Cross My Heart

by Kris Jayne

  “Of high school.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “That’s what I meant, Ms. College Graduate.”

  I smiled, cringing at the taunt her mother had leveled at me over the years. “Sorry.”

  “No. It’s what I want too. I like living here. I like having Chinese food and hanging out at Ava’s. I was thinking I could file for hardship and get a job,” she said between chewing and stabbing at more food.

  I hated that she felt she couldn’t wait until she was sixteen to get a job. She should have a childhood. Someone in this family deserved to have one. Still, I was glad to hear she had a plan. “You don’t have to work. I got you. You know that.”

  “But I want to help out. Especially if you have to get a lawyer. You can’t afford that.”

  Neither could Lisa probably, but I didn’t say that. If I pulled things off at work, I’d get the Star bonus and the promotion, and she wouldn’t have to worry about working or how I would pay for lawyers.

  I took Maya’s hand. “Don’t worry. It won’t come to that.”

  She picked at another dumpling, turning it over and over on her plate. “Yes. It will. She said she can get the police to bring me back. You’d have to pay a lawyer, and she can go to legal aid.”

  “So I’ll get a lawyer. No judge is going to force you back to your mom when you’re here, settled, and doing better in school,” I assured her and skipped adding that this was the fifth or sixth time her mother had abandoned her for months at a time with me or Aunt Della. Plus, at fifteen, Maya did have a say in where she would live, but I didn’t want it to come to that either. I didn’t want her to have to stand in court and reject her mother.

  I’d done that once, and it broke me. It broke my mother.

  Mom did the best she could, working two jobs and raising two daughters, but she left Lisa and I alone. A lot. I had to admit that in court, and Mom briefly lost custody. She fought to get us back, but things between us were never the same.

  After going to a foster family for a few weeks, my dad’s sister, Della, took us in for a year. Dad died when I was nine and Lisa was eleven, but he hadn’t been around much before that anyway. He and Mom never married—a fact that twisted her up for years. A long-haul trucker, he died in an accident on the road, and she was denied surviving spouse’s benefits. Lisa and I got $25,000 each when we turned eighteen.

  I used mine to buy a car and help with college. Lisa used hers to leave home and do whatever it was she was doing until she came back a couple of years later, broke and with a dodgy boyfriend nipping at her heels.

  Aunt Della helped with Maya, but she was older now and had her own troubles. Her husband was recovering from a stroke. And Mom was Mom. She’d put in her time raising kids and refused to “let Lisa off the hook” by swooping in to raise Maya.

  Maybe she was right in a way, but that didn’t do her granddaughter any good. So I told Della to call me the next time Lisa left her there. She had.

  Lisa never told us who Maya’s father was, but I remembered the squat, nervous man she’d dated around the time she got pregnant. He had those red, soupy eyes that always looked at you like he couldn’t see straight. Gerald something. I think it started with a T. That’s all I knew, and it was more than was listed on Maya’s birth certificate.

  “Did she say anything else?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “And she’s staying with a friend? A woman?”

  “Yeah. Her name is Clancy. She smiled too much and kept telling me how much fun it would be to live with them. She said she has a daughter my age, but she’s twelve.” Maya balked.

  The edge of my mouth twitched into a smile. At that age, three years seemed like thirty.

  “Did you go to their place?”

  She nodded. “She wanted me to see it. It’s fine, but it’s all the way on the other side of town.”

  I lived in a duplex on the edges of Preston Hollow, a neighborhood with much posher environs than my quiet street. The area high school here was decent—which wasn’t why I’d moved here. I hadn’t planned on having a teenager for a couple of decades if at all. I had an easy trek to the paper’s uptown offices, and now, the choice worked out to Maya’s advantage.

  “Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to your mom, and we’ll work something out.” Meaning, I’d yell, threaten, and sue if I had to.

  “Okay.” Maya mumbled the word so incoherently I almost wasn’t sure what she’d said. “I’m going to take my plate to my room. I have homework.”

  “Okay,” I echoed.

  Maya stood and slung her backpack over one shoulder before grabbing her plate and heading up the stairs. The loft had been my office and workout space, but I moved my desk and treadmill to the tiny spare bedroom on the main level to give Maya more space.

  Left alone with my thoughts and my cashew chicken, I wondered what Lisa had planned before discarding all speculation. She was going to do what she was going to do. I needed to focus on what I was going to do, namely stay on track at work.

  I had to figure out the connection between the Stars and this Carter Cross. It was something big. I could feel it. That was a much more lucrative—and much less emotionally draining—riddle to solve than my sister.

  After dinner, I retreated to my bedroom.

  I hauled the computer onto my lap and opened the browser again. Another shining image of Carter Cross, basketball star turned real estate mogul, blazed on the screen.

  In nearly every image, he loomed over shorter, less interesting-looking men—from referees and sports reporters to business partners and community leaders.

  His Duke player profile said he was six foot five. A shooting guard. All-American. NCAA player of the blah blah blah. A standout in college, but he ended up getting an MBA rather than going to the NBA. That he graduated at the top of his class while playing big-time basketball was impressive.

  If I weren’t sure about that, every recent news article made sure to mention it. I guess that’s what happens when a sports god like him stayed local after graduation. Despite growing up in Dallas, he lived and worked in Raleigh for a commercial construction and engineering company, building skyscrapers, office parks, and factories.

  Maybe the articles focused on his basketball glory because cement trucks and rebar were so boring.

  I read yet another business journal article and clicked on an enigmatic photo of him sporting a polished, movie star smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Then, I flipped back to a version from his playing days when a broad stretch of youthful exuberance lit up his entire face.

  More success, less joy these days, I supposed.

  Maybe his company was doing business with the Stars. That would explain his having a meeting at the oil company.

  I shook my head and kept paging through search results. A business deal didn’t square with why that meeting was about J.P. Star’s estate. No. He had to be a relative of some sort. A love child?

  I shuddered and thought about the pictures I’d seen of his smart, vivacious mother who was decades younger than old man Star. Libby was right. The idea was disgusting, but his being a relative was the simplest explanation. And he was from here, so there could be a connection.

  Surfing through some of the college articles, I found more references to his family and his time in Dallas. He went to one of those prep schools where they recruit athletic talent to win high school championships.

  Laramie Academy.

  My best friend, Victoria, just married a guy who had gone to Laramie Academy. I jumped over to social media.

  I hadn’t considered that we’d have a connection, but we did. Several. James, Victoria’s husband, and a couple of guys from college who also grew up in South Dallas.

  Carter Cross barely posted on social media. The last post was a Christmas party where he was tagged by Jasmine Cross.

  A tingle of disappointment flickered through me. Staring at the handsome photos and diving into story after story about how much he loved his family were ge
tting to me.

  I tapped back to a tab with one of the lengthier profiles done in a national sports magazine during March Madness his freshman year. It had a family photo with the caption listing grandmother Etta, mother Angela, sister Jasmine, and brother Nathan.

  So Jasmine wasn’t a wife.

  Of course, he wasn’t married. The North Carolina society articles would have mentioned a wife. All they talked about was his close mentorship with Gregory Kelso, the billionaire CEO and owner of the company where he was an executive.

  Going through social media again, I saw Carter had congratulated James and Victoria on the wedding in a post from their honeymoon. James replied he was sorry Carter didn’t get a chance to be best man.

  So they were close.

  I fell back against my pillows and swirled a finger over the computer trackpad.

  I didn’t know James that well. Victoria met him, fell totally in love, and within a few months, they were engaged. Her family and friends figured we’d have time to get to know him while they planned their wedding, but they up and eloped. I thought Vic’s mom would have a stroke.

  “Everyone’s going to think you’re pregnant!” Mrs. Dixon exclaimed on repeat. But no, they were just head over heels in love.

  Now I regretted the missed wedding more than ever. I was in line to be Victoria’s maid of honor. Carter would have been the best man, and the sexy basketball god and I could have rubbed shoulders, elbows, etc. etc. already. My pulse picked up. Maybe Maya was right. I needed a boyfriend.

  Could I ask James about him? No, that would be weird. And wrong.

  Victoria and everyone else I knew thought I was a freelance writer, and I couldn’t pump them for dirt on a man who, by all accounts, was a good guy. Heroic even. Charity work. Building homes for underprivileged families. Volunteering as a Big Brother.

  I returned to a college photo of Carter grinning and holding up a trophy next to a highlighted quotation of his in the article.

  “Every time I play, I think about making my dad proud.”

  Carter Cross Sr. died when his namesake was little, leaving two kids and a pregnant wife. His mother, Etta, moved in with her daughter-in-law to help, and Carter Jr. and his siblings were raised by both women.

  “Losing a son was hard on Grandma Etta. She talked about him all the time and said she never wanted me to forget the people who mattered in bringing me into this world,” the article quoted.

  Further down the page, a smartly dressed, woolen-haired woman stood in front of Carter in a photo, straightening a bright, embellished pocket square sticking out of his suit jacket. The caption read, “Etta Cross prepares grandson, Carter, for his high school graduation.”

  The sweetness of the image squeezed my chest, and I tamped down emotion. I knew from reading another article that his grandmother died before his junior year at Duke. Flipping back to read more, one line grabbed me.

  “Moving up from working as a domestic in the oil fields of West Texas to owning her own home goods and design business in Dallas, Etta Cross embodied the perseverance and determination you see in Carter’s game.”

  She used to live in oil country? Could it have been in the same dusty towns where J.P. Star got his start?

  It could be a coincidence. There was no reason to assume they knew each other—except that Carter was at the office to meet with the estate lawyers and the rest of the Star family. Etta and J.P. could be the connection.

  I spent an hour digging to find more information on Carter Cross Sr. and turned up little else. Carter talked about missing his father and how he taught him to be strong and to mind his mother. That’s it.

  Carter Sr. had graduated from Texas Southern University and met his wife, Angela, there. They moved back to Dallas for his run-of-the-mill office job. Everything of note related to Carter Jr. and his basketball career—even the more recent articles about the younger man’s business life.

  And as much as the college articles loved talking about Etta Cross, she refused to be interviewed and was only quoted once. “I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me. Unless needlepoint is a sport, he’s the star,” she told the reporter.

  Proud, smart, and humble with a dry sense of humor. I double-clicked the high school graduation photo to get a better look at Carter’s grandmother.

  Even though the image was in profile, I could see the pride etched into the arch of her smile as she made sure he looked his best. A few other pictures also showed the sparkle in her ginger brown eyes. In her older age, she was still an eye-catching beauty. In her youth, she would have been a stunner.

  Maybe she caught a young and fiery oil wildcatter’s eye? It would have been an unlikely pairing, fraught with problematic dynamics. Him, a brash, white upstart known for taking risks and getting into scraps. Her, a young, black domestic worker trying to elevate her life in segregated Texas.

  A sick feeling settled over me looking at the photo. This woman’s life—and Carter’s—being gossip didn’t have the same sense of fun as digging up dirt on J.P., but I couldn’t afford to think that way.

  The truth was the truth. I didn’t create the stories. I just told them.

  Etta didn’t have to be the star of the tale, but she could be the key.

  15

  Carter

  “I have a dilemma.”

  I swept a hand across the stubble peppering my chin. I needed a shave. And a bourbon. I glanced from the desk in front of me to the tray of liquor my mother kept on the office credenza in her Kessler Park home. I decided to stay for a week and work remotely while I sorted out the newly discovered family drama.

  Mom was traveling with her church group and wouldn’t be back for a few more days. I hadn’t said anything to her over the phone, and I also hadn’t said anything to Jazz or Nate yet.

  My sister would probably put a hex on me the minute she found out I didn’t tell her right away. I might have called her, but every time the thought surfaced, I stopped. I needed more time to process before letting her or Nate enter the fray.

  Before I told them about our not-so-dearly departed new grandpa, I wanted to know what Mom knew. And I needed to figure out what I was going to do about my job and my life—neither of which were here in Dallas with a pack of angry aunts and cousins. After all, if I didn’t want to uproot everything I’d worked for, there was no inheritance to discuss.

  Ringing up my boss to ask him if I should quit my job probably wasn’t the most strategic maneuver. But Gregory Kelso was more than a boss. He’d been my mentor. He trusted me to guide his company as he eased into retirement. He’d trusted me more than his own flesh and blood at one point.

  For years, he’d championed me even when board members at Kelso Engineering balked at the arrogant, black kid—not that I was young enough to claim that anymore—who’d finished his MBA at Duke and been ready to tackle business world. As strange as it was to some, Gregory and I were kindred spirits.

  Now, I was supposed to drop him like trash and go chasing oil money because some old cheat with a questionable relationship to my grandmother insisted his life was my “legacy.”

  “Trouble at home?” Gregory asked.

  “No…not home…well, here in Dallas,” I fumbled, then took a deep breath to pull it together. I couldn’t very well get Gregory’s sage advice if I couldn’t explain the situation without stumbling like a fool.

  “Say it straight. Trust me. If I’ve learned anything in the past year, it’s that saying your peace straight out can avoid a mountain of complications,” he replied in a tone so dry it parched the phone line.

  Gregory was in the middle of a nasty divorce from a woman he never should have married. A woman he never would have married had she not lied to him about the paternity of her unborn child. What’s worse than that is the biological father was his own son. Griffin Kelso hadn’t known his ex-girlfriend was sleeping with him and his father. And Gregory hadn’t known Marisa was still sleeping with his son.

  But he had known Marisa was his
son’s ex. Getting mixed up with her at all was a mistake, and he was paying for it now. Who knew what excising Marisa Kelso from his life would cost Gregory? The man was a billionaire, and with that much money on the table, even a prenup wouldn’t be enough to dissuade a golddigger like Marisa from trying to take a chunk out of his hide on her way out the door. She even tried to drag me into her mess.

  I shook the memory out of my head. Marisa wasn’t my problem.

  “This is highly confidential. I promised I wouldn’t say anything yet. If the media—”

  “You know me, Carter. I won’t say a thing,” he promised.

  “I have a job offer.” Why I started there, I didn’t know.

  “Oh.” Surprise laced Gregory’s exclamation.

  “It’s complicated.” I sighed. “Remember how I told you that my father never knew his father? My grandmother moved to Dallas when he was about three. She told everyone she was a widow. We all suspected that wasn’t true, but there seemed no point in digging where she obviously wanted to leave things alone. Now, we know for sure.”

  “People weren’t kind to unmarried mothers then,” he said.

  Nor did women have much recourse if a man forced himself on her. Especially a woman like my grandmother dealing with a well-respected, increasingly wealthy oil man in the late 1950s. I didn’t know if that’s what happened, and I might never know. But I had a hard time picturing the circumspect woman who lectured me about keeping my basketball shorts up involving herself with a notorious wild man like J.P. Star.

  Whispers and stories of the man running the town with women a third his age circulated even before his wife’s death several years ago. Despite his advancing age, he liked women and booze, and he used his buckets of money to chase good times with both for decades.

  All that, and he still had the nerve to be irritated about his grandsons, Anthony and Jude, following suit.

  “As it happens…” I released another sigh and rolled the phone over in my hand, pressing the earbud deeper into my ear. “There was more to her move to Dallas than we knew. My father’s father lives here. Lived here. He just died.”