Mary-Alice was good at spotting unhappy marriages, having lived through one herself. Ten years earlier, a hungry bull gator had climbed up out of the Bayou Teche to find Joe Arceneaux sleeping off a hangover in his favorite lawn chair. Within moments, Mary-Alice was a widow.
She’d had to act sad, of course. But even now, all she felt was relieved.
Gertie asked Almira about her latest book, which cheered her up. Soon the conversation was moving from one writerly topic to the next. Gertie wrote romances in a genre she called “seniorotica,” featuring mature protagonists. Almira’s genre was “literary romance,” which sounded very elegant. Almira started to tell a juicy story about a self-help author they both knew and disliked, who set out to take revenge on a reviewer. Just as she was getting to the confrontation in the craft beer aisle, she stopped.
“Here’s my lunch date.” Almira aimed a strained smile at the middle-aged man approaching their table.
Dr. Whitbread was fair-skinned to the point of translucency. His eyes were pale blue and his hair colorless. He was what Mary-Alice’s mother would call a “boiled blonde.”
Almira glanced at her watch. “Geoff, honey, I lost track of the time. Gertie, Ida Bell, Fortune, er…I’m sorry, Mary-Ann?”
“Mary-Alice,” Mary-Alice said.
“Mary-Alice. This is my husband, Dr. Geoffrey Whitbread.”
“Your last name is actually White-bread?” Ida Belle snickered.
“Ida Belle!” Gertie scolded.
“What? His name is White bread, didn’t she just say? And look at him! Come on, it’s kinda funny. Right, Geoff?”
Ida Belle dealt Dr. Whitbread a friendly punch in the arm.
“The name is actually Whitbread.” The man gave Ida Belle a patient smile and rubbed his bruised bicep. “A good old Anglo-Saxon name. Although some of my students seem to prefer the alternate pronunciation. Almira, honey, you’re making us late. Rochelle’s waiting in the car.”
“I’ll be right out, sweetheart.” Almira’s small store of joy had evaporated. Her expression as she watched her husband leave the restaurant was pure resentment.
“Rochelle is your son’s wife?” Gertie asked.
“Yeah. She’s been staying with us while Tristan’s deployed. I didn’t think she’d want to move down to Sinful with us, but here she is.”
“You don’t get along with your daughter-in-law?” Ida Belle asked. Almira shrugged.
“She’s not exactly my biggest fan. She has no problem with Geoff, though. Those two get along great. Anyway, duty calls. Gotta go.”
Almira edged between the crowded tables of the diner. On her way out, she pushed the door so hard Francine’s customers looked up from their breakfasts to see what the angry jingling was about.
“Almira married her writing professor,” Gertie explained. “And then her writing career took off.”
Ida Belle nodded. “Bet he didn’t like that much.”
“It’s like the plot of A Star is Born,” Mary-Alice said.
“Isn’t it funny, Mary-Alice?” Gertie grinned. “You thought you’d escape drama by moving to Sinful.”
Fortune smiled knowingly, and Ida Belle snorted.
“Oh, I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Mary-Alice declared. “I love it here. And I’m living right downtown in one of Sinful’s historic homes. It’s so much fun.”
“Not as much fun as watching Celia Arceneaux turn five shades of green when you moved into one of Sinful’s most distinctive homes.”
“Oh, I know now that Celia was upset about the old Cooper place, but I certainly didn’t mean to show anyone up.”
“That’s what makes it even better,” Ida Belle said. “All you did was buy a nice old fixer-upper, and you got Celia spitting nails. Sorry, Mary-Alice, I know Celia’s your cousin, but she is a mean, petty woman and you’re far too nice to her.”
Mary-Alice preferred to think the best of people, especially when they were family. But even she had to admit the evidence was not in Celia’s favor. So powerful was Celia’s hatred of Ida Belle, Gertie, and the rest of the Sinful Ladies’ Society that Celia had founded a rival group. They called themselves the “God’s Wives,” which Mary-Alice thought was irreverent. Mary-Alice liked hanging out with the Sinful Ladies’ Society anyway. But tact demanded she keep this a secret from Celia for the time being. Best not to poke the bear. Especially when the bear was the acting mayor.
Mary-Alice thought it would be lovely if one day they could all get along. But Celia had been feuding with Gertie and Ida Belle for decades, and longstanding traditions don’t change overnight.
“All of this literary talk’s made me hungry,” Ida Belle declared. “I think it’s time for dessert.”
“So soon after breakfast?” Mary-Alice had indulged rather liberally in strawberry waffles, fluffy biscuits drenched in gravy, and creamy grits. She found the prospect of dessert daunting.
“We’re grown-ups,” Ida Belle countered. “Who’s gonna tell us no?”
“My jeans,” Fortune muttered.
“That’s what elastic waistbands are for.” Gertie picked up the hand-drawn table tent listing the desserts on offer.
Mary-Alice bought a box of brownies on the way out of Francine’s. The sweet treats weren’t for her own consumption. After the breakfast she’d just had, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to eat for a week.
The old Cooper place wasn’t visible from the main road. Someone who took the trouble to turn down the long, gravel driveway would not be impressed with what lay at the end. The house had fallen into disrepair over the past century or so. Celia had come right out and declared it looked like a dump.
The interior wasn’t much better. The kitchen was stripped to the studs and filled with noise, dust, and sweaty men who wore their pants too low. But coming through the front door always perked Mary-Alice up. She saw the possibilities. The house had good bones and in the real estate agent’s words, needed only a few nips and tucks.
Mary-Alice could already see her new kitchen taking shape. The dreary green walls had been repainted the color of butter. The wall tiles were going up now, a dazzling arrangement of aqua, red, and sunshine yellow.
“It looks like a parrot,” Celia had sniffed. “Mark my words, Mary-Alice, you’re going to get tired of those garish colors. You should have brought in a professional decorator. I could have helped you if I didn’t have so many more important things going on.”
Celia’s own interior featured avocado appliances, a carpeted kitchen, and macramé owl wall ornaments. It was either hopelessly dated or on the cutting edge of fashion (Mary-Alice suspected the former). In any event, Mary-Alice was certain she would not have liked Celia’s ideas, and was glad Celia had been too busy to help her.
Mary-Alice knocked softly on her kitchen door frame. The foreman stood, rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants, and came out to the dining room
“Good morning, Mister St. Clair.”
“Call me Boon. Please. There’s not a problem, is there?”
“Oh, no. The tile is looking wonderful. I just wanted to let you know I got you and your men some of Ally’s peanut butter brownies, to keep your energy up. Please help yourself. Whenever you like.”
“Miz Mary-Alice, you are spoiling us. After this job, I don’t think I’ll be happy working anywhere else.”
Mary-Alice beamed.
“Well, I do plan to keep you all busy for a while. Don’t forget, there’s cold sweet tea for you out here in the mini-fridge.”
Mary-Alice would never engage in any sort of improper behavior, and most certainly not with a hired man. But she did enjoy her little chats with Boon St. Clair. It was always best to be kind, and to stay on good terms with people. Where was the harm?
Bayou Busybody
Sinful's newest resident, Mary-Alice Arceneaux, is thrilled when Gertie introduces her to famous romance author Almira Galvez-Whitbread. But then Gertie and her friends have to leave town, and the very next day, Almira's husband disappears. With Gertie, Fortune, and Ida Belle gone, Mary-Alice finds that she's Almira's only friend...and that Almira's storybook marriage had been far less perfect than advertised. By the time Mary-Alice realizes she may be in danger, she's already in too deep. Now she has to find out what really happened to the faithless Geoffrey Whitbread--and prove she has what it takes to be a real Sinful Lady.
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