It was hot. The type of humid heat that saps your energy within minutes. The type of heat that brings out crocodiles and snakes—the evil creatures. Everyone with any sense is indoors. Yet, here were Bennington Payne and I, under the eaves of my rented porch, the fan beating a furious tune, creating a waft of hot air just bearable enough to keep me in place. I reached down, dug in the ice bucket at my feet and pulled out a beer. Held it out to him, my own stuck in between my thighs.
He didn’t argue, didn’t give me any sass, just grabbed the beer, took one dubious look at my free rocking chair, then plopped down, twisting the lid off and flashing me a grateful smile. “How’d you know my name?” he asked, delicately wiping his mouth after downing half of the Bud Light.
I rocked back, my hair pulled up and secured by my head. “The way you’ve been stomping around? The cows in Thomas County know your name by now.” I laughed against the mouth of my beer, tipping it back as I glanced sideways at the man. “You can take off that jacket, you know. It’s not earning you anything other than sweat.”
He turned to me, his face studying mine as if I held another sentence inside. Getting none, he set down his beer and pulled off the jacket, folding it over carefully before leaning back in the chair, the jacket protected in a neat package on his lap. It was a smart move. Local police can read crime scene actions just by following the drags and prints in the pollen. It’s our curse of the South. That, and mosquitos and snakes and flying cockroaches and the hundred other minute contributions that scare off Northerners.
“Is that why I’ve been so unsuccessful?” he asked. “Because I’m, as you so politely put it, stomping around?”
“It’s two-fold,” I said bluntly. “You’re stomping around, and you’re not telling anyone why. No one likes that. We are a private town. We don’t really welcome strangers. Not your type of strangers. We welcome honeymooners, vacationers, tourists. You’re here for something else, and that makes everyone very suspicious.”
He sat in silence for a moment, finishing the rest of his beer with one long draw. “I was instructed to be discreet,” he finally said.
I laughed. “Were you instructed to be successful? ‘Cause you can’t be both.”
The sun moved a little lower, to the place where it peeks through the trees and glares on the front porch, the moment of day when I typically pack up and head back inside. I reached over, snagging his empty bottle and dropped it with mine into the bucket, standing and stretching before him. I stuck out a hand. “Summer Jenkins.”
“Bennington Payne. My friends call me Ben. And, at the moment, you’re looking like the only friend I have here.”
“Let’s not label the relationship just yet.” I smiled. “Come on in. I’ve got to put supper on.”
“It’s just unnatural, a girl that age being unmarried. Especially as pretty as she is.”
“Well, what do you expect? You know what happened with Scott Thompson. Summer hasn’t had so much as a breakfast date since then.”
CHAPTER 5
Mama and I lived in the former slave quarters of what was once the largest plantation in the South. I acted as caretaker of the plantation, making sure the groundskeeper kept the grass at two inches or less, kept the pecans picked, and the house spotless. The Holdens spent five months a year at this home, the other seven months hopping between a Blue Ridge cabin and a California home. They were an oddity in Quincy, one of the rare families that took periodic leave of our city limits. I’d heard the snide comments, seen the sniffs of disapproval when their seats sat empty at Easter Service. It was ridiculous. The whole town was ridiculous. A bunch of rich folks squatting on their money until they died. Everyone silently tallying up each other’s millions when no one really knew who had what. The core group had all started the same: forty-three initial Coca-Cola investors put in two thousand dollars each in 1934. On that one day, in that one moment, they were all equal. Over the next twenty years, with stock sales, purchases, reinvestments, marriages, divorces, and bad decisions, some networths sky-rocketed, some became paupers.
Now, it’s a guessing game of who’s richer than whom. It doesn’t really matter. It’s all more than any one generation will ever be able to spend.
Six years ago I accepted care of the Holden estate in return for free board and five hundred bucks a month—a very fair trade for a job that takes around ten hours a week. Mother moved into the cottage’s second bedroom and covered the groceries and household items. Yes, I was a twenty-nine year old woman who lived with her mother. One who didn’t do drugs, party, or have sex. I read books, drank the occasional beer on a hot afternoon, and did the Times crossword puzzle on Sunday afternoons. I hadn’t attended college, I wasn’t particularly gorgeous, and I often forgot to shave my legs. On the upside, I could cook some mean dumplings and bring myself to orgasm within five minutes. Not at the same time, mind you. I wasn’t that talented.
And, right then, with whatever Bennington Payne had up his sleeve, I was his best bet. Even if I wasn’t one of the elite. Even if I was a Quincy outcast.
CHAPTER 6
I pulled a chicken from the fridge and placed it in the sink, running water over it to finish its thaw. Turning to Bennington, I caught his study of our home. “Like what you see?”
“It’s very homey,” he said brightly, taking a seat on one of the dining chairs.
I hid my smirk with a turn back to the sink. “Spill, Bennington. What do you need in Quincy?” I yanked open the freezer door, grabbing bags of vegetables.