no excuse for butchering everything,” the older woman said. “And don’t tell me you’ve been doing it yourself, either. I know very well that’s not so.”
She knew about Alec, then; Laurel had thought as much. At the same time, her mother-in-law couldn’t resist getting in a barb to suggest that Laurel was lazy, though it was one so old and often repeated, it no longer had the power to sting. Sadie had always resented the fact that Laurel had kept Maisie on after her two children were out of diapers. The older woman didn’t have household help, and saw no earthly reason Laurel should need any. Of course, she conveniently forgot that she herself had moved away from Ivywild, her husband’s old family home—with its huge rooms, hardwood floors that needed constant waxing and polishing, and antiques that collected dust—the minute it was clear he had deserted her and was never coming back.
The place had stood empty for years, until Laurel and Howard married. Mother Bancroft had been ecstatic that Laurel actually wanted to take on responsibility for the old barn of a building, though she naturally maintained a proprietary interest. Since this took the form of inspecting the premises and pointing out any laxity in upkeep with more accuracy than tact, she had never been a particularly welcome guest, even before Howard’s death.
“I wouldn’t dream of telling you anything,” Laurel muttered under her breath as she closed the door.
The other woman swung around. “What was that?”
“I said, would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Juice? Iced tea?”
“I never drink coffee or tea this late in the day, you know that. I don’t suppose you have any Perrier?”
“I don’t believe so,” Laurel said dryly.
“Forget it, then.” Mother Bancroft turned and marched into the parlor. She seated herself in an upright chair, crossed her thick ankles, then set her purse in her lap and closed her hands on it as if she thought someone might take it. “I can’t stay long,” she went on as if Laurel was pressing hospitality on her. “I only came because I feel it’s my duty to talk to you about this young man you have doing all this yard work.”
“You mean Alec Stanton?”
“Who else would I mean? You don’t have other young men hanging around, I hope?”
“No,” Laurel said simply. She had thought they’d slide easily into the inevitable discussion, but now she dropped down onto the overstuffed couch and waited to see how Howard’s mother meant to handle the subject.
“He’s got to go.”
That was certainly short and sweet. “I suppose you have a reason?”
“Several of them,” the other woman replied in tones of grim condemnation. “To begin with, it can’t be good for your reputation to have someone like him making free of the place.”
“I don’t think you can call it ‘making free’ when all he does is work.”
“He comes and goes as he pleases, riding that outlandish motorcycle like some kind of Hell’s Angel. Which is another thing. He’s not our kind at all.”
“And just what kind is he?” Laurel crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned back against the couch.
“You have to ask, when it’s as plain as day? Just look at all that long hair and earrings.”
“One earring. A lot of men wear them these days.”
Her mother-in-law dismissed that without a pause. “If that’s not bad enough, there’s that disgusting tattoo he flashes for everybody to see!”
“Yes, and he’s from California, too,” Laurel said in dulcet and entirely false agreement.
“Exactly! Full of weird ideas of all kinds, I don’t doubt. Politics, religion—”
“Sex?” Laurel supplied helpfully. The word, she knew, was one her mother-in-law always had trouble saying.
Mother Bancroft’s indrawn breath was perfectly audible. “What do you know about that? What have the two of you been up to out here? I can just imagine it’s nothing good, with you being a widow and him a—I don’t know what!”
It had been so long since Laurel had felt the almost-painful anger that threaded through her veins. Voice taut, she said, “A nice-looking young man?”
Disgust squirmed across the other woman’s wrinkled features. “He has been up to something! I knew it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laurel said sharply. “Nothing whatever is going on except that I’m reclaiming the front garden and planting it with roses, and Alec is giving me a hand with the heavy work. Well, he’s also going to paint the house, but—”
“There! You see?” the other woman exclaimed in triumph. “He’s moving in on you. He’ll find more and more to do around here until you won’t be able to get rid of him. The man’s a hustler, Laurel.”
“Oh, come on, that’s crazy.”
“Can’t you see it? Are you so naive you can’t tell from the way he acts and talks to you?”
“Apparently not. How is it that you know when you haven’t even met him?”
Sadie Bancroft breathed heavily through her bulbous nose, kneading her purse with fat, white fingers. “He’s got you under his spell, I can tell. This is awful. He’ll be climbing into your bed, if he hasn’t already. Then he’ll start asking for money. He’ll take every penny you’ve got.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Laurel snapped as the heat of indignation rose in her face.
“He will! He’s a gigolo, can’t you see it? He preys on lonely older women. You may not be as old as some he’s taken, but you keep to yourself out here, don’t have any friends, so you’re fair game. He’ll smile and pay you all sorts of compliments, but then he’ll screw you unless you get rid of him first.”
Laurel was startled her husband’s mother would use such a word, though not especially surprised she would think it. She was the kind of woman who kept the tabloid press in business; it was her favorite entertainment next to listening to television preachers and joining right-wing conservative letter-writing campaigns. For all her discomfort with talking about normal sex, she reveled in the salacious and bizarre, loved knowing people’s secrets, and positively enjoyed believing the worst about the best of people.
Her voice tight, Laurel retorted, “There’s not a word of truth to anything you’ve said. You just want to be sure I don’t change anything here at Ivywild, including myself. You would like to keep me from ever looking at another man.”
“Laurel!”
“It’s true. I’m supposed to bury myself here because Howard is dead.”
“Oh!” Mother Bancroft fell back with a hand to her chest. “How can you say such a thing to me?”
“Because it’s the way it is. You think I don’t know how you feel? You think I don’t realize that you want me shut up here as a punishment for causing Howard’s
