Texas Rich

by Fern Michaels

  Moss was about to give Agnes his answer but decided to make her sweat for it. Agnes deserved to sweat. Earlier that morning while tinkering with the admiral’s compass, Moss had already made his decision. Certainly he would marry Billie. Aside from the fact that she really was a lovely girl and a surprisingly inventive bed partner, Billie Ames would be the perfect solution to his problems with Seth. Pap was hot spit on carrying on the Coleman line. Billie and a baby would free him of responsibility and obligation and he could ask for reassignment to the Pacific. Billie and a baby would free him from spending the duration in the Philadelphia Navy Yard pushing papers and arranging golf dates.

  “I’ll ask Billie to marry me tonight,” Moss drawled, unable to contain the wide grin that spread over his features.

  For an instant, Agnes was taken aback. She hadn’t contemplated it would be this easy; she’d expected more of a fight from this tall Texan. She had the uncomfortable feeling that instead of her using him, Moss was using her for his own purposes. However, Agnes was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Without another word, she pulled the choke and started the car. As she pulled out of the A&P parking lot, Moss reached forward and turned-on the radio, tuning in the ongoing drama of Helen Trent and her trials and tribulations. He lounged back in the seat and stretched his long legs, cap pulled forward so the shiny visor shadowed his eyes. His attitude annoyed her, but then she supposed that’s the way they did things in Texas. Texas.

  The sky was already darkening when Agnes dropped Moss off at the gates to the navy base. She had driven less than a mile when the cloudburst struck. Cautiously, she steered her car to the side of the road. This was no time to chance an accident, not now, when the golden gates of Texas were ready to open for her in welcome. It took cleverness to lift the Agnes Ameses of this world out of self-sacrifice and privation into the lap of luxury. Coleman. luxury. At last she was achieving everything that was meant to be hers since the day she’d entered the world already screaming her head off at the injustice of it all. And it had been unjust, she reflected, all of it, from being born to Maude and Matthew Neibauer, those God-fearing, self-righteous parents, to her sorry marriage to Thomas Ames, made in spite and endured in sour resignation. . . .

  Even as a child Agnes wondered if perhaps things would have been different if the Neibauers had not lived on Elm Street in the house Maude had inherited from her mother. Maude had married Matthew, a simple laborer, against her mother’s wishes and the whole town knew it. They sniffed through their proper, middle-class noses in disapproval that one of their own should marry beneath her station.

  Maude, always high-strung and nervous, anguished daily over what she imagined were intentional slights. Tearfully, she hung her wash at the crack of dawn before the neighbors could see her and be reminded that she did not have a colored woman to do it. Underwear was hung between sheets so it wouldn’t be seen and NoWorry bleach was added by the gallon to the wash water. A white wash was synonymous with virtue, according to Maude. Matthew’s dirty plumber’s overalls were hung in the basement. No need to remind the neighbors he didn’t wear a suit and tie. Life, to Maude, was a series of obstacles never to be conquered.

  It had been Agnes’s job from the time she was very young to clean the house each Saturday morning, before ten o’clock, in case company should come. They never did. In the front parlor she dusted her grandmother’s brown horsehair furniture, replaced the crocheted doilies on the arms with freshly starched ones, and polished the whatnot. No one ever sat in the parlor, not even Maude and Matthew. Agnes scrubbed the front porch on her hands and knees and waxed it. She scoured the white columns with Bab-O and waxed them until the gleam could be seen from the bottom of the hill.

  Once, her father suffered a back injury and couldn’t work for almost an entire summer. They lived off the garden and ate sliced bacon only occasionally. She never complained, even when she left the table hungry, but sometimes she still cringed remembering the threats her parents had made to keep her from telling her few friends that they had no meat.

  Friends; how few there were while growing up, and the front porch was the only place she was allowed to entertain them. She could never invite them back to the kitchen for cookies. The kitchen linoleum was cracked, the glasses weren’t right, the plates were old-fashioned, and Maude feared the children would report all this back to their parents.

  Agnes used to wonder if she’d been adopted. She hoped she was—she hated to think that she shared the same blood with these fearful, passionless people. There was no way she could imagine Maude taking off her pajama bottoms for Matthew, and there was never a sound from their room. It was always as silent as a tomb.

  Thomas Ames drew her with his flashing dark eyes and ready smile. It was with him that she found the affection, approval, and easygoing ways she’d needed for so long. Maude was horrified. Thomas simply wasn’t good enough. He was lazy, shiftless, a reprobate. The only home he’d known were . the tiny rooms over the Twelfth Street saloon. He could never offer Agnes Neibauer a future.

  Agnes, however, was much more interested in the very real and very passionate present. Thomas’s smile, his gentle nature, intoxicated her. She was determined to have him.

  Once, she heard Maude and Matthew fighting. “Why I never listened to my mother I don’t know,” Maude screamed. “She was right about you! Just like I’m right about Agnes and that Ames boy.”

  Agnes married Thomas Ames at the age of seventeen in a civil ceremony in Elkton, Maryland. Predictably—it wasn’t long after Billie’s birth—she came to the conclusion that she’d traded one life for another just like it. Once passion’s glow dimmed, she merely tolerated Thomas, forcing herself to share her body with him on Friday nights. When Maude and Matthew died of influenza, she and Thomas took Billie, her few toys, and the cheap living room suite, and moved back to the house on Elm Street. Nothing had changed. Agnes carried on as Maude had done, living the same life and hating every minute of it.

  She’d always wanted more, but how did you get more? Prayer wasn’t the answer, as any fool could see, and hard work brought no miracles. Power and brains, that’s what it took, along with a healthy dose of imagination.

  Thomas Ames, husband, father, mediocre provider, died of a lack of imagination. Oh, he’d had it once; that was what had drawn Agnes to him. But time and worry and bills had taken their toll. He had tried his best, that she grudgingly admitted, but he outdid himself the day he took one gasping breath, one last exhale, and died on the kitchen floor. It was over before she could open her mouth in surprise.

  She spared no expense on the handsome Springfield metallic casket. Their neighbors and the whole Parish touched the bronzed metal at Thomas’s wake, and their eyebrows rose in respect. Agnes was satisfied. None of them knew how many meatless meals she and Billie had eaten until the casket was paid.

  Two hours after the Springfield casket was lowered into the ground, Thomas Ames’s scanty wardrobe was packed and delivered to the church poor box. The mattress was turned and fresh linens, the ones embroidered for her hope chest, were put on the bed. She’d then dropped to her knees and thanked God for taking Thomas so quickly. Having to nurse him would have been unjust in a life that was already too one-sided.

  The cloudburst was over. Agnes rolled down the window and then wiped the windshield with her linen handkerchief. Everything looked so green. The trees, the shrubbery, even the dress she was wearing was green. Green, the color of money.

  It was a glorious day.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Agnes Ames met with Father Donovan that very evening, even before Moss came to the house. She stretched the truth, just a bit, saying Moss was due to be shipped out any time now, so could the Father please dispense with the banns that should be read three Sundays in a row?

  “Dispensation is not given freely, Mrs. Ames,” Father Donovan said with a sigh, “but neither is it unusual during these times of war.” Little Billie Ames was getting married. How could he refuse this child he
r precious request? He’d baptized her, confirmed her, and after all, Lieutenant Coleman was a Catholic—on his mother’s side, at least. Most unusual for a Texan, the priest thought, but he was naturally pleased. “I’ll make the arrangements, Mrs. Ames. It’s usual in cases where the banns cannot be announced three Sundays in a row to have them announced in three different churches.” He paused a moment. “There will be at least one week before the wedding, won’t there?” he asked sternly. He was willing to go just so far.

  “Oh, yes,” Agnes hastily assured him. “Today is Thursday, so this Sunday makes one week. And since the wedding will be next Sunday, that gives us two weeks!” Her mind was clicking with the relentlessness of a metronome. Invitations. Only close friends, of course, and Father Donovan. Caterer. Champagne, something light and elegant. Accommodations . . . the Latham Hotel, downtown. Simple yet elegant. The word that kept coming to Agnes’s mind was “small,” but then she amended it to “hurried.” She wanted this over and done with quickly, before any of the Colemans got the idea of coming up from Texas and talking “sense” to Moss.

  The following days were spent on the telephone, readying the house and making arrangements. She explained to friends that “this war” made it impossible to do anything right, but Agnes knew Billie didn’t care a whit if it was a formal wedding at a mass or simply repeating vows in the rectory. All she wanted was the ring on her finger that said she was Mrs. Moss Coleman.

  Moss had voiced no objections and silently agreed to Agnes’s little fabrication that he might be shipped out at any moment. Everyone appeared to be happy. Moss and Billie were to have the upstairs to themselves now, taking over Agnes’s room with its big double bed. The roomers were gone, much to Agnes’s relief. Everyone would share the kitchen and bath, but Agnes would move down to Billie’s bedroom study. Moss would contribute to the household expenses, and of course there would be a nice little allotment for Billie once he went away.

  Agnes was in the kitchen, her mind half on the unfinished letter before her and half on what to have for dinner. Her eye fell on the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator. Billie’s period should have begun two days ago. Billie was pregnant. She had to be. She was going to bear the Coleman heir and secure her own and Agnes’s future.

  Billie wandered in and listlessly poured herself a glass of lemonade. She was thirsty yet almost afraid to drink it because her stomach had been so upset these past three or four days. Billie attributed the queasiness to the excitement of the wedding, but when she’d mentioned it to Agnes she’d been shocked to see satisfaction on her mother’s face. Surely her own mother wouldn’t wish this misery upon her.

  “What are you doing, Mother?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d write to the Colemans. I think it’s about time, don’t you? I discussed it with Moss last night and he gave me the address. It’s such a long trip for them to make that I thought it would be nice to write about a few of the details so they won’t feel left out.”

  “You didn’t say anything to me about it, Mother. Neither did Moss. Why do you always confer with Moss and then I find out what you’ve decided after the fact? I’m beginning to feel left out.”

  Agnes stared across the table at her daughter. “You’re getting cranky, Billie, and that isn’t good for you or the baby.”

  Billie sighed. “You don’t know I’m pregnant. I really wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”

  “All right, let’s say you’re on edge—does that make you feel better?”

  “No. Let’s just drop it. I think I’ll take a shower and lie down for a while. I feel a headache coming on.”

  “Is there anything you want me to say to the Colemans?”

  “How can I say anything? I don’t even know them. I’ve never even spoken to them, and neither have you. Since you’re so bent on doing everything exactly right, Mother, don’t you know that it’s the groom’s family who should make the first gesture?”

  “Well, I know that, Billie, and you know that, but perhaps they don’t know it,” Agnes replied defensively. She was well aware of her breach of etiquette and admittedly somewhat unnerved by it. Certainly a family as affluent and influential as the Colemans was aware of its duties and obligations. In fact, this was the only fly in Agnes’s ointment: the Colemans might disapprove of Moss’s decision to marry; if so, then either they would convince him that he was acting hastily and should cancel the wedding, or they would ignore the situation entirely and never accept Billie or the baby as one of their own.

  Billie rubbed her temples and relented, too queasy and achy to argue. “All right, Mother, you take care of it. You usually do. As long as Moss approves, it’s all right.” It wasn’t all right. Why hadn’t Moss said something to her? But if he had, it would have been one of those little “don’t worry your pretty little head about things like that” speeches. She was being cranky, but it was only because she wouldn’t be seeing Moss tonight. He had to attend a social function with Admiral McCarter, meeting and dancing with other women. She remembered how Moss had been the focus of female attention at the graduation dance, and even at the USO he’d attracted women like bees to honey. She tried to reason with herself that Moss loved her, that he’d asked her to marry him, but jealous fear bit into her like the teeth of a dragon.

  She felt better after her shower, more relaxed. Curling herself onto the window seat, she rested her head on her knees and gazed out at the green lawn and summer flowers through the dark rusty screen, thinking about Moss. She always thought about him; even when she was doing other things, thinking other things, he was always there, like a friendly shadow, smiling down at her. How she loved him! It came from somewhere deep within her, welling, rising like a mountain river during spring thaw, rushing and turbulent until it found its own level. She knew Moss loved her; otherwise he’d never have asked her to marry him, but she guessed it wasn’t with the overwhelming, consuming love she felt for him. To Billie, Moss was all that was exciting and beautiful. He was the focus of her passions and the man of her dreams. He was love. If he didn’t love with the same devotion and depth, it was all right, she thought. Someday he would. He would grow to love her and she would become his world just as he was already hers. Somewhere in her heart, though, Billie was aware that Moss loved her as much as he could love anyone. It would have to be enough.

  A delicious feeling of wickedness rushed through Billie. She dreamed of sleeping in the same bed all night with Moss. She wanted to reach out and touch him, warm with sleep, feel herself turning into his arms and resting her head on his chest. She wanted to awaken in the morning and see him before she saw anyone else, hear the sound of her name on his lips, have him crush her against him, have him make love to her. She hugged her knees to her chest. Life couldn’t be more wonderful or perfect if God had stepped down from the heavens and personally handed Moss to her, to keep and to love. If she really was pregnant, it would be wonderful. Moss’s baby. Their child. How she would love it. Moss would adore her because she’d given him a child.

  A frown puckered Billie’s brow. She wasn’t certain how Agnes would react to a baby in the house. Babies meant work and confusion, Agnes always said. They demanded and needed attention. Yet whenever Agnes alluded to the possibility of pregnancy, there was something smug and satisfied about her.

  Billie was so caught up in her daydreams she almost missed hearing the jangling phone in the front hall. When she realized it wasn’t the church bells ringing in the noon Angelus, she scurried to the phone and lifted the receiver. She was breathless.

  “Billie?”

  “Yes, Moss.” He’d called. He wanted to talk to her. How wonderful it was to hear him say her name.

  “I can’t talk for long. We’ve got a lot of visiting brass here today. I’m behind in my work and the admiral is edgy. He gets nervous when too many stars are around, especially when they’ve got more brass than he does.”

  “Maybe you’ll be more sympathetic when you’re an admiral,” Billie teased.

  “B
illie, I don’t want to be an admiral. All I want is to fly. I want to take my place up there with the rest of the guys.”

  Billie’s heart flopped over. Every day, it seemed, the news was filled with stories of downed pilots. She childishly crossed her fingers to wish that Moss would spend the war with Admiral McCarter. She knew it was selfish of her, but she loved him and wanted to keep him safe. What was wrong with that? “I know. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was only teasing.”

  “I know, honey, but I want you to understand that I could never be happy unless I’m flying. I’ve told you that all along.”

  It sounded like a warning to Billie. She’d ignore it. “Yes, you did, and I’m sure you’ll get your wish when it’s time.”

  “Hey, Billie, do you still pray for me?” he asked, his voice warm and intimate, sending shivers up her spine.

  “You know I do,” she whispered. She prayed. She prayed he’d always be safe and never taken from her.

  “Good girl. What are you doing today?” he asked. “Will you think of me?”

  “All day, every day,” she told him, her pulses quickening. She imagined she could see his smile, his thick dark hair brushing his tanned brow, and those summer blue eyes that winked out from under thick black brows. Smiling eyes in an otherwise serious face. “I guess I’ll weed the garden and then I’ll move some of my things upstairs.” She felt herself flush, remembering that just minutes before she had been daydreaming about sharing a room and a bed with him.

  As though reading her thoughts, Moss whispered huskily, an intimate sound that made her blood sing, “Will you be moving them up to our room? I like having your little-girl things around me, Billie. And then what will you do? I want to know so I can think about you.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll have to help Mother with the arrangements for the wedding.” She laughed, gloriously happy. “If she’ll let me, that is. She seems to be enjoying each little agonizing detail. Right now she’s writing to your parents and seems to think I should do the same. What do you think, Moss?”