Texas Sunrise

by Fern Michaels

  His glance lingered on her for a moment. She looked cute, he thought, with cold cream all over her face. Cute, for God’s sake. How could a legal barracuda be cute? Yet he couldn’t help but wonder what she had on under that thick robe. The thought tormented him, and he replaced it in his mind with a picture of Maggie.

  “If everything goes okay,” he said, “I think I can leave tomorrow. I’m going to fly on to Texas. What about you?”

  “I think I’m about ready to make my move today too. I have a few phone calls to finish up, and then I have to go over to the bank and wait for some faxed papers I need from a friend of mine.”

  “How do you think it looks for Susan?” Rand asked.

  “Susan will do fine. Why shouldn’t she, as long as we fight her battles for her? I mean, this is the second time we’ve bailed her out and I would be surprised if it’s the last. She’s forty-eight, Rand, time enough for her to have gotten herself together. I can understand why I’m here. I’m the family lawyer. But you? You’re putting the house up for sale; you’re closing out bank accounts with ten dollar balances, serving a car that’s ready to fall apart, shopping for groceries, and packing up Susan’s belongings. For God’s sake, you even called a used furniture dealer to give you an offer on the contents of this house. Susan should be doing all this herself. And don’t tell me how she’s a creative talent and creative people aren’t like the rest of us. That’s bullshit, Rand, and you know it.”

  Rand stiffened. Val was only saying aloud what he had been thinking since his arrival. Still, he felt obligated to defend Susan. “For God’s sake, her only daughter died. That has to be the worst thing in the world for a mother. This thing with Ferris made it a double blow. You don’t bounce back from something like that overnight.”

  “Of course you don’t. But you don’t run away from it either. Running solves nothing. Susan should be here, fighting for herself.” She got up to pour herself a refill.

  “I offered to come here.”

  “To make things easy for her. Everyone makes it easy for her. Somewhere deep inside, Susan knows everyone else will make things right for her, and after a suitable period of time, she’ll go right back to her old patterns. She’s not stable, Rand.”

  “What do you think we should do? Everyone isn’t as tough as you, Val. There are certain things Susan just wouldn’t be willing to do to get what she wants.” The moment he said the words, he wished he hadn’t. Val looked as if she had been slapped. “God, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t meant that.”

  Val blinked. “Yes, you did.” She lit a cigarette. “I offend you, don’t I? You’ve made a judgment about me—or at least my morals. You’d prefer me to be more like Susan—irresponsible, weak, someone who needs you to help her out all the time. Well, I’m a survivor, Rand. I survive no matter what it takes, no matter what I have to do, and whatever that makes me, I’m still the one you come to when you have to pull your sister-in-law’s chestnuts out of the fire. So don’t you ever, ever judge me, Lord Rand Nelson. Now, where the hell is my breakfast? On second thought, don’t bother, I’ll eat out.” She ran from the kitchen, the terry robe flapping about her ankles.

  Now what was that all about? Rand asked himself as he dumped the eggs in the frying pan; he didn’t know what else to do with them. He gagged with the smell of burned butter and looked around helplessly before he threw the mess into the sink. A cloud of smoke rushed up from the toaster. The smoke alarm went off at the same time. He rushed to open the window and then the door. “Son of a bitch!”

  He reached down for Val’s cigarette, which was still in the ashtray. He brought it to his mouth and puffed furiously. The smoke alarm was still shrieking. In a fit of something he couldn’t define, he unplugged the toaster, picked it up and pitched it out the back door. It landed with a loud thwack on the concrete patio. A flock of crows took wing, squawking angrily.

  “Goddamnit!” With the cigarette between his lips, he climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs and yanked at the smoke alarm. He ripped it from the ceiling. The sudden silence roared in his ears. He climbed off the chair and slammed the kitchen door shut so hard that the glass in the multiframe cracked. “Oh shit!”

  Val’s voice was soft, just short of apologetic, when she appeared in the doorway. She looked, Rand thought, gorgeous. She also looked like the professional she was. Her suit was the same Pacific-blue as the ocean back home. She wore a trim white blouse, and at her throat an antique brooch. Her makeup was flawless, her hair perfection. The only thing missing, Rand thought, was the sparkle in her eyes.

  “I should be back by four,” she said, “no later. I’ll drop the car off and call a taxi to take me to the airport.”

  “Val—”

  “I’ll be sending you the balance of the old family retainer when I wind things up here. I think it’s best if we sever our ties when I wrap this up. You can find a lawyer you approve of.”

  “Val . . . I’m sorry. What happened here? One minute everything was fine, and then, bam, you’re resigning from . . . what the hell is it you’re doing?”

  “I don’t want to work for you or your damn family anymore, Rand. You obviously don’t respect me, but you’re perfectly willing to use me for your own ends.”

  “Use you? It works two ways, you know. You use the family too. It sure didn’t hurt your practice to say you were the family lawyer. With the money we paid you, you started up your own firm.” He sounded too defensive. Why is that? he wondered.

  Val threw her hands in the air. “Truce.” She affected a smile. “Have a good day, and try to get the smell of burnt toast out of the house. The realtor won’t like it.”

  A moment later she was gone, with a flash of leg. Rand felt a strong urge to run after her, but dug his heels into the carpet. At that moment he would have done anything in his power to wipe the vulnerable look from Val’s face.

  The bank was almost empty when Val walked in. She headed straight for the president’s office. Her smile when the balding bank officer looked up was of the five hundred watt variety. Her handshake was firm, and her eyes even twinkled when the president held her hand a moment longer than necessary. She kept right on twinkling as she scanned the papers he was handing her one by one. When the stack of faxed papers grew to forty-five, she raised her head and said, “This is all sooo wonderful. I can’t thank you enough, Harry, for being so kind to me. This is just what I need. I really appreciate the use of your fax machine.”

  “My pleasure, dear lady. Here we believe in service, even if you aren’t a customer. I’m sorry though to hear that Mrs. Armstrong is relocating. Very talented woman. Her husband is so well thought of here in the community.” He let his voice trail off when he realized what the attorney was holding in her hands. “Of course my lips are sealed.”

  Val waved a playful finger. “I know where to come if word does leak out.” She smiled the five hundred watt smile again.

  “Mrs. Armstrong is a very nice lady,” the bank officer said limply.

  “Thank you again, Harry. Perhaps the next time I find myself in your little town, we can have lunch.”

  “I’d like that, Miss Mitchell. If I can be of further service, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Oh, I won’t.”

  Every eye in the bank followed Valentine’s exit.

  Her next stop was a drugstore on Main Street, where she called Dr. Ferris Armstrong’s office and requested a consultation appointment. She said her name was Linda Baker and she was referred by the chief of staff at the hospital. She managed to use the word urgent three times in as many minutes. She smiled when the young voice said Dr. Armstrong could fit her in at eleven-fifteen.

  Brody’s was an old-fashioned drugstore with a counter, stools, and soda fountain. Danish, English muffins, and corn muffins sat on a lace doily under a plastic dome. Old-fashioned sugar bowls with silver spoons dotted the long counter. It smelled wonderful, Val thought. She perched on a stool and looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the service station.
She could see containers of egg salad, tuna salad, and plates of greens and tomatoes behind a glass display case. Probably for the luncheon trade. A huge coffee urn with a real spigot brought a smile to her face. The milk pitcher was pink Depression glass. It was pretty. “Coffee and toast, cream cheese on the side,” she said to the waitress in the yellow uniform with brown-and-white-checkered apron. Val assumed she was the pharmacist’s wife, and gave voice to the thought.

  “Yes, I’m Mrs. Brody. I haven’t seen you around here before, have I?”

  “No, I’m here on business. I was in a drugstore like this once a long time ago,” Val said softly. “It has character; I like that.”

  “Well, we’ve lived here all our lives. Our customers are comfortable with things the way they are. Change . . . we’re too old to change. There’s one of those bright, shiny all-night drugstores out on the highway. Prescriptions are higher out there,” Mrs. Brody said, pursing her mouth into a round O of disapproval. “We carry everything that’s needed, but not a whole bunch of different brands. We sell only what our people want. We give credit too, and I don’t mean credit cards. Not many drugstores do that anymore.”

  “That’s important,” Val said, biting into her toast. “Do you have cherry phosphates?”

  “We certainly do, and lemon squeezes too.”

  “No!”

  “Yes we do.”

  “I want one of each,” Val said happily. “I want some of that penny candy too. One of each. How can you sell it for a penny?” she asked curiously.

  “It’s for the children. Most of the time we just give it to them. The little ones come in with their pennies, and it’s just a joy to see them take a candy stick and lick it. Mr. Brody and myself never had any children. We didn’t put the candy crocks there to make money.”

  “Do you know Dr. and Mrs. Armstrong?” Val asked quietly.

  “Very well. It was a shame about little Jessie. She liked the lemon sticks the best. Mrs. Armstrong was always in here, at least once or twice a week. After Jessie passed away, she would still come in and take a lemon stick. She never bought more than toothpaste or shampoo after . . . She had so many prescriptions to fill for the little girl. It was very sad.”

  Val nodded. “Does Dr. Armstrong come in?”

  “Once in a while. He sends all his prescriptions here. He usually buys pipe tobacco and sometimes candy mints. I haven’t seen him for a while now, or Mrs. Armstrong either. Are they friends of yours?”

  “I know Mrs. Armstrong quite well. I’ve met Dr. Armstrong on several occasions. What is that smell?” Val asked, sniffing the air about her. “Wait, don’t tell me.” Her eyes fixed on the frosted flowers on the mirror behind the counter. “It’s lemon juice, Max Factor powder, pipe tobacco, and fresh ground coffee.” She rolled her eyes as she dusted the crumbs from her fingers.

  Mrs. Brody smiled.

  Val fished in her purse and laid a five dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change, Mrs. Brody.” She swiveled around on the stool to survey the drugstore. She liked the old oak cabinets with the glass doors and wooden shelves. It was all so tidy and neat, with the toothpaste stacked alongside bottles of mouthwash and dental floss. Everything was aligned according to size and color. Remarkable, she thought.

  “Do you make black and white sodas in those old-fashioned glasses, and bananas splits in the boat dishes?”

  “We do, and the ice cream is homemade by Wilbur Laskin down at the ice house,” Mrs. Brody said proudly.

  “I might be back for one of each,” Val said, sliding off the stool.

  “We’ll be here till six.”

  Val nodded.

  The tinkle of the bell over the door when Val closed it brought a tear to her eye, though she didn’t know why. She’d been traveling in the fast lane for so long, she had forgotten what small-town America was like. She wiped at the lone tear as she settled herself in the car. She lit a cigarette as she studied the papers the bank president had given her.

  Forty minutes later Val rolled the papers into a tight cylinder. She snapped the rubber band into place. “Gotcha, Dr. Armstrong!”

  The car in gear, Val drove off through the town of Oxmoor. Two blinks of the eye and she was on the outskirts where the hospital sat nestled behind a backdrop of tall, feathery pines. It was pretty, Val thought, just like the town. Small-town living, no matter how gracious and neighborly it was, simply wasn’t for her. She liked city lights, fashionable stores, sleek cars, and good-looking men. “To each his own,” she muttered as she parked the car at the far side of the hospital.

  Ferris Armstrong’s office was on the second floor of the seventy-five-bed hospital, the receptionist told Val.

  The waiting room of Ferris’s office was cute. Cute because Ferris was a pediatrician. Everything, including the chairs, was geared to children. Bright colors, hand-painted pictures, puzzle carpets, and sturdy toys littered the room. A huge bowl of lollipops sat on a low table with a sign that said ONE EACH. Two little boys, dressed in bib overalls, sat on the carpeted floor playing with checkers as big as dinner plates. Cute.

  “Linda Baker. I have an appointment,” Val said quietly.

  “Come with me,” the nurse said, motioning Val to follow her. She was young. Was she the other woman?

  “I like your suit,” the young woman said, eyeing Val from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes. “Did you get it at Mason’s?”

  Val quirked an eyebrow. “Hardly. It’s a Scaasi.”

  “Oh,” was all the nurse said. Val noticed that the heel of her right shoe was run-down and there was a run in her stocking.

  Valentine stood by the window and stared down into the parking lot. She had counted thirty-two cars in the lot when Ferris Armstrong walked through the door. The moment Val heard the door close, she turned and smiled.

  “Val?” Ferris’s eyes dropped to the clipboard in his hand. “Are you the Linda Baker here for a consultation?” he asked stonily.

  “No. I’m not Linda Baker. You look well, Ferris. I’ll bet it’s been at least five years since we’ve seen each other.”

  He was handsome. He had a light, even tan—a sun lamp probably—and he was tall and trim, athletic-looking. The gray at his temples made him seem distinguished, especially in combination with the white surgical coat. His sky-blue stethoscope was wrapped halfway around his neck. It matched his eyes perfectly. She almost laughed aloud.

  “What can I do for you, Val?” Ferris asked tightly.

  She reached into her purse and withdrew the cylinder of papers. When she held them out to Ferris, he backed up a step. Her laughter tinkled around the brightly decorated room. “It’s not a subpoena. Take it, Ferris. It’s not even a summons. Come on, a big boy like you, a doctor and all, don’t tell me you’re afraid of me. Actually, in a manner of speaking, these papers belong to you and your wife. I’m more or less delivering your own property to you.” Her tone changed to hard-edged steel. “Look at them. In fact, sit down and read them through. I can wait.” She was pleased to see Ferris’s hand shake as he reached out to take the papers. She was also pleased to see how jerkily he walked. Rather like a puppet on straw legs.

  “My income tax records, so what!” Ferris said coldly.

  “Not exactly,” Val said in a teasing voice. “What you have there are amended tax returns, not the originals your accountant gave to Susan. However, the amended returns do carry my client’s signature.” She clucked her tongue. “Or rather, my client’s forged signatures. To the IRS. Shame on you, Ferris. All those assets. My oh my. I had no idea a pediatrician made that kind of money. It almost makes me think I’m in the wrong profession. Now, let’s sit down and talk about how much it’s going to cost you to make all this go away.”

  “How much?” Ferris croaked hoarsely.

  “Make me an offer,” Val drawled, lighting a cigarette. She blew a cloud of smoke in Ferris’s direction.

  “Five hundred thousand.”

  Val laughed.

  “Seven hundred fif
ty thousand.”

  Val giggled.

  “Okay, seven hundred fifty thousand and the house in the islands.”

  Val shook her head. “Think about the word ‘forgery.’ Then couple that with the initials IRS. Try again.”

  “Half the bonds. Half the stocks.”

  “No way.”

  “One million.”

  “Sorry.”

  “How much is it going to take?”

  “You figure out what your ass is worth, Doctor. In jail they don’t have any little kids to administer to. What’s your life here on the outside worth to you? Personally, I don’t think much of a man who can’t make it on his own and has to steal from a woman. I’ll give you one more shot at an acceptable offer. If it isn’t agreeable, I’ll walk out of here, notify my friends at the IRS, and by six o’clock you’ll be on the Oxmoor news. Oh, I also know what you earn in a year. I factored in what you might have invested during the past five years and have a number at my disposal.”

  Val watched the pediatrician wilt. She’d seen other men fall apart, but Ferris made it an art form. “Okay.”

  “Okay, let’s do it now. Don’t think for one minute I’m going to give you a chance to split. We’ll go together to the bank. There’s a notary there. For a small fee, one of Harry’s secretaries can type up a general release. You know the one, from the beginning of time to the end of time ... I’ll want the title to the Porsche. You can have the other car. Rand can drive the Porsche back to Texas.”

  “You’re only leaving me with a heap of a car, a shitbox of a house, and a hundred thousand dollars in savings,” Ferris sputtered.

  “That’s right,” Val singsonged. “And you’re out of the foundation.”

  “You’re a goddamn bitch!” Ferris seethed.