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“More coffee, Morton?”
Lillian Trask lifted the decanter from the server and waited to pour. Along with coffee and juice, the breakfast cart was laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants and a collection of gourmet jams and jellies. For herself, she preferred only fruit and yogurt to start the day, but her husband liked a hearty meal. After a moment, he grunted a response and she refilled his cup.
He held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while he scanned the pages of the Sunday edition of the Houston Chronicle with the other. Open and within easy reach was his trusty Blackberry, on which he received and sent e-mail, retrieved information, accessed his address book, noted the weather and even picked up breaking news. Since sitting down to breakfast twenty minutes ago, he’d been focused on the Blackberry or talking on his cell phone. She’d once tried to declare mealtime a no-business zone, but she’d been instantly overruled. Only if they had guests did she expect conversation with a meal. When they were alone, Morton was too busy talking business to talk to her.
Actually, it was rare that they breakfasted together. When she came downstairs in the mornings, more often than not, he was already out of the house, headed downtown to the offices of CentrexO. As its CEO, he was never separated from the company, not even when he was in Galveston, where his boat was docked. She hated going out on the boat, or rather, his yacht, as he constantly reminded her. The luxurious Bertram was equipped with every convenience to live aboard for days—even weeks—at a time. But she tended to get seasick, and nothing was worse than being miles offshore with her head spinning and her stomach revolting. At those times, Morton was utterly unsympathetic. He, of course, was never seasick.
They owned a condominium overlooking the Gulf and she could spend a weekend there if she wanted, but she seldom did so. It was a seventh-floor corner unit with a great view, but when she was there, she felt lonely and isolated. There was no magic in watching a stunning sunrise or sunset alone.
She finished her breakfast, listening with half an ear to Morton’s conversation with a business associate. Maria, the housekeeper, appeared to clear the table, and when that was done, Lillian turned her attention to the stack of mail she hadn’t gotten around to opening yesterday. She didn’t hear Morton addressing her directly until he barked her name for the third time.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Morton. What did you say?”
“That was John Frazier in Washington,” he told her testily as he entered something in his Blackberry. It irritated him when he didn’t have her full attention. “He’s at the airport on his way back to Houston.”
“John Frazier.” She repeated the vaguely familiar name but couldn’t place him.
“You met him at the fund-raiser last month,” he reminded her.
She thought a minute, then remembered Frazier as a tall, thin man with a practiced smile. “He manages one of those PACs, doesn’t he?” It would be impossible to guess which one, as Morton was a heavy contributor to several political action funds.
“Yeah. And listen to this. He just left a breakfast meeting with some VIPs who have the ear of the president.” He finished entering data and looked up at her as he shut down the Blackberry. “According to John, I’m definitely on the short list for an ambassadorship. I was reasonably certain it would happen, but these things can slip away with the slightest turn of the political tide.”
“Ambassadorship?” she repeated, starring at him in stunned surprise.
“Is it so astonishing? I’ve contributed a goddamn fortune to those jackals in Washington. It’s the least they can do.”
“You mean we’d leave Houston?” And everything and everyone she held dear?
“I can hardly serve as an ambassador from my office downtown.” He was gleeful as he picked up the newspaper again. “I’ve got a short list of posts I’d prefer. How does Costa Rica sound?”
“Hot and humid,” she murmured.
“So? Houston is hot and humid, too.” And with that, Morton dismissed her reaction. “Think of it this way. You won’t have the bother of shopping for new clothes. You already have the right wardrobe.” He snapped the newspaper open before adding, “It won’t necessarily be Costa Rica. I just mentioned that country as a possibility. I could be placed in any of half a dozen other locations.”
“What about the company?” He couldn’t be serious. Nothing took Morton away from CentrexO for any length of time.
“Not a problem. I’ve been grooming Alex Winfield to take over, just in case. The experience will open other doors for me, as well, Lillian. There could be something in Washington. There would definitely be something in Washington,” he added, idly paging through the paper. “I’d make some valuable contacts, and after getting back to the States with the ambassadorship under my belt, I’d be able to write my own ticket.”
Lillian put a hand to her throat. He was serious, and it sounded as if the decision was final. She was to have no say in it.
Still heedless of her reaction, he said, “I admit I didn’t expect to hear so soon, but it’s good to know that, for all practical purposes, the deal is done.”
“I knew nothing about this, Morton,” she said, dismayed. “I don’t want to leave Houston.”
He lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over it. “Why, for God’s sake? There’s nothing you’re involved in here that you can’t find elsewhere. If we wind up in Washington, there are museums and charity causes to fill up your time, plenty of hospitals where you can volunteer.” He disappeared again behind the paper, adding, “As for the other, after a few weeks in a new country as wife of the American ambassador, you’ll adjust. Give it a chance before going negative. You might even enjoy yourself.”
She gazed down at her spoon. Not if it meant leaving Houston and her work in the arts. As the wife of a powerful and visible CEO, she was in a unique position to assist the arts community. But even without her commitment to the arts, there was Hunter. As she thought of her son, her gaze strayed to the window and the center of the immaculate lawn, where a cherub poured water from a jug into a tiny pond. It was painful to remember how close they’d once been. He tolerated a rare lunch date with her now only out of a sense of duty. She sighed, able to pinpoint the moment when their relationship had begun to deteriorate. But then, so much of the downward spiral of her life was marked by that moment. She set her spoon and yogurt aside, untouched. Between the demands of Hunter’s business and his preference for spending his free time at the ranch, she rarely saw him. If she went out of the country for any protracted length of time, she could lose touch with him altogether. As for Jocelyn, she had so little contact with her daughter that it probably wouldn’t matter if they were posted to China.
For a long moment, she watched the sparrows fluttering in the water. She was drawn to the ranch herself, but it was awkward explaining to Morton why she wanted to spend time there. He found the place dusty and hot. Totally urbanized, he didn’t ride and was repulsed by the dust, the torturous Texas heat and the smell of horses. So, they didn’t go.
With another sigh, she chose another envelope from the stack of mail and slit it open. Perhaps she’d survive a brief tour in a foreign country if she could look forward to returning to Houston and the life she’d built for herself, but if Morton had his eye on something in Washington, it was unlikely they would ever live in Texas again. She didn’t think she could bear that.
“Anything in there from Jocelyn?”
She quickly scanned the rest of the envelopes but saw nothing. No surprise there. Jocelyn wasn’t much of a correspondent. The best she could manage was a phone call to her parents once a month. “I don’t see anything,” Lillian said. “The last time we talked, she was so excited about this new job. That’s probably why we haven’t heard from her. She’s very determined to make a career for herself, Morton.”
“By reporting for some sleazy tabloid in Key West?” He folded and set aside a section of the newspaper before picking up another. “I don’t think so. Not unless we see a big change. She doesn’t stick with anything any longer than she sticks to her husbands. Twenty-five years old and two divorces, for God’s sake.”
“One divorce and one annulment. And good reasons for both,” Lillian argued. “The first was a silly, rebellious prank, and that awful Leo person was addicted to cocaine. Would you have wanted her to stay with either one of them?”
“No, but I also didn’t want her marrying either of those bozos…not that she consulted me. She’s spoiled rotten, Lillian. And it’s unlikely to change as long as you keep stepping in when she screws up. What she needs to do is grow up.”
They’d had this discussion before. Jocelyn did have a string of broken relationships behind her. In an act of open rebellion, she’d eloped on the night of her eighteenth birthday with the golf pro at the country club. Morton had been livid but had managed to avoid a major scandal by paying off the bridegroom and arranging an annulment. To the dismay of her parents, however, that first debacle established a pattern and it had been one disaster after another since, including a hasty marriage to a druggie. She seemed addicted to destructive behavior, and after so many years, Lillian wondered if her daughter would ever settle down and be happy.
“I can’t just ignore her when she needs me, Morton.”
“Give her a chance to feel the consequences of her screwups and she’ll soon straighten out,” Morton said grimly. “If she’d consulted me when the time was right, she would be set up fine and dandy on a decent career path at CentrexO, and not down in Key West consorting with who the hell knows what kind of riffraff.” He snapped out another section and scanned it through his bifocals. “But what’s the use closing the barn door after the horse is out. I’m more concerned about the present. I want you to call her and get it through her head that she’d better be on her best behavior for the next few months. I don’t want her mixed up in a scandal that would cause the president to kill my appointment.”
He was right, of course, not that she’d admit it to Morton. Their daughter was spoiled, indulged to a fault and constantly setting herself up for failure. And, unfortunately, the time was long past when she would consider consulting them about anything in her life. Morton might rant on and on about Jocelyn’s tendency to make mistake after mistake, but the blame wasn’t hers, it was theirs.
She looked up when Morton made a choking sound, sputtering into his coffee. “Did you see this?” He shoved a section of the newspaper across the table. “They do a feature article on those hokey shops in the Village and they choose hers to put front and center? This just proves my theory that they’re desperate to find anything newsworthy today.”
Lillian set an invitation to a charity function aside, then looked at the article, bracing for what she would see and the quick, sharp stab of conscience she would surely feel. Artist Erica Stewart had been photographed in her shop, intent on arranging the display in the front window. Her face was in profile, but Lillian needed no reminder to know exactly what Erica looked like. She recalled everything about her with cruel clarity, her storm-gray eyes and dark, curly hair that stubbornly refused to be tamed. Her face, with its strong features, was not quite beautiful; still, it was an arresting face, young and vibrant. As always, Lillian was unable to bear looking. She glanced quickly away and said without any emotion in her voice, “I wouldn’t call her shop hokey.”
“That whole damn neighborhood is hokey.” He made a grumpy sound. “She’s probably sleeping with somebody with clout at the newspaper to get this kind of play in the Sunday edition.”
“Actually, I think she’s quite reclusive.” The moment the words were out, she wished she’d kept quiet. This was a subject that, by tacit agreement, both avoided.
He looked up with a sharp frown. “How do you know that?”
She sighed. “I hear things, Morton. I attend an art class. I sponsor young artists. They talk.”
He held her gaze for another long moment, then disappeared once more behind the newspaper, this time with the sports section. “If she’s all that solitary, her success strikes me as even more unlikely. It takes capital to set up a business and make a go of it. I bet if we knew more about her we’d find she has a sugar daddy somewhere. Artists do that kind of thing.”
But Lillian did know about her. She knew everything there was to know about Erica Stewart, but she’d never tell Morton that. She could not remember a time when Erica hadn’t been a presence in her life even though they’d never met. It had been out of desperation that she’d found ways to be helpful to Erica without her ever knowing it. And, in doing so, had helped ease the pain of her conscience. But it had taken years. This feature article in the Chronicle was just one of several times when Lillian had been in a position to boost Erica’s career and she’d acted to do just that. Of course, it helped that the young woman was a wonderfully creative artist. And when she’d opened the shop in the Village with her friend Jason Rowland, between the two of them—Erica’s talent and Jason’s gift for sales and promotion—they’d really needed no help from anyone. Getting the article on Erica was one of those moments when Lillian had been in a position to help. She’d learned from a contact at the paper that a feature article about the Village was in the works, and she’d suggested Erica and her shop as a good example of the kind of thing that was proving so successful in the Village. Simple, really.
“She has a business partner,” Lillian said, continuing the conversation and giving in to some perverse urge that pushed her on when the prudent thing would have been to drop the matter before Morton lost his temper.
He lowered the paper to look at her. “Don’t tell me, the partner’s silent and well heeled.”
“I don’t know how silent he is or what his financial situation might be.” An outright lie, but with the bit in her teeth, she seemed bent on a headlong dash to the finish. But something—Morton’s arrogant announcement to pull up stakes and leave—drove her on. “It’s Jason Rowland,” she said.
Morton put the newspaper down slowly. “Jason Rowland? Not Bob Rowland’s son?” Now it was his turn to gaze out the window with a puzzled expression. “The one who’s an artist, right?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Yes.”
He was busy mulling it over and missed the irony in her voice. “Well, I was right about one thing. He’s probably the one bankrolling the shop in the Village, but I guess that shoots my theory about her sleeping her way to success.”
Lillian sighed. “Please, Morton.”
“At least, not with Jason,” he said, smirking. “The boy’s gay, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lillian said stiffly. “And he’s hardly a boy. He’s almost as old as Hunter.”
“Well, he is gay. Everybody knows it. Not that Bob’s ever mentioned it. And I see him at the club frequently. As a matter of fact, we played golf last week. Naturally, he doesn’t mention Jason much, but—”
Lillian rose abruptly. “I need to talk to Maria about lunch,” she said. Not waiting to hear him out, she left the room.
Two
To Hunter McCabe, a week when he didn’t make it to his ranch was a week that sucked. For the past seven days, he’d divided his time driving on Houston’s clogged freeways between two construction projects forty minutes apart where everything that could go wrong had. He needed to breathe something besides exhaust fumes and city smog. So it was barely daylight when he left the parking garage at his high-rise condominium and headed west out of the city. Making good time, he’d be at the ranch just as Theresa was dishing up breakfast.
It was a few minutes past seven when he finally turned off a state road onto the ranch—two hundred and eighty acres of prime Texas land. As he drove beneath an iron arch with McCabe-Colson forged in large letters, his mood improved. The ranch was a legacy from his father and one that Hunter cherished. Bart McCabe had purchased it thirty-five years ago with his business partner, Hank Colson. According to Hank, they’d bought it mostly as a tax write-off, but with hopes of raising cattle on a large scale in the future. But those plans had died when Bart went down in the crash of a small plane, leaving Hunter fatherless at age two and his mother a widow. Driving past grassy pasture now, he blessed the impulse that had moved Hank and his dad to purchase the land, whatever their motivation.
Once out of the car, Hunter breathed deeply, taking in the smells of the ranch—fresh-cut grass, wood smoke and horses. In the south pasture, a young mare stood cropping winter rye while her foal nursed vigorously. A prize Appaloosa in the pasture opposite spotted Hunter and whinnied, but he resisted the temptation to head that way. There were a couple of things that needed tending before he could escape to the stables. A weather front had brought rain yesterday and the cold, crisp day was perfect for what he had in mind.
He braced for the wild welcome from the chocolate Lab who rushed toward him, barking joyously. Charlie was aging, but somehow in greeting Hunter, who’d raised him from a puppy, he seemed to forget his aching joints. Laughing, Hunter dodged the dog’s tongue and enthusiasm, and only after he’d given him a good rub did Charlie fall in beside him, tongue lolling happily. He was up the steps onto the porch in two strides, pausing to stamp the dampness from his boots on the welcome mat at the front door before going inside.
The man who met him before he cleared the threshold might have stepped right out of a Remington sculpture. “Thought I heard you drive up,” Hank said, handing over a steaming mug of coffee. “If you’d headed to the barn first, I was coming after you and I wouldn’t be offering coffee.”
“I missed you, too.” Hunter took the coffee, knowing it would be hot and strong, and inhaled deeply.
Tall and whipcord lean, Hank was on the downhill side of sixty but still as fit as a man in his forties. He had a face made of sharp angles and shadowy planes and a generous mustache as gray now as his eyes. And in spite of the fact that he always wore a hat, his skin was still richly tanned and weathered.
Hunter tossed his hat at the rack by the door, ringing it squarely. “Before you light into me, hear me out. I plan to look over that lease agreement you’ve been nagging about right away. Not that I need to. If you’re satisfied, I’ll sign it and we’ll be done with it.”
“This is a partnership, Hunt. I’m not signing anything that ties us to a contract for five years without you blessing it.”
Hunter tasted the coffee with caution. “I know as much about growing pecans as you do about building a high-rise,” he said, wincing over his blistered tongue.
“It’s not about growing pecans. It’s about your land and—”
“Our land, Hank. We’re equal partners here. You keep forgetting that I was only ten years old when you had the idea to plant a thousand trees on ground that was growing nothing but grass and scrub. Left to me, it would still be grass and shrub, as long as there was pasture for the horses. So, if you say you want to lease more acreage to plant more pecan trees, why would I argue?”
“We’re lucky the land butts up to ours and that Billings is willing to lease it out,” Hank said. He watched Hunter give the collection of mail on the table a quick glance, then lose interest before adding, “I’m thinking if we offered enough, he’d probably let us buy it. ’Course, he’d want an arm and a leg per acre. His wife’s the one holding out for leasing.”
Hunter leaned against the table, smiling. “Thinking you can afford to pay an arm and a leg?”
“Thinking we both can,” Hank said.
Hunter studied the older man, knowing that if and when a deal was done, it would be to the advantage of McCabe and Colson no matter how grasping Billings’s wife was. Hank had keen business instincts. He and Bart McCabe, who’d been a pilot, had started up an air-cargo business back in the sixties and it was thriving at the time of Bart’s death. When Lillian remarried, Hank bought out her share and continued to run it with truly phenomenal success until about eight years ago. Then he’d surprised everyone by announcing his retirement. That was the year his daughter, Kelly, was accepted into the veterinary program at Texas A&M. Hank set her up in an apartment in College Station and moved into the ranch house after enlarging it enough so that Hunter wouldn’t feel crowded when he dropped in. It was after his retirement that he’d developed a keen interest in the lucrative crop, and it was not long afterward that he’d decided to get into growing pecans in a big way. In five years, he had more than a thousand trees in varying degrees of maturity and varieties. He’d taken to the role of planter enthusiastically and was now highly regarded in that field.
“Just let me know what you decide,” Hunter said, and pushed away from the table. “Now, can we have breakfast? I’m starved.”
He could smell bacon frying. Theresa, the ranch’s longtime housekeeper and cook—and surrogate mother to Hunter—would have a mouthwatering spread waiting. Heading for the kitchen, he glanced around the place with a sense of homecoming. It was clearly a masculine abode decorated with a strong Western influence. The man-size furniture was upholstered in leather, the end tables were wrought iron and wood, the chandelier was made of a wagon wheel and deer antlers, and over all lay the smell of cigar smoke and lemon wax. The place was orderly and spotless, no thanks to Hank or Hunter. Theresa ran a tight ship.
She was stirring something on the stove when they entered the kitchen, but she paused to hug Hunter. “It’s about time,” she said, inspecting his face with the familiarity of one who’d changed his diapers. She was a tiny woman with hair as black now as it had been when Hunter was three. Her bones felt as frail as a bird’s, but he knew she was as tough as a pine knot. Theresa was always up and about at daylight, and if she ever sat down during the day, no one ever saw it.
He swung her off her feet and kissed her soundly before setting her down to inspect what she was cooking. “Whatever it is, bring it on. I’ve been saving up for this.”
“Sausage gravy for your biscuits,” she told him, giving him a shove toward the table. “Scrambled eggs and bacon are on the table. Sit down and get started. Hank, leave him alone until he’s done with his breakfast. You know he’s not about to dispute your plans, so give him a minute to eat in peace.”
“He can listen while I fill him in on the details.” Hank reached for a folder and opened it before Hunter took a seat.
“Do me a favor,” Hunter said, heaping his plate. “Skip the details. Just hit the high points.”
With a sigh, Hank closed the file and picked up his coffee. He watched Hunter tackle the food, then gave him the bottom line. After stating the costs, he added, “I’m considering some new hybrids recently developed at A&M. I figure I can plant at least five hundred trees on the land.”
Hunter paused, buttering a biscuit. “Are you sure you want to take on the responsibility? You know I can’t get up here except on weekends, plus you’re supposed to be retired. Adding five hundred trees to what you’ve already got isn’t my idea of retirement.”
“You let me worry about that. Best thing about growing pecans,” he said, taking a sip of coffee, “it’s not labor intensive like, say cotton or corn, crops like that. ’Course, we won’t get any return on these trees for years yet, but when they do come in, they’ll be cash in the pockets of your kids…if you ever have any.”
Tucking into his breakfast, Hunter chewed slowly. He knew Hank believed it was time he settled down with a wife. And here lately Hunter had found himself thinking the same thing. If he’d been asked when he was in his mid-twenties whether or not in ten years he’d still be unmarried, he would have dismissed the possibility out of hand. Of course he’d eventually marry and have kids. Most of his friends had done exactly that. One by one, he’d watched them find the “right” woman and head happily for the altar. It hadn’t happened for Hunter. He’d had relationships—even some lasting a few years. He’d just never felt compelled to marry. He now figured he wouldn’t ever experience the crash-and-burn-type passion like his friends had, and was resigned to settling for something else. There was a lot to be said for being with a woman who shared the same goals.
“And speaking of family,” Hank went on after failing to get a response from Hunter, “you didn’t forget Lily’s birthday, did you?”
Hunter’s knife and fork clinked against his plate. “Damn, I guess I did.” Frowning, he glanced at the date on his watch face. “Today’s the third. I’ve got a couple of days. It’s the sixth, isn’t it?”
“You should know your mother’s birthday, Hunt. Yeah, it’s the sixth. And I had a feeling you’d forget.”
Theresa reached to remove an empty platter from the table. “Maybe if you weren’t so ready to remind him,” she said, “he’d get in the habit of remembering on his own.”
“And maybe he wouldn’t,” Hank said.
“I guess we’ll never know.” Ignoring Hank’s grumpy look, she spoke to Hunter. “I told him you had a calendar at work. You’d eventually see it and go out and buy her something nice. It might be a day or two late, but it would happen.”
Hunter nursed the last of his coffee and wisely said nothing. Taking sides between Hank and Theresa would be inviting trouble. The truth was that Hank had nailed it, saying he’d probably forget if he wasn’t reminded. Theresa was right, too, saying sooner or later he’d realize it and get his mother a gift.
Hank stood up. “Bottom line, you haven’t done it yet. You’ll be at work tomorrow morning up to your ass in alligators and last thing on your mind’ll be shopping for Lily’s birthday. Lucky for you, half the job’s done. Wait here.”
Clueless, Hunter looked at Theresa as Hank left the kitchen, but she only shrugged with a who-knows expression. Both knew what it was that drove Hank to remind him of his mother’s birthday, and it wasn’t to prevent Hunter forgetting it. It was Hank’s own partiality for “Lily,” as he called her. It had been plain to Hunter for a long time that Hank had a soft spot for Lillian. Both Hank and Bart McCabe had been married forty years ago when they went into business together. But when Marguerite Colson died of cancer, Hank’s interest in Lillian grew beyond friendship. She’d remarried by then, but as a boy, Hunter had often pretended that Hank, and not Morton Trask, was his stepfather. He definitely felt more of a kinship to Hank than he ever had to Morton.
“Take a look at this.” Hank was back, shoving a section of newspaper at him.
Front and center on the Zest magazine was a photo of a woman doing something in the window of what appeared to be one of those trendy little shops in the Village. Hunter’s interest in the newspaper was usually confined to the sports section first and the front page next. Zest covered arts and theater stuff and he often skipped it. It was always the first thing his mother pulled out of the Chronicle’s Sunday edition. He glanced up at Hank. “Give me a hint. How is this related to Mom’s birthday?”
“I’ve heard Lily mention this artist, Erica Stewart,” Hank said, paging through to find the article. “She designs quilts and stuff and she’s good. I bet Lily would appreciate something from her shop. You’ve been traveling between those two jobs day in and day out. Not twenty minutes out of your way to detour over to the Village and choose something.”
Theresa had risen to stand at Hunter’s elbow and study the article. “Hmm, anything in that shop’ll be pricey, count on it.”
“He can afford to spend some money on his mother,” Hank said testily.
“I’m not arguing that,” Theresa said, then pointed to an item in the window. “You want my opinion, go for one of the jackets. The quilts are probably gorgeous, but not exactly Lillian’s style. Now, if those jackets are as elegant as they appear in this picture, I think she’d be thrilled to get one.”
