Karen Young - Sugar Baby

“Her name’s Claire Woodson,” he said.

“I know her name.” Seeing Mack’s frown, Wayne went on, “Miriam met her once. It was at an education conference in Baton Rouge about six months before I lost her. Sort of a coincidence, you might say, seeing as there was a connection between Miriam and the McMolleres.” He paused to take a puff of his cigar. “Anyway, she came away from the conference, Miriam, I mean, with a good impression of Claire Woodson. Naturally, Miriam knew how Angus and Wyona resented being kept from knowing their grandson, and that they had no positive feelings about Miss Woodson. Miriam expected somebody harder, more…ah, flamboyant, I suppose, but Miss Woodson was very nice. In fact, Miriam mentioned that she acted in every way a lady, positively straitlaced, she said.”

“She’s a redhead,” Mack said abruptly, then shifted uncomfortably at Wayne’s laugh.

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, she doesn’t look anything like I expected.”

“You mean in all this time you never had a look at the woman you were fighting for custody of Carter’s child?”

“Just once. And it was years ago when she and Carter were having the affair.” Wayne’s attitude made him feel defensive, as if his parents’ long, hard-fought legal battle was in some way unjust. “My folks weren’t fighting for custody of the boy. They were just trying to assert their natural right to see Danny occasionally, to arrange a visit to Sugarland once in a while. As the boy’s grandparents, don’t they deserve that?”

“Well, it sounds reasonable,” Wayne said, leaning back until he was nearly horizontal in his chair. Smoke curled lazily from his cigar. “And Miriam told me that Miss Woodson seemed like a reasonable young woman, very sensible. Makes you wonder why she fought access so hard.”

It was something Mack had wondered about, too. He wished he had an answer. “She’s not exactly what I expected.”

“You’re probably not what she expected,” Wayne said, smiling faintly.

“How do you mean?”

“She probably thinks that since you’re Carter’s brother you share other characteristics.” He reached over and gently rubbed the ashes from the end of his cigar. “Nothing could be further from the truth, as anybody who knows you could tell her.”

“Wayne—”

“Aw, now, don’t go getting that look on your face. I’m not saying anything bad about your brother, ‘specially now he’s gone and can’t defend himself.” He hunched a little closer to his desk, looking Mack directly in the eye. “Let me give you some advice, Mack. Don’t assume things are as they seem with Claire Woodson. I know you’ve got a lot on you, son. You’re on the board of that oil company now, you’re the biggest sugarcane farmer in four parishes, you’re struggling to learn to be a parent to your little girl. The two of you hardly know each other at all after all these years Liz kept her from you. And now you’ve got Claire and her little boy and her feud with your folks dumped in your lap. Angus can’t help much, he’s sick and your mama…well, your mama is hardly the lady she was before Carter died in that airplane crash.” He put his cigar in an ashtray that was an open alligator’s mouth, and shoved it aside. “But you need to wait a while before judging Claire. See if you think she’s the kind of woman who’d arbitrarily deny decent grandparents the right to have a relationship with their only grandson. And if the answer’s yes, then take a minute to ask yourself why in the world she would feel that way.”

At Mack’s feet, Barney whined, his soft brown eyes full of concern. Mack chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re making me feel about ten years old, Wayne. How do you do it?”

“Comes with age, son. You get old as me, you get to say whatever you please, even if it’s none of your damn business.” He eyed Mack over his bifocals. “So, how long is Miss Woodson’s visit?”

Mack drew in a deep breath. “Longer than she counted on. That’s why I drove over here tonight to see you, Wayne. She’s having to stay at Sugarland whether she likes it or not because the boy claims he saw a man murdered this afternoon at the White Hotel.”

“What the hell!” Wayne wasn’t shocked often. “You’re gonna have to explain that in a little more detail, son.”

Mack gave him the whole story, including his own doubts. Unlike Mack, Wayne was inclined to accept Danny’s account of what he saw. When he repeated the incident at Star-Mart, the sheriff frowned ferociously.

“You say Miss Woodson believes the boy saw what he claims to have seen?” he asked.

“Yeah. She said she had doubts at first because they’d been watching something on TV that had a lot of violence, and she’d made Danny turn it off and watch cartoons instead.”

“Sounds to me like she’s a conscientious mama as well as a sensible person,” Wayne remarked.

Mack grunted. “Whatever. But the hotel found no signs of a struggle or blood or anything that lent any credence to what Danny said.”

“A mother usually knows her child, Mack.”

“Yeah. That’s why I drove over here. I don’t know what you can do without stirring up a hornet’s nest, but I’d appreciate your looking into this,” Mack told him. “As you guessed, I’m going to be busy at Sugarland. I’ve got an office in Lafayette, but since Dad’s heart attack and especially now that Michelle is with me, I’ve been trying to manage at home.” He stood up, frowning at the window where lightning flashed intermittently through the ancient oak trees on the side of the courthouse. “It’s too risky leaving her alone to do much investigating on my own.”

“Who, Michelle?”

“No, Claire.” Bumping his hat restlessly against his right thigh, he missed Wayne’s sharp look. “She wanted to drive back to Houston, can you believe that? I told her no way. A woman alone, some nut out there looking for her, she needs a keeper, for God’s sake.”

“It’s a nasty job, but I guess somebody’s got to do it.”

“You can’t be too careful,” Mack said, ignoring the taunt. He settled his hat on his head. “As you pointed out, I have a family responsibility here, Wayne. This is Carter’s son, the only other grandchild my folks are likely to have.”

“I don’t know as I’d say that, not just yet,” Wayne drawled, rising from his chair. “You’ve still got a few good years. What are you now, Mack, thirty-nine, forty?”

“Forty-two last month, Wayne,” Mack said dryly. “And I don’t plan on producing any other heirs. For that, a man needs a wife, and I don’t intend making that mistake again.”

Wayne shook his head. “That Liz sure did a number on you, didn’t she?”

“It wasn’t just Liz,” Mack said, wincing as a crash of thunder shook the windowpanes. “We never should have married in the first place. I knew she was out of her element when I brought her to Sugarland. She was a city girl. She was miserable from day one.”

Wayne gave a snort. “What about her vows? A woman’s supposed to stick with her man.”

“It was thirteen years ago, Wayne,” Mack said. He took no offense at his friend’s frankness, possibly because Liz’s desertion no longer hurt the way it once had. “It’s in the past.”

“Not the way I see it.” Wayne clamped his cigar in his mouth. “What with her dumping little Michelle on you after poisoning her against her Louisiana relatives, including you.” He fumbled around, moving things on his desk top, looking for a match. “The woman’s a piece of work, that’s what she is.”

“She’s a little spoiled,” Mack agreed, heading for the door. “But she’s Victor DeBartolo’s problem now, not mine.”

Wayne squinted at Mack through a fresh cloud of smoke. “He’s still in Washington, I guess.”