Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes

by Beverly Barton

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh, come on. Of course, you can.”

  “No. You might start telling lawyer jokes. I hate lawyer jokes.”

  He waited for her to say, Oh, you’re a lawyer, then? or something along that line. But she said nothing of the kind, which seemed strange—until he realized that maybe it wasn’t strange at all. Maybe she didn’t need confirmation about the kind of work he did. Maybe she already knew.

  She put her other hand over their joined ones. “I give you my solemn vow. No lawyer jokes.”

  So he told her—of his one-man practice, of his secretary whose name was Mona Letterby. “That Mona. A remarkable woman.”

  “In what way?”

  “The word efficient must have been created with her in mind.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “I can tell by your tone. Something about her bothers you.”

  “Well, there is one drawback to the perfect Mrs. Letterby.”

  “And that is?”

  “No sense of humor. None. Sometimes I even wish she’d tell a lawyer joke if it would mean she’d crack a smile now and then.” He leaned closer again. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

  “Oh, yes. Do.”

  “Mrs. Letterby intimidates me.”

  “She does?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t live up to her expectations for me.”

  She looked so sweet and sympathetic—for a moment. Then she made a scoffing sound. “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Well. Maybe a little.”

  “You wish your secretary would give you a grin now and then, but she’s great at her job and she doesn’t scare you in the least.”

  “Have me all figured out, do you?”

  “Well, I know you’re not the type a snooty secretary can push around. You wouldn’t hire a snooty secretary.”

  And how do you know all this about me? he wanted to ask. But he knew, if he did ask, he wouldn’t get any kind of real answer. She’d brush it off as teasing—or she’d clam up again.

  He supposed he wouldn’t particularly mind the first possibility, but he didn’t want to take a chance on the second.

  “Tell me about your family,” she said.

  So he gave her the facts. “I have one sister. This is her night. She’s eighteen and she’s a winner—dean’s honor list this year, headed for the University of Texas in the fall. I’m her guardian now.” He paused. “My parents died last year. A car accident.”

  “You miss them a lot.” It wasn’t a question.

  He looked down at their joined hands and then up again, at her. “It’s strange—when you love someone and then they’re gone. The spaces they leave are the hardest to take. The spaces they filled. I mean that literally. I mean things like the rooms they were in a lot.”

  “Oh, I know, I honestly do.” Her eyes stared straight into his. “The rooms they loved and lived in are suddenly truly empty rooms. And why is it that their favorite perfumes and aftershaves tend to linger, somehow, never really vanishing completely, so you always have that faint reminder of all that you’ve lost? Oh, and the places where they liked to sit—their seat at the table, a certain chair at the window—the sight of those places, months or even years after they’re gone forever, can break your heart all over again.”

  She had it right. Just the way it was. He said, “I moved back into my parents’ house when they died. It seemed better, for my sister, to have that consistency. She’d lost her mom and dad. I didn’t see why she had to lose her home—not yet. She had her senior year ahead of her, and then her college years. Not that long, really, and she’ll be out on her own anyway. But for that first year after Mom and Dad were gone…”

  “Oh, yes. That was good of you. Sometimes the memories are hard to take, of living where you lived with them. Still, I’m sure it’s been better for her, to be in her own home, to have that, at least, remain the same.”

  She did understand. Too well. He dared to ask, “Was it your parents that you lost?”

  That tender gaze slid away. He thought with a sinking in his chest that she would start saying she had to leave again. But then her glance shifted back, met his. He felt a soft sort of jolt—a sensation of connection, as if they were touching on some deeper level than just their joined hands. “Yes. My parents. They were…so much in love, always. It’s hard to explain, how much they meant to each other. You know Kurt Vonnegut?”

  “The writer?”

  She nodded. “He wrote this story, Mother Night, about a man who posed as a Nazi while spying for the Allies in the Second World War. This man was totally, completely in love with his wife. He called what they were to each other ‘a nation of two.’ My parents were that. They didn’t need anyone else, as long they had each other. They loved me, very much. But I was definitely extra to them. Something precious, but not absolutely necessary, the way they were to each other.”

  “But that’s good, I think—don’t you? I think the most important relationship in a family is the one between the husband and wife. That ought to be the center, the primary relationship.”

  “Yes.” She frowned, thinking. “I do see what you mean. And I agree with you. But maybe my parents were a little…extreme that way—like the man and his wife in Mother Night.”

  “Extreme?”

  “They were…dependent on each other, I guess you could say. I mean, sometimes, for them, it was like the rest of the world didn’t even exist. They could relate to each other, but not really to anyone else.”

  “How long ago did they die?”

  “My mother went two years ago, my father three months later. I think he was happy to go. He missed her so much.” She looked away, but only briefly. Then her eyes found his again. “And when I go, come with me. No need to linger here. Alone with all we might have said, hearing the echoes of our laughter. Tasting the memory of our tears…” She shivered a little.

  “You’re cold?”

  “No.” She drew in a long breath, looked up at the sky. “What a night. A perfect night for the debutante ball.”

  Her head was tipped back and her long white throat gleamed in the darkness. He wanted to put his mouth there, to taste her skin, to feel the tender flutter of her pulse against his tongue.

  She lowered her head. She was looking in his eyes again. “What do you dream of, James Campbell? Late at night, in your room in the house where you grew up. When you close your eyes, what do you see?”

  He smoothed her hand open again and stroked her wrist, her palm, the soft pads of her fingers. “Nothing all that exciting.”

  She laughed, low, for his ears alone. “Let me decide that.”

  “As long as you remember, you were warned.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me, exciting or not. I just want to hear about your dreams.”

  So he told her. “Sometimes my dreams are worried dreams. That I’ve lost something and I can’t find it and I don’t think I’m going to find it—because I don’t know what it is.”

  “So far, I take it, you haven’t found it.”

  “That’s right. So far, I haven’t.”

  “And what else? What other dreams? Do you ever have dreams of flying?”

  “I used to. When I was younger. Not so much anymore. Not in a long time, now I think about it.”

  “When you used to dream of flying—did you fall?”

  “Never.”

  “Did you look down?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Maybe that’s the secret then, of flying in dreams. Not to look down.”

  He twined his fingers with hers again. “Listen. Hear that?”

  “The music, you mean?”

  He nodded. “It’s a slow song. And I want to dance some more. With you.”

  For a moment, she was a portrait of indecision, probably fearing the possibility of another encounter like the one with Maddie Delarue.

  “If you wait too long,” he wa
rned, “the song will end.”

  That fabulous smile appeared. “All right. Let’s go.”

  They stood as one and went back inside.

  When they reached the dance floor again and she moved into his arms, he realized he was happy—happy in a way he hadn’t been for a long time. Maybe in a way he had never been. There was so much here. With this particular woman.

  Excitement. Understanding. Tenderness. Laughter.

  He had wanted her from the moment he first saw her.

  But now there was more. Already. In a half an hour at her side. They had danced. And they had talked beneath the stars.

  And now he was gone. Finished. Overboard. For the vulnerable Olivia, with her slanted amber eyes and her husky laugh and her tendency to quote wonderful, corny, old-fashioned poetry.

  He was gone. And he was glad.

  There was no yesterday. And no tomorrow. Only this instant, right now, on the dance floor of the ballroom at the Lone Star Country Club with Olivia Leigh in his arms.

  Mary lifted her head from his shoulder and gave James a tender, dreamy smile. She’d left her glasses in the glove box of her car. Everything beyond two feet away was out of focus. But that was no problem. She could see well enough to get where she needed to be.

  She was where she needed to be. In James’s arms. He held her nice and close and she could see him just fine.

  And really, what else did she need to see?

  Not a thing. Everyone else—the whole rest of the world—could just fade away. That would be fine with her.

  She wasn’t herself tonight. Oh, no. Tonight she was the beautiful, mysterious Olivia Leigh. She had crashed the Lone Star County Debutante Ball—and she had gotten away with it, gotten just what she came for: the chance to spend an enchanted hour or two dancing in James Campbell’s big, strong arms.

  The next dance was a slow one. And so was the one after that.

  Then James asked her if she’d like some punch. She was a little thirsty by then, so she told him yes.

  He led her to one of the refreshment tables lined up near the side wall. “Let’s see,” he said. “There’s something pink. And something purple. And something that looks like it just might be lemonade.”

  “Lemonade,” she said. “Please.” He lifted the silver ladle and scooped her up a cupful. She took a sip—and watched as a frown formed between his dark brows. He was looking at something behind her. “What is it?”

  “Frances Adair,” he said, his fine mouth twisting wryly. “Chairwoman of this year’s ball. Headed this way.”

  Frances Adair. Mary’s stomach lurched and her heart seemed to stop dead—then start in again way too fast.

  Everyone knew about Mrs. Adair. Everyone talked about how hard she’d worked this year, about her dedication and her respect for tradition. Mrs. Adair would not be impressed with the lovely and charming Olivia Leigh. She wasn’t going to grin and see Mary’s presence here as a delicious little joke, the way that Maddie Delarue had done.

  No. Mrs. Adair would see Mary for exactly what she was—a counterfeit, a phony. A fake.

  James took the lemonade from her suddenly nerveless fingers and set it back on the table next to the punch bowl. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Running off.”

  “I’m not.” It was a lie and they both knew it.

  He caught her hand and tucked it securely around his arm. “Stick with me. I can handle Frances Adair.”

  Chapter 4

  Mrs. Adair marched right for them, coming to an abrupt stop about three feet away. “James, I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

  Mary squinted, just a little, trying to see her better. But the woman hadn’t moved in quite close enough for Mary’s nearsighted eyes to make out any details.

  Mary could see that the woman had short, dark hair. And she was stocky, like Margaret—but much taller. Five foot ten, at least. Her voice matched her presence. Strong and imposing.

  Mary resisted the urge to lower her head and scrunch up her shoulders.

  “Frances,” James said easily. “What can I do for you?”

  There was a silence, a heavy and unpleasant one. Right then, the band had paused between songs and it seemed to Mary that every last soul in that huge ballroom had turned to stare in their direction, would witness her disgrace.

  Then the band started up again and Frances Adair said, “An introduction, I think, to start.”

  “Fair enough. Olivia Leigh, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Frances Adair.” James laid his hand over Mary’s and pressed lightly, in a reassuring way. She looked at him, saw his encouraging smile, and made herself smile back. He went on, “Did I mention that Mrs. Adair chaired this event?”

  “Yes, James, I think you did.” She surprised herself. Her voice was calm. Thoroughly composed. She turned her smile on the big, blurry woman opposite her. “It’s great to meet you, Mrs. Adair. Of course, I’ve heard all about you. Everyone has. You’ve done a truly outstanding job this year.”

  “Excuse me? You’ve ‘heard all about me’?”

  “Yes. I have.”

  “Isn’t that interesting—considering that I know nothing at all about you.”

  “Well, there’s not that much to know, really….” Mary let the words trail off, thinking how utterly lame they sounded. But what else could she say? She hated to make up a bunch of lies—and she refused, under any circumstances, to reveal her true identity.

  “I’ll get to the point,” said Mrs. Adair with icy contempt. “Ms. Leigh, your dress is white.”

  It took every ounce of will she possessed. But somehow, Mary resisted the urge to cringe. There was going to be an ugly scene now, she just knew it.

  James cleared his throat. “Not quite white, Frances. More silvery, I would say.”

  “White enough. It’s traditional, at the debutante ball, that only the debs themselves wear white.”

  “Oh,” said Mary, her heart beating so fast it felt like it might just explode right out of her chest. “I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Didn’t know?” Mrs. Adair made a humphing sound. “Please. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  No, Mary didn’t. She didn’t expect the woman to believe anything, she just wanted out of there. She tugged sharply on her own hand. But this time, James was ready for her. He tightened his grip and refused to let go.

  “Frances,” he said flatly. “If you don’t mind, Olivia is my guest.”

  Mrs. Adair made that humphing sound again. “We both know she’s not on the guest list.”

  “I’m vouching for her.” There was steel in his tone now. “She’s apologized for her dress. She’ll never wear anything close to white at a deb ball again—unless it’s her own deb ball. Will you, Olivia?”

  Trapped, Mary thought, trapped and humiliated. What was I thinking? I had to be crazy, imagining I could crash the deb ball, steal one wonderful evening with James and get away without someone challenging me.

  “Olivia?” James said her name softly. With real concern.

  It helped, that concern. To think that he cared, that he was sticking by her, facing down Mrs. Adair for her sake.

  “No,” Mary said. By some miracle, her voice remained calm. “It was a huge error in judgment, on my part, to wear anything even close to white here tonight. And I’ll never make that kind of mistake again.”

  Mary’s apology failed to appease the outraged Mrs. Adair. “I want to know what, exactly, you’re doing here.”

  “She’s with me, Frances.” James’s voice was rock-hard, now. “I think that ought to be explanation enough.”

  The band played on, but Mrs. Adair said nothing for several seconds. Mary understood her silence. She was coming to a decision. Whether to leave it at that, or to order Mary out—which would be a slap in the face to James, a man of substance in the community, well-liked and highly respected by everyone.

  Mrs. Adair made her decision at last. “Well.” She’d bac
ked off from the brink of fury, but she still sounded severe as a preacher in a room full of prostitutes. “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for, at this point.”

  James said, “All right, then. That’s settled.”

  “You do understand,” Mrs. Adair added in a tone dripping with reproach, “I couldn’t just let it go without saying something. As the one in charge here, I have certain…responsibilities.”

  “It’s all worked out,” said James. “Olivia, I think I’d like a little fresh air. What do you say to a walk outside? The club grounds are beautiful this time of year.”

  “Yes. A walk. Please.” A stroll on the grounds, a trip to Timbuktu. Anywhere. As long as it was away from here.

  He turned for the exit again, pulling her with him. She hurried to keep up.

  James nodded and smiled at people he knew, but he didn’t slow his rapid pace to talk to anyone—which was just fine with Mary. Talking to Mrs. Adair had been enough, as far as she was concerned.

  They left the ballroom, crossed the aisle to the wide staircase and went down. Then he led her through the club’s massive two-story lobby, past the huge central fountain tiled in Texas pink granite. Even moving at such a swift pace, it was a very long walk.

  At last they emerged from between the big front doors of the clubhouse, under the giant portico that arched over the curved front drive.

  The two doormen saluted. One asked, “How’s it going, Mr. Campbell?”

  “Fine, thanks,” said James.

  Mary forced a bright smile for the men. She hadn’t had to deal with them when she came in. She’d used a side entrance, through the area adjoining the lobby, what they called the “original clubhouse,” former site of the Men’s Grill. The Men’s Grill had been blown up several months ago—a bomb set by a group of corrupt Mission Creek police officers. The area was under construction now, which meant it was deserted at night and thus had provided Mary an ideal means for sneaking into the exclusive club without being noticed.

  James led her out from under the portico and beneath the blanket of distant, silvery stars. “Come on. I’ll show you the east gardens. They’re incredible. You’ll hardly know you’re in South Texas. Not a prickly pear or a clump of bunch grass in sight—they’re just past the tennis courts. This way…”