“I say so, and just remember, I need to know. Everything.”
“Of course.”
At the far end of the library there was a sizable nook surrounding a wet bar and the scents of brandy and cigar smoke lingered in the air. They crossed the hall to another door. It had been left ajar and with one glance inside, Marla guessed the room belonged to Eugenia. Her mother-in-law’s perfume lingered in the air. A carved wood bed dominated one wall near a private bath. French doors with sheer curtains opened to a private balcony. In the far corner an antique secretary and love seat crowded around a small fireplace decorated with hand-painted tiles.
“They’re waiting for you in here,” Carmen explained, touching Marla on an elbow and shepherding her into a long room with a television, two couches and a recliner. The baby was propped on Eugenia’s lap, his wide eyes focused on everything and nothing. Marla smiled at the sight of his fuzzy head.
“Good Lord, what did you do to your hair?” Eugenia asked, eyes wide and mouth open like a dying, gasping fish.
“Gave it a trim.”
“I’ll say . . . well . . . don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ll call my hairdresser. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind stopping by and”—she fluttered her fingers anxiously in the air near her own head—“well, evening it up a bit.” Then, recovering slightly, she leaned down and stage-whispered to James. “Look who finally woke up.”
“What time is it?” Marla crossed the room, took a seat next to her mother-in-law and reached for the baby.
“After four, dear. You practically slept around the clock. How’re you feeling?”
“Groggy,” she admitted as she chucked her son under his little chin and wrinkled her nose at him. The scents of baby powder and oil tingled in her nose. “How’s Mama’s big boy, hmm?” she asked, her voice automatically rising an octave as she spoke to the little cherub.
“Cranky, is what he’s been,” Fiona supplied, as she walked into the room. “And he needs feedin’ and changin’.”
“I’ll do it.”
“But—” Fiona began to protest.
“Trust me, I need the practice.”
“He wasn’t cranky or irritable. His tummy was upset,” Eugenia corrected.
Carmen, still hovering near the door, said, “Mrs. Cahill says she’ll take dinner with the family.”
“Really?” One gray eyebrow shot up over the rim of Eugenia’s glasses. “Are you certain you’re up to it? Dr. Robertson wanted you to get as much rest as possible.”
“I’ll be fine . . . as long as whatever’s served is blended.”
“Steak Diane, I believe, is on the menu, but we’ll make an exception for you.” She chuckled to herself.
Marla’s stomach growled at the thought of real food, and she wondered as she changed the baby on a nearby table, then wrested James’s bottle from a reluctant Fiona. She had the nagging feeling that something was wrong in the family.
Eugenia, seated on the couch, her high heels propped nearby, a tapestried bag of knitting needles and yarn at her feet, looked every bit the doting grandmother. Baby toys were scattered over a blanket spread upon the floor and Fiona, though seemingly not the sweetest person in the world, seemed completely relaxed and competent. Everyone had treated her well, yet she harbored some suspicions about them all.
She felt that everyone was hiding something from her; something vital.
She forced that ugly thought aside while feeding the baby, her heart opening to the little imp who seemed to be accepting her . . . if just a little. Coco, the scruff of a dog, lying on a pillow near Eugenia’s knitting bag, was another matter and regarded Marla as if she were Mata Hari. Dark eyes followed her every move and despite repeated warnings from Eugenia, the dog growled deep in its throat.
“Where’s Cissy?” Marla asked, ignoring the animal.
“She went shopping with friends after school, and, of course”—she glanced at the slim gold watch strapped on her wrist—“Alexander isn’t home from the office yet.”
What about Nic
k? Marla wondered, but didn’t ask, and winced as she rubbed her jaw.
“You’re getting those wires out in a couple of days,” Eugenia said, her eyes fastened on her knitting.