Forbidden Son Read online

  “First, don’t be usin’ words I don’t understand, and second, what makes you so all-fired certain he’s a man of his word?”

  Honey Belle shrugged her shoulders up and down. “I just know.”

  “Uh-huh. If he does show up, it’ll be ’cause he’s lookin’ to get himself a free piece of tail. And the way you were hanging out that window, you had Fr-e-e-b-i-e written all over your bad self.”

  A sense of euphoria swept over Honey Belle. “Why Carla Biggers, I do believe you’re jealous.”

  “Jealous? I don’t think so.”

  Honey Belle batted her eyelashes. “Then I’d thank you kindly if you’d mind your own business.”

  “You know, I read a book once. It was about a girl named Cinderella. You mess with the likes of Mr. Rich Fancy Car, and you’ll find out soon ’nuf he ain’t Prince Charmin’. ’Specially when he finds out where you live and meets your wicked mama.”

  Honey Belle offered an indignant sniff. “I read the same book, Carla. It had a happy ending. And my mother’s not wicked, just… Well, she has a lot on her mind.”

  Carla chuckled as she placed an order on a tray and handed it to a customer. “I’ll be the first to say I told you so when he doesn’t show.”

  ****

  No one was more surprised than Honey Belle when Carla whirled into the employee’s bathroom. “It’s three minutes of two, and you ain’t gonna believe it, H.B.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Carla? Believe what?”

  “Poke your head out the door and take a peek. He’s here.”

  “You mean…he’s here?” Frantic, Honey Belle snatched several paper towels from the dispenser, ran them under the faucet, squeezed out the excess water and wiped under her armpits. Like Carla, she hadn’t truly expected him to show up. “You got any deodorant, Carla? I can’t go riding in a convertible smelling like sweaty French fries.”

  “Nope. Only thing I got in my purse is condoms. Pays to be prepared, you never know when you’ll score, girlfriend.”

  Honey Belle arched an eyebrow and shot her coworker a sarcastic scowl. “A ride in a convertible doesn’t mean he or me wants to score.”

  “Hm-huh, I’m just sayin’.” Carla shoved the cellophane packet into Honey Belle’s apron pocket. “‘Sides, I got two young’uns to prove what happens when you don’t think you’re gonna…score.”

  Honey Belle groaned as she pulled the rubber band from her hair. She raked her fingers through the long blonde strands, gathered the hair, and pulled it into a neat ponytail. She applied a fresh coat of Passion Pink gloss to her lips, and pinched her cheeks to add a little color. “Wish me luck, Carla.”

  “You’re gonna need it, H.B. He’s a heartbreaker, for sure.”

  Honey Belle was fearful Tripp could hear the thrumming of her heart as she approached him. “You’re here.”

  “You didn’t expect me to show?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure. Some guys like to feed a girl a line of hooey.”

  “I’m not some guy.”

  “I know, with a name like Tripp Hartwell the Third, that must make you somebody.”

  As if wanting to change the subject, he said, “Your chariot awaits, birthday girl.”

  She’d dated lots of boys. Not one had made her feel giddy. Today, she was giddy. She allowed him to escort her to his car. When she reached for the door handle, Tripp covered her hand with his. “A gentleman always opens the car door for a lady.”

  “Oh, sure.” She cringed inside, fearing her ignorance was showing. It was the first time anyone had ever opened a door for her. She smiled, and as she slid into the seat, the plush fabric felt as if she’d sat in a bucket of downy feathers.

  “Ready?”

  “Huh?” Honey Belle wondered why she was acting like a dunce. She wondered if he thought she didn’t understand English.

  He walked around to his side of the car and, in one fluid movement, sat behind the steering wheel. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose.

  Then, as if he’d forgotten something important, he reached behind the seat. With a smile that would light up a cloudy day, he handed her a single red rose. “To the birthday girl.”

  Wishing she had a pair of sunglasses, she blinked back a rush of tears as she lifted the flower to her nose. No one had ever given her flowers. “It’s a wonderful gift. Thank you.”

  “Want to go watch the submarine races?” A lopsided grin kinked up the corner of his lips.

  Filled with hot-cold prickles of irritation, she tossed the rose at him. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Hartwell.”

  When he raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, Honey Belle balled her hands into fists to keep from slapping him. “For your information, just because I flirted with you doesn’t mean I’m easy.”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “I’m sorry, Miss Garrett. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Of course you did. Any idiot knows a guy wants to make out when he drives a girl to the beach to watch the submarine races.” Her voice increased an octave. She shook with anger. “My friend Carla warned me about the likes of you. I didn’t believe her.”

  “Hey, you’ve got me all wrong.”

  “Never mind about riding in your fancy convertible. Besides, it’s almost time for my mother’s shift to start. I have to get the truck home.”

  “I’ll follow you. You can leave the truck. Accept my apology and allow me to take you to dinner.” He grinned. “And no submarine races, I promise.”

  His smile helped soften her aggravation. “Another time, maybe. My father is sick and requires round-the-clock care.”

  “If that’s a promise, I’ll hold you to it, Miss Honey Belle Garrett.”

  She’d probably never see him again, so where was the harm in agreeing with him? “If you say so.”

  Eager to make her escape, she ran to the old pickup truck. Gripping the steering wheel, she allowed her mind to drift, creating a hero of a white knight who would win her love through bravery and integrity, and by the protection of others. Woven in with these traits, he’d have to have the most important quality of all—he’d have to love her unconditionally and forever.

  It wasn’t until she drove into the driveway of her house and switched off the engine that she realized she’d left the rose on the seat of Tripp’s car.

  She sighed deeply. Men like her hero existed only in the world of fantasy and imagination. None were flesh and bone. And even if such a man existed, why would he want the likes of her?

  Leaning against the seat, she wondered if Tripp meant what he said about meeting again. She’d heard what guys like him wanted from girls like her. Still, her heart warmed toward him. Suddenly, she very much wanted to know him.

  “You gonna sit there daydreaming your life away? I gotta go to work.”

  Sighing, Honey Belle pushed all thoughts of Tripp Hartwell the Third from her mind as she opened the door and relinquished the truck to her mother.

  Chapter Four

  Sun poured through the Burger Bin’s large picture windows. The usual crowd of noisy students gathered in booths while Honey Belle worked in the back, loading the dishwashers. Her job wasn’t glamorous, but she enjoyed it—usually. Today, the exhaust fan was broken. Despite a requisition, no one had come around to repair it.

  “H.B.”

  “What, Carla?”

  “You ain’t gonna believe who just walked in.”

  “I’m too hot and tired to play twenty questions.”

  “Then get your bad self up here and take a peek. It’s him.”

  Honey Belle peered around the large industrial refrigerator and spied Tripp standing at the counter. “Holy poop hill, what’s he doing here?” He was holding two red roses. A foreboding shiver ran down her spine—one she quickly dismissed.

  Her hand automatically touched her sweat-plastered hair. “I can’t let him see me like this.”

  “If he’s got any smarts about him
, he’ll know you can’t look like a beauty queen while flippin’ hamburgers over a hot round-top all day. If he don’t, then he ain’t worth your time of day.”

  Carla made a fluttering motion with her hands as if shooing Honey Belle to the front counter.

  Smoothing her trembling fingers down the side of her grease-splattered uniform, Honey Belle scooted around the refrigerator. She longed for a spritz of her mother’s treasured eau de cologne water.

  She was certain his electric blue eyes were magnets drawing her to him. Her voice seemed to come out in a breathy whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  He held out the roses. “One birthday rose for a lovely young lady, and one for a peace offering. I didn’t mean to offend you, yesterday, Honey Belle. And if you’d still like to take that ride, my chariot awaits.”

  She inhaled the faint scent of his cologne, a designer fragrance to match his masculinity. Then she lifted her gaze, fully intending to accept his offer.

  “I…I’d love to go for a ride with you.” Love to fly to the moon, if he asked, she thought, feeling entirely too giddy for a girl of nineteen.

  She returned his smile and could no more have taken back her words than she could have taken away her father’s illness. “Can’t.”

  She hadn’t meant to cause Tripp to wince, just like she hadn’t meant for her voice to sound abrupt.

  “I see. Using the father excuse again?”

  “It isn’t an excuse. Daddy suffers from congestive heart failure. He’s in a wheelchair and has to wear an oxygen mask.”

  She thought his voice sounded contrite. “Once again, I seem to have put my foot where it doesn’t belong. At this rate, I’ll owe you a dozen roses.”

  She hugged the flowers to her chest. “Tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll ask my cousin to sit with Daddy for a few hours.”

  “Tell me where you live and I’ll pick you up at five.”

  “I…um…I live at 1423 Barrington Street.”

  When he turned to leave, she said, “Thank you, again, for the roses.”

  Carla’s voice startled Honey Belle, causing her to jump. “I notice you didn’t give him directions to your house.”

  Honey Belle’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Mind your own business, Carla.”

  ****

  Too embarrassed to have Tripp see the dilapidated rental house where she lived, Honey Belle had given him a false address in the better section of Charleston’s upper middle-class neighborhood.

  She stood next to an elm tree at the end of a sidewalk, in front of an antebellum home with a sweeping front porch, a neatly trimmed yard, bushes bursting with red azaleas, all surrounded by a white picket fence.

  Whatever guilt she felt disappeared when she glimpsed his car driving slowly down the street toward her. She lifted her hand and waved. Then she whispered a little prayer, hoping Tripp knew no one in this neighborhood.

  She pressed her hands to her stomach, drew in a deep breath, and blew it out slowly.

  Like a proper lady, she waited for him to slow the car to a halt, get out and open the door for her.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She smiled.

  “You look nice, Honey Belle. I like your hair down.” He leaned over and gave her a perfunctory kiss. She felt her cheeks grow warm as he caressed her lips.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not the submarine races.” He winked and she laughed. “I made reservations for us at the Pirate’s Den. I hope you like seafood.”

  “Love it.” She wished the butterflies in her stomach would stop flitting around. Tripp Hartwell was way out of her league. She shouldn’t be with him. She didn’t know proper table etiquette for an expensive restaurant—or, for that matter, any restaurant. What if she made a fool of herself? What if she didn’t know which fork to use? And her seafood experience was limited to fried catfish. She’d always dreamed of lobster. Lobster… No, too expensive.

  This was a bad idea. The thought came too late. Tripp guided the convertible into an empty parking space and before she could say scat he stood at her door, offering his hand.

  With his hand pressed against the small of her back, he guided her toward the restaurant. “I made reservations for the porch. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Hm. The sound of the waves lapping the shore is soothing. I find it quite relaxing.” She hoped she sounded sophisticated.

  A hostess greeted them. “Mr. Hartwell, you’re at table number twelve.”

  “Good evening, Jenna, and thank you.”

  After they were seated, the hostess said, “Your waitress will be right with you.”

  Honey Belle leaned forward. “She knew you. Do you bring all your dates here?”

  Tripp reached across the table and tweaked her nose. “Only the pretty ones.”

  The waitress came to the table, introduced herself, and poured water into their glasses. “Would you care for a cocktail?”

  Honey Belle glanced over the menu at Tripp questioningly.

  “Go ahead. You can have anything you want,” he said.

  “I don’t know.” She lifted a shoulder into a shrug.

  “Do you want a beer, wine, iced tea?”

  She met his gaze hesitantly. “Wine, I think?”

  “Wine it is.” He looked at the waitress who waited patiently. “We’ll have the Chardonnay. 1950.”

  “Bottle or glass?” the young woman asked.

  “Just a glass.” Honey Belle wrinkled her nose. “First date,” she said jokingly. “I wouldn’t want to get tipsy and make a fool of myself, would I?” She groaned inside. What a stupid thing to say.

  The waitress laughed and walked away to fill their drink order.

  Honey Belle glanced across the table at Tripp gazing at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” For the life of her, she couldn’t read his thoughts.

  “You didn’t.”

  The expression on his face told her she hadn’t.

  She smiled to herself as she concentrated on placing the red linen napkin across her lap.

  “What would you like?”

  “Like?” His question puzzled Honey Belle.

  He opened the menu and handed it to her. She almost gasped aloud at the prices. Her eyes scanned down both columns. “Holy poop hill, we could buy a week’s worth of groceries for the cost of one surf and turf.”

  She laughed. She wanted to reach up and smack her forehead.

  He laughed with her, reaching for his water.

  “You must think I have stupid engraved across my brow.”

  “I find you refreshing. I like your wisecracks—especially ‘holy poop hill.’” He smiled in a way that made her feel strange.

  She had to stop this or he’d guess she didn’t live in the fancy house on Barrington Street.

  “Thanks. So what shall we have to eat?” She looked back at the menu.

  “The scallops in the white wine and garlic is very good.” He frowned. “Garlic? Hmm, that leaves kissing you goodnight out.”

  “Honestly, Tripp, I’m so hungry I could eat a—” She’d almost said cow. “Why don’t you order for me?”

  The waitress returned with their glasses of wine. While Tripp placed their order, Honey Belle savored the first sip. Chardonnay, 1950, certainly tasted better than the cheap wine her mother brought home.

  Fussing with the edge of the linen napkin in her lap, Honey Belle searched for something to say. She inwardly cringed when the question popped out. “So, Tripp, do you work?”

  He sat the long-stemmed goblet aside. “I work hard at my studies.”

  “College?”

  “Yes. I’m attending Harvard School of Law in September.”

  Honey Belle pursed her lips. She caught herself before she whistled to indicate she was impressed. “Well, if you don’t work at a job, how can you afford such a fancy car?”

  “My father is Judge T. Harlan Hartwell. You may have heard of him.”

  Honey Belle sat a little straighter in her chair. “You
mean, as in Judge Hartwell that’s always in the newspaper?”

  Tripp offered her a smile. “The very same.”

  Honey Belle’s insides quivered. Tripp wasn’t merely a rich college guy, he was the son of a judge—a judge with a reputation for not showing mercy to anyone in his courtroom. She needed to break off this budding relationship before it got out of hand.

  “What about your mother, what does she do?”

  “My mother loves to garden, research her family history, and—”

  Honey Belle didn’t miss the fleeting shadow of sadness that caused Tripp to stop speaking. “What is it about your mother that makes you sad, Tripp?”

  She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “My mother was forty-one years old when I born. She’s like a magnolia whose petals are easily bruised, turn brown, then wither away.”

  For the life of her, Honey Belle didn’t know what the analogy meant. “I-I’m not sure I know what you mean, Tripp. Is your mother ill?”

  He nodded. “Not in body. It’s her mind. It slips away a little more each day.”

  Honey Belle reached across the table and intertwined her fingers with his. “I’m sorry. It’s the same with my daddy. Guess we have something in common, don’t we?”

  The next hour and a half flew by, and before she knew it, Tripp was paying the tab. “How about a walk on the beach before I take you home?”

  As much as she wanted to feel wet sand squishing between her toes and, perhaps, hold hands with the handsome man seated across from her, a little voice inside her head sounded a warning. And as good as the first glass of wine tasted, the second glass had left her feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, and perhaps a little tipsy, too. “It’s late. I wouldn’t want to worry my parents.”

  Honey Belle loved her parents. Between work and sitting with her father, she didn’t often date. Tonight she felt like Cinderella. But like all good fairy tales, it was time to bring this one to an end.

  Sheer and utter dread weighed heavy in the pit of her stomach as Tripp drove toward Barrington Street. What if he insisted on walking her to the front door? What if he asked to meet her parents? What if…what if?

  When he pulled to the curb and shut off the engine, relief washed over Honey Belle with a fierce intensity that left her weak in the knees. She said, “The lights are out. I guess my parents went to bed early.”