The Jewel Box (24 page)

A well rehearsed line if I ever heard one, but I gave him an A for timing and delivery.

“I’ll miss you while I’m in Japan.” He slowly stirred ice in his whiskey on the rocks. “
Ay ishete imasu
.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s Japanese for I love you,” he whispered across the table.

I was surprised he hadn’t murmured the Japanese translation of
Love to Love You Baby
since Donna Summer’s song was ritual background music he played to enhance lovemaking. I didn’t know Japanese for “You’re interesting and wealthy, but you’re not Gabriel,” so I flirtatiously shook my long hair and said we should get home before Nikki violated the building code by cramming too many friends inside our place.

Time spent with Randall meant less time with Beau or even Hope, who was in marriage counseling after several squabbles with Troy. Conn claimed the newlywed problems were mother-in-law influenced—something Hope wouldn’t dare admit. Instead, Troy’s happy ass would
get dragged to therapy until he learned to live with in-law issues. Comply or say bye-bye. Gabriel once claimed Gloria was as conniving as she was charming, and I was beginning to believe his statement might be indeed a fact and not a fiction.

After insistence from Gloria, Nikki and I went with her for a visit to see Gabriel and Victoria’s young son at their new home. We arrived just as Gabriel drove up. “Look at his new blue van.” Gloria cocked her penciled black eyebrow. “His and Ben’s construction business is booming.” Gabriel smiled and grabbed Nikki’s hand, rushing her inside to show off Luke. I walked behind, sucking up sawdust fumes. Gabriel seemed enthralled with fatherhood. Victoria seemed disenchanted and irritated. Lost sleep and added pounds will do that. Much to Gloria’s dismay, I cut our visit short. And all the way home my mind stayed cluttered with his scent, blue eyes, blond hair, mannerisms,
mere existence
. It was time to step up therapy sessions or consider a lobotomy.

Other than Nikki’s melodramatic, smart mouth pre-teen behavior exasperating the heck out of me, things were running relatively smooth in my life. New relationship, new therapist, new job. So why wasn’t I happy? Maybe it was Gloria’s relentless calls, insisting Gabriel was unhappy in his marriage. I regaled her about life with Randall being grand, until she told me to stop my charade because she knew I was still in love with her son. Two days later, said son called. “Hey girl, I saw Chevy Chase impersonating you on
Saturday Night Live
.”

“I think he was impersonating former President Ford.”

“Yeaaah? Well, it sure looked like he was mimicking you.”

“Believe it or not, I don’t stumble or trip around anyone but you, Wiseass.”

“Hey, if you’re gonna talk crassly, I’ll hang up.”

“Oh, pleeease. I thought vulgarity was an aphrodisiac to you. I guess you’ve become virtuous with old age.”

“What do you think?”

My therapist’s words to let go of him and our past history, and Gloria’s words about the two of us belonging together clashed in my brain. “Actually I think I shouldn’t be talking to you. Take care of yourself, Gabriel.” I hung
up the phone, thinking how pleased my therapist would be. Of course, she had also suggested I stay the hell away from his family.

Gloria and Hope had been so generous to tend Nikki, I naturally reciprocated in the child care arena. Conner O’Quinn had turned drugstore cowboy and taken to wearing pointy toed, roach killer boots, western shirt complete with pearl snaps, tight jeans, and a belt buckle the size of Texas. He irritated preppy Nikki something fierce.

“Gonna take care of me again this summer?” Conn asked.

For several years I had watched him while Gloria and Hope traveled to Tahiti for ten days, courtesy of Gloria’s job. She worked for a travel agency and always won the annual competition, thus whisked Hope off to their favorite hideaway.

“I think I’ve told you ‘yes’ a hundred times, Conn.” Even when Gloria wasn’t traveling, Conn called often, asking me to chauffer him somewhere or other.

“Darlin’ I’m just making sure. I don’t get to see you often enough.”

“Ha,” Nikki said as we drove away from the theatre where we’d watched
Caddyshack
. About twice a month we took Conn to the movies or hauled his butt around Houston, giving Gloria a break.

“Darlin’ can you please buy me a Coca-Cola? Please?” Conn begged me to stop.

“You guzzled two at the movies,” Nikki reminded him.

“I’m gonna die of thirst.” His voice turned adamant.

I pulled into a convenience store to appease him, all the while knowing Gloria wouldn’t be thrilled about me getting him jacked up on sugar so late.

Conn stayed inside longer than necessary—likely trying to peek inside a
Playboy
—and had barely returned to my car when his older brother appeared.

Gabriel hugged Nikki, my central nervous system went berserk, and Conn pitched a hissy fit when Gabriel asked him to sit in the back seat while he talked with me. Conn’s hissy soon turned into a full throttle tantrum that made Delilah’s kids look docile. Twelve-year-old Nikki
temporarily placated the sixteen-year-old prattle mouth while Gabriel and I chatted.

Gabriel told me about forming O’Quinn Brother’s Construction with Ben (retired from the Air Force), how business was booming, and how he was busy doing the woodwork he loved. He had several crews on multiple sites, but still worked his hands in wood alongside his employees every day.

“Whooooa.” Conn yelled. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Nikki’s bored-but-dealing-with-it attitude went instant irritation when Conn began bellowing like a wounded bulldog. “Time to take the Rhinestone Cowboy back to Gloria’s ranch house,” Nikki raised her voice louder than his.

I nodded in agreement and turned the ignition key. “You better give up your front seat before teeth start flying from the rear,” I warned Gabriel.

Just as he leaned into me to say something, Conn opened the car door, practically yanked him out, and bolted back to shotgun position.

“Thank you,” Nikki said while waving goodbye to Gabriel.

Chats with Patrice were rare as she traveled with work, and I missed her. From time to time I called Mother, but her homemaking tips and tedious quotes bored me something fierce. And my therapist was getting on my nerves with an undercurrent of advice to avoid the O’Quinn clan. I dropped out of therapy and once again opted to use Beau as my sounding board. We spoke by phone and occasionally shared lunch, which seemed more beneficial than pricey therapy.

Determined to distance myself from Gabriel’s family, I kept busy going places, doing things, and attending lifted pinky soirees with Randall when he wasn’t in Japan. Functions where you cheerfully greet haughty people, hug, kiss air, then lie about how marvelous everyone looks while discussing preferences in skiing St. Moritz or Kitzbühel. At Halloween, Randall bought us Batman and Catwoman costumes, and requisitioned a black helicopter to drop us at three different parties. Impressed the hell out of me. Still, it took me a while to get used to his lifestyle and I never got comfortable with it.

Randall took me to Dallas to meet his family. I’m sure my mouth flew open as we drove through gates and around the winding drive, where Rolls-Royces were being buffed by men in uniforms. Ditto as we walked through ornate double doors, opened by a doorman named Albert. I attempted to shift into blasé, sophisticated mode when I looked up at Lalique chandeliers that seemed to propagate as we walked through the hallways. Then I met his mom and aunt. Both were proper and cordial, but as I spoke with them my small sense of sophistication promptly vanished. I was feeling terribly out of place when a servant arrived with tea. I lifted my pinky and delicately raised an almond crumpet from the silver tray, not daring to breech etiquette by dropping one tiny crumb. Randall’s mother sat upright with hands folded across her lap, and a Greta Garbo smile stretched across her lips. I could almost read the thought bubbles over her head. Her ancestors? Breeding? Social status? Finishing schools? Not for my son!

Unlike his family, Randall was totally unpretentious and down to earth, with the only exception being his preference for Dom Perignón’s 1939 and 1947 vintages. Highly adaptable, he could comfortably mingle with elite jet setters or those traveling via lesser means, and he enjoyed everything from Willie Nelson’s
Crazy
to Bach’s fourth
Brandenburg Concerto
. We did simple things like spending weekends aboard his yacht or watching old movies. But mostly, we attended polo matches (yep, they play polo in Texas, y’all), plays, operas, museum openings, or were whisked away by limo or jet to extravagant parties. For one of mediocre upbringing, opulence was an aphrodisiac—and we all know faking orgasms is a female prerogative indoctrinated way back in Biblical times.

“I’m taking you to St. Barts,” Randall flashed tickets under my nose.

“Yes.” I hugged him tightly.

“And here’s my credit card to buy lots of sexy bikinis, high heels, and whatever else you want.”

“Can’t I just buy moo-moos when we get there?” I teased. “You’re the best!”

When I told Nikki about our trip, she whined. Then her whining advanced into dribbling fake tears for several days. To combat her infantile behavior, I brought home one of McDonald’s newly introduced “Happy Meals” and put it on the table. “Get jolly, lovey.”

“I can’t believe you’re going on a great vacation without me.” She sobbed real tears into the decorative little box.

I ignored her and she reciprocated by refusing to speak to either of us. I found her silence refreshing. Randall couldn’t handle it, and the day of our trip, he gave her five hundred dollars, concert tickets for her and Jim, and countless rock ‘n roll albums. This soon became a pattern, with Nikki making out like a bandit, me opposing his actions, and him dismissing my protests. When he wanted extra time with me, he simply handed Nikki money. I became so entwined in grandiose privilege I only glanced at every other white Ford Ranger or blue Chevy van. Still looked at every blond guy in faded blue jeans though.

As much as he loved Texas, Randall’s decision to move permanently to Park City, Utah, surprised me. While making a land deal in early 1980, he found his own
Rocky Mountain High
in a fabulous villa nestled just beneath the peaks of Utah’s Wasatch Mountain Range. Randall began flying me back and forth on weekends, while proposing marriage. My capricious nature allowed me to be elusive without him asking for reasons. Maybe it was my distinct distaste for cold weather. My need to be near a warm body of water. My insecurities. My inability to feel comfortable around the extremely wealthy. Okay. Fine. I didn’t love Rich Boy. And I longed for my blond carpenter.

Delilah had gone from country to rock, and stopped by after midnight decked out in a skin tight, silver Spandex jumpsuit, drunk on wine and drowsy from downers. “You gotta meet my new Elvis impersonator boyfriend. He’s got a tattoo of Graceland on his penis.”

“And my boobs get perkier with age. Delilah, you shouldn’t be driving while plastered.”

“Ugh,” her voice choked as she rushed into my bathroom, stuck her head in the toilet and threw up all kinds of crap through her nose. Door wide open—for my viewing pleasure.

“Please spend the night,” I urged.

“No way.” She turned and sat to take a whiz, which went on forever. I prayed she wouldn’t fall face first onto my tile floor.

As she struggled to get back into the snug outfit, I begged her not to get behind the wheel while thoughts of Sean filled my head. She wasn’t fit to drive. I felt helpless as she bolted past me to the front door.

“Long live the King!” Delilah yelled loud enough to wake sleeping neighbors. “I’m off to get me a hunk-a, hunk-a, burnin’ love.”

Praying for her safety, I made a mental note to talk with her about alcohol abuse when she sobered up.