Vegas Sunrise

by Fern Michaels

  Woozy with the alcohol she’d consumed, Ruby stretched out on the old leather sofa her father had slept on more times than she could remember. She thought she could still smell his aftershave, the scent of him that was “Dad” to her for so many years. Tears blurred her vision before she wiped them on the sleeve of her blouse. She wasn’t a crier—she never had been. She was tough, like her mother. At times she’d thought that was good. Now she wished she had more of her father’s gentleness. Over the years she’d wished her father were more aggressive, more rough-and-ready. Still, she was thankful for his gentleness, his ability to see both sides of an issue and to be fair in his assessment of a situation. So many times she’d questioned that fairness, but, in the end, because her father said it was the best he could do, she’d accepted things.

  Ruby’s thoughts traveled to Texas and the only man she’d allowed into her private world—Metaxas Parish. She’d been introduced to him at the Cattle Barons’ Ball shortly before her father’s death. She’d attended the ball in Texas because the invitation had been sent to her mother by a friend who didn’t know of her death. And there he was, bigger than life, the second richest man in the country. Of course she hadn’t known that at the time. Older by fifteen years, brash yet gentle, she’d been attracted to him on sight, but he’d scared her because he was married. It didn’t matter that Mrs. Parish lived in California and Metaxas lived in Texas. He was still married. He’d wooed Ruby with a passion, sending his private jet for her, offering what he called baubles and rags but which were priceless diamonds and furs, all of which she rejected.

  In private, Metaxas was like her father, soft-spoken, gentle, and caring. In the business world he lived in, he was ruthless and power-driven. Once he’d shown up at her door in black tie, cowboy boots, and pearl white Stetson carrying a huge box with a gigantic red bow. Refusing to take no for an answer, he’d waited while she decked herself out in “the duds” and the “jools” he’d brought her. Before she knew what was happening, he’d whisked her away to his private jet. Their destination, Paris, France, where she allowed herself to succumb to his charms. It was the most glorious seven days of her life. And when it was over, like Cinderella, she returned to her pumpkin. She’d confided in her father because she didn’t know what else to do. All he’d said to her was, “I want more for you than someone else’s husband.” The disappointment in his eyes was so great she’d packed and run. She didn’t return until years later, when her father took ill for the second time.

  Metaxas Parish, where are you? What are you doing now? Do you even remember me? Of course he remembered her. He’d pledged undying love the way she had. He’d offered her everything, the moon, the stars, untold riches. The one thing she needed, wanted more than anything in the world, his name and a flesh-and-blood family to call her own, was something he couldn’t give her because his wife refused to give him a divorce.

  In the beginning Metaxas had been stunned when he realized his wealth meant nothing to her. When she’d said to him, “How many houses can you live in at one time, how many cars can you drive simultaneously, how many planes can you fly at once?” he’d stared at her, his face uncomprehending. He did understand her, though, when she said, “God’s been good to you, so you should start to give back like the Thorntons did and still do.” Subscribing to a Dallas newspaper that was delivered by mail a day late, she was able to keep up with his philanthropic goodness these days. His endowments were mind-boggling. His A-List of friends started with presidents, queens, princes, and princesses, heads of states, governors, top-ranking politicians. Everyone in the world knew Metaxas Parish. In one guilty moment she’d confided to the entire Thornton family about what she considered her dalliance with Metaxas. They’d listened and not one of them had judged her. She loved them for their understanding. Once he told her he had the president’s private phone number and was on a first-name basis. None of that mattered because no one in the world knew Metaxas Parish the way she knew him. Of that she was certain.

  What would happen if she called him now? How would he act? What would he say in that slow drawl she loved so much? He’d probably say something like, “Ruby honey, how’s the big bad world treating you? Are ya’ll calling me, sweet love, to tell me ya’ll coming for a visit?” Then his voice would drop to a bare whisper and he’d say, “Sweet love, I remember our time in Paris. I remember every hour and every minute.”

  Ruby’s eyes filled with tears. If only life were simple. This time she poured liberally from the bourbon bottle, adding two nearly melted ice cubes. She marched to the window to take up her position again. She moved like a marionette with all the liquor she’d consumed. She craned her neck to look at the bourbon bottle and then at the clock. The night was still young, and she still had a half bottle of bourbon.

  The night was suddenly quiet, too quiet. Even the chickens had stopped rustling in their roosts. It was too still, too dark with the big full moon hiding behind dark scudding clouds. Such a strange, weird night.

  Ruby looked at the oversize clock on the wall. Five minutes to eleven. Time for the evening news. She switched on the small television set perched on the side of her desk. She listened as Dan Rather expounded on the latest U.S. retaliation against Iran for their attacks on the Persian Gulf. She thanked God then for not having a son on foreign soil. Oliver North’s face flashed on the screen. Was he a loose cannon or an American hero?

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Ruby muttered as she added more bourbon and ice to her glass.

  “Get on with it and give us the weather so I can go to bed,” Ruby said to the face on the screen.

  The world weather map flashed on the screen. “Cool and brisk in the morning, warming to the low seventies by afternoon,” Ruby said anticipating the weatherman’s words. It took her a few seconds to realize the excitement in the weatherman’s voice and to note that his words weren’t those she anticipated. Instead he was elaborating on the battering the East Coast was receiving in the way of rain. The pointer moved upward as did the weatherman’s voice. She listened to words like highs, lows, cold fronts, warm air as the pointer circled the New England states. The words, “freak snowstorm” jerked her upright from her position in the chair. High, gusty winds, freezing temperatures with a possibility of two feet of snow. “At this time, it looks like New Hampshire and Vermont will be hit the hardest. Connecticut and Massachusetts are expected to receive ten to twelve inches of snow before the storm is over. We’re receiving some reports now of power outages, downed telephone lines and roads closed because of drifting. I repeat, this is the second snowfall of the season, and a freak storm at that. Stay tuned to this station for further details as they become available to us.”

  Ruby’s hand shook as she added fresh bourbon to her glass. The last time she’d consumed this much liquor was when she walked away from Metaxas Parish.

  She tried to visualize what twenty to twenty-five inches of snow would look like at a ski resort. A ski resort that already had six inches of snow. Ruby’s heart thudded in her chest when she envisioned Sunny and Harry in their wheelchairs. Were they safe? Of course they were. All resorts had ski patrols, police of some sort, and, of course, the rangers who patrolled everywhere. Ski resorts were prepared for things like this with generators, deep freezes, and firewood. They had their own plows and heavy snow equipment. The big question was, were they prepared for Sunny and Harry? God, she needed to think. Did Fanny know Birch and Sunny were in Vermont? She’d meant to tell her. She couldn’t remember if she had or not. Did Fanny watch the late-evening news? Mothers were supposed to have a sixth sense where their children were concerned. Living on Sunrise Mountain, Fanny had seen her share of snow as she had when she lived in Pennsylvania. Fanny wouldn’t attach any special significance to a freak snowstorm in late October.

  Ruby tossed her drink down the sink and made a fresh pot of coffee in the small kitchen area off the main office. She needed her wits about her from this point on, and she wasn’t sure why. She started to p
ace, lap after lap, until she was dizzy. When the coffee was ready, she gulped at it, scalding her tongue. She continued to drink the strong, bitter liquid until her brain started to clear.

  What should she do first? Call the ski resort of course. She fumbled through the papers on the desk until she found the number Sage had given her. She placed the call, her heart racing inside her chest. “The phone lines are down, ma’am,” the operator said. Ruby broke the connection.

  Ruby’s racing heart speeded up. Call Sage or Fanny? Fanny had other things on her mind these days. Sage was tuned to his brother. Was she the only one in the world concerned? If so, why was it so? She was only an aunt from the wrong side of the blanket. Would anyone thank her, not that she was expecting thanks, for waking them in the middle of the night to tell them a storm was battering the New England states? Her clenched fist crashed down on the desk. “Like I really care what anyone thinks,” she mumbled. She reached for the phone just as it rang. Nobody ever called her at 11:15 at night. Fanny? Sage? Metaxas? Oh, yes, in my dreams. “Hello,” she said, her voice strangled-sounding.

  “Aunt Ruby. Listen, I know I’m going to sound like an overanxious parent, but I just saw the evening news. I feel like I’m going to explode. Did you see the weather report? I dozed off and woke up just as it came on.”

  “Oh, lord, Sage, I’ve been sitting here wondering if I should call you. All day I’ve had this . . . ominous feeling. Even the chickens are restless. At first I put it down to the fact that there is a full moon. I tried calling the resort in Vermont, but the phone lines are down. I tend to think that happens when there is a storm in those parts. I was debating calling the ranger station when you called. I’m sure we would have heard something if there was a serious problem.”

  “How, if the lines are down? I have a really bad feeling about this. I always know when Birch is in trouble. He’s in trouble. I know it. I sense it in every bone in my body. I feel like I should be doing something, but I don’t know what. I wanted to call Mom but decided not to alarm her. I’m hoping I’m overreacting. For whatever it’s worth I’ve been out of sorts all day myself. Part of it has to do with Iris. By the way, I engaged the services of a . . . never mind, it’s not important,” Sage said when he remembered Celia Thornton was the spokesperson for the Thornton chain of Chicken Palaces. “Is your new plane gassed and ready to go?”

  Ruby’s heart turned over in her chest. “I . . . told them to keep it that way. Dad always kept the plane cleaned, gassed, and ready to go at a moment’s notice. When they sent me away to school I got sick a lot in the beginning. Dad was always there before it got dark. He brought your father with him once, but Ash didn’t know who I was at the time. I had appendicitis. When I finally got to meet him face-to-face before he died he said I looked familiar and even asked if we’d ever met. I lied and said no. God, why am I telling you this? It isn’t important in the scheme of things. The answer is yes, the plane’s ready. If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, you better forget it. I’m certain the airport is closed. I don’t even know if Vermont has an airport. Do you know?”

  “They have a small airport. A lot of single-engine planes fly in and out of there. My dad could have set that plane down on a dime in weather conditions you’d only see in your worst nightmares. He was that kind of pilot. Hell, he was an ace during the war.”

  In a jittery-sounding voice, Ruby said, “Are you that kind of pilot, Sage?”

  “Probably not. I’d give it my best shot. Something’s really wrong, Ruby. I want you to trust me on this.”

  “I do because I feel just the way you do. Don’t those places have CBs or two-way radios? What do they call those things? Truckers use them and have strange names.”

  “I’m sure they do. It’s not good enough. What if Birch got caught in the storm and lost his way? He could freeze to death. He’s lived too long in hundred-degree temperatures in Costa Rica. He’s no survivalist. When it comes to snow and freezing temperatures, not too many people are.”

  “We need to be logical here, Sage. If that were the case, the lodge would send out the ski patrol to find him. Using their CBs or whatever you call those things they talk on. I’m switching the television to the weather station. You do the same. You call me when they do the next update. I don’t want to call and wake Iris.”

  “Ruby, do they ever find people in snowstorms?”

  “All the time,” Ruby lied.

  “Are they alive?”

  “Of course,” Ruby lied a second time.

  “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. The will to live is very strong, Sage. People have survived horrible horrendous things against all odds. Look, we’re probably worrying for nothing. All four of them are probably snug in their beds. Let’s face it, we at least know Sunny and Harry are safe. It’s the middle of the night in Vermont. I think you and I both reacted to the term ‘freak storm’ and then both of us ran with it.”

  “One last question, Ruby. If I decide I want to go there, will you let me take your plane? It’s a lot to ask.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Sage Thornton. If I let you take my plane, can I go with you? Dad gave me flying lessons one year as a birthday present. He kept a Cherokee at Logan Airport for me. I never got my license, though. Dad had his stroke. Sallie moved him to the mountain. Mom got sick, then Dad passed away. Life just got in the way. I might be some good to you.”

  “Okay, it’s a deal. I’ll call you after the next weather forecast.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Ruby broke the connection and called the main house. “Edna, I want you to pack me a bag. This is what I want, my long underwear, my fur-lined boots, some flannel shirts, and those heavy wool slacks. Bring my shearling jacket, a wool hat, some gloves, and extra wool socks. Bring both pairs of boots. Fill that huge jug with coffee and make it strong. Make a bunch of sandwiches, thick ones. Add some fruit. Pack up all the flashlights and extra batteries. Look in the garage for the flares. The box is marked. I think we only used half of them when we marked the runway during that dust storm when the pilot was bringing in those baby chicks. If there is an extra one, bring it too, and lots of cigarettes. Two bottles of that fifty-year-old brandy will do nicely. Don’t forget anything, Edna.”

  What in the name of God was she contemplating? Only a fool would do what she knew Sage was planning. What was even worse, she was planning to go along with his outrageous plan. They were both fools.

  Ruby’s hand snaked out to the phone. What she was about to do was probably another mistake. Later she could blame it on the bourbon even though she was now stone-cold sober. She dialed the number from memory, not because she dialed it often but because, like now, she’d dial the number and break the connection just as the phone was about to ring at the other end of the line. How many times had she done that? Hundreds? Thousands? Probably thousands. She sucked in her breath and held it for a long moment before she let it out with a loud swoosh. She looked down at her trembling hand. The last time her hand had trembled like this she’d been in bed with Metaxas Parish doing wild, wonderful things that she still dreamed about. Her shaky hand balled into a clenched fist. She banged the desk so hard everything scattered, pencils and pens skittering to the side and rolling on the floor. The small, portable television teetered a moment and then was still. Coffee swished upward to splatter everywhere. “So, who gives a good rat’s ass,” she muttered.

  The voice was deep, resonant, even at this time of night. Often the voice sounded like a mixture of gravel and molasses. She would know it anyway even if the owner was across a crowded room and whispering. “Metaxas, this is Ruby Thornton.”

  “Sweet love, is it really you? Darlin’ girl, I still dream about you and wonderful dreams they are. Ya’ll having a change of heart where ol’ Tex is concerned? Heard about your new venture. Ah wish you the best, li’l gal. So when are ya’ll coming for a visit? My plane is gassed and I can be there before you blink if it’s me ya’ll want to do the visitin’,” Metaxas drawled.


  “I’ve been thinking about redecorating these offices. Sprucing the place up if you know what I mean. Some pictures, some plants, a new floor, maybe a chair with an ottoman. New window treatments, that kind of thing. Bright colors. The chicken business is booming. We’re about to go with free-range. Maybe you should think about doing something like that with your cattle. You always say you want to be ahead of the pack. Our kickoff for the fast-food palaces is right on schedule. Promotion started a week ago. It’s a billion-dollar industry.” Her voice was as jittery and shaky as her hands.

  “That’s a powerful amount of money. Decorating is something ladies do when they don’t have anything else to do. Or else they sell real estate. I’d like to think you were pinin’ for me. Now if you’d marry me, we could combine our little empires and control the beef and chicken markets in this country. Forget giving them Colemans a piece of the action. They got enough money with all their electronic and aviation sidelines. They’re only distant relatives anyway.”

  “You told me you hate chickens.” Ruby immediately picked up on the word marry. She drew in a deep breath. “You aren’t free, Metaxas.”

  “Sweet love, I am now. Colette up and asked for a divorce a year ago. She said she don’t want none of my holdings. Now, don’t that beat all. I was prepared to split things right down the middle. He’s an artist fella who travels all over paintin’ strange things. Bohemian, Colette called him: I bought a hundred pictures, sight unseen. She agreed to that. I’d be mighty pleased to send them to you for your decorating spree.”