Free Mimosa Grove by Dinah McCall Page B

so I’m not divulging any confidential info. He’s not really Peter McNamara. His real name is Dimitri Chorkin. He’s a Soviet plant, left over from the Cold War.”
    Laurel was hearing his voice, but she’d lost the train of thought to a growing unease. The more he talked, the more convinced she became that her father was in some sort of peril.
    “Dad.”
    He kept talking, talking, talking.
    “Dad.”
    “…so they’ve confiscated everything in the downtown gallery and…”
    “Daddy!”
    Robert flinched. “What?”
    Her heart was pounding, and she felt sick to her stomach.
    “Do you have to take that case?”
    He frowned. “Of course I do. An assignment is an assignment, and you know that. It’s my job.”
    She didn’t know what form it might take, but she knew something bad was going to happen if he persisted.
    “But couldn’t you pass on it if you wanted to?”
    His frown deepened—his dissatisfaction transferring itself to his voice.
    “But I don’t want to.”
    Laurel felt the same way she’d felt the day her mother had died, but she didn’t know why.
    “Dad, I think something bad is going to happen.”
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Laurel. Don’t you ever stop?”
    His anger was expected, but it was the derisive tone in his voice that hurt most of all.
    “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said softly. “Have a nice day.” Then she quietly laid the phone back in the cradle and convinced herself she’d been imagining things. Her hands were shaking, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “Well, that was a mistake.”
    Marie walked into the old library just as Laurel was hanging up the phone.
    “You talkin’ to me, sweet child?”
    Laurel turned around, then stood for a moment, looking at the love and approval on the old woman’s face. Calling her father might have been a mistake, but coming here was not.
    She smiled through tears. “No, ma’am, but I should have been. It would have made the morning much better.”
    “You come with me. I’ll take that frown off your face for sure,” Marie said. “I got your breakfast all ready. Mamárie will make you better and that’s a fact.”
    “Mamárie?”
    Marie looked slightly embarrassed, but she still reached up to caress the side of Laurel’s face.
    “I never had me a daughter like Marcella did, but when she was little, your mama, Phoebe, used to call me Mamárie. You know, Mama Marie, only she said it short, like babies often do. I sure miss Miz Marcella…and her little Phoebe, too. It’s gonna be real nice having you here. Almost like old times.”
    Laurel’s eyes filled with tears as she gave Marie a quick hug.
    “I haven’t had anyone to call Mama since I was twelve.”
    Marie could tell that something had disturbed Laurel’s morning, but she was determined she would be the one to put it right.
    “Now you do. Come to the kitchen with me. My grits is gettin’ cold.”
    “I like your grits,” Laurel said as she gave the old woman a last fierce hug.
    “’Course you do,” Marie said as she hugged her back. “You might have been raised up north, but your soul is southern, just like your people. Stands to reason your tummy would be, too.”
    Laurel laughed.
    By the time they sat down to eat, the bad feelings she’d had from her conversation with her father had disappeared. They shared the meal and the table, talking about everything and nothing, and once they’d done the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, the morning was half gone. Marie took off her apron, changed her shoes and began fussing with her hair.
    “Yesterday Tula sent word by her nephew that she’d be comin’ here this mornin’. We need groceries, so I’m gonna ride into Bayou Jean with her. Anything you want me to pick up for you?” Marie asked.
    “No, but wait a minute and I’ll get you some money.”
    Marie waved her away. “Shoot, honey, you don’t have to do that. I always get what we need. The store sends the bill to the bank. They pay the bills for