The ring tone from Gwendolyn Taylorâs cell phone playing Beethovenâs Symphony no. 3 in E-flat major pulled her attention away from the panoramic landscape of Cajun country. Sheâd just passed a road sign that indicated sheâd entered the town limits of Franklin, Louisiana.
Looking at the caller ID on her cell, she pushed a button on the hands-free receiver. âYes, Lauren.â
âAre we there yet?â Laughter followed the childish query.
Shaking her head and sucking her teeth, Gwen said loudly, âGirl, you need a job that takes you out of the house, because youâre beginning to sound like your kids.â Lauren, a literary researcher and her husband, bestselling author, Caleb Samuels, both worked from home.
âAre you there yet?â Lauren repeated.
She glanced at the GPS navigational screen. âAlmost.â
âHow is Louisiana?â
âItâs different from our neck of the woods.â
Laurenâs soft laughter came through the speaker. âDonât you mean my neck of the woods?â
Gwen smiled. âMy driverâs license still has a Boston address, my car a Massachusetts plate, and when I open my mouth and say pawk everyone will know that I will never be crowned Miss Sweet Tater Pone.â
âYouâre right about that,â Lauren agreed. âBut you should know youâre much too mature for an insipid beauty contest.â
Gwenâs delicate jaw dropped. âMature? Speak for yourself, Mrs. Samuels. Youâre the one with three children, and a possible fourth on the way.â
âI told you before that Royce is going to be my last baby.â
âYou said that after you had Kayla.â
âHe just happened, cuz.â
âGetting pregnant doesnât just happen Lauren Taylor-Samuels. Didnât you tell me that you wind up pregnant whenever you and Caleb take afternoon naps together?â
âFor your information, Miss Know-It-All, Cal and I no longer nap together in the afternoon.â
âAre you saying you guys have given up knockinâ boots?â
Lauren laughed again. âI refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate me.â
Gwen took another quick glance at the navigational screen. She was almost there. âYou guys should have one more and make it an even four.â
âIâll have one more if you have one.â
âCanât, cuz. I donât have a man.â
âYou donât want a man, Gwen.â
âCorrection, Lauren. I donât need a man.â
âYouâre going to need one to make a baby.â
âNot if I go the test tube route.â
âNo! You canât, Gwendolyn.â
Lauren only called her by her full name whenever she was upset with something Gwen said or did. âI can and I will if Iâm not married by the time Iâm thirty-eight.â
âYou better start looking for a man now because youâll be looking at thirty-eight in less than four years.â
Slowing her late-model sedan, Gwen came to a complete stop at an intersection. Looking both ways she continued in a southwesterly direction. âSo will you, Lauren Vernice Taylor-Samuels.â She and Lauren were first cousins, born weeks apart.
âBut, Iâm the one with the husband and children.â
âYou donât have to rub it in, Lauren.â
âIâm not rubbing it in. You wouldâve married years before me if you hadnât broken off your engagement to Craig Hemming.â
âCraig was wrong for me. He was too old and too possessive. I canât stand a man who wonât allow me my space.â
âIs that why youâre running away, Gwen? Because you need space?â
âYou know Iâm not running away.â She didnât want to argue with Lauren about why sheâd sold her condominium and resigned her position as a lifestyle writer at the Boston Gazette to move fifteen hundred miles away and live in a house sheâd inherited from a relative she hadnât seen in more than twenty years.
âI donât want you to think Iâm giving you a hard time,â Lauren continued in a tone she used when correcting her children. âItâs just that I miss you already. Youâre more than a cousin. You are my sister.â
âStop it,â Gwen chided softly, as her eyes filled with tears. âI canât drive and cry at the same time. Iâll call you tomorrow after I see what Aunt Gwendolyn left me.â
âYou promise?â
She smiled, blinking back the tears shimmering in her raven-colored eyes. âI promise. Kiss the children for me, and give Caleb my love.â
âI will,â Lauren said. âLater, cuz.â