Ain't She Sweet?

Sunday, March 7, 2:00 P.M.

Second Baptist Church

Donation of $5.00 benefits local charities

The night felt as if it were closing in on her, so she headed toward the lake, only to realize she couldn’t afford the gas. She made a U-turn on Spring Road, not far from the entrance to the Carey Window Factory, the business her grandfather had founded, except it was called CWF now. She found it hard to imagine Wi

Cubby Bowmar’s carpet cleaning van passed her going the other direction. In high school, Cubby and his cronies used to show up on the front lawn at Frenchman’s Bride in the middle of the night, howling at the moon and calling out her name.

“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”

Her father generally slept through it, but Diddie climbed out of bed and sat by Sugar Beth’s window, smoking her Tareytons and watching them. “You’re going to be a woman for the ages, Sugar Baby,” she’d whisper. “A woman for the ages.”

“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”

The woman for the ages turned her battered Volvo into Mockingbird Lane and glanced at the French Colonial that had once been the home of the town’s most successful dentist but now belonged to Ryan and Wi

She came to the end of Mockingbird Lane, then braked as the Volvo’s headlights picked out something that hadn’t been there when she’d left—a heavy chain stretching across her bumpy gravel driveway. She’d barely been gone two hours. Someone had worked fast.

She got out of the car to investigate. The quick-set cement had done its job, and a couple of hard kicks didn’t budge either of the posts holding the chain. Apparently the new owners of Frenchman’s Bride didn’t understand her driveway wasn’t part of their property.

Her spirits sank lower, and she tried to convince herself to wait until morning to confront them, but she’d learned the hard way not to postpone trouble, so she headed for the long walk that led to the entrance of the house where she’d grown up. Even blindfolded, she would have recognized the familiar pattern of the bricks beneath her feet, the point where the walk dipped, the spot where it curved to avoid the roots of an oak that had come down in a storm when she’d been sixteen. She approached the front veranda with its four graceful columns. If she ran her finger around the base of the closest one, she’d come to the place where she’d gouged her initials with the key to Diddie’s El Dorado.

Lights shone from inside the house. Sugar Beth tried to tell herself the uneasiness in her stomach came from lack of a decent meal, but she knew better. Before she’d gone into town, she’d tried to boost her confidence with a tight candy pink T-shirt showing a few inches of belly, a pair of low-riding, straight-legged jeans that hugged her long-stemmed legs, and black stilettos that took her nearly to six feet. She’d topped the outfit with a copycat black motorcycle jacket and the pea-size fake diamond studs she’d bought to replace the ones she’d hocked. But the outfit wasn’t doing a thing to boost her morale now, and as she crossed the porch of her old home, her heels tapped out a dismal reminder of what she’d lost. Sugar Beth Carey . . . doesn’t live here . . . anymore.

She set her shoulders, lifted her chin, and punched the bell, but instead of the familiar seven-note chime, she heard a jarring, two-tone gong. What right did anyone have to replace the chimes at Frenchman’s Bride?

The door opened. A man stood there. Tall. Imperious. It had been fifteen years, but she knew who he was even before he spoke.

“Hello, Sugar Beth.”

“Shaking, eh?” said that hateful voice. “I shan’t beat you if you behave yourself.”

G

EORGETTE

H

EYER

,

Devil’s Cub

CHAPTER TWO

She swallowed hard and spoke around a croak. “Mr. Byrne?”

His thin, unsmiling lips barely moved. “That’s right. It’s Mr. Byrne.”

She tried to catch her breath. Tallulah hadn’t told her he was the one who’d bought Frenchman’s Bride, but she’d only passed on the news she’d wanted Sugar Beth to hear. The years fell away. Twenty-two. That’s how old he’d been when she’d destroyed his career, barely more than a kid.

He’d looked so odd in those days with his Ichabod Crane body—too tall, too thin, his hair too long, nose too big, everything about him too eccentric for a small Southern town—appearance, accent, attitude. Naturally, the girls had been dazzled. He’d always dressed in black, most of it threadbare, with silk scarves looping his neck, some fringed, one a muted paisley, another so long it came to his hips. He’d used phrases like bloody awful and don’t muck about, and, just once, feeling a bit dicky, are we?

The first week of school they’d spotted him using a tortoiseshell cigarette holder. When he’d overheard some of the boys whispering that he looked like a queer, he’d gazed down his long nose at them and said he regarded that as a compliment, since so many of the world’s great men had been homosexual. “Alas,” he’d told them, “I’ve been sentenced to a life of mundane heterosexuality. I can only hope a few of you will be more fortunate.”

That had brought ’em out for the old parent-teacher conference.

But the young schoolteacher she remembered was a pale harbinger of the imposing man who stood before her. Byrne was still odd, but in a far more unsettling way. His ungainly body had become hard-muscled and athletic. Although he was lean, he was no longer ski