Texas rich (46 page)

Maggie's arrow pierced the tender spot of Billie's confi-

{308}

dence in herself as a mother. "Maggie, I mean it. I want that talk...."

"All right. Mother, let's talk now." Maggie flopped down on one of the dining room chairs.

Almost fourteen years old and all that brightness wasted ... so much hatred, so much hostility. Billie recognized that talking with Maggie now would only intensify her anger and would be more destructive than helpful. Would they ever reach an understanding? Why wasn't her love and attention enough for Maggie? Why was it Moss who should matter so much to the girl? "Not now, Maggie. I said this evening; it will give us time to cool down. We're both too angry and overwrought."

"It figures. It's never now. Always later. Funny thing is, later never comes. Did you ever notice that? Yes, I guess you have. Last night was your later, if you get my drift."

Billie glanced at her watch and looked at Maggie again, who was watching her knowingly. She could miss her art class today—she was already late—but she didn't want to miss it, didn't want to be here with a rebellious daughter who was beyond reason. And she didn't want to see Moss if he came in for lunch, either. Class was a refuge and she needed to be there. "Tonight, Maggie. Be here," she said firmly.

"You see, Mother, you didn't hear a word I said. I'm staying with the Lamberts and going to Galveston for the weekend. We can talk some other night. If you don't forget."

"Maggie! I didn't give you permission. ..." But what was the use? Without another word, Billie picked up her purse and left the house.

Maggie ran to the window and watched her mother until she was out of sight. Her eyes ran and she didn't care. Maggie wasn't allowed at the Lamberts' house anymore. She'd been deemed unfit company for their precious daughter Carol since the two girls had been caught drunk with an empty six-pack of beer and the dregs of a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Maggie would never go to Galveston with them again. Carol was sorry but she was afraid to disobey her parents. And the only reasons the Lamberts hadn't told Moss and Billie was that Mr. Lambert had several real estate deals riding with Grandpap. They were intimidated by the Coleman power and money, too, of course. Still, word had spread among the parents of Maggie's other friends and invitations were few now and grudgingly given. No more Galveston, no more friends. But there were other ways of passing the weekend. A motel out on the highway

{309}

with whoever picked her up. Two days spent with total strangers, men who weren't afraid of the Colemans. No questions. No answers. Then a two-hour soak in the bathtub to rid herself of the dirt

Riley skidded to a stop at the foot of the stairs. "Where to, Maggs?" he said, glancing at her overnight case.

"Galveston. Want to come along?"

"No. I'm going up in the new Piper Cub with Pap. How far is Galveston? Does Mam know you're going? Is it a secret?" Riley always asked what was or wasn't a secret.

"I told Mam. She doesn't care. I don't care if you don't come along. I didn't want you, anyway. Go on up in the new plane with Pap. I don't care. You stink, Riley. You and Susan both."

"What'd I do? All I did was ask if it was a secret. I think you're the one who stinks!" Seeing the dangerous glint in his sister's eye, Riley took off at a sprint.

Maggie stopped long enough to poke her head into the sunroom, where her sister was playing the piano. Everyone could do something. Riley could fly. Susan was terrific at the piano. Mother could paint and play the piano. No wonder Pap loved everybody except her. She was a nothing, a nobody. Susan's golden head was limned by the sunhght coming through the windows. So delicate, so pretty, so unlike her own harsh, dark looks. "You stink, too, you little snot!" Maggie yelled above the music.

Susan kept on playing, her long slender fmgers racing over the scales. She'd heard this all before. Maggie hated everyone.

ttttttttt TWENTY-ONE ^^^^^'^^^

As Billie parked her little Italian sports car in the studio lot she could feel the tension in her shoulders. The scene with Maggie this morning had been a replay of many before, but she was still shaken. She had had to face the realization, one more time, of her ineffectiveness as a parent to her daughter.

{310}

Maggie needed Moss. They all needed Moss. But only Riley, bless his heart, could claim the prize of his father's attention.

Crossing the small dusty lot, Billie could already smell the tuqjentine and oil paints wafting through the open door. She loved coming here, facing the challenge of an empty canvas. Here among the paints and the easy camaraderie of the other students she could forget Sunbridge and her troubled marriage and family. Two hundred and fifty thousand acres and a twenty-room house, and she had to come here to fmd privacy and comfort.

The studio itself consisted of one large room with two skylights, a northern and southern. It was comfortable and it was beautiful, with canvases lined up against one long wall. Brilliant colors lived in this room. Comforting colors, exciting colors, somber colors, even dreary colors. The splendor of life, Billie thought as she hung up her short jacket and took her place. Today, only two other students were working. A third figure looked up at her approach and smiled, a great heartwarming smile whose intimacy seemed to encircle her. Jordan. Jordan Marsh was her teacher and her friend, tall and thin, with sandy hair—more brown than sand, really, with streaks of gray at the temples. When he smiled—and he was smiling now—he was almost handsome, showing off perfect teeth. She felt some of the tension leave her as she returned his smile. At least someone was glad to see her.

More tension dropped from her as she set about mixing pigments. Today she was going to finish a still life she had started earlier in the week. A single daisy in a small vase that resembled a child's pudgy hand. Riley's hand.

An hour into her work, Jordan came to stand behind her, watching her bold, sure strokes. "What's wrong, Billie?" he asked softly.

Billie turned on her stool and looked up at him. It had been so long since anyone had used that soft tone with her. She couldn't even remember the last time anyone had asked if she was all right.. Asked as though they cared. Tears brimmed in her eyes. "I'm not sure, Jordan. Probably everything."

"Can I help? Do you want to talk? There's no point in continuing with this. Your colors are all wrong. The stem on that daisy looks like a dead snake."

"You're right, Jordan. I shouldn't be working today. I could use a cup of coffee, if you have one."

"I have a whole pot. Made it right before you arrived. Come

{311}

on, let's go back to my apartment. We can talk in private."

Billie had only been in Jordan's apartment once before, when he'd held a surprise luncheon to celebrate a private showing of his work. It was so nice, so private, and the best thing was he could simply walk into his studio at any time of the day or night, whenever he felt like working. He didn't have to go off somewhere like she did.

Jordan took her on a brief tour of his quarters. The rooms reflected his personality. Bold and bright Uving room, kitchen alive with hand-painted designs on all the cabinet doors. Natural hopsacking hung at the windows and were tied back with vivid scarlet sashing. It was just enough. The assortment of green plants and copper utensils completed the comforting, inviting atmosphere.

But it was the bedroom that Billie liked best. Jordan had done it all in earth tones. It was probably the most restful room she had ever seen. She wondered what it would be like to make love in that comfortable room... and promptly flushed.

"Hold that wicked thought, whatever it is!" Jordan said, smiling. Billie laughed, but the crimson stain stayed as they went back to the kitchen and talked over steaming cups filled to the brim with Louisiana coffee.

They chatted about an upcoming show for one of the other students. Then Jordan asked, "Now tell me, beautiful lady, what's wrong?"

"I'm sure I'm making more out of all of this than is necessary. I got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," said Billie. "My father-in-law hosted a birthday party for me last night. It didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. I was disappointed, Jordan. The reasons aren't important."

"Yes, they are, Billie. They're important to you. Talking about it will bring it into perspective. Look at me, Billie. Where would I be today if I hadn't had someone to talk to, to help me when the bottle was killing me? I'd be in the gutter somewhere, trying to panhandle more money to buy more cheap wine. Someone cared enough to help me. Open up, girl. Share your problems. I know I don't come from your social circle, but I've knocked around, seen hfe, and I care enough to help you."

"What you are or where you came from has nothing to do with it, Jordan. I find it difficult to even admit there is a problem. Coleman's don't have problems. We aren't permitted. So we tend to ignore unpleasant things. We know that sooner

{312}

or later they will go away." She took a deep breath. "But this is not going to go away."

Jordan was persistent. "Billie, you have to tell me what you're talking about—what isn't going to go away? Friends help one another. Don't shut me out now."

"I can't unload my problems on you just because I'm not strong enough to handle them."

"Have you tried? Or have you been coasting?"

"That's exactly what I've been doing," Billie said miserably. "I failed all the way down the line. I don't know where or how things went wrong. I can't give you a date or a time. Things more or less crept up on me. I feel as though there's a black cloud hovering over me and every day it gets lower and lower." Billie shook her head as though to clear her thoughts. "I think I might just be feeling sorry for myself," she said with forced cheerfulness.

"I don't believe you think that at all. You'd never've come back to my apartment if you weren't upset. How many times have I asked you back here? At least a hundred. You would never come, because it wasn't proper for a married lady to enter a man's apartment."

Billie laughed. He was so good for her. If she could still laugh, there must be hope.

Jordan leaned back on the wooden kitchen chair and watched Billie carefully. Didn't she know how he ached to fold her into his arms? Couldn't she feel the heat that emanated from him at the mere sight of her? Was he forever to be her teacher and no more?

"I don't think you can help me," she said, "but if you want to listen, I would like to talk."

Jordan rummaged in his smock pocket for his pipe—which he never smoked—and stuck it between his teeth. He nodded. He was ready to listen. Billie laughed again. "Someday you aren't going to be able to find that pipe and then where will you be?"

"Up the creek without a paddle." Jordan grinned. "It helps me concentrate. My security blanket, if yOu will. We all need one, you know."

"No, I didn't know that. I don't think I ever had something like that to comfort me. That is what you're talking about, isn't it, comfort?"

"In a manner of speaking. Start, Billie." It poured out. Like a waterfall. Jordan sat without moving,

{313}

the pipe clenched between his teeth. He made no sudden moves, not wanting to break or disrupt Bilhe's flow. He didn't even nod.

And then she wound down, slowly, like a locomotive running out of steam. The flush was back on her cheeks. She had opened up, talked about things she hadn't known she remembered. . . She didn't know if she felt better or worse.

Finally Jordan spoke. "That's a mighty heavy load you've been carrying around for years. But don't you feel a certain amount of relief now that you've opened up?"

Billie pondered. "Yes," she said quietly, "I do. But I still don't have the answers. What do you think, Jordan?"

"I think you have problems that only you can solve. I can't tell you what to do, Billie. You have to come to terms with things, make decisions and stick to them. You can't permit other people to control your life. Both of us know that.

"I will tell you one thing—and it's something I learned from experience, so I can share it with you. My problem was alcohol. It was destroying me. I had a love and it was, and is, art. I had to decide which was more important to me. There are days when I want a drink so bad I think I could kill for it. Then I look at one of my students and I know I can't even touch that bottle again. I was put on this earth for a reason. It's corny, but... Billie, I love you, you know."

"I rather thought you did." Billie smiled. Jordan looked a httle surprised, and happy. "Did it help to talk?" he said.

"I think so. I have a lot of thinking to do. I have to do something about Maggie before it's too late."

"Maybe. But wouldn't it be better to get to the root of things and work from there? I'm not saying Maggie isn't important, but until you resolve other things, I don't see how you can do much for her. And she'll recognize the desperation, anyway."

"I'm a coward, Jordan."

"Aren't we all."

"I could botch it all up."

"Then you'll have to live with that. But what's better, trying or doing nothing?"

"I have to think."

"Of course you do."

"I have strange feelings where you're concerned." She was

{314}

amazed at her calm, the feehng of easy candor she had with him.

"I rather thought you did." Jordan grinned.

"Time."

"Yes."

"The coffee was great. The talk was even better. I enjoyed sitting back here with you, but I think I should be out there painting. This might be a good time to work on my angry seascape."

"I'd say this is a perfect time."

"Time, Jordan. Give me time."

"All the time in the world. I'm not going anywhere."

On the return ride to Sunbridge Billie could feel her cheeks grow warm as she thought about her conversation. She'd handled his confession very well. Jordan was in love with her. Was that the same as loving? Still, it pleased her to know that an attractive, talented man like Jordan could feel something about her. Her self-esteem was pretty well trampled these days.