You're Not Safe (Texas Rangers)

by Mary Burton

  A white four-door sedan drove up in a cloud of dust, parking in front of the main tasting room. She didn’t recognize the car and found herself tensing as she rose. She still hated surprises.

  The driver’s-side door opened and a tall, slender woman dressed in soft pinks appeared. Dark sunglasses hid her face but Greer would have recognized the stiff-backed posture anywhere. Her mother.

  Smoothing her fingers over her hair drawn back into a tight ponytail, she moved toward the front door. Though the urge to hide was strong, she refused. She’d made a promise to stop hiding from the world, and though she had her faults, she never broke a promise.

  Greer pushed open the front door and found her mother studying the building with a critical eye. Mom had not been to the vineyard in well over a decade and the times they’d met had been at the family home in Austin or at Jeff’s grave. The vineyard had changed a good bit since then. Greer took pride that she’d been so much a part of the vineyard’s transformation.

  “Mom,” Greer said. “This is a surprise.”

  Glancing from side to side, Sylvia Templeton approached her daughter. Those who didn’t know Sylvia would describe her smile as bright, but Greer saw the frost. “How are you doing, Greer?”

  She allowed her mother to wrap a stiff arm around her. “I’m fine. What brings you out here?”

  Sylvia released her daughter and stepped back as if she didn’t like the physical contact. “Can’t I come and see my daughter?”

  “Of course.” Already formality had hardened Greer’s tone. Before the accident her mother had not been the most approachable person, but after she’d all but ignored her second child. Hard disappointments had enabled Greer to build the wall between them brick by brick. “You’ve not been out here in over ten years, Mom.”

  “Maybe it’s time, Elizabeth.”

  The sound of her first name grated. “What do you want, Mom?”

  Sylvia and Lydia had been sisters. Lydia was the younger of the two and from what little Greer had gathered Lydia had been the vivacious one. The outgoing one. The sisters had had a falling out long before Greer was born and had barely spoken over the next three decades. Family lore hinted Sylvia had stolen Lydia’s fiancé. Greer had always discounted the idea. She could never picture her father with her aunt. Once she’d asked her aunt, who’d not laughed at the absurd question. Instead, Lydia’s expression turned sad. Greer had never received a real answer.

  Manicured fingers carefully brushed a stray hair from Sylvia’s eyes. “I can’t visit?”

  “Of course you can.” She noticed the nail on her mother’s right index finger was chipped. Mom never chipped a nail. Ever. A small insignificant detail but it mattered. “Why now?”

  Sylvia took a step back and surveyed the new tasting building. “You’ve made so many improvements out here.”

  Avoidance. It was classic Sylvia. But Greer was curious enough about the visit to play along. “We completed the tasting room last fall. With Aunt Lydia so sick it was important to me it be finished before she died.”

  “Our financial advisor called me when you cashed out your trust fund to invest in these buildings. I considered calling you then but decided you are old enough to make such decisions.”

  “What’s the point of having the money if it’s not working for me?”

  “You have no safety net now.”

  “No.” She’d come to believe safety nets were an illusion. She’d had money and family behind her before the accident but neither had cushioned her fall. Money was nice, but it couldn’t protect you completely.

  “You aren’t worried.”

  “I’m not.” For a moment neither spoke as memories of the accident and Jeff danced between them like specters.

  Sylvia’s lips flattened and she turned as if the distant horizon held great interest.

  Greer didn’t push. Her mother was a hard woman but not unfeeling. Losing Jeff and then several years later her husband had devastated the woman. She couldn’t fully love Greer anymore but that didn’t mean she couldn’t love.

  “I hear you are having a fund-raiser for the Crisis Center tonight.”

  “You hear? From who?”

  “David Edwards. He also told me about Rory and what happened.”

  She straightened. “What did he tell you?”

  “That Rory was dead.” She shook her head. “We don’t need to rehash the details.” She fingered the long pearl strand. “I think you’d avoid the public eye, especially now.”

  “I did nothing wrong. I didn’t have any contact with Rory.” And still a tiny hint of guilt poked and prodded, asking, Could you have done more for him?

  “That has little to do with public perception.”

  It shouldn’t hurt that others judged her still. But it did. “I can’t control what people think, nor will I worry about it.”

  “You should worry.”

  “I stopped wondering what the David Edwardses of the world thought about me a long time ago.”

  “Men like that can make your life hard, Elizabeth.”

  “Greer. My name is Greer.”

  Sylvia stood silent, the chipped manicured index finger wrapping and unwrapping around her strand of pearls. “Why are you doing this? Why must you bring up the past?”

  Lydia’s dream would not survive if Greer couldn’t learn to deal with her fears of a more public life. “The Crisis Center is in real need of funds. I want to help.”

  Her mother studied her. “If you hadn’t given all your money away, you could have written them a check.”

  “I didn’t give it away. I invested it in the vineyard. And the Crisis Center needs the publicity as much as it does the money. It’s a way I can help and I am.”

  Her mother shook her head. “You realize by helping a crisis center you will be raising questions about the past. I think you chose them on purpose. You want people to remember.”

  Ah, here was the crux of the visit. Though a flip response begged to be spoken, she saw the truth in her mother’s words. She’d not only stopped running from the past but was running toward it head on. “I’m helping the Crisis Center with a need. I cannot help what people choose to think.”

  “Of course you can, Elizabeth. You could have chosen a different charity. Animals. The environment. Cancer, for God’s sake. But you chose a center that helps people in crisis. People who have . . .”

  The silence hurt more than an oath. After all this time, her mother couldn’t acknowledge the pain that drove Greer to such a desperate place. “People who have tried to kill themselves.”

  Sylvia grimaced. “I don’t think it’s necessary to say it.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth.” She couldn’t summon anger or outrage. Her voice remained quiet and calm. “I tried to kill myself after the accident. I’m not proud of it, and I’m forever grateful you found me in time.”

  Her mother raised her chin, which trembled just a little. “Don’t.”

  Vague memories of her mother screaming for help echoed in her mind. “Thank you for saving me.”

  Sylvia drew in a deep breath. “You’re being dramatic.”

  Frustration welled inside her and she found herself getting irritated despite years of telling herself her mother’s opinion didn’t matter. “If I can help someone who is in a bad place and keep them from making the choice I did, then I guess it’s worth the risk of people dredging up the past.”

  “You don’t care if the past gets unearthed? I would think you of all people would want to bury it deep.”

  “It’s there regardless. Pretending it didn’t happen doesn’t change anything.”

  Sylvia’s lips flattened. “When you dredge up the past, you fuel the gossips.”

  Greer struggled with temper and a deep disappointment. “Are you worried about me or yourself ?”

  Sylvia raised her chin. “Both of us.”

  “You have no reason to feel ashamed, Mom. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Didn’t I?” For the
first time in a long time raw pain flashed in her gaze. Tears glistened. “I am your mother. It is not easy for me to relive the past.”

  “I’m not trying to relive it, Mom. I’m trying to learn from it.”

  “What is there to be learned?”

  “Forgiveness,” she whispered.

  Green eyes flashed. “Mine or yours?”

  “Maybe we both need to forgive each other.”

  Her mother hesitated and then shook her head as if clamping her armor back in place. “Your actions are a direct reflection of me.”

  Bitterness settled in the pit of Greer’s stomach. “So what you’re saying is forgiveness is impossible?”

  She huffed her exasperation. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Sylvia shrugged her shoulders as if trying to fend off unwanted weight. “I don’t need more gossip at the club.”

  “You don’t want me to hold the fund-raiser because it could make some of your friends at the country club talk?”

  “Is that so terrible? They’re all I have left.”

  “You have me.”

  Sylvia moistened dry lips. For a moment she didn’t speak and then she cleared her throat. “I plan to come to your fund-raiser.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m invited, aren’t I?”

  Greer wrestled with the lump settling in her chest. As saddened as she was by this conversation a part of her wanted her mother to recognize what she’d accomplished. “Of course. I don’t control the invitation list. The board of directors does. It never occurred to me you’d want to support me.”

  Sylvia arched a brow. “Don’t be smart.”

  “I’m not being smart. I’m stating facts. You’ve not wanted any communication with me since the accident. Did we exchange five words at Aunt Lydia’s funeral?”

  “I don’t do well at funerals.” She shook her head. “You are so much like Lydia. She was never happy with her life. Always wanted to strike out and make her own path. I cringe when I think of the mistakes she made.”

  “What mistakes did she make?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Was loving Dad her mistake?”

  Sylvia’s gaze turned icy. “Did she tell you that?”

  This moment confirmed the stories about Lydia, her father, and mother were true. “No. She never said a word. All I know is she took me in after I left Shady Grove. She gave me a home and a purpose.”

  “I often thought all this was to spite me. She could be willful and devious.”

  Greer flexed her fingers. She’d done her best to keep her emotions in check but if they continued on this same path she’d regret what she was going to say. “You can trash me all you want, Mom, but don’t say a word against Lydia. Ever.” The sharp edge to her words had her mother straightening.

  “Lydia was my sister.”

  “I know. And you loved her. Like you loved me.” In the distance the black nag whinnied and swished her tail, drawing Greer’s attention away from her anger. “Thank you for coming, Mom, but I’ve a full day ahead of me. I have heard and understood your message. You are not happy with me. Again. But there is nothing I can do about it.” She smiled as well as any Austin debutante. “We’d love to have you at the event. You can get the tickets at the center. They cost a hundred dollars each but that includes a lovely afternoon here and all the wine you can drink.”

  Her mother looked as if she’d say more but then thought better of it. She lowered into her car and drove away, leaving Greer standing there alone, fists clenched and more determined than ever to force herself back into the public eye.

  An hour later, Greer was at her desk, trying to concentrate on a column of numbers that refused to add up. Her thoughts had been distracted by her mother’s visit and, of course, Rory. Mitch. Bragg. The list grew.

  A white van drove up the driveway toward the tasting room. She pulled off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and shut off the computer screen, grateful to leave the accounts receivable behind for today. She stretched out the stiffness in her lower back and moved outside, grateful for the day’s warmth after so many hours inside. She wouldn’t love the heat in twenty minutes but for now it warmed her bones.

  She walked up to the driver, smiling. Reggie was a stocky man with short dark hair shaded by a UT ball cap. They’d never worked together before but he’d come highly recommended by her neighbor, Philip Louis.

  She held out her hand. “Reggie. Right on time.”

  “I hear you’re hosting a party.” His handshake was strong.

  She cupped her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the bright sun. Another man climbed out of the front of the cab. He was younger, Hispanic and short. Like Reggie he wore the REGGIE’S CATERING shirt and khakis though his tennis shoes looked far more careworn. “We are. We’re hosting a fund-raiser for the Crisis Center.”

  Reggie glanced around the building, his gaze appreciative. “I heard you were building out here.”

  “You heard?”

  “From your neighbor, Mr. Louis.” He jabbed his thumb up toward the house on the hill. “He keeps a close eye on all the changes at Bonneville.”

  Louis had been an attorney by trade but ten years ago had entered the world of winemaking. He owned a large winery in Fredericksburg and bought most of her grapes at harvest time. He’d purchased the adjacent land hoping to grow grapes as succulent and sweet as Bonneville’s. “When he has a band playing at one of his parties, the music drifts my way.”

  “The man knows how to throw a party and thinks he can grow grapes like you.”

  She smiled. “The more, the merrier.”

  He laughed. “So what have you built here?”

  She explained about the tasting room and the winery she planned to build.

  “Well, that’s just great. Be sure to keep ol’ Reggie in mind when you host that grand opening party.”

  “I will.”

  “According to my order you’re hosting one hundred people.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Will be good publicity for the vineyard.” He handed her a clipboard with an inventory. “If it’s those fancy folks from Austin, then this will be a good event for you. I hear they’re a wine-drinking bunch.”

  She signed her signature on the bottom of the form, refusing to feel nervous about facing folks connected to her past. “Let’s hope.”

  “So where do you want the food tables and chairs set up?”

  “In the main tasting room. I’ve installed the wine shelves but not furnished it yet so you have a blank canvas.” Greer had worried her wine racks would be empty but finally had to let the worry go. Next year she’d have wine and for now settled with small battery-operated votive candles in the bottle spaces, which created a glittering effect.

  “Great. Shouldn’t take Manny and me long. The food truck is about an hour behind us.”

  “In this heat you’re right not to bring it all at the same time.”

  “One big melted mess.”

  She spent the next half hour helping the two unload and setting up the tables in the tasting room. She covered each table with linens and in lieu of flowers decorated each table with a cluster of wine bottles and candles. As promised the food truck arrived right as they were putting the final details on the food table.

  Reggie unloaded the food, which meant Greer had about a half hour to shower and dress for the event. As she headed out of the tasting room, she spotted Reggie and his assistant unloading a dove ice sculpture. She’d not seen an ice sculpture since the night of Jeff’s party—the night he died.

  Despite the afternoon heat a chill ran down her spine as she watched the men wrestle the sculpture onto a pushcart. Years ago, her mother had insisted on the sculpture for her brother’s birthday party. “A touch of class,” her mother had said. Jeff hadn’t cared less about the fancy detail but Greer remembered being jealous of her brother and the dazzling party her mother had created to celebrate his birth
day.

  Greer cleared her throat. “Reggie, I don’t remember ordering an ice sculpture.”

  He settled the sculpture on the cart. “One of the folks at the center ordered and paid for it. Thought it would be a nice touch for the event.”

  He pushed the cart toward the air-conditioned room knowing no block of ice would last long in the heat. “Do you know who?”

  The cart’s wheels rolled heavily in the graveled driveway. “Not off the top of my head, but I can check when I get back to the office. I made it myself this morning. Is there a problem?”

  “No. It’s beautiful. I was just curious.” She summoned a smile. “I need to change. I’ll be back in a half hour.”

  “Will do. We should just about be set up by then.”

  “Great.”

  She sprinted to her house, pushing through the main door. The main room had the same polished wood floor her aunt had laid with her own hands and a large wool Indian rug warming it. A leather couch, two chairs, and an ottoman circled a large, round coffee table made of an old wagon wheel now set under glass. There was a fireplace used often on chilly winter nights and paintings of the Texas sunset. Her aunt never would say who had painted the pictures but she’d cherished the pieces.

  She ducked into her room furnished with a simple double bed, a quilt comforter, and a chair by the window for reading. Stripping as she moved, she made her way to the bathroom off her bedroom and turned on the showerhead in the single stall. Soon hot water steamed, and she climbed in under the spray.

  The water splashed against her skin, washing away the dirt and the grime from the day’s work. She closed her eyes, savoring this last quiet moment before the people from town arrived.

  She understood that many coming didn’t support the Crisis Center but wanted to see her. Many wanted to know what had happened to her after she’d deliberately dropped off the radar a dozen years ago. She’d barely moved fifty miles from her home, but she’d effectively dropped out of sight.

  And now she was about to step back into it. She was about to show Austin that she was alive and well and ready to face the past and all its ugliness.