Texas Sunrise

by Fern Michaels

  “Yes, damnit,” Maggie said hoarsely. “I wasn’t wrong then, and I’m not wrong now.”

  Maggie withdrew a folding aluminum cylinder from the shoe box and stuck it in the sand. With paint-stained fingers she Scotch-taped each swatch, each sheet of paper, to the pole. The shoe box under one arm, the pole in the other, Maggie made her way back to the garage, where she carefully removed each swatch and paper and hung them on the dental-floss line with bright red plastic clothespins. She crossed her fingers and danced a jig before she poured coffee and lit a cigarette. Tomorrow she’d start to work on the actual dye.

  Her mind whirled, her eyes ricocheting from one end of the dental-floss line to the other. More than anything in the world, she wished she could call her mother and give her a progress report. Did she dare? Maybe it would perk up her spirits. The worst thing that could happen was there would be no answer or Thad would say her mother was resting. She could explain to Thad that she wasn’t calling to whine and fret or . . . chastize her mother for . . . for dying, for God’s sake. She’d been whacked in the face so many times lately, one more time wouldn’t matter if Thad got defensive. Or offensive.

  Maggie looked at the swatches again. Oh God, oh God, they looked . . . they looked just right. She reached for the phone. She was stunned when her mother’s voice came over the wire, all quivery and shaky, but still her mother’s voice. Maggie started to talk, the words rushing from her mouth. Then she was babbling, trying to get everything out at once before her mother said she had to go or Thad came on the line and said “time’s up.”

  “Maggie darling, that sounds wonderful. I love the names you’ve given to the lines. Tell me again, what does Cleopatra Gold look like?” Billie asked in a thin, reedy voice.

  Maggie told her. “Mam, what do you think of a gossamer scarf with either gold or metallic threads? Oversize, of course, or would it be better to bleed the colors? Both? I think I’m going to go back to Texas this week. I’ve got the Pacific Jewels collection, I’m so sure of it. I wish you could see them.”

  “No metallic threads. You have to be careful with metallic thread. You’ve always had a good eye for color, Maggie. I’ll tease myself by imagining them, and when you have them completed, we’ll see how close I come. I’m so glad you called, darling. How are you?”

  “I’m okay, Mam,” Maggie lied. “Vermont must be beautiful now. I can hardly believe it’s the end of April. I love April. Actually, I love all of the months, December is my favorite, though.” She was babbling again. “How’s Thad?”

  “Thad went to town for a haircut, and he said he was going to stop and pick up some cheese. He wants to make a cheese and mushroom omelet for dinner. He’s turned into a rather good cook. Of course, I supervise. I think I hear him now. Call again, Maggie.”

  Maggie stared at the pinging phone in her hand. She felt worse now than before she called. Tears burned her eyes. She rubbed at them, not caring what the cosmetic manufacturers said about thin eye tissue.

  What was she doing? What was she trying to prove and to whom was she trying to prove it? Finding no ready answer to her questions, Maggie flip-flopped her way to the kitchen, where she made herself a baloney, cheese, liverwurst, and raw onion sandwich. She munched as she dragged the Liberty House shopping bags out to the lanai.

  She separated the mail into four categories. Bills, family, refinery business, and Valentine Mitchell. “Obviously,” she muttered, “I am going to have to pay these bills or I won’t have water or electricity.” Her charge accounts were demanding payment in full. Insurance premiums were past the grace period, and she was being given ten days to come up with the premium or risk losing her valuable coverage. She snorted. God, she was hungry. She marched into the kitchen, trampling over the bills she tossed on the floor, for a box of Fig Newtons. She devoured one entire package as she moved on to the family mail. Pictures of baby Billie made her cry. Pictures of Sawyer’s precocious twins made her mouth twitch. She really had to give some thought to whether she should put all the pictures in an album or frame them. It would be something to do on a rainy day.

  Someday.

  Everyone, according to the notes, was well. The Snoopy card from Susan said Cary was doing as well as could be expected, though he was depressed. Cary’s doctor had placed him on a list for a donor transplant. Maggie cringed at the scrawled P.S. at the bottom of the card. “I haven’t heard from Vermont, nor has anyone else to my knowledge. Personally, I don’t give a hoot if I don’t hear anything until after it’s a fact.”

  Maggie balled her hands into fists. “Susan, you are a first-class, unadulterated snot,” she said aloud. “Someone should tie your tits in knots.”

  Maggie tossed Susan’s card and envelope onto the pile of trash.

  Eighteen letters addressed to her from the refinery glared up at her. She had nothing to do with the refinery. Chesney would have inherited Rand’s half, and Cary owned the other half. She pushed them aside. One of these days she would send them on to Chesney in England.

  One of these days.

  Maggie puzzled over the thick stack of legal envelopes from Valentine Mitchell. For someone who no longer represented the family, she had sent much too much mail. Tying up loose ends, she supposed. Well, Val’s loose ends, whatever they were, didn’t have anything to do with her. Maggie ripped at one of the envelopes. She hated the crisp, crackling sound and wondered why all lawyers felt they had to use such stiff paper.

  Rand’s will. She threw it on top of Susan’s card.

  The deed to the house. She puzzled over that for a moment before she tossed it onto the pile of trash. She looked at the rest of the legal letters and decided she didn’t want to know what messages they contained. Unopened, she pitched them in the general direction of Rand’s will and the deed to the house.

  Maggie trotted into the house for a trash bag. She smacked her hands together in satisfaction when she dumped it at the end of the driveway. “Fini, ” she muttered.

  The sun was gone, she noticed as she made her way back to the kitchen. Rain would be good, she decided while making a second sandwich, this time with two slices of Bermuda onion. She carried it with her to the dining room, where she wrote out the household checks. When she came to the insurance bills, she stared at them a moment before she ripped them up. “So bury me in a pine box.”

  Munching on the sandwich, her eyes watering from the onion, she walked out to the mailbox. She moved the red flag to indicate mail was to be picked up.

  Her lights and water were secure.

  The rest was history.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Valentine Mitchell propped her bulging briefcase on top of the newsstand while she rummaged in her purse for money to pay for copies of The Wall Street Journal and Business Week. She counted her change, then tossed in a pack of Life Savers and a package of peanut butter and cheese crackers. Now she could nibble on her way to Los Angeles. She hated making the trip, but it was something she had to do. Make nice, do a little handholding, make promises on behalf of the new owners of her firm, give reassurances that if things didn’t work out with the new partners, she would step in.

  The last month had been so hectic, she had felt like pulling out her hair on more than one occasion. She’d gone to more parties hosted in her honor than she’d gone to in all the years she’d practiced law. Champagne breakfasts, catered luncheons, cheese and wine parties, cocktail parties, and elaborate dinners, all to honor her contribution to the legal profession.

  It was all winding down now. Another day and she would be as free as the proverbial breeze. It hadn’t been as easy as she anticipated, because no one was willing to put up the eleven million for the associates to buy her out. Even when she opened her books, the answer had been the same—no. She’d hated to do it, but she cut a deal with Riley and Cole. “You finance the associates’ buyout, and I do the deal for Cary’s inner city with ColeShad,” was the way she’d presented it on a three-way conference call. They’d haggled, but she’d pulled it off
and everyone got what they wanted.

  Time to check in. She still had twenty minutes before boarding. She headed for the door marked LADIES. While she was washing her hands, she saw her. Maggie eyed her Scaasi suit. She eyed Maggie’s Carolyn Roehm raspberry confection. Both women’s eyes turned wary.

  “Val,” Maggie said quietly, by way of greeting, as she reached for a paper towel.

  “Maggie,” Val said, pushing the button of the hot air blower. She carried her greeting a step further. “I heard you were in town. Why haven’t you answered any of my letters?” She asked a second question on top of the first. “Are you going to Los Angeles?”

  Maggie adjusted the waistband of her skirt. She played with the collar of the silk blouse beneath the jacket. “Yes, I’m going to L.A. and on to Hawaii. You?”

  “L.A. You didn’t answer my first question,” Val said, blotting her lipstick.

  “I know.” Maggie turned to walk away.

  “We’ll talk on the plane. I’m assuming you’re taking the same flight I am.”

  “I have work to do,” Maggie called over her shoulder.

  “So do I. They serve subpoenas in Hawaii, you know. You can be forced back here. On the other hand, it will be relatively painless if we conduct business on the plane. Forty-five minutes and we’re done.”

  “You can’t force me to come back,” Maggie said irritably. “Not for something so stupid as a will.”

  “Maybe I can’t, but the IRS can. Inheritance tax and all that good stuff is a come-on for the IRS. Think about it. I have a bulkhead seat, so I can spread out. I just have to check in. Midsection,” Val said, walking off.

  Rand had been paranoid about the IRS. So was she. Never mess with them, Rand always told her. “Okay,” Maggie said. People turned to look at her, but Val didn’t turn around.

  Maggie walked toward the gate where boarding was in progress.

  When the pilot announced they were cruising at thirty thousand feet, Maggie unbuckled her seat belt and walked forward to the bulkhead seat where Val was sitting, her briefcase open in her lap. Maggie took the seat next to her.

  “Plane’s almost empty,” Val said.

  “I guess people don’t like early morning flights. I prefer them myself,” Maggie said.

  “I do too. I hate to waste time. I’m taking the red-eye back tonight.”

  “That’s a long day,” Maggie said indifferently.

  “If you’d read the mail I sent you, you’d know I’m trying to wind down all your family’s business before I leave. I sold the firm to my associates. It’s definite now. All I have to do is sign on the dotted line. Retirement sounds ominous now. It didn’t when I made the decision.”

  “Why are you doing it, then?” Maggie asked coolly.

  “I’m fifty-four. I’ve never had a life outside law. It’s time. I’ll find a house somewhere in a small town, grow some flowers, get a cat, go to pot-luck suppers, join the Grange, and learn to knit and cook. Not necessarily in that order.”

  “It sounds deadly.” Maggie grimaced.

  “Doesn’t it, though? I might do some pro bono work. I’ll decide that as I go along.”

  “You’re a good lawyer, Val. It will be a shame to let all that go. Pro bono is good, but I rather thought you liked to sink your teeth into really big cases and walk off a winner.”

  “Are we communicating here?” Val smiled.

  “We could really communicate if you’d tell me the truth,” Maggie said coldly.

  “I did tell you the truth.” Their eyes met. Val was stunned to see the nothingness in Maggie’s gaze. She was more certain than ever that she’d done the right thing by lying to the woman sitting next to her.

  “Why don’t I just sign a power of attorney for you in regard to Rand’s estate? That will make it easy, won’t it?”

  “Easier than it’s been. Thad and Billie were executors. They both signed over a power of attorney. Judge Freize okayed it. I did all the preliminary work, but I’ll turn it all over to the firm. They’ll be in touch with you. Can you deal with that, Maggie?”

  Maggie nodded. She pulled up the arm tray and straightened it out, then signed her name on the form Val handed her without bothering to read what it said. After she had handed over the paper, she got up. “Good-bye, Val. I hope you enjoy your retirement.”

  “Maggie, wait. What are you going to do?”

  She sounds, Maggie thought, as if she cares. “Take it one day at a time. I’m working on Billie Limited. I manage to use up my time. And I still don’t believe you,” she said with a catch in her voice.

  “I know you don’t. I’m sorry about that,” Val said earnestly.

  Maggie walked back to her seat. The seats next to hers were empty. She tucked the gored raspberry skirt tightly around her legs. She was asleep in minutes.

  In the bulkhead section, Val replaced the tray table Maggie had been writing on. She moved the armrest and slid across to stare out the window at the carpet of marshmallow clouds below the plane. They look like warm fuzzies, she thought, something you could hug to yourself to garner comfort. All their lives the Colemans had warm fuzzies to comfort them. All she’d had was textbooks, a law library, briefs, trials, appeals, and lots of money in the bank. Not a warm fuzzy in the bunch. But it was by my own choice, Val thought.

  What was going to happen to Maggie? What would happen to the Colemans when Billie was gone? Riley, Cole, and Sawyer would be all right. They had families, children, spouses. And they had all that money. Susan was as wired as a tomcat on diet pills. A wild card. There was no telling what Susan would do. Cary, according to their last conversation, was going to take it one day at a time, the way Maggie said she was doing. She’d felt sad when Cary said the memorial to Amelia was in a holding pattern. There would be no completion date and no ceremony in July the way he’d planned. Thad would crawl into a shell, and if she was any judge of love and devotion, he’d be gone inside of a year. Childishly, Val crossed her fingers and wished the best for Thad.

  Val rummaged in her briefcase for the peanut butter and cheese crackers. She noticed her hands trembling when she ripped at the cellophane wrapper. Ivy. Steady on her feet Ivy. Rock solid Ivy. She understood perfectly why Billie had entrusted her living will to the young woman. She cringed, remembering how sick Billie looked on the video and how hard she’d tried to cover up her emaciated appearance. Hot tears pricked at Val’s eyelids.

  Now all the Colemans would have to stare at their own mortality. When Billie was gone, there would be no more buffer shielding them from the inevitable.

  Below, the carpet of marshmallows parted, then moved together to form a giant cotton ball. Her eyelids pricked again.

  Not for all the money in the world would she want to walk in Ivy Coleman’s shoes. She wished now she hadn’t given Ivy the advice she had, which was in direct opposition to Billie’s wishes. She was clearheaded, impartial, and could see down the road to what was going to happen, which was why she’d told Ivy to tell Riley now. She’d also insisted Ivy turn the tape over to her for safekeeping. To her knowledge, Ivy hadn’t followed her advice, for if she had, Riley would have demanded to see the tape.

  Val finished the crackers, wished for more. She looked up to see the stewardess handing out salted peanuts. “Two,” Val said. “And a glass of tomato juice, if you don’t mind.”

  Val ripped at the vacuum-sealed bag. They certainly didn’t give you many peanuts. It was a good thing she’d asked for two bags. If there was one thing she hated, it was to get her taste buds going and then be cut off just as she was starting to enjoy something. She wondered if there was such a thing as cholesterol-free, fat-free peanuts.

  Why did she care what happened to the Colemans? They were clients. You represented your clients, you got paid, and that was supposed to be the end of it. Not so with the Colemans. Somewhere along the way she’d become attached to them, allowed the family to sneak into her heart, where they carved their own little niche, and now she was ... not stuck with them, th
at was unkind. No, it was more like she felt responsible for them. Even though she’d severed her relationship and returned the balance of their retainer, she hadn’t been able to turn them away.

  How was she supposed to walk away, go to Oxmoor and start her new life, with that family standing in the shadows?

  There was really no pending business with the Colemans. Ivy’s problem had been presented on a friend-to-friend basis. Was Ivy going to need an ally, someone in her corner? She supposed she could give Ivy her new address and swear her to secrecy. “This whole thing is just shitful,” Val muttered. She’d broken the first rule of any good lawyer—she’d allowed herself to get involved. She ripped at the roll of tropical fruit Life Savers, separating the ones she didn’t like from the ones she did. Coconut and lemon were wadded into a napkin. The tangerine and melon went into her mouth.

  What was Maggie doing? What was she thinking? What was she feeling?

  Life goes on. Val bit down on the candies in her mouth. She ground them between her teeth. Now what would she eat? “Miss,” she called to the stewardess, her voice fierce, “do you have any more peanuts?”

  Val followed the hordes of people heading for the baggage area, her eyes searching for the Carolyn Roehm suit. She half turned before she stepped onto the moving stair, but she didn’t see what she was looking for. She shrugged. She and Maggie Nelson would never be friends, so why was she persisting in worrying about her? Because, she answered herself, Maggie looked so fragile, so vulnerable. What she should be doing, Val told herself, was thinking about her upcoming meeting and the whopping bill she was going to present for services rendered.

  Time permitting, she might take a stroll down Rodeo Drive to pick up gifts for the office staff. She’d meant to do it earlier, but she hadn’t gotten around to it.