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TALES FROM THE BACKLIST

Select Stories from Backlist eBooks^® Authors

Edited by Maryann Miller

with Judy Alter, Libby Fischer Hellmann,

& Jeffrey A. Carver

Cover art by Patricia Ryan

All content is protected by international copyright laws.
See following page for individual copyright acknowledgments.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Copyright and Publication Information

[Return to Table of Contents]

INTRODUCTION by Maryann Miller

YOUR SWEET MAN by Libby Fischer Hellmann

LADY INVISIBLE by Patricia Rice

BEACH, BOARDWALK AND MURDER by Mary Ellen Hughes

DIAPERS, DISHES AND DEMONS by Kelly McClymer

COLD CASE by L.L. Bartlett

COPING MECHANISMS by Terry Odell

THE HEART OF RIVERBEND by Judith Arnold

ESCAPING RAUL by Maryann Miller

KIND HUNTER by Pati Nagle

MISSING by Jackie Griffey

MIRACLES HAPPEN by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

PLAYING FOR KEEPS by Phoebe Conn

PLAY MONEY by Christina Crooks

PRISONERS by Judy Alter

SHAPESHIFTER FINALS by Jeffrey A. Carver

SHELTER FROM THE STORM by Patricia Ryan

THE AVALON PSALTER by Lillian Stewart Carl

THE PLAN by Karen Fenech

THE SCORIA by Doranna Durgin

About Backlist Ebooks

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the first anthology of short stories from the talented authors of Backlist eBooks, a community of traditionally published writers who are bringing their own out-of-print work to an all-new, world-wide audience through the marvel of ebooks.

This is an eclectic collection of stories, as varied as the authors penning them. They range from mystery to romance to fantasy to science fiction, and they have all been previously published.

It was my pleasure to work with all the writers in organizing and editing the stories, and I enjoyed my introduction to their work.

I want to thank my co-editors, Judy Alter and Libby Hellmann, who stepped up to help when my work schedule got crazy. Also, huge thanks to Pat Ryan for the gorgeous cover and to Jeffrey Carver for doing the formatting.

To you, the reader, I want to say thanks for purchasing the book. I know you will enjoy the stories, so find your comfy reading spot, grab a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, and sit back and relax.

—Maryann Miller

[Return to Table of Contents]

YOUR SWEET MAN

Libby Fischer Hellmann

Author Note: My contribution to Chicago Blues (Bleak House, 2007) was way out of my comfort zone, but that’s what I love about short stories. They allow a writer to stretch and experiment with different characters, plots, eras, and settings. This story is about a Blues bass player whose ability to love and forgive is tested by events out of his control. The story takes place both in the 1980’s and the 1950’s. It turned out to be one of the sweetest stories I’ve ever written.

~~~~~~

“Who’s Gonna Be Your Sweet Man When I’m gone?

Who you gonna have to love you?”

Muddy Waters

1982: Chicago

Calvin waited for the man who’d been convicted of killing his mother. Outside Joliet prison the July heat seared his spirit, leaving it as bare and desiccated as a sun-bleached bone. Sweat ringed his armpits, grit coated the back of his neck. Almost noon, and not a shadow on anything.

He extracted a Lucky from the crumpled pack on the dash and leaned forward to light it. The ’74 Chevy Caprice never failed to start up. As long as he kept enough fluid in the radiator, the engine ate up the highway without complaint. Even the lighter worked.

He took a nervous drag. He hadn’t seen his father in fifteen years. His granny had made him come when he graduated high school to show him that Calvin had amounted to something, after all. Calvin remembered clutching his diploma in the visitors’ room, sliding it out of the manila envelope, edging nervously up to the glass window that separated them. He held it up against the glass, hating the sour smell of the place, the chipped paint on the walls, the fact that he had to be there at all. He remembered how his father nodded. No smile. No “atta boy – you done good.” Just a lukewarm nod. Calvin imagined a yawning hole opening up on the floor, right then and there, a hole he could sink into and disappear.

Now, the black metal gates swung open, and a withered man emerged. Calvin was still wiping sweat off his face, but his father was wearing a long sleeved shirt and beige canvas pants. Even from a distance, his father looked smaller than he remembered. More frail. The cancer that had triggered his early release was consuming him, working its way through his body. He walked slowly, stooped over. His skin, a few shades lighter than the rich chocolate it once was, looked paper-thin, and he blinked like he hadn’t been in sunlight for years. Maybe he hadn’t. His father looked around, then spotted Calvin in the Caprice. He nodded, took his time coming over.

Calvin slid out of the car, tossed his cigarette on the dirt, and ground it out with his foot.

“Hello, Calvin…”

Calvin returned his greeting with a nod of his own. Cautious. Polite.

“Appreciate you coming to get me, son.”

A muscle in Calvin’s gut twitched. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him “son.” “Son” was a word that belonged in the movies or TV, not in real life. Calvin gestured to the gym bag his father was carrying. “Let me take that.”

His father held it out. Calvin threw it in the back seat. His father stood at the passenger door but made no effort to open it. Calvin frowned, then realized his father was waiting for permission. Twenty-five years in prison did that to a man. “Just open the door and get in.”

His father shot him a look, half-embarrassed, half-grateful, and slid into the car. Calvin waited until his father was settled, then started the engine. As they pulled away from Joliet, he said, “Thought we’d go back to my place.”

“You still in Englewood?”

“Hyde Park now. Got ourselves a house near 47th and Cottage Grove.”

His father’s eyebrows arched. “Well, that’s mighty fine.”

“Jeanine fixed it up nice. Even got a little garden out back. She’s a good girl.”

His father didn’t seem to notice. He should have. It was Jeanine who shamed him into picking him up in the first place.

“He’s dying, Calvin,” she’d said. “And he’s paid his dues. Twenty-five years of ’em.”

Now his father turned to him. “How’s that job coming?”

“What job?” Calvin made his way back to the highway.

“The one you was talking about when you come to see me. Janitorial supplies.”

“I opened my own company six years ago. I got five people working for me now.”

“Well, that’s mighty fine, son. Mighty fine.”

But it didn’t feel fine. It felt false. Calvin imagined that black hole opening up even wider. That was why he never wrote or visited his father, except for the Christmas card Jeanine made him sign every year. Any time he thought about him, even a stray fragment, the night his mother was murdered flooded back into his mind. He couldn’t help it. Better not to think about it at all, his granny would say. “Just go on and live your own life.”

But Granny was dead, and the people at Joliet called him when they found the cancer. Calvin stole a glance at his father. He was quiet. Just staring out at the road, a dreamy look on his face. Calvin remembered that look. His father’s body might be in the front seat, but his mind was miles away. Calvin knew he was thinking about his mother.

He tightened his grip on the wheel. How dare he? “So…you feelin’ okay?”

His father pulled his gaze in and looked at Calvin. “For the days I got left, I’m doing jes’ fine.”

Calvin turned onto the interstate. “You sure? Jeanine talked to our doctor. He can see you tomorrow if you want.”

His father gave him a sad little smile. “Appreciate it, son, but don’t go to no trouble.” His father went back to looking out the window. Calvin turned on the radio. The all-news station was blaring out something about Israeli troops in Lebanon. His father didn’t react, just kept gazing out. He seemed somehow smaller, less distinct than he’d been just ten minutes ago. Like his shadow was slowly fading from black to gray. At this rate he might disappear altogether.

Calvin snapped off the radio. For a while the whine of the air conditioning was the only sound in the car. Lulled by the air blowing through the vents and the rhythm of his wheels on the highway, Calvin was startled by the abruptness of his father’s voice.

“You start making the arrangements?”

Calvin cleared his throat just loud enough. “Not yet.” He wasn’t sure what to expect. Would his father lay into him? Cuss him out?

But all his father did was to wave a weak hand. “I guess I got to do it myself.”

“Why don’t we talk about it later?”

His father’s shoulders sagged and he closed his eyes. “I ain’t got many laters, son.”

* * *

1950s: Chicago

The hot breath of the blues kissed Jimmy Jay Rollins when he was little, leaving him hungering for more. His mama — he never knew his daddy — took him to church in the morning and the blues joints at night. By the time he was seven, he was playing guitar licks with whoever his “uncle” of the moment happened to be, and by the time he left school at sixteen, he knew he wanted to play bass guitar.

The bass wasn’t as flashy as the electric slide guitar of Little Ed or Muddy Waters, but it was the glue that held everything together. No one could play a twelve-bar chorus without him; no one could start a lick or riff. The bass was there through every number, from beginning to end, setting the pace. Steady. Unrelenting. The lead guitar, saxophone, even the drummer could take a break; not so the bass. Willie Dixon became Jimmy Jay’s personal hero.

By day, Jimmy Jay worked in a steel factory near Lake Calumet, but at night, he bounced around playing gigs on the South Side. You could smell stale cigarette smoke and yesterday’s beer in the air, spot a few guns and knives if you looked real close. But none of that mattered when the music started. The blues flowed through his veins, transporting him to a place where he could let go, soar above the world, tethered only by an electric guitar, wailing horn, or harmonica riff.

He was jamming at the open mike set in the Macomba Lounge one hot summer night, a thick cloud of smoke, perfume, and sweat choking the air, when a wisp of a girl—she couldn’t have been more than eighteen—came up to the stage. She was wearing a red dress that skimmed her body just right. A curtain of black hair shimmered down to her waist, and her skin looked pale blue in the light. She tentatively took the mike and asked them to play in G, then launched into a bluesy version of “Mean to Me,” an old Billie Holiday song.

By the middle of the second verse, people set their glasses down, stubbed out their cigarettes, and a hush fell over the room. Her voice was raw and unpolished but full of surprises. At first a sultry alto, she could hit the high notes in a silver soprano, then dip two octaves down to belt out the Blues like a tenor. At first he thought it was a fluke—no one had that range and depth. He tested her, moving up the scale, changing the groove, even throwing her a sudden key change. She took it all with a serene smile, bobbing her head, eyes closed, adjusting perfectly. Her voice never wavered.

After a few numbers, the band took a break, and Jimmy Jay bought her a whiskey. As he passed her the drink, he noticed the contrast between her face, soft and round, and her eyes, dark and penetrating. Her name was Inez Youngblood, she said, and she’d just moved here from Tennessee. She was part Cherokee, once upon a time, but mostly mountain white.

“A hillbilly?” Jimmy Jay joked.

She threw him a dazzling smile that made his insides melt. “A hillbilly who sings the blues.”

“Why Chicago?”

“I listen to the radio. Chicago blues is happy blues. You got Muddy Waters. Etta James. Chess Records. Everybody’s here. Sweeping you up with their music. There just ain’t no other place to sing.” Those dark eyes bored into him. “And I got to sing.”

By their third drink, he began to imagine the curves underneath that red dress and what she looked like without it on. She had to know what he was thinking, because she smiled and started to finger a gold cross around her neck. Still, she didn’t seem put off. More like she was teasing him.

Another set and half a reefer later, a fight broke out in the back of the bar. Inez, who was singing “Wang, Dang, Doodle” took it in stride, even when knives glinted and someone pulled out a piece. She just pointed to the fighters, asked the bartender to shine a spot in their direction, and leveled them with a hard look. The brawl moved into the alley. Jimmy Jay was impressed.

It was almost dawn when they quit playing. Someone bought a last round of drinks, and Jimmy Jay was just thinking about packing up when Inez came over.

“You’re pretty damn good, Jimmy Jay.”

He grinned. “Thanks, Hillbilly. You got a set of pipes yourself.”

She laughed. “We ought to do this again.”

Jimmy Jay suppressed his elation. “I could probably get us a couple of gigs.”

She nodded. “I’d like that.”

He nodded, just looking at her, not quite believing his good fortune.

She offered him a slow sensual smile. “Meanwhile, I got a favor to ask you, baby.”

Jimmy Jay cleared his throat. “Yeah?” His voice cracked anyway.

She turned around, and lifted her hair off the back of her neck. “Help me take off my cross.”

She ended up in his bed that night. And the next. And the night after that. She might only have been eighteen, but she was all heat and fire. All he had to do was touch her and she shivered with pleasure. When he ran his fingers slowly up her leg, starting at that perfectly shaped ankle, past her knee, stopping at the soft, pliant skin of her thigh, she would moan and grab him and pull him into her. Sliding underneath, rocking him hard, like she couldn’t get enough.

“You are my sweet man,” she would whisper when they stopped, exhausted and sweaty. “My sweet, sweet man.”

* * *

They were a team for almost ten years. Inez, the hillbilly, soaring like an angel in one number, moaning like a whore in another; and Jimmy Jay, steadfast and sturdy, setting the beat, making her look good. Inez drove herself hard, and her sophistication grew. Her timing was impeccable. She rolled with the band, but could carry the show. If someone missed a chord, she covered them, and if they messed up their solo, she’d make light of it by singing scat, humming a chorus, or talking to the crowd.

Before long they were headlining at places like the Macomba before it burned down, South Side Johnny’s, and Queenie’s. Their only disagreement was over Chess Records and the two white owners who wanted to sign them. Jimmy Jay was all for it—not only did his idol Willie Dixon work for Chess but a record contract was something he’d dreamed about all his life. Inez kept saying they should hold out for a better deal. So far they had.

Even Calvin’s arrival didn’t slow them down. Calvin was a good baby who turned into a good boy. The same face and nappy hair as his daddy; the high cheekbones and coffee-with-cream skin from his mama. Inez seemed thrilled. She cooed and sang to him all day, but if Jimmy Jay figured she might retire, he figured wrong. Calvin came with them to the clubs on the South and West Side, even to Peoria and East St. Louis. They’d bring blankets and put him to sleep in the back room on a ratty sofa, sometimes the floor. When he was older, Jimmy Jay or Inez would drop him off at school before they went to bed themselves. Jimmy Jay didn’t mind. His own mama had brought him to all the blues joints.

Inez started calling them both her sweet men. Jimmy Jay would grin. They were happy. Real happy. Until the gig at Theresa’s.

* * *

It was late autumn, and a chilly rain had been falling for two days, flooding the viaducts and lots of basements. Jimmy Jay and Inez were headlining at Theresa’s Lounge on South Indiana. The place wasn’t as upscale or as large as Macomba’s, and the regulars, mostly people from the neighborhood, treated the place like home, dancing and talking with the players during the set. Tonight the smell of wet wool mixed with the smoke and booze and sweat.

A promoter from Capitol Records was in town and supposedly coming down that night. Inez was excited—Capitol was huge, much bigger than Chess. Jimmy Jay was glad he’d talked a new lead guitar into playing the gig with them. Buddy Guy had just come up from Baton Rouge, and everyone was saying he was gonna change the face of the blues.

It was a knockout performance. No one missed a chord and the solos kicked. There were no amp or mike problems. Jimmy Jay and the drummer locked into a tight groove, and Buddy Guy’s guitar was by turns brash, angry, and soulful. Inez’s voice was as rich and mellow as thick honey. Even with the lousy weather, the place was packed, everyone swaying, dancing, bobbing their heads. It was like great sex, Jimmy Jay thought. Hot, sticky sex that trembled and throbbed and built, and ended in a long, fiery climax.

During the break, a white guy came up to the stage. He’d been at one of the back tables, smoking cigarettes. With his baby face and eager expression, he couldn’t have been much older than Jimmy Jay. But his tailored suit and hair, slicked back with Brylcream, said he was trying to look well-off. He bought the band a round of drinks and nodded to Jimmy Jay. Then he turned to Inez and started talking quietly but earnestly. She looked from him to Jimmy Jay, then back at him. When she nodded, he took her hand and covered it with thick fingers. She didn’t pull away. After the next set, Jimmy Jay caught them talking behind his back. By the last set, Inez was favoring him with the same smile she’d shot Jimmy Jay the first night at Macomba’s ten years ago.

By the time Inez left town with him a week later, the rain had changed to snow. Jimmy Jay went to fetch Calvin at school. When he got back, she was gone. At first he thought she was at the store, picking up something for dinner, but when she didn’t come home by six, an uneasy feeling swept over him. He checked the closet and drawers. Most of her things were gone. Except her gold cross.

Word got around that she’d run away with Billy Sykes. He hadn’t worked for Capitol, it turned out. He did work in the record business but dropped out of sight after he shorted some men who’d been financing a label with mob money. He reappeared a year later as a promoter. No one could say who his clients were.

That winter Jimmy Jay sat for hours on the bed, running Inez’s gold cross and chain through his fingers. His mother moved in to look after Calvin who, at nine, was just old enough to realize his world had shattered. Word filtered back—someone had seen her in Peoria, someone else heard she was in Iowa. Jimmy Jay tried to play, but he sounded tired and flat. Inez was inextricably bound up in his music and his life; with her gone, it felt like part of his body—worse, his soul—had shriveled up and fallen off.

One day Calvin came in and saw him on the bed, fingering the cross with tears in his eyes.

“Don’t be sad, Daddy.” He came over and gave Jimmy Jay a hug. “I know what to do.”

Jimmy Jay gazed at his son.

“Mama just got lost. She don’t know how to get home. All we got to do is find her.”

Jimmy Jay smiled sadly. “I don’t think she wants to come home, boy.”

“Granny says every mama wants to come home. All we needs do is find her. Once she sees us, it’ll be just fine. I know it. “

Jimmy Jay tried to discourage him, but Calvin clung to his idea like a leech to a man’s skin. He talked so much about finding his lost mama that after a while, his intensity infected Jimmy Jay. Could it really be that simple? Maybe Calvin was right. Sure Inez wanted to be a star, but she had a family. If they went after her, maybe she would realize what she’d given up and come home.

The following spring Billy Sykes brought Inez back to Chicago for a show on the West Side—no one on the South Side would book her. She was singing with some musicians from St. Louis, Jimmy Jay learned. They were staying at the Lincoln Hotel, a small shabby place near the club.

Jimmy Jay waited until Calvin was home from school and had his supper. Then they both dressed in their Sunday best and took the bus to the hotel. Jimmy Jay slipped an old man at the desk a fiver and asked which room Inez Rollins was in. The man pointed up the steps. Jimmy Jay and Calvin climbed to the third floor and knocked on Room 315.

A tired female voice replied, “Yes?”

“It’s me, Inez. And Calvin.”

The door opened and suddenly Inez was there, her body framed in the light.

“Mama!” Calvin ran into her arms.

Her face lit, and she clasped Calvin so tight the boy could hardly suck in a breath. When she finally released him, she turned to Jimmy Jay.

“Hello, Jimmy Jay.”

She looked washed-out, Jimmy Jay thought, although it gave him no pleasure to see it. Gaunt and nervous, too. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and her black mane of hair wasn’t glossy. He thought he saw a bruise on her cheek, but she kept finger-combing her hair over the spot.

“Hello, Inez.” He looked around. “Where’s Sykes?”

“He’s at the club. Getting ready for tonight.”

Jimmy Jay nodded. He got right to the point. “We want you to come home. We are a family. Calvin needs you. So do I.”

At least she had the decency to look ashamed. Her eyes filled. She gazed at Jimmy Jay, then Calvin. Then she shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Remember what I told you the first time we met?”

“You told me a lot of things.”

“I need to sing, Jimmy Jay. And Billy’s gonna make me a star.”

Jimmy Jay saw the determination on her face, as raw as the first time he’d met her. His heart cracked, but he struggled to conceal his grief. He might have lost her, but Calvin didn’t have to. “Take the boy. He needs his mama. I’ll—I’ll pay you for him, ’ifin you want.”

“I’ll think about it.” Inez looked down at Calvin, trailed her fingers through his hair, and smiled. Calvin snuggled closer. “I’ll talk to Billy when he gets back.”

Jimmy Jay nodded. “I’ll leave the boy with you. I’ll pick him up at the club when you start your gig. We can talk more.”

Inez looked sad but grateful. Calvin looked thrilled.

* * *

Two hours later, the band had finished setting up but there was no sign of Inez. Or Billy Sykes. Or Calvin. Jimmy Jay saw the uneasiness on the musicians’ faces, heard one of them say, “Where are those damn fools?”

He retraced his steps to the Lincoln Hotel.

No one was behind the desk when Jimmy Jay got there. He went up the stairs and down the hall. Music blared out from Inez’s room. The radio. Benny Goodman’s orchestra, he thought. He was about to knock on the door when he saw something move at the other end of the hall. Something small. He wheeled around and squinted.

“Calvin? Is that you?”

The figure trotted toward him. Calvin, looking small and lonely.

“What you doin’ out here, son? Where’s your mama?”

Calvin didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

“Is she inside?” Jimmy Jay pointed to the door.

Calvin nodded.

“Is Sykes back?”

Calvin nodded again.

Jimmy Jay turned back to the door, leaned his ear against it. The music was loud. He knocked. No one answered. Probably couldn’t hear him above the music. He knocked again, and when no one responded, started to push against the door.

“Inez, Sykes….Open up!”

Nothing. Except the music.

Jimmy Jay looked both ways down the hall, then threw his weight against the door. It almost gave. He backed up, turned sideways, and rammed himself against it again. This time the door gave, and Jimmy Jay burst into the room.

* * *

He was still holding the gun when the police arrived. Inez’s body was at the foot of the bed, but Sykes’ was half way to the door. A pool of blood was congealing under each of them.

* * *

1982: Chicago

Three weeks later, Jimmy Jay no longer had the strength to get out of bed. Calvin was putting in twelve-hour days. He knew it was an excuse for not dealing with his father, but he couldn’t bear to come home to a place where death hovered in the air.

One night, though, was different. As he trudged inside, Calvin heard music from upstairs. And laughter. When he climbed the steps, he saw that Jeanine had moved their stereo into Jimmy Jay’s room. An old album revolved on the turntable. His father was in bed, eyes closed, snapping his fingers. Jeanine was sitting in the chair smiling too, her head bobbing to the music. Calvin peered at the album cover. Chess Records. Muddy Waters.

His father opened his eyes. “Hey, Calvin.” His face was wreathed in smiles. “There ain’t nothing like Muddy for an old soul. With Willie Dixon and Howlin’ Wolf on back up. Lord, it makes me see the gates of heaven.”

“Don’t talk that way, Dad.”

Jimmy Jay dismissed him with a wave of his hand. When the song came to an end, Calvin lifted the needle and turned off the stereo. Jeanine went downstairs, claiming dishes that needed to be washed.

“Calvin,” his father said, “We can’t put it off no more. It’s time to talk about the arrangements.”

Calvin stiffened. He dug in his pocket for his Luckies, pulled one out and lit it. He sat in the chair. “I don’t know why you want to be buried there.”

His father eyed him. “She was my wife, Calvin. And your mama.”

“She was white trash!” Calvin exhaled a cloud of white smoke. “White trailer trash.”

“Don’t you ever talk that way ’bout your mama!” His father’s voice was unexpectedly strong. “And she was from the mountains of Tennessee, boy,” his father added. “The Smoky Mountains.”

But Calvin wasn’t mollified. “She ran out on us. You and me. She left us. And for what?”

His father just looked at him. Then he turned his head toward the window. “She was my woman,” he said quietly, his burst of energy now dissipated. “And I was her sweet man.”

Calvin felt his stomach pitch. The black hole was opening up again, and all he wanted to do was jump in and let it consume him. He stubbed out his cigarette, letting the window fan clear the smoke. Jeanine ran it all the time, even though it didn’t do much cooling. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead.

“I still miss her, son.”

Calvin swallowed. “Pop, don’t.”

“I ain’t got no regrets.” His father said. “And now, in a little while, if the good Lord is willin’, I’ll see her again.”

Calvin’s throat got hot. He felt tears gather at the back of his eyes. He tried to blink them away hoping his father wouldn’t notice. But he did.

“Why you crying, Calvin? You’re a good son. And Jeanine is a good woman. She been taking good care of me.”

“It’s not that.” The words spilled out.

His father cocked his head. The slight movement seemed to require more energy than he could muster.

“I—I got to tell you something.”

His father’s body might be wasted, but his soul seemed to expand. His eyes grew huge, taking over his entire face. “What’s that, son?”

The black hole widened. Calvin had to take the plunge. “That—that night...” Calvin’s words were heavy and sluggish, as if the hole was already sucking him down. “The night mama died….” Calvin whispered. “It was my fault. I killed Mama.”

An odd look registered on Jimmy Jay’s face.

“After you left …” Calvin’s voice was flat and hard.”Mama sang to me. And hugged me. It felt—so good, so right.”

“Your mama had the voice of an angel.”

Calvin held his hand up to stop him. “Then Billy Sykes come back. He was pissed when he saw me. ‘What’s that kid doing here?’ he yelled. He and Mama—well, she told him she wanted to take me with them. Sykes wouldn’t have none of it. ‘Are you crazy?’ he said. ‘It’s bad enough that you’re a hillbilly. And part Injun. I ain’t taking your nigger kid, too. Get rid of him.’

“Mama begged him. ‘He won’t be no trouble,’ she kept saying and looked at me. ‘Will you, sweet man?’

“But Sykes kept saying no. ‘I put too much of my money in you to throw it away. What are people gonna think when they see you with a nigger kid?’

“Mama and me were on the bed. She was hugging me real tight. ‘I want my son,’ she said.

“‘He’ll be in the way,’ Sykes said. ‘You want to be a star? You got to make a choice. Me or the kid.’”

Jimmy Jay didn’t say anything.

Calvin shuddered. “Mama said, ‘Don’t make me do that. I’m his mama!’”

“’Then I’ll make the choice for you.’ Sykes says. And he pulls out a gun and aims it at my head.’” Calvin looked at the floor.

“What happened then, son?” Jimmy Jay asked, his voice almost as flat as Calvin’s.

Calvin covered his eyes with his hand. “Mama got up from the bed. She looked scared. ‘All right. All right. Put that gun away, Billy. I’ll send Calvin back to his daddy. Just put the gun away. Before someone gets hurt.’ Then she looked from me to Sykes. She didn’t say nothing more.”

Calvin pressed his lips together. He couldn’t look at his father, but he knew his father was staring at him.

“Sykes started to put the gun away, but then—I don’t know, Pop—something came over me. I jumped up and tackled Sykes. Right there in the room.” He hesitated. “The gun went off. And Mama dropped off the end of the bed. Just dropped dead right in front of me.”

His father whispered. “And then?”

“Sykes was like a crazy man. It was like he couldn’t believe what happened. He started screaming, first at Mama. Kept telling her to get up and stop foolin’ around. But she didn’t, Pop. She never got up.” Calvin’s voice cracked. “Then he dropped the gun and started for the door. He was gonna take off! Just leave her there.” Calvin paused again. “I just couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t. When he was half way to the door, I picked up the gun and shot him in the back.”

Calvin felt tears streaming down his face.

Jimmy Jay, his eyes veiled, let out a quiet breath. Calvin heard the hum of traffic through the window above the fan.

After a long time, Calvin said haltingly, “I guess it’s time to go to the police.”

“You won’t do nothing of the kind, son.” His father raised himself on one elbow. “I already done the time. For both of us. And…” His features softened, “I figured out what happened a long time ago.”

“You knew?” Calvin’s stomach turned over. “How?”

“There was no way your mama could do anything to hurt you. Or you her. I knew it had to be an accident. At least with her. And Sykes…well…” Jimmy Jay shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

“You knew? All these years?” Calvin felt his features contort with anguish. “I killed them, and you took the rap for me?”

Jimmy Jay nodded. “And I’d do it all over again.”

Calvin searched his father’s face for an explanation. The silence pressed in.

“You were just a boy,” Jimmy Jay finally said, gazing at him with an expression of infinite sadness, compassion, and love. “I done the time for you both…so you would grow up and turn into her sweet man. Now…” He paused. “We got to get back to that plannin.’ The Lord‘ll be givin’ Inez back her other sweet man, and I need to be ready. We still got a lot of music to make together.”

~~~~~~

About the Author: Libby Fischer Hellmann, an award-winning crime fiction author, has published seven novels. Her most recent, Set the Night on Fire, a stand-alone thriller, goes back, in part, to the late Sixties in Chicago. She also writes two crime fiction series. The first, which includes the hard-boiled Easy Innocence (2008) and Doubleback (2009,) features Chicago P.I Georgia Davis. In addition there are four novels in the Ellie Foreman series, which Libby describes as a cross between “Desperate Housewives” and “24.” Libby has also published over fifteen short stories in Nice Girl Does Noir and has edited the acclaimed crime fiction anthology, Chicago Blues. She has been nominated twice for the Anthony Award and once for the Agatha. Originally from Washington DC, she has lived in Chicago for thirty years and claims they’ll take her out of there feet first. More at her website: libbyhellmann.com

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LADY INVISIBLE

Patricia Rice

Author Note: "Lady Invisible" is a sweet Regency romance previously published in the Mammoth Book of Regency Romance, February 2010.

~~~~~~

Cotswolds, 1816

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife,” quoted Mrs. Higglebottom, the vicar’s wife, reading from the novel on her husband’s desk.

Ill at ease, Major Lucas Sumner stretched his shoulders against the confinement of his civilian attire. He had hoped Reverend Higglebottom might be available for consultation. He did not remember the vicar’s wife being quite so…enigmatic…in her younger days. They’d both grown up here among the rolling hills of Chipping Bedton, but Lucas obviously had been away too long. He must adjust his military sense of order to village idiosyncrasies.

“My fortune is a major’s pension and a small inheritance,” Lucas corrected. “I am in want of a wife because I have a daughter in need of a mother.”

Mrs. H—Lorena, as he’d known her—waved a careless, plump hand. “The extent of your fortune does not matter these days. The village has lost most of its available young men to war and to the city and to marriage. You can have a choice of ladies, from fifteen to fifty, I daresay. The task is to find the right one.”

“Well, yes, that is why I thought I would consult with Edgar—”

“Edgar did not grow up here as we did,” Lorena admonished. “My husband has a worthy, virtuous mind, but not necessarily one connected to the realities of life. Women are far better at matchmaking than men.”

Lucas granted that possibility. He’d married in haste as a young man, and the result was currently uprooting daffodils from graves in the churchyard, if he did not mistake.

With an apology, he rose, pushed up the vicar’s study window, and shouted, “Verity! Stop that at once. Where is your aunt?”

His seven-year-old hoyden waved a bunch of yellow flowers and dashed off. Lucas could only hope it was in the direction of his much put-upon sister.

“I have a lot to account for in this life,” he said, striding back to the chair. “Verity’s mother died far too young, and I’ve neglected my daughter’s upbringing. Now that the war is done and I’ve come home, it’s time I fine a mother for Verity who can teach her to be a lady and turn my bachelor household into a home.”

Lorena nodded and consulted the list she’d evidently drawn up in anticipation of his visit. “Jane Bottoms is still unmarried. She’s a bit long in the tooth, but a very respectable, proper sort.”

Lucas tugged at his neckcloth. He remembered Jane. Thick as a brick, they used to call her. “My daughter needs someone a little more—”

Lorena cut him off, as she seemed to do regularly. “Yes, yes, of course. Verity would tie her to a tree and forget about her. How about Mary Loveless? She’s a bit plump and her mother tends to dictate…” She caught Lucas’s eye and hurriedly looked at the list again.

Impatiently, Lucas snapped the paper from her hand and scanned the names. “Harriet Briggs is still unmarried?” he exclaimed in amazement. “How is that possible? She’s the squire’s daughter and had a dozen beaus before I left, but she was much too young to be interested in any of them.”

Lorena crossed her plump hands on the battered desk. “She is still not interested in any of them. She has not changed since the child you remember. You need a mature, proper lady to teach your daughter manners. Harriet is totally unsuitable.”

This time Lucas was the one to interrupt. “I remember her as a spirited little thing. Perhaps she was a bit of a tomboy riding to the hounds because her father never told her no, but she could argue intelligently. Verity needs a smart woman to guide her.”

Lorena vehemently shook her head. “Now that her mother has passed on and all feminine influence is lost, Harriet has become quite impossible. Rumor has it that she called off two perfectly respectable arrangements while she was in London, even though her looks are nothing to brag about.” She shook her head and cut herself off. “Her father has refused to give her another season.”

Lucas conjured a mental image of Miss Harriet Briggs the last time he’d seen her, when she wasn’t quite sixteen. He had been twenty and sporting his newly purchased officer’s colors. He’d been home to say farewells to family and strutting about in hopes his new uniform would impress the ladies.

The squire’s daughter been sitting on the doorstep of one of the village houses, showing a youngster how to feed a baby pig. She had not been impressed by his uniform but had appreciated his aid when the pig had squirmed free. They’d had a rational discourse on the care and feeding of abandoned farm animals, a conversation that he could not imagine having with any other female of his acquaintance.

Hope surged, despite Lorena’s warning. His household was in dire need of the discipline a lady could bring to it.

“She must be twenty-three or four by now?” In the eight years of his absence Harriet should have grown into her lanky limbs at least. Lucas didn’t think he’d care for a skinny woman, although a mother for Verity should be more important than attractiveness.

Well, perhaps not, or he’d have hired a nanny. So he needed a wife who appealed to him, as well as a mother for Verity. Doubt crept in at the seeming impossibility of that task. Perhaps he should have gone wife hunting in London.

His sister should not have to deal with Verity while he danced through society. There had to be someone local, who would want to live here and raise his child among his family.

“Harriet should be a good age for looking after a child.” A man of action and decision, Lucas rose from the chair. “I don’t think anyone younger would be up to the challenge.”

Lorena looked harassed. “No, really, Lucas. Don’t be foolish. I do not wish to speak ill… Look, here is Elizabeth. She’s an extremely attractive young lady…”

Having made up his mind—and worried that Verity would be digging up the dead next—Lucas was already half way out the door when Lorena leaped up, waving the list. “And Mary Dougal! Mature, quiet, and very lovely…”

“I will consider them all, of course,” Lucas said, making his bow, although he privately thought Elizabeth to be a simpering ninny and Mary Dougal to be a pinchpenny prude. Verity was a bright child. She needed a disciplined woman up to the challenge of taming her. And a patient one to ease them into their new domestic routines.

“I told you not to climb the trees!” he roared after departing the vicarage. He crossed the cemetery in long strides to where his sister stared upward in dismay. He could see the bright blue of his daughter’s gown several limbs from the ground. “Come down from there at once, you little monkey.”

He nearly had failure of the heart when Verity’s small foot slipped and missed the branch below her. Without a second’s thought, he swung up on the lowest limb, heedless of his best trousers, caught Verity by the waist, and lowered her to Maria.

“I have three of my own, Lucas,” his sister called back. “I cannot do this much longer. You should hire a circus trainer.”

“I am amazed you did not hire her out to a zoo before this,” he said in exasperation as the child took off running before he could climb down. “Does she never speak?”

Maria shrugged and followed Verity across the church lawn at a slower pace. “She can talk if she must. Mostly, she does what she wants rather than ask, because she knows she’ll be told no. I have three young boys. It’s all I can do to keep up with them. I hate to burden you, Lucas, but now that you’re home safe and sound, she’s your responsibility.”

“I agree. And someday I hope to repay you if possible. You have been a saint, and I don’t know what we would have done without you.” He caught up with Verity when she stopped to pet a shaggy mutt. She was no longer a toddler for Lucas to heave over his shoulder and carry off as he had the few times he’d been home when she’d been younger. He’d missed almost her entire childhood.

“Your safe return is payment enough,” Maria promised. “If you never go to war again and can provide a home for Verity, that will ensure our happiness.”

* * *

Lucas thought of his sister’s request as he knocked at Squire Briggs’ door the next afternoon. Now that Napoleon had been routed, he would not be going to war again, but that meant he had no other purpose.

His father had died before Lucas could attend Oxford or obtain any type of training. Other than the cottage and the lot it sat on, he had no lands of his own. The only trade he knew was soldiering. It was a problem he must solve after he found a mother for Verity.

Before setting off on this visit to the squire, he’d left his daughter with Maria, had his hair properly barbered, and had his old cutaway coat with the broad lapels brushed and pressed. And still he squirmed like a raw lad on the brink of courtship.

He had been far too young to have encountered Squire Briggs regularly before he’d left for war, so he didn’t know the man well. The unfamiliarity of civilian life threw him off balance, forcing him to recall that he had earned his major’s stripes and fought battles far worse than the encounter ahead.

A maid led Lucas inside to a fusty parlor in dire need of a lady’s care. He frowned over that. Even if Lady Briggs had been deceased for some years, should not Miss Briggs have directed the servants in cleaning? Or at least replaced the cat-tattered pillows?

Cat hair was everywhere. He declined the maid’s offer of a seat.

Lucas liked to do his own reconnaissance and had made several inquiries before setting out on this call. From all reports, Squire Briggs was a hearty man who loved his horses and his hounds. His lands were fertile and well-tended, and his tenants spoke well of him. Lack of funds or servants did not explain this lack of order.

The tenants had spoken well of the squire’s daughter, as well, but with a certain degree of caution. Lucas trusted that was out of respect, but Lorena’s warning rang in his memory.

He heard the squire roaring at a rambunctious hound somewhere deeper inside the house and smiled to himself, thinking taming a dog was very much like taming Verity. He’d nearly broken his neck falling over her this morning when she’d darted out from under a table on her hands and knees.

“Sumner!” the squire boomed as he entered the parlor. “Good to see you home, lad! Major now, ain’t ye? Made the town proud, you did. Shame your father is no longer about to brag on you.” He pounded Lucas on the back and gestured toward the door. “C’mon back to m’study. We’ll have a bit of brandy and celebrate your return.”

Brandy was an excellent idea. Lucas thought he needed fortifying before he explained his presence. He was starting to think he should have sought out Harriet first, but he’d forgotten the protocol, if he’d ever known it. How did one woo a lady without going through her parent? He was no dab hand at courtship.

Outside, several hounds gave voice at once, and a woman shouted sharp commands.

The squire ignored the commotion, reaching for a decanter on a dusty tray. Cat hair seemed less prevalent here, Lucas noticed. An ancient basset lay sprawled and snoring in front of the empty grate.

“You’re a military man. What do you know of hounds and hunting?” the squire inquired, handing Lucas a glass.

“A great deal, as it happens, sir. I’ve spent the better part of these last years on horseback, chasing enemies wilier than foxes.”

Outside, the dogs howled louder, and a screech resembling a brawl between penned pigs and enraged hawks ensued. The woman’s shouts escalated.

Lucas had begun to wonder if he shouldn’t investigate, when Briggs threw open a sash of his double study window and shouted, “Harriet, get them demmed hounds back in the pen where they belong and shoot the peacocks!”

Lucas blinked. Things had changed mightily if one shouted at young ladies these days and ordered them to perform a stablehand’s duty.

In coming here, he’d had some vision of a benevolent, ladylike Harriet gliding into the room carrying a tea tray and somehow divining why he’d called. After all, Lorena had said he was an eligible catch, and the squire’s daughter was the most eligible female around. The purpose of his call should be obvious.

Perhaps he should have listened a little more closely to Lorena.

A childish shriek raised the hair on the back of his neck. Lucas dashed to the other window and threw open the second sash.

“Dashitall, Harry, I told you to get them hounds back in the barn!” the squire was shouting in frustration while Lucas scanned the grounds for some sight of the origin of the childish scream. “We’ve got a guest! You need to get back in here.”

A pair of peahens and a cock flapped around three baying beagles, who were racing around the base of an oak as if they’d treed a squirrel.

Surrounded by the circling hounds and birds, a slender female in honey-colored riding habit, with the skirt scandalously rucked up to reveal her tall boots, and her jacket missing, smacked the snout of the nearest dog. Lucas couldn’t hear what she was saying, but the animals crouched down and wagged their tails in anticipation of some treat.

The wildly colorful birds scattered to alight on various bits of shrubbery.

The young lady turned her uncovered head upward to study the tree’s branches, and Lucas’s gut lurched. His gaze followed hers.

The child he had thought he’d left securely at his sister’s house was instead perched on the lowest limb of the oak, swinging her toes and watching the dogs, probably with interest, if he knew his daughter. The earlier scream had been for effect. Verity was fearless.

“Verity Augusta, get down from there this instant!” Lucas roared, heedless of the squire’s startled reaction.

“That your young one?” Briggs asked. “What the devil is she doing in my tree?”

“As if I know what goes through her mind,” Lucas muttered, pulling his head back in the window. “I’d best pry her down and take her home.”

“Harry can do it.” Briggs stuck his head back out the window again and roared, “Harriet, bring the girl inside to her papa.”

The half-dressed lady sent her father what appeared to Lucas to be a look of exasperation, before crouching down to scratch the hounds and sending them scampering toward the kennel.

Verity, on the other hand, climbed to her feet and appeared to be considering the next highest branch.

Lucas didn’t think shouting at the females had put a dent in their behavior.

If he’d had an undisciplined soldier who disobeyed him like that… He’d already confined Verity to quarters without result, and he couldn’t court martial her. And he’d never resort to whipping. How did one command loyalty and obedience from a female?

As if in answer to his guest’s unspoken question, the squire poured their brandies and handed Lucas one. “Never understand women. Contrary lot, don’t know what’s good for them. Don’t suppose you’ve come to take Harry off my hands, have you? Good girl, but damned if I can make her see sense.”

Lucas took a healthy swallow of his drink. Did he need two contrary females on his hands? He thought not, but he was a man who required information before making a life-altering decision. Discipline could be instilled in anyone, eventually.

This wife-getting business was more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“After all these years, I can’t say that I know Miss Briggs well,” Lucas replied circumspectly. “It would be a pleasure to become reacquainted.”

Briggs snorted again and leaned back in his chair. “I offered a handsome dowry, told everyone that she will inherit all I own someday, and she still garnered only two offers in London. And she turned those down. Take her off my hands, and you’ll be the son I never had.”

Studying the lady’s attire, Lucas suffered an uneasy notion that Harriet wanted to be the son her father never had.

* * *

Harriet Briggs tilted her head back to admire the small girl straddling the oak branch above her head. “The dogs didn’t frighten you, did they?” she inquired with interest.

The child shook her mop of orange curls vigorously. “I like trees.”

“And is there some reason you like this particular tree?”

The child didn’t answer, but Harriet had a strong suspicion the reason stood in her father’s study window. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing his bottle-green swallow-tail coat as if it were a military uniform, the gentleman had arrived only shortly before the child. Both had walked, so they could not live too far away.

Harriet had seen the child in church on Sundays with Maria Smith and her brood of boys. She’d been told the girl was the boys’ cousin, but Harriet and Maria were a decade apart in age and never close, so she didn’t know more than gossip.

As far as Harriet knew, though, Maria’s only sibling was Lucas Sumner. She tried to find a resemblance to Lucas in the child’s oval face, but it had been too many years since she’d seen her childhood idol. She was long past the age of believing in human deities anyway. Children developed foolish fantasies, and she was firmly grounded in reality these days.

Blifil, the lame kitten, suddenly tumbled from the boxwoods, chasing after Partridge, her tame squirrel. The squirrel dashed up her skirt and into the tree, much to the child’s startlement. Harriet prayed the girl didn’t fall before she got her down.

“Do you have a name?” Harriet asked, ignoring her father’s bellows from the window. Really, he ought to know by now that she wouldn’t shout back like a field hand.

“My name is Verity. You’re Miss Harriet, aren’t you?” the child asked, proving she was observant for her age.

“I am. If you climb down from there, we can have tea and biscuits. Do you like kittens?” She swept Blifil from the ground before he could follow the squirrel.

“My papa will make me go home if I climb down. He told my Aunt Maria he needs a wife to take care of me, and I want to see who he picks.”

She stopped there, as if that said everything. Which it did, Harriet supposed, fighting a shiver of expectation and annoyance. Lucas had always been smart. He would seek out the wealthiest available woman in the neighborhood before looking at the less eligible or the more beautiful. She was simply surprised he wasn’t looking in London instead of Chipping Bedton.

She supposed she would have to watch the last of her childhood illusions crumble. Major Sumner had to be able to see her from the window, so she was probably missing the show already. Would he bluntly express dismay at her unseemly attire and ragged manners? Or bite back his thoughts and just tighten his lips in disapproval over a mature young lady who displayed such inappropriate behavior? She had little entertainment anymore, so perhaps she could drum some up at the major’s expense.

“I’ll tell your papa you’re my guest so he can’t send you home,” she told the child. “I’m a bit peckish and would like a sandwich with my tea, I believe. Do you think I might help you down?”

The child considered the suggestion, then finally nodded. “I climb like a monkey, my papa says.” Before Harriet was prepared, Verity caught the branch she sat on and swung her feet loose.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

YOUR SWEET MAN

LADY INVISIBLE