Mallori opened the door and stood there. "Sherrie?"
"Yes, it's me. Let me in." Her voice sounded far cooler than she felt.
"How long have you ... been out here?"
"Long enough." She wasn't going to lie about it.
"You heard everything?"
"Enough," Sherrie said.
Mallori's laugh was shaky. "Good, you can be a star witness in my divorce fight. Can I count on you?"
"I hope it doesn't come to that," Sherrie said as she came in. She took off her coat and put it, her purse and her tote on the sofa.
Gus stared at her for a moment as if in a trance. "Hello, Sherrie," he said dully. "Sorry to scare you with our battle. Were you out there long?"
"I've already asked her that question," Mallori said sharply. "She can't be a witness for both of us."
"I'm warning you, Mallori. Cut it out," Gus told her.
"You're still threatening me," Mallori said, "when I have a witness? You're foolish, Gus, but then you always were."
"I'm a cop, and cops can be dangerous. Danger is our business. Watch your step or you may be sorrier than you dream." Gus turned to Sherrie. "I've got to leave now. My mother didn't raise me to be a batterer."
Mallori got in his face. "Know this, brother. I'm not afraid of you. When I lost Mike, I lost everything. The devil himself doesn't scare me anymore."
Gus grabbed her by the arms again, but she didn't flinch.
"You evil woman," he grated, hot tears choking him. "Mike was your sister's husband. Have you got no shame?"
Mallori stood her ground, and her eyes were bleak. "No, I have no shame where Mike is concerned. Sherrie came to understand that. Didn't you, Sis?"
Seething with anger, Sherrie shook her head. "No, Mallori, I don't and I never have understood. I've told you Mike was hurt beyond the telling, bitter. He never would have taken up with you if he hadn't been. I've asked you to stop talking this way about my husband. Keep it up and I'll stop seeing you."
Mallori drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I promised to stop, but I've got to say this: Mike and I were attracted from the get-go, but I was married to Mr. Wonderful here." Her voice was scathing.
Raw anger took Sherrie. "Let it go, Mallori! We're not having this conversation any longer."
"Fine," Mallori said flippantly. She looked at Gus and a smile curved her mouth. "You're leaving. I'm leaving. I guess we'll have to bid you good night, Sis."
"Good night, Sherrie. I'm out of here." Gus snatched his uniform coat from the back of a chair, slung his bolstered gun on and went out, slamming the door with a vengeance.
After Gus left, the two women stood in the middle of the floor. Mallori's face bore a strange, twisted smile. "Could I offer you something to drink? I'm going to have a stiff Scotch."
"No. Nothing. And I don't think you should be drinking now either."
But Mallori already stood at the wet bar pouring her drink, which she upended swiftly, making a sour face. "You heard me tell my beloved I'm meeting someone, so I'll have to be on my way."
"Mallori, you're playing with fire, and you're going to be burned. Surely you've got to know that."
Mallori looked at her with half-closed eyes. "Gus is harmless, all bluster. He loves me. Nothing's going to change that."
Sherrie looked at her sister with disbelief. "Hatred is the other side of love," she said tiredly. "Why don't you know that?" The negative sides of the day were beginning to take their toll. "We're sisters," she said. "I would have stopped speaking to you, put you out of my life when I found out about you and Mike, but I have no other family except a few cousins I'm not close to. I thought we could salvage something since Mike is dead. Mom always urged us to be friends."
"Don't throw your mother up to me," Mallori said with sudden fury.
"I'm not and you know it. Even if you choose not to believe it, she loved you, or tried to, but you never let her. Dad loved you, too, but you were too busy playing the heller, and Dad worked hard in his shoe business. He had little time left over. You've always been determined to be miserable, to take the world by the tail, twist it and throw it against a concrete wall. Why can't you be happy? Why do you hurt other people so?"
"Ha!" Mallori scoffed. "Believe me, I would have been happy if Mike had lived."
Sherrie shook her head. "No. Not even with Mike would you have been happy. Mike was a man who belonged to me, and you've always seduced or tried to seduce every man who belonged to me. Let it go, Mallori. For God's sake, let it go and let's try to salvage something of our relationship."
Mallori gloated as if she didn't hear Sherrie's plea. "Mike and I were soul mates," she said. "We used to laugh about how I took boys away from you and he took girls away from Byron."
"You've got to change," Sherrie cried. "You're driving Gus to the wall. Don't make him hurt you. Please."
Mallori laughed scornfully. "I can take care of myself, and I plan to live a whole lot longer. God isn't ready for me yet, and the devil thinks I'm too hot to handle."
She laughed harshly then as Sherrie stared at her. "End of conversation," Mallori said abruptly. "I have to go, Sis. I have a really hot date waiting in the wings. I'll call you tomorrow. No, you're away tomorrow. The next day then."
Outside in her car, watching Mallori drive away, Sherrie reflected that Mallori had called her "Sis" a number of times tonight. Mallori seldom called her that.
Chapter 5
At one o'clock two mornings later Sherrie turned off the main highway and onto the long, winding road that took her past the Tate company, then Byron's house and on to hers. His estate had bright floodlights in the back and softer front lighting. Both the company and his house were beautiful buff fieldstone, imposing, with perfectly manicured grounds, planned and built by one of D.C.'s finest architects.
Back from the road, between her house and Byron's lay a long, deep ravine with a block-wire fence on either side. A huge oak and a smaller sumac stood on Byron's side. People called it Bottomless Canyon because you stared down into unending blackness. Just thinking about it gave Sherrie goose bumps.
Sherrie felt pleasantly tired from today's meetings and the night's banquet. She had taken her best operator with her, and they had won first prize in the hairstyling category. But the past events still hung in her mind like bothersome insects that she could not swat away. Mallori and Gus and their tangled marriage. And yes, she thought, say it, Byron Tate.
Byron's estate and her house were less than two miles apart. Mike had wanted to build nearby. Now she wanted to move away and often began plans to do so, but the house held dear memories of the life she'd known with Mike—precious memories. The indecision tore at her constantly.
A soft smile lay on her face as she thought about Tressa. As much as she didn't want Byron near her daughter, she was delighted at the happiness the little girl had shown with her Uncle Bye two afternoons before. Tressa hadn't been happy like that since Mike died. A lump filled her throat then. How was she going to keep Tressa away from Byron? She was so sad when she was away from Uncle Bye. Helena seemed to be on Tressa's side, which nettled Sherrie because Helena knew the score. She thought then she would talk to Dr. Annice Jones about this. The psychologist had such a levelheaded, down-to-earth approach to problems, and Sherrie knew her own brain fogged up where Byron was concerned.
Whenever she neared her house, she always felt lifted. She and Mike had a good architect, but they had taken a hands-on approach. Much smaller than Byron's, their house was beautiful by any standard. Constructed of dark red, patterned brick with a contemporary style and lush plantings, it was the home of her dreams.
Coming into her driveway and toward her garage, she frowned. The house was dark. Mrs. Hall, her housekeeper, always left a few lights on when Sherrie was coming in late. A couple of floodlights lit the yard so she wasn't afraid. Pulling into the garage, she lowered the doors by remote control and collected the items she would take in with her. Other packages could wait until the next day.
Turning on lights in a small room just by the entrance, she continued to frown. A sense of deep unease hit her as she walked into the living room and gasped. The room had been savaged. Books and papers were strewn everywhere. Credenza drawers lay overturned on the floor and books were thrown about. Blinding fear hit her then, and her stomach churned. Was someone still there? A hard chill shook her as she saw through her dizziness that the big oil painting of Mike had been ripped from the wall and slashed to ribbons. "Oh my God!" she gasped and reached into her purse for her cell phone, dialing 911. Thank heaven, she thought, that the operator was efficient. Willing herself to be calm, she told the operator what had happened and gave her the address.
"Ma'am," the operator finally said, "I think you should leave, drive away from the house. We'll have someone there immediately. You may have interrupted something in progress. Will you do that?"
"Yes," Sherrie said dully, "I will."
* * * * *
Parked a short distance away with her motor running, she heard the shrill scream of the sirens and several police cars pulling up to her house within fifteen minutes. She drove back and into the driveway.
Lieutenant Danielle Steele, a friend, was leading the police team and Sherrie could have cried with relief. The burglars or simply vandals had all apparently gone, their work finished. Sherrie couldn't look at Mike's slashed painting without wanting to throw up with fear and anger. Her own portrait smiled down from the wall, unharmed. Why? And who? A memory of Gus came to mind, his anger at his wife and her adoration of Mike. Hotheaded Gus had been drinking, she thought, but even if he had slashed the painting, he would have no need to tear up the rest of the living room.
"It would seem they were looking for something," Lieutenant Steele said. "I'd guess a lot of people knew you'd be away."