“Go to your room,” she said in a low voice that brooked no argument “I’ll deal with you as soon as your grandmother’s guests have gone.”
“But all my stuff is still over at Nick’s.”
“And it will stay there until tomorrow,” she replied flatly. “Go to your room, Michael. Now.”
He turned on one sneaker and headed for the stairs.
Savannah had to take a deep breath for composure before she walked into the living room. She immediately spotted Kit sitting on the sofa, easily charming an entire roomful of women who looked utterly delighted that a Hollywood celebrity had favored them with his presence.
So he hadn’t been a hallucination, after all, Savannah thought dazedly. He really was here.
How on earth had he found her? And, more importantly, why?
“Is everything all right, Savannah dear?” Lucy Bettencourt asked, her tone sweet, her eyes too eager.
Savannah forced a smile. “Yes, everything’s fine, thank you. I’m afraid Michael and his friends got into some mischief, but it’s all been taken care of.”
Lucy shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I warned you about that Nick Whitley,” she murmured. “The boy is headed for trouble, and you don’t want him taking your son with him.”
Several of her friends gravely nodded agreement. Others looked embarrassed for Savannah’s sake. Mildred Peeples, who happened to be Nick Whitley’s great-aunt, looked torn between being worried and taking offense.
Barbara Mitchell, one of Savannah’s favorite neighbors, swiftly changed the subject
“Mr. Pace was just telling us how the two of you met on your vacation,” Barbara said, with a quick smile at Kit.
To Savannah, it seemed that every expression in the room turned speculative. She knew people had thought it odd that she’d taken off for a Caribbean island by herself, leaving her family at home. They simply hadn’t understood that she’d desperately needed to be entirely on her own for the first time in…well, ever.
“I explained that you’d invited me to Campbellville for my research on small Southern towns,” Kit said quickly, and Savannah wondered if anyone in the room suspected that he was lying through his pretty white teeth.
“Can you imagine? Our little Campbellville as the setting for a bestseller.” Annalee Grimes shook her bluish-gray head in amazement. “’Wouldn’t that be something?”
Kit smiled. “I wouldn’t actually use Campbellville, of course,” he corrected. “My books are a series about law enforcement officers in a not-too-distant future, battling futuristic criminals. I thought it would be interesting to create a futuristic Deep South. I’m just here to soak up some atmosphere.”
The ladies listened intently to his explanation, some looking a bit bewildered, most fascinated.
Ernestine glanced from Savannah to Kit, then pointedly at her watch. “Goodness,” she said rather loudly, “it’s getting late, isn’t it?”
Barbara Mitchell promptly rose from her seat. “It certainly is. We’d better be going.”
Lucy Bettencourt showed a tendency to want to linger. Barbara didn’t give her a chance. Within ten minutes, she had purses distributed, empty dessert dishes back to their rightful owners, and the ladies of the auxiliary on their way out the door. Bless her heart, Savannah thought fervently. She was definitely sending flowers to Barbara at the earliest opportunity.
The last guest finally departed, leaving only family—and Kit—in the McBride house. Savannah noted that Miranda was staring at Kit as if she were waiting for him to grow a second head.
Ernestine did not look pleased.
“What in the world,” she demanded, “was Michael doing, to be brought home by the police?”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Savannah answered calmly. “Mother, Miranda, could you give me a moment to speak privately with my guest, please?”
“Oh, man. I can’t believe you know Christopher Pace.” Miranda turned her dazed eyes onto her mother. “Michael’s going to go crazy. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Avoiding Kit’s eyes, Savannah motioned for her daughter to leave the room. “Go wash your face,” she said. “It’s almost bedtime.”
Miranda seemed tempted to argue, looking longingly at Kit, but must have sensed from her mother’s voice that this was not the time. Reluctantly, she left the room.
“Michael’s upstairs, Mother,” Savannah added to Ernestine. “Maybe you should have him tell you what he did tonight.”
Having to confess to his socially conscious grandmother would be almost as serious a punishment as the grounding Savannah planned for him, she knew. Michael would hear the old lecture about not embarrassing the family, about guarding his reputation in the community, about taking pride in his good name. Heaven only knew Savannah had heard that talk often enough while growing up—not that it had stopped her from humiliating her mother, she thought grimly.