Texas Hustle

by Cynthia D'Alba

  Camping with the Montgomery clan had crystalized for her that she wanted a family-centered life. Witnessing the love and interaction among Montgomery family members had brought her an appreciation for family, and in turn, her parents. Sure, they had been hard on her when she’d screwed up, but she had been the one to disappoint them. Could she repair the fence between them?

  On days when she and Darren didn’t see each other, they spoke by phone, long, drawn-out conversations about anything and everything. Porchia had always known that ranching was a dirty, exhausting job, but seeing it in action when she visited the D&R gave her a greater appreciation for Darren’s life. She didn’t visit the ranch as much as she could have—after all, time on her hands was ample. But the ranch house was small, and with newlyweds Reno and Magda living there, she felt her presence to be an imposition, regardless of what Darren, Reno and Magda said.

  It was about ten days before Thanksgiving when Darren picked her up for dinner. He chose a small, intimate steakhouse in Tyler, a little over an hour away. Bad of her she knew, but she couldn’t help but wonder if their numerous dates lately to other towns besides Whispering Springs were because he was tired of all the nasty gossip about her.

  The restaurant was located in an old building that had once been a county jail. The cells were still in place, albeit now divided to make single-table, private dining areas.

  As they were shown to one of the private dining tables, Porchia said, “I have always wanted to come here. I’ve heard about it forever.”

  Darren pulled out her chair and she sat. How chivalrous. Something about a guy holding out a chair for her made all her femaleness stretch and preen.

  “I’ve only been here once,” he said. “The steaks were juicy and the beer was cold. I was a happy camper.”

  She laughed. “A perfect combo.”

  After they ordered, he brought up Thanksgiving. “The family is getting together at the Bar M ranch. Everyone will be there.” He grinned. “It was crowded before all the spouses and children. It’ll be positively nuts this year. You’re gonna love it. Mom and Dad will be glad to see you.”

  Her stomach roiled. She had to tell him about Thanksgiving in Atlanta. But every time she looked at him, her heart sighed and rolled over like a puppy demanding a tummy rub. She was head-over-heels in love with this man. She hadn’t told him as she hadn’t decided exactly what she was going to do about the realization.

  “You got quiet,” he said, taking her hand. “You know my family loves you. You have to know I love you.”

  Her lungs seized, making breathing almost impossible. Forcing in a gulp of air, she said, “I…” She hesitated.

  He squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to love me back, but you will. I’ll do anything and everything to win your heart.”

  “Oh, Darren.” She touched his cheek. “You are so dear to me. Your family has been beyond wonderful and welcoming. I love them so much.”

  He winced and then kissed her palm. “Great. Then you’ll spend Thanksgiving with us.”

  Tears formed in her eyes. She hated that crying was her response to every strong emotion, be it anger or happiness. Right now, she was a jumble of conflicting emotions.

  “I do love you, Darren. You are the man every little girl dreams of falling in love with.”

  He grew serious. “I hear a but at the end of your sentence.”

  Darren didn’t even comment on her saying she loved him. Damn man knew her simply too well. He heard the hesitation in her voice.

  She pulled her hand free from his to use her napkin to dab at her eyes. Damn make-up. “Being with your family has made me realize how much I miss my own. I have been apart from my parents for more than half my lifetime. I want to see if I can have the type of relationship with them that you do with your parents.”

  He nodded, “I can understand that.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that I’m going back to Atlanta.”

  He sat back in his chair, the surprise evident in his expression. “When? And for how long?”

  “Soon. My flight leaves on Tuesday.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I know I’ll be there for Thanksgiving. And if we can repair the damage, well, I just don’t know. I didn’t realize how much I missed having my mom and dad in my life until I met yours.”

  With the impeccable timing of every waiter in the world, theirs chose that moment to deliver their sizzling steaks. What looked delicious was tasteless for Porchia. She might as well have been chewing rubber.

  Darren changed the subject to a new horse he was looking at. Relieved at the reprieve, she grabbed the lifeline he had tossed and they talked horses the rest of the meal. As he paid the check, she dreaded the drive home. His entire demeanor had flipped like a light switch as soon as she’d mentioned going to Atlanta.

  “Darren,” she said as he pulled from the drive. “Talk to me.”

  “We’ve been talking all night.”

  She sighed. “You’re upset with me.”

  He glanced toward her, his lips forming a tense line across his mouth. “How am I supposed to feel? One minute you tell me that you love me, and with the next sentence, you blast my high like a skeet pigeon.”

  “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, but I have to try to put my family back together. I busted it apart. It’s my job to fix it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The animosity in his voice hit like a tidal wave.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said bullshit. You were a child. You made a mistake. Hell, all kids do. That’s how we learn. You think I didn’t fuck up a million times growing up? Reno? KC? You think Clint and Nadine only loved us and kept us safe because we were perfect?” He laughed, but it lacked any humor. “Your parents have done a total mind fuck on you. Every teenager makes horrible decisions. That’s what those years are for. Your parents were the adults. If your family disintegrated, it was their fault, not yours.”

  Hot anger flared inside her. “How dare you talk about my parents like that? You don’t know them. You don’t understand how much pressure my father is under. You can’t understand how important his career is. Paul Randolph is a prominent member of Atlanta society. He makes life and death decisions every day.”

  Confusion furrowed his brow. “Randolph? You have a different last name from your father?”

  “And my mother. I brought so much shame to the Randolph name. Taking my mother’s maiden name was the least I could do.”

  “And they let you?” He scoffed. “Your folks are not only idiots, they’re bad parents.”

  Her back stiffened. “How dare you?”

  “How dare they let a kid carry such guilt for all these years? How dare they let their only child change her last name because they were embarrassed? Mom and Dad would take turns kicking our asses if any of their kids had tried to dump the Montgomery name.”

  She turned to stare out the windshield. “I’m done talking about this.”

  “What if I’m not?”

  She shot him her best glare. “Then talk to yourself and leave me the fuck out of it.”

  When he pulled up to her house after an interminable drive, she opened her door. “Don’t get out. I can see myself in.” She slid out and slammed the door.

  “Porchia. Wait.”

  She turned. He was standing inside the driver’s open door talking over the top of his truck.

  “Remember this…I love you. I will always take your side over the world’s, even if the world happens to be the two people who gave you life. But that doesn’t mean I’ll wait for you forever. It’s your decision to make.”

  He got back into the truck and drove away.

  Tuesday morning, Porchia boarded her flight, not having heard from Darren since their date. It pained her to leave things so unsettled with him. She had called the house last night but Magda had said the guys were still in the field. There was something in Magda’s voice that sug
gested the story was total BS. She wasn’t sure if Magda was protecting her new brother-in-law by her own accord, or if Darren had been standing next to Magda the whole time they’d been on the phone. She’d never know for sure, but what she did know was that he hadn’t returned her call.

  It was raining cats and dogs when she landed at Atlanta International Airport. When she got to the baggage claim area, a chauffeur was holding up a sign with her name, or rather Katherine P.S. Randolph on it.

  “I’m Katherine Randolph.” The name sounded foreign on her tongue.

  “Yes, ma’am. Your mother had a lunch engagement and could not come. I’m Jimmy North. I work for your parents.”

  Her first thought was, “Home, James!” but concerned he would think she was making fun of his name, she kept the joke to herself. Embarrassing her parents with stupid comments would not get this visit off on the correct foot.

  They pulled through the elaborate iron gates that protected her parents from the hoi polloi, even from those within their own Buckhead neighborhood. Jimmy followed the drive up and around the massive fountain to stop the Mercedes at the front door.

  Porchia stepped from the car.

  Growing up, she’d thought the large mansion to be magical. Now it looked impressive, as though announcing to the world how much money the occupants must have.

  The front door opened and a young, thin, dark-haired woman Porchia didn’t know stood there. Dressed in a pencil skirt, matched sweater set and a strand of pearls, she was the quintessential Georgia peach as designed by Porchia’s mother.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “Welcome home. I’m Rudy Wells, your mother’s new personal secretary.” The woman’s Southern accent was so thick Porchia wasn’t sure if it was natural or enhanced. There was a tangible lack of warmth exhibited by most Southern-bred ladies.

  For some reason, this woman rubbed Porchia the wrong way. Maybe it was her manner of welcoming Porchia into her own family’s home. Or maybe it was the way she seemed to be looking down her nose at Porchia, as one did when one encountered a foul odor.

  Porchia nodded. “Hello. Is my mother home?”

  “I’m sorry. She’s been delayed at the club.”

  The club. Ah. Her mother’s home away from home.

  “In fact,” Rudy added, “Jimmy, as soon as you unload Katherine’s luggage, you need to pick up Mrs. Randolph. I’ll let her know you’re on your way.”

  Jimmy set the two pieces of luggage on the drive. “Do you need me to take these up for you?” he asked Porchia. “I’ll be happy to.”

  “No, that’s fine. I can manage.”

  Jimmy doffed an imaginary hat and left.

  Porchia looked at the snide woman still standing in the doorway. “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me with my luggage.”

  It gave Porchia perverse pleasure to see the stunned face and fish lip reaction on Miss Prissy Pants.

  “Oh, and the name is Porchia, not Katherine.”

  Rudy blew out a breath. “I’ll show you to your room,” she said, lifting the small carry-on tote bag, leaving the two larger pieces for Porchia.

  Porchia stifled a snort of pleasure, grabbed the handles on her bags and rolled them up the stairs and into the grand foyer. Rudy was headed up the curved staircase but stopped long enough to look down at Porchia. Then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and continued climbing.

  Did this fool not realize that Porchia had grown up in this house? Did she really think Porchia didn’t know about the luggage elevator?

  With a roll of her eyes, Porchia wheeled her luggage to the small dumbwaiter, loaded her bags and started the lift rising. Only then did she head up the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  June Randolph arrived ninety minutes after Porchia. From her upstairs bedroom window, Porchia watched her mother gracefully exit the rear seat of the Mercedes sedan. Each fluid movement, high-heeled step and elegant hand gesture announced that June Randolph was a proper Southern lady, which had always amused Porchia since her mother had been born to a lower middle class family in Arkansas. She had moved to Whispering Springs, Texas, when Porchia’s grandfather had taken a job in an oil field. All her mother’s refinements had come after she’d met law student Paul Randolph.

  Porchia’s father had been raised in Atlanta by a Supreme Court judge and his stay-at-home wife. He’d been indoctrinated since birth with the charm and grace all Southern gentlemen should exhibit. Not following in his father’s judicial footprints had never entered his mind. He searched for, and found, the perfect woman he could mold into a wife to help propel him toward his goals.

  He had wanted a male heir to carry on the family name and career, but it was never meant to be. After several miscarriages, he and June had Katherine Porchia Summers Randolph. They had loved Katherine, but she’d fought the constraints of being a Randolph as soon as she could voice her opinion. Nonetheless, they were proud of her academic and athletic achievements. The incident with Slade Madden had destroyed their faith in their daughter.

  Porchia wanted to reconnect with her parents. She wanted what Darren shared with his parents…love…trust…respect.

  She hurried down the stairs to greet her mother as she entered the mansion.

  “Mom,” Porchia cried.

  June raised her gaze to watch her daughter rush down the stairs. “Katherine,” she admonished. “Is that how you enter a room?”

  Porchia slowed, taking the last four steps with precise, measured movements.

  “That’s much better,” June praised. “Now, come give your mother a kiss.”

  For June, kissing meant air-kisses above each cheek. If her lips were to actually touch another’s face, her artfully applied lipstick could smudge, or leave a mark on another’s face. Neither outcome was acceptable.

  June air-kissed Porchia, a daughter she hadn’t seen in months, as though it were a lunch with a friend. Porchia placed her uncolored lips on her mother’s cheek, which produced a gasp. But her mother recovered quickly and overlooked the perceived faux pas.

  Holding her daughter at arm’s length, she studied Porchia. “Darling. Your hair.” June picked up the strands of long blond hair and tsked. “You know that long hair ages the face of a mature-aged woman.

  “I’m only thirty-two,” Porchia protested.

  “Still,” her mother said on an exhaled sigh. “I’ll call Mr. Nick and see if we can get you an emergency appointment for this week. It’ll be hard because he’s the best and everyone in Atlanta wants him to do their hair, but he owes me a favor or two, so I’m sure I can get him to see you.”

  Her mother sighed a few more times. “And these clothes.”

  Porchia looked down at her khaki cargo pants and polo shirt. “What? It’s all new.”

  “I’m sure it is,” her mother replied, followed by a long-suffering sigh. “But you know how slacks make your hips and thighs look unnaturally large.”

  Porchia looked down at her size-ten body and couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “No problem, my dear. This will give us an excellent excuse to do some shopping tomorrow. I do hope you have a skirt for dinner.” June checked her watch. “We have time for a quick cocktail. That should give you adequate time to put your face on and change clothes.”

  Putting her face on meant make-up. Unlike her Whispering Springs life where powder, eyeliner and lipstick would constitute make-up on a good day, her mother felt any woman was underdressed without base, powder, blush, eye shadow, liner and lip color. And Porchia might as well drag out the under-eye concealer or she’d hear about that over dinner.

  She allowed herself to be led into a small room off her father’s office. Here, her mother had set up her own office. Decorated in soft pastel colors, the room sported a delicate writing desk, lounger, sofa and a couple of wingback, upholstered chairs. In the corner, her mother had a small tea tray with decanters of varying shades of brown down to clear liquid. Her mother was quite the mixologist.

  “I’m having a
very dry martini,” June said. “What would you like?”

  Porchia wanted a beer, very cold and preferably in a chilled, icy mug. She knew, however, that request would not be well-received. “What you’re having is fine.”

  The first sip made Porchia’s eyes water. She wasn’t that much of a hard-liquor gal. The second one went down better, not much better, but at least she felt like she could keep it down.

  Her mother stretched out on her fainting couch, as Porchia has always referred to it, and took a long drink from her glass. “Ah,” her mother said. “Much better.” She caught Porchia’s gaze. “The morning was brutal. I am in charge of the Christmas decorations for the flower club and, I’m sad to say, the only taste Mabel Steinbrenner has is in her mouth. The woman thought we should alternate red and white poinsettias in the entry hall. Can you imagine such a tacky display?” She took another gulp of her martini. “Why, we’d be the laughing stock of Atlanta. We’ve always done solid red. It’s so much more dignified and classic.”

  Porchia doubted they’d be the laughing stock of anywhere, much less Atlanta. No one would even notice the alternating colors. And Porchia could envision a beautiful candy-cane effect with the red and white, but she knew better than to proffer an opinion not sought. So she simply said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh, you remember Sally Pope, don’t you? She’s married to Dr. Harry Pope, the cardiac surgeon. I think they had a son about your age. Myron Pope. You remember Myron, don’t you, dear?”

  Oh, yeah, she remembered Myron Pope. He was a couple of years older than her, had a face so scarred by acne everyone called him pizza face, and—if she remembered correctly—had only a passing acquaintance with soap.