Tita and Carlos had been pensioned off with a generous monthly allotment and three acres of good Coleman land. Seth never ceased to be amazed at how generous Agnes was with his money. The elderly couple had been replaced with a spiffy buxom girl named Charlotte and her pockmarked brother, Miguel. They wore made-to-order uniforms, which Agnes ordered by the dozen. Trained by her, they were the perfect servants and, the most valuable of their attributes in Agnes’s opinion, they recognized her position in the household and honored it. Sunbridge worked like a well-oiled clock. Things were in hand.
If anything could be said of Agnes Ames, it was that she had aged beautifully, thanks to the finest hairdressers, an expensive wardrobe, a weekly massage, manicure, pedicure, and facial, a careful diet, and exercises done secretly in her bedroom. A quiet little trip back east (“to visit with old friends”) had taken her no nearer Philadelphia than New York City, where a plastic surgeon had removed the fatty pads around her eyes and tightened her jawline. Now nearer sixty than fifty, Agnes had achieved just the life she wanted. She was about to accept her second term as president of the prestigious Canterbury Club and had been sitting on the board of directors of Sunbridge Enterprises for the past six years. Agnes had come into her own and she ruled with a steel scepter. No one, not even Seth, questioned her. Agnes Ames always smiled right before she fell asleep.
Since returning from the Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, Moss’s zest for living had never flagged. Acceding to Seth’s demands, Moss had thrown himself into Sunbirdge activities: ranching, beef, corn, and oil. But always his greatest efforts were reserved for electronics, where his curiosity and firsthand knowledge of airplanes were put to best use. He and his personal team of researchers had patented a number of inventions that were adopted by the aircraft industry, including a high-range radio antenna and a method for pressurizing commercial aircraft cabins. His dream of building the biggest and most efficient aircraft factories would soon become a reality.
Moss worked and he played. He also drank more than was good for him, but he was still handsome and trim. And there were women. Billie was his wife, the mother of his children, and he loved her. But he had faced death many times during the war, then had endured a living death in the Japanese camp, and now he was going to savor and taste everything life had to offer. Life had so much to offer a man like him and he saw no reason whatever to deny himself.
The love of Moss’s life was Riley. His son. His own chance for immortality. Maggie and Susan could never become as important a part of his life as Riley. Daughters were pretty, sweet, and they could flatter and charm their fathers. But a son was a projection of the man himself, both a whisper of the past and a statement for the future. Daughters grew up and married; other men became the focus of their lives. A man’s son was his own forever, as much his own as a broken-in pair of boots or the money he earned.
Somewhere along the way—Moss wasn’t exactly certain when—he had converted his childhood room into an office and shop that was kept strictly for his own private endeavors. He’d installed a couch in place of the single bed and more often than not, he worked long into the night and fell asleep there. It hadn’t been his intention to abandon the bedroom he shared with Billie, but more and more of his clothes were finding their way downstairs and he had less and less occasion to climb the stairs to the room where his wife slept. It hadn’t been planned; it had just happened, and Billie had voiced no objection.
It was to his business, his ambitions, and his friends that Moss was attentive. A week never passed that he didn’t speak to Thad Kingsley on the phone. The bills had been enormous during the progression of Thad’s career in the navy and his travels all over the world. Thad was a buddy, and whenever possible they got together. Now Thad was a rear admiral and commandant of Naval Air Operations, based in Corpus Christi, just a hop-skip-jump in the Sunbridge plane.
Moss confided in Thad, drank with him till the early-morning hours. It was Thad who made certain Moss was bedded down for the night. It was Thad who called Moss’s private number the following day to check on his hangover. It was not unusual for the tall, lanky New Englander in his immaculate uniform to step from his own Piper Cub onto the dusty airstrip that ran two miles south of Sunbridge and come to the house for lunch or an afternoon drink that lasted through dinner. Then Thad and Moss would relive old times, hash over Moss’s deep hatred for the Japanese, make plans for their futures.
Thad liked visiting Sunbridge, he liked seeing Billie, watching her from across the table, hearing the soft lyrical voice that had never really surrenderd the rounded sounds of the northeast to the flat drawl of Texas. He enjoyed Susan’s gentle blondness—so like Billie’s—marveled at Riley’s charismatic charm, and watched Maggie’s brunette beauty bloom like the darkest rose in Billie’s garden.
Often lately, Billie hadn’t been at home when Thad made his impromptu visits. Busy, Moss would say, Billie was always busy. Then, at Thad’s inquiring glance, Moss would clarify. “Billie seems to have picked up where Mam left off. She belongs to all the little women’s groups and she’s active in the PTA, and, of course, there’s Memorial Hospital in Austin. Pap expects it and she complies. Also, she’s developed an interest in painting at this little studio. She’s damn good, too, Thad. You should see the picture she did of Sunbridge for Pap this past Christmas. Pap said she finally did something worthwhile with her dabbling.”
Billie added a delicious dab of perfume behind each ear. It was wickedly expensive and it always made her feel good. This morning she needed it. Perfume was hardly a substitute for her husband, but it would have to do.
She couldn’t help letting her eyes stray to the mound of gifts piled on the chaise longue. Birthday gifts from her family and friends, presented to her the night before at a celebration at the Canterbury Club. Conspicuously absent was a gift from her husband. Unless, of course, you counted the bunch of wilted daisies lying on her dressing table. Charlotte had brought them up before the party and said Mr. Coleman had picked them himself. Picked them himself but couldn’t be bothered to climb the stairs to present them. Angrily, Billie swept them off the glass-topped vanity.
Moss had danced with her once. He had even brought her a drink—the wrong kind. Then he had gone off to the bar to sit with Seth and the other ranchers.
When the party was over, Susan had helped her mother with her coat and Maggie had sneered when she’d seen tears in Billie’s eyes.
“What did you expect, Mother? Did you really think Pap was going to sit here and pay attention to us?”
Yes, that was exactly what she’d thought. It was what she’d wanted. She had lain awake, alone, in the huge bed, waiting. Until dawn. She wanted her husband. She needed to have him beside her, needed to feel his touch and hear him whisper the old words. Even if they no longer held the same passion, she needed to hear them. She could always separate the lies from the truth later. . . .
Why hadn’t he climbed the steps to their room? Her room now. Why hadn’t he wanted her? Couldn’t he see how she ached for him?
Where had it gone wrong? When had his clothes disappeared from the huge double closet? She couldn’t remember exactly. Little by little, until one day only her clothes and shoes were behind the louvered doors. Why hadn’t she seen it coming and done something? Was it too late now? Could marriages be mended the way ranch fences were? Was it worth it to try?
She had her own life now. A busy life, filled with busy things. Her clubs, shopping, the hairdresser, her classes at the studio. Billie sniffed.
Billie knew she was going to be late for breakfast. Lately it seemed she was always late. What did it matter? Moss only had coffee and it was usually on the run or in the backseat of the car. Agnes ate with Seth around sunrise, a habit she had begun on her arrival fourteen years before. Riley, Maggie, and Susan, in exclusive private schools in the city, returned only on weekends to Sunbridge and sometimes not even then.
The table was monstrously long. It was also empty. Billie sat down and pres
sed the little bell at her plate. “Coffee and toast. A three-minute egg,” Billie said as an afterthought. “Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know, madam. Would you like me to call your mother? I’m sure she knows where everyone is.”
“No, Charlotte. And don’t make the egg. I’m not in the mood for an egg.”
“Very well, madam.”
“And another day begins at Sunbridge.” Billie sighed.
“I thought I’d find you here, Mother. I need some money. Fifty dollars.” Maggie stood in the doorway, shoulders straight, back rigid. But her expression was sweet, her blue eyes mild and trusting, her gleaming cap of dark hair smoothed into place. Billie tried to deny the thought that whenever Maggie wanted something she donned the good-and-grateful-daughter pose like a cloak. Gone was the sullen rebellion, the tightness around the soft girlish mouth, the challenge in the eyes. Standing before her was a defenseless child with a need.
“I know it seems like a lot, Mother, but it’s for books and there’s this angora sweater in Kaplan’s—” Maggie’s words halted when Billie’s face closed.
“I don’t want to hear how I spend too much money!” Maggie said suddenly, her voice harsh. “Either say yes or no. I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”
“I’m not in the mood to give you one,” Billie said wearily.
Maggie’s expression became a sneer. “Still smarting over Pap’s ignoring you last night? I’d make him pay for that if I were you. I saw the pitying glances people gave you.” When Billie turned her head, unable to defend herself, Maggie attacked again. “Well, are you going to give it to me or not?”
“You say you need it for books? And a sweater?” Billie knew it was a lie but was reluctant to delve for the truth. She knew she wouldn’t like it. Anything was possible with Maggie, her poor hurting little girl. Her little girl who, more than anyone, missed Moss’s attention. She was so like Amelia. The same hurt was there in Maggie, the same defiant rebellion. Billie forced her voice to express loving attention. “What color is the sweater, dear? Will it go with that new navy skirt I brought home for you last week? Why don’t you sit with me while I have my coffee?”
Maggie knew there was no need to respond to the invitation—nor did she want to. She recognized this tender affection in her mother as surrender. The fifty dollars was as good as in her hand. “Can’t. I’m meeting some of my friends. Well, are you going to give it to me?”
Billie was miffed and her hostility surfaced, but she overcame it. She wasn’t up to an out-and-out fight with Maggie this morning.
Maggie accepted the money and stuffed it into her pocket. “I’m going to Galveston this weekend with Carol and her family. Tell me now if you’re going to make a stink about it.”
“And if I did decide to make a ‘stink,’ as you call it?”
“Then when I leave today I’ll just go over to Carol’s house and won’t come home.”
The challenge was there. Billie felt defeated but her motherly concern prompted her to try reasoning with Maggie. “Maggie, we have to talk. These friends of yours, I don’t—”
“Forget it, Mother. You don’t like anyone except that man you married, but the question is, does Pap like you? I think after last night the answer should be clear to you. You don’t count, Mother. I don’t count. Susan doesn’t count. Only Riley matters. Riley and Grandpap. Go ahead and tell me it isn’t true.”
“Maggie . . .”
“Spare me, Mother. No more lectures. I’m up to here with words that don’t mean a damn thing.”
“Maggie, watch your language. You sound like a ranch hand. Why can’t you—”
“Behave and act like a Coleman? Do you want to know something? I’m sick of the Colemans. I’m just plain sick to death of the whole lot of us. I didn’t ask to be born into this stinking family. I can’t wait till I can leave home and breathe some other kind of air. Air that Colemans don’t own. God! They even own the damn air!”
“That’s stupid,” Billie said harshly. “Maggie, get control of yourself.”
“Sure, everything I say is stupid. When did you ever hear me say anything that wasn’t stupid? I’m no good. I’m ugly. I’m stupid. But I am a Coleman, so that makes me something, doesn’t it, Mother?”
Billie’s mouth opened and then closed, her brows drew together over the bridge of her nose, but her expression didn’t begin to convey the hurt she was feeling for her child. “Maggie, how did all this begin? All I asked was what color sweater you were going to buy.”
“And don’t think I don’t know why you handed over the money so easily. It’s because you’re afraid you’ll have to come down to the police station again because I was caught shoplifting. I told you, that was all a mistake, but I don’t care if you go ahead and tell Pap about it or not. So don’t threaten me, Mother. You won’t tell on me anyway, because you’re like all the other parents—guilty. So don’t ever help me again. See if I care!”
Maggie’s arrow pierced the tender spot of Billie’s confidence in herself as a mother. “Maggie, I mean it. I want that talk. . . .”
“All right, Mother, let’s talk now.” Maggie flopped down on one of the dining room chairs.
Almost fourteen years old and all that brightness wasted . . . so much hatred, so much hostility. Billie recognized that talking with Maggie now would only intensify her anger and would be more destructive than helpful. Would they ever reach an understanding? Why wasn’t her love and attention enough for Maggie? Why was it Moss who should matter so much to the girl? “Not now, Maggie. I said this evening; it will give us time to cool down. We’re both too angry and overwrought.”
“It figures. It’s never now. Always later. Funny thing is, later never comes. Did you ever notice that? Yes, I guess you have. Last night was your later, if you get my drift.”
Billie glanced at her watch and looked at Maggie again, who was watching her knowingly. She could miss her art class today—she was already late—but she didn’t want to miss it, didn’t want to be here with a rebellious daughter who was beyond reason. And she didn’t want to see Moss if he came in for lunch, either. Class was a refuge and she needed to be there. “Tonight, Maggie. Be here,” she said firmly.
“You see, Mother, you didn’t hear a word I said. I’m staying with the Lamberts and going to Galveston for the weekend. We can talk some other night. If you don’t forget.”
“Maggie! I didn’t give you permission. . . .” But what was the use? Without another word, Billie picked up her purse and left the house.
Maggie ran to the window and watched her mother until she was out of sight. Her eyes ran and she didn’t care. Maggie wasn’t allowed at the Lamberts’ house anymore. She’d been deemed unfit company for their precious daughter Carol since the two girls had been caught drunk with an empty six-pack of beer and the dregs of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Maggie would never go to Galveston with them again. Carol was sorry but she was afraid to disobey her parents. And the only reasons the Lamberts hadn’t told Moss and Billie was that Mr. Lambert had several real estate deals riding with Grandpap. They were intimidated by the Coleman power and money, too, of course. Still, word had spread among the parents of Maggie’s other friends and invitations were few now and grudgingly given. No more Galveston, no more friends. But there were other ways of passing the weekend. A motel out on the highway with whoever picked her up. Two days spent with total strangers, men who weren’t afraid of the Colemans. No questions. No answers. Then a two-hour soak in the bathtub to rid herself of the dirt. . . .
Riley skidded to a stop at the foot of the stairs. “Where to, Maggs?” he said, glancing at her overnight case.
“Galveston. Want to come along?”
“No. I’m going up in the new Piper Cub with Pap. How far is Galveston? Does Mam know you’re going? Is it a secret?” Riley always asked what was or wasn’t a secret.
“I told Mam. She doesn’t care. I don’t care if you don’t come along. I didn’t want you, anyway. Go on up in the new pla
ne with Pap. I don’t care. You stink, Riley. You and Susan both.”
“What’d I do? All I did was ask if it was a secret. I think you’re the one who stinks!” Seeing the dangerous glint in his sister’s eye, Riley took off at a sprint.
Maggie stopped long enough to poke her head into the sunroom, where her sister was playing the piano. Everyone could do something. Riley could fly. Susan was terrific at the piano. Mother could paint and play the piano. No wonder Pap loved everybody except her. She was a nothing, a nobody. Susan’s golden head was limned by the sunlight coming through the windows. So delicate, so pretty, so unlike her own harsh, dark looks. “You stink, too, you little snot!” Maggie yelled above the music.
Susan kept on playing, her long slender fingers racing over the scales. She’d heard this all before. Maggie hated everyone.
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