Can't Buy Me Love (41 page)

“Tara. Listen to me, because this is the truth. My truth. When you are ready, I will be waiting for you. Your life will be waiting for you.”

He kissed her again, a hard seal, as if she were a letter he was marking as his, and then he stood and braced himself for a second against the table, like a man in rocky seas.

She waited, after he left, in a shaft of sunlight that grew and spread like a leak, unstoppable. Until she realized she was blinded by the sunlight—and numb to its warmth.

Victoria lay in bed next to Jacob, feeling the rise and fall of his little rib cage against her stomach. His hand was curled into hers, and his feet rested flat against the tops of her own. His lips parted on each breath, a little snore in his nose every time he inhaled, and the sound was so sweet, so alive, it brought a smile to her lips.

Which cracked and then bled into her mouth. Carefully, she pressed the bloody Kleenex to her lip as she had all night long.

There was a soft knock on her door, and even that had the power to send her heart screaming into her throat.

Celeste opened the door, wincing when she saw Jacob sleeping. “Luc has asked for all of us to meet in the den,” she whispered.

Victoria twisted, trying not to disturb Jacob to look at the clock. “So early?”

“He’s got a flight out of Dallas at noon.”

“What?”

Celeste shrugged and left the door open as she walked down the hallway. Victoria eased out of bed and nearly ran to the den, wondering what had happened in last night’s nightmare to make him leave the ranch.

Leave Tara.

There was no glee in Victoria. No victory.

Particularly when she got a good look at Luc’s hard face as he sat behind her father’s desk, looking oddly as though he fit there.

“What’s going on?” Victoria asked.

“Good, you’re here,” he said on a big sigh, his arm in a sling at his side. “I have a flight at noon back to Toronto, so I just want to tell everyone what’s happening.”

Victoria glanced around and saw Eli and Celeste, and Ruby.

“Where’s Tara?”

Luc stared at his hands for a second. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“Is she staying at the ranch?”

“I … I don’t know, Vicks. Please, let me just get this stuff taken care of so I can leave.”

The naked appeal in his eyes, in his voice, stilled her tongue. And she dropped like a rock onto the couch next to Celeste.

“I’m not totally sure if I’m breaking the rules of the will, since my off-season is now indefinite and I’m leaving before my five months are up. Vicks, I don’t think you’re going to get that million.”

She held up her hand. “It’s okay. It is. I don’t need it.”

“What are you going to do?”

She shrugged, not sure, but wanting to put on a brave face for her brother’s sake. “I’ll get a job.”

“That’s … good, Vicks. Eli—” He looked up at the cowboy, who stood in the back of the room. “The ranch is in escrow and I leave it in your hands to run it until the year is up and then you can buy the ranch, but I want your promise that my sister and Tara—”

“You’re selling the ranch?” Victoria asked.

Luc nodded.

“The house too?”

“Victoria, it’s just easier—”

“What if I want it?” she asked, and felt everyone staring at her. Their collective gazes, particularly Eli’s from behind her, were heavy and she couldn’t quite think past the weight.

“Want what?” Luc looked as baffled as if she’d asked for Santa Claus to come to the ranch and give her a pony.

“The ranch.”

“The house—”

“The whole thing.” She pushed the weight of everyone’s flabbergasted shock, everyone’s skepticism, away. For the first time in her life she acted on her own impulse. Her own gut.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eli said. “Luc—” Luc held up his hand and Eli crumpled his hat in his fist.

“What are you going to do with the ranch?” Luc asked, and Victoria felt as if she were lifted above her body, floating, watching herself do this.

Watching her take charge of her life.

This woman with the lightning in her eyes, the purpose in the muscles of her body, the smile broken on one side by a man’s fist.

That woman was her.

“I don’t know. Horses?” she said. “Like we used to.”

“What do you know about horses?” Eli demanded.

“Not much.” She looked at him, feeling challenge and entreaty fill her eyes. “But you do.”

Eli’s chest heaved and it looked like he was chewing on a whole bunch of words, probably none of them nice. His eyes raked her, and she could tell the poor man was not comfortable hating a woman as much as he hated her right now.

“Luc—” Eli said, and then stopped as if he knew what Luc was going to say.

“Vicks, the ranch is yours to run for the year. After that if you want it, it’s yours. You want to sell it to Eli, that’s fine too. I’m sorry, Eli.” Luc smiled slightly at Victoria, as if giving her his blessing, as if he was happy to be doing it. “But family comes first.”

“It always has with you people,” Eli growled and left the room.

Sitting ramrod straight, eyes on Luc while he talked about Tara Jean and the greenhouse, Celeste reached over and patted Victoria’s hand.

Victoria, feeling as if she were filled in equal parts with helium and lead, grabbed onto that hand like a lifeline.

Tara Jean sat
in Lyle’s old room, watching the rain make tracks across the window, distorting the wet world outside. She wished she drank. A little alcohol, a blistering hangover, something to distract her from the throbbing numbness. Something to fill the vacuum Luc’s departure had created in her chest.

But even candy, her sweet comfort, had lost its appeal.

So for three days straight she had done little but lie in a fetal position in Lyle’s blue robe, staring out the window and wondering who the hell she was.

Tara Jean flopped over onto her back just as the door to the room opened and Celeste walked in.

Rayanne hadn’t been much for stern lectures, she had been more of a begging-for-forgiveness kind of mother, so it wasn’t as if Tara had a lot of experience with tough love.

But Celeste looked like a mother ready to dish some out.

“Are you finished feeling sorry for yourself?”

“No.” Tara stared up at the ceiling, the stucco painted light blue. That had been her idea. Give Lyle a little sky.

“Well you’ve got a business to run, or have you forgotten?”

Tara shook her head, rolling it across the plastic mattress. The crinkle sounded distinctly hospital-like. When they first got this bed, she’d covered the mattress in
those foamy egg-carton things. She imagined it had made Lyle feel less like everyone thought he was going to wet the bed.

“I’ll just mess it up,” she said. “Ask Claire Hughes, she’ll tell you. I have no business trying to run a company.”

“Since when did you care what people think about you? Honestly, Tara, that’s one of your few redeeming qualities. Don’t give it up now.”

She laughed, a tired huff of a laugh that made her bones ache with even that small effort. “That’s not true,” she said. “And you know it.”

“That you don’t care what people think of you?” Celeste shut the door behind her and perched on the edge of the bed. The weight made Tara’s legs slide toward the other woman and just as she mustered up the energy to move herself, Celeste awkwardly patted her leg.

“I think … I think that’s all I’ve ever cared about,” Tara said, looking hard at all her weaknesses. “I’ve let what people think of me dictate every single thing I’ve ever done. It made me throw away the Nordstrom deal. It made me push …” She shook her head, too tired to enumerate her sins. Too broken to talk about Luc.

“You’ve run that business for a while now. And before that you turned it around, made it count for something again. And I, for one, am proud of you. My son is—”

Tara rolled off the bed, stared at her bare toes and the carpet beneath them. “Let’s not talk about him.”

“Then let’s concentrate on getting you out of this bed and back in your workshop.”

“I don’t like leather anymore,” she said.

“What do you like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then maybe it’s time to find out.”

For two days she made sketches of sex toys, mostly to watch Celeste roll her eyes. Needling Celeste had become her reason to get out of bed most days.

That and Jacob, who sat beside her at her bench, drawing cowboys and robots and suns with big smiley faces on them.

“Why are you even here?” Tara said, after Celeste tossed the whips-and-chains collection in the trash. “Your flesh and blood has left, or did you miss that?”

Celeste arched an imperial eyebrow, standing at the door of the workshop. “Doesn’t mean I’m not needed. Now, stop being cute and do some work.”

Tara Jean stared down at the paper in front of her. “But I’m not a designer. Not really.”

“Who cares?” Celeste asked, and Tara Jean Sweet blinked in stunned silence.
Who cares?

It was like one of those summer rains pouring through her, clearing away the humidity and confusion, the itchy anger at herself, leaving behind fresh air and glittering purpose.

Who cares, indeed.

I care
was the only answer that mattered.

Dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, Tara Jean opened up the filing cabinet and took out her binders. Tearing out with delirious and happy abandon the thongs and bustiers.

“What are you doing?” Jacob asked.

“Getting rid of the prostitute line.”

“What’s a prostitute?”

She smiled, feeling devilish, which for her was an improvement. “Go ask your mom.”

Part of her, she realized, was this leather, these designs. She couldn’t get rid of all of them and—faced with the choice—she didn’t want to. She was proud of some of this work.

She left the pants, but only in black. Most of the jackets
stayed. All of the bags. The shirt with the heart cutouts on the collar gave her an idea, and she riffled through the torn pages to the clean white paper underneath.

Little red boots, with hearts and silver stitching for a young girl. A matching quarter-length jacket. A set of barrettes.

A pair of black motorcycle boots in miniature for a young boy.

A yoga bag.

Tasteful items. Useful. She became obsessed with useful. With wallets and eyeglass holders.

A diaper bag. A bunch of them. In amazing colors with pouches and pockets.

Briefcases, sleek and stylish, but in lime green. She made a note to herself to look up other fabrics. Water resistant. Environmentally friendly.

She laughed, thinking of Lyle rolling over in his grave.

At the thought of Lyle she paused. Sat down hard in her chair.

Her mind was free of the past, her mother’s voice silenced for good, and it was slightly dizzying, like having a set of blinders taken off, but the view … the view was just so good without the past.

Useful. Maybe … maybe it was time to become useful again.

She ran back into the house to shower and find a phone book.

The next day Tara stood on the porch, an address in her hand, an appointment set in stone. She wore a sleeveless black button-down shirt and pair of khaki walking shorts. The problem was, she had no shoes. Nothing that wasn’t ten inches high or plush and shaped like a rabbit.

“Tara?” It was Victoria, walking out onto the porch, her son beside her.

She smiled down at the boy and felt a little taller, a little smarter and more worthy, when he beamed up at her.

“You okay?” Victoria asked, and Tara Jean reluctantly pulled her attention to Jacob’s stern-faced mother … who, in the buttery-yellow sunlight of a brand-new day, was not so stern-faced.

She was almost … pretty. Girlish, with her hair around her face, curling lightly in the humidity. Though she still wore a god-awful shirt with a silk tie at the throat like she was eighty years old.

“Where are your shoes?” Jacob asked, pointing to Tara Jean’s bare feet.

“I …” She wiggled her toes, feeling stupid. She should just stay on the ranch. Design leather litter boxes or something.

She shook her head, uprooting the thought as it emerged, tossing it aside.

“I am going to go into Springfield to the hospital to read some books and comics to some people there and I … I don’t have any shoes to wear.” She shrugged. “I might just wear my slippers.”

“I have some shoes you can wear,” Victoria said. “I’m a size nine.”

“Really?” Good Lord, the woman had boat feet.

“Do you want the shoes?” Victoria snapped.

“I do,” Tara Jean said. “I’m a seven and a half; they should work okay.”

Victoria ran back inside and brought out a pair of red Chanel ballet slippers. Elegant, and as Tara Jean realized when she slipped them on, comfortable.

She wiggled her toes in the inch of extra room.

“Will those work?” Victoria asked and Tara Jean nodded,
suddenly feeling choked up. Suddenly feeling grateful beyond words.

They are just shoes
, she told herself, but she couldn’t help her tears.