Texas Sunrise

by Fern Michaels

  “Your card, sir,” the security guard said quietly. Rand whipped out the plastic card Cary had given to all the family members attached to Riley’s visor in the pickup. He waited while the card slid through a coding machine. The guard handed back the card and said, “The elevators to the penthouses are to the right of the B section, sixteen through thirty-two are to the left of the A section. The stairs are next to the C section.” Rand grunted as he strode off in the direction of the A section.

  He stepped out of the elevator on the thirty-sixth floor and walked slowly up the hall until he came to 36A. He pressed the doorbell. He listened to the soft chiming on the other side of the door. He thought it was a tune, but couldn’t be sure. He backed up a step when the door opened.

  “You were in the neighborhood and thought you would stop by and say hello,” Valentine Mitchell drawled. “So say hello and leave. We said we weren’t going to see one another again.”

  Rand stiff-armed the door, which was about to close in his face.

  “How did you get in here anyway? We agreed, Rand.”

  “All I want is to talk to you,” Rand said, stepping into the shiny foyer. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such an accumulation of mirrors, glass, and chrome in one place. It seemed as if his and Val’s reflections were everywhere. House of mirrors, he thought.

  Val stepped aside. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.” She made a low, sweeping bow, her face inscrutible. Rand looked at her bare feet. She was wearing jeans and the same Greenpeace sweatshirt she’d worn in Minnesota.

  The plush of the white wall-to-wall carpet seemed to cuddle Rand’s shoes as he made his way past Valentine into the low sunken living room he’d seen from the foyer. He settled himself in a white leather chair. “This is different,” he said as he looked around the huge room. “I like the pictures.” On the wall were oversize hangings that were nothing more than gigantic slashes of brilliant color.

  “They’re my contribution to the decor,” Val said tightly. “Since I live in a black-and-white world twenty hours out of every day, I thought I could use a little color. You didn’t come here to discuss the furnishings in my apartment, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. Maggie knows.”

  Val fired a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring in Rand’s direction. “That surprises me. I didn’t think you were the type to kiss and tell.” She blew another smoke ring, her face impassive.

  “I didn’t tell her. She said she figured it out herself. She left earlier this evening and doesn’t want me to go back to Hawaii. Maggie is not a forgiving person.”

  Two perfect smoke rings sailed upward. “The first rule in life is you never admit to anything,” Val said. “The second rule is, if you fuck up, you deal with it. Usually I charge three hundred fifty dollars an hour for that kind of advice. For you, Lord Nelson, it’s free.”

  “I didn’t admit to anything. Maggie asked me point-blank, and I lied. I want you to back me up. It never happened.”

  “I never look back, Rand, and I never get involved in messes like this.”

  “Come off it, Val. I’m asking you to help me save my marriage. All it takes is one phone call. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

  “I do.” She laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That would be an admission on my part that the alleged incident did in fact take place. No thanks, Rand, I’ll pass on this one.”

  Rand’s eyebrows crawled backward. “You’re refusing to help me?” he asked incredulously.

  Val tapped a fresh cigarette on the glass-topped table, looked at the cigarette in her hand with clinical interest before she hung it in the corner of her mouth and then talked around it. “If the alleged incident were reversed, how quickly would you come to my defense? Let’s see.” She squinted past the smoke spiraling upward. “I’d say your first inclination would be to cover your ass in a variety of ways. You’d have sixteen of the finest, most upstanding citizens you know swear you were in a card game during the time the alleged incident took place. You’d hang me out to dry without blinking. You see, I gave it a lot of thought on the way home from Minnesota. You play, you pay. Now if you don’t mind, I have some briefs I need to look over. I have an early day tomorrow.”

  “Val, please,” Rand said huskily.

  “Rand, that night, I told you it wasn’t a good idea. But we had too much to drink, and we took advantage of each other. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”

  “It happened,” Rand snarled.

  Val threw her hands in the air. “You see, there are two sides to everything. I told you, I never look back.”

  Rand was on his feet, his face full of rage.

  Val only laughed. “By the way,” she said, “yesterday I returned the balance of my retainer from Coleman Enterprises. Certified mail. I also faxed my resignation so there would be no doubt as to the time.”

  “The family will view that as an admission of guilt,” Rand sputtered.

  “I don’t care how your family views it. It’s the way I view it that’s important.”

  “You just dug my grave, Val,” Rand snarled. “I’ll see that you never get another legal case in this state.”

  “Really!”

  “Yes, really.”

  Val crushed her cigarette into the ceramic ashtray. She leaned over the cocktail table and took a fistful of M&M candies from a crystal dish. With cool deliberation she popped them, one by one, into her mouth. “This is just my opinion, Lord Nelson, but I’d say Maggie was well rid of you. You aren’t the nice person I thought you were. Now, if you don’t leave, I’m going to buzz for security. You weren’t announced, so that must mean you came up the service elevator and used someone else’s card.” Her hand was on the phone when Rand slapped it out of her hand.

  “Don’t ever threaten me, Val.”

  Rand’s arm swept the contents of the cocktail table onto the floor before he stormed out of the apartment. The moment the door closed, Val ran to it and shot the dead bolt home. As Val sat down on the sofa, she realized her anger had turned into something else—a deep melancholy. She needed a friend, but she didn’t have one. Not one true friend. God, how had she gotten to this point in her life without making at least one?

  Well, it wasn’t too late. Friends could still be made. She could change her life around if she wanted to.

  She’d lied to Rand about having to work on briefs. The pile of papers on the table represented a proposal of sale of her firm, which was now worth a cool eleven million dollars. The six associates were willing to buy her out if they could get adequate financing. Thirty days and it would be over. Right now, this minute, she knew she could walk out of this apartment with her toothbrush and survive the rest of her life in a style that would be more than comfortable.

  She thought about Brody’s drugstore in Oxmoor, Minnesota. She wouldn’t take a toothbrush. A toothbrush, one of those bright yellow ones in the cellophane wrappers next to the mouthwash, would be her first purchase at Brody’s.

  Fifty-four wasn’t too old to start over. Other people had done it. She could buy a little house like Susan’s, with a garden. She looked down at her acrylic nails and knew they would be the first thing to go. She could get a couple of dogs and a cat and one of those birds that chirped in the morning. She’d go to Dixon’s hardware store and buy a lawn mower, a lawn rake, and a snow-blower. She’d sell the Lamborghini and get a Range Rover. She’d stick the Rolex, the pearls, the diamonds in a safe deposit box and learn to shop at Wal-Mart.

  The move, if she went through with it, would be the biggest challenge of her life.

  She thought about Maggie Nelson. She’d once heard through the Coleman grapevine that Maggie and Rand had a marriage to equal that of Billie and Thad Kingsley. How sad that it was coming to an end. How sad that Rand screwed it up, and with her help. All the way home on the plane she’d thought about her part in it all.

  “But why can’t I get Maggie out of my mind?” she asked herself. Maybe she should cal
l her. Not for Rand, but for Maggie. Maggie was sharp; would she believe her? Not likely. She could tell Maggie the truth. Which would be harder for Maggie to deal with? Or was it better to remain quiet? Rand was right about one thing—the family would view her resignation and departure as an admission of guilt. She had to decide now, this very second, if she cared.

  Val reached for another handful of the colored candies, popping all of them into her mouth. She munched contentedly. She didn’t care.

  Thoughts of Maggie stayed with her as she tidied up the papers on the table. At one time Maggie had been tough as rawhide. Now, though, Val thought, she’s just as vulnerable as the rest of us. How devastated she must be. Val stopped what she was doing, a terrible expression on her face. What if Maggie started to drink?

  Val bolted from the sofa and started to pace, arguing with herself as she waded up and down the long, narrow living room into the dining room, around the table, skirting the four-foot-high pedestal with the bust of Blackstone on it. Up and down she walked, smacking one clenched fist against the other. She stopped once to yank at the Greenpeace sweatshirt riding up around her waist. If only she had a friend to help her, she thought. If only she had someone to listen.

  Then, suddenly, faster than she’d ever moved in her life, she ran through the thick carpet to the door, yanking at the chain and the dead bolt. She pulled the door open, stopping for just a moment before she ran down the hall to 36C. She rang the doorbell and stepped back so the occupant on the other side could see her clearly.

  Elliot Morrow, publisher of the Miranda Sentinel and a client of Val’s firm, opened the door. “Val, is something wrong?” he asked, concerned.

  “No, of course not. I was wondering if you would do me a tremendous favor.”

  “If I can,” the rotund little man said. “Come in.”

  Val stepped into an apartment that was almost identical to hers. “I was wondering if you would loan me Isaac for the night. I . . . I have just decided to get a dog, and I . . . I said I would let the man know first thing in the morning. Since I never had an animal, I would . . . ah, like to ... what I mean is . . .”

  “Sure, Isaac knows you.”

  Elliot whistled. A four-legged whilrwind skittered to a stop at Val’s feet. Val dropped to her knees to scratch the taffy-colored spaniel behind his ears. Wet, adoring eyes begged her to continue.

  “Val, is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” she said quietly.

  “Okay. Wait here.” Elliot returned a minute later with a shopping bag filled to the brim. “This is Isaac’s bed and his blanket. I’ve included two of his toys, his leash, his snacks, his brush and comb, his toothbrush, and his breakfast. Walk him at eleven-thirty and again at six. Drop him off anytime between seven and eight. His sitter comes in at eight-fifteen. Don’t let him on the furniture, and wash his whiskers after he eats. He hates it when his whiskers get stiff. He goes to sleep right after he’s walked for the night. His music box is in there too.”

  “You know, Elliot, you treat this dog better than some people treat their children.”

  “Isaac and I have been together for a long time. So I spoil him, so what? It makes me happy, and I don’t think you could find a happier dog anywhere in this universe. Take care of him,” Elliot said, opening the door. To the spaniel he said, “Go with Val and she’ll give you a treat.” The dog looked backward once, but followed Val obediently, his eyes on the bulging shopping bag.

  Val opened the door to her apartment. The moment it closed behind her, Isaac walked straight into the living room and leaped up onto the white couch. He woofed softly and then began to sniff his surroundings. Val watched as he stretched, trying to reach the candy dish on the cocktail table. He woofed again. “Go ahead, help yourself,” Val said, emptying out the shopping bag. “A man could go to war with less gear,” she muttered.

  The moment the dog’s belongings were stashed, Val sat down on the couch next to him. She waited, uncertain of what to do next. She wanted to pick Isaac up, to hug him, to feel his warm body and the beat of his little heart. She fondled his silky ears, her eyes misting with tears. She held her breath when the fat little dog slowly inched his way closer until his front paws were on her jeans. He wiggled again, then again, until he was in her lap. A sob worked its way up to Val’s throat. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Isaac squirmed and wiggled until he was on his hind legs, his front paws on Val’s shaking shoulders. His silky ears flopped this way and that way as he licked first at one side of her face, then the other.

  Isaac allowed himself to be petted and stroked, hugged and squeezed. The spaniel’s silky head was so wet with her tears, Val had to dry him with a tissue from her pocket. She clung to the animal, baring her soul.

  “I was attracted to Rand. I will never deny that. But I would never have acted on that attraction if he hadn’t made the first move. I have never lied to myself, and I know in my heart that I wouldn’t have. Drunk or sober. So, Isaac, where does that leave me?” Val sobbed to the dog. “This is pretty much a moral call here, my friend.” She rubbed her wet cheeks against the dog’s soft body. Isaac whimpered as he snuggled comfortably in the crook of Val’s arm.

  They slept. Once during the long night, the spaniel crept quietly from Val’s arm to circle the apartment, finally choosing the shiny chrome dining room table leg to relieve himself. He was back in the attorney’s arms a minute later.

  Thirty-six floors below, Rand sat in Riley’s pickup truck. He wished now that he hadn’t come here. This was his problem, not Val’s.

  You play, you pay, Val had said. Rand leaned his head back into the cracked leather seat. It made his back itch. His eyes closed and he took roll call of his life. All things considered, it had been a good life. A few ups and downs. More ups than downs. Scene after scene flashed before his closed eyes. He thought about his favorite stuffed animal, a cat, when he was a child. Sally Dearest he’d called it. He wished he had it now, so he could bury his head in the fuzzy, patched-up animal. Back then it had given him so much comfort. The past. Sally Dearest was history. Everything before this moment was history. Exhausted with his soul searching, Rand dozed. When he woke hours later, he looked at the numerals on his watch. Ten minutes past midnight. Time to go home. Home. That was the laugh of the year.

  Rand turned the key in the ignition and backed out of his parking space. He proceeded up the ramp and out into the clear starry night. He drove aimlessly because, he told himself, when you didn’t have a home, it didn’t matter what you did or where you went. He headed east on 290 with no destination in mind. An hour later he pulled the pickup to the side of the road at a phone booth and used his calling card to call Hawaii. He explained to the operator that the machine would come on and he wanted to leave a message.

  Rand shivered when he heard Maggie’s voice on the answering machine. All about him cars and trucks whizzed by. Where in the hell was all the traffic going at this hour of the morning? He found himself yelling into the phone. “I’m taking the first plane out in the morning. I need to talk to you, Maggie. After I say what I have to say, you can do what you want. But you’re going to hear me out. I love you, Maggie. I’ve never loved anyone but you. I need you to believe me.” He choked, his voice breaking. “I need you, Maggie.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Rand half turned in the narrow booth to lean his forehead against the cool glass. All he had to do now was head back to Sunbridge, drop off the pickup, and head for the airport, where he would catch the first flight to Hawaii.

  He pushed at the bifold door in time to hear a loud whoosh as a Ryder truck roared down the road. He gasped at the strong wind and smell of the truck’s exhaust. God, where was this traffic going? He blinked at the blazing oncoming lights. He brought up his hand to shield his eyes, debating if he had time to get to the truck and close the door before the next vehicle barreled past. He opened the door of the cab, his right hip and leg half on the seat, when he heard the sound of an eighteen-wheeler bearing
down so close he could see the license plates in the oversize side door mirror. He knew the finely printed words on the side mirror by heart: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. He was about to slide the rest of the way onto the seat when the behemoth streaked by at eighty miles an hour, slamming him against the door and ripping it off its hinges with a metallic shriek.

  He was dead before he was tossed in the air like a rag doll, then down into the deep culvert alongside the road, thirty feet from the telephone booth, his hand still on the door handle.

  The driver looked into his rearview mirror, knowing he’d ripped the door off the pickup. “Damn fool deserves to lose his door,” he muttered under his breath.

  Isaac stirred restlessly in Val’s arms. She too stirred with the strange movement. Her eyes popped open to meet those of the spaniel. How warm he was, how soft and cuddly. But she groaned when she realized the dog needed to be walked. “Poor little thing,” she crooned as she struggled from her nest in the pillows.

  “Okay, Isaac, I know my duty. I’ll get my shoes, and we’ll head for the nearest fire plug.” When she returned wearing her sneakers, she was in time to see Isaac lift his leg on the dining room table leg. “Guess that takes care of that,” she whooped, but made no move to clean it up. She squatted down next to the dog, certain he was going to communicate with her in some way. “Don’t you have to do something else? Or do you do that at night?” The dog stared at her unblinkingly. Val stared back. “Okay, how about breakfast? Chicken and noodles. Come on, I’ll put it on fine china, howzat?”

  Val busied herself in the kitchen, dicing chicken thighs and chopped noodles per Elliot’s written instructions. When Isaac’s food was ready, she slid it into the microwave oven for forty-five seconds, then transferred the mess from the plastic bowl onto the Lenox plate and tested the food with her index finger to see if it was warm enough. Satisfied, she looked around for the dog. She called him and then whistled. “Hey, Isaac, breakfast time!” When the dog still didn’t appear, she walked through the dining room and on into the sunken living room. She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. The papers she’d stacked so neatly the night before were haphazardly arranged on the floor where a rather large pile of poop could be seen. Isaac was trying to hide under the glass-topped table, his head between his paws.