by Julia London
“In town,” Rebecca said with a roll of her eyes. “He said he was getting in too late to come all the way out here, and said he wouldn’t come out tomorrow, either, because he doesn’t want to be stuck and have to stay all night.” She sighed loudly. “I think he’s really looking forward to this!” she said in a sarcastically sing-song voice.
“Consider yourself lucky,” Robin said. “You won’t have him in your hair all day.”
It turned out that Robin was right; the next day was too wild to have tried to fit Dad in—there were so many last minute details to attend, so many sudden cancellations and sudden requests for tickets.
Rebecca made a run out to the ranch, went over everything one last time with Harold, who had proven to be the best stage manager in the western hemisphere. “Efficiency is my middle name,” he’d once told her in all seriousness. He was also terribly excited to be part of the event, and when they began to set up tables, he told Rebecca to go home. “I’ve got it under control, Ms. Lear,” he said firmly, turning her about and, hands on her shoulders, marching her toward the parking lot. “You just come back as your divine self, and your stage will be ready.”
Rebecca couldn’t argue—she barely had time as it was to get home and change. It seemed like one moment she was feeding the dogs in the early morning, and the next, she was getting dressed for the night and a stellar event for a man she couldn’t vote for.
Rebecca dressed carefully; she chose a pale turquoise silk chiffon dress, with a deep, draping neckline and beaded shoulder straps. It hugged her figure, then flared at the hips into a full skirt that swung above her knees over an underskirt of magenta. She wore Stuart Weitzman pumps that were the exact match of turquoise and aquamarine and diamond drop earrings and matching pendant necklace that rested at her throat.
Robin helped her put up her hair in a chignon, which she held in place with two diamond-studded pins. “Oh my . . . you look gorgeous, Rebecca,” Robin said as she stepped back to admire her, a look of awe on her face. “God, you still piss me off after all these years!”
“How so?”
“Because,” Robin said, smiling as she checked her reflection in the mirror, “you were always so much prettier than me and Rachel, and all the boys drooled over you—”
“Honestly, Robbie. You were the one who went through them by the dozens.”
“Yeah, because I found out all of them really wanted to be with my little sister.”
Rebecca laughed. Robin had a vivid imagination.
They finished primping and went to meet the guys, who were waiting for them in the great room, both dressed in Texas formal per the invitation. Jake looked very dapper in his tuxedo coat and cummerbund over Wranglers and black boots. But Matt looked even better in his tails and formal waistcoat over a pair of Levi’s and boots.
As Robin and Rebecca walked into the room, Jake let out a low whistle for Robin, but Matt seemed to have trouble rising to his feet. He couldn’t take his eyes off Rebecca and stood there speechless for so long that she felt herself begin to color.
“Matt, say something,” Robin urged him, voicing Rebecca’s thoughts out loud.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m at loss to say how beautiful she looks. God, Rebecca . . . you look like you walked right out of a movie.” Rebecca smiled self- consciously, did a little curtsey of thanks. “I mean, it’s stunning,” he said again. “You’re stunning. You’re . . .”
Robin tapped him on the shoulder. “Roll your tongue up and put it in back in your head. We don’t have all day.” And then she yelled for Cole and Grayson while Matt shoved a hand through his hair, still unable to take his eyes off Rebecca.
The four of them arrived early, as Rebecca wanted to make sure that everything was in order and that the groundsmen, supplied by the Three Nines ranch, had put everything up like she and Harold had instructed. Of course she knew what the place was supposed to look like, but she could not have prepared herself for the sight of the party grounds where the event would be held under an evening summer sky . . . it had been completely transformed, just like Harold promised. They walked through stone gates to the party area, and all of them came to an abrupt halt and stared at their surroundings as Harold came forward to greet them in a stunningly royal blue tuxedo.
Rebecca had wanted the place to look like Texas, with lush greens to represent the coastal plains and eastern pine forests, reds and browns to represent the canyons in the west, and dark blues and grays to represent the mountains around El Paso. Dozens of round tables had been set up, all draped in those colors. The centerpieces at each table, made by local art students (and for sale after the event) were three-dimensional representations of Texas; barbed wire and horseshoes for ranching, oil rigs and oil pumps, skylines of the major metropolitan areas, cattle . . . And in the pecans and live oaks that formed a canopy over the dining area, hundreds of small star lights had been strung to create the illusion of a big Texas night sky.
The stage was a long, rectangular raised platform, behind which a canvas was draped and painted with the Austin skyline—Rebecca had asked a woman she had once taken an art class with to do it, and she had been happy to oblige. The result was outstanding; one felt as if he or she were standing on a hilltop, overlooking Austin. The dance floor, made of oak planks from the original Three Nines ranch house porch, was off to one side, and was covered in peanut shells and sawdust for the boot-scooting tunes the live entertainment would provide—Rebecca had lined up four separate and well-known country-western bands.
At either end of the dance floor, and behind the dining area, were three bars fashioned out of wooden barrel horses, used by ranchers and rodeo enthusiasts to learn how to rope. And at the far end of the grounds, but within a short walking distance of the dining area, were the barbecue pits.
“It’s fabulous, Bec,” Robin said. “You’ve done such a fantastic job.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said proudly. “I had no idea it would turn out so well.”
“You know, you ought to do this for a living,” Jake said. “You’re really good. There’s a huge market for it in Houston. I bet there is here, too,” he said. “I’m going to check out the barbecue—a man can’t ignore a scent like that,” he said, and offered his arm to Robin, leaving Rebecca with that stunning idea.
As the two of them trotted off in the direction of food, Rebecca turned slowly around, taking in the creation that had begun as an idea in her head one afternoon in Tom’s office, had been sketched and sketched on paper so many times that she could almost recite the exact number of chairs. As she came full circle, she noticed Matt was gazing at her.
“So what do you think?”
“I think,” he said softly, “that I am incredibly proud of you. It’s wonderful, Rebecca. Masterfully done. Bravo,” he said, applauding softly. “The party could never have created such an intimate feel to this venue, particularly on the budget you had.”
Rebecca grinned up at him as Matt encircled her in his arms. “Thanks, Big Pants—that actually means a whole lot coming from you.”
“Yeah, well, Miss Priss . . .” He paused to kiss her. “Jake’s right—you ought to give his idea some thought, because you can do as well as the big guns. Better, even. And if Tom Masters doesn’t give you the praise and glory you deserve, I will personally put this fine ostrich leather boot up his ass.”
“I’m sorry, I’m certain I didn’t hear you correctly. Would you please repeat that, only a little louder?”
Matt grinned broadly. “That’s what I like about you—all modesty.” He kissed her until they heard Harold’s desperate call. She was needed in the ranch house, he said, as he flew by to direct those arriving early.
The next couple of hours went by in a whirl; waiters and bartenders began to show up, along with dozens of guests. Harold manned the front gate with the ushers while Rebecca spent a half hour sorting out confusion over the playbill with the bands. When that fire had been stamped out, she went back out to the party area to find Matt,
and ran into Pat, who was looking rather spiffy in a pink mother-of-the-bride gown. But even more intriguing, Pat had a surprisingly younger man in tow. “This is fantastic!” she exclaimed when she saw Rebecca. “I never thought you—I mean, I never thought . . .”
Rebecca laughed and squeezed the old girl’s hand. “I know what you thought, Pat, and you weren’t alone. I wasn’t sure I could pull it off, either. Have you seen Tom?”
“He and Glenda are on their way. He wants to make an entrance you know,” she said. “He said to call him when the first band starts to play.”
“Hey, Pat,” Matt said behind her, “You look great.”
Pat beamed. “Thanks!”
“I’m going to have to take her now,” he said, touching Rebecca’s arm. “There are some people she needs to meet.” He introduced her to Doug and Jeff, two men who, he said, were part of the Democratic Party apparatus in Dallas. And several senators and representatives were in attendance, all ooohing and aahing and generally jealous that they hadn’t been part of this fund-raiser.
And last, but certainly not least . . . Dad. Robin found Rebecca and Matt in conversation with Mr. Holt Peterson, the man who had used his collection of vintage Cadillac convertibles to shuttle people between the airport and the ranch. “He’s here,” she whispered, “and Bec—he doesn’t look so good.”
“What do you mean?” Rebecca asked, instantly fearing that he had misunderstood the dress code on the invitation.
“I mean he looks sick. Come on—they’ve seated us and he’s asking for you.”
Rebecca looked at Matt as he turned from two men he’d been speaking to. “My dad is here.”
“About time,” he said with a confident smile, and with his hand on the small of her back, they followed Robin through a growing crowd, struggling to pass through the rich and famous of Texas, men dressed in formal tails and jeans and boots and cowboy hats; women in brightly colored slips of gowns, the richness of the fabric rivaled only by the size and sparkle of their jewels.
When they at last came round to the table where Jake and Dad were sitting, Rebecca saw what Robin meant—Dad looked awful. He had lost quite a bit of weight since she had seen him a couple months ago; he was gaunt, his face leathery and his eyes sunken. She walked quickly to the table as he used his hands to push himself up and out of his chair. “Dad?” she said, trying to keep the alarm from her voice.
His eyes lit up and he smiled broadly, standing back to admire her dress. “Becky, you look beautiful. Times like this, you remind me so much of your mother. She was the beauty of the plains, you know.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised and touched by the compliment. “Are all right?”
“I’m fine. Just lost a few extra pounds, that’s all,” he scoffed, waving a hand at her, but no amount of scoffing would change the fact that he looked sick, like he had when they had done all the chemotherapy—
Rebecca suddenly looked at Robin, saw the same fearful thought reflected in her sister’s eyes.
But Dad was eyeing Matt, moving around Rebecca to have a better look. “Well, Becky, are you gonna let the ol’ boy just stand there, or are you going to introduce us?”
Rebecca looked at Matt, who was, as usual, looking completely at ease. “Dad, this is Matt Parrish. He’s a lawyer—”
“I know, I know,” Dad said, extending his hand. “Aaron Lear, of Lear Transport Industries. Heard of us?” he asked, squinting as he peered up at Matt.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Lear. And yes, of course I’ve heard of you. What Texan hasn’t?”
“Uh-huh,” Dad said, studying him “Never hurts to kiss a little ass, does it, Parrish?”
Matt laughed. “Can’t say that it does.”
“So you’re a lawyer, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Never had much use for lawyers,” Dad remarked, clasping his hands, gauging Matt’s reaction.
But Matt just laughed again, said cheerfully, “Most folks don’t.”
A slow smile cracked her father’s face. “Ever been married?”
“Dad!” Robin cried. “Leave him alone!”
“Nope, sure haven’t,” Matt answered amicably.
“Then get me a drink and I’ll tell you why you never should, son,” Dad said, and pulling out a chair, sat heavily, waiting on his drink.
“Honestly, Dad!” Rebecca moaned. “Matt, I’ll get it—”
“No, Rebecca. Let Matt do it,” Jake said, grinning at Dad. “This is how Aaron likes it—put ‘em to the test, see who’s still standing when he’s done toying with them.”
That remark prompted a rough bark of laughter from Dad, who slapped the table with glee. “Now see? Here’s a man who’s learned his lesson. Have a seat, Jake. You paid enough for it,” he said, patting the seat next to him, then looked up at Matt again. “You weren’t planning to take all night to get that whiskey, were you, Parrish?”
“No, sir,” he said.
At least, Rebecca thought, as Matt casually strolled away after asking if anyone else wanted anything, the worst was over. Dad and Matt had met.
But then she saw Bud and Candace standing near the stage with Tom chatting it up.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments . . .
JOHN STEINBECK
Matt was also thinking the worst was over, and really didn’t think Aaron Lear was going to pose any problem for him. The man honestly looked too sick to be anything but a pain in the ass, which was obviously what he had set out to be.
He got the whiskey, ran into Gilbert wearing a T-shirt with a tuxedo drawn on it, black jeans, and high tops. He was with Angie, who had chosen a vintage thrift-store dress to accent her boots and black lipstick. She had jet black hair, too, with tints of blue and red. But Matt could honestly say she looked a whole lot better than the guy she had come with—he looked as if he had just stepped out of a coffin.
“This deal is so tight!” Angie exclaimed. “We’re going to get a drink,” she added, and said to her date, “Free bar.”
“Awesome,” he said, and the two of them sauntered off.
Matt looked at Gilbert. “Speech ready?”
“Yeah, and dude, he’s got the whole thing on three-by-fives in his coat pocket!”
Now that was unbelievable. “Have a drink, then, Gilbert,” Matt said. “You’ve earned it.” Gilbert chucked Matt on the shoulder and followed Angie and her beau.
By the time Matt got back to the table with the drinks, Rebecca was missing. He wasn’t surprised—she had an awful lot going on this evening. With a smile, he handed the whiskey to Aaron Lear, a beer to Jake, and a glass of soda to Robin, who caught his eye, rolled hers, and took a long, fortifying sip.
Mr. Lear leaned back; wet his lips with the whiskey. “Not bad. Thought it would be standard bar crap.” He put the glass down, looked at Matt. “So, Parrish, what are your intentions?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Dad!” Robin exclaimed. “Why do you do that?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Robbie,” he said, feigning innocence. “When a man comes sniffing around my daughters’ skirts, I like to know what he’s after, that’s all. And Matt here, he doesn’t mind answering a few questions, do you Matt?”
“Not at all. I have nothing to hide,” Matt said, looking him square in the eye.
“Is that right?” Mr. Lear said with a definite smirk.
“That’s right. I don’t mind telling you up front that I’m after her money. Every last red cent.”
Robin choked so hard on her soda that Jake had to slap her on the back—but not before flashing Matt a look of pity, as if he expected to see him eaten alive. Mr. Lear just laughed, flashed a crooked little smile, sipped his whiskey, and said, “You know what, Parrish? I think I’m gonna like you. I know I’m gonna like you a hell of a lot better than that asshole,” he said motioning with
his head toward the stage.
Matt, Robin, and Jake all turned to see who he was talking about.
“Oh, God,” Robin muttered.
“Who is it?” Matt asked.
“Bud Reynolds. Rebecca’s ex,” Mr. Lear said. “You’ve heard him on the radio, haven’t you? Come on down to Reynolds Chevrolet, yada yada yada.”
Yeah, he’d heard him, all right, and had thought, long before he knew Rebecca, that the man’s voice grated. While the blonde on his arm was predictably pretty, Reynolds sure didn’t look like the big, strapping, handsome man Matt had expected, the sort of man worthy of Rebecca’s attentions. No, Bud Reynolds was the opposite of that. His barrel chest slid to belly flab. And he had a thick face with a ruddy complexion that suggested either he drank too much or the exertion of walking to the stage had almost done him in.
“How she stayed married to that ass for so long is a mystery,” Robin said.
“Why she ever married him is a mystery,” Mr. Lear said. “I’ll tell you the truth, Matt.” He paused to down the last of his whiskey and shove the glass back across the table to him, “That worries me about Becky. She’s pretty, but she’s not the sharpest tack on the board when it comes to men.”
“Come on, Aaron, that’s not fair,” Jake said instantly. “She was fifteen when she met Bud, nineteen or maybe even younger when she married him—”
But Mr. Lear cut him off with a biting, “So?”
“So, she’s a lot older and wiser, just like all the rest of us. She knows what she is doing. And Matt here is a good guy.”
“Thanks, Jake. I’ll remember you said that,” Matt said with a wink, and took Mr. Lear’s glass. “Would you like another one, Mr. Lear?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Matt swiped up the glass, stopped short of crushing it on Lear’s head for having so little faith in his daughter, and began striding to where Rebecca was standing with Tom and her jerk ex-husband.
She must have felt him coming, because she glanced over her shoulder as he approached, and he saw a look of relief on her face as Tom began to wave at him.