Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

  “Blast ‘tasteless.’ Tell me. Did he kiss you?”

  Regina smiled reminiscently. “Maybe.” She turned to walk toward the door.

  Neal pulled her around to face him. “Regina! You didn’t go to bed with him! Did you?”

  Again she hesitated a second longer than she should have. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You did!” he thundered. He’d been so positive Regina would wait until he got around to marrying her!

  “You needn’t take that attitude with me, Neal,” Regina pouted. “After all, we don’t have an agreement between us.” She gazed up at him from under her lowered eyelashes a trick she had learned that was supposed to make her seem demure. “Do you still want me to go out with you Friday?”

  “Yes,” he answered absently. Hastings was a dangerous rival and Neal wanted him out of townquick. “I’ve had the tickets to the play at the college for a month. It’s the one you said you wanted to see.”

  “Marvelous.” Regina smiled.

  “Then you’ll go with me?”

  “Of course. After all, you asked me first.” She patted his cheek and brushed against him as if by accident. “I have to run now. I have a million things to do. Oh, by the way, Dyna Carrington’s party is Saturday. You haven’t forgotten, have You?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Good. ‘Bye now.” She swept grandly from his office.

  Thorndyke pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had no intention of giving Regina up without a fight. Purposefully, he sat back in his chair and punched the button on his intercom. “Miss Parson, send in Pete Hammly.”

  When the young man entered, Thorndyke said, “Good morning, Pete. I have something I want you to do. Could mean a Christmas bonus for you.” He chuckled condescendingly. “We can all use a little extra money at Christmas, can’t we?”

  “Yes, sir,” his employee admitted.

  “There’s a geologist in town. A man named Ryan Hastings. He’s drilling a well for Clare Marshall. I want you to find out all you can about him. Where he lives, who’s on his crew that sort of thing. You can do that for me, can’t you, Pete?” Neal tapped on his desk with a yellow pencil.

  “Yes, sir.” This was better than serving foreclosure notices, which Hammly was usually sent to do. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Oh, Pete. All this is just between the two of us. No need for anyone else to know what you’re doing, especially Hastings. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thorndyke watched the man leave, then snapped the pencil in half.

  Ryan awoke that morning and was immediately sorry that he had. His head roared as if a freight train were racing through it and his mouth tasted foul and furry. With a groan, he recalled the evening before in vivid detail. What was her name? Oh yes… Regina. Damn! What could have possessed him to do such a stupid thing? Kilgore was not a large town and from the looks of Regina’s house and clothes, she had to be one of the more prominent citizens. The possibility that she and Clare didn’t know each other was too remote to be considered.

  Against his better judgment, Ryan tried to sit up. It was his second mistake of the day. He felt as if he were inside out and surrounded by a yellow-green cloud of vague nausea. Knowing all too well nothing was going to help much, he stumbled to the medicine cabinet and took some aspirin. The image in the mirror was not encouraging, and he realized with a leaden certainty that he would have to die to feel better.

  Doggedly, he went to the kitchen to make coffee. While it was loudly perking, he made two pieces of dry toast and wondered if the clock had always made that annoying buzzing sound.

  By noon, he felt half-human again and lifted the receiver to call Clare. Realizing she’d probably hang up on him, Ryan replaced the phone and drove over to see her.

  With the blue norther much further south, the sun had returned, turning each sliver of ice into a magnificent prism. Several tree limbs had broken off during the night and lay like masses of shimmering lace on the frozen ground. The world hovered in the wondrous moment between raging ice storm and melting slush, and all of it hurt Ryan’s bloodshot eyes.

  He rang Clare’s bell, and in a few minutes she answered the door. Her long hair was pulled back from her face and tied with a narrow velvet ribbon the same shade of orange as the bittersweet bulky knit sweater that she wore. Her jeans hugged her rounded hips and molded smoothly over her long, graceful legs. Ryan had only an instant to think how lovely and feminine she looked in comparison to Regina’s brittle sophistication, because when Clare saw who was standing on her porch, she tried to slam the door. Ryan caught it before it closed and wedged his foot inside.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” he said.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you. Move your foot!”

  Seeing that she was in no mood to be philosophical about their argument, Ryan firmly pushed the door open and stepped into the entryway. “I came to apologize.”

  “I accept,” she ground out. “Now leave.”

  “It’s not fair to lie about accepting an apology. Especially to a dying man.”

  “You do look terrible,” she said with some satisfaction. “You must have let all the stops out last night.”

  “I did. Can I get myself a cup of coffee, or should I just lie down in a corner and quiver?”

  “I’ll get you some coffee. Otherwise, you’ll be in the way when Betty does the floors. It’s this way.”

  He followed her toward the kitchen, already feeling more cheerful. “Do you realize this is the first time I’ve been in your house?”

  “You came here to pick me up every time we’ve had a date.”

  “I only saw the entryway and the living room. Those don’t count. When a woman shows you her kitchen, then you know you belong.”

  Clare smiled in spite of herself. “If I had known it meant so much to you, I could’ve brought a photograph of it to New Orleans that weekend. Want to take a peek at my garage?”

  “Nope. Some things must be kept sacred.” Ryan took off his tan suede jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair, then sat down at the table and took the coffee she offered him.

  Clare couldn’t help noticing how handsome he looked in the gold and brown western shirt. It was tailored to his lean body as if it had been sculpted to fit him, and accentuated his broad chest and flat stomach. “I’ll ask you again,” he repeated, “will you forgive me? I acted like a jealous fool last night.”

  “An hour ago, I was still ready to rip your heart out,” she confessed, “but, yes, I really do forgive you. But don’t do it again.”

  Ryan sipped his coffee and sat stoically silent.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me who he was?”

  “Who?” Ryan responded innocently.

  “The man you saw me with.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m going to tell you anyway. His name is Cliff Anderson and he owns a large gallery in Dallas. He’s going to hang some of my paintings and is arranging for me to do a private showing in February.”

  Ryan smiled wryly and took Clare’s hand. “Now I really do feel bad. You meant it when you said it was business.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “It was a misunderstanding. I guess I’d feel the same way if I saw you out with another woman.”

  He moved uneasily and lifted the cup to his lips. There was no way he could tell Clare about Regina. He hoped fervently that Regina was not prone to gossiping about her conquests.

  “After supper, we went to Tom and Marla’s. All the details about my show are worked out, and all I have to do is to be there on time with my canvases. He took four of them back with him this morning. He stayed with the Gentrys,” she added pointedly.

  Ryan ignored the barb. “I’m happy for you, honey. I don’t know much about art, but I can tell this is an important step.”

  She nodded. “It could be the turning point of my career. Marla says the Anderson Gallery is very prestigious, and Cliff is sending announcements
to some of his biggest patrons.”

  Ryan leaned over and kissed her lightly. “That’s for luck. But you have enough talent not to need much of it.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know much about art,” she teased.

  “I don’t. But I know a great deal about what I like… and I like your pictures. So will everyone else. When the time comes, I’ll form your fan club.”

  She laughed. “In the meantime, will you go with me to a party? It’s being given by someone I know but don’t especially like, and I don’t want to go alone.”

  “What man could refuse so flattering an invitation? Of course I’ll take you. When is it?”

  “Saturday. Why is it I always seem to be the one asking for the date around here?”

  “You’re right. Will you go out with me on Friday and Sunday? It’s necessary for the maintenance of our status quo.”

  “You’re crazy,” she laughed. “I’d love to.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dyna Carrington’s house, like Dyna herself, was spare and austere. The cavernous living area contained so little furniture that Clare had wondered after her first visit whether or not the movers had finished unloading. Highly polished hardwood floors ran uncluttered to the stark white walls that seemed to extend forever before vaulting overhead to form an arched ceiling. Three low red couches formed a plush horseshoe around an even lower table of polished black marble. On opposite walls hung enormous matching prints that only their creator and Dyna could love they exactly matched the red couches.

  Clare hated coming to Dyna’s home for two reasons. First, she always felt like a naughty child who was bound to leave grimy fingerprints on something before she left. Second, Dyna made it a habit to invite ten people more than her couches could seat, so that her guests would have to mingle. But Clare rebelled against the manipulative trick. More than once, she had wondered what Dyna’s reaction would be if she plopped down cross-legged on the floor or dragged a chair out from the kitchen to sit on.

  To celebrate the approach of Christmas, Dyna had draped herself in silver lame to accentuate her recently frosted, bouffant hairstyleand had erected an aluminum Christmas tree. The tree was hung with couch-red ornaments; four red presents, one for each member of the family, reposed beneath it.

  Within five minutes after Clare and Ryan arrived, Dyna was reporting the latest scholastic achievement of her twins. They were always the smartest, the most athletic, the most mature in their class. Clare knew they were both boys, but their mother never gave a clue, as she invariably referred to them as “the twins.” A matched set; indivisible. Their father was never referred to at all.

  As with all Dyna’s parties, the tone was one of hushed familiarity. Neither she nor her silent house encouraged gaiety, and only a low murmur ruffled the cloister-like serenity.

  “How proud you must be of the twins,” Clare said smoothly, as she had on many occasions before.

  “Yes, they are incredible. I was talking to their math teacher just last week, and he assured me they’re capable far beyond their years. He said he wouldn’t be surprised if they make their mark on the world.” Dyna smiled knowingly. “Of course, that’s hardly news for us, though, is it?”

  “Certainly not. They have always been quite extraordinary.”

  “How old are they?” Ryan asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.

  “Eighteen next month,” the proud mother announced.

  “Both of them,” Clare added innocently.

  Ryan hid his smile. “I suppose they’ll be going away to college next year.” He wondered how long he could endure such inane conversation. Yet Clare seemed to be interested in the twins’ progress.

  “Heavens, no. They wouldn’t think of leaving. They’re already enrolled at our own college. Their major is physics.”

  “Both of them?” he asked.

  “Naturally,” Dyna said with mild surprise. “I must ask you to excuse me. More guests are arriving.” With polished expertise, she glided away.

  “These twins aren’t Siamese, are they?” Ryan asked dubiously.

  “No, but they may as well be. She even still encourages them to dress alike.” Clare rolled her eyes.

  “Let’s go over there and get some punch,” Clare suggested as she placed her hand on his arm and led him into the crowd. “Dyna is known for her innovative punch recipes, and we really must try this one. I hear she’s done something with apricot nectar and rum.” She grimaced playfully at Ryan as the subdued murmur of conversation surrounded and enfolded them into its midst.

  For an hour or so, Clare and Ryan mingled with the other guests. Often their conversation involved people and events Ryan was neither familiar with or interested in, but it gave him an opportunity to view Clare from another perspective. He was not fond of what he saw.

  In this crowd of plastic, posing socialites, Clare was fitting in perfectly. He could find no trace of the effervescent woman he had so recently fallen in love with; all he saw was proper responses to polite conversation. Suddenly, he realized he was seeing the mask Elliot had forged for his wife. How Ryan knew this, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it was true. Or had her parents built this socially acceptable mold for her? Somehow he sensed the mask she presented was more recently acquired. There wasn’t a slip of etiquette or turn of phrase, for Clare knew her role perfectly. He had stumbled onto a new piece to the puzzle that was Clare, but he didn’t yet know where it fit in.

  Clare steered him toward a gangly brunette who had just entered with a dark-haired man an inch shorter than herself. “Marta,” Clare said. “I’d like you to meet Ryan Hastings. Ryan, Marla and Tom Gentry.”

  He was surprised to find that Marla’s handshake was almost as firm as her husband’s. Her eyes met Ryan’s as a friend and equal.

  “I’ve heard Clare mention you,” Marla said. “You’re the geologist from New Orleans.”

  “That’s right. I’ve heard her talk about you, too. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Clare says you think there’s oil down there,” Tom said, gesturing toward the floor.

  “We hope so. Only time will tell. Drilling for oil is always a gamble, especially on a deep well like this. But I’ll be amazed if we don’t find it. Everything looks good.”

  Tom and Marla launched into a reminiscence of their parents’ tales of Kilgore’s Great Oil Boom. It occurred in, before either had been born, but to hear them talk, the memories were personal ones. Ryan listened with interest, but his attention was suddenly focused sharply on a blonde who had just entered the room.

  Regina.

  Ryan wondered how long it would be before Regina noticed him and came over to speak to him. He wondered what excuse he could possibly give for sneaking Clare out the back door. In his lifetime, he had made love to many women and he had no regrets; but he’d never been in love before, and he knew instinctively that a single word from Regina could wither the love before it could ever take root. He tried to force his attention back to the conversation.

  In the same carefully modulated tones she had used since entering Dyna’s house, Clare was telling one of her garden club friends about her art classes. Marla had turned to another woman, who was saying, “I hear the twins are still at it. This time it’s the math teacher who’s prophesying their mastery of the world.”

  Marla nodded. “She told me. Also, that they only want a few of Mummy’s friends at their next birthday party.”

  “Do you suppose they could be possibly be robots?” the woman asked lightly, but with obvious sarcasm.

  “I suspect as much. If they weren’t boys, I’d start a rumor that Dyna had had herself cloned.”

  Clare caught the end of the last statement and asked, “Dyna had herself what?”

  “Cloned. You know, the twins,” Marla repeated, delighting in the joke.

  “Marla!” Clare cautiously exclaimed. “Dyna might hear you.”

  “I was only kidding, you know that.” Marla’s expression became serious for a moment,
then impish again. “I dare you to do a tap dance on the coffee table.”

  With a smile, Clare said, “It’s tempting. However, I seem to have misplaced my tap shoes. I’ll have to do a toe dance. I brought all my toes,” she said as she fought back the laugh which threatened to burst out.

  The maid who had approached with a tray of champagne tried to pretend she had not overheard, but the crinkle at the corners of her lips gave away her amusement. Clare was pleased. With the rigidity of the party, the maid probably needed a laugh.

  Ryan was glad to finally see Clare drop the facade. Out of all the room, only Maria had fit in with the woman he loved. Why did she continue to associate with the others, who so obviously bored her? Against his will, Ryan glanced back at the woman by the door.

  Tom followed his gaze. “That’s Neal Thorndyke coming in. He’s the president of the bank. Have you met him?”

  “No,” said Ryan, hoping Tom wouldn’t suggest an introduction as Thorndyke was obviously with Regina.

  “If you’re a betting man, watch him,” Tom warned jovially. “Neal Thorndyke is a card player and a half. I’ve seen him win several thousand dollars in one game and never bat an eye.”

  Clare had stopped talking and was listening intently to Tom, who wasn’t aware she heard him.

  “I recall one night he took Howard Wharton for every cent he had on him. Suckered him right in. It was a shame, but nobody could get Howard to leave the table.”

  Her face pale, Clare said, “I didn’t know Neal was a gambler. What’s his game?”

  Tom shifted uneasily. He was all too aware of where this would lead. “Poker. Five-card draw.”

  “That was Elliot’s game, too. Kilgore’s not a very big town. There aren’t many games around. Would you say he and Elliot got together?” Her voice sounded almost too casual, but her eyes were filled with hurt.

  “Yeah,” Tom said with unhappy certainty. “Yeah, they played together a lot. I didn’t want you to know… nothing can be done about it now. Neal and Elliot were regulars, only Neal rarely lost.”