Texas Heat

by Fern Michaels

  The satiny quilt caressed her bare shoulders as she snuggled beneath it. The loft creaked and then settled into quietness.

  Two hours later, Adam checked on Sawyer. She was sleeping soundly, her hand cupped on her cheek. He went into the laundry room and started the washing machine filled with towels. He waited through the cycle, then tossed the load into the dryer. He drank three cups of coffee while he waited for the towels to dry. He folded three fluffy yellow towels and laid them gently at the foot of Sawyer’s bed. The last thing he did before going to bed was write a note to himself to call Gristedes and order apples.

  Maggie lay beside Cranston in Jessica’s high bed. He was breathing lightly and felt warm beside her. She marveled at how quietly he slept while she tossed and turned restlessly. In the mornings, Cranston’s side of the bed was smooth and unruffled, while hers looked as though a flock of chickens had been scratching and nesting.

  Cranston’s vacation was almost over. Day after tomorrow he would leave. She’d heard him speaking on the telephone, making arrangements with the office to ready his caseload and begin making appointments. Two weeks. A time of renewal, Maggie had tried to convince herself. A time to make a fresh start with Cranston, for them to get to know each other again; hopefully, to like each other. And it had almost worked.

  Cranston had been saying all the right things at all the right times. She had responded to his mesmerizing eyes and his softly spoken words. Wanting and needing to believe, to trust. Oh, yes, she had to admit to herself that her needs for husband and family were very real. Husband, security, identity—they all meant the same thing. The divorce proceedings could be stopped at any time, or so Cranston said. He’d made it sound so tempting.

  She looked over at him, resisting an impulse to brush the lock of hair off his forehead. She’d come so close to falling in love with him all over again. He’d as much as told her she could have it all—dutiful husband, full-time son, the entire ball of wax—if only she agreed to move back to New York with him, give up living at Sunbridge, turn her back on everything she loved, everything she’d fought for her entire life. Oh, and one thing more. Cranston’s law firm. For a cool three million dollars it could be all his. All she had to do was supply the three million.

  Maggie was a big girl now; she’d learned the rules of the game. The money didn’t bother her. But Cranston did. If she went back to New York with him, she would soon become just another of his possessions, like his town car and his sailboat. There was every danger he would devour her again, as he had once before—telling her how to dress, what to say, how to behave, making her doubt herself, always feeling his disapproving eye. He would use her, and he’d use Cole if she allowed it.

  Reaching across the pillow, Maggie gentled the stray lock of hair that gave Cranston such a boyish look. She supposed that all along, despite her bravado and heroic attempts to straighten out her life, she had secretly wanted the security of being Cranston’s wife, to erase the rejection, to have a second chance at having a family, of belonging to her own little family. Yet despite his smooth words and heated passions these past two weeks, he had made no mention of love, of growing old together, of sharing. Things Maggie wanted, things Billie had found with Thad. With Cranston, Maggie would have an agreement, a contract. This for that. Whatever he wanted.

  The mattress shifted slightly as Maggie swung her legs over the side. This wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to be an extension of her husband; she wanted to belong to herself, to be admired for herself and loved for herself. It might even be exciting to see what else might be in store for Maggie Coleman Tanner on her own terms. If Cranston wanted her, he’d have to take her on those terms.

  Maggie bent over slightly as her foot traced a pattern on the floor, searching for her slippers. When she felt herself drawn backward into Cranston’s arms, she didn’t struggle against it. It would be a very nice way to say good-bye.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There was a true October chill in the air as Amelia made her way to the lawyer’s office. She stood outside the old building, in deep thought. Was she doing the right thing? She hoped so. It felt right.

  She took a look around at the brilliant foliage. Everything was so lush, so radiant; it reminded her of autumns she’d spent in the North Country of England. Texas wasn’t usually this blessed in October. More often, the long, hot, dry summers forced the trees and grasses to suffer a premature death. But this year summer seemed to have vanished quickly, bringing warm sunny days and brisk, cool evenings. It was going to be so nice lingering in the house with a fire blazing merrily in the hearth. Maybe once in a while Cary could take time off from his project to join her for a picnic-style lunch in front of the fireplace. And in the winter evenings, they could curl up there together and sip sherry, talking quietly, sharing ideas and business decisions. She could almost see him sitting there with her, the glow from the fire highlighting his classic Roman features and throwing shots of gold into his wavy dark hair. He’d look at her with those falcon’s eyes, and she would read his desire there, hear him laugh softly as she went into his arms to be crushed against his chest. The daydream was so strong, so forceful, Amelia’s heart began thumping. Determinedly, she pushed open the door to the Abramson building. The old house would be hers.

  An hour and twenty minutes later, Amelia pulled her silver Porsche into the driveway of her new house. Hers. Signed, sealed, and delivered. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. Mam’s house.

  “This is for you, Mam,” she said, fitting the key into the old lock. She wondered if it was a lie.

  It was an incredibly old house, well over a hundred years old. Nearly thirty acres surrounded it, a major reason the price had been so steep. The structure itself looked incongruous out here in the hill country of Texas; it would have seemed much more at home in a small seaport in Maine overlooking the harbor. Three stories high, with a widow’s walk cresting the sloping mansard roof... Amelia had always thought it looked like something out of Peter Pan. Clapboard walls and brick walks and drive. Sixteen rooms in all, every one of them holding a hundred layers of paint, even the beautiful chestnut woodwork. Only the front door and the staircase spiraling through the center of the house seemed to have escaped the painters’ merciless brushes. Amelia had already decided she would save what she could of the original structure and decor, and remodel what she couldn’t. Her efforts would be a tribute to Jessica and would ultimately create a home for Cary and herself.

  The briefcase she’d brought with her contained drawings and diagrams of what she planned to bring to life here. What a celebration she and Cary would have when it was all finished! Dinner by candlelight in front of a fire. Champagne, pheasant under glass—Cary had always said he wanted to eat pheasant under glass—the works. Cary would smile in awe over the miracle she created and then they’d make love and live happily ever after.

  For a moment she felt frightened. Was it possible she’d bitten off more than she could chew. She opened her briefcase and took out a yellow pad, fresh and unwrinkled, and a pencil with a sharp point. Ready to make notes, she chewed thoughtfully on the end of the eraser. She decided to make a list of everything to be done, beginning with the kitchen, then the library, front parlor, and so on through the house. Purposefully she made her way to the door behind the stairs.

  Hours later, when she’d finished her inspection, Amelia felt depressed. This was supposed to be fun, a lark of sorts. Her list was monstrously long. The previous owners had done a lot of work, modernizing most of the house. Thank God they’d at least left the wainscoting in the library and front parlor. And the chestnut staircase—that, too, was beautiful. Hand-carved. She knew from her mother that the post at the bottom end of the landing unscrewed. Jessica had often told her she hid things in the little hidey-hole

  Amelia caressed the antique wood, wondering if the previous owners had been aware of the secret. Her touch was gentle as she twisted the carved pineapple. She didn’t expect to find anything and su
re enough, the little cavity was empty. Yielding to her curiosity, she walked up thirteen steps to the landing and twisted the second pineapple, then hesitated a moment before putting her hand into the small space. Her eyes widened when she withdrew a brass ring, tarnished and black, and a small piece of yellowed paper with brown edges, obviously ripped from a notebook. Little shavings of the paper fell away as Amelia carefully unfolded the note and read its contents.

  Her eyes filled with tears that slowly rolled down her cheeks. Her father had written this little note to her mother over sixty years ago. It was short and to the point, just like Seth himself.

  To the prettiest girl in all Texas,

  Some day, Jess, I’ll give you a ring full of diamonds. I’ll build you the biggest, fanciest house in all of Texas. I ain’t much for writing but you can take these words for true. If your finger gets green from this ring, keep it in your pocket to remind you of me and my promise.

  Seth Coleman

  So much for promises. Amelia swiped at her tears with the back of her dusty hand, leaving streaks down her cheeks. He’d made good on his promise to her mother. He had given her a ring full of diamonds. And Sunbridge was the biggest, fanciest house in this part of Texas. It might have its equal in size, but she knew there was none better. The only problem was, Sunbridge hadn’t been built for Jessica; it had been built for Seth himself. Jessica had just resided in it. But she’d saved the ring and the note in her secret place.

  Angry now at what she’d found, Amelia whirled about. There was no one to scream or yell at. Her mouth was grim, her teeth clenched, when she returned the brass ring and note to the empty cavity. Not for the world would she ever open it again.

  She turned to the light switch on the landing, then peered over the banister railing at the chandelier. Most of the crystals were gone. It must have been magnificent in its day, she thought.

  Jessica had once told her it had been installed when she’d been about seven, during the Christmas holidays. When it was turned on, she’d said, she gasped in awe because it looked as if someone had taken a big blanket full of diamonds and flung them into the air. Amelia decided this was one project she personally would undertake. She made a note on her yellow pad: cleaning the crystals.

  She looked at her watch. It was getting late. The house would be dark soon, and there was no power. Tomorrow the electric company, the phone company, and the furnace company were coming to turn everything on.

  Tomorrow she would go up into the attic. Who knew what treasures she would find? She loved attics. Susan and Rand used to play in the attic back in England. God, that was so many years ago. Numbers made her itchy. Always numbers.

  Halloween arrived. Maggie scurried between the new art gallery, her Red Cross work, and all her various meetings. Having an eye for detail and decoration had put her at the top of the list of volunteers. Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—she’d ended up being the chairperson for Crystal City High’s October dance festival committee. Both boys had dates for the dance. As far as she knew, it was the first boy-girl date for either of them. In a way she was pleased about being on the committee, since it was Cole who’d asked her to help out. He certainly seemed different these days, almost as though he were coming around.

  The day before the dance, Maggie sat at the dining room table in front of a pile of papers and lists stacked next to boxes of paper pumpkins and crinkly witches, all of which had to be organized, folded up, and then tied. As she worked, she reflected that she should have recruited some of the girls from the boys’ classes; but they were always so busy with after-school activities. She really could use some help.

  “Could you use some help?”

  Maggie looked up in stunned surprise. Cole stood watching her from the dining room doorway. “As a matter of fact, I could. Actually, I could use about six pairs of hands.”

  “All I have are two, but they’re all yours,” Cole said, sitting down next to his mother. “Just tell me what to do.”

  Mother and son worked together amicably for a while. Maggie noticed that Cole had a good eye for color, and his nimble fingers sorted through the piles and stacks of papers. Within minutes, it seemed, things were organized.

  “Who’s going to decorate the gym tomorrow?” Cole asked.

  Maggie laughed. “You’re looking at her. When I was put on this committee I had three helpers. I’m what’s left.”

  Cole was silent for a few seconds. “I’ll help you. Standing on a ladder isn’t one of the things you do best. I’ll see about getting out of my first class. I’m carrying an A average so far, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” His voice was gruff, as if he were afraid she might reject his offering.

  “I’d like that if you can manage it,” Maggie said softly. “And you’re right; hanging streamers from a ladder isn’t one of the things I do best.” She waited for him to make some sort of snide remark. When he didn’t, she smiled at him. He grimaced and she laughed.

  It wasn’t togetherness, but it would do for now.

  Susan’s eyes popped open the moment the alarm sounded. She felt awful. Why did she have to get up? This baby she carried in her was taking its toll—in more ways than one. It seemed that all she and Jerome did these days was fight and bicker. She knew she was beginning to hate him; she certainly hated the music he insisted they play. Wincing, she shifted her position, quietly, so as not to wake Jerome. She didn’t want to have to talk to him if she could help it.

  Oh, how she wished she were back in Sunbridge with her family! The brief visit in July had fortified her somehow, enabled her to continue with Jerome and this damnable tour a little while longer. But she should have stayed behind. Maggie would have let her stay till she was feeling better.

  Susan dangled her legs from the bed, wanting to cry at the sight of her swollen ankles. She dreaded looking at her hands, knowing she might not be able to play the piano if they were puffy and pink. Jerome would get the ice water immediately. Good old Jerome, he would get the last ounce out of her if it killed her.

  She decided to take a shower, then eat some crackers and take her medication. Maybe after that she’d place a call to Rand. Let Jerome squawk.

  She hobbled to the bathroom, her swollen feet protesting at every step. The pipes groaned as she turned on the water, yielding little more than a trickle, which irritated her. She didn’t need this. A towel wrapped around her, she made her way to the dresser. The cellophane crackled as she removed it. For some reason crackers always settled her stomach in the morning. She took her vitamin and three other pills, and was sitting with the phone in her lap when Jerome woke.

  “What are you doing, Susan?” His voice was light, almost indifferent. But he had to fight with himself not to get up and rip the phone from her hands.

  “I’m going to call Rand. Do you have any objections?” Susan asked coldly.

  “Why don’t you wait till later, until you’re more awake and things are settled.”

  “I’m settled and I’m awake. I’ve taken my shower, eaten my crackers, and taken my pills. What I haven’t done and what I have no intention of doing is polishing your shoes, packing your bags, or going to the store for fresh rolls for you. I’m not even going to practice today. I’m going to sit right here with my feet up. I might even read a trashy magazine instead of music scores. I’m fed up. Do you hear me? Fed up!”

  “You can’t give in to these little aches and pains. You have to keep going.”

  “No, Jerome, you have to keep going. I don’t! I’m quitting right now. I can’t bear the thought of sitting at a piano for five or six hours. Even the doctor said I should be resting with my feet up. Now I suppose you’re going to tell me he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, that you know more than he does.”

  “I know you. That’s what’s important. You can’t do this to us. We’ve come too far, worked too hard—”

  “I’ve certainly worked too hard—and I’ve had it! If you don’t have the guts to cancel the rest of the tour, I’ll do i
t. Or, go it alone.”

  “Susan, look at me. We only have five more performances. You can do it. I know you can. We’ll cut out practice today. I can see that your legs and feet are swollen.” Jerome’s insides churned. He had to find a way to keep Susan going. He took a deep breath and fished around the tiny refrigerator for some milk to soothe his stomach. When there was none to be had, he waved his hands about like a maniac. “You know I need milk! You were supposed to get it yesterday. A lousy container of milk and you couldn’t even do that for me.”

  “Yesterday my physical condition was worse than it is today,” she replied tightly. “You had me practicing for five hours. The concert lasted three. You had me laced into a maternity corset that almost suffocated me. All because you didn’t want people saying I looked like a cow.” Her voice grew shrill. “That’s what you said, Jerome, a cow! I had hardly anything to eat because you said it would fog up my head. If the stage manager hadn’t given me a banana, I would have fainted on stage. And when we got back here, all the shops were closed. Where was I supposed to get your milk? It’s your stomach—you get the goddamn milk!”

  “Calm down our they’ll throw us out of here,” Jerome said, hugging his stomach.

  “That’s the best thing that could happen to us. To me especially. No more, Jerome. This is it. I’m calling Rand.”

  “And what’s Rand going to do for you?”

  “Something. I don’t know. Just shut up, Jerome, and leave me alone. Don’t get any funny ideas about trying to stop me, either. Because if you do, I’ll go to the lobby and make the call from there.”

  “Please, Susan, don’t do this,” Jerome begged. “You know how important this tour is to me. I’m just as sick as you. We can’t cancel out now. People are depending on us.”