Smooth Talking Stranger

by Lisa Kleypas

  “After all the years you spent running around in Austin,” my mother said, “you have no right to complain.”

  “I’m not complaining. And I wasn’t running around. I was working and studying and—”

  “It’s drugs, isn’t it? Tara was so innocent. She got pulled into that glamorous lifestyle with all her rich friends . . . all that cocaine dust floating around, she probably inhaled some by accident, and then—”

  “There’s no such thing as secondhand cocaine snorting, Mom.”

  “She was pressured,” my mother snapped. “You have no idea what it’s like to be beautiful, Ella. All the problems it can bring on.”

  “You’re right, I wouldn’t know. But I’m pretty certain Tara wasn’t doing drugs.”

  “Well, your sister just wants attention. You make sure she knows I’m not paying a cent for her to have a three-month getaway. I need a getaway a lot worse than anyone else, let me tell you. All the stress this has caused me—why hasn’t anyone thought about sending me to a spa?”

  “No one’s expecting you to pay for it, Mom.”

  “Who is, then?”

  “I don’t know yet. But the main thing to concentrate on now is helping Tara to get better. And taking care of Luke. He and I are staying in a nice little furnished apartment.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Oh, inside the loop somewhere. Nothing special.” I repressed a grin as I gazed at my luxurious surroundings, knowing if she found out I was living at 1800 Main, she’d be there within the half hour. “The place needs some work. Do you want to help me fix it up? Maybe tomorrow—”

  “I’d like to,” she said hastily, “but I can’t. I’m too busy. You’ll have to do it on your own, Ella.”

  “Okay. Would you like me to stop by with Luke sometime? I’m sure you want some bonding time.”

  “Yes . . . but my boyfriend likes to drop in unexpectedly. I don’t want him to see the baby. I’ll call you when I have a free day.”

  “Good, because I could use some babysitting—”

  She hung up the phone.

  When I called Liza and told her that I was staying in an apartment at 1800 Main, she was impressed and wildly curious. “How did you get a deal like that? Did you sleep with Jack or something?”

  “Of course not,” I said, offended. “You know me better than that.”

  “Well, I think it’s weird, the Travises letting you stay there like that. But I guess they all have so much money, they can afford to make nice gestures. To them, maybe it’s like tithing.”

  THE PERSON WHO HELPED ME THE MOST, NOT ONLY IN an emotional but a practical sense, was Haven Travis. She guided me through the process of having the utilities changed over, told me where to go for things I needed, and even recommended a babysitter her sister-in-law liked.

  Haven made no judgments, nor did she want to interfere in anyone else’s business. She was a good listener, and she had a quick sense of humor. I felt comfortable around her—nearly as comfortable as I did with Stacy—and that was saying something. I reflected that for all the people you lost touch with or couldn’t hold on to, life occasionally made up for it by giving you the right person at the right time.

  We had lunch and shopped for baby supplies one afternoon, and walked together a couple of mornings before the daytime heat accumulated. As we cautiously exchanged the details of our lives, we discovered this was one of those rare friendships in which everything was instantly understood. Although Haven didn’t say much about her failed marriage, she indicated there had been some kind of abuse. I knew what courage it had taken for her to leave the relationship and rebuild her life, and the process of recovering would take a long time. And whoever she had been before, she was now different in significant ways.

  The abusive marriage had distanced Haven from her old friends, some of whom were too uncomfortable to face the issue, and others who wondered what she had done to cause it. And then there had been others who had chosen not to believe her at all, thinking a rich woman couldn’t be abused. As if money was a shield against all manner of violence or ugliness.

  “Someone said behind my back,” Haven told me, “that if I’d been knocked around by my husband, it must have been because I’d wanted it.”

  We were both quiet as the stroller wheels rattled over the pavement. Although Houston was not a walking city by anyone’s definition, there were a few places you could walk comfortably, especially Rice Village, where there were shade trees. We passed eclectic shops and boutiques, restaurants and clubs, salons, and a children’s retail store. The prices made me dizzy. It was unbelievable how much you could spend on children’s fashion.

  Contemplating what Haven had just told me, I wished I could think of some consoling reply. But the only solace I could offer was to reassure her that I believed her. “It scares people to think that they could be hurt or abused for no reason,” I said. “So they’d rather think you caused it somehow, and then they can reassure themselves that they’re safe.”

  Haven nodded. “But I think it must be even worse when it’s done by a parent to a child. Because then the child thinks he or she deserves it, and carries that around forever.”

  “That’s Tara’s problem.”

  She gave me an astute glance. “Not yours?”

  I shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve had a few years to work on it. I think I’ve whittled it down to a manageable size. I’m not nearly as anxious as I used to be. On the other hand . . . I have attachment problems. It’s hard for me to be close to people.”

  “You’ve formed an attachment to Luke,” she pointed out. “And that’s just been a few days, right?”

  I considered that and nodded. “I guess babies are exempt.”

  “What about Dane? . . . You’ve been with him for a long time.”

  “Yes, but lately I’ve realized . . . the relationship works but it isn’t going anywhere. Like a car left running in the driveway.” And I told her about our open relationship, and what Dane had said, that if he’d tried to confine me in any way, I would have left him.

  “Would you have?” Haven asked, opening the door of a coffee shop while I pushed the stroller inside. A life-giving blast of cold air surrounded us.

  “I don’t know,” I said earnestly, my forehead wrinkling. “He may be right. Maybe I can’t handle anything more than that. I could be allergic to commitment.” I parked the stroller beside a tiny table, lifted the accordion-pleated top, and peeked at Luke, who was kicking his legs happily in response to the coolness.

  Still standing, Haven surveyed the chalkboard menu for coffee specials. Her dazzling grin reminded me of her brother. “I don’t know, Ella. It might be some deep-seated psychological issue, or . . . it’s possible you just haven’t found the right guy yet.”

  “There is no right guy for me.” Bending over the baby, I murmured, “Except for you, formula-breath.” I caught a tiny bare foot and kissed it. “There is only you, and my passion for your sweaty little feet.”

  I felt Haven pat my back lightly as she moved around the table. “You know what I think, Ella . . . aside from the fact that I’m going to have an iced mint mochaccino topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings? I think in the right circumstances, you could pull that car out of the driveway any time you want to.”

  * * *

  JACK FEATURED PROMINENTLY IN MANY OF HAVEN’S childhood stories. In the manner of older brothers, he had alternately been the hero and the villain. Most often the villain. But now in adulthood, in a family with complex dynamics, a close bond had formed between them.

  According to Haven, their older brother Gage had always been the focus of their father’s greatest demands, highest praise, and deepest ambitions. The only child of Churchill Travis’s first marriage, Gage had worked hard to please his father, to become the perfect son. He had been serious, driven, hyper-responsible, distinguishing himself at an elite boarding school, later graduating from UT and Harvard Business School. But Gage was not nearly the hard-ass their
father had been. He had an innate kindness, an allowance for human frailty, that Churchill Travis found difficult to summon.

  Churchill’s second marriage had lasted until the death of his wife, Ava, and had produced three children: Jack, Joe, and Haven. Since Gage already shouldered the main burden of expectation and responsibility, Jack had the opportunity to play, experiment, run wild, make friends. He had always been the first to jump into a fight and the first to shake hands afterward. He’d played every sport, charmed his teachers into giving him better grades than he deserved, and dated the prettiest girls in school. He was a loyal friend who paid his debts and never broke his word. Nothing made Jack madder than when someone made a deal with him and wouldn’t keep their side of it.

  When Churchill had decided his young sons needed to be reminded what hard labor was, he set them to laying sod in the blistering south Texas sun, or building a hand-cut stone fence along the edge of their property, until their muscles were on fire and a dark tan had saturated their skin several layers down. Of the three boys, only Jack had truly enjoyed the outside labor. Sweat, dirt, physical exertion—had all felt purifying to him. His basic need to test himself against the land, and nature, manifested in a lifelong love of outdoor pursuits: hunting, fishing, anything that took him away from the air-conditioned opulence of River Oaks.

  Haven had been spared these particular life lessons from her father. Instead, she had been subjected to her mother’s notions of how to bring up a girl to be ladylike. Naturally Haven had been a tomboy, forever trailing after her three brothers. Because of the significant age difference between Gage and Haven, he had assumed a vaguely paternal role, intervening on her behalf when he deemed it necessary.

  But Jack had warred with Haven on many occasions, such as when she had gone uninvited into his room or played with his train set without asking. For revenge, he had given her Indian burns, and when she had tattled on him, their daddy had beaten him with his belt until Haven had cried. Schooled in the Texan art of manliness, Jack had prided himself on not shedding one tear. Afterward, Churchill had told his wife Ava that Jack was the most stubborn boy alive. “Too damn much like me,” the father had said, frustrated that he could not motivate the rebellious Jack the way he had with Gage.

  Haven told me she had been miserable when Gage, her champion, had been sent away to school. But contrary to all expectations, Jack had not persecuted her in their brother’s absence. When she came home crying one day because a boy at school was bullying her, Jack had listened to the whole story, and rode off on his bike to take care of the problem. The bully never bothered Haven again. Never came near her, as a matter of fact.

  They had lost touch for a while after Haven married a man her father hadn’t approved of. “I didn’t let anyone know what I was going through,” she said ruefully. “I’m pretty stubborn, too. And I was too proud to let everyone find out what a mistake I’d made. And by then my husband had crushed my self-confidence until I was too afraid and ashamed to ask anyone for help. But eventually I broke away, and Jack offered me a job to help me get back on my feet. We became friends . . . buddies, sort of . . . in a way we never had before.”

  I was curious about the “eventually I broke away” part, knowing something pretty major had happened. But that was a conversation that would take place in its own time.

  “What do you think about his love life?” I couldn’t resist asking. “Will he ever settle down?”

  “Absolutely. Jack likes women—I mean truly likes them, not in some misogynistic notch-on-the-bedpost way. But he’s not going to commit until he finds someone he’s sure he can trust.”

  “Because of the woman who married his best friend?”

  She shot me a wide-eyed glance. “He told you about that?”

  I nodded.

  “Jack hardly ever mentions her. It was a huge deal for him. When a Travis falls for someone, he falls hard. They get really intense. Not everyone is ready for a relationship like that.”

  “Certainly not me,” I said with a stale laugh, while something in me recoiled at the idea. Jack Travis getting all intense was not something I’d ever care to see.

  “I think he’s lonely,” Haven said.

  “But he’s so busy.”

  “I think the busiest people are often the loneliest.”

  I changed the subject at the first opportunity. Talking about Jack made me restless and vaguely irritable, the way I felt when I wanted something I knew was bad for me.

  I TALKED WITH DANE ON THE PHONE EVERY NIGHT, telling him about my new surroundings and about Luke. Although Dane didn’t want to have anything to do with a baby personally, he certainly didn’t mind hearing about Luke and the experience of caring for him.

  “Do you think you’ll ever want one?” I asked Dane, relaxing on the sofa with Luke draped on my chest.

  “I can’t say no definitively. There might be another phase in my life when I might . . . but it’s hard to imagine. The things I’d get out of it, I’m already getting now from my environmental work and the charity groups.”

  “Yes, but what about raising a child who will care about those things, too? That’s a way to make the world a better place.”

  “Come on, Ella. You know that’s not what would happen. Any child of mine would end up being a Republican lobbyist or a chemical company CFO. Life always screws your best intentions.”

  I chuckled, envisioning a toddler—Dane’s toddler—dressed in a miniature three-piece suit and carrying a calculator. “You’re probably right.”

  “Are you thinking about having one someday?”

  “No, God no,” I said at once. “I’m trying to hang on until I can give Luke back to Tara. I’m dying for a good night of sleep. Or an uninterrupted meal. And just once, I’d like to go out without all this paraphernalia. It’s insane. The stroller, the diapers, wipes, burp cloths, binkies, bottles . . . I’ve forgotten what it’s like to just pick up the keys and walk out the door. And there are all these pediatric visits I’ve had to schedule—developmental assessments and screenings and shots—so it’s a good thing I’m not sleeping, because I’ll need the extra time to work.”

  “Maybe the best part is that you’re finding all this out now, so you’ll never have to wonder.”

  “I think it’s like rhubarb,” I said. “You either love it or you hate it. But you can’t ever make yourself acquire a taste for it if you’re not naturally predisposed.”

  “I hate rhubarb,” Dane said.

  BY THE END OF MY FIRST FULL WEEK AT 1800 MAIN, I was still mastering the trick of carrying a bag of groceries and pushing a stroller while getting through doorways. It was early Friday evening. The traffic was so bad that instead of driving anywhere, I had decided to walk a quarter of a mile to an Express grocery and deli, and back. After the short walk in the heat, Luke and I were parboiled. The plastic handles of the grocery bags were slipping in my wet palm and the diaper bag threatened to slide off my shoulder as I maneuvered the stroller into the lobby. And the baby was making fretful noises.

  “You know, Luke,” I said breathlessly, “life’s going to be a lot easier for all of us when you can walk. No, damn it . . . don’t start crying, there’s no way I can pick you up right now. God. Luke, please hush . . .” Swearing and sweating, I pushed the stroller past the concierge desk.

  “Miss Varner, do you need help?” the concierge asked, beginning to rise.

  “No, thanks. Got it. We’re fine.” I lurched past the etched glass doors and reached an elevator just as it opened.

  Two people stepped out, a gorgeous redhead wearing a skimpy white dress and strappy gold sandals . . . and Jack Travis in a lean black suit, a crisp white shirt open at the throat, and sleek black oxfords. In one glance he took in my dilemma. Simultaneously, he reached for the grocery bags and used his foot to keep open the elevator door. His dark brown eyes sparkled. “Hey there, Ella.”

  My breath stuck in my throat. I found myself smiling at him idiotically. “Hi, Jack.”

 
“You heading up? Looks like you could use a hand.”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” I pushed the stroller onto the elevator.

  “We’ll help you get to your apartment.”

  “Oh, no, I can manage—”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you, Sonya?”

  “’Course not.” The woman seemed friendly, and nice, giving me a wide-open smile as she stepped back into the elevator. I couldn’t fault Jack’s taste. Sonya was a stunner, with gleaming perfect skin, vivid red hair, and a magnificent figure. As she bent over to coo at the fussy baby, the combination of her abundant cleavage and beautiful face was enough to make Luke quiet. “Oh, he’s the cutest little thing,” she exclaimed.

  “He’s cranky from being out in the heat.”

  “Look at all that dark hair . . . he must take after his daddy.”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “How have you been?” Jack asked me. “Settling in okay?”

  “We couldn’t be better. Your sister has been great—I don’t know what we would have done without her.”

  “She says the two of you have been getting along.”

  As Sonya listened to the brief conversation, she gave me a quick, wary glance, as if she were assessing what kind of connection I might have with Jack. I saw the exact second that she decided I was no competition. With my face shiny-clean, my hair cut in a plain bob, and my figure obscured by an oversized T-shirt, my fashion look screamed “new mom.”

  The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, and Jack held the door while I pushed the stroller out. “I’ll take the bags,” I said, reaching for the groceries. “Thanks for the help.”

  “We’ll walk you to your door,” Jack insisted, keeping hold of the bags.

  “Have you moved in recently?” Sonya asked me as we proceeded down the hallway.

  “Yes, about a week ago.”

  “You’re so lucky to live here,” she said. “What does your husband do?”

  “I’m not married, actually.”