Texas fury

by Michaels, Fern

  Chesney had cradled her in her arms and tried to soothe her the way a mother might do, but it wasn't the same. Sara had dreamed of a pretty mother with warm, loving eyes, a woman who would hold her close and say wonderful, endearing words and promise to make up for all the years she'd been lost to her. Instead, a work-weary, slovenly barmaid had sent her packing with harsh words and cold, glittering eyes. She'd

  {131}

  convinced herself that her father was a businessman, a gentleman who went to a fancy office every day wearing a three-piece suit and carrying an alligator briefcase. He drove a fine car with a lap robe on the backseat. She'd described in detail to Chesney the picnics and shopping trips he'd take her on. He'd dress her like a fashion model and give her tiny pearls, real ones, for her ears. He'd write down the date of her birthday in his appointment book and always remember it. He'd take her to his big house and introduce her to his other children, who would be jealous at first but who would come to love her. He would not be married. He'd had a wife, of course, but she'd met her death tragically. Sara and her father would console each other over brandy after dinner.

  Faced with the reality of her parentage, Sara had simply given up. She withdrew into her cubbyhole of an apartment and read family novels.

  One day, returning from a three-day flight, Chesney had gone round to her friend's apartment. The door was locked. She'd rapped and shouted for Sara to open up. An unfamiliar but awful odor seeped from under the door. Panic-stricken, she'd run to find the super, who opened the door and then ran back outside. The police and ambulance came while Chesney waited, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  She'd paid for the modest funeral, and she alone had stood at the grave and mourned her friend. The medical examiner had said Sara died from natural causes, but he hadn't said what the natural causes were. Chesney knew Sara had died of a broken heart.

  She'd packed Sara's meager belongings in a cheap plastic suitcase and taken them back to her apartment. All the papers, all the documents of Sara's long, long search filled two paper bags. She stored them on the top shelf in her closet. Weeks later, on one of her days off, she'd gone through the papers to find the addresses of Sara's parents. She'd written them each a stiff, formal note, informing them of Sara's death. She'd included her address, but she was not surprised when neither of them wrote back.

  To be born unwanted and to die unwanted, Chesney decided, was the most awful thing on earth.

  It was after Sara's death that she'd made her rules. She would abide by them no matter what.

  Her past was behind her and she'd carved out her future, one of her own making. She didn't need Rand Nelson or Mar-

  {132}

  ion Brighton. She might want them, but she didn't need them.

  Chesney paid the driver and ran into her apartment. Frederick, her Persian cat, greeted her by rubbing against her legs. She bent down and scooped him into her arms. How warm and soft he was, almost like a baby. Fred licked her chin and then nuzzled her neck. "Aha, you're hungry. Well, come along and let's see what I can find. But first, I'll put the water on for tea."

  Fred, an adoring look on his whiskered face, sat on his haunches and waited patiently for his fish and milk.

  The kitchen Chesney bustled around in was tidy and compact. A new stove and refrigerator were recent purchases. She'd found the cane chairs and oak table in a thrift shop. She'd sanded them down and recovered the chair cushions. She'd shellacked the cupboards and laid down the shiny tiles she'd bought. She was proud of her little kitchen, with the African violets on the windowsill and the fern hanging in the corner. The rest of the small flat was just as tasteful. She'd bought one piece of furniture at a time, saving so she could pay cash and not be in debt. For almost a year she'd slept in a sleeping bag until she could afford her brass queen-size bed. She had her own wide-screen telly and a VCR, and she'd recently bought a telephone answering machine. She had almost enough money in the bank for her first car. A daffodil-yellow Lotus. With a car, she could take some of the orphanage children to the country on her days off.

  She'd done what she set out to do. She'd found both her parents. She'd made it known that she was alive and well. She'd been up front when she told them she wanted nothing from them. There was no way she was going to end up like Sara.

  Early evening was a bitch of a time to get a taxi, Cary decided. Twenty minutes of stomping his feet in the cold angered him. He should have rented a car. He was about to give up and walk when a cab slid to the curb.

  The apartment on Seventy-ninth was almost as neat as its attractive occupant. In a vase in the foyer was a large bouquet of fresh tulips. Julie laughed. "My birthday present to myself. I love flowers. Do you?" Cary had to think a minute. Did he like flowers?

  "When they're growing in their natural environment, I do," he finally said. "I've always been a giver or sender of flowers,

  {133}

  but I never thought much about it. They do brighten up a room. But I don't like to pick them. I could never kill an animal either," he blurted. "I brake if I see a bird flying too low."

  Julie's eyes were serious and there was no trace of a smile on her face. Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to hear the words. "Thank you for sharing that feeling with me."

  "Would you like a drink?" He shook his head. "Well, then, why don't we consider walking to the restaurant. It's not far, and it will be my quota of fresh air for the day. I'll get my coat."

  Cary held the coat for her. She smelled wonderful, sort of warm and spicy, like a kitchen on a snowy winter day. He held the collar while she adjusted a long, multicolored scarf. She turned and smiled. They were so close. "Happy birthday," Cary whispered. He bent to kiss her on the cheek to seal the birthday greeting, the way Amelia had taught him, but Julie moved. Their lips touched lightly. Then Julie took a step back. Cary read confusion and sadness in her warm eyes. "It doesn't mean anything, Julie. It doesn't have to mean anything. People always—"

  "It's all right. I'm just antsy today. Birthdays do that to me." There was no need to tell this man that her entire body was charged with electricity.

  "Me, too." The intense moment was over. But he had another problem. Should he give her the present now, at the restaurant, or when they got back to the apartment? Restaurants were so public, and he had no wish to embarrass Julie. Chances are she'd say good night in the lobby, so that left now. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the gaily colored box. "This is from Amelia and me. I picked it out, so if you don't—"

  "Sometimes you talk too much," Julie said huskily. "You shouldn't have. I always say that when someone gives me a present. I guess I don't know how to be a recipient. It's so much easier, and safer, to be a giver."

  Cary felt warm all over. He'd always felt exactly the same way. Amelia was a wonderful recipient. She oohed and aahed and squealed her delight.

  "Thank you for sharing that feeling with me," Cary said.

  /' d probably share my life with you if it were possible , Julie thought. "It's lovely, Cary. You shouldn't have gotten me

  {134}

  something so... special. A box of candy would have been fine."

  "Amelia's orders," Cary said cheerfully. He was quick to see the smile leave her face, but it was back in a second. "Here, let me close the clasp. It has one of those safety things so you won't lose it." Amelia would immediately calculate the cost of the gift, catalog the store it came from, before she oohed and aahed. How unkind he was being in his thoughts. Amelia had a right to expect expensive, wonderful things from him. He'd learned early on that candy and trinkets didn't do the trick. Trinkets and a pricey label, now, that was different.

  Julie pretended not to see the slight tremor in Cary's hand when he fastened the bracelet on her arm. Possibly the tremor was in her own hand. She was certainly jittery. She thought for certain Cary would hear the sigh that escaped her lips when the tiny safety catch clicked home. Cary immediately jammed his hands into his pockets.

  He was so close. He was wearing
a different after-shave or cologne this evening. It made her want to take deep breaths. Kind of intoxicating. She hadn't felt this way in years.

  Out in the chilly night air Julie impulsively linked her arm with Cary's. He drew her closer to him as they walked against the wind. It was a nice feeling, Cary decided. "You're sure you want to walk?" Julie giggled and said she came from hearty peasant stock.

  "I'm not sure what kind of stock I come from. Sometimes I wish I knew. Other times I don't care. I am what I am."

  "I feel that way most of the time. Either people like me for what I am or they don't."

  "That's the right attitude. Don't ever change."

  "I'll try not to. Unfortunately, there aren't too many people beating at my door wanting to get to know me better." She laughed, a forlorn sound.

  Julie ordered a Scotch on the rocks. Cary raised his eyebrows in surprise. Scotch was a man's drink. Julie grinned. "Actually, I hate Scotch. I order it and can sip and not have to worry if I'm going to get light-headed. I rarely order a second one."

  Cary ordered the same and watched as she settled herself more comfortably. With the dim candlelight softly dramatizing her features, Cary thought her one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. "What do you think of the restaurant? It's one of Amelia's favorites."

  {135}

  One of Amelia's favorites. Julie blinked, then smiled. "I think it's wonderful. How do you suppose they ever got that enormous rock out there?" Julie asked, pointing toward the large plate glass window at the end of the room.

  "This is New York. Haven't you learned yet that they can do anything in this city? I asked the same question. It's real, that much I can tell you."

  "I wonder if any of their tipsy patrons ever try to climb it," Julie said. "In my younger days I'd have wanted to take a shot at it!" She giggled.

  "I said exactly the same thing to Amelia the first time we came here." He laughed ruefully. "That was a very long time ago.

  "You make it sound as if time is your enemy, Cary."

  He took a long, deep swallow from his glass. "I suppose I did. There are times when I feel that way. Right now I'm at loose ends. Everyone else is doing their own thing, arid I'm just marking time. I don't like this feeling. I'm used to being involved, right up to my neck."

  "But you just completed a magnificent project. Don't you want to sit back for a while and rest on your laurels?"

  "And let someone else get the jump on me?" Cary said in mock horror.

  "Would that be so bad?" Julie asked curiously.

  "I'd like to take a vacation, but Amelia is too busy. I've never gone on a vacation alone, so I don't think I'd enjoy it. How about you?"

  "Usually I go alone, and the vacations are more restful than anything else. Occasionally I go with a girlfriend. We've gone to the standard places: Aruba, Puerto Rico, Florida, the Virgin Islands. When you've lived virtually all your life in a place like Vermont, even Florida seems like paradise. I'm taking my vacation early this year. Two whole weeks in Hawaii. Four days in Maui, and I'll take in several of the other islands. My tickets arrived yesterday."

  "Hawaii is beautiful. You'll enjoy it. I envy Maggie and Rand their life there. Will you be staying in Oahu?"

  "Right in Waikiki, at the Waikiki Beach Tower, I think. The travel agent keeps changing my accommodations."

  "YouMl have to stop and see Maggie and Rand. They live on the North Shore. If you play your cards right, Rand might even take you to see the Banzai Pipeline; it's a favorite spot of his."

  {136}

  "Surfing scares the day lights out of me. I'm pretty much a pool person. I hate to get sand up my ass."

  Cary threw back his head and laughed. "My sentiments exactly. I do, however, like to walk on the beach, especially in the morning and then again at sunset."

  "I do, too. It's a great way to start the day. And then a big, as in enormous, breakfast. A whole pot of coffee, two large glasses of orange juice, along with hotcakes and two eggs over easy."

  "I always order the same thing. Usually it's Number Three on breakfast menus. Amelia says I'm a glutton."

  She didn't like that word; gourmand was nice, gourmet even better. "I guess I'm one, too. But I only eat like that on vacation."

  "Me, too." Cary laughed. This compatibility thing was reaching incredible proportions. He didn't mind.

  "When are you leaving?" It was suddenly important for him to know.

  "March first. I'll send you a card; how's that? I'll say, 'Eat your heart out!'"

  "Cruel and inhuman."

  "Okay. I'll say, 'Having wonderful time. Wish you were here.'" The moment the words were out, Julie regretted them.

  Their eyes locked. "I wouldn't want you to write that unless you meant it," Cary said quietly.

  "Well, I ... I probably won't send cards. They usually get there after I get home. Anyway, the card would be to you and Amelia. I never... never say things I don't mean. I mean, people get ..." She was flustered, and Cary was doing nothing to help her. Damn. "Maybe I'll send you some pineapples." Pineapples could be eaten. That was safe.

  "I'd rather have a card." Now, where in the hell was that stubborn sound in his voice coming from? His gaze remained locked with Julie's. "I'd rather have a card," he repeated.

  "Then you shall have a card. Oh, look, here's our dinner. I'm starved."

  An hour later, Cary leaned back in his chair. "I think we should have dessert."

  "Dessert!"

  "Ah, here it comes now."

  Julie turned to see a waiter bearing a cake with one candle. She blushed as she noticed the other diners smile.

  It took her three tries before she could blow out the one

  {137}

  candle. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she muttered nervously.

  "I had nothing to do with the cake, Julie. Amelia called and ordered it. Please, don't be embarrassed."

  "I feel conspicuous, that's all. People were staring."

  "Staring, yes, but with admiration and envy. Birthdays bring out the child in all of us. They were admiring you and envying me for being with such a beautiful woman. Now, eat your cake, and ask the waiter to wrap the rest so you can take it home. Aren't you supposed to put a piece under your pillow and make a wish?"

  "Isn't that just for bridesmaids?"

  "I'm not up on that sort of thing," Cary said. "But try it. Will you tell me what your wish is?" he asked devilishly.

  "And spoil my wish? Not on your life!"

  "If it comes true, will you tell me then?"

  "If it comes true, I'll take the first plane to Austin and tell you personally."

  "It's a deal." Cary stretched his hand across the table to shake on the deal. Julie grasped his hand, intending to shake it, but instead, she felt her hand go limp in Cary's. He reached across the table with his other hand. Impulsively, she brought her other hand to cover his. They stayed that way till the waiter arrived with their coffee. "Friends?" Julie whispered across the table.

  Cary nodded. He knew if he uttered even one word it would come out like a hoarse croak. He was drawn to this woman with the beautiful eyes and delicious sense of humor. He felt her attraction to him too, but she was fighting it, just as he was.

  The walk home was a silent one, the wind buffeting them along at a fast pace. In the lobby Julie reached up and kissed Cary on the cheek. "Thank you for a wonderful evening. It will go in my memory book." She stared deeply into Cary's eyes in the yellow light from the wall sconces. "If I ask you up, we'll both be sorry. Please understand. It's me I don't trust. I find myself very attracted to you, and if I'm reading you right. . ." The miserable look on Cary's face confirmed what she was thinking.

  "Can we stay in touch?" he said.

  "I don't know. It's ... We shouldn't."

  "I want to. I'll call you from time to time."

  {138}

  "I don't want you to say that to me, because then I'll stay home all the time so I won't miss your call. Let's just say good-bye, and if you ever
find yourself in New York, call me. If I'm ever in Texas, I'll call you. Good night, Cary." She turned quickly and called over her shoulder, "Give my regards to Amelia."

  The elevator door closed and she was whisked to the sixteenth floor in seconds. She opened all three locks with machine-gun speed and locked them behind her just as quickly.

  Safe.

  For how long?

  She didn't know.

  Amelia stood on the balcony, wrapped in her fleecy robe, waiting for Cary's call. The lights of Miranda seemed to blend with the stars in the darkness. She hugged herself for warmth, just out of habit, though, for the heat from the apartment gushed through the balcony doors and seemed to envelop her. It was a beautiful evening, one to be shared.

  Overhead light from the balcony next to hers startled her. The tenants obviously were doing the same thing she was, savoring the crisp, cool evening before retiring. She looked down at the bronze sundial, gleaming in her neighbor's light. "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be."

  Time to go in.

  The sliding door swooshed along the grooves and clicked to a close. If she sat on her favorite chair; she'd be able to see the sundial.

  It was twenty-five minutes past nine, Texas time, when Cary called. Amelia imagined she could see the phone vibrate at her elbow. She picked it up on the fifth ring. "Darling," she trilled.

  "I thought you might have gone to bed. I was about to hang up, Amelia."