Charlotte stepped out of the bathroom into the bedroom the man glanced her way, their eyes met and held, and she froze. Decades had passed since she’d last seen him, and like her, he was older. But there was no mistaking the identity of the man Belinda had been talking to.
“Charlotte? Is that you?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Mack?” Charlotte murmured in disbelief. “Mack Sutton?”
“Hey, you two know each other?” Belinda asked.
Charlotte set down the cleaning supplies, and neither she nor Mack answered Belinda as Mack rushed across the room and grabbed Charlotte up in a bear hug.
“Dear Lord in heaven,” Mack cried when he finally released her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he held her at arm’s length, and stared down at her. “Talk about a blast from the past,” he murmured, shaking his head.
“To say the least,” Charlotte whispered, her mind racing back over the past forty years. No wonder his voice had sounded so familiar. Because of Mack she’d met her beloved Hank, the man she was supposed to have married.
During her short time as a student at Tulane University she had dated Mack, until he’d introduced her to Hank, his best friend and college roommate. Once she’d met Hank, it had been love at first sight, and Mack, along with all other men, paled in comparison after that. But Hank and Mack had gone to Vietnam, and Hank had been killed shortly after arriving there. Sadly, he’d never known that before he’d left, their one night together had resulted in a son.
Over the years she’d often wondered what had happened to Mack. Since she’d never heard from him again, she’d even wondered if he, too, might have died there.
“It’s so good to see you, Mack,” she exclaimed, truly happy to know that he was alive and well. “You look great.” In his younger days Mack had been a very handsome man with coal-black hair and equally dark eyes. He still stood at least a head taller than her own five-foot-three frame but now his hair had more gray in it than black.
“And you look as beautiful as ever,” he told her, the compliment making her blush like a schoolgirl. “Like I always said, if Sally Field had been blond and blue-eyed, you could have been her twin.”
Charlotte laughed. “And you were always full of baloney.”
“Ah, excuse me.” Belinda interrupted.
Mack released Charlotte, and they turned their heads toward her.
“I take it that the answer to my question is yes.”
Mack frowned. “What question, honey?”
Belinda rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I asked if you two know each other, but it’s obvious that you do.”
Mack grinned. “Yeah, we do. Charlotte and I are old friends.” He laughed. “And I do mean old.”
“Hey, you, watch it,” Charlotte warned good naturedly.
“Charlotte, this is my lovely granddaughter, Belinda. And I want you to meet my daughter, Tessa, too.”
“Belinda and I have already met,” Charlotte responded. “And I met Tessa earlier this morning. Of course at the time I didn’t know that she was your daughter.”
Mack grinned. “Good, that’s good.” He tilted his head. “So what about you? Did you ever marry, have kids—I mean, after Hank—you know?”
“Yes, I know,” she said, fully understanding his meaning. Since she’d never heard from Mack, besides wondering about his fate, she’d also wondered if he’d known about Hank’s death. And now she knew that he had. Even so, she wasn’t comfortable discussing something so private as her relationship with Hank before he’d left for Vietnam or the fact that she’d never found a man worthy enough to fill Hank’s shoes. “I have a son,” she answered, purposely avoiding the topic of a husband and careful not to mention her son’s name. Mentioning that her son’s name was also Hank would require explaining things that she wasn’t yet comfortable explaining, especially not in front of Belinda.
“That’s great.” Mack paused and his eyes narrowed. “And your husband? Do you think he’d mind if you had dinner with an old friend tonight?”
Charlotte smiled, and once again avoiding the subject of a husband, she said, “I think dinner would be just fine.” There would be plenty of time later to talk about Hank Senior and Hank Junior. “How about I meet you back here at the hotel restaurant, say around six-thirty,” she said as she knelt down and picked up the supplies that she’d set on the floor earlier.
Mack nodded. “Six-thirty sounds great. See you then.” He opened the door for her. As he closed it behind her, she heard him tell Belinda, “Just in case we don’t talk again, the other reason I came by was to let you know that your father expects you to join him and the rest of the staff for dinner tomorrow evening.”
Before the door clicked closed, Charlotte caught sight of Belinda’s resentful expression. Though the girl’s response was muffled, it was clear from the look on her face that she wasn’t happy about the command invitation to dinner.
Chapter 3
Buoyant over seeing Mack again, and looking forward to catching up on their lives over dinner that evening, Charlotte turned down Milan Street.
For most of her life Charlotte had lived on Milan in an old Victorian shotgun double, just blocks away from the exclusive historic Garden District. After her parents’ untimely deaths, she and her sister Madeline had inherited the hundred-year-old house. Once Madeline had married, she’d sold her half of the property to Charlotte, and off and on over the years, Charlotte had rented out Madeline’s half of the house to supplement her own income.
To Charlotte, the old Victorian was more than just the home in which she’d grown up and raised her son. The location was perfect for her thriving, sometimes hectic cleaning service, since all of her clients lived in the Garden District. After Hurricane Katrina, each time she thought about her home, she offered up a prayer of thanksgiving that it, unlike so many other houses, had been spared. The wind damage had been minimal: just a few shingles blown off and some broken limbs out of her tree. But she was most thankful that the floodwaters resulting from the levee breaks hadn’t reached as far as her neighborhood.
As Charlotte approached her driveway and spied her latest tenant, Louis Thibodeaux, pacing the length of her front porch, her spirits sagged. Though she was unable to see the expression on his face, she’d known him long enough to tell that something was wrong from just his stiff and unyielding body language.
Before he’d retired, Louis had been a New Orleans Police homicide detective, and had, in fact, been her niece Judith’s former partner. Once he’d retired Louis began renting from her, and now he worked for Lagniappe Security, a company that provided bodyguards. Besides their on-again, off-again relationship of sorts, she and Louis had locked horns on several occasions, mostly due to his penchant for being a dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist, which clashed with her independent, self-sufficient attitude.
Too bad their differences, nor the fact that he wasn’t exactly available, hadn’t lessened her attraction to him though. For a man his age, he wasn’t half bad on the eyes. Stocky with military-short gray hair and a receding hairline, he was actually handsome in a rugged
