Texas fury (32 page)

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She sat down with a thump on the padded desk chair. Now she understood. Good lord, could one small scrap of paper make such a difference? Of course it could. It had. Amelia's shoulders slumped. With every ounce of strength she could muster, she forced them back. "All this is is a thank you note from a very nice person. Leave it at that," she muttered to herself when she heard Cary close the shower door.

These days she didn't undress in the bedroom and pad naked into the bathroom the way she used to. Now she carried her clothes into the bathroom, disrobed, and dressed with the door not only closed but locked. The loose folds of skin and the bypass scar were for her eyes only.

In the restaurant Amelia pushed her food around on the plate. Cary ate like a truck driver. "I thought you said you were starved," he said.

"I was then. I had a rather big lunch. But I have eaten two pieces of Andre's magnificent bread and the salad. I always do that and then can't do justice to the dinner."

"This is wonderful," Cary said, motioning to the mess on his plate. For the life of her, she couldn't remember what her husband had ordered. Some kind of fish in a sticky white sauce. She couldn't even remember what she ordered. Some kind of chicken. It was buried in a plum sauce that puckered her mouth.

This was the first time she could remember thinking that she and Cary resembled the other diners in the restaurant. You could always tell the married couples. They ate, they drank, and there was little or no conversation between them—until the check arrived and the little woman wanted to know how much her husband spent on her. Lovers, on the other hand, could be drinking Ripple wine and chewing on pickled crab-grass and not know the difference. Quiet whispers and eye contact were the order of the day.

Cary leaned back in his chair. "That was one good dinner. I get points for finishing it all," he said boyishly.

"You certainly do. Are we having dessert?"

"I don't know about you, but I am. That flaming apricot thing Andre is famous for. And let's have some more wine, babe."

Babe. His favorite name for her. Amelia smiled. She remembered the days when he used to refer to her as his broad. She loved it.

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Cary gave their order to the waiter. His spirits were high.

"Did you see the note Julie sent us? That was nice of her, don't you think?"

Nobody's voice should sound this happy. Amelia wanted to stretch across the table and slap him. She nodded. "Julie is a very nice person," she said sincerely.

"I know. I couldn't get over how easy she is to talk with. She's fun, too. Wonderful sense of humor. She can even laugh at herself. Most women today are too uptight with trying to get to the top. I think Julie has found her niche and she's happy. She said she likes New York, but at times it intimidates her. I told her you loved it. She thinks the world of you, babe."

"And I of her. She is Thad's niece, so what do we expect?" Shut up, Cary. Leave it alone. Don't say any more. I can't bear it. You should hear your voice. You sound like you're seventeen and in love.

"She talked about you a lot. She said you had the most exquisite clothes and knew how to wear them. She admires your dedication. It's hard to believe she's thirty-nine. You could take her for thirty or so, don't you think?" Cary asked, oblivious to the look of pain on his wife's face.

"Yes, thirty or so. I quite agree. Oh, look, here's dessert, flame and all."

"Julie would like this. She's like a kid when she sees something unexpected or something she hasn't had before. Do you know she has this videotape of a cartoon called Puff the Magic Dragon? She plays it when she needs a lift. Isn't that amazing?"

Amelia ground her teeth. A lift indeed. But there was no way she was going to fight this. No way at all. / wish you could hear yourself, Cary. "I don't think it's amazing at all. I think it's very astute of Julie to know what will relax her, even if it is a silly cartoon."

Cary stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "Why do you say it's silly?"

"Aren't cartoons supposed to be silly? Aren't they supposed to make you laugh? That's why they're silly."

"I thought you were mocking Julie," Cary said quietly.

"Now that you know I wasn't, don't you feel better? It pays to talk about these little things so they don't get blown out of proportion," Amelia said sweetly.

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"You're right, babe. Someday I'm going to learn not to question you. You're always right."

Amelia forced a laugh. "Not always. But most of the time."

"You aren't eating this dessert. You could use a little extra meat on your bones, babe. Come on, this is delicious."

Amelia dug her spoon into the thick apricot sauce. Extra meat on her bones. Like well-padded Julie. Ample Julie. Chubby Julie. Hippy Julie. Julie with the genuine freckles. Julie with the wonderful sense of humor. Julie with the laughing eyes. Wasn't there a song about laughing eyes? Frank Sinatra sang it—when Cary was still in diapers. Amelia hated herself for her thoughts.

She finished her dessert.

It took a full two weeks before Cole could pass for his normal self. The day after the beating, Adam insisted on driving him to the hospital to have his face stitched and his nose set. The intern complimented Adam on his taping job, but Cole's ribs healed slowly. The only visible signs of the beating were a few black and blue marks on his cheeks. He covered them with a bronzing gel.

He hadn't been back to Sunbridge till this evening. And now he'd only come back to get his clothes. The past week had been absolute torture for him as he tried to figure ways to avoid Riley without being obvious about it.

He was on his third drink, trying to gather courage for one last try at explaining to Riley. Two weeks to calm down should be enough, even for Riley, he thought. He'd calmed down a lot himself. At first he had argued with Adam, saying Riley wouldn't listen, and why should he subject himself to another attack? Adam, of course, had the perfect reply. "You have to take a shot at it so you'll know you tried. If Riley doesn't want to listen, then it's his problem, not yours. Do it for yourself, Cole."

Cole burst into Riley's room near midnight. The three shots of bourbon straight up had given him the courage to do what Adam suggested.

"Whatever it is you're doing, stop it! I want to talk to you, Riley. Man to man. We aren't kids anymore. You're going to listen to me if it's the last thing either of us does."

Riley turned from his position at the desk, where he'd been

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trying to write a letter to his grandfather. Even this unwelcome intrusion would get him off the hook for a few minutes. "It's all been said. Don't make me change the custom here at Sun-bridge by having to lock my door."

"You never used to be so damn pigheaded. Okay, it was wrong. Jesus, she came into my bed in the middle of the night. At first I thought I was dreaming. When I realized it was no dream, it was too late. All this hatred you're directing at me isn't justified. I wanted to tell you myself, and I think I would have if there had been time. It was wrong; I know it was wrong. I wish I could take it back, go back in time and erase it, but I can't. I told Lacey there could never be anything between us. That's why she left. Jesus, don't you understand? She didn't love you. She was using you! You can't make someone love you. She, at least, understands that. Why can't you?"

"Get the hell out of here, Cole. I don't want anything from you. Ever."

"I'm not giving you anything. I'm not even offering anything. All I'm trying to do is explain. It's that old rivalry between us, isn't it? I let it go; why can't you? Lacey is off in New York, probably having a goddamn blast, and she's set us against each other. She's a bitch. She set me up, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Save your breath. I have all the explanations I need or want. Get out of here before I toss you out."

"This is going to affect our working relationship. You're going to avoid me every chance you get. I'm going to be walking on eggs, afraid I'll say the wrong thing. Get off it, Riley. This is kid stuff."

"Is it kid stuff to go behind my back and tell my grandfather lies? Who gave you permission to write to him, to worm your way into his life? Answer me, you son of a bitch! All the old one does in his letters is talk about what a fine young man you are and how lucky I am that we're of the same blood. Ah, you thought I didn't know. Well, you see, I know everything. Not only are you a thief, but you're also a sneak, too. If I never have to talk to you again, it will be fine with me."

"The only lies I ever told your grandfather, I told to cushion his hurt over you. I told him you were away, out of town, all kinds of things so he would think you were working round the clock. I did it for you, you asshole. That old man doesn't deserve the treatment you're giving him. He's not good

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enough for you anymore, is he? You want to be here with all the rich, big-time Colemans. You like it here. You like it that Grandmam Billie turned things over to you. You like being a big honcho. Admit it, Riley. You don't give two shits about that old man and what he's built. It was all for you, and you spit on it and on him. You have no intention of ever going back to Japan—I see it in your eyes. You talk a good story, but you don't have the guts to do anything about it. I'm sorry I came in here. I hope you do decide to stay here because, by God, you are a Coleman. They deserve you."

"Shut up, Cole. Leave my family out of this."

"Which family, Riley? The Colemans or your other family, the one you turned your back on? That family? You're a piss-poor excuse for a grandson. Don't get up. Save the fancy footwork for some other time. If I tangle with you again, one of us will end up dead."

"Fuck you!" Riley shouted.

Cole turned at the door. "I won't come back here. I'm moving into the condo tomorrow morning. Sunbridge is yours, old buddy. Lock, stock, and barrel. When my mother put the deed in both our names, I didn't want it then. I don't want it now. As of tomorrow, i f 's all yours."

"I don't want anything from you," Riley bellowed.

"Tough." Cole laughed. "It's yours, like it or not."

Riley sat at the desk for a long time. He made no effort to stem the flow of tears running down his cheeks. He crumpled the letter he'd been writing into a ball. He shot it with his thumb and index finger the way he'd shot marbles when he was little. The paper teetered on the edge of the wicker basket, then fell in. He did the same thing with his grandfather's letter.

It was time to make a decision.

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UUUiU CHAPTER ELEVEN )»»)>»

The first thing Rand did when he arrived at Heathrow Airport was call to his solicitor to tell him he was on his way.

He whizzed through customs and hailed a cab. It was a typical London day—raw and cold. Rand shivered inside his heavy overcoat, wishing he were back in Hawaii, on the beach with Maggie.

Hiram Laskey was older than Methuselah, Rand thought, but his age in no way affected his brain or his keen eyesight. "You look like you have a problem, Rand," he said in a trembling voice. "How can I be of help?"

"I'll be wanting to make a few changes in my ... a few changes," Rand hedged. Now that he was here, he was sorry he'd come. He should have made his inquiries first and then come to the solicitor. This man would immediately think, as he had, that it was all a scam. Then again, maybe Hiram wasn't the kind of man who would understand. If only he weren't so ancient-looking. The thin, bald head and straggly beard, with traces of tomato soup, irritated Rand. So did the spots on his tie. He was wearing the same tired old suit Rand remembered from years ago. Clearly, Hiram didn't spend his money on clothing or a barber.

Hiram's voice was gentle, all traces of trembling gone. "Perhaps you might be more comfortable discussing... whatever it is you're having second thoughts about with one of the younger men. No offense will be taken, I assure you. As a matter of fact, I insist." He pretended to think while he steepled his fingers. "Arthur Mittington should do nicely. He's at the end of the corridor. Tell him I sent you. You'll get on well."

Rand felt ashamed. Nothing was working out right these days. The old man was right, though; he needed to talk to someone he could relate to.

"It was nice seeing you again, Hiram."

The trembling was back in Hiram's voice. "You won't think it's so nice when you get our bill. And to answer your

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unasked question, I am ninety-one years old. I will still be practicing when I'm a hundred. 1 can tell you this now that I've placed you in Arthur's capable hands. You are not, under any circumstances, to tell Arthur how old I am. They keep a running pool going."

The old man's handshake was almost as firm as Rand's.

Arthur Mittington looked like a rugby player. He was forty or so, Rand judged, and carried himself well. He came around from his desk, his hand outstretched. His herringbone suit pleased Rand. Carnaby Street, he suspected.

Arthur listened attentively while Rand talked. When Rand threw up his hands and said, "That's it," he smiled.

"I understand exactly how you feel. I also think you're right in wanting to do all the checking yourself. If we hire on, it might confuse matters. You are the interested party, so to speak. You'll see firsthand and be able to observe everyone. Private investigators tend to be impersonal, and I don't think that's what you want. Might I ask what your intentions are if everything is proved right?"

"I haven't gotten that far. I've never been a father before."

Arthur laughed. "I have, and I can tell you it's no picnic. I will also tell you that out of my four nippers, there isn't one I wouldn't die for. Just knowing you have flesh and blood walking around makes all the difference in the world. You won't necessarily have that feeling, but I am sure if Miss Brighton proves to be your daughter, you will do whatever it is you feel right about. If I can be of any help, call me. I'll jot down my home phone number. Don't be embarrassed to call me at home, even if it's just to talk. Don't you Americans refer to it as unloading?"