sleep.”
That sounded like Muffy, Sonya thought with a frown. The benevolent dictator, issuing orders from her sick bed.
“She’s fine, really,” the nurse insisted. “In fact, they’ll probably move her out of ICU tomorrow.”
That news brought a flood of relief. Sonya hesitated, then decided it probably would serve no good to rush to the hospital in the middle of the night if Muffy was sleeping and in no immediate danger. “If she wakes again, tell her I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” she said. “Unless she needs me sooner.”
After the call, Sonya felt better, but there was no way she was going back to sleep. She was, in fact, hungry. She’d hardly eaten a bite since Muff’s surgery several days ago. She threw on a robe and wandered downstairs to the enormous, restaurant-grade kitchen, certain there would be several tasty dishes in the fridge. That was something she could always count on.
As she entered the huge white-tile-and-chrome room, she flipped on a light so bright it hurt her eyes. The stainless steel appliances gleamed with a recent polish, and the room smelled faintly of fresh-baked bread. As top dog among Houston society mavens, Muffy often gave elaborate dinner parties, for which she had Eric, a Cordon-Bleu-trained chef, prepare gourmet delights that were sure to be written up on the society page and in the food section. And for every day, they had Eric’s mother, Matilda, a traditional Southern cook down to her bones.
The glass-fronted refrigerator was crammed with dozens of ceramic storage dishes, neatly stacked and labeled with the contents and the throwaway date. Sonya perused the labels, wrinkling her nose. She was not in the mood for Eric’s dill-crusted sea bass with Parmesan cream sauce, or marmalade-glazed pork medallions and shiitake mushrooms. Then she spotted something that appealed to her—Matilda’s macaroni and cheese. Pure comfort food and a guilty indulgence she and her mother sometimes ate when they were dining alone.
She pulled it out and stuck it in the microwave.
Slowly she realized she was no longer alone in the room. John-Michael stood in the doorway, looking adorably rumpled in gym shorts and an old T-shirt bearing the logo of Close Protection, Inc., where he’d gotten his bodyguard training.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He had this uncanny ability to know whenever she stirred at night. He always noticed when lights went on or if anyone made the slightest noise. She wondered if he ever slept or if he sat up all night, ever vigilant.
“I got hungry,” she answered. “I don’t think that’s any reason to call out the National Guard.” She immediately felt guilty for sniping at him, though. “Sorry. It’s been a rough few days. You want some macaroni and cheese?”
“Sure.” He went to the fridge and poured himself some milk. Without asking, he pulled out a bottle of her favorite cherry-flavored mineral water, uncapped it and set it out for her.
He knew her so well, probably better than her own mother did. And it irked her. She’d actually been looking forward to escaping his knowing eyes once she was married. Now that wasn’t going to happen. She saw herself in twenty years, thirty years, fifty, still single, still living in Muffy’s house, McPhee still watching over her with his eagle eyes. Still waiting for those few moments when he could escape her and go to whatever girlfriend he would undoubtedly have. He’d probably still be shadowing her every move when they were both in the nursing home. Gawd, what a depressing thought.
“I called the hospital,” she said. “Mother’s doing better. She drank some water and told the nurses not to call me.”
“Already back to her bossy self, huh?” But McPhee’s smile was of pure relief. She didn’t blame him. Muffy was a kind employer, if a tad inflexible. She paid her staff far more than the going rate to inspire their loyalty, and it worked.
But McPhee was genuinely fond of Muffy, too. As hard as Sonya was on McPhee, she knew he wasn’t completely self-serving.
When the microwave dinged, Sonya took out the dish and scooped generous portions onto white, bone-china plates with gold rims, the only kind Muffy would have in her house. She had a thing against plastic and thought stoneware was almost as bad. Sonya and McPhee sat at the kitchen table and ate with monogrammed sterling forks.
“Mmm, I love this stuff,” McPhee said.
“We better enjoy it while we can. I imagine we’ll see some changes around here when Muffy gets home. Matilda and Eric will have to prepare heart-healthy meals.”
“Matilda will screech like a banshee over that,” McPhee said.
“She’ll have to get used to it. I’ve been telling Mother for years that her diet is impossibly unhealthy. She’ll have to listen to me now.”
“Muffy never listens to anyone.”
Sonya sighed. “I know. She has her ideas about the way things should be, and nothing’s going to change them.” Certainly not Sonya, whose opinions Muffy had always considered superfluous. Muffy knew what was best, and that was that.
“Maybe if we join forces?” McPhee suggested. “Two against one.”
Sonya laughed harshly. “That would be a first. We haven’t agreed on anything since…well, since we were children.”
Since that night at the sorority party, she’d almost said. Sonya’s skin prickled at the memory, still vivid after all these years.
“I think if we present a united front,” McPhee said, “Muffy will have to pay attention.”
“Since when do you call her Muffy, anyway?”
He shrugged. “I don’t, not to her face. Just to you.”
“To irritate me.”
He didn’t deny it, just flashed that inscrutable half smile of his that drove her crazy. “Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of me soon. You haven’t officially postponed the wedding, have you?”
“No.” Another wave of guilt washed over her. But she could hardly announce she was going to call off the wedding when Muffy was still so ill. “Mother said to wait and see how she did after the surgery. Are you counting the days?”
“Only forty-nine days to go.”
She tried to hide her surprise. She’d only been kidding about counting the days. Was he that unhappy? He often aggravated her, but she wasn’t miserable with their arrangement. “Just what are you planning to do with your newfound freedom? I assume Muffy has another job for you.”
McPhee shook his head. “I’ve already applied and been accepted at the Harris County Sheriff’s Department.”
This was news to Sonya, and it shook her to the core. She had a hard time visualizing this house, this estate, without John-Michael as a constant fixture. “What about your dad?”
“Dad’s on the wagon.”
“Yes, but for how long?”
McPhee pushed his plate away without finishing, alerting Sonya to the fact that she’d ticked him off. He always cleaned his plate. “I’ve spent ten years as a virtual prisoner,” he said, “to my father, to Muffy and to you. That’s long enough. If my father does something crazy and gets himself fired, I’ll deal with it. But I’m not going to let the fear of that stop me from living. Not anymore.”
Sonya hadn’t heard much past the word “prisoner.” “If conditions are so wretched here, why didn’t you quit?” she challenged him.
“You don’t think I’ve tried? But your mother made it pretty clear. If I left, Jock had to go, too. I couldn’t do that to him. He has nowhere else to go.”
“How are things different now?”
“Your mother is being a bit more flexible, now that your future is secured and my dad’s behaving himself. I think he finally understands the consequences if he messes up again. Maybe he won’t this time.”