Texas Heat

by Fern Michaels

  Every day this week she’d called and invited Cary to lunch. Every day he’d refused, nicely of course, saying he had to be on the site. She’d offered to bring a picnic basket in the car, but he’d vetoed that, saying the other workmen wouldn’t appreciate it. They ate together, all the hard hats, with the bosses.

  She was almost at the site now. Maybe she could stop and at least say hello. She could go into the trailer office, have a cup of coffee, and leave a note for her husband on his clipboard. He’d get a kick out of that. Or would he feel she was chasing him, not giving him breathing room? The hell with what he felt. This was what she wanted to do and she was going to do it.

  The road leading to the construction site was a series of deep potholes, all of them filled with water. For miles all she could see was acres of mud and slabs of concrete. Here and there were trailers with wires hooked up to generators. Bulldozers, all manner of heavy-duty equipment, were at work.

  She sat for a minute before she turned off the ignition, wondering if it all was going to work. Was Texas ready for Cary’s dream? God, it was going to take ten years to complete. She could be dead by then. Cary would just be coming into his own, a handsome fiftyish widower. The thought was so terrible Amelia almost leaped from the car. Mud splashed up on the silvery mink. She cursed loudly and strongly. Then she laughed. She’d wear hip boots and slog through mud up to her waist if she could be near Cary. She’d eat out of a metal lunch box and wear a bright yellow hard hat. She might even give up her false eyelashes and fingernails if they got in the way.

  Amelia drew in her breath when she opened the door to the trailer office. The last time she’d seen it, it was dirty and messy. Clutter everywhere. Some magical fairy must have been at work, she decided. Now there were tailored drapes on windows that just last month were practically solid grime. Green plants rested in wicker baskets on the tables. The floor was clean and the lamps dusted. There were piles of incoming and outgoing mail in wire baskets on Cary’s desk, next to a new computer/printer. Amelia frowned. Cary hadn’t said anything about a computer. The old black telephone was gone, too, replaced by one of AT&T’s newest consoles.

  Amelia looked completely around her. She didn’t remember the walls being paneled. Or the aluminum-framed pictures of different sections of the state of Texas. Four chocolatey-colored chairs were scattered about the long room, with not a trace of fuzz or dust on the deep-welted corduroy. The bar, another new addition, was stocked with expensive brands of liquor. She knew there’d be a refrigerator behind it, filled with beer and soft drinks. Clients? Hardly. Probably Cary and his partners. The union men wouldn’t be permitted to tramp in and out of this office.

  The last thing she checked was the tiny bathroom. It had been newly carpeted in pink—pink!—and a wicker basket with yellow-and-white daisies sat on the back of the toilet. She peered into the bowl. It was clean. So was the sink. Pretty paper towels in a stack. Hand towels? A bottle of Avon hand lotion and little squares of what looked like Cashmere Bouquet soap were piled neatly next to the paper towels. Even the mirror and overhead light were different.

  Who had done all this? She wondered. Cary hadn’t said a word about it. For some reason, she felt annoyed—and vaguely uneasy. She also felt hot.

  She was turning down the portable heater when the door opened and a pair of trim ankles in outrageously high heels came into Amelia’s view. She turned and stood erect. “I thought this was set too high. Fires can happen with these things,” she said coolly.

  “I suppose you’re right. It gets very cold in here. Drafts from the door. Can I help you? First I have to take off my coat and scoot to the bathroom. I had to get lunch for the men. Chinese,” she called over her shoulder.

  Amelia blinked. Whoever she was, she had the closest thing to a perfect figure Amelia had ever seen. She also had good skin, and she was young. Very young. Twenty-five, tops. Perfection? Confection? The men must love coming in here, Amelia thought.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but nature calls every so often,” the young woman said blithely. She settled herself behind the desk, hiked up her clinging blue jersey skirt, and looked directly at Amelia. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Perhaps you could tell me where my husband is.”

  “If you tell me his name, maybe I can. My name is Eileen Farrell.”

  “Cary Assante. I’m Mrs. Assante.”

  Eileen’s deep brown eyes widened. “You’re Mrs. Assante?”

  “In the flesh,” Amelia said coldly.

  “Uh ... hi! Cary didn’t say you’d be stopping by. He’s out on the site somewhere. We’re supposed to have lunch at one o’clock, but they’re late now. We’ll probably have to put it in the microwave.”

  “There’s a microwave here?” Amelia asked in surprise.

  “I insisted. What with the cold weather and all. The men need something warm when they come in. It’s over there behind the cartons. It was the only place to hook it up. Cary said it’s a wonderful idea. Everyone seemed pleased.”

  Microwaves, bars, green plants, pink carpets in the bathroom, and this... this ball of fluff. Amelia wanted to gag.

  “Tell Cary I was here,” Amelia said, bringing the mink close to her neck. It tickled her chin. Any other time she would have smiled.

  “I’ll do that, Mrs. Assante. I love your coat. It must have cost a fortune. Someday I plan to get one.”

  “Make sure it’s a Fischer if you do. If someone else is paying for it, that is.”

  Eileen giggled. “Oh, you mean if I get a rich husband or lover.”

  “Whatever. It was nice meeting you, Miss Farrell. By the way, how long have you been here?”

  “Exactly a month tomorrow. You wouldn’t believe what this place looked like when I took the job. The first thing I said to Mr. Assante was I couldn’t work in such a messy place. He gave me some money and told me to fix it up. Everyone loves it. It’s a pleasure to come to work now.”

  “I just bet you’re worth every penny of your salary.”

  “Mr. Assante says I am. The others seem to agree. I finally got the hang of this computer. I’m the only one who knows how to work it. The Wang Company sent someone out here to train me.”

  “How much are you earning?”

  “I guess it’s okay to tell you, being you’re Mrs. Assante and all. Four fifty a week.”

  “Dollars?” Amelia asked in amazement.

  “Plus benefits,” Eileen chirped. “Dental, eyeglass plan, major medical, as well as three weeks’ vacation and twelve sick days. I snapped this right up.”

  “I would, too,” Amelia snorted as the door closed behind her. So, nothing was new on the construction site. Well, Eileen Farrell was new, like a bright, shiny penny. Even her eyelashes were real, heavy-fringed and perfectly mascaraed. Soft brown naturally curly hair that she’d kill for. And she was young.

  Amelia returned to her mother’s house. She wasn’t in the mood now for carpenters or paperhangers. She didn’t want to see the workmen goof off and she didn’t want to remind them that she was paying them by the hour.

  A whole afternoon to get through. She knew she wouldn’t accomplish anything—she’d just be waiting for the phone to ring. Cary would call her; that much she knew. He’d think something had happened. She never visited the trailer anymore—not since he’d told her it didn’t look good to the other men. She didn’t want to embarrass him, did she? Oh, no. She’d never do anything to cause Cary trouble.

  Eileen Farrell. Who was she? The intricate wooden sign on her desk had read Design Consultant. Eileen Farrell, Design Consultant. But just what the hell did that mean? What did she design... and who did she consult with?

  Amelia felt like smashing something—preferably a mirror, any mirror.

  It was three o’clock when the phone rang. Amelia let it ring seven times before she answered. She made her voice sound breathless and impatient. “Yes?”

  “Hi, babe, how’s it going?”

  “You really don’t want to
know. I’m handling it. How are things at the site?”

  “Fouled up as usual. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you stopped by. You could have joined us for some Chinese. You didn’t miss anything, though; it wasn’t all that good.”

  “Poor baby,” Amelia cooed. “I didn’t know you had a microwave.”

  “Oh, sure. We got one when we fixed up this place. How’d you like it?”

  “I thought you did a pretty good job.”

  “Hell, I didn’t do it. The little gal Eileen did it. I just gave her the bucks and told her to go to town. It was a smart move the day Jacobsen brought her here and we hired her. Things sure are running smooth. We even got a computer with a printer. Damn fool thing scares me, but Eileen is a whiz with it.”

  “What does she design?” Amelia asked airily.

  “Elevators. Best one in the business according to Jacobsen. And he’s the best architect in Texas.”

  “Elevators are important,” Amelia said stupidly.

  “Damn right. You can’t do anything without elevators.” Amelia thought she could hear a giggle in the background.

  “Gotta go, darling,” she said with false lightness. “One of the workmen is calling me. I’m glad you’re getting hot meals for lunch these days; I do worry about you. See you tonight.”

  Cary hung up the phone and grinned at Eileen. “She’s something, my wife.”

  “She sure is. I loved her coat.”

  “She must have twenty. All different colors and lengths. She’s one classy lady.”

  “I could tell,” Eileen said sweetly.

  “Listen, Eileen, if Sherm Alphin calls, tell him I’ll be in around six-thirty and not to leave till he hears from me.”

  “Mr. Assante, why don’t you get a beeper? Each of you men should have one. It would make things so much simpler for you. I could have the phone company come out here and hook up a phone in the middle of the site and you guys could just call to your heart’s content.”

  “Do you really think we should get those things?”

  “I certainly do. I can make the arrangements and have them ready for you by the middle of next week.”

  “Do it,” Cary said, clamping his hard hat on his head. “It occurs to me that you’re doing the work of a secretary instead of what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Mr. Jacobsen pays me extra for design work. I don’t mind doing all of this. Besides, design consultants don’t get benefits. Your package was what I needed. I’m only too glad to help out. The pay’s good, too.” Eileen grinned. “How else do you think I could get a mink coat like your wife’s?”

  “You could get some guy to guy it for you.” Cary laughed as he closed the door behind him. Cute kid. Lots of savvy. He wondered if Jacobsen had a thing going with her.

  Cary grinned as he made his way through the mud holes back to the work area. He understood the Eileen Farrells of this world; he, too, had had to claw his way off the bottom. It had to be harder for a woman. Inside of a month Eileen Farrell had taken over, and she was fast proving herself an indispensable member of his team. With right clothes and the right connections, it would be clear sailing for the little girl who’d come from a small town under the x in Texas.

  The really funny part of the whole thing was, she was smart as a whip, and she had a brain like a calculator. Beauty and brains. In a year probably she’d be asking for a slice of the pie; he could almost guarantee it. And if she got that far, he’d vote in her favor.

  He had to remember to ask Amelia what she thought of Eileen. Amelia knew women almost as well as he knew men. He really respected her opinions. They’d compare notes and then make a wager like they usually did. Half the time Amelia won and half the time he won. Good odds.

  A week before Christmas a festive air settled over Sunbridge. Garlands of balsam decorated the stairway and mantels. Mistletoe hung in open doorways. A monstrous twelve-foot blue spruce waited in the corner for its branches to settle in preparation of tree-trimming night. Aromas of baked cookies and spice cake drifted about, greeting each person who entered the house. Gaily wrapped packages were propped on chairs and in corners waiting to go under the tree. Fragrant pinecones burned in the fireplace. At last, Christmas was about to arrive.

  Sunbridge’s guest list would be identical to the one for Maggie’s Fourth of July bash. She was pleased. Just this morning she’d received a letter from Rand saying he would definitely arrive Christmas Eve.

  Since that morning in Rand’s room, letters had gone back and forth between England and the States on a daily basis. Long letters, pouring out doubts, reaffirming affections, but always excluding the word “love” except in closing. “Love, Maggie,” she would write, or sometimes “Love, your Maggie,” remembering the way he had said to her that morning, “Maggie, my Maggie.”

  Their favorite topics were each other—how one felt about this, the other about that—and questions about the way the family would either accept what they had come to mean to each other or not. The “not” always caused the greatest alarm, the deepest distress.

  The past few letters had broached the subject of Cranston and Cole and the wisdom of not allowing anything to interfere with Maggie’s divorce. As a result, they’d decided they would have to remain “discreet.” Logically—and because they both wanted it so desperately—discreet meant sacrifice. And since they’d promised each other to discreetly sacrifice their desires, there was no reason Rand shouldn’t come to Sunbridge at Christmas. Logical, reasonable, adult—and so very, very dangerous. The day Maggie received Rand’s confirming letter, the smile stayed on her lips all day.

  Everyone would be home for dinner this evening. It seemed as though the Christmas spirit was drawing the family closer together, although in Cary and Amelia’s case, the weather probably had more to do with it. As far as Maggie knew, the site was closed for a few days because of the last storm. Susan, pounds heavier but looking wonderful, was taking her meals downstairs now, along with the boys, who chatted and bantered: Even Cole was making an effort to be civil. He obviously wanted to very much be allowed to go to New York with his cousin the day after Christmas.

  It was a heavy, cold-weather Texas meal. Beef stew cooked in the old iron pot for seven hours, savory and incomparable. There was corn bread and sourdough biscuits, along with asparagus and a green salad. Three meringue pies dotted the sideboard: banana cream, coconut custard, and lemon.

  As Martha ladled out the stew, Maggie asked everyone at the table, “Have you finished your Christmas shopping?” The diners responded with sheepish looks, nods of agreement, and hoots of displeasure for the reminder.

  “I finished yesterday. Now all I have to do is wrap.” Maggie smiled victoriously. “I think I bought out the stores.”

  “I ordered through the catalogues,” said Susan, “and everything arrived except one item. I plan to finish wrapping this evening.” She sighed. “If I don’t eat too much and fall asleep, that is.”

  “I’m done,” Cary boasted. “Finished last week, as a matter of fact.” No need to tell anyone he’d slipped Eileen his charge cards to do his shopping.

  Amelia groaned. “I’ve been so busy with the house and all, I lost track of time. I’ve got the major portion to go. I’m hitting the stores tomorrow as soon as they open.”

  “I’m almost finished,” Riley volunteered. “I’m waiting for something from home.”

  Cole looked up and around the table. “I didn’t start yet.”

  “I hope everyone remembers everyone. Rand will be here, Mam and Thad, and Sawyer, although she hasn’t said definitely that she’s coming.”

  “Maggie, would you mind if we invited someone from the outside?” Cary asked.

  “For dinner? The more the merrier. Who do you have in mind? Your friends, Sherm and Clara Alphin?”

  “No, they’ll be in North Carolina with their grandchildren. Not just for dinner, either. I was thinking of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The girl in our office, Eileen Farrell. She’ll be alone in
an empty condo with a plastic tree. This family is so informal, I thought it would be nice for her to be with a big family.”

  Maggie could feel Amelia’s stillness and was afraid to look at her. The request surprised her, and there was no way she could refuse. “Of course. Sharing is what Christmas is all about. That means, of course, that I’m not done shopping. You said her name is Eileen? I’ll pick up a few things, cologne, a scarf, a book, so she has presents to open. Shall I send her an invitation, or will you take care of it?”

  “I’ve already asked her. I knew you’d say yes. You’ll like her. Amelia thinks she’s great. We’d be lost without her at the site, I can tell you that.”

  Riley looked from Cary to his aunt Amelia, who was sitting beside him. He could hear her grinding her teeth. He went back to the asparagus he hated. Adults sure had a funny way of showing approval.

  “She designs elevators and acts as a major domo of sorts,” Amelia said breezily. “She’s even gotten Cary and the others to wear a beeper. Now he can be paged anytime of the day or night.”

  “I’m impressed.” Maggie laughed. “Where’s she from, Cary?”

  “Under the x in Texas,” He laughed. “She went to some design school in New York. She knows her business, all right. Let me tell you what that little filly did.”

  Amelia sucked in her breath. She could feel Riley watching her. Filly? Is that what they said under the x?

  There was a chorus of “What?” from around the table.

  “She asked for a contract. I told you she’s no fool. She knows this project is going to take almost ten years to completion. She wants to be sure she gets her share.”

  “Does she want a percentage, too?” Amelia asked, her voice cool and controlled.

  “It came up in the discussion,” Cary said vaguely.

  “How much?” This time she didn’t try to control her tone of voice.