12. Beauty & the Beast
Chapter 12
Beauty & the Beast
I ’m nearly through the door to the chateau’s library when I realize Honey didn’t follow me. She remains at the foot of the stairs, her expression a mess of puzzle pieces that don’t fit together—sadness flickers in her eyes, her nostrils flare with anger, and resolve keeps her lips in a thin line.
Her full, pretty, pink sassy lips.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
Jaw set, she says, “I should pack.”
“Honey, take your foot off the gas.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps.
“Come in here and I’ll tell you.”
With one hand on the banister, she seems to argue with herself. It’s not that I want to boss her around. No, she does plenty well managing herself like a C-suite executive. I’ve learned that if I’m subtle, I won’t get her attention. She’ll speed away before I have a chance to remind her that not every piece of news is bad news.
“This isn’t the scene of a crime,” I say, eager to show her something I think she’ll like.
She practically cackles.
“Please come here,” I repeat.
Arms across her chest, she stomps over.
“You were a real delight as a teenager, weren’t you?”
“Ha ha,” she says dryly.
With Honey, I soften, want to smooth her rough edges and show her that not everything needs to be a battle for the survival of the fittest. It’s another thing I cannot explain when it comes to this woman.
“What?” she snaps.
I was staring, gazing at her. Her eyes are beautiful, but they’re not her daughter’s. Honey might come across as tough as nails on the outside, but beneath all the armor is pure sugar ... and I’d be a crazy liar if I said I didn’t want a taste.
I sweep the library door open and flick on the light.
The room stands empty with two large windows opposite the door.
“Before you say anything snide or smart—” I tap on my phone and show her digital renderings of the library I commissioned and plan to have built.
She tilts her head and then squints. “Is that a rolling ladder on the bookshelf?”
“Sure is.”
Honey Hamilton is a limited edition, a one-of-a-kind and I want her to have something all her own. After seeing the books on her shelves ruined from the storm, I had the idea to make this a place for her to escape ... and yes, that means her living here for as long as she wants—even though I’m heading back west soon.
She peeks at the design again. “Those chairs look comfortable.”
“Great for sitting and reading.”
She snorts a laugh. “Lucky you.”
The words I want to say stick on my tongue. I’d originally intended to use this town as a revenge plot. Emberly wanted to distance herself from this little backwater bayou. Getting the country club elites whispering about her connection to a place like this would take her down a few pegs. But Hogwash is an underdog and I want to see it succeed. With that came the urge to make the chateau Honey and Leonie’s home.
She rejects pity, but also generosity. Edging toward the door, she turns off the light, submerging us in darkness. Deprived of my sense of sight, less than an arm’s length away, she radiates warmth. Her honeysuckle scent fills my nose. My pulse gets messy and my thoughts turn foggy—not a single one is clear.
Time to walk it off. Breathe. Get my head on straight.
I sit down in the living room and sling my arm across the back of the couch, which has also doubled as my bed, but I fold up my sheets every morning.
Honey remains standing. “You said you’re leaving.”
“Duty calls. I have a short-term assignment back in Nevada. But I’ll supervise the renovations from there. Meanwhile, you’re welcome to stay.”
I don’t know what the future of my career looks like, but I’d be an idiot to turn down Leyton’s offer.
She cocks her hip and plants her hand on it. “If?—?”
“If what?” I ask.
“There’s a catch. You want me to do something in exchange.”
I tip my head from side to side. “Well, not exactly, though it would be great if you were my eyes on the ground. Not in a hands-on capacity. But since you’re familiar with the space—” I was going say she could oversee the workers, make sure they’re not slacking off on renovations but she interrupts.
“You have no idea.”
I pat the spot next to me. “Tell me.”
“It’s a long story.”
“My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”
As if I twisted her arm instead of inviting her to join me on the leather piece of furniture, she stalks over and plops down, feet planted on the floor, elbows folded across her knees.
Silence threads between us.
“Go on,” I coax.
“It’s not that long a story. Actually.”
“You don’t have to tell me. But you can tell me about yourself.”
“Pfft. Yeah. Okay. I’m sure you want to hear that.”
“I do.”
She peers at me over her shoulder. “I’m Honey Hamilton. Brown eyes. Five nine. I don’t know how much I weigh. Probably not enough. Ironically, I run the Laughing Gator Grille. Yes, I have a police record. But I was only guilty a few of the times.”
I smile. “Is that so? But you’re so sweet.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
I click my tongue in disagreement. “You left out a few things. You’re a history buff.”
She slackens as if touched that I noticed. “True. I won the Miss Louisiana Pageant because I recited Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.”
“Ironic. Let’s hear it.”
She stuffs down a smile. “What?”
“Recite it to me.”
She shakes her head. “I?—”
“I don’t know those historical words by heart, but Lincoln didn’t start it with I .” I lean closer.
To my surprise, she doesn’t shift away.
“That’s just it, Honey Hamilton. Brown eyes. Five nine. Just right weight—though I’ll make you dinner anytime. Owner of the Laughing Gator Grille. I’ve only known you for a month, but so far, nothing you do starts with I . You’re a you person. You help others.”
Something ripples across her features as she takes a deep breath, then begins the famous speech by President Lincoln.
We’re both quiet when she concludes. She faltered once or twice but got right on track. I can’t help but believe those words also guided her life—what may have been a tough one. A life she’s tried to drive away from but can’t seem to get past the town limits without being pulled back.
“That was amazing. Profound.”
“You can thank Abe.”
I chuckle. “What else don’t I know about you?”
“Everything.” Her eyes sparkle.
I instantly regret agreeing to the job offer from Leyton. I want to sit on this couch until I know everything there is to know about this woman. But she’d never tell me. I have to witness it. Live it. Despite being able to recite all two hundred and sixty-eight words of that address, Honey is an action person, which I suppose is at the heart of what Lincoln intended.
I open the coffee table and take out a deck of cards. “Found packs of these all over the house. Looks like Tickle liked to play a round. When on overnights at the firehouse, we’ll sometimes play poker.”
“Tickle was a gambler. Poker was his main game. A real brigand .” With her accent, it sounds like Honey says brie gone .
“What does that mean?”
“He was a bandit, wily.”
I glance around the room, imagining the man who left riddles on his tombstone filling this space. “How do you know?”
“This is Hogwash Holler. Telling stories is what we do.”
“It’s a shame his descendants didn’t keep up with this place. I’ll change that.”
“But you’re not a Tickle.”
“Does that matter?”
Her shoulder lifts like the residents of this town had been waiting for someone with that last name to swoop in and save it. “I suppose not.”
“Do you play cards?” I shuffle them between my hands.
She scoffs like I just asked if she lives and breathes. “Yeah, of course.”
“I had to teach Leyton—who later became Captain at my fire station—how to play War. So not everyone comes equipped with card playing skills.”
“We call that one Bataille .” She pronounces it bah tie , which suddenly makes me hungry for Pad Thai.
“I’ll be right back.”
I go to the kitchen and return with a bowl of peanuts and two bottles of root beer from the Penny Gamble. I’m not trying to trick Honey into telling me anything or wager her Porsche in a game. No, I just want to spend time with her.
I shuffle the cards properly and then deal them before giving her half the peanuts.
She chuckles. “Are we betting with these?”
“I’m short on change.” But glad I didn’t have that quarter on my first day here.
We play three card poker and then she teaches me bourrè which is similar to spades. Eventually, we graduate to baccarat. As the peanut piles grow and diminish, each of us winning and losing at different points, I learn that Hogan Tickle had a daughter who had a son who then had a son. I’m about to up the ante and go still, my handful of peanuts hovering.
“Are you sure about that genealogy?”
She gives one sharp nod. “Didn’t you see the family tree on the gathering room wall?”
I shake my head.
Honey wears a wicked grin. “After I win, I’ll show you.”
“Oh, you’re not winning,” I counter, putting on my game face.
But she smokes me.
After a suitable amount of gloating, Honey says, “Do you still want to see the family tree? Could be something you want to preserve during the restoration.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t notice it.”
Honey leads me to what she calls the gathering hall.
She tugs aside the tapestry on the wall. Underneath, the plaster is chipped, but the edge of a painting featuring foliage comes into view. I go into the hall, grab a stool, and pull the tapestry down.
Honey gasps. “That canaille .” This one she pronounces cah nie .
“Cat night?”
“No, that sneak. She—” Lips tight, Honey points.
I lower from the stool and see someone spray-painted a bunch of red blobs that kind of look like bloated, broken, and drippy heart shapes on the wall.
I scratch my head, recalling the deputy’s comment the first time we were here. “Do you mean he ? Did Jesse do that?”
“No, it was my cousin. She fancied herself the Queen of Hearts. My mother always reminded her that she was merely a princess. Mama wore the crown in our crime family.”
“You come from a criminal family?” I clear my throat, wishing I’d sounded more measured.
She looks me straight in the eyes. “Of course I do.”
I’m not sure how, of course, fits into that statement or her background, but I cannot help but watch as she traces her fingers over the paint.
“You can still see a bit here and over here. Hogan is at the top with his wife, Eloise, not to be confused with Penny. She came first. After Eloise died, well, I guess it was a bridge they couldn’t cross. Hogan and Eloise did have a daughter, though.” She points to the spot where her name would’ve been. “Mireille married a steamship captain who later came to own a fleet. I imagine Tickle was pleased about that. They had a son shortly before Tickle passed away. His dying wish was for the Tickle name to carry on.”
“Was his wish granted?”
“Their son, Blair, had a hyphen, which wasn’t common in 1959, but yeah. Blair got married and divorced but died shortly thereafter.”
“Did they keep the hyphen?”
“No, which is probably why this property somehow ended up in your hands rather than remaining in the Tickle family.”
That means my ex must’ve originally been a Tickle, even though her last name was Jacobi. I peer at the faint family tree, wondering if I’ll see her information. It’s not here unless it’s under the spray paint. My thoughts snag on what Honey said about Hogan’s line going daughter, son, son—my ex would’ve come along after the second son, but that doesn’t make sense. Then again, Tickle didn’t leave his fortune to his direct descendants, so who knows how the estate shook out in probate.
I’m far more interested in Honey’s history. “So, how do you fit into all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem to know a lot.”
“No more than anyone else in Hogwash.” But Honey’s neck stiffens, and I can’t help but wonder what cards she keeps close to her vest.