Baroque and Desperate Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Come in, dear,” she cooed. “I thought y’all might like a little lunch before y’all leave.”
    â€œIt would be a pleasure, ma’am.”
    I glared at my progenitor.
    â€œSweet tea or plain?” Mama chirped obliviously.
    â€œSweet.” Tradd’s golden eyes were already busily scanning the living room, no doubt judging Mama, and by extension me, by her 1950s decor.
    Mama seated us at the dining room table, Tradd on her right. C.J. on her left. I was, of course, at the opposite end, far out of kicking range. In all fairness, it was a delicious lunch and my mother behaved herself admirably until dessert.
    â€œSo,” she said, adding an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream to Tradd’s cobbler, “do you have any older brothers?”
    â€œMama, please,” I hissed.
    Mama turned and gave me a wide-eyed, innocent look. “Not for you, dear, for me.”
    Tradd grinned, sending roaches three blocks away scrambling for the cover of darkness. “No, ma’am. Just two younger brothers. Harold’s married and Rupert is—”
    â€œSpoken for!” C.J. looked like she was ready to tussle it out with Mama in the remains of the pork roast and mashed potatoes.
    I wanted to die. “Ladies,” I wailed, “you’re embarrassing the man.”
    Tradd waved a bronze hand. Considering the weight of the gold tennis bracelet around his wrist, it was a wonder he could lift it at all.
    â€œNo, ma’am, I’m not embarrassed. I hear thiskind of thing all the time. Guess it goes with the territory.”
    â€œIs that so?” I crammed a spoonful of cobbler in my mug before I could say anything that would jeopardize my participation in the ridiculous treasure hunt his grandmother was hosting. It was no wonder Pretty Boy drove a convertible. A regular car couldn’t accommodate his swollen head.
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    Three hours in a convertible may sound glamorous, but it is guaranteed to produce a month of bad-hair days. Thank heavens my dark hair is short, and reasonably manageable under normal circumstances. Poor C.J. was cursed with fine, dish-water-blond hair that she keeps shoulder length. Even by the time she arrived at Mama’s she looked like she’d dipped her head in oil before sticking her finger into a light socket.
    All that sun and wind is not kind to one’s skin either. C.J. was as red as the ink on my bank account, and I could feel my own skin coarsen by the mile. I was beginning to entertain the possibility that Tradd Maxwell was really a sixteen-year-old boy under that tan, and Susan was on to something.
    As for Dmitri, the poor dear had taken refuge under the seat before leaving Mama’s driveway, and was clinging to the floorboard for dear life. Either that, or he had jumped out unnoticed, and was already soliciting a new mistress. I didn’t have the nerve to check.
    â€œWould you mind putting the top down, dear?” I wasn’t about to look like a California raisin five years in advance of my fiftieth birthday.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe top!” I shouted. “Would you please put it down?”
    Tradd grinned, shrugged, and pressed the pedal even closer to the metal.
    It was pointless to argue. I cinched my seat belt even tighter and prayed that Jaguars didn’t have airbags on the passenger side. I ate all my fruits and veggies as a child, so it is not my fault I am vertically challenged.
    Just before we got to Georgetown, about six miles south of the junction of federal Route 701 and state Route 52, Tradd turned left onto a dirt road. The land was low and flat, the earth sandy. All around us were woods, predominantly pine, but with a notable sprinkling of magnolia, cherry laurel, and oak. We were still miles from the ocean, but already I could smell a change in the air.
    The Jaguar slowed and conversation became possible for the first time since leaving Rock Hill. Tradd Maxwell was due an earful of