Texas fury

by Michaels, Fern

  "All right. She told me she's having a birthday in two days. I'll take her then. Is that okay?"

  "Darling, that's perfect. Now you have to buy her an absolutely outrageous gift. Sign both our names. She's a working girl, so it has to be something she can't afford for herself. She's thirty-nine remember. That means she's almost forty, and that's middle age. Get her something that will make her forget. I hated being twenty-nine and I hated thirty-nine and I hated forty-nine, but I enjoyed fifty-nine. I don't know why. Anyway, it really has to be a stupendous gift."

  "Amelia, stop with the age thing. You're going to have to help me here. I don't know what to get her."

  "A mink stole. How many working girls do you know who can afford a mink stole?"

  "Not many, but isn't it a bit much?"

  "Possibly, but if both our names are on it, she'll have to accept. Now, if you gave it to her alone, she wouldn't accept it—that's the kind of girl Julie is. I think they still wear stoles. But maybe it should be a jacket. Mink jackets can be worn with anything, even jeans. Get a jacket.'

  {82}

  "Are you sure, Amelia?"

  "I'm positive. Some flowers, too. Nice ones, roses, none of those pompon things. Order Dom Perignon. Fifty-five if you can get it. Do it up grand, Cary."

  "I miss you, honey. I wish I was back in Texas."

  "Darling, I miss you, too, but trust me, you don't want to be back here just now. We're having a ferocious rainstorm. I had the devil's own time getting home. I'm running a nice steamy bath, darling, and I think the tub is full. Call me later. I'm going to be in all evening going over a lot of paperwork. Keep that hard-on and we can talk it down later. Deal?"

  He smooched a kiss into the phone.

  Amelia walked into the bathroom and looked at the dry tub. She turned on the tap and felt less a liar. She poured lavishly from a crystal decanter of tinted bath salts. Steam spiraled slowly upward, carrying a heady scent into the air. She was tired, and this bath and a light supper in front of the television would feel wonderful. An entire evening to herself to ponder the progress she'd made with the local and state authorities.

  She stripped down, avoiding the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She didn't want to look at the vicious bypass scar. Stretched luxuriously full-length in the tub, she thought about Cary and the phone call. Julie was a fine young woman, the kind of woman her father had wanted her to be. Cary couldn't do any better, in her opinion. She felt a momentary sense of loss and then she remembered all the happy times, all the good years. For the most part she'd had a wonderful life. Not in the beginning, but for the last forty years. Forty years. Lord, where had they gone? The best years of all had been spent with Cary. Until she drew her last breath she'd love Cary Assante. It was a miracle that she'd come through her surgery, that she could still live, and love, and do something worthwhile before she called it a day. She knew she'd been saved for something. All those silent prayers.. . Let me live.... Let me live and I'll do whatever I can.... Let me live and I'll prove I can do more than exist.... Please, God, let me live so I can see Cary again.... Let me live, let me love. And then, in the recovery room, when she knew, when she felt she would live, that silent prayer of thanks, that vow to do something.

  At the time she hadn't known what the something was, but

  {83}

  she knew now. God had given her more time to live and love Cary. Now she had to give back, contribute. She regretted that Cary didn't understand, but she understood, and that was all that mattered. She was paying her last and final debt. She'd had it all, more than most people had a right to expect. She'd endured. Wasn't it Faulkner who said it wasn't enough to just endure, you had to prevail, too? Well, she had. That old tired cliche about having her moment in the sun was over. Now she was in the shadowy area of her life, and she had to make it count.

  Amelia lifted one long, thin leg, toes stiff and pointed outward. She twisted the faucet carefully, watching a stream of hot water separate the bubbles over the drain. She lowered her foot and let some of the warm water drain away. Little beads of water dotted her knees. She laughed as she turned her leg this way and that way to see if the folds of skin hanging over her knees would disappear. Loss of elasticity, every woman's despair. Once she would have cried or tried to figure out a way to hike the skin back up. Now she simply didn't care. She was alive, she loved, and she had a mission to fulfill. She couldn't ask for more. There was no more. The simplicity of it made her laugh again. She held up her arm, watching the loose skin fall, and made an imaginary toast to Cary and Julie. "To friends and lovers," she whispered.

  The tiny smile around her lips was forlorn.

  Cary walked through the shabby lobby of Julie's building at seven-fifteen. The elevator operator, who introduced himself as Angel, said he had orders to take Mr. Assante straight up to the sixteenth floor. Cary was amused when Angel waited in the elevator doorway until Julie opened the door. "It's okay, Angel," Cary said. "Thank you."

  Julie slid the bolts on three locks. "I'm just not used to the city. I've got bars on the window, too. The fire escape is right outside the window, and this is the top floor. There's nothing but the roof overhead. It's a sublet. What do you think of it? A single girl in New York paying eight hundred fifty dollars for a sublet? I was lucky to get it."

  "If you're happy and content here, that's all that matters. I approve of the decor—it looks lived in."

  She smiled. "Sit down and I'll fix you a drink. What would you like?"

  {84}

  "Scotch and soda would be fine, thanks. What are you having?"

  "A wine spritzer. Liquor goes right to my head and makes me say strange things. I play it safe."

  "What kind of strange things?" He was going to have to make an effort to remember everything she said so he could tell Amelia. Amelia liked to hear chatter.

  "About how fat I was when I was a child. My first zits, my first bra, that kind of thing. I suppose it's a compulsion—the need to confess how unhappy I was at times."

  "What do you talk about when you drink wine spritzers?" Cary teased.

  "That I don't really make my carrot cake from scratch; I use a Duncan Hines premix. And my spaghetti sauce is not homemade."

  So that was what Ragu was. "You already confessed about the Ragu." It was funny. Here they were, two people who had met only once before, and they were both comfortable, talking about food.

  "Did you speak to Amelia?"

  His answer was important; he could tell by the anxious look in her eyes. "I finally got her an hour ago. She's happy that you're here in the city. I told her about your birthday, and she suggested I take you to one of her favorite restaurants, the Lion's Rock. I gave her your love and she returns hers."

  Julie slipped off her shoes and curled her feet under her. "I just love this sofa. You can get lost in it. When and if I ever get my own place, I'm going to get one just like it. Are you hungry?"

  "Starved. How about you?"

  "That's what you have to be to eat spaghetti and Ragu. I only use it in a pinch or if I'm in a hurry. Billie and Uncle Thad always say it isn't important what you eat but who you're eating with. I tend to go along with that theory."

  "I'll second that."

  They laughed and talked. They ate and did the dishes together. They sat on the wheat-colored sofa watching a video of Puff the Magic Dragon, something Julie said always made her feel wonderful. Cary handed her his handkerchief when she cried, something she said she always did, but a good kind of crying, it showed she had feeling, and she never wanted to lose that. It was a wonderful, quiet evening. Cary couldn't remember when he'd enjoyed himself more. Promptly at

  {85}

  eleven Julie turned off the television, rewound the video, and announced that it was time for him to leave because she was a working person, and if she didn't get a full seven hours of sleep, she was a real grump in the morning.

  "Thanks for dinner. Sorry I forgot the wine. I'll make it up to you."

  'That's o
kay. Sorry about the Ragu. I'll make it up to you."

  "How?" Cary blurted.

  "Why . .. I. .. somehow." She flushed a brilliant scarlet. Cary was instantly contrite.

  "Chance meetings deserve whatever happens. I enjoyed the spaghetti. I had two helpings and you didn't hear me complain."

  "I didn't complain about the wine either," Julie said lamely.

  "That's true, you didn't. It's just that good-byes are awkward. I feel like I should kiss you. I want to kiss you, but I'm not going to. Scotch and soda makes a confessor out of me, too. If you give me your phone number, I'll call you tomorrow and perhaps we can have dinner out. I'm not leaving till Thursday."

  Julie rattled off her number. Cary repeated it three times until it was locked in his memory. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Good night, Julie."

  "Good night, Cary."

  He waited outside until he heard the three bolts shoot home. The urge to whistle was strong. He ignored it and rang for the elevator. Thirty minutes later he was back at his hotel. He showered, wrapped a towel around his middle, called down for a drink, and flopped onto the bed. It was a quarter to twelve, not yet ten in Texas. Amelia would still be up.

  He was into his second drink when he made the call fifteen minutes later. Her voice sounded alert. "Darling, I was just about to give up on you and go to sleep," she said, "but knowing how you keep your word, I was sure you'd call. What did you do all evening?"

  Cary could feel the guilt stampede through his entire body. "I had a few drinks and watched some television. Time got away from me, I guess." It wasn't a lie . . . exactly. He prided himself on never lying to Amelia. He was copping out and he didn't know why.

  "You sound tired, darling. Maybe you should hang up and

  {86}

  get some sleep. It's probably the New York air."

  "Maybe. What are you doing, besides talking to me? Did you have a nice evening? Do you miss me?"

  "Darling, I miss you when you're just out of the room. Of course I miss you. I went over some papers, made a few notes, and read a chapter in one of your new books. I had a snack a while ago, just some crackers and grapes. I've just been sitting here waiting for your call. I did promise to..." Amelia waited to see if Cary would remember the promise she'd made earlier. When he let it slide, Amelia closed her eyes. Almost instantly they popped open. She squared her shoulders and asked lightly, "What did you have for dinner?"

  "Spaghetti, salad, some garlic bread, and a couple of drinks."

  "Where did you go to eat?" "Seventy-ninth Street, I think. It wasn't bad." "I think we should say good night, darling." "You're right. It's been a long day. I love you, honey. You know that, don't you?"

  "Of course I know that, and I love you, too," Amelia said lightly. "Sweet dreams, my darling."

  There was a click and the connection was broken. Why hadn't he told Amelia he'd had dinner with Julie? She would have understood. The worst part was he probably wasn't going to tell her about dinner the next evening, either. He felt really rotten. He called room service for another drink. Sleep was out of the question. Guilt was something he wasn't used to, and it didn't make for relaxation.

  Amelia pulled back the scented sheets. She moved stiffly, making a production out of walking around to Cary's side. She smoothed the coverlet and sheets till there wasn't a wrinkle or crease to be seen. She slipped out of the lacy Dior robe Cary had given her several years ago for her birthday and laid it neatly at the foot of the bed, on her side. She stared at it for a moment, then padded around to Cary's side and placed it where his own would rest if he'd been home. Her eyes moved to Cary's pillow. She imagined she could smell his scent.

  Cary was often away on business, but she'd never reacted like this before. She was missing him in a different way, with a different feeling. She drew the covers up to her chin and stared at her husband's pillow. He always squashed it into a

  {87}

  round ball. Goose down made that possible. She preferred a firmer pillow.

  It was so quiet she could hear the slight hum of the electronic clock on the night table. Quiet and alone. Peaceful. Sort of like death. She shook herself, not liking her rapid breathing. From habit she took her pulse. Too fast. Way too fast. No medication. She could weather this, she could control it. Shift into neutral and think about something else. What else was there? Cary was her life. True, she was doing other things these days and she wasn't... Julie Kingsley. Youthful, vibrant, warm, gentle, loving. Almost family. All the same qualities Cary had. The fur jacket was a mistake. She'd have to call Cary back in the morning. What had she been thinking of? Actually, when you thought about it, it was downright ridiculous. A gold bracelet would do nicely.

  Amelia glanced at the humming clock. She should be asleep. Instead, she was wide awake. Well then, she should be thinking about the Health Care Financing Administration and the interviews with nursing home residents she'd scheduled for early summer. She'd been partly responsible for going after the state surveyors who insured that the facilities met the standards set by the HCFA. Everyone was delighted with the progress she'd made, but concerned, even as she was, with the implementation of such a program. Nursing home residents needed leverage. She was going to see that they got it.

  Her pulse was normal now, her breathing quiet. Tess Buck-alew. Maybe she should have Tess Buckalew do another chart for her. What was in her future, in Cary's future? Did she even want to know? She didn't want Tess Buckalew to know, that was for sure. Some other astrologer, then, anonymous. Rubbish was what it was. Who in her right mind believed the stars could predict the future? Cary laughed at it and he made her laugh, but nobody in the Buckalew family ever made a move until Tess checked the stars. It was a terrible way to live. Yet the Buckalews seemed to be doing just fine. Or were they? Cole said it was a front, that they were in as much difficulty as all the other oil companies. She knew for a fact that Billie and the boys, along with Sawyer, had spent many closeted hours discussing the situation. She'd been reading the papers. Oil was down. Cole was edgy, Sawyer was constantly calling from Japan and snapping at everyone. Riley, on the other hand, was closemouthed, but his eyes mirrored the others' mood. Things weren't going well with Coleman Oil, and if

  {88}

  the situation didn't improve soon, Coleman Aviation would suffer. It wasn't her problem. If they needed her, they'd call and she'd do what she could. For now, her time was taken up with something more important than oil.

  Julie Kingsley. Cary, forty-eight; Julie, thirty-eight. The numbers were right. She was sixty-seven and Cary was forty-eight. The numbers were all wrong. Nineteen years and a semifrail wife weren't going to do it this time around. If it wasn't so damn late, she'd call Billie, but she knew the Kingsleys turned in right after the evening news. She was on her own. Rechannel your thoughts, she told herself. Think about the HCFA study. Don't think about Cary's tortured, guilty voice.

  Amelia leaned back into her plump foam pillow and was asleep almost immediately. She slept soundly until four, but after that she could only doze and dream wild, frightening dreams. When she woke at six, the last of her dreams was clear. She'd been committed to a nursing home because she'd lost control of her bodily functions. Tied in the bed, her hair unkempt, spittle drooling from the corner of her mouth, she waited for Cary's twice-monthly five-minute visit. The nurse who brought him into the room was a beautiful young woman dressed in soft white, her nurse's cap like a halo on her head. Her voice was gentle when she whispered that Amelia was waiting patiently, that he was all she lived for. Tenderly she smoothed back Amelia's gray hair and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. "Cary's here, Amelia. Now, I want you to smile for him." And she'd obeyed the pretty nurse, whose name was Julie Kingsley. Cary hadn't smiled in return. Instead, he turned to allow a second nurse to enter the room with a second visitor. Tess Buckalew waving a thick booklet. "Your future, darling, it's all here! Wait till you read it! You're done for, dearie!" Amelia was convinced it was Tess's cackling laughter that woke her. She shud
dered. How real it seemed.

  Amelia showered while the coffee perked. Decaffeinated, on doctor's orders. Only for herself: for Cary she brewed a master blend that she ordered from a specialty shop. Once in a while she sneaked a cup just so she wouldn't forget what real coffee tasted like. She was on her second cup when she placed the call to Cary in New York. She talked aloud, first, to the empty breakfast nook so her unused morning voice would sound natural when Cary got on the line.

  "Amelia! What a wonderful way to wake up and start the

  {89}

  day. There isn't anything wrong, is there, darling?"

  "Of course not." She explained about the fur jacket. Cary said he agreed.

  "How did you sleep, sweetheart?"

  "Like a log," Amelia lied in a light tone. "How about you?"

  "Like a log," Cary lied in a matching tone.

  "What's on for today?" Amelia asked.

  "I'm going to sit in on the meetings again to see if there's something I missed yesterday. I have nothing else to do. I really should come home, Amelia."

  "And leave Julie alone on her birthday? Absolutely not. Billie and Thad would never forgive us. Wine and dine her like you used to wine and dine me when we were courting. I love that word 'courting,' don't you?"

  "Amelia, when it comes to you, I have total recall. I haven't forgotten a thing about us. Someday I'm going to write my memoirs."

  Someday. Far into the future. She wouldn't be here then. People didn't write their memoirs until they were old and wanted to leave something behind. It would be a long time before Cary was old. And Cary could father a child any time. The thought was so devastating she almost fainted. "Darling, that's a wonderful idea! Make sure I'm on page one. I have to run, darling. Busy day today." She smacked her lips as a kiss, and she could hear Cary do the same before she hung up the phone. Her hands were shaking badly; she jammed them into the pockets of her robe. "Think only HCFA," she muttered over and over as she dressed.