Carolina Girl (43 page)

Constance! Of course. The name finally clicked. Holm — Constance’s
father. Maybe this wasn’t entirely about the city council. Maya patted
his arm and indicated one of the delicate wrought-iron chairs. “Have a
seat, Mr. Holm, and let me pour you some tea. Do you take honey?” She
retrieved the pot from the counter, a little too aware of his fascination with
her bulging belly. That was the problem with Aquarians, they were too darned
nosy. Thank goodness his Virgo sun sign dominated or she might have to dump the
tea over his head.

He waited expectantly — not for the tea, she observed. The
jasmine fragrance wafted soothingly around them as she poured. “Constance
is quite correct; I’m not married. She’s an exceptionally
intelligent, talented child, and a delight to work with. You should be proud of
her.”

She took the seat opposite him and sipped the elegant tea
with quiet pleasure. Maybe if she concentrated, this would all go away. She
really didn’t want to hear what new disaster loomed on her horizon. She
merely wanted to enjoy her tea and the china and the rainbow of colors through
the prisms and the lovely man trying not to frown across from her. And he
was
a lovely man: true golden-blond Nordic hair bleached by the Carolina sun,
intelligent gray eyes with thick brown lashes, and a jutting cleft chin that would
make Sean Connery proud. His soft Southern drawl seemed somehow out of place in
a man like this, but it brought back sweet memories from long ago.

Of course, there were those thin lips and the flaring of his
aristocratic nose to warn her of a lion-king’s arrogance behind the
knowing expression...

“Umm,” he hesitated, looking for a nice way of
asking his next question, “Perhaps your significant other...”

Maya laughed.

Axell watched her features light with the pure joy of her
laughter. No weak trill or artificial tinkle for this gypsy. Joy rang out as
melodically and soulfully as the musical metal chimes overhead. Definitely high
quality chimes, he observed in wonder, each one perfectly attuned to a note on
the scale. He wanted to enjoy it, but the chaos of light, color, sound, and
emotion swirling around him proved too distracting.

His gaze followed the prisms of color in her already
rainbow-hued hair. The jasmine-scented tea combined with a potpourri of rose
petals on the counter, the bouquet of flowers on the table, the pot of golden
honey, and the herbal fragrance of the woman herself. The sensual atmosphere
was radically different from the sterile environment of his own home.

“You would very definitely not wish to include Stephen
in our conversation, even were he here, Mr. Holm. Take my word for it. Do you
like the tea?”

He hated tea. From the disorder and dust of this shop, he
feared the cleanliness and safety of anything ingested anywhere within a
hundred yards of it. Still, in the interest of peace, he lifted the cup to his
lips. The fragrance enticed him into sipping.

“Interesting.” Calmly, he lowered the cup and
sought another approach. The colorful young woman across from him was the
antithesis of everything he’d expected. A teacher at the utopian after-school
program should be highly intelligent, goal-oriented, efficient, independent,
and eager to forestall the problems he perceived ahead. She should be grateful
for his offer of help.

Instead of the rational, business-suited career woman
he’d expected, she was an explosion of femininity. The thick cascade of
red curls spilled over delicately boned shoulders draped in a lacy ivory shawl.
A satin-trimmed wide collar of a shifting blue-green silky fabric drifted
downward in points that clung to high firm breasts resplendent with pregnancy.
He didn’t dare look any lower. His gaze fastened on unadorned slender
white fingers wrapped around the outlandishly decorated burnt-orange teacup.

“I disturb you, Mr. Holm,” she said gently, in a
voice that whispered above the pulsating tide currently emanating from the
speakers. “You do have a first name, don’t you? May I use
it?”

“Axell, please do,” he replied absently as a
graceful branch of flowering forsythia dipped and caressed her fingers. The
disorderly bouquet of branches, daffodils, and crushed violets reminded him of
his purpose. Constance. A thump of panic struck his heart at the thought of his
lovely, lost waif of a daughter, and his determination returned.

“The mayor is dead set against the school, Miss... Maya.”
He set the tea cup down, adjusted the saucer so the scene of bridges and trees
lined up with the edge of the table, and the cup’s design faced him.
“I suspect your liberal principles are anathema to his conservative soul,
but mostly, the building occupies acreage the new shopping center needs for
parking lot access.”

“I have a three-year lease on that building, Mr....
Axell,” she imitated him teasingly, the tip of her tongue touching her
top lip with mischief. Axell blinked and tried not to wonder if her tongue
tasted of tea or honey.

“The shopping center people really should have met
dear Mr. Pfeiffer’s selling price if they wanted the land,” she
continued. “Mr. Pfieffer grew up in that house. He has no intention of
giving it away. My lease specifies he can’t sell for three years. I
don’t see any problem. I trust Constance is happy with the
program?”

“It’s the only thing that does make her
happy,” he said bluntly, and therein lay the crux of his concern,
although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone and certainly not to this
pixilated gypsy. “She’s very attached to the program.” And to
the teacher — again, an admission he wouldn’t make aloud. Confessions of a
personal nature revealed weaknesses that could be used against him, he’d
learned long ago. “The location is convenient, and it’s a relief
knowing she’s in capable hands while I’m at work. I don’t
wish to see that arrangement disturbed, but the mayor is pressuring the
department of transportation for a road through there. The state can condemn
the property if a road is approved.”

A tiny frown wrinkled the delicate bridge of her nose, then
disappeared as she took another sip of tea. “Well, just tell the mayor
that would be a misplacement of the public trust and a personal use of the
taxpayers’ money. I have plans to expand to a full-time pre-school
facility at the beginning of the next school year. As you said, it’s an
ideal location. The children love the yard, too. We won’t be
moved.”

“You don’t understand...Maya.” Axell
hesitated over the preposterous name, wondered briefly what planet she hailed
from, then ruthlessly dismissed all his nagging questions in favor of his goal.
“A school of your size requires a license. Should the state decide to
side with the mayor, you won’t receive that license. Unless you’re
independently wealthy, you won’t be able to sustain your lease for long
without income. For the sake of Constance and the other children...”

She rose and drifted toward the counter where the phone was
ringing again. He’d never seen a pregnant woman move with such grace.
When Angela was...

He shut down that path of thought. “We really must
consider some alternatives.”

She poured more hot water over the leaves in the pot. A cat
he hadn’t noticed earlier leapt from a high shelf to the counter,
stretched luxuriously, sniffed the tea, then settled for a cream-filled saucer
beside the hot plate.

His gaze fastened on the gauzy red-brown pleats of her
jumper as Maya turned. He glanced away as the baby moved. She was definitely
making him uncomfortable.

She patted his shoulder reassuringly as she passed by.
“Don’t fret, Axell. I know you like all your little soldiers in a
row, but life isn’t like that. I appreciate your concern, but fate will
decide whether the school survives or not. You may try to steer the hands of
fate, if you like, but I’m afraid I rather have my hands full dealing
with more earthly concerns. Fate is out of my realm.”

She said this last so dryly, he almost winced.
“You’re new to the area, I believe?” he asked, determined to
get a handle on the situation despite her evasiveness.

“No place like home,” she murmured.

“Perhaps you don’t understand the local
politics,” he suggested diplomatically.

“Authority rules for the good of all and the benefit
of none,” she quoted, setting her cup down. “I appreciate your
concern, Axell, but I’m certain you have better things to do. Constance
will always have a place in my program after school, and she’s welcome to
join our full-time summer classes. I think she might be happier with a little
more individual attention, don’t you?”

Setting the cup precisely so the handle aligned with the
table’s edge, Axell rose. “I don’t think impossible dreams
make a good basis for an education, Miss Alyssum. If Constance needs individual
attention, I’ll place her in a more traditional private school. Thank you
for the tea. It was nice meeting you. Good day.”

He strode out, not a wisp of that sunny hair misplaced by
the spring breeze, not a speck of dandelion fluff daring to cling to the
knife-sharp crease of his gabardine trousers or the broad expanse of his
suit-coated shoulders as he passed by the shop window. Tall and sturdy rather
than elegantly lean, Axell Holm strode down the street with the arrogant
certainty of his place in the world.

Maya admired the surety of his stride as he passed, then
smiled as he stopped on the corner to examine a foil kite displayed outside the
corner drugstore. That Aquarian curiosity would be his downfall, she predicted.

Patting the restless stirring inside her abdomen, she
relaxed against the chair back, reprogrammed the sound system, and let the aria
from
Man of La Mancha
carry her away from this time and place. Music was
supposed to inspire the unborn child, increase their intelligence and
awareness, and she wanted her child to have all the right advantages. She
breathed in the crescendo of “The Impossible Dream.” Impossible
dreams were the only kind she knew.

She had no money, a stack of bills higher than her
sister’s inventory, and no real job to speak of, but wherever her heart
was, was home. She could pack up and leave anytime she liked — after Cleo got out
of jail.

***

December, 1945

The night you walked into the bar, I thought you were the most
amusing thing that had happened in a long time. The joint stank of beer. Pete
had passed out at his usual table. The piano player was more interested in one
of the guys at the bar than what he was playing. Then you walked in with your
shiny new church suit and spiffy fedora, trying to look as if you walked into
dens of iniquity all the time. You were irresistible.

I was half way to drunk when you looked at me, but I sobered up
quick. God, you were one good-looking fellow. Why am I telling you this? You
damned well knew it all along. You probably got through the war on your looks
and charm. I’ll sober up in the morning and rip this letter to shreds, so
it doesn’t matter what I say anyway.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll mail it and hope it
poisons your two-timing heart.

You had eyes that seared the soul and set my jaded heart
thumping. Even Pete wasn’t amusing anymore. I didn’t want you to
ignore me, so I walked right up and caught your tie between my fingers and led
you straight down the path to hell.

Or maybe I hoped you’d lead me out. I never was very
smart.