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“The local sheriff.”
A soft gasp came through the earpiece. “Don’t tell me you met him when he pulled you over for speeding? I shouldn’t have to tell you that Louisiana isn’t Boston where you were on a first-name basis with every traffic and beat cop.”
As a reporter Gwen had what most in the newspaper business called a bloodhound’s nose for a story, and early in her career she cultivated friendships with several high-ranking police officials, attending their fund-raisers and causes while reporting their acts of heroism in her column. She’d started at the Gazette as a crime reporter before she was reassigned to write the lifestyle column.
“No, Lauren.” Gwen told her cousin how she came to meet Shiloh, leaving out the part where she wouldn’t get out of her car and he had to carry her across the road.
“Does he at least look good in his uniform?” Lauren asked, giggling.
“Yes, but I think he looks better out of it.” Shiloh wearing a shirt and jeans had the same impact on her as a man in formal attire; he carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence that she hadn’t encountered in any of the men she knew.
“You’ve seen him without his clothes?”
Gwen sucked her teeth while rolling her eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mrs. Samuels. I was talking about civilian clothes, not his birthday suit. And if you say anything else I’m going to hang up on you.”
“There’s no need to get hos-tile, Gwendolyn. I don’t need to remind you that each sunrise brings you one day closer to thirty-eight.”
“Hel-lo. Test tube,” she countered in singsong.
“I’m hanging up,” Lauren threatened.
“Good night, cuz,” Gwen drawled, unable to stifle a laugh.
The distinctive sound of a dial tone reverberated in her ear before she pressed a button and placed the receiver in its cradle. She’d teased Lauren about artificial insemination even though she preferred getting pregnant naturally. Gwen doubted whether she would ever choose something so impersonal as going to a sperm bank. Adoption was her first choice, but that was an option that had remained secret.
Thinking of children reminded her of the upcoming fund-raiser to help needy families. Shiloh said the affair was a masquerade ball and she had to find something to wear.
“Aunt Gwendolyn,” she whispered. Her aunt’s closets overflowed with dresses and costumes from her days as an actress. She and her great-aunt were about the same height, and the last time she saw sixty-something Gwendolyn Pickering, the older woman had the figure of someone half her age.
It’d been years since she’d played dress-up; attending the fund-raiser would bring back memories of the Venetian masked balls during Carnival. There was something about the city built on water that reminded her of Bayou Teche. It was as if time stood still, leaving those trapped within in a spell that was far from reality.
She rose from the chair and headed for the staircase. The fund-raiser was only two days away.
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