at the box he’d already opened and sampled from. “A nice gift, Bartholomew.”
“Yes, a nice gift,” Bart said, dropping his hand. “And I think the art foundation is deserving of your generosity. But to give the whole estate to a bunch of fruitcakes who make crap—” he picked up a piece of driftwood carved to look like a sleeping heron “—is insane.”
“I beg your pardon? Insane? What is insane about wanting to leave the world a better place?” Simeon cupped his hands over the recliner’s arms, shifting his weight so he sat taller.
“Leave the world a better place with this stuff? You’re mad.”
Simeon chose to ignore that remark. Keep to the course. “I have an appointment with Remy Broussard tomorrow to make the changes. My mind is made up, but I thought it best to tell you in person. You deserved to know what to expect upon my death.”
Bart turned. “I can’t believe you would do this to me. I’m your own blood, the child of the niece who cared for you when no one else would. I’m a Harvey. You can’t do this. You just can’t.”
“Of course I can. The estate belongs to me. The money you inherited from your mother was gambled away at the track. You think I don’t realize why your hand is stretched out so often? You think I don’t know about the people you owe money to? Dangerous people who would sooner slit your throat than piss on you.”
His nephew jabbed a finger toward him. “I’ll get an attorney and fight this. Harvey money belongs to a Harvey—not a nest of freaks.”
“Do what you wish, but you’ll lose. I know people whisper that I’m odd, and I suppose I am, but being different makes you more anticipatory. Think I’d leave any avenue open for you and some half-assed attorney? No, Bartholomew. I may wear silk underwear and eat macaroons, but my balls are steel.” Power surged through Simeon. He hadn’t felt this way in years. So alive. He had been a millionaire all his life, a burden, he’d often thought, but sometimes it felt good to exert the force his millions gave him.
“Don’t do this,” Bart said, his color fading, a look of panic emerging. “We’re family. I’m—”
“Going to be better off depending on yourself rather than the money my father made. Trust me. You’ll thank me one day.”
A thump below drew their attention.
“Simeon?” a woman called out. “Are you presentable? I wanted to show you the new sketch for the library piece.”
“I’m up here, Calliope,” he called, turning to shoot Bart a warning. He didn’t like to discuss personal affairs in front of his artists, especially the lovely Calliope. Of course, they weren’t “his” artists, but they stayed at Laurel Woods because he fed and housed them, as well as commissioned their art for the town and surrounding businesses. The house and grounds his mother had loved so had been turned into a place of solitude, a place birthing beauty. It was a legacy that would continue with the huge allocation of resources upon his death. Until then, he’d continue to provide for the foundation.
“Oh, shall I come up?” she called.
“Make her go away. We’re not finished yet,” Bart said.
“No, we are finished,” Simeon said, rising. He didn’t want Calliope to see inside his rooms. Hattie hadn’t come to clean in a few days because her grandson was ill. A pair of pajamas on the floor and rumpled bedclothes weren’t an acceptable tableau for receiving a lady. “I’ll come down.”
Even if it meant another flare-up of pain.
“Is that the one the town says is after your money?” Bart asked, his voice low, still panicked.
“Pish posh, that girl isn’t after my money. But Calliope is the person I’ve chosen to run the foundation. She’s bright, talented and—”
“A whore. I’ve heard about her. Seducing all the men in town. Barefoot, no bra—she’s a dirty heathen. And that’s who you want to give the money to? Some fruitcake hippie who has slept with half the men in town?”
“Well, if it isn’t the pot,” Simeon said, picking up the ebony cane and moving at a turtle’s pace toward the open door. “Seems rather a double standard from a man who’s paid for two abortions.”
As Simeon entered the upper hall, he caught sight of the loveliest artist he’d ever had the pleasure of hosting. She’d already turned and was heading down the stairs toward the marble-tiled foyer, her elegant hands gripping a sketch pad. She wore a broom skirt and her unbound blond hair just touched the curve of her buttocks. She padded barefoot, soundless on the curving staircase, a lithe sprite, full of energy and light. He’d never felt an attraction for a woman before, his tendencies leaning toward nubile young men, but he fancied he had a crush on the ethereal sculptor.
Something about her pulled at him.
Just as he reached the stairs, he felt Bart behind him.
“Please,” Bart begged. “Please don’t do this, uncle. We’re family.”
Simeon shook his head, turning back to tell Bart to stop groveling. Simeon felt his weight shift oddly, the foot that dangled over the first step downward found only air. He grasped for the banister, the cane falling from his hand and clattering to the tile below. And then he fell, slamming into the wall with enough force to make the sconce flicker, striking his head hard. Needles of pain flew at him from all directions as his body crashed down the marble staircase.
He heard the terrified scream and didn’t know if it came from him or someone else. And just before he surrendered to the darkness coming for him, he saw the angel. Her eyes were wide, the color of the hydrangea still blooming at his door. Her silken hair, golden like the sunrise. She reached out for him, radiating comfort.
And then he was no more.
December, present day
ABIGAIL ORGERON GLANCED back at her twelve-year-old daughter as they approached the small white house located directly behind the antebellum home where they lived. Birdie resembled a prisoner sentenced to hang, trudging as if the happy cottage was the scaffold.
Birdie looked at the house with the stained glass and bamboo wind chimes, soulful eyes roving the charcoal shutters, regret shadowing her face. Not even the string of large-bulb Christmas lights could erase the dread from her face.
Well, Birdie shouldn’t have stooped to spying on the lone occupant of the house if she didn’t want to face the consequences of her actions.
“Please, Mom,” her daughter said, her glance sliding to meet Abigail’s.
“Sorry, but you must,” Abigail said, her lips automatically dipping when she noticed the makeup Birdie had applied. Over the past year, her daughter had grown rebellious, doing things she knew her mother did not approve of. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”
Birdie looked away. “Yeah.”
Since muttering whatever or giving the silent treatment was Birdie’s typical reply, Abigail counted herself lucky to
