He wished now for the thousandth time that he'd never gotten mixed up with the Buckalews. Coots had offered his expertise, and he'd been grateful. Unfortunately, he'd listened to him and made some serious mistakes. Coots was an old saw, a wildcatter from way back. He did things by gut feeling, guffawing at Riley's modern technology. The same thing applied to Coots's peers. All cut from the same bolt of cloth. He'd been pleased when Coots offered to take him under his wing and show him the real way Texas oilmen did things. Riley'd been dazzled by old Coots and his cronies, no doubt about it. Instead of going with his knowledge and his own instincts, he'd been swayed. Now, with the price of oil down to rock bottom and the wells not pumping, he found himself between a rock and a hard place. Along with all the other oilmen in Texas.
Enter Lacey Buckalew, fresh from a soured relationship with Cole. He'd been flattered by her persistent attentions. Dating her had gotten Coots off his back. Temporarily. Cole had moved on. Riley'd never asked for details, preferring to think Lacey had given Cole his walking papers, not the other way around.
Now, after all these months, he still didn't know how he'd arrived at the place he was in. Soon Lacey was going to announce their engagement. He'd gone along with it, which didn't say much for him. Lately he couldn't make a decision to save his life. Why? He knew why; he just didn't want to think about it. Belonging. The family. Pride. Do a good job and you really are part of it all. Instead, he'd screwed up.
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"The hotshot kid with the slanted eyes" was falling short of the mark. "Well, what the hell did you expect—he's a Jap. They can make microchips and stereos, but oil?" He'd heard the whispers all over Austin. They'd called him a loner, too, the type who preferred to take all the glory, and the defeat, too, if it came to that.
He'd wanted to talk about it with his grandfather, but he hadn't. Why should the old one have to share his shame? And it was shame. He wasn't measuring up—pure and simple.
Maybe he should cut and run. Back to Japan. Give it all up, this dream of belonging to his father's family, being one of the Colemans. Which was 'ie anyway? The Jap who was going to turn Coleman Oil around and return it to its past glory? Or the Jap who went home to Japan with his tail between his legs to take over his grandfather's publishing empire?
How could one person be so torn? He wasn't going to find the answer standing here in the cold, that was for sure. The Japanese in him told him to take things one day at a time. Patience and a clear head would win out in the end. A pity the American frenzy in him had the edge.
The last of the black exhaust from Ivy's Mustang was long gone now. So was the last of the sunshine. Thick gray clouds moved slowly across the sky. Snow. More snow.
Riley swung his long frame into the Bronco. His thoughts shifted to Ivy again. He remembered the times he'd called her a dreamer. We all need to dream, he thought. To have no dream is to have no hope, and to have no hope is to have no reason to live. Ivy would be okay. But he was assuming that, and he had no right to assume anything. His mother had told him in childhood that it was a cardinal sin to make assumptions. Riley piled Ivy Buckalew on his shoulder on top of his other worries.
Cary walked up Third Avenue, his step light, his mind lighter. He was making a social call on his New York attorneys, Friedman, Leeds and Schornstein. He'd take Marty Friedman and Alan Kaufman to lunch, one of those long, expensive lunches with at least three drinks and a couple of bottles of wine. He'd bring them up-to-date on what was going on and tell them about the big deal he was passing up. Marty would smile that special smile Amelia called endearing, and Alan would grin, twiddle the ever-present pencil in his
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fingers, tip back on his chair, and nod approvingly.
Good guys. He'd learned a lot from them. At first he was concerned that they wouldn't take him seriously, because he'd married Amelia and was younger. He'd worried needlessly. It was like anything else—prove yourself and the respect is there because you deserve it. He was his own man.
The receptionist smiled regretfully. Alan was in court and Marty was out of town on business. He left a jar of macadamia nuts for Alan, a box of Godiva chocolates for Marty's wife, and his hotel number. He had the better part of the day to kill until it was time to pick up Julie for dinner. He was shopped out and it was too raw and windy to trudge around. He opted for the movies and popcorn after a deli lunch. He woke ten minutes before the film was over. A trip to the men's room and a cigarette in the lobby kept him long enough so he got back to his seat just as the credits were rolling by for the second showing. For the first time he realized what the name of the movie was, Nine Deaths of the Ninja. He watched transfixed while a man with a face mask twirled himself at such an alarming speed that he actually dug himself into the ground. He munched on popcorn as the other eight deaths took place.
It was four o'clock when Cary walked out of the theater. He hailed a cab and directed the driver to Saks Fifth Avenue. He strode through the perfumed aisles like a man with a purpose. He slowed down at the better jewelry department, scanning showcases of winking gold. A pin? Bracelet? He'd better not press his luck. Amelia said bracelet, and a bracelet it would be. It took him fifteen minutes to make his selection— a dainty, thin, braided gold circlet. He waited another ten minutes while it was gift-wrapped and the Saks silver seal affixed. He heaved a sigh of relief as he sailed through the revolving doors. He'd paid $150 for the bracelet, and it was probably $75 more than Julie would feel she could accept. She'd be gracious in her uncertainty, though, that much he was sure of. But a Tiffany or Carrier bracelet, as Amelia had suggested, would be handed back to him in a second. He'd bet his new cashmere sweater on it.
For one split second, as he marched through his hotel lobby, Cary was tempted to give the bracelet to the smiling desk clerk. But it was still in his pocket when he hung his coat on a hanger. He checked for phone messages and returned Alan Kaufman's call to say he couldn't make dinner, he al-
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ready had plans. Amelia had called, too, at three-thirty. It was after five now, three o'clock in Texas.
He almost fell off the swivel chair as he tried to reach the portable bar and a can of Budweiser. He had the can in his hand, ready to pop it, when Amelia's voice came on the wire. He heard her greeting, but what he was really hearing was Amelia telling him, long ago, that women didn't like beer breath. She especially detested it. The beer went back into the small bar. He plucked out a can of root beer and grimaced.
"You are prompt, darling," Amelia said. "I just called to see if you'd picked out a dazzling bauble for Julie. Tell me what you got."
"Honey, I got a bracelet, just like you said. It's gold."
"What does it look like? Would I like it? Any gems in it, or did you get a plain one? How much did you pay for it?" There was excitement in Amelia's voice, and something else he'd never heard before.
"It looks like a bracelet, honey. It's kind of twisted. It's plain but elegant, and it would look good on your arm."
"How much was it? You aren't going to shame me, now, are you?"
"How much?" Cary hedged. "Sweetheart, aren't you the one who keeps telling me if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it? I don't remember asking. I just charged it." Caught. He'd paid cash. Amelia would be waiting for the slip when the bill came. Saks always sent copies of the bill. Wait a minute, she'd think he charged it on his American Express or Visa.
"That must mean it was simply outrageous. I just love the way you do things, Cary," Amelia cooed. That something he couldn't define was back in her voice. "Did you make the reservation for dinner?"
"Christ, I forgot. Thanks for reminding me, honey."
"Darling, look, it isn't going to be all that bad. You're taking a lovely young woman to dinner on her birthday. Get into the spirit of things and really make an effort to show Julie a wonderful evening. Why don't you top it off with a hansom cab ride through the park? Promise me, Cary, that you will make a pleasant evening of it."
"I promis
e, honey." Why did he feel like a liar? He hadn't said a word that wasn't true.
"That's better. I'm going to let you go now so you can call for the reservation. Call me when you get back and let me
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"What are you going to do this evening? I wish you were here, Amelia."
"I do, too, darling, but I have four solid hours of paperwork in front of me. I'm making headway, though. I might give Billie and Thad a call later. Well, have a wonderful time this evening." The broken connection sounded extra loud. Cary stared at the phone. His knuckles were white on the receiver and he literally had to pry off his fingers.
He ripped off his jacket and tie, then called down to the desk to make a reservation at the Lion's Rock.
Exhausted, Cary turned on "Live at Five," lay down on the couch, kicked off his shoes, and was instantly asleep.
When Julie Kingsley circled the apartment for the third time, she forced herself to sit down for what she called one of her heart-to-hearts with herself. She'd never been so jittery. She'd never been thirty-nine before either, she told herself. That's what it was, all right, the big old thirty-nine. Next year it would be the big Four-O. Thirty-nine and not married was awful. Forty and not married would make her a first-class old maid. Women were still having babies at forty, but unless she opted for artificial insemination, her chances of motherhood were dim indeed. She'd probably make an awful mother, anyway. She wanted love and total intimacy with the man of her choice. A baby would interfere with that. If she didn't watch it, she'd get maudlin.
A shower was quick, the steaming, pulsating spray soothing to a tired, aching body, but a long, leisurely bath full of bubbles would be the epitome of relaxation. She could slide the shower doors open and watch her reflection on the mirrored walls. She'd pin her hair on top of her head, double the bath crystals, and sit in bubbles up to her neck. A glass of zinfandel and two cigarettes to celebrate her birthday would do nicely. Then a warm shower to wash away all the soap, followed by scented body lotion and powder, the only luxury she allowed herself in the way of perfume, and she would be ready to wine and dine her thirty-ninth birthday away.
Tonight after dinner she would place a call to Amelia to thank her for allowing Cary to take her to dinner. Tacky, her mind muttered. A note, a week or so later, sent to both Cary and Amelia would be better.
When the foamy bubbles threatened to spill over the side of
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the tub, she turned off the water and slid down into the satiny wetness. Damn, she'd forgotten her cigarettes and wine. No matter. She would have them later—over dinner.
Dinner. A birthday celebration. With Cary Assante. Amelia Assante's husband. It didn't mean anything. What was wrong with her? She'd been out with men before, lots of men. She was no virgin and didn't pretend to be one. She liked Cary Assante. Perhaps she liked him more than she should, considering that he was another woman's husband. She had a rule, and it was that she didn't date married men. He's not a date-date, she scolded herself. As usual, she was putting the cart before the horse. This dinner was simply a warm, kind gesture on Cary's part. Nothing more. So there was no call for her to sit here luxuriating, as if she were preparing for the man of her dreams. It was true, though, Cary Assante was the kind of man dreams were made of. Too bad those dreams belonged to another woman.
Julie stretched her leg from the bubbles and let her toe search out the drain stopper. Water gurgled. She gazed at herself in the mirrored wall. Size nine feet. Freckles, not just on her face but all over. Even on her breasts. Oversize hips that made finding clothes difficult. Too tall. Small breasts, big feet, big hips. Millions of freckles. Blunt nose. Mustn't forget that. Good teeth, though. Wide, toothy smile and clear eyes —that was another plus. Bushy brows that she refused to tweeze. Brooke Shieldsish. God, what was she doing? She hadn't picked herself apart like this since she was dating Ian Matthews, an architect who had let her down easy by telling her he didn't much care for tall women. He might as well have said tall women with big feet, big hips, small breasts, freckles and wide noses.
She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy blue towel that matched the bathroom tiles. Her toes dug into the soft pile of the matching carpet. She dried briskly, then used the towel to wrap up her head and padded naked into the bedroom in search of her robe. She had plenty of time to do her nails and her toenails. She'd sip on some wine and perhaps have that cigarette while her hair dried. She could be dressed and made up in fifteen minutes. She already knew what she was wearing: an electric-blue jersey dress with its own belt. A matching scarf shot through with silver threads, a Billie Coleman original. Black alligator shoes and pearl earrings would complete her outfit.
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While she wiggled her toes and waved her fingers so the polish could dry, Julie let her thoughts go back to Cary As-sante—thoughts she'd been pushing away for the past hour. She'd suggest they walk to the restaurant and back home. Even if they dawdled over dinner, she should be back no later than ten-thirty. She'd thank him for a wonderful evening and see him on his way. Tomorrow was a working day and she had to get her sleep. When she was back snug in her apartment, she would laugh at herself for being so uptight over a simple birthday dinner. It would be history, a memory for her scrap-book.
Cary had such warm, gentle eyes and one of the nicest smiles she'd ever seen. But most important, he had the knack for making a person feel special. Humor, don't forget humor, an inner voice chided. He could laugh with you or at himself. A genuine sense of humor, a rarity in these days of maliciousness and the me-first people.
She was afraid of Cary Assante.
Riley finished his steak and potatoes. Even if he felt like it, he would never suck on a bone in a restaurant, as Coots was doing. He hadn't wanted this meeting, but Coots had backed him into a corner by showing up at the office.
Coots waved off the waitress. The signal to start talking business.
"I warned you not to close off the strippers, Coots. You should have listened."
"Hell, boy, they were only giving out four or five barrels a day, and it was costing me fifteen dollars apiece every day to operate them. Show me the sense in that."
"You piss away that much every day on one thing or another," Riley said tersely. "You've been in this business much longer than I have; you should have known better."
"You're going to be in the family soon, son. You should be sharing all that fancy information, that technology stuff you went to school for."
Riley seethed. He wanted to tell the old man what he could do to his anatomy. He and his cronies were the ones who'd said they wanted no part of EOR. Now here he was, old Coots, practically begging for help. Sure, my expertise. Coleman money, that was what he wanted.
"That technology stuff, as you put it, is the only answer from here on in. Every oilman in Texas is sorry he didn't go
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for it. Technology is our only way out. Coleman Oil is hurting, too, just like everyone else."
"Not so's you'd notice," Coots snapped. "Everyone in Texas knows about the Coleman oil leases in Venezuela."
"Then everyone should know they aren't going to do us any good. They'll let us go in, drill, use our expertise, and then refuse to let us ship the oil. I cut my teeth on that story, and it hasn't changed."
"Talk is you have an in down there with those Spies. Ain't that so, Riley?"
"We have leases. I talk to the officials, like everyone else. They promise everything and give nothing. Coleman Oil doesn't have the money to pay out for nothing in return."
"Those Spies don't know how to get the oil out. You do, Riley. Talk is, you're heading that way next week. Why not take me along with you?"
"That's impossible, Coots. Look, I have to get back." He tossed some bills on the table. He'd bet five dollars there would be a message for him sometime during the afternoon from Lacey saying she'd go to South America with him after all. If Coots couldn't go, Lacey would. He wondered if Ivy would tell him not to tr
ust her sister, either.
Outside in the crisp air, Riley took a deep breath. He felt sorry for Coots. There was nothing worse than the look of a defeated old man. Probably the worst thing in the world, because he was too old and too beaten to try again. No oil. The end of the world.
Riley gunned the Ford Bronco and roared out to the highway. His grandmother was coming this weekend. He knew what that meant. An accounting, an up-front confrontation. Tell it like it is, Coleman. If Coleman Oil goes under, so goes Coleman Aviation.
UttMii CHAPTER SEVEN »»»)»
Sawyer sat across from Chesney Brighton, trying to find words that would say something but mean nothing. It was like searching for just the right birthday card for an old lover you wanted to stay in touch with. "Rand and my mother will be
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here tomorrow. I'll arrange a meeting, and the rest is up to you and them," she said.
"It must hurt unbearably," Chesney said softly.
There was no use pretending she didn't understand what Chesney meant. "For a while it was very painful. But I've accepted it, and my life is pleasant, even enjoyable. Rand and Maggie are very happy. I would hate to see that happiness disturbed."
"It won't be disturbed. All I want is to meet my father. I'll leave after I've done that. I'd never force myself on him or your mother. You probably don't understand why I need to do this. ... I never had a family. I don't know what it's like. I don't know how it feels to pick up the phone and call a sister or a brother, any relative. I have none. I've accepted that. All I want is to see him. That's all. He should know I exist. He has that right, and so do I. Someday he might want to get to know me. Then again, his life may be so full, there is no room, now or ever. I can accept that, too. Do you understand?" Soft gray eyes implored Sawyer.
"Of course I understand. More than you'll ever know."
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