Letters from Peaceful Lane (New Americana 3)

CHAPTER 1

Branson, Missouri October

Alone on the balcony, Allison Caldwell watched the shadows deepen across Table Rock Lake. Even in the fading daylight, the hills that framed the water burned with autumn color—the flames and crimsons of black gum and bittersweet, the scarlets and golds of maple, ash, oak, and hickory, all at the peak of their fall glory.

In the darkening twilight, lights glowed from the distant boat marina, blurring into mist as a bank of fog moved in over the lake. A gull winged its way shoreward. A sport fishing boat, trailing a wake like a silver ribbon, passed and vanished from sight.

Below the trail that passed the house, a fresh breeze rippled the water. It tugged at Allison’s long diamond earrings and loosened tendrils from her upswept honey-blond hair. She raised a manicured hand to control the damage but made no move to go back inside to the party.

Behind her, on the other side of the French doors, her guests were sampling pâté with truffles, caviar, tiny Bavarian sausages, and a rich selection of vintage wines. Fifteen minutes from now they’d be sitting down to a dinner of black bass on cabbage, caramelized plantation shrimp, pea tendrils, and walnut toffee tartlets. Allison had put weeks of work and planning into this forty-seventh birthday dinner for her husband, to say nothing of the small fortune the caterer had cost. But the result had been worth the effort. From the food to the décor, from the mellow piano jazz CDs that Burke liked, to her own chic little black Armani dress—everything was perfect.

So why did the thought of going back inside make her want to lean out past the rail and puke all over the hydrangeas?

Filling her lungs with the moist air, Allison struggled to calm her nerves. She would have to rejoin the party soon or there’d be even more talk. But every time she turned toward the doors, the snippets of conversation she’d overheard returned to stab her in the back.

“So, Burke’s got himself a little trophy wife. How old is she? Thirty, maybe thirty-five? Lord, what would Kate say? The poor dear must be turning over in her grave!”

“And just look at this place! That leather couch alone must have cost three thousand dollars. The woman’s going through his money like a cat through a tin of sardines. Let’s hope Burke had the sense to draw up a prenup.”

“I’ll wager he’s going to need one. They got married last year—you remember that fairy-tale wedding at Top of the Rock. How much longer do you give it before they’re talking through their lawyers? Six months?”

“A year, tops. Care to lay a little bet?”

“Fifty bucks? You’re on!”

Allison willed herself not to cry. Tears were hell on mascara, and the last thing she wanted was to walk back into the party with raccoon eyes. But she’d tried so hard to make Burke’s friends like her. All that effort, and now this. She might as well have spat in their judgmental faces!

“Here you are.” The strains of “My Funny Valentine,” from the Ahmad Jamal Trio CD, drifted through the French doors as Burke came out onto the balcony. At the sight of her rigid back, he turned and closed the latch softly behind him. The music fell to a hush that blended with the clink of crystal and the muffled sound of voices.

“Is everything all right, honey?” She felt his big, strong hands slide around her waist. Allison had fallen in love with those hands, just as she’d fallen in love with his cobalt eyes, his close-clipped platinum hair and the dimple in his jutting chin. She hadn’t been looking for an older man, let alone a wealthy one; but from the moment he’d stepped into her small California gift gallery to buy a silver mermaid charm for his daughter, she’d felt as if they were meant to be together.

What had gone wrong?

“Allison?” He drew her back against him, his lips brushing her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She nodded, not wanting to spoi

l things for him. “Just getting a breath of air.”

“Tired?”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Quite a shindig you’ve put together. The gang’s impressed, I can tell.”

Sure, they are. Just ask them about your little trophy wife. “I wanted your birthday to be special,” she said.

“Any night with you is special.” He pulled her closer, his arms moving to cloak her shoulders. The scent of the expensive men’s cologne she’d bought stole into her senses. She knew he’d only worn it to please her, but she still liked it. “I’d have settled for burgers at Stumpy’s and an early bedtime,” he murmured against her hair. “You know that, don’t you, Kate?”

Allison went cold in his arms. It had been six years since Burke’s first wife had died of cancer. Still, when he was distracted, hers was the name that popped out of his mouth. Allison knew it wasn’t intentional. Often, like now, he didn’t even seem aware of what he’d said. But one would think, after so much time . . .

She pulled away from him. “We’d better go back inside. Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.”

“I can’t stay for dinner.” He blocked her path to the doorway. “That’s what I came out here to tell you. I just got a call from Max at the theater. The Mayweather Family Gospel Singers are opening tonight. Two hours before the show, Mrs. Mayweather found out her husband was cheating. They had a big blowup. She blacked his eye, and now she’s refusing to perform with him. The audience is getting restless. If there’s no show, they’ll be wanting their money back. I’ve got to drive into town and straighten out the mess.”

“But surely it can wait till after dinner! It’s your birthday! There’ll be a cake—”

“It’ll have to keep, Allison. I’ve got to go now. Tell our friends I said to enjoy my birthday party. They’ll understand.”

“But will your wife?” The words burst out before Allison could stop them, gushing like blood from a ruptured artery. “When you proposed, you talked about all the good times we’d have together. But all you seem to think about is that blasted theater business of yours! Lately I feel as if I don’t even exist for you!” She blinked away a scalding tear. “Damn it, Burke, sometimes you don’t even remember to call me by the right name!”

He stepped backward, his mouth a grim, flat line. “I don’t have time for this, Allison. Not now.”

“So when will you have time?” she demanded, catching the sleeve of his dinner jacket. “Tomorrow? Next month? How about never?”

“Don’t be a child.” Jerking loose, he turned and walked away. As he opened the door, the lush piano notes of “The Second Time Around” drifted into the twilight.

For an instant Burke seemed to hesitate. Then he strode across the threshold and closed the door with a click, leaving her alone.

Allison’s stomach clenched as she heard the garage door opening and, seconds later, the growl of Burke’s 1988 Porsche Carrera backing down the driveway onto Peaceful Lane. He drove that old car like a testosterone-charged teenager, especially when he was upset; and that twisting highway between here and downtown Branson could be dangerous at night, especially in bad weather.

She should have told him to be careful. But then, what difference would it have made? Burke never paid any heed to her concerns. She could only pray he wouldn’t slide off the road or cut too close around a blind curve and meet a truck coming the other way.

Smoothing her hair, she turned back toward the lighted French doors. She had no choice except to go back inside and put on a cheerful face for Burke’s friends. But she knew there’d be talk, especially after the way he’d gone roaring off.

Burke had said they’d understand, and maybe they would. He’d worked for decades, first as a theatrical agent, scouting the country for talent, and then as CEO of a company that included the agency, some real estate holdings, and the American Heartland Theater, which had earned a solid reputation in Branson, a town whose lifeblood was wholesome family entertainment. Guarding that reputation was all-important to him. But would it have killed the man to wait an hour before racing to defuse a crisis—especially when his presence at dinner meant so much to her?

Forcing a brittle smile, she opened the door and stepped back into the great room. Heads swiveled toward her, then jerked self-consciously away. Conversations that had stalled at her appearance resumed on a stilted note. Most of the couples at the party had known Burke for more than twenty years. They’d known Kate as well. Some of them, especially the women, behaved as if Kate were still alive and Allison was an interloper who’d broken up Burke’s first marriage.