Issuu

A W omen of W ynton ’ s M ystery

YOU are the reason we do what we do here at Barbour Publishing. We promise that we will always use our God-given talents to produce content with you in mind—and that we will remain biblically faithful, no matter what. Thank you for being the heart of our business.

©2026 by Donna Mumma ISBN 979-8-89151-422-5 Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 979-8-89151-423-2 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher. Reproduced text may not be used on the World Wide Web. No Barbour Publishing content may be used as artificial intelligence training data for machine learning, or in any similar software development. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental. Cover illustration by Alan Brown Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

Printed in the United States of America.

Dedication For my brother Steve, No one told stories better than you.

Chapter 1 M a ry J o

ere and now, she declared 1957 as their year. Mary Jo Johnson laced her fingers with her husband’s and snuggled against him. Together they pressed their toes into the porch’s floorboards, pushed back, and released, sending the porch swing into gentle, swaying arcs. Nothing topped this Sunday, with the sky as blue as Frank Sinatra’s eyes and her family all together in her yard as white cottony clouds floated overhead. The soft breeze perfumed with the neighbor’s gardenias fluttered her hair. “May is my favorite month of the year.” Kenny leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “You’ve said that about every month this year.” “But 1957 has been our best year yet.” Mary Jo planted a soft peck on his cheek. “Excepting the year we got married and when the girls were born.” She leaned against the swing’s backrest. “Money’s coming in from your new job at Crenshaw’s Hardware and mine at Wynton’s, all the bills were paid on time, and I don’t dread going to the grocery store. It’s been pure bliss to have fewer worries.” Best of all, the customers at the hardware store no longer stared or shied away from Kenny. Now the men of Levy City, Florida, ignored his missing arm and came right up for advice on tools or fix-it projects. Many challenged him to a quick game of checkers, played on the old hand-painted board Mr. Crenshaw nailed to an ancient barrel near the cash register. Miss Vivien promised that was a sure sign he’d been accepted into the secret male society of the hardware store. Visions of Kenny laughing with

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the men of Levy City, surrounded by shiny tools and other whatchamacallits, brought Mary Jo smiles at night while listening to him sleep. “Mama, look at how high I’m swinging,” her older daughter, Carrie Rose, called from across their yard. The chains attaching her seat to the candy-cane-striped swing set squealed as she pulled back and speared the air with her legs. “Penny can’t keep up with me.” “Yes I can.” Mary Jo’s younger daughter worked her legs to match her sister’s speed. Carrie Rose laughed and broke into a chorus of “There’s a Hole in My Bucket.” Penny joined in, trying to sing louder than her sister. Their voices bounced back from the white picket fence marking the back of their property line. “That crazy song’s going to drive Mama to distraction.” A grin curled the corners of Kenny’s mouth. “All the better reason to teach it to the girls.” Mary Jo elbowed his ribs. “What would your mother say, picking on your mother-in-law like that?” “Since she’s not here, I don’t have to worry about that, do I?” Mary Jo clicked her tongue against her teeth as Kenny winked, then turned her attention to her girls. “Carrie Rose looks like she’s grown two inches since Easter.” Her heart squeezed. “She’ll be needing new clothes and shoes before summer’s end. She’s sprouting up like milkweed. I’m not ready for her to grow up this fast.” Kenny patted her knee. “Can’t change nature, Mama.” “I sure wish I could slow it down a little.” The screen door screeched, announcing the arrival of her mother, Mae. Mary Jo moved a few inches away from Kenny. If her mother caught them sitting too close together, she’d complain of their carrying-on like a pair of lovesick teenagers. “How’s a body supposed to sleep with all that caterwauling going on out here?” Mae stomped across the porch and plopped in the rocker next to the railing. “Your girls will never learn to be proper ladies if you don’t start teaching them better.” Kenny stiffened, then bounded from the swing to the yard. He pulled a clump of weeds from the flower bed with his left hand. The sun glinted

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off the metal hook of the artificial limb replacing his missing right arm. Mary Jo bit her lip. “Be more careful, Kenneth. You’ll blind me with that thing.” Mama held her hand before her eyes. Kenny clenched the weeds as he raised the lid on the garbage can. A muscle twitched along his jawline when he dropped them inside. Mary Jo’s stomach lurched in rhythm with the twitching. He walked behind the swings and gave both girls a hard push. They both arced so high it looked as though they might rotate over the top of the swing set. The three of them laughed together. Mary Jo tucked her hand in the pocket of her pink seersucker housedress and balled her fist. If only she could be with them. Alone. She’d do her best to close the ranks and keep the rest of the world out. Or at least one bitter person who now lived in her house. She raised her eyes and mouthed a silent apology to God. Since Daddy’s death, she was the only one left to take care of Mama. The last to honor her mother as the Bible guided. Mama stood. “The sun’s about to cook me through.” She dragged the chair to the shadier side of the porch. She slammed herself down in the seat, dug her granny shoes into the floorboards, and pushed back so hard the rocker’s back clonked against the house’s clapboard siding. Mary Jo clamped her teeth together, waiting for the question that came every Sunday afternoon since Daddy’s death. Mama crossed her arms. “Any calls while I took my Sunday nap?” “No ma’am.” Mama pulled a brown leaf from the potted geranium resting on a nearby table. “Did you leave your phone off the hook?” “No ma’am.” The swishing of steps in the grass pulled Mary Jo’s attention to the yard. Kenny and the girls headed her way. She glanced at Mama to make certain her mother wasn’t watching, then locked eyes with Kenny. With as little motion as she could manage, she shook her head at her husband. He twirled around to the girls. “I’m it, ladies. Better run before I get you.” He raised his arms monster-style in his best Frankenstein imitation. Carrie Rose’s and Penny’s high-pitched shrieks filled the air as they scattered like a clutch of chicks running from a circling hawk.

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Mama covered her ears with her hands. “Why’d he have to rile them up again?” “I made a fresh pitcher of tea. Would you like some, Mama?” “Might settle my nerves.” That wasn’t likely, but at least it would offer a few moments of peace. “I’ll be right back.” Mary Jo returned with the glass wrapped in a clean napkin. Mama didn’t like it when the condensation dampened her palms. Mama didn’t like much of anything these days. Maybe ever. After downing half the glass, her mother pinned her with a look. “Didn’t you tell your brothers to call me every Sunday?” Mary Jo sat in the swing again, keeping her eyes on Kenny and the girls. They were staring at a low branch in the mulberry tree where a pair of mockingbirds had made a new nest. Once upon a time, he would have lifted each of his daughters up to his shoulders, allowing them to look for babies inside the nest. But once upon a time was for Cinderella. Not Mary Jo Johnson. No, she mustn’t. She’d declared this was her family’s year and now wasn’t the time to go all wishy-washy and munch on self-pity. Mama’s voice sliced into Mary Jo’s thoughts. “What are you shaking your head for? Didn’t you tell them to call their mother?” “No, ma’am. I’ve not talked to them since Daddy passed.” When she called them each in turn about the funeral service details, all six answered the same. No, they wouldn’t come. No, they wouldn’t call Mama. Ever. Mama’s penchant for stirring up trouble, pitting brother against brother, insulting their wives, and demanding their full attention took a toll they no longer wished to pay. As if waiting for some strange cue, the phone in the hallway jangled. An I-told-you-so smile spread across Mama’s face. She fanned her hands at Mary Jo. “Hurry up, girl. That’s probably one of them now.” Quick to her feet, Mary Jo caught the phone on its fifth ring. “Hello?” George Crenshaw, Kenny’s boss at the hardware store, was on the line. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry for bothering you on a Sunday, but I need to speak to Kenny right away.”

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“Yes sir. I’ll get him.” She placed the receiver across the top of their wall phone, then sprinted down the hall and swung the screen door open. “Kenny, Mr. Crenshaw is on the phone. Says he needs to talk right away.” He scowled when he met her at the door. She moved to allow him to pass. “He sounds pretty upset.” Kenny wiped his hand clean on his navy Bermuda shorts. When he picked up the phone, Mary Jo returned outside. Mama screwed her mouth into a pout much like a toddler denied a cookie before dinner. For a moment, her heart ached for her mother. Penny ran up the steps and wrapped her arms around Mary Jo’s middle. She squeezed hard. “Today has been such a good day.” Carrie Rose brought a bouquet of fleabanes with drooping white-and-yellow heads. “Can we put these on the table tonight?” Mary Jo untied Penny’s arms from her waist. “As soon as Daddy is off the phone, we’ll fill a pretty glass with water and put your flowers in.” She angled her ear toward the hallway. Mr. Crenshaw often lectured Kenny to never discuss business outside the store. This call couldn’t mean anything good. George Crenshaw, or Mr. Gee, as most of Levy City called him, revered his privacy. When she heard Kenny’s footsteps nearing, she ushered the girls inside. “Go wash your faces and hands.” The girls giggled and skirted around him. Mary Jo took one look at his face, then turned to her mother. “Mama, you’re looking a little flushed. Do you want me to help you inside?” Her mother’s knees cracked as she pushed up from the seat. “I’m no invalid. Yet.” Mama passed Kenny, then barked at Penny for splashing around in the bathroom sink and making puddles on the floor. Mary Jo hooked her arm in Kenny’s and led him to the swing. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Kenny stared with unseeing eyes. A cannonball of fear landed in her gut. “Miss Carmen passed away this afternoon.” Before she could soak in the news, he locked eyes with her. “Mr. Gee wants to sell the store.”

Chapter 2

Gigi

as Matt Dillon worth all this? Wasn’t her fault he was the handsomest lawman on Gunsmoke. Also wasn’t her fault her housemate Martha sneaked a nine-inch TV into her room to watch shows. No matter how she tried, Gigi Woodard had no one to blame but herself. Letting her tongue fly in front of Miss Anna May ruled as one of the dumbest things she’d ever done. She rammed her toe into the side of her cardboard carton as she voiced an old saying of her mother’s. “Stupid does itself no favors.” Neither did being a woman of thirty-seven with way too many opinions. Gigi lifted a box and headed for the stairs leading up to her new apartment. Climbing those steps a thousand times might teach her to keep those opinions to herself. And maybe shave a few pounds off in the meantime. She’d miss sidling into Martha’s room when the show’s opening music started at ten o’clock. Huddling shoulder to shoulder in the dark with her housemates. Staring at the nine-inch black-and-white screen, munching popcorn and sipping Cokes for thirty minutes while the show aired had become a favorite activity. They’d all agreed to Miss Anna May’s strict rules. No TV, no parties. Their weekly get-together slipped by because their landlord always went to bed at seven. Except that last night, she’d roused up, realized what her tenants were doing, and came in with temper blazing. Miss Anna May’s face shone tomato red when she pushed Martha’s door open, so steamed Gigi worried fire was going to shoot from her eyes. “How dare you girls bring that filthiness into my house.”

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She attempted to yank the cord from the wall. The TV sailed off the dresser, plunged to the floor, and shattered in a heap of sparks and glass. Martha shrieked at the destruction of the birthday present from her latest beau. The other girls bunched together like a passel of terrified children before an angry teacher. Gigi went mad as a March hare. She’d jumped to her feet and pointed her finger square in Miss Anna May’s face. “That cost her fella a bundle and you just ruined it.” She never put much stock in the old saying about people turning purple with rage. But as Miss Anna May crunched through the rubble of the TV in her chenille house slippers, she witnessed it. “Apologize, Miss Woodard.” Gigi had looked over the corpse of the shattered TV. No more Marshal Dillon. Her neck, cheeks, and even her ears went hot. “I won’t. You owe Martha a new set.” Like an idiot, she’d finished her point by crossing her arms and adding a quick head nod. Miss Anna May squared her thin, bony shoulders and swept her arm toward the door. “Be out of my house by noon tomorrow.” She’d called Audrey in a tizzy. Audrey phoned Mr. Wynton, who then called George Crenshaw, the owner of the apartment building. By day’s end, she had a small two-room unit with a kitchenette, a living room, and a separate bedroom and bathroom. Mr. Crenshaw said he never rented the cramped space, instead using it as extra storage space for his hardware store one floor down. She could live in cramped. She’d been in worse. Mr. Crenshaw refused to allow her to move in until his daughter could get the place cleaned out, so he gave her Saturday week as a move-in day. After Gigi had been living at Audrey’s for the week, Lilla had her husband, Bernard, bring his truck over, load up her stuff, and deliver it to the new place. Audrey had offered to help her move in, but Gigi refused. This was her mess, her cleanup. “Better learn new tricks before I cost myself everything.” Including her job at Wynton’s, the first thing she’d truly loved in a while. Rumor on the Cosmetics grapevine claimed her boss, Jane, needed a clerk for a special project. Gigi worked hard to learn all her regulars’ names and greet them as soon as they came to Cosmetics. Kept a notebook behind the counter listing

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their favorite perfumes, lipstick, and nail polish shades. Her rough edges threatened to ruin her best intentions. She reached her apartment door and pushed her way in. “Hello?” a male voice called out. He scared the wits out of her, and she dropped her box. “Who’s there?” Gigi hopped on her foot as she rubbed one set of crushed toes. She switched to massage away the pain in the other. A man hurried around the corner of the alcove housing the tiny kitchenette. Her heart and smarting toes drummed in rhythm as he moved closer. Every warning bell in her head clanged. Gigi did a once-over of his toothpick-skinny body, his red flat-top hair, then planted both of her still throbbing feet on the floor and stood to her full height. She fisted her hands on her hips. “What do you want?” He’d learn fast she wasn’t a shrinking daisy, rose, or whatever flower the old saying used. He took a step but she held up her hands. “Stay right where you are.” “Don’t you know me, Gigi?” He jabbed his thumbs in his chest. “I’m Nicky Adams. I was friends with Bobby Bridges back in the day.” The mention of her old boyfriend’s name soothed no suspicions as he jerked his hand at the wall. “I live next door and heard you in here.” The moment he opened his mouth her memory spun up his story. Years ago, he’d moved to Levy City for some business scheme he and Bobby had cooked up. The business failed because neither of them had a lick of sense or virtue. Bobby gave up and went to work at the packinghouse while Nicky headed south to Tampa, for work bigger and better than anything Levy City could offer a smart guy like him. She wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw a truck. “What do you want?” He lurched back as if she’d slapped him. “Didn’t mean to scare you—” “You haven’t.” “I know you’re not a swoony girl.” Nicky hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “I want to help. A lady shouldn’t tire herself out too much.” Bobby had told her Nicky was originally from Chicago, which made sense because his accent had always made him stick out like a purple horse around Levy City’s Southern drawls. He possessed that mix of smooth charm on the surface, with something less gentlemanly perking beneath, that had snagged

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her interest and brought nothing but trouble when she was younger. “I’m not tired at all.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll be home all day.” A smile used to slithering past a girl’s better judgment spread across his face. “And I’m strong.” Which was hard to believe because he was so thin Gigi swore he’d disappear if he turned sideways. He stopped in the hall and patted the doorframe with his hand. “How’d you get this place? Mr. Gee said he’d never rent it out.” It was hard not to spout that her business with Mr. Crenshaw didn’t beg to be his business. Less said, the better, her mother always taught. “I asked.” “You must be somebody special to get him to change his mind.” Nicky didn’t need to know that Audrey, Mr. Wynton, and Mary Jo’s husband, Kenny, all vouched for her integrity before Mr. Crenshaw finally agreed. “Nice seeing you again, I’ve got to split.” He returned to his apartment. Two hours later, she lay stretched out on the sheet covering the couch that came with the apartment. Her clothes all hung in the closet. The box containing her important papers sat on the round wooden kitchen table she swore was older than her. She’d laid out her towels and washcloths on the two mismatched dining chairs with uneven legs. Her box of records and her record player sat on the bed in the next room. The mattress was lumpier than a bowl of cottage cheese, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Making bad into better had been her job most of her life. Gigi laid her head back and closed her eyes, only to have the quiet jarred by the phone ringing. She reached over the arm of the couch to the end table and picked up the receiver. “This is Gigi.” “Good, I found you. This is Jane, from Wynton’s. I dialed the number we had for you at the store first, but a girl I spoke with said this was your new number?” Gigi bolted upright. How much of her latest drama had Jane heard? “Yes. I’m moving in today.” “I’m sorry for bothering you on a Sunday, but could you come in an hour early tomorrow?” “Is something wrong?” Gigi tapped her chest with her palm to calm her heart, which drummed like a basketball being dribbled across a court. “No. I have something to talk over with you.”

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The special project. Gigi leaped from the couch and danced around in a circle until she’d wrapped herself in the phone’s cord. The grapevine had been right for once, and in her favor. She twirled around to free herself. “I’ll be there early.” She’d be there before dawn if the bus ran that early. “Perfect. Enjoy your Sunday.” The phone clicked off on Jane’s end. Gigi dropped the phone’s receiver in the cradle, then jitterbugged around the boxes in her living room.

Chapter 3

Audrey

udrey Penault sat in one of the molded plastic chairs in the waiting room of the executive suite at Wynton’s. Never in her time at the store had she been the one waiting so long to speak with her boss, Mr. Wynton. The sound of Libby’s staccato typing ceased. “I’m sorry, Miss Audrey.” On any other day, she would have corrected Libby for not addressing her as “Miss Penault,” but today there were more pressing things to worry over. Libby’s bringing her a note with a summons to come to Mr. Wynton’s office smacked of big trouble. Since her promotion to store buyer, Mr. Wynton came to Audrey’s office whenever he wanted to chat or called her at home after work to discuss store business. He never said outright, but she figured he chose to keep her out of the main office so the rest of the store would come to accept Libby’s taking her place as executive secretary. Libby’s ponytail danced as she came to sit next to Audrey in the waiting area. “I don’t know what’s taking so long.” She lowered her voice. “He’s been on the phone with all the members of the board throughout the morning. With each call, he’s gotten grumpier than an old bear. He fussed at me for slamming the closet door when I got out my purse to go to lunch.” This didn’t bode well. Mr. Wynton valued composure and disliked bosses who thought they could yell at their employees without care. He believed in having the right mixture of fairness and firmness without being cruel or cantankerous. “You’d better get back to your desk, then, Libby. Focus on your work and finish the day strong.”

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The girl scurried to her desk and sat down hard enough to make the seat tilt backward. Audrey drew a breath to relax her shoulders and take away some of the pepper in her command to Libby. She joined her at the desk. “I’m sorry he groused at you. We both know that’s not like him.” Libby looked down at her lap and tapped her thumbs together. “I know.” She locked eyes with Audrey. “That’s why I wrote a fake note and took it to you.” “You did what?” “Please forgive me, Miss Audrey. I know it’s wrong to lie and scheme, but I didn’t know what else to do. You’ve always taught me that the largest part of my job as his executive secretary is protecting Mr. Wynton and the store. My intuition says both are in trouble.” The knot twisting in Audrey’s stomach agreed with Libby’s suspicions. “No more worries. I’ll talk to him.” “Yes ma’am.” She straightened into the more professional posture Audrey insisted upon when she’d trained Libby to be her replacement. “I’m sorry I lied, Miss Audrey. You taught me better than that.” No one could fault Libby for her loyalty and dedication to her boss, but lying was a terrible tactic, even if meant for good. Audrey rifled her brain for the best response, as she was never good at handling these types of moments. She met Libby’s gaze. “Your heart was in the right place, but don’t make lying a habit. Not even for Mr. Wynton. Lead with the truth. No matter how bad things look.” Mr. Wynton’s knob turned. Libby pecked faster at the typewriter’s keyboard. When the door swung open, his brows rose when he spied Audrey. His gaze went to Libby, who stared at him over her typewriter. “I see the cavalry has been called in.” He swept his arm wide, beckoning Audrey in. “Hold my calls, Libby.” “Yes sir.” She hunched behind her typewriter. Audrey stood, pulled the hem of her light gray linen suit jacket down, then walked into the inner office and took her usual chair in front of Mr. Wynton’s desk. She adjusted the hem of her pencil skirt over her knee as Mr. Wynton came around and sat in his large leather chair. He gestured toward her. “Is that blouse from the summer collection

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Marionne designed for us?” “This entire ensemble is hers.” Audrey smoothed her fingertips over the lapels of her jacket, which were tipped in the same soft white silk as her blouse. As Wynton’s buyer, she’d traded wearing her favorite Chanel and Dior suits for the more affordable choices Wynton’s offered to their lady customers. “Bringing her to the store stands as one of your best achievements.” Mr. Wynton propped his right elbow on the chair arm, then rubbed his temple with one of his fingers. “And your next one will be this year’s Fourth of July picnic.” He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d said he sold the store, his home, every lock, stock, and barrel he owned so he could move to the moon. “The picnic?” “I want this year’s to be the best one yet, and it will be with you in charge.” “Yes sir. I’ll start planning today.” Audrey added another mental note to the ever-growing list of Wynton-related tasks in her head. “Perfect.” He tapped the top of his desk with his fingertips. “I’m guessing Libby dragged you in here because I grouched at her earlier.” His voice carried a knife-sharp tone that cut through the air. Audrey tipped her chin. Unlike Libby, she’d seen this mood before. “Who made a ridiculous demand this time?” “Joe Platt’s wife.” “Is she still pushing for you to hire their son Joey once he graduates from college?” Mr. Wynton shook his head. “Levy City Mutual Bank already put a claim on him. Thankfully.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is about Lorilee Mason’s nephew. From Massachusetts, where she’s from.” “Don’t tell me you’re supposed to hire him.” He blew out a long breath. “She went to all the wives of the board with a sob story, and they went to their husbands, who came to me.” “Leaving us with a forced hire?” “On strict conditions.” Mr. Wynton had always been open to giving others a chance when needed. Audrey could list at least a dozen employees he’d hired under the same circumstances without much thought. “The usual?”

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He nodded. “The first sign of trouble, he’s back to Massachusetts.” Mr. Wynton rubbed his temple again, testifying he was fit to be tied over more than a mercy hire. If it wasn’t store business, there was only one other person who could raise his hackles this much. “Did Dr. Humes call you this morning?” Travel plans for the next buying trip plus the new campaign ideas for the summer collections occupied her. She’d forgotten the time for Mr. Wynton’s yearly physical had rolled onto the calendar. His reddening cheeks and Libby’s reports of his acting mad as a hornet all morning answered her question. “What did he have to say?” Mr. Wynton snorted like a bull about to charge. “The usual.” “He told you to slow down, cut out the sweets and starch.” Mr. Wynton clamped his jaw, then tapped the soft side of his fist on the chair’s arm. “He upped the game this year—told me to retire or risk dying in this very chair.” She laced her fingers together and squeezed hard. Dr. Humes was more like a brother to Mr. Wynton than his doctor. They teased each other incessantly about who would go first. Surely this was just more teasing. Or was it? Mr. Wynton dipped his chin and stared down his nose at her. “When they do find me dead in this chair, you can call him and tell him he finally got something right.” He pointed to his chest. “Until then, this old rooster has plenty more years in him to crow, my old spurs are still sharp enough to keep fighting, and I have no plans to leave the coop anytime soon.” His shoulders relaxed and a satisfied color returned to his face, as if saying this declaration out loud nixed anything Dr. Humes said. Mr. Wynton sat taller in his chair. “I didn’t tell you what the nephew has been hired to do.” Returning to store business was a relief. “And what is that?” Mischief spread across his face, like a boy about to drop a frog on a girl’s head without her knowing. “He’s going to be a buyer for Men’s Suits and Sportswear.” “What happened to Stanley? He’s been in Men’s forever.” “He’s retiring. That’s why Lorilee decided to campaign for her nephew.

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She heard about Stanley’s retirement from his wife, at church.” Not being in the executive office anymore left her out of the loop of hiring and firing. This wouldn’t affect her doing her job, but she would miss Stanley and his uncanny understanding of what Levy City’s variety of male customers would buy. “Stanley will be hard to replace.” “He will.” Mr. Wynton paused. “I need you to do something else.” Audrey flipped the page on her mental list. “Yes?” “Get the nephew settled in.” “Yes sir.” “And another thing, you and Libby need to stop ganging up on me.” She flashed her twenty-four-carat smile. “Yes sir.” He pushed back in his chair. “I know you’re working on the rollout of the fall collection, so I won’t take up any more of your time.” Audrey rose, and he walked with her, stopping at Libby’s desk. Libby met them with wide eyes. “Young lady, you will not be calling in reinforcements whenever I decide to growl a little. Understand?” He stared down at her with lowered brows, but his eyes twinkled behind them, making Libby respond with a grin of her own. “Yes, Mr. Wynton.” He bowed his head to them both, then returned to his office and shut the door. “Guess I jumped the gun, Miss Audrey.” With the crisis averted, this time she’d correct Libby. “Miss Penault. And you go on jumping the gun. That’s how you hone your instincts.” Libby pushed back in her chair and sent it rolling so hard it crashed into the other side of the U-shaped desk. She ran around the corner and locked her arms about Audrey. “Oh Miss Audrey, that’s about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” She squeezed hard, then stepped back. “You’ve made me feel like a million bucks. Maybe even two million.” “You’re welcome.” “You got him all settled down too.” Libby tapped her chest and motioned to Audrey. “We make a great combination, like beans and corn bread.” Audrey had never been complimented in such a way by another female

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in her life. “Libby, we’re so good, we’re beans, corn bread, ham, and a side of greens.” “Miss Audrey, I didn’t know you could be so funny.” “To be honest, Libby, neither did I.” They both burst into giggles, and Audrey continued to snicker as she left the suite and headed to her office.

Chapter 4

Vivien

ivien Sheffield sat outside her friend Mirette’s house as the time ticked away on her Timex. Never in her life had she honked her car’s horn, and she wasn’t going to now. Last thing she wanted to do was annoy the neighbors. She looked in the rearview mirror and caught the dark eyes of her other employee. “Do you see any movement in there at all, Immogene?” “No, ma’am. Looks like Miss Mirette’s forgot to set her alarm again.” Vivien tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m going to pound on her front door.” She exited the car and made her way up the sidewalk, her mind spinning with all the things that needed doing before she could open her bridal salon at Wynton’s. As she went to take the bottom step on the porch, Mirette opened her door. “What are you doing here so early?” “You’re late, my friend. Did you forget to wind your clock again?” Vivien reached out, took Mirette’s hand, and guided her down the concrete steps to the sidewalk. “I declare, Mirette, I’m going to buy you an electric alarm clock at the store today, set the time, and put it on your nightstand myself. Immogene and I have been waiting for you for a good ten minutes.” Mirette snatched her hand from Vivien’s grip. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been sitting in my chair watching out the window for y’all since six thirty.” Vivien hurried to her car and opened the door. “You might have been sitting there, but you weren’t watching. I think you dozed off and are too proud to admit it.” She slammed the door closed as soon as her friend was settled in the front seat.