“I know the saying, I just don’t understand why you’re bringing it up.” Nessa looked down at her aunts’ earnest faces.
“Dear girl, don’t take this wrong. We’re not reproaching you,” Calista said.
“But you are as guilty as he is,” Hestia added.
A chill swept up Nessa’s spine and her hands and feet turned cold, while a flame burned her cheeks.
Calista started to hand Nessa a pile of bowls; then, as if she had second thoughts, she put them down on the counter. “It is possible to believe the wrong thing about a person, to believe with all your heart that that person, or persons, are guilty of a crime they didn’t commit, even though you’ve known them forever.”
“Why are you saying that to me?” Nessa asked.
“When you heard our robberies had been imitated, that violence had been done and twenty thousand dollars stolen, you believed that Calista and I were guilty.”
The aunts hadn’t referred to that moment when Nessa blocked their path and accused them of the bank robbery. Somehow, she thought—hoped—that in their dotty way, they hadn’t noticed.
But of course the aunts weren’t dotty, really, only immersed in their own happily eccentric world where once a year it was right that they robbed an evil bank and gave the money to one needy soul.
“You have lived with me and Hestia since you had just turned five, yet you believed the evidence rather than what you knew of our characters.”
Hestia said, “I’m not saying it is right for Mr. MacNaught to assume the worst of you, but with his background, that seems almost inevitable.”
“His background?” Nessa couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.
“He had a difficult upbringing, what with his father abandoning him and then his mother…dreadful! And no one to show him that there are noble causes and people of character.” Calista couldn’t contain her disapproval.
“Oh, cry me a river. I can’t believe he had the guts to whine to you.” Nessa almost spit in her wrath.
Hestia’s usually pleasant tones grew sharp and stern. “He wasn’t whining, Ionessa. He told us because we asked. Perhaps you should try talking to him rather than railing like a disappointed spinster after a three-day bacchanal.”
Nessa caught her breath. Hestia never talked to her that way. Yet now her blue eyes were icy and disapproving, and Nessa stung as if she’d been slapped. “I’m sorry you think that, Aunt Hestia.” But she was stiff and hurt, not really sorry.
“Nessa, come down here.”
Nessa hadn’t heard Calista give a command in that tone since she was a child. She climbed off the stool and stood between them, hating MacNaught for ruining her life, for turning her aunts against her, for everything that had gone wrong.
The two aunts placed themselves in front of Nessa.
Hestia started. “All your life, Calista and I have worried about the frightening restraints you’ve put on yourself and your emotions.”
Calista continued, “When Jeremiah came along, we laughed for joy, because he cracked that shell you’d formed around yourself. For the first time, we saw how brightly the light of joy could shine in you.”
“That wasn’t joy, that was lust.” If Nessa thought that would shake them, she was sadly mistaken.
Hestia nodded. “They’re one and the same—pleasure not to be denied.”
“I should have denied him.”
“Should have?” Calista looked appalled. “For what reason? Life is to be lived, not shunted aside until all the days are aches and ashes.”
“If I’d denied him, you wouldn’t be mad at me.”
“That’s silly, Nessa. What we think isn’t important to you,” Calista said.
Hestia laughed. “Well…it’s not important except when we have a great wisdom to share, as we do now.”
Calista laughed, too. “Right. Your emotions are your emotions, and you have the right to feel each and every one of them.”
Hestia cupped Nessa’s cheek and looked into her eyes. “But dear, darling girl, not everything that has happened has been bitter, and this year’s Mardi Gras events have opened new doors for you. You’re learning a new job, and you’re good at it. Sister and I have money we didn’t imagine, and I know that lifted a burden from your shoulders. So explore your unhappiness, then straighten your shoulders, smile, and move on. And maybe…don’t judge Jeremiah harshly until you’ve talked to him yourself.”
“I did talk to him. This afternoon, remember? Do you know what he said? He said he was going to prosecute you for the robberies, anyway.”
Calista tsked. “That poor boy. He’s angry at the world, striking out blindly, trying to get attention.”
“Is there nothing he can do that will make you see what an ass he is?” Nessa asked in despair.
Hestia turned toward the doorway. “Miss Maddy! What are you doing up?”
Maddy stood there in her red bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, and glared. “Are you girls going to stay up and chat all night long, or are you going to bed? Breakfast is coming blasted early in the morning.”
“We were just telling Nessa to talk to Jeremiah,” Calista said.
“I heard you. I’ve been listening for a while.” Maddy peered at Nessa. “You gonna do it?”
“I don’t want to talk to him.” Even Nessa could hear the sulky tone in her voice.
“Of course not. You’re enjoying your own private pity party far too much for that.” Hestia pinched the same cheek she had stroked.
Nessa didn’t want to admit it. Not now. Not about him. But the aunts had an instinct about people.
Did they have an instinct about Mac MacNaught?
“Miss Maddy’s right. We’re all tired,” Hestia said.
“Of course Miss Maddy’s right.” Maddy made a shooing gesture toward the stairs.
“Let’s go to bed,” Calista said. “Nessa, tomorrow you can look for an apartment. This weekend you can move in. Monday will be the start of a new week, and a chance to clear things up with Jeremiah.”
“His name isn’t Jeremiah. It’s Mac.”
As the aunts drifted out of the kitchen, Calista said, “Jeremiah’s his real first name, chère. Didn’t you know?”
Thirty-eight
The next day, Gabriel took Mac through the changes they were making at the Chartres Street branch of Premier Central bank. “We’ll work this weekend and next putting in new security cameras and upgrading the alarms. All the surveillance will be controlled remotely from a central point in the city. The only thing we can’t control, of course—”
“Is the people. I know.” Gabriel had reiterated that often enough. The human factor was always the unknown, and no matter how much security they installed, someone with enough intelligence, guts, or desperation could break through and take what they wanted. Lowering his voice, Mac asked, “What about the vault?”
“Let’s talk in there.” Gabriel waited while Mac punched his code into the electronic keyboard and led the way inside. The two men looked around at the tiny room, with the shelves hiding the secret passage, and in unison shook their heads. “This Vycor must have been as crazy as they come,” Gabriel said. “No friends. No family. It’s sort of pathetic, you know?”
“I know.” Mr. Vycor the Second. Nessa’s mocking voice echoed in Mac’s mind. He was not Mr. Vycor the Second. He had friends.
He looked sideways at Gabriel. Maybe it was pushing it to call Gabriel his friend, but they’d been staying together in the Garden Suite. They didn’t talk much, but then, they didn’t have to. They understood each other, never got in each other’s way, ate the same stuff, watched the same games…. It was almost spooky how much they had in common.
And Mac would have a family, too. A family with Nessa. Her great-aunts would be his…
He’d be related to thieves—but then, he was used to that. His father was Nathan Manly.
Nessa was coming in on Monday, or at least she was if she knew what was good for her. She’d want to know w
hat discrepancies were on the books. He’d have to cook something up, because he’d lied; they balanced perfectly.
“Is there anything I can help you gentlemen with?” Stephanie called from the doorway of the vault.
The two guys glanced at each other.
“No,” Mac said.
“Oh. Okay. Call me if you need anything.”
They listened to Stephanie’s footsteps retreat.
“That woman is really annoying,” Gabriel said.
“That woman made some nasty mistakes and she’s trying to keep her job. In fact, she’s probably willing to fling herself across the tracks for me.” Mac’s mouth set in satisfaction. He would use Stephanie as the scapegoat for the books. She might not like it, but she would do it.
One problem solved.
Gabriel tapped the shelves. “Next Wednesday, I’m bringing in my top men to plug the hole. It’ll be done overnight, and no one will ever know it was there.”
“You can’t do it sooner?” Knowing there was access to the vault gave Mac an itchy feeling up his spine.
“Not with Mardi Gras going on, not and keep it a secret. But next Wednesday is Ash Wednesday. Then the party’s over. Everyone will be sleeping off a hangover. It’s the best time to get this thing done.”
The two men stepped out into the lobby.
Stephanie lurked in the background, trying to look interested and as if she were in charge.
The tellers and customers watched him from the corners of their eyes, hostility gleaming.
Gabriel shuddered. “Man. No one has forgotten what you said yesterday at the courthouse about the Dahl girls.”
“I know.”
“I’m surprised these people aren’t getting a rope for a lynching.”
“One more wrong move on my part, and I won’t be able to buy myself a kind word.”
“I told you I should have played the part of the insurance investigator.” Gabriel contemplated Mac’s hard face. “Do you have any more wrong moves to make?”
“I’m going to get what I want.” He believed, with what he said to Nessa yesterday, that she’d come to him to make a deal. Every time the door opened, he expected to see her dressed in one of those dark suits that couldn’t hide her curves and her red heels. And when he saw her, he’d know, and she’d know, he still held the power in the relationship.
He might be in love, but he was not a wimp to be controlled by a mere woman. They needed to establish that right away.
“Warn me before you piss anybody else off so I can step away,” Gabriel said.
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“We’ll be done with all the installations in three weeks.” Gabriel glanced around the classically beautiful interior of the bank. “Unless, of course, we run into old wiring or a leaky pipe or termites.”
“Which you will.” Mac broke off the conversation.
Miss Maddy had entered the bank. She walked slowly, hunched over a cane. Her bones thrust at her fragile skin, and she shook with a visible tremor. For the first time, the tiny black woman looked her age. She glanced around as if bewildered by the size and bustle of the bank. Then she caught sight of him. Her black eyes widened, then narrowed. She started toward him, each step an effort that seemed her last.
Sadness clung to her like a cloak, and he realized that instead of coming herself, Nessa had sent their ancient cook to plead for her aunts.
The little coward.
At least he had some manners. With a long stride, he hurried toward Miss Maddy.
When she realized he was coming for her, she stopped in the middle of the lobby.
Damn Nessa. The old lady shouldn’t be walking at all.
He stopped before her, gently took her hand. “Welcome to Premier Central Bank, Miss Maddy. What can I do for you?”
She said something, but her voice was so low and shook so hard, he couldn’t understand.
“Come and sit in my office,” he said. “I’ll get you some water and you can tell me what you need.”
She shook her head and tugged at his sleeve.
He leaned down.
She tugged again.
He bent almost double, putting his ear close to her face so she could speak right into it.
And she grabbed his ear in her bony fist and twisted.
The pain brought him right to his knees.
Her voice was just fine when she bellowed, “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, talking about prosecuting two fine ladies like Miss Calista and Miss Hestia? You think two old women like them should be in jail with tourists and drunks and Yankees?”
He tried to shake her off, but she knew what she was doing. Her grip on his ear couldn’t be broken, and it hurt. Hurt like a son of a bitch.
Of course, Miss Maddy was old, fragile, and small. He could have grabbed her arm. He could have knocked her down.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t because the people in the bank hated him enough to plug him and sweep his body under the table, and picking on Miss Maddy would give them the excuse they needed.
Besides, he just…couldn’t.
“You got no respect for your betters, boy?” Maddy yelled. “Your mama didn’t learn you any different when you were growing up?”
“Those Dahl women are…thieves.” Mac winced and squirmed.
“I’ve known those women since they were in diapers, and I tell you, they never stole a thing for themselves.” Maddy dropped her cane, leaned on his shoulder, and shook his ear.
The agony almost made him black out.
“If you had a brain in your head, you’d know it. Now, are you going to call your fancy-ass lawyers and tell them they are to leave Miss Calista and Miss Hestia alone, or are we going to stay here all day while you whimper?”
The whole bank was laughing, and he could hear Gabriel above the rest.
The security guard hovered nearby, clearly knowing he should do something, but not knowing what.
Welcome to the club.
So Mac muttered, “I’ll do it.”
“What?” she shouted.
“I’ll do it!” he shouted back.
She stopped shaking him. “You’ll do that now?”
“Yes.”
Maddy let go. “All right. I had hopes for you, boy, and I’m gravely disappointed. Gravely disappointed. I don’t know if it’s possible for you to get back in my good graces. I don’t know at all.”
Slowly he rose off the cold marble floor. His ear was ringing. His pride was dented.
The customers, tellers, and Gabriel were gasping in hilarity.
The security guard was only grinning.
And Stephanie Decker looked like she’d swallowed a whole lemon.
With her fists on her hips, Maddy looked him up and down. “Do you have anything you want to say to me?”
He’d just been disciplined by a hundred-year-old woman. And there wasn’t much he could say, except “I’m sorry, Miss Maddy. I won’t use Miss Calista and Miss Hestia again in the battle between me and Nessa.”
“That’s good.” Maddy nodded in approval. “Hand me my cane.”
He picked it up. “But I’ll use any other means to get her and keep her.”
“Oh. Well.” Maddy hooked her cane over her arm. “That’s between you and her, boy. You and her.”
As he watched Maddy make her way out of the bank, he realized—Maddy had just given her approval.
He had all the soldiers on his side. This was a battle he was going to win.
Thirty-nine
At 8:30 a.m. on Monday morning, Nessa walked into the bank and looked around.
Everything was as it had been twelve days ago. The Mardi Gras decorations still adorned the lobby. Eric still stood guard at the door. Five tellers still stood behind their stations. She locked her purse in the same desk.
Only one thing was different.
Mac MacNaught stood waiting for her.
He didn’t do anything. He didn’t say anything. He simply noted that she was
there, glanced at the clock to confirm the time, and returned to his office. And projected death rays of disapproval while she got the tellers set up, met the steady stream of customers coming through the door, and worked up a first mortgage for a young couple from Metairie.
Stephanie was there, too, trying nervously to be pleasant and failing.
But Nessa hardly noticed, and certainly never felt a single twinge of anything but annoyance at Stephanie’s skulking around. How could she, with Mr. MacNaught glowering in that office, which she knew he was doing even though she couldn’t see him? The morning dragged, each tick of the clock scraping like glass across her nerves.
In fact, Mr. MacNaught was making the whole damned cadre of tellers nervous, and Nessa had half a mind to explain to him that he was ruining the formerly agreeable atmosphere in her bank.
She was so busy mentally composing scathing remarks that she jumped when, at eleven thirty, he appeared at her elbow and said, “I have to go to the Iberville Street bank. My security man wants to discuss upgrades to that system, too. If you need anything, give me a call.”
“Uh, sure.” She watched him walk away, and cursed herself.
The best scathing remark she could think of was Uh, sure?
How about, What could I possibly need that you could give me?
Or Don’t hold your breath until I call.
Or I’d rather die than take anything from you.
That last was a little melodramatic, but it was better than Uh, sure.
“You okay, Miss Dahl?” Eric asked.
Nessa lifted her head from her hands. “Why?”
“You look a little…um, nothing. You look good.” He backed away. “Real good.”
Except for the fact that she kept remembering what her aunts had said to her—Talk to him, listen to him—she felt real good, too.
She did. Really.
She glanced around at the tellers. They were all working furiously, not glancing in her direction, not chatting to the customers. Her regulars weren’t talking, either, but standing stoically in line and getting out of the lobby as quickly as they could. A hush permeated the bank, the kind of silence one normally associated with a funeral home.