Texas Born

by Gould, Judith

  To hurry before the fire spread even more, cutting off their escape . . .

  . . . before the can of kerosene Jenny dropped got so hot it would explode.

  The girls were already awake, jolted from their sleep by her screams. They were sitting up in their beds, clutching the covers against their necks. The moment she flung open their door, they saw the flickering orange hallway outside and stared at her with open- mouthed terror.

  'Come on!' Elizabeth-Anne screamed at them. 'What are you waiting for!'

  At once they scrambled obediently out of bed. She shepherded them quickly down the hall, past the blazing conflagration that was her bedroom, past Jenny, who was lying on the floor moaning, shaking her head fuzzily. Their footsteps drummed a rapid tattoo down the stairs.

  From upstairs came a mighty crash, and the entire building shook. Chunks of plaster rained down on them. Rebecca glanced up with a terrified expression.

  'Hurry!' Elizabeth-Anne screamed.

  Suddenly, miraculously, they were outside on the porch. The night felt invigorating, fresh, and cool. Coughing and gasping, they stumbled into the middle of Main Street, skirting Jenny's big new Cadillac, fire- engine-red and gleaming, which was parked right outside the café. They bent over and breathed deep, noisy, grateful lungfuls of air.

  Never before had fresh air tasted quite so rich and sweet.

  Elizabeth-Anne coded her arms around the girls and pulled them close. They stood huddled together, gazing up at the top floor of the café, their chins raised, their sweat-soaked faces flickering.

  'Mama? Why doesn't the fire engine come?' Rebecca cried quietly.

  'It will, darling, but I'm afraid it's too late,' Elizabeth-Anne whispered. She shook her head, overcome with an indescribable, inconsolable sadness.

  The entire top floor was now a fiery pyre, an inferno of wind-whipped flames, and as she watched, a flaming timber beam crashed down to the ground floor with a massive shower of yellow sparks. The first floor started catching fire too, the old dry timbers of the house feeding the greedily roaring flames, bathing Main Street with the blinding, flickering glare of a noonday sun. Everything reflected the fire. The mirrorlike finish of Jenny's car, the windows of the rooming house across the street. From everywhere, people came running out of doors, and a crowd swiftly began to gather, staring up at the blazing fire as if mesmerized. In the distance, the clanging of the fire engine could be heard, but the loudest noise was that of the raging fire itself.

  Elizabeth-Anne shook her head wearily. In there, amid the holocaust, were all her family belongings, every precious trifle and treasure, every photograph and bibelot, every love letter Zaccheus had ever given her—the fire was consuming it all with a marked disregard for financial and sentimental value. The sense of loss she felt was immeasurable, and a lone tear streaked down her cheek, the salt coolness making her scorched face smart as if it were on fire. She sniffed and then wrinkled her nose; she could smell the revolting odor of her own singed hair.

  She tightened her lips, suddenly angry with herself. Her hair would grow back. Furniture and property could be replaced. Things which were destroyed were not really lost—she would forever treasure them in her memory. What mattered was that she and the girls were alive. That was all that mattered. Everything else was replaceable.

  A sudden murmur swept through the crowd, and Elizabeth-Anne turned quickly to look. A long gleaming white Packard was pulling up on the other side of the street, its white headlights cutting a wide swath. She recognized the car instantly; so did everyone else. It was Tex Sexton's.

  The car door slammed and Sexton got out. He glanced up at the inferno. Then he noticed his wife's Cadillac parked in front of the blazing café, and he craned his neck as if looking around for somebody. Then quickly he rushed at the crowd, pushing aside people, peering closely into the women's faces, shaking others by their clothes. Elizabeth-Anne could hear his voice rising: 'Jenny! Jenny! Have you seen my wife? Have you? Where is my wife? Jenny!'

  Elizabeth-Anne closed her eyes.

  Suddenly a gasp swept through the crowd. Somebody began to scream; someone else pointed to the roof of the café. The first scream was followed by another, and yet another. Then a dead silence descended on the onlookers. Back lighted by the fire, a lone figure was silhouetted on the roof, dashing about madly, laughing hysterically.

  'Oh, my God!' Elizabeth-Anne whispered in agony, her lips trembling. 'Oh, my God, it's Jenny!'

  She buried her face in her hands. 'Not again! Must I witness a horrible death by fire again!'

  'Jenny!' Tex Sexton's voice boomed out resonantly. 'Jenny! Come down from there!'

  Jenny staggered about, arms outstretched, fingers splayed, as if she were trying to ward off the intense heat. 'If you want me to come down, you'll have to come and get me!' she sang out.

  Sexton looked around desperately. 'Go in there, somebody!' he yelled. 'Go in and save her! I'll give a thousand dollars to the man who goes in and saves her!'

  The crowd suddenly turned their heads away.

  'You! I'll give you two thousand!' Sexton shook the man nearest him, but the man turned away wordlessly.

  'Save her!' he implored someone else, but he, too, turned away.

  'Isn't there a man here who wants to earn ten thousand dollars!'

  Still no one spoke. Finally Tex took a deep breath. Then he dashed to the house. There was a scream of agony and then he was through the flames, fighting his way inside.

  It was at that very moment that the can of kerosene exploded and the house collapsed in upon itself. Everyone drew back as the boiling, flaming timbers came crashing down, one after the other, throwing showers of sparks hundreds of feet up in the air.

  Jenny stood on the roof, arms outstretched as the roof gave way under her. The next instant she was gone, swallowed up by the flames.

  Still her wild, shrill, madness-filled laughter reverberated from within the angrily crackling flames.

  And then nothing more could be heard but the roar of the fire.

  The stranglehold the Sextons had held over the county was no more.

  EPILOGUE

  1928

  Quebeck, Texas

  Elizabeth-Anne led the little boy along the edge of the newly planted lemon groves, holding on to his tiny hand. Their faces were dappled by the early morning sun filtering through the shifting patterns of the leaves in the slight breeze. Insects buzzed about and blackbirds perched quietly on the power lines that ran along the other side of the highway. Across the asphalt lanes, barren brown fields stretched to the horizon, and there that startlingly clear powder-blue sky began, filled with high puffball clouds.

  She walked slowly so that her son had no trouble keeping up with her. She was dressed in a beige skirt and an elegant high-necked lace blouse much like the ones Auntie used to favor, and the boy was wearing a navy-blue sailor suit trimmed in white. Occasionally a car would roar past on the highway, and the sudden rush of wind felt warm against their faces. Despite the early hour, it was already hot out.

  Elizabeth-Anne turned around. A few yards behind them, the three girls were sitting in the back of the big black car, fanning themselves with newspapers. The top was down, and Carlos Cortez was sitting behind the wheel. He was driving them to the train station.

  The trunk was tied down to keep it from flying open; it was filled to overflowing with boxes and suitcases.

  Elizabeth-Anne got down on one knee so that her face was level with her son's. She coiled one arm around his shoulders and pointed down the road. 'Take a good look at it, son,' she said quietly. 'That will one day be yours. That, and a whole lot more.'

  Zaccheus Hale Jr. looked at the complex of buildings and then up at her. 'It's the tourist court,' he said in his clear, tiny voice.

  'The tourist court,' she repeated softly. She took a deep breath, shook her head, and squeezed his shoulder affectionately. 'Zaccheus, Zaccheus. It's not just a tourist court. It's the Hale Tourist Court! It's our lives!'

&
nbsp; 'Lookit all the shiny cars, Mama,' he marveled. 'Have you ever seen so many?'

  Elizabeth-Anne smiled. Her swift gaze had already counted eighteen cars, and she automatically calculated what eighteen occupied rooms added to her coffers overnight. She could barely subdue her excitement. 'That's nothing, darling,' she said. 'You just wait and see! Soon there'll be ten tourist courts and a hundred and eighty cars! And then a thousand tourist courts with—' Suddenly she laughed helplessly as her ambitions overcame her. As she got back up, she lifted him up and held him high. She let out the same playful groan she always did lately when she picked him up. 'My, my, but you're getting big and heavy, young man,' she said in a mock bass voice.

  Zaccheus giggled and flung his arms around her neck. Then, slowly at first, but with gathering momentum, she began a pirouette at the side of the road.

  Faster and faster she spun, until both of them became a whirling blur.

  He squealed happily and she laughed with delight. Finally she slowed, dizzy and panting, and staggered to a stop.

  Suddenly his face creased into a frown and he became solemn. 'Why are we leaving, Mama?'

  She looked into his eyes for a long time. 'Because your mama has a lot of work to do, darling,' she said slowly. 'Because she's going to build many more tourist courts like that one.'

  'But why so many? Isn't one enough?'

  'Because it's a dream I have, darling. It's something I have to do. Something I love doing. That's what dreams are for, you know—to make them become reality.'

  Suddenly she felt his hands at her neck. 'What's this, Mama? You wear it all the time.'

  She glanced down at herself. He was holding up the pansy charm Zaccheus had given her so long ago, and it caught the sunlight, the crystal flashing brightly, the pansy looking as fresh and velvety as the moment it had been pressed flat. She smiled as he rubbed the smooth crystal with his fingers. 'It's pretty, Mama.' He looked up at her. 'I want it.'

  'Of course you do,' she said, laughing, 'but I'm afraid your mama wants it too.'

  'What is it?'

  'A flower.'

  'What kind of flower?'

  For a moment her face grew strangely pensive. Then she smiled radiantly. 'It's called a love flower.'

  'A love flower,' he repeated, and for a moment he digested that thoughtfully. 'I love your love flower,' he said finally. His face brightened. 'May I have it?'

  'Not yet, darling.'

  'Perhaps tomorrow?' he coaxed hopefully. 'Or next week?'

  She shook her head. 'I don't think so, darling. It's for a girl. Maybe one of your sisters will eventually get it. But when you're old enough, you'll have that.' She nodded toward the tourist court.

  'I love you, Mama.'

  'And I love you too, young man.'

  'Someday I'm going to marry you.'

  'Oh-ho! You are, are you?' She looked at him closely, and the breath suddenly caught in her throat. She felt a stifling wave of heat, and a thousand pinpricks rippled up and down her arms and tingled at the nape of her neck. For an instant the present merged with the past. For the first time she noticed just how much like his father little Zaccheus looked. Her heart skipped a beat and then pounded on heavily. For a moment the most intense joy and the deepest sorrow she had ever felt washed over her and merged, bittersweet and painful, a feeling so tremendously powerful that she did not know if she could survive it. What was it that had made her aware of the resemblance? The sun? The shadows? Or was it simply an illusion?

  She inspected him more closely, stroking the blond curls out of his eyes. No, it was not an illusion; she could see that now. He was Zaccheus' son—a miniature Zaccheus, right down to his earlobes. His eyes, his lips, it was all there, an eerie reincarnation. Looking at him now, she realized, must be like looking at the mirror image of his father when he had been the same age.

  Strange that she should notice that only now. Why hadn't she seen it before?

  She smiled as she carried him back to the car. Carlos Cortez saw them coming and got out. He held the door open for her and she climbed in, putting Zaccheus on her lap. Cortez walked around the front of the car, got back in on the driver's side, and slammed the door shut. He looked over at her questioningly.

  Elizabeth-Anne paused for a moment. Dozens of conflicting emotions were bombarding her from all sides, now that she was set to leave Quebeck. Here she had lived through good times and bad, happy times and sad. Here she had had to fight against all odds to achieve her dream, and here she had triumphed in no small way.

  'Well?' Carlos Cortez said finally. 'You want to leave or stay?'

  She looked at him for a long intense moment. Then quickly, as though she was afraid she would change her mind at the last minute, she inclined her head in an affirmative nod.

  'Which is it?'

  'We leave,' she said firmly.

  'Dallas?' he asked. 'As planned?'

  She shook her head. 'Where's the single largest concentration of population in the country, as well as the finest network of highways?'

  'The East Coast. New York.'

  She nodded.

  'Well?'

  'New York,' she said. 'Of course.'

  He eyed her strangely and then his lips broke into a wide grin. She heard the engine under the hood cough to life. The gears meshed, and the gravel crunched under the tires as the big car slowly began to nose forward. Carlos twisted around to look back over his shoulder, and he swung the car around in a circle. They headed in the opposite direction, surging past the Hale Tourist Court and then picking up speed.

  Elizabeth-Anne did not once look back. She sat erect and proud as the tourist court was left behind.

  Am I sad, now that I have truly decided to leave? she asked herself.

  She frowned momentarily. No, strangely enough, she did not feel saddened at all. She felt . . . Yes! Liberated. It was simply a matter of knowing that the Quebeck chapter of her life had drawn to a close. Auntie was dead and buried. Zaccheus was gone. Jenny and Tex no longer stood in her way. The rooming house was sold, and so was the new caf6 she had built on the ruins of the one that had burned down. There was nothing left here but the ghosts of the past. Good ghosts and bad ghosts, but ghosts all the same. Ghosts and the tourist court. She would have to come back here now and again to check up on it, but for the time being it was being run efficiently by trusted help, with Rosa in charge. Yes, it was indeed high time she moved on. She realized, finally, that she did not need to stay here in order to be close to what she and Zaccheus had once shared. She had those treasured precious years locked away in her mind, and she could recall them instantly at will, reliving them in her memory whenever she so pleased. Besides, she always had the children. Because of them, wherever she would go, no matter how far and wide she traveled, Zaccheus would always be beside her, invisible but alive in her heart.

  Above all, she told herself, I have the children.

  They mattered, and the tourist courts she planned on building mattered. The tourist court here was but the beginning. The beginning and, in a way, the end too. The end of yet another portion of her life. Yet it was also the means to achieve yet another splendid chapter. That was what life was—an endless series of rich, adventurous chapters unfolding before her. No, Quebeck was no longer important. What was important was the future that loomed large and bright and glorious on her horizon. She could see that plainly now. Despite all the pain she had had to suffer in the past, she had been born, she decided suddenly, under the luckiest of lucky stars indeed.

  Her eyes gleamed with aquamarine anticipation.

  How many other people had so much waiting for them down the road?

  The saga continues. Keep reading for a sneak preview of LoveMakers, the second volume, which will soon be available as an e-book.

  LoveMakers

  From: THE FORBES FOUR HUNDRED

  Fall 1982

  Elizabeth-Anne Hale

  Inheritance, real estate, hotel business. N.Y. 88. Twice widowed. One daughter (two daught
ers, one son deceased), one grandson, one great-granddaughter. Current matriarch of America's most powerful hotel family. Born in Texas, orphaned as a child. Strongminded, dominates family business. Now over 411 hotels, 695 motels worldwide. Sold 100 hotels for reported 520 million 1979. Made first fortune during 1929 Crash. Lives in penthouse of privately owned hotel, is driven around in 1921 Rolls-Royce (also inherited). 'Fortunes are easily made if you live to be my age.' May be the world's richest woman. Minimum net worth is 1.9 billion.

  REQUIEM

  QUEBECK, TEXAS:

  August 14, 1985

  1

  The big Lincoln Continental ate up the asphalt miles between Brownsville and Quebeck. Seated beside her husband on the maroon leather seat, Dorothy-Anne Cantwell stared out the windshield with a blank expression on her face. Everywhere she looked she saw the wide open spaces of Texas, expanses of irrigated fields and citrus groves dotted with occasional, monotonous little towns. Not even towns, she thought, just clusters of sad houses, peeling and dirty and baked by decades of harsh sunlight. The sky, heavy and gray, loomed oppressively over the landscape. Traffic was light and they saw only an occasional car or truck. The landscape was monotonous and hypnotic. And it was worlds away from Manhattan.

  She glanced sideways at the big urn on the seat beside her. It was not the usual crematorium urn, somber and plain and poured from a mold. This was one of a kind, the sterling silver intricately hammered and fashioned in a Rococo pattern of auricular scrolls and hand-rubbed to a high gloss finish. The sides flared out into twin handles terminating in delicately fluted ivy leaves which were repeated in swirls around the leaf-footed base.

  Buccellati had done themselves proud.

  Slowly, she reached over to touch the urn. She half expected it to radiate the warmth of her great-grandmother, Elizabeth Anne Hale, but the metal felt smooth and cold. The urn weighed at least seven pounds, but the handful of gray ashes in it was weightless.