Stroke of Fortune

by Christine Rimmer

  “Oh, Rose. Don’t. Never say that love is hopeless.”

  “Not even if it happens to be the truth?”

  “You can’t just give in to that kind of attitude. You have to fight, to make things better. It’s the only way.”

  Rose was shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do.”

  “You think you do. But you weren’t born a Wainwright—or a Carson, for that matter. My great-grandfather put Matt’s in a wheelchair. And that was just the beginning.” Rose sighed. “I know, I know. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve heard all this before. It’s probably nothing much more than an old, sad story to you. But to us—to my family—it’s our lives. It’s what we are. We hate the Carsons, Josie. And they hate us. That’s the way it’s been for generations. I don’t see any way it will ever change.”

  To Josie’s mind, Rose sounded way too much like Flynt. Things are the way they are, he’d insisted a little over a week ago now. They’re not going to change.

  And yet, they were changing. Witness herself. Here at Mission Creek Creations buying a fancy dress to wear on a date with Flynt that very night.

  “Oh, Rose, if you love him, you should stick with him. No matter what. No matter how impossible the two of you together might seem.”

  Rose’s smile was so resigned, it made Josie want to cry. “Considering all you’ve been through in your life, Josie Lavender, you certainly are a naive little thing.”

  Josie ended up trying on only one dress—the one that Rose had chosen. It was just right. Simple and gorgeous, good against her skin, picking up the color in her eyes. And it fit as if it had been made for her personally.

  Mrs. McKenzie oohed and ahhed over it, then insisted she slip on an incredible pair of evening sandals, black, with bits of glittery green stone embedded in the straps. “I’m having a special sale right now,” Mrs. McKenzie explained. “If you buy the sandals and this beautiful little bag, you get the dress for half off the sale price you see on the tag.”

  That made the whole ensemble almost the same price she would have paid for the dress alone. “Some sale,” said Josie, hardly believing her luck.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. McKenzie, a knowing gleam in her eye. “Isn’t it, though?”

  Flynt arrived at Alva’s at eight on the nose. He was driving one of the Carson Cadillacs. Josie was so nervous, she was standing at the window peeking through the curtain, waiting to catch sight of him, when he drove up. She’d been ready for over an hour by then.

  From the sofa behind her, Alva chuckled—carefully, so as not to get a wheezing fit going. “Hon, didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s important to make a man wait?”

  “Oh, Mama, you know acting cool about things is not my style. It’s him! He’s just getting out of that beautiful car. Oh, he is handsome.”

  “All dressed up in a suit?”

  “You bet he is. He’s coming up the walk.” She dropped the edge of the curtain, turned to her mother, smoothed her dress. “How do I look?”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Oh, Mama. That is exactly the right thing to say.”

  There was a tap on the door. Josie pulled it open.

  Flynt said, “Wow.”

  “You don’t look half-bad yourself, Flynt Carson.”

  Flynt drove the fine car up the curving oak-lined driveway that led to the portico in front of the clubhouse at the Lone Star Country Club. An attendant stepped right up and pulled open Josie’s door. He helped her out of the car and then hurried around to open Flynt’s door, too. Then he took Flynt’s place behind the wheel and drove the car away.

  Flynt wrapped Josie’s hand around his arm and led her up the steps to the entrance. The glass doors swung wide. They went through into the huge lobby tiled in Texas pink granite, past the clubhouse’s famous pink granite fountain, which sent glittering cascades of water halfway to the ceiling high above.

  The Empire Room was right off the lobby. And the maître d’ was waiting for them. “Mr. Carson, how are you tonight?”

  “Just great, Marcus.”

  “Wonderful.” The maître d’ nodded at Josie. “Welcome to the Empire Room.” She gave him a smile. He took a couple of gold-tasseled menus from a rack on the reservation desk. “This way.”

  The minute they were seated, a short, balding fellow in a black suit with a black bow tie came scurrying up to them. Flynt introduced him as Harvey Small, the club manager.

  Harvey said he was delighted to make her acquaintance. He suggested they try the veal medallions and then bustled away.

  A waiter appeared to discuss the wine list. Flynt sent Josie a questioning look. She shook her head, so he said they wouldn’t be having wine tonight.

  People waved from other tables. A few even stopped by to say hello as the maître d’ led them to tables of their own. Then Flynt would introduce Josie and there would be polite smiles and nice-to-meet-you’s.

  With all the folks to greet, it seemed to take forever just getting their order in. Finally they’d chosen their appetizer and their soup and even the main course—those veal medallions that Harvey Small had recommended.

  When his club soda came, Flynt toasted her with it. She lifted her water goblet and clicked her glass against his.

  It was going pretty well, she thought. She wasn’t near as nervous as she’d expected to be. If the rich and powerful in the Empire Room thought she was some kind of upstart intruder, they all had the grace to keep their opinions to themselves, to smile and say, “Lovely to meet you, Josie,” and leave it at that.

  And Flynt—well, he really seemed to be having a good time. He talked to her easily, telling her tales of his buddies from VMI—the Virginia Military Institute—who had all been members of the same unit in the war in the Persian Gulf.

  They were halfway through the veal medallions—which were a little tough, in Josie’s opinion, though, of course, she didn’t say so—when two handsome, Latin-looking fellows took a table not too far from theirs.

  Flynt exchanged stiff nods with both of the men.

  Josie leaned close across the table. “They are…?”

  “The taller one is Ricky Mercado. The other’s Frank Del Brio.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Yeah. ‘Oh, my’ is right.”

  “Ricky Mercado was part of your unit in the war, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. We were friends at one time.”

  “But then…”

  “Haley Mercado drowned. She was his sister, after all. Ricky blamed us—me and Spence, Tyler and Luke. And rightfully so, as I’ve already explained to you.”

  She sent him a chiding look. “Stop that.”

  “What?”

  “Guilt-tripping. It’s not allowed. Not tonight.”

  He grinned then. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pitched her voice low, the perfect level for dishing the dirt. “I heard that Frank Del Brio was engaged to Haley right before she died.”

  “Yeah. None of us could believe that, really, that she’d hook up with him.”

  “Pressure from her father, maybe?”

  “I’m pretty sure of it. Haley was beautiful and bright and she deserved better than a crook like Del Brio, as far as we were concerned.”

  “We meaning you and Spencer—”

  “And Tyler and Luke. All the usual suspects. Truth is, we were all half in love with her. None of us liked Del Brio. We knew he was as crooked as they come.”

  “So then it’s true what they say? About the Mercados and Frank Del Brio?”

  He chuckled. “You mean, is there really such a thing as the Texas Mafia?”

  She nodded and sipped from her water goblet. “Well, is there?”

  “’Fraid so. Though if you ask any one of the Mercados, you can bet they’ll tell you they made all their money in that paving and contracting business they own. From what I understand, Ricky’s still more in the legit end of the business. It’s Frank Del Brio who’s next in line to take over as mob boss, after Carmine.�
��

  “Carmine. That’s Ricky’s uncle?”

  “Right.”

  “They’re all members of the country club?”

  “Right again. The Mercados have been members for generations now. They conduct more of their business here than I would like. But they’re very generous. The club receives major endowments from them on a regular basis. Truth is, a lot of what you see when you look around this place was paid for by Mercado money.”

  Josie was shocked. “Mafia money?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “But—”

  “The money the Mercados give the club is always what you could call clean money. It comes from Mercado Brothers Paving and Contracting, or from Carmine’s personal bank accounts.”

  “But still—”

  “Josie. Your naiveté is showing.”

  Naive. It was the same thing Rose had called her that afternoon.

  Flynt must have seen her expression change. “What’s wrong?”

  Of course, she couldn’t say. She’d sworn she wouldn’t and she meant to keep her word. “Nothing. Just…life, I guess.”

  “You look sad.”

  She picked up her napkin from her lap and patted it against her mouth. “Well, I’m not.” She slanted him a playful look. “What’s for dessert?”

  Another waiter appeared to clear off their plates. Flynt asked to see the dessert cart. They split something sinfully chocolate, which was the best part of the meal, in Josie’s opinion.

  Once the dessert plates were cleared away, Flynt leaned close across the table. “See? Coming here wasn’t so painful, was it?”

  She only smiled at him. He was right. It hadn’t been bad at all.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Well, I could use about five minutes to put on fresh lipstick, if that’s okay?”

  He told her where to find the nearest ladies’ room. She picked up her small beaded bag and slid out of her gilded blue chair. She had to walk past several tables where wealthy club members sat, eating their big cuts of prime rib and their slightly tough veal. Diamonds glittered at the throats of the women, and the men wore expensive suits and watches that cost more than Josie had made in the past year.

  But she didn’t feel anxious. She didn’t feel less than them. She knew she looked good and she carried herself well. If things worked out between her and Flynt, she could get along in this world. She was smart and she learned fast. In a few years they would think of her as one of them.

  Now, if Grace Carson would only hurry up and realize that.

  She went through an archway and found herself in a sort of hallway with a wall on one side masking off the luxurious dining room she’d just left. On the other side, sets of arched French doors led out onto a patio. Josie turned toward the ladies’ room, which was down at one end, and right then, the door opened. A man came out. He had mussed hair, a crooked tie—and lipstick smeared across his mouth.

  It was Frank Del Brio, the up-and-coming Texas mob boss.

  Josie gaped. Frank Del Brio didn’t miss a beat. He straightened his tie, and he raked his wild black hair back into place with splayed fingers and quickly rubbed the telltale red smudges from his mouth. He clicked his tongue in a rude way and gave Josie a wink. Then he went on by.

  Josie hesitated to enter the ladies’ room. What would she find on the other side of that door? Nothing too embarrassing, she hoped. She stood in the aisle for several seconds, thinking she’d give whoever was in there an opportunity to make herself presentable.

  Finally, it just got too silly, lurking in that hallway, waiting for…what? She wasn’t quite sure. She continued on to the door and pushed it open.

  In the glass and marble confines beyond, Josie found one woman—fully dressed, thank God—standing at the mirrors. The woman was small, maybe five-two or so, with a short mop of carrot-red hair. She wore what a lot of the staff at the club wore, a black skirt and white shirt. She was freshening her lipstick, looking very cool and collected.

  Too bad her skirt was only half-zipped.

  She must have realized the problem, because she set the lipstick down, turned from the mirror, and gave Josie a long, slow, insolent look as she reached behind herself and did the zipper up the rest of the way.

  Josie glanced down and saw the name tag pinned above her left breast: Hello, it read. I’m Erica.

  When Josie met the woman’s eyes again, a too-friendly smile had replaced the insolent stare. “Hi.”

  Josie nodded and kept walking, thinking she wouldn’t like to tangle with that one. She entered the first stall. When she came out, the redhead named Erica was gone.

  They were back in the Cadillac, headed toward town, when Flynt suggested, “Want to stop in at the Saddlebag for a drink?”

  Josie sent him a fond look. He didn’t want the evening to end any more than she did.

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Well, I guess I should say that you’re welcome to a drink. I’ll have my usual.”

  “I’d love to stop at the Saddlebag for a drink.”

  So they went to the quiet, dim bar out on Gulf Road a few miles east of town. They took one of the tables not far from the bar itself. Flynt order his club soda and Josie had a 7-Up and he reached across the table and she put her hand in his.

  It felt lovely. Absolutely right. The two of them, here in the dimness, holding hands across the scratched cocktail table, listening to Shania Twain not too loud on the jukebox and hearing the click of pool balls in the back room as somebody took somebody else at eight ball.

  She told him about Frank Del Brio coming out of the ladies’ room with lipstick on his mouth and his tie undone, and about the woman named Erica, too.

  Flynt shook his head. “I’ll talk to Harvey. I think I remember that little redhead. A waitress. Clawson, I think it is. Erica Clawson.”

  “Flynt, I’m not trying to get the poor woman fired.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not having her fired just because she and Del Brio have something going on. I’ll just make a note of it to Harvey. He can keep his eyes open. And he can warn her that the hanky panky in the ladies’ room is to stop as of now.”

  “I do mean it, I don’t want to see her lose her job…”

  “But?”

  “Well, I sure didn’t like her much. Something real phony about her, you know? She gave me the evil eye when I first walked in on her, and then, out of nowhere, she put on this cute, sweet smile.” Josie shivered. “It was downright creepy.”

  He was grinning at her. “But you don’t want her fired.”

  “Well, now, Flynt, even a mean girl’s gotta eat. Is that a slow song I hear on the jukebox?”

  His hand tightened around hers. “Dance?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He stood and he took her in his arms. There wasn’t much of a dance floor, really, just a wide space between the tables. But Josie didn’t care and Flynt didn’t seem to, either. He cradled her close and they swayed to the music.

  It was heaven, just being in his arms. For so long she hadn’t dared to dream he would ever hold her close again. But here they were, on a small square of floor at the Saddlebag, together, touching in all the tempting ways people could touch in a dance, a sexy, slow love song leading them on.

  When the song ended, she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him. He looked down at her and there was nothing else in the world right at that moment, but her eyes meeting his eyes, the two of them in some soft, hazy place, with their arms around each other.

  He lowered his mouth and captured hers and she sighed, opening to him, aroused in the deepest, truest way. She felt utterly his, and so glad of that fact.

  Another slow love song started up and they were dancing again—well, kind of swaying to the music, anyway, and kissing as they swayed. Nobody in the bar seemed to care or to notice, which was another good thing about the Saddlebag. Folks tended to mind their own business there.

  After a while that second song ended. Flynt pulled away
enough to look into her eyes again. He whispered her name.

  She heard the question in it and nodded.

  He took her hand and led her out of there.

  Twelve

  They stopped at a convenience store on the way into town.

  Flynt went in alone and came out with a brown paper bag. Josie knew what it contained. And she knew what he was thinking, that he’d see to it there was no chance she’d end up pregnant this time around.

  When he got back in the car, he leaned across the console and kissed her. Then he looked at her, a probing kind of look. She waited for him to ask the question he’d promised he wouldn’t ask again.

  But then he only gave her a tender smile, moved back behind the wheel and started up the car.

  She wanted to check on her mother. He went into the house with her and waited in the front room while she looked in on Alva.

  “Sound asleep,” Josie told him when she emerged from the tiny hallway that led to the bedrooms. “I’ll just write her a quick note.” She got a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote that she’d gone back to Carson Ranch, that she’d stop by tomorrow for an hour or two in the afternoon. She propped the note against the saltshaker on the kitchen table.

  They returned to the ranch, where they found Grace asleep in the rocker in Lena’s room, a novel open on her lap, a small lamp still lit beside her, her reading glasses slipping down her nose.

  Flynt set the brown bag he’d brought from the convenience store on the low table by the door. Then he went to his mother, bent close to her and whispered, “Ma.”

  Grace started and jerked upright, her eyes popping open. “What in the—” She looked at her son. And then she looked at Josie, standing a few feet away. When her gaze moved back to Flynt, something happened in her face, a softening. “Oh,” she said, as if someone had just given her some crucial piece of information and she was accepting it, acknowledging that she’d heard and understood. “Well,” she said quietly. “I guess I’ll go on to bed now.”

  “’Night, Ma.”