by Webb, Peggy
"Sweet dreams, my little Mattie."
His question haunted her as she walked into her bedroom. She had a wonderful career, a beautiful home, a loving grandfather, and plenty of companions. But was she happy? Was anybody happy? What in the world was happiness, anyhow?
She stripped off her wet suit and hung it in the bathroom. Without even bothering to shower, she crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and she was exhausted. Happiness would have to wait for another day.
CHAPTER THREE
Mattie leaned toward her dinner companion, Clayburn Garvey, a well-known Texas philanthropist, and was rewarded with a gleam in his eye. She knew she looked good. The green silk dress bared her tanned shoulders and enhanced the green of her eyes. Her hair, swept up into an artfully careless topknot, reflected the golden glow of candlelight.
But Clayburn wasn't the reason she was leaning forward. She was trying to get a better look at the man sitting at the table behind him. Hunter Chadwick caught her eye and winked. She lifted her wineglass to him in silent salute, then turned her attention back to her dinner date. She was elated. She'd chosen the restaurant deliberately, knowing Hunter would be there. Although it was his favorite restaurant, she'd left nothing to chance. Uncle Mickey had been her source of information.
Clayburn made a comment about the price of oil, and she laughed. Seeing the startled look on his face, she reached over and covered his hand with hers.
"I'm sorry, Clayburn. It wasn't what you said. I was thinking about something else—about Papa Houston and his karate," she lied. As she launched into the story about Phillip's attacking her the night of her party, she kept glancing over Clayburn's shoulder at Hunter. He was the reason for her laughter. She'd plotted this revenge since their encounter in his hot tub. She could almost see the look of outrage on his face. She could almost taste the victory.
Clayburn wasn't fooled by her story. He had been her friend for too long.
"What are you up to, Mattie?" he asked.
"What makes you think I'm up to something?"
"This dinner. Of course, I was flattered by your sudden invitation, but I'm too honest not to think there's more to it than my charm." He lifted his wineglass. "And you have that wicked look in your eye."
"You know me too well."
He laughed. "That comes from following you all over Europe. And you know it was more than music appreciation."
"Friendship."
"Yes. I finally settled for that. Would you care to tell me what's going on, and would it have anything to do with the man sitting behind me?"
"Yes, on both counts."
"Watch him, Mattie. He has a reputation that's nearly as scandalous as your own."
She threw back her head and laughed. "Do you believe everything you read in the papers, Clayburn?"
"Which stories would you have me disbelieve, Mattie?"
"How about the one about me riding down the Champs Elysees in an open carriage, wearing nothing but a fur coat and pearls?"
Clayburn laughed. "I loved that one. Sounded just like you, Mattie. Was it true?"
"Do you think I'd tell and ruin an interesting reputation?"
"I especially enjoyed the story about you in Rome. All those priests, Mattie!"
"And an archbishop, too." She grinned at him over the rim of her wineglass. "I'm just as wicked as I can be."
"You still haven't told me what this is all about." He gestured toward their fancy dinner table.
"Revenge."
He put down his fork and leaned across the table toward her. "Proceed."
"You need not know the particulars—just that I'm repaying an old debt. I feel as if my life has been on hold for ten years. If I can get this debt paid off, maybe I can get on with the business of living, really living."
"That sounds strange coming from you, Mattie. Most people envy you—your flamboyant lifestyle, your successful career, your pizzazz. What more can you want out of life?"
"I don't really know. Maybe it's peace. Maybe it's joy. Maybe it doesn't even have a name. Perhaps it's just the satisfaction that comes from knowing everything in your life is in order."
"Could it be a reconciliation with the past?"
"How did you get to be so smart, my friend?"
"There have been rumors."
"One of the drawbacks of fame."
Clayburn held her hand. "What can I do to help you, Mattie?" He grinned. "Short of slaying dragons. I'm too old for that."
"Forty-five isn't old. It's prime."
"It's all a point of view, I guess."
She turned serious. "Set up a benefit concert for me, Clayburn."
"You must have read my mind, Mattie. Surely this isn't the help you want."
"There are strings attached. I also want to do a matinee for children."
"Done."
"There's more."
"Is that your way of saying, 'First the good part, then the bad part'?"
"I want the Chadwick Puppets to be in the matinee."
"No problem, Mattie. I think they're still available for occasional performances."
"I don't want just the puppets. I want the original puppet master, Hunter Chadwick."
"He hasn't done a show in the last nine years—not since the initial tour that launched his toy company."
"Get him. If anybody can do it, you can. But he mustn't know it was my idea."
"I can't make any promises, Mattie, but I will try. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Does anybody ever know for sure what he's doing?"
"Probably not. Some of us just do a better job of pretending." He set his napkin beside his plate and signaled for the waiter to bring the check. 'There's a good band at the club tonight. Care to go there and dance?"
“Thanks, Clayburn, but not tonight. There's something else I have to do here."
He settled the check and rose to leave. "I’ll be in touch about the benefit. Take care, Mattie."
"You too."
She watched until Clayburn was out the door. Then she began the second part of her revenge. Arranging her face into the proper blend of friendly concern and sexual playfulness, she approached Hunter's table.
She noticed that he and his date for the evening, Miss Kathleen Forbes Clynton—don't forget the y—were almost finished with dessert. She'd come in the nick of time. Leaning far over Hunter's chair so that her cleavage showed, Mattie spoke close to his ear.
"Darling, how are you?"
He smiled with genuine pleasure. "Mattie! You look especially stunning tonight. Do you know Kathleen?"
"Who in Dallas doesn't? How are you Kathleen?"
Kathleen was always happy to be recognized, especially by a celebrity. She arched her neck, almost preening. "About to burn up in spite of this air conditioning," she said. All her r's came out as h's. "Dear Hunter has promised to let me cool off in his swimming pool after dinner." She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Haven't you, sweet pookums?"
Mattie nearly giggled as Hunter cringed. She didn't know which he hated more, silly nicknames or exaggerated accents. She leaned closer and patted his cheek.
"And how's the injury, Hunter?"
"What are you talking about, Mattie?"
"Are you hurt, Hunter? You didn't tell me." Kathleen affected a pout.
Mattie pretended chagrin. "Oh, dear. Have I spoken out of school? Naturally, you wouldn't have mentioned it—I mean, it's so embarrassing and all—especially to Kathleen. Poor Miss Clynton. How could I have been such a dolt?"
Hunter was immediately on his guard. He knew Mattie hadn't stopped by his table without a purpose. Furthermore, she was rarely embarrassed and never talked in run-on sentences.
"Mattie, what's going on?"
Kathleen didn't take kindly to having her first question ignored. She asked the second in a piping, querulous voice. "What injury, Hunter?"
"I'm afraid I've already let the cat out of the bag," Mattie said. She bent ov
er and patted Hunter's groin. "I broke it."
Hunter had a coughing fit. Mattie didn't know whether he was strangling back anger or laughter.
As for his date, Miss Kathleen Forbes Clynton, belle of Dallas society, puffed out her red cheeks, gasped for air a few times, then finally squeaked, "How?"
Mattie waved her hand. "I couldn't possibly embarrass you with the details. I’ll leave that to Hunter."
She started to leave, but Hunter grabbed her arm.
"She broke it with her tennis racket," he said.
Mattie pulled against him, but it was useless. He had made a remarkable recovery, and had no intention of letting her have the last word.
"Oh, my!" the hapless Kathleen said.
"Hunter!" Mattie said.
He leaned back in his chair, keeping an iron grip on Mattie's arm. "Yep. We were playing tennis, and she hit the wrong ball."
"How—" Kathleen sputtered awhile, seeking a word descriptive enough for the awful thing she'd just heard. But she could find none. "Excuse me." She bolted from her chair and ran toward the ladies' room.
"Satisfied, Mattie?" Hunter asked.
She wouldn't have let him know her true feelings if he'd been torturing her on a rack. "I couldn't have done it better myself. I'm afraid I've put a terrible crimp in your plans."
He loosened his grip on her arm. "Nonsense. There are other ways."
"You're shameless."
"You knew that before you came up with this little scheme." He grinned at her. "I'm beginning to enjoy these exchanges with you. You keep me on my toes."
"I meant to put you off balance."
He continued as though she hadn't spoken. "Not that I'm condoning what you did to poor Miss Clynton. She’ll probably never get over it."
"She'll survive. That woman has the fortitude of an ox and the vicious nature of a skunk."
"You hardly know the woman."
"Papa keeps me abreast of Dallas society."
"Tell me, if it's not too much trouble, Mattie, what was the purpose of that scenario?"
"To get rid of the competition."
"All you had to do is ask. I'd have dismissed them with a wave of my hand if I'd known you were interested."
Mattie knew he was teasing, but the look in his eyes was reminiscent of that long-ago summer. She decided to make a hasty exit. His look was far too dangerous.
"I prefer to do it my way." she said. "I like a good scandal."
"So do I. I guess that makes us a perfect match."
That look was there again. It almost took Mattie’s breath away. She just wouldn't think about it. If she did, she might be tempted to abandon her plan, and she didn't want to do that. Once she made up her mind about something, she didn't like to back down. What was the worst thing that could happen? Hunter would make good his word and break her heart? That had already happened once, and she'd survived. No, she wasn't afraid of being hurt. She was more afraid of not being strong enough to exact her revenge.
"It doesn't make us a perfect match," she said. "It makes us perfect opponents." She left him sitting at the table and could feel his eyes on her back all the way across the room. That was exactly what she wanted. She knew Hunter. She knew his moods, his likes and dislikes. She knew what he admired and what he didn't. And most of all she knew how to make him want her.
That was all she intended to do, she told herself. Make him want her. No feelings involved. She'd eliminate all the competition and set herself squarely in his path. He'd want her. He'd want her so badly, he could taste it. Then—then she'd have her revenge.
She was smiling as she left the restaurant.
o0o
Hunter chuckled all the way home. Mattie was the mistress of outrageous behavior, and he loved it. Her antics had made the papers for years. She was famous as much for her behavior as for her talent. She was a unique combination of beauty, ability, and delightful wickedness, a once-in-a-lifetime woman.
The light was still on in the library. Hunter was in such an exhilarated mood, he didn't wait until he got to the room. "Uncle Mickey," he yelled from the hallway.
"In here," Mickey called.
Hunter burst through the library door, talking as he went. "You won't believe what she did. By George, that woman has more brass than a brass monkey."
"Who?"
"Mattie."
"You always did admire a woman with spirit. Hunter."
"You should have seen her tonight. She was breathtaking."
"She always was."
"She has more class in her little finger than all the Dallas society women put together."
"She always did. I never knew why you let her go."
A shadow passed over Hunter's face, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. Tonight wasn't the night for regrets. He'd had too much fun. He hadn't been this excited by a woman in years.
"Guess what she did?" he said.
"There's no need to guess. I can see you're tying to dell me."
And Hunter was. He didn't even notice the spoonerism. With big gestures and frequent outbursts of laughter, he told the story of what Mattie had done at the restaurant. "By now," he finished, "I'm sure Kathleen has told all of Dallas about my injury."
Uncle Mickey roared with laughter. "That must have been a blushing crow for your date."
"Only temporarily. Nothing's a crushing blow to Kathleen. She was born with aplomb."
"Kind of like Mattie, eh?"
"Only in that respect. In other ways, they're worlds apart."
"What ways?"
"Nobody has Mattie's zany sense of humor, her boldness, her vivacity."
"You admire the woman, don't you?"
"I did once." Hunter was thoughtful for a moment. "I guess I still do—in some crazy kind of way."
"Why'd you ever let her go?"
"I didn't let her go. She left me."
"What stopped you from going after her?"
"Pride. Youth. Who knows? It was a long time ago."
"Go after her now."
"It's too late."
"It's never too late."
"Yes, it is. There's no going back."
"It seems to me you have the rare chance to do just that, Hunter."
"Even if I wanted to—which I don't—I don't think it could ever be the same. I don't think a love that's been smashed can be put back together."
"Same people. Different love. Good night. Hunter. This old man's going to bed." Without further ado, Uncle Mickey left.
Hunter pondered his uncle's words. Same people. Different love. Was it possible? Could the two people who had found first love together learn to love again, but in a different way, a more mature way? He didn't know. He wasn't sure he would dare risk it.
He picked up a miniature carrousel music box, one of the best-selling items for Chadwick Toys, and wound it. The musical tinkle of The Way We Were accompanied his steps as he paced the room.
He'd taken many risks in his life. He'd shunned the path his father, Rafe Chadwick, a famous criminal attorney, had mapped out for him. Law was interesting—he'd even had a knack for it—but it wasn't what he wanted. He'd always wanted to be a maker of toys. Like his great-uncle Mickey, he had a fondness for the fanciful, the joyful things of life. He'd risked the censure of his father and an assured future by dropping out of law school and pursuing his dream. And it had paid off, handsomely.
He'd taken other risks, too, business risks. In a capricious market that seemed to rely on gimmicks. Hunter had maintained his leading position by keeping a large stock of ordinary toys that did nothing special except require a child to use lots of imagination. Also, he never hesitated to try the most fantastic, the most preposterous new toy. That, too, had worked.
But risks of the heart were another thing. He'd loved and lost ten years ago, and for some reason, the hurt was still there. Underneath all his bravado and his reputation as a womanizer, he was a gentle teddy bear. He made a big show of growling and roaring, but he wasn't sure the teddy bear in him co
uld risk being ripped to shreds by Mattie again.
He stopped pacing and picked up another of his toys, a jack-in-the-box. He pressed the spring, and out popped Humpty Dumpty.
" 'All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again,' " he quoted. "Are you trying to tell me something, Humpty Dumpty?"
The little jack-in-the-box had no answer.
o0o
Chadwick Toys was housed in an old converted warehouse in downtown Dallas. For Hunter, going to work was like entering a wonderful land of make-believe. Toys of every size, shape, and kind rode the conveyor belts in the production lines. Some of the employees sang while they worked, others whistled, and still others kept the laughter going with their homespun stories. They reminded Hunter of Santa's elves.
He greeted them all as he made his way to Uncle Mickey's office. It was always his first stop of the day. He couldn't see his uncle amid all the clutter. Robots whirled around the room, cuckoo clocks ticked, music boxes tinkled, skater babies skated, dancing bears danced, airplanes flew, kites floated, and spaceships orbited. A giant castle in the corner presided over the wonderful craziness.
"Uncle Mickey, come out, wherever you are." It was a favorite greeting of theirs, stemming from Hunter's childhood, when he would put away one of the books his father had instructed him to read, and sneak upstairs to Mickey's room to see what wonders his uncle was creating with scraps of yarn and bits of fake fur.
"I'm in the boy tox," Uncle Mickey answered.
"What are you doing in the toy box?"
First the shaggy gray hair appeared, then the kindly old face, wrinkled like a sun-dried apple. "Looking for the oil. How can I boil that squeaking icycle if I don't have any oil?" He hopped spryly out of the box and bent over the bicycle that was leaning against his desk. "Did you come by to see my latest toy design?"
"Yes."
"It's up there somewhere." Uncle Mickey waved in the direction of his desk. It was nearly as cluttered as his workroom.
Hunter fished through the multitude of paper until he found a drawing, a precisely executed blueprint of a space traveler, complete with wings.
"I like it," he said.
"Of course you do. When you were a little boy, you used to talk about slying into face' someday. It's a universal dream. All the way back to Icarus, man has wanted to fly. Without a machine."
