Vegas rich

by Michaels, Fern

  "He left you a letter. Shall I put it on the dresser?"

  "Yes. Good night, John."

  John walked down the stairs, accepted a cup of coffee, and repeated his conversation with SaUie. "I'm leaving now. I want to be with my family. If you need me, call."

  The following day, at twelve o'clock noon, the Thornton family, minus Sallie, Philip, and Ash, carried Devin Rollins's ashes to the private cemetery on the side of the mountain, where Chue had a small square opening waiting. Simon bent to lower the urn, his touch gentle, reverent. The family watched as Chue covered the urn with the hard frozen ground, packing the soil down with the back of the shovel.

  Simon said a prayer. The others bowed their heads, their eyes filled with tears.

  Inside the warm, cozy house called Sunrise, Sallie Thornton watched the simple burial. Her eyes were dry, her heart barely beating. A fine white snow was falling. She pressed her forehead to the windowpane, the palms of her hands flat against the grids. "Wait for me, Devin. I'll be there before you know it." The whispered torment in her voice was so intense, Philip started to jabber. Sallie turned around, her face totally blank. "It's snowing. I guess we're going to have a white Christmas after all."

  More jabbering. "Where is everyone? Outside. They're going down the mountain to pick out just the right tree. Simon said he'd

  chop it down. I think Chue might be a little annoyed. He's been doing it for forty years, so he's going along since he claims to have an eye for height and width. I had no idea there was so much work involved in getting a Christmas tree. Did you know, Philip, you have to bore a hole in the base of the trunk and then set the tree in a bucket of water? According to Chue, you can actually see the tree suck up the water. I find that amazing."

  A long stream of fretful gibberish permeated the room. "What in the world makes you think I'm babbling? What could possibly be wrong, it's Christmas Eve? I know you want everyone here in the room with you all the time, but it can't be, Philip. We're never going to leave you alone, someone will always be here, but you can't expect everyone to be here all the time. Please don't upset yourself. There's no reason for you to be fearful.

  "Devin? No, Philip, Devin won't be joining us for Christmas this year. Now, let's talk about something else, or would you rather I read you the morning paper? No. Oh, I see, Birch is going to read it to you later. Does he really put more zip into his words? I'll work on that, Phihp, so that when he goes back to school and I take over, I do it right. Sage is very good with the funnies. I'll have to listen to see how he does it. My work will be cut out for me. Yes, the way yours was v/hen you first came to Sunrise. It was so long ago, Philip, and yet it feels like last week."

  SaUie lowered herself to the floor to sit next to Philip's chair. She dropped her head into her husband's lap, tears rolling down her cheeks. She made no sound. Phihp's eyes blinked furiously as he focused on the window and the falling snow. A tear formed in one eye, then in the other eye. He knew they were dropping onto his wife's curly blond head he so dearly loved, and there was nothing he could do about it. Just as he couldn't do anything about what lay beyond the window.

  He struggled, sweat beading on his forehead, to move his arm, his hand, his fingers. He felt the sweat mingle with his tears. He struggled harder, and then he said the only prayer he could remember. Christmas was a time for miracles if one beheved. He'd always believed. He wanted to say the prayer again, but the words were gone from his memory. He knew his hand had moved, knew it was touching soft, silky hair. SaUie hadn't lied to him after all. He'd moved his hand.

  A miracle.

  402 Fern Michaels

  19

  The wide front porch of the cottage was of verandah proportions, and painted a soft yellow. '*You need a soothing color," John Noble had said. And, because John was a friend as well as Philip's doctor, SaUie had the porch painted the same color as the early spring daffodils. The wicker furniture was a pale green, the same color as the stems of the spring flowers, 2ilso a soothing color, according to John. Right up until October, lush green plants hung from the beams—plants for Phihp to see when he lay on his back on the portable therapy table. Two swings, one on each end of the porch, were also painted a soft green. PhiHp had requested the swings, so that SaUie could watch his intense therapy, his body pummeled and massaged by the New York therapist who charged S150 an hour, six hours a day, seven days a week.

  The therapy started early in the morning, usually right after breakfast. It had been going on for three and a half years. Sallie's dedication, Philip's endurance, the therapist's greed, and John Noble's expertise were proof that the body could recover. Philip was now walking with the aid of a cane, his speech was intelligible, his motor skills greatly improved. At times he had memory lapses, and sometimes he would start a sentence and stop in the middle, forgetting what it was he was trying to say, but that happened less and less often.

  Sallie sipped at her coffee from her position on the swing. She hated the array of medical equipment that lined the walls of the p)orch—the wheelchair, the canes, the walkers, the crutches, the therapy table, the stack of weights, the poles used for range of motion exercises. A wicker table held towels, ointments, liniments, medical books, and a telephone for emergencies. She hated sitting on this porch nine months of the year. She hated this house, hated this porch. More than 2inything, she hated her husband. She finished her coffee and moved off the swing.

  "Where aire you going, Sallie?" Philip asked.

  SaUie schooled her face to blankness. "You ask me that every morning, Phihp. I'm going into the house."

  "What are you going to do?"

  SaUie felt her shoulders grow stiff. Her standard answer for the

  past three and a half years was always the same, "I'm going to the bathroom." Today for some reason she didn't feel like making the same response. Instead she said, "I'm going to bake a cake and then I'm going to eat the whole thing."

  Philip's voice was a whine, full of self-pity. "I want you out here with me. I don't want any cake."

  "Philip, I said I was making the cake for myself. I didn't offer to share it with you. I've watched you every single day for three and a half years. I think you've punished me enough. John said you don't need this therapy every day. He said we could have stopped it ten months ago. Once a week is sufficient from now on. Your new, local therapist from the medical center will come up on Mondays and work with you for four hours. He will give you a list of instructions to follow. What that means, Phihp, is, you're ready to start taking care of yourself. I've been your slave for the past three and a half years. No more. Chue will be up later to move all this stuff to the bam at Sunrise. You're going to have to relocate because the porch and the furniture is going to be painted."

  Philip started to cry, his shoulders shaking. "Why are you doing this to me?"

  In a frenzy, Sallie tossed her coffee cup off the railing, then crossed the porch to where her husband was sitting. "You're a man, act like one," she said. She knew that the disgust she felt finally showed in her face, something she'd hidden since Phihp's stroke.

  "Can I watch you bake the cake?"

  "No! You don't get it, do you, Philip?"

  "Get what?"

  "This sick devotion you're demanding of me. The guilt you put on me. I can't take it anymore. I won't take it anymore. You're well enough to work. Three different specialists have said so. I don't mean you should get out in the pens with the chickens, but you can handle the office end of things. You can start out a few hours at a time and build up to whatever you can handle. You're too young to give up on life. Everyone needs a purpose in life. I am not your purpose. It's time for you to do for yourself."

  "I'm afraid," Philip said as he started to wring his hands. "What if..."

  "What if. . . what? It happens again? I can't stop it, Philip. I would think the chances of it happening again would be greater with you sitting here whining and feeling sorry for yourself You need to move about, you need to do things, have an interest in
life. I can't

  do it for you, you have to do it yourself. You have to want to do it Don't think for one minute that I don't know what your game is. You've shackled me to you. You have a rope around my neck and you try to reel me in each time you think I might be getting away. You're pimishii^ me for not loving you the way you want me to. In spite of yourself you couldn't hate Devin because he was a good, kind man. You're making me pay for Devin. I paid, Philip, and paid and paid. I have the wherewithal to walk away from you. I wouldn't look back, and I would never come back Ever. Look at me, Phihp, read my lips, I-don't-like-you!"

  "You're a bitch!" Philip said under his breath, but Sallie heard it clearly.

  "Perhaps. If I am, you can take credit for it. And you can cut out that bullshit that you're afi^d. You don't have an ounce of fear in your body. What you have is vindictiveness, anger, and a host of other emotions. I want to remind you one more time, /wanted a divorce. You said no. You better be listening to me, Philip, because.. . I won't put up with you any longer."

  "I didn't mean to call you a bitch."

  "Yes you did. It's okay, that was an honest emotion on your part. Now you negate it. You make me sick, Phihp."

  "I'll change. I'll do what you want I'll go to the ranch and start out slow. Don't leave, SaUie."

  "I don't want you to do it for me. I want you to want to do it for yourself. I have nothing else to say, Phihp."

  In the kitchen she picked up the phone. "Chue, it's SaUie. I want you to come now and move the things from the front porch. If Phihp is sitting in one of the chairs, paint over him."

  Salhe dusted her hands dramatically. Time to bake a cake. She ate it while it was still warm, the frosting dribbling down the sides. She guzzled two botties of soda pop before she headed for the living room to get rid of Philip's indoor equipment, equipment that was meant to wrench at her soul. According to the specialists, the therapist, and John Noble, all Phihp had to do now was take long walks with weights on his ankles and wrists. She shoved the box of weights into the closet after she pushed and shoved cdl the things in the hv-ing room out to the front porch.

  Now it was time to walk out to the cemetery. She needed to talk to those she'd once held near and dear. It was finally time to shed her guilt. Her step was light, her shoulders less heavy with her decision.

  It was time to take her place in the sun again.

  Part Four

  6:=^

  The Thorntons: The Second Generation

  1975-1978

  Fanny looked at the date with the big red circle on the calendar hanging in her office. June 14, 1975. Five days till the big party to celebrate Sunny'sTogs goingpublic and Phihp'sseventy-fifth birthday. Where had the last twelve years gone? One minute she was packing up Billie's trunks to send her off to the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, and the next minute her company was listed on the New York Stock Exchange. She remembered the day Simon and the twins had come into her small cluttered studio and said, "It's time to go public." Then Simon had sweetened his announcement by saying Billie Limited, Billie Coleman's textile business, was going on the big board too.

  So much had happened these past years. Philip's illness, SaUie's withdrawal from life, her own failure to follow through with her divorce from Ash, the love she held close to her heart for Simon that she denied every day of her Ufe. Sunny's Togs had rocketed to the top of the retail business. Riley Coleman, BiUie and Moss's only son, had died in a foreign land, flying a defective Coleman plane. Then, one year later, in 1970, Seth and Agnes died together, in a freak accident. Finally, Moss's death from leukemia, eighteen months ago.

  No one could say that either the Coleman or Thornton family was blessed.

  Today Fanny was feeling maudlin. Today she was going to have to deal with the drastic change in Philip's health and the vacant stare in Sallie's eyes. Today she was going to ask questions and not be put off with Sallie's vagueness about her own illness, about her plans, if she had any. Today she was taking SaUie down the mountain to town for a lunch outing—if SaUie didn't cancel. There was no reason to believe that after spending fourteen long years as Philip's slave, she would agree to leave the mountain today. SaUie spent her days reading incessandy, either to herself or aloud to Philip. Not once in the fifteen years had Fanny heard her mention Devin Rollins's name. As far as she knew, Sallie hadn't gone to the cemetery either, unless

  408 Fern Michaels

  she went in the middle of the night. Mrs. Philip Thornton was a mountain recluse who no longer cared how she looked or what she wore. The sophisticated, well-groomed woman of yesteryear was gone. In her place was a blowsy, carelessly dressed person who tied her hair in a knot on top of her head and chain-smoked every waking hour of the day. Her beautiful, crystal clear voice was now harsh and husk)' from alcohol and cigarettes.

  Fanny tidied her work area so that when she returned she could sit down and start to work. As she stacked swatches, designs, and patterns, she wondered about the big announcement Simon said his mother was going to make at the party. Fanny had been stunned that her mother-in-law was even planning to attend. Maybe today SaUie would give her a clue. Maybe a lot of things. Like, maybe tomorrow she could go up to Simon and tell him she loved him, that she would go away with him. She thought of Sallie again and her blood literally ran cold. In her own way, she was doing exactiy what Sallie had done. So much for role models.

  Fanny checked her makeup, added fresh hpstick, ran her fingers through her new short wash-and-wear hairdo. Her dress, a summer print, said she was a classy matron on her way into town. She made a face at herself in the mirror. "You better be ready, Sallie, because if you aren't, I'm dragging you by your hair into town anyway," Fanny muttered as she climbed behind the wheel of her car.

  Fanny sat in stunned surprise when she brought the car to a halt in front of the small cottage. Sallie was dressed in a light summer pantsuit with a long-sleeved sweater under the jacket. She looked bulky. A wealth of jewels rode high on her neck and in her ears. Her fingers and wrists sparkled in the bright sunshine. Sallie was taking the trip to town seriously.

  "Surprised?"

  "Not exactly. I was prepared to drag you by the hair."

  "I know, that's why I decided to make it easier on you. I'd like to skip the lunch, though, and take you someplace. Someplace very special. You drive, and I'll give you directions."

  "Okay. Anything to get you out of that house. How do you stand it?"

  "I stand it because I have no other choice, Fanny. It's a way of life. I've had so many 'ways of life' I am now immune. I'm seventy-one years old. I never thought I'd end up like this. I've been thinking about going for a face-lift. What's your opinion?"

  Fanny could feel her heart take on an extra beat. Something im-

  portant was happening here, and she didn't understand it. "Well, personally, I don't think Fd go under the knife for something as vain as a face-lift. Why would you want to do that, Sallie, at your age? I think I read somewhere that you have to diet first. Tell me why."

  "I want to look good when I die."

  Fanny swerved the car, almost going off the shoulder of the road. **You aren't going to die for a very long time." She waited, but Sal-lie didn't answer her, just stared straight ahead, her mouth set in a grim line.

  They rode in silence for almost an hour.

  "We're almost there," Sallie finally said. "Make a right when you see a dirt road. I imagine it's overgrown, but there was a mailbox of sorts on the side of the road."

  "Where are we going, Sallie?"

  "I told you, to a very special place."

  "What makes it special?" Fanny asked.

  "There it is, turn right. It resdly is overgrown. They're just weeds and grass, it won't hurt the car. It's not far. The cottonwoods are more beautiful than I remember. Smell the sagebrush, Fanny. It's very sweet this year, isn't it? You can stop the car and we'll walk the rest of the way. I think I might have Chue come here and clean this up. Do you think that would be wise, Fanny?"
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  Fanny's heart thundered in her chest. She stared at her mother-in-law, trying to fathom the strange look on her face, the singsong quality of her voice, and the questions she was asking. It didn't seem to bother Sallie that she wasn't responding.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

  Fanny stared at the small house nesded in the cottonwoods. "Oh, yes, Szdlie. Whose, house is this?"

  "It was Devin's house. He left it to me in his will. I'm giving it to you today. I don't want to put it in my will. I signed over the deed a few weeks ago. I cannot think of another person besides yourself who will love this place as I did ... do. Devin christened it the Sallie and Devin's house of happiness. Alvin Waring left it to Devin. I'd like it if you wouldn't tell people about this place. Tell Simon, but no one else. I want you to have it... as a place of solitude, your own private place. In the years to come you might need a sanctuary. I'm not a doomsayer, but one never knows what the future holds. The stock market could crash tomorrow. Interest rates could drop. One needs a litde nest. That's how I always thought of it, my nest. I loved keeping the secret, so did Devin. VVhen we came here,