When Morning Comes: A Family Affair Novel

by Francis Ray

  “From looking at his picture and his accomplishments, he doesn’t strike me as a man who gives up easily. He’s written for some of the top magazines in the country, including Luxury. That took perseverance,” Sabrina mused.

  “I said no and I meant it.”

  “Whatever you say. From all of these awards and accolades, he might be connected to a lot of influential people in the arts.”

  “That’s all I care about,” Kara said, trying and failing to not let the picture of Tristan with two beautiful women in tiny bikinis bother her.

  Sabrina leaned back in her chair and grinned. “If you change your mind later on, I won’t blame you.”

  Straightening, Kara quickly shook her head. “I won’t.”

  Holding up both hands, Sabrina stood. “Just saying. You can jot down his information and call him while I clean up the kitchen.”

  “Now?” Kara squeaked.

  Sabrina picked up the cordless phone with one hand and gently guided Kara to the chair with her other. “The sooner you call, the sooner you two can meet and get your new career rolling.”

  Kara’s stomach knotted. “What if he was just bluffing? What—”

  Sabrina dialed the phone number listed on the Web site. “Yes, I’m calling for Kara Simmons, please have Mr. Landers call her at 999-287-5555. He’ll know what the call is about. Thank you.”

  Kara just stared at her best friend as she replaced the phone and went to the kitchen. When she didn’t say anything, Kara followed. “Well?” Kara asked.

  Picking up their plates, Sabrina went to the sink and emptied the fragments into the sink disposal. “His answering service, and not a girlfriend.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Kara said. At least in that she was being truthful with herself.

  “It would if you’d let it. If you’d start living your life and not factor in your mother,” Sabrina said gently.

  Kara picked up their glasses and flatware. “I promised Daddy I’d take care of her just like he did, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  “What about what you want?” Sabrina asked.

  “She’s my mother,” Kara answered, aware from the knowing look on Sabrina’s face that she recognized duty not love in her response, and that made Kara ashamed. Maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough. Her mother loved other people, why didn’t she love her own daughter?

  “All right.” Sabrina turned on the faucet and rinsed the dishes. “One thing I’m not letting go is that, if you have an opening for your paintings, you’re getting a sinfully sexy gown. People will be talking about the beautiful artist and her paintings.”

  Relieved that Sabrina had intentionally changed the subject so as not to embarrass her further, Kara tried to smile. “And you’ll be there to support me, with Dr. Mathis at your side.”

  Sabrina leaned against the edge of the counter. “He needs me, Kara. He needs to relax and enjoy life. I don’t think he does.”

  “I’d tell you to be careful, but it’s obviously too late,” Kara said.

  Sabrina grinned and opened the dishwasher. “Yep. After yesterday I’m even more determined. He could have blown me off about going to the cafeteria. He didn’t. He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. He feels something. He might not even be aware of it himself, but he’s going to. I’m going after him, and he’s going to like it.”

  Kara didn’t doubt Sabrina’s determination. She just wasn’t sure about the results. Sabrina always went after what she wanted. Kara had tried that—twice—and had her pride kicked in. Never again.

  Five

  Saturday morning Tristan climbed out of his mint condition ’68 Chevy truck and went to the front door of a one-story home on a quiet residential street in East Dallas, his latest project. Tucking the zipped leather folder beneath his arm, with two fingers he pulled the key from the pocket of his jeans and let himself inside. He didn’t stop until he was in the small kitchen. Placing the key on the discolored countertop, he surveyed the room.

  Like many of the older homes built fifty years ago it had a single oven, gas stove, refrigerator without an ice maker, a single sink, and no dishwasher. All the appliances were copper colored. All were woefully outdated. Not for long.

  Leaving the kitchen Tristan easily found the two small bathrooms. The master bath wasn’t much bigger than the hall bath. Serviceable, but with no punch. Nothing about either of them would make a person happy, make them feel pampered and like they could start the day in style.

  Again, Tristan would change that.

  Pulling the notebook from beneath his arm, he opened it. They’d start tearing out on Monday to remodel the house. He’d gotten the rehab bug after doing research for his first article for an interior design book. The article, “Luxury Living Without a Luxury Price Tag,” had been a step-by-step remodeling of his favorite rooms: the bath, kitchen, and bedroom. To him they, not the family room or great room, were the heart and soul of any house.

  His thoughts veered to Kara Simmons. If he didn’t like a challenge, he might let it go. Her paintings, with their power and passion and hope, wouldn’t let him. She had talent. He hated to see people waste what God had given them.

  People like Dale Bowler. They’d gotten Dale home a little after six last night. The first thing he did was try to go to the kitchen for a beer. He’d cursed, and Bess has wrung her hands as Tristan poured the four cans out, then searched out the three-bedroom frame home for any liquor that Dale might have stashed.

  It hurt to see the house Bess and Dale had been so proud of when Tristan first visited in disrepair. There were cracks in the ceiling, the panel in the den buckling, water damage on the walls. Along with the health insurance policy, Dale had let the house insurance policy lapse and made no repairs.

  Tristan had brushed aside Bess’s embarrassment. He’d already called Zachary and asked if he could send a crew over the first day Dale was in dialysis to start working to repair the house. He just wished Dale could be repaired as easily. Tristan had no idea why Dale was an alcoholic. He just knew if he didn’t stop, he wouldn’t be alive when winter came.

  Shrugging off the depressing thought, Tristan remeasured the bath and bedroom. Most people called him anal because he checked and rechecked facts, but he’d seen too many costly mistakes in time and money when all it would have taken was a remeasure or a recheck of facts.

  Tristan didn’t like making mistakes. His metal tape crackled. He’d made a doozy! He shook his head. Before yesterday it had been over three months since he’d thought of his failed marriage. Perhaps he was thinking of it now because his mother had broadly hinted when he was over for dinner Thursday night that she had a nice designer friend she wanted him to meet.

  No way, he thought as he grabbed the notebook and headed back to the kitchen. Getting serious was the last thing on his mind. The tape crackled again as he checked the kitchen measurements. He hadn’t had a clue that Gizzelle wanted a divorce until she asked him to pack his things. She’d shown more emotion asking him to take out the trash.

  She was one of those self-assured overachievers who never doubted she’d make it to the top. She’d explained in the logical, analytical way she was known for in the courtroom that they were heading down different paths, had different career goals. That marriage wasn’t working for her.

  He didn’t learn until weeks later that she had been offered a junior partnership in the law firm where she worked. He’d already asked her to scale back her hours at work. They’d seen less of each other in their nine months of marriage than during the six months they’d dated. Too often he’d come home to an empty house and an empty bed. It hurt his pride that she had chosen her career over him.

  The divorce was final a year ago. He’d jumped back into dating as if to prove to anyone who might be interested that he was still capable of getting a woman. Tristan blew out a breath and shook his head at his stupidity. His ex had her life, he had his.

  His cell phone rang. He pulled it from the case on his belt
buckle. “Tristan.”

  “It’s Zachary. I just left Dale and Bess. He’s still upset about his beer. I told him I would have done the same thing.”

  Tristan leaned against the counter. “It’s hard to look at the man he is now and remember the man he was.”

  “Yeah, but we get to walk away and take a break. Bess can’t.”

  “She’d fight anyone who tried to make her.” Tristan almost smiled. “Some women stick.”

  “I got lucky and blessed,” Zachary said. “Madison and the kids are my life.”

  “Don’t I know it. I might have to wait until Manda grows up to find me a good woman,” Tristan teased, referring to Zach’s five-year-old daughter.

  “Don’t even jest,” Zachary said, a shudder in his voice. “She’s growing up much too fast and so is Zachary Jr. It’s hard to believe he’ll be two in a couple of months.”

  “He’ll be going out on jobs with you before you know it, just like Manda,” Tristan said.

  Zachary chuckled. “I thought she’d be more interested in TV broadcasting like her mother, but whenever I fix something around the house, she’s right there with me. Which reminds me, Bess said Dale’s dialysis is scheduled for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’ll go over since the crews will be busy at your site and two others.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pay—”

  “If you want to stay my friend, you’ll forget about money where Dale is concerned,” Zachary said. “I just wish I had known his situation before now.”

  “He didn’t want you to know that he was having such a hard time. That he’s messed up,” Tristan told him. “Pride got in the way.”

  “My daddy always said a man who said he hadn’t made a mistake was a liar.”

  “Your daddy is a smart man.” Tristan sighed. “I’ve made my share.”

  “Same here,” Zachary said. “Thankfully we’ve learned from them.”

  Tristan caught a hint of something in Zachary’s voice. “I think you’ve moved from generality.”

  “You were always smart—at least in some things,” Zachary said. “Bess likes the social worker, and was a bit concerned that she might be next on your hit list.”

  Tristan squirmed. “I’m not that bad.”

  “If Manda was of age to be dating men your age, I wouldn’t let you within ten miles of her,” Zachary said.

  “Bess doesn’t have to worry. Kara turned me down flat,” Tristan said, his irritation rising all over again. He really wasn’t that bad. “She said she wasn’t interested.”

  “It sounds as if it wasn’t the answer you expected,” Zachary said.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “No never stopped you in the past,” Zachary said. “I don’t think it will this time either.”

  “You’re right, but there’s another reason. She’s a fantastic artist. Her work deserves to be seen.”

  “If only that was all you planned to see.”

  Tristan burst out laughing. “Bye, Zachary. Kiss that beautiful wife and the kids for me.”

  “I will. The crew should be there at eight to start tearing out. You still plan to be there every day?”

  “Yes,” Tristan answered, looking around the kitchen. “Unlike the first job, when I let your crew do all the work, I want to show that the homeowner with no experience can do a lot of the remodeling and save money.”

  Zachary grunted. “There’s nothing like experience, but I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

  “With the cameras rolling and a photographer here, the entire world is going to find out. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Tristan closed the phone, finished measuring, and then walked through the house once again, seeing in his mind’s eye the changes that would make the house come alive with warmth and charm.

  His phone rang just as he closed and locked the front door. “Tristan.”

  “This is your answering service, Mr. Landers. You had eight calls.”

  Opening the door of his truck, Tristan grabbed his day calendar. “Shoot.”

  “Your mother said for you to call her. Jiles, the editor of Luxury magazine, and Sandra Collins, associate editor for Interior Design, both called twice. Here are the numbers,” she said, then gave him the information. “Patrice Wilson three times. She said you have her cell, home, and work phone number.”

  Tristan winced. He and Patrice had been out three times, to bed once. A big mistake. She was too clingy and too demanding. He’d told her it was over several times. He didn’t look forward to telling her again.

  “A person called for Kara Summers—”

  “What?”

  “A woman called for Kara Summers and asked that you call her back at 999-287-5555. She was the last call.”

  “Thank you. Good-bye.” Frowning, Tristan stared at the hastily written phone number. Why had someone called for Kara? Was it about Dale? Or did she want to talk about honest men or her paintings? There was one way to find out.

  He got a dial tone and punched in the number.

  * * *

  Kara freely admitted she was a coward. She’d showed her mother Dillard’s sales paper, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to resist going. Kara would pay for it later when the bill came, but she wanted to be able to talk freely if Tristan called.

  Too restless to remain inside, she’d taken her easel and canvas, and set up in the backyard a few steps away from the patio covered with pink peace roses. The elm tree cast dappled shadows over her, but not the canvas.

  Paintbrush in her hand, she paused. There was a face instead of the strand of forest with wildflowers she’d planned. No matter how she tried to think of him by his last name, she thought of him as Tristan. While she’d told Sabrina to be careful when she’d left a short while ago to go check on Mrs. Ward and see Dr. Mathis, Kara would do better to tell herself to be careful. Now, she was painting him.

  If her mother knew—

  The ringing of the cordless phone startled her. With trembling fingers she drew it out of the pocket of her apron. Seeing Tristan’s name, her hand began to shake even more.

  The ringing came again. She swallowed and pressed TALK. “Hello.”

  “Kara.”

  She came to her feet, moistening her suddenly dry lips. “Yes, Tr— Mr. Landers. This is she.” She wanted to groan. Of course he knew it was her.

  “Is this about Dale?”

  “No, I wanted to discuss my paintings.”

  “Do you have others I could see?”

  “Yes.” She laughed nervously. “A lot. They’re in the attic.”

  “The attic! You’re kidding, right?”

  Her mother hadn’t liked the clutter when she’d moved in to help care for her father when he’d become so ill. “I tend to do larger canvasses.”

  “I understand. Can I come over and see them?”

  “No, I mean—” She moistened her lips.

  “If it’s not convenient for you now, perhaps you can tell me when,” he said. “I start a new project Monday and I’ll be tied up every day except Sunday for the next six weeks or so.”

  Coming to the house made sense. There were too many paintings to take to him. Plus, he could see which ones he liked.

  “What exactly do you plan for my paintings?” she asked.

  “I have an idea, but I’d want to see the other paintings to see if they have the same appeal.”

  Kara wrapped her arm around her waist. If they didn’t … She looked at her watch. Her mother had been gone for an hour. She’d be gone for at least two hours. She might even go to Patrizio’s restaurant in the Uptown shopping mall and have lunch or go to Barnes & Noble for books and magazines.

  “Kara, you do understand, don’t you?”

  He was trying to reassure her. “I live in Glen Oaks off thirty-five.” She gave him the address.

  “I know the area. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “All right. Good-bye.” She disconnected the call, scared and excited. Soon she’d know if her work was salab
le. She didn’t know why she trusted Tristan’s opinion, but she did.

  * * *

  Sabrina stepped off the elevator on the sixth floor of Texas with a smile on her face. She was dressed in one of her favorite outfits, a slim-fitting pair of black pants, ruffled yellow-and-white checkered blouse with bouffant sleeves, a thin red belt, and red skimmers. She’d checked on Ann twice during the night and this morning after Kara had gone home. Each time the report had been good. On one of those calls, the nurse had reported Dr. Mathis was there as usual.

  When Sabrina had asked what she meant, the nurse had gone on to explain that if Dr. Mathis sent his surgical patient to ICU, he always visited the patient sometime during the night. He understood the critical nature of patients and made himself available. He was one doctor who didn’t mind being called. He’d only had to take one nurse to task for not checking one of his patients’ vital signs on time for nurses to get the message.

  Waving to the nurses at the nurses’ station, Sabrina pushed open the door to Mrs. Ward’s room. Her husband’s head was on the bed by her elbow, his hand holding hers. Both were asleep.

  Smiling, Sabrina let the door close, turned to leave them, and came face-to-face with Cade. Her heart knocked crazily in her chest. “Good morning, Dr. Mathis.”

  His gaze flickered to the badge on the pocket of her frilly blouse. “Aren’t you off on Saturdays?”

  Sabrina would have been happier that he knew her schedule if he wasn’t frowning. Otherwise, he looked as yummy as he always did, even if he was in surgical scrubs and running shoes. A stethoscope hung around his neck. “Yes. I wanted to check on Mrs. Ward.”

  He peered down at her with suspicion. They both knew she could have called.

  She smiled and forged ahead. “She’s resting.”

  He grunted. “I suppose her husband is still with her.”

  “I was trying to figure out a way to break the news to you gently.”

  “I okayed it.” He brushed by Sabrina and entered the room.

  Surprised, Sabrina followed. Dr. Mathis was known as a stickler for protocol. Doctors made exceptions for the strict ICU visiting hours, but she’d heard him order Mrs. Ward’s husband to let his wife rest. She wanted to know what had changed his mind.