“Uh-huh. I remember him.”
“Well,” her mother said. “Sally and Harris belong to the same golf club we do, and we saw them just the other night. Myron has moved back to Atlanta to be closer to them. Isn’t that great? I told Sally you’d love to see Myron, so we’re meeting them at the club for dinner on Wednesday evening. Won’t that be fun? You and Myron have so much in common.”
“Uh-huh. But that’s the night before Thanksgiving. Won’t we have a lot to do that evening?”
“I can’t think of what. Cook will be preparing the next day’s meal. No, I think an evening with the Popes is just the perfect way to start the holiday.”
Her mother had called the family’s personal chef Cook for as long as Porchia could remember. It didn’t matter if the chef was male or female or even if they had a preference of how they’d like to be referred to. It was always Cook.
“Mother, don’t you want to talk about what happened in Texas? With Slade and my bakery?”
June stood and walked over to the teacart bar. After refilling her martini glass to the rim, she turned to face Porchia and took a long swallow. “That business in Texas is over. It was unpleasant for me to think about, much less to speak of it. My advice, dear, is to simply put it out of your mind and move on. The past is the past. Now…” She checked the Patek Phillippe on her wrist.
Porchia had never seen that particular diamond watch, so she assumed it was some ridiculously expensive gift from her father.
“Now,” her mother continued, “you need to get dressed for dinner. And please put your face on and do something with that stringy hair. I’ll telephone Mr. Nick while you dress.” She waved her hand. “Go on. I wouldn’t want you to have to hurry.”
Porchia finished her drink, set the glass on the teacart and headed up to the bedroom assigned her. She didn’t really have a designated bedroom here any longer. After she’d opted to not move back home after college, her mother had disposed of all Porchia’s clutter and redecorated it as guestroom, not that June and Paul had occasion to entertain overnight that much.
The martini was doing its trick. Porchia felt the intoxicating drink in the swirl of her brain. She had a couple of hours before dinner, more than enough time to lie down and still have plenty of leeway in her schedule. She set her phone alarm for thirty minutes and fell face-first on the mattress.
When she awoke—fuzzy-brained and disoriented—it took a cold shower to clear the cobwebs. After carefully applying her make-up, every layer as expected by her mother, she artfully twisted her hair into an up-do. Dressed in the only skirt she’d brought, a nice blouse and a pair of loafers, she girded herself for her meeting with her father.
She found her parents in the formal living room, each holding a martini glass.
“Katherine,” her father said. “How nice to see you.”
She’d thought he might come over to her, hug her or at minimum, give her an air-kiss. He did nothing but grant her the smile she’d seen him give large political donors.
“Hello, Father. It’s nice to see the house hasn’t changed much.”
“Oh, well,” her mother said. “You know how your father dislikes change.”
“It’s not that I dislike change,” Paul said. “It’s that change for change’s sake is a waste of good money.”
“Yes, dear,” her mother said. “Of course.”
Porchia wanted to gag, but these were her parents. She’d come here to rebuild those bridges she’d burned so many years ago.
“Well, it’s nice to be home,” she said.
“What are your plans?” Paul asked.
“I’m not sure. The bakery is a total loss.”
“Are you having any trouble with your insurance paying?” Paul asked. “I can certainly give them a call if so.”
Porchia was sure a phone call from Judge Randolph would speed the process, but she had never liked to use pull to get something if she could avoid it.
“No, but thank you. My agent has been more than responsive, so I should have my check soon.”
“You’ll be coming into the trust fund my sister left you soon. Do you have plans for that?”
“Oh, Paul. Let’s not talk business. Let’s just go in and have a nice dinner.” Brackets of disappointment appeared around her mother’s lips.
Porchia had no idea how much, or how little, was in the trust fund that Aunt Betty had left her. Her father’s sister had died before marrying and without any children. She’d left her estate to her niece when Porchia had been only ten. She did need to learn more about trusts and what would happen when she turned thirty-five, but it seemed more like a story from her childhood than a reality of adulthood.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Mostly the sound of sterling silver flatware clicking on fine china broke the silence. Her father and mother talked about their days, who they’d seen and what difficulties they’d dealt with. A couple of times, Porchia wondered if they remembered she was there. They tried to include her in the conversation but seemed at a loss what to ask her about. However, it became glaringly apparent her mother did not want to talk about the incident with Slade and her father would follow her lead.
The next day, as promised, Mr. Nick met Porchia and June at his shop at eight a.m. Apparently, this was an obscenely early hour for Mr. Nick, who usually didn’t take his first client until closer to ten. He immediately declared Porchia’s hair a disaster and insisted she needed six to eight inches cut to rid her of such an unsightly mess. Porchia almost left right then. After a long, drawn-out consultation with June and a verbal battle with Porchia, he agreed to cut only two inches.
The sonofabitch, in cahoots with her mother, cut at least five inches off. It still left her with enough length she could pull it back, but the sight of all her hair scattered on the floor made her gasp.
From there, Jimmy drove her mother and her to a small, upscale boutique where the racks were loaded with name-brand items. June pulled a few garments for Porchia to try on.
“Really, Katherine,” her mother said. “You just have to have something appropriate to wear for dinner tonight.”
Appropriate turned out to be six skirts, eight blouses, five dresses and four pairs of heels. Her mother also tossed onto the growing pile a couple of undergarment foundations to help with that little stomach budge, as June so politely put it.
Dinner at the club with Harry and Sally Pope and their son was as horrible as Porchia had feared. Oh, not that Myron hadn’t finally got that acne cleared up and come to love soap. He had. He had a Harvard law degree and an opinion of himself that no one could ever top.
Her mother found him charming and an ideal companion.
Porchia did not.
She made it through Thanksgiving without stabbing herself in the eye, but only because she was worried she’d not die but only be blind. Every time she got the urge to leave, she reminded herself that June and Paul were her parents, the ones who’d given her life. They deserved her love and respect.
After she’d been in Atlanta for a week, she pined for her home in Whispering Springs, but mostly she missed Darren. She picked up the phone to call him so many times his name was the first suggestion under her phone’s suggested-call list.
Fifteen days before Christmas, she got Magda on the phone.
“How’s married life?” Porchia asked.
“Pretty much the same as unmarried life,” Magda said with a laugh. “How are you? We’re all wasting away here without all your pastry goodness.”
Porchia chuckled. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I’m not that missed.”
“Depend on who’s doing the missing.”
Porchia’s breath caught. “Someone there missing me?”
“Maybe,” Magda said with a laugh. “And if someone was missing you, he’d be a total ass to live with, if you get my drift.”
A thrill ran through Porchia. Darren did miss her. For the first time since she’d arrived in Atlanta, she felt like Porchia again, and not like Katherine.
“How are things going with your parents?” Magda asked.
“Oh, they’re going.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… Hell, I don’t know what it means. It’s just so different here. In their own way, I’m sure my parents love me and are glad I’m here. But on the other hand, I think they were used to their lives without an adult offspring living with them.”
“So when you coming home?”
Porchia sighed. “I don’t know. My business is gone. My family lives in Georgia, not Texas.”
“There are different kinds of families. There are the ones you are related to by blood. You have no choice there. But then there are the families you choose to love. Your friends. Your lover. You have to decide which family makes you the happiest.”
Magda’s words resounded in Porchia. What she said made sense. What was left for Porchia to decide was which family would make her the happiest.
That evening as she dressed for dinner, she reminisced about her years in Texas. How much simpler her life was there. No putting on her face before breakfast, and even when she did apply make-up, it was minimal. Lots of jeans, T-shirts and cowboy boots. Now, it was skirts and more skirts, jewelry and heels. Not that she didn’t look great in her new clothes with her new hair style, but was it her? Did she still fit into this world?
Her mother continued to apply what she called motherly concern to Porchia’s imperfections. So far, Porchia had undergone a haircut—albeit not as much as her mother would prefer—new clothes, weekly manicures, and now her mother had set her up for tennis lessons at the club.
“I spoke with Tony, and he’s penciled you in today for a lesson. I’m sure you don’t have an appropriate tennis dress, so we’ll need to hurry to get to Tennis and More to get you something to wear.”
“Mother. I told you I don’t have any interest in tennis lessons.”
Her mother frowned, or would have if her botoxed brow would have allowed it. “Golf then?” She clucked her displeasure. “Not really an activity a lady would engage in, but then you have been out of my influence. It’s not your fault that my mother didn’t teach you all the proper ways of a lady.”
Porchia sighed. “Grandma Summers was wonderful to me.”
June dabbed her lips with the linen breakfast napkin. “I know she was, Katherine.”
Porchia sighed again. “You remember that I told you I go by Porchia now.”
Her mother wrinkled her nose. “It sounds like a car. Katherine is so much more dignified.”
“Hey. You gave me that name.”
“Yes, well, it was a youthful discretion on our part.” Her mother’s face brightened. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Myron Pope is quite taken with you. Sally is over the moon. I was thinking we should have them over for dinner this weekend.”
The idea of Myron Pope touching her or kissing her almost had Porchia losing her breakfast. He was a worm.
“Sally told me that Myron said you were an excellent conversationalist.”
Porchia laughed. “Mother. All the man talked about was himself.”
“Well, that is usually a man’s favorite subject, isn’t it?” Her mother chuckled. “Now hurry up and change clothes so we can get to Tennis and More when it opens. It is so good of Tony to work you into his packed schedule.”
Porchia didn’t really want to learn to play tennis, but her brain was slowly but surely shriveling up and dying cell by cell from the boredom. And frankly, tennis was better than another luncheon with her mother. And she needed some exercise.
She missed baking. The one time she’d mentioned baking a cake for dessert, her mother and Cook almost had a case of Southern vapors.
She even missed getting up at five-thirty in the morning. She’d gotten up early a couple of times, headed down for coffee and run into her father, who’d seemed surprised to find her, as though he’d forgotten she was home. About the only time she saw him was at dinner. He left for court before her mother rose for the day. After dinner, he generally retired to his study to read his law journals.
On Friday, the Popes arrived for cocktails at seven, followed by dinner. Porchia dressed in a form-fitting royal-blue dress with a pair of leather kitten heels. After wrapping her hair into a French twist, she put on a pair of chandelier-style sapphire earrings. As she made her way down the staircase, she studied Myron Pope talking with her father. Dressed in a tailored thousand-dollar grey suit, Myron looked like a man who had money, lots and lots of money. He projected an air of entitlement and secure social standing, not that he’d done anything to earn that place in Atlanta society other than be born to wealthy parents.
“There she is,” her father said as she entered the formal living room.
“Hello, darling,” her mother said, giving Porchia the standard air-kisses.
“She always did love to make an entrance and have the spotlight on her,” Myron said with a smile. “You’re looking lovely this evening, Katherine.” He took her hands and bussed her cheek with his lips. “I’m glad we’re together again.”
So far, Porchia had bitten her tongue to the point where she wondered if the tip would simply flop to the floor if she opened her mouth. She gritted her teeth and twisted her lips into a smile.
“What are we all drinking?” she asked, pulling her hands free. “Can I get anyone a refill?”
Her mother lifted her martini glass. “Sally and I would love a couple of fresh ones, darling.”
At one time, her parents had a butler who would do the bartending duties as well as answer the door. But in an effort to remain in touch with the simpler lifestyle, they’d let the butler go and had only kept a cook, June’s social secretary and a maid to help Cook keep the house.
“I’ve got it, honey,” her father said and hurried to the bar. There, he retrieved the icy pitcher of dry martinis. “What would you like, Katherine?”
What Katherine would like was to be called Porchia and for someone to toss her a beer, not that she could verbalize those two opinions. Her mother would need smelling salts to recover.
“A martini is fine,” Porchia said. Besides, the alcohol might numb her enough to get through the evening without jerking what she suspected was a toupee off Myron’s head.
Cook stepped into the room and spoke quietly with Porchia’s father. He glanced over at Porchia and then responded to Cook, who hurried out of the room. Probably some terrible meat emergency that would send her mother into a good old-fashion swoon if she found out. But her father and Cook spoke much too softly for their voices to travel, and Porchia was left out in the cold. However, that little glance from her dad did make her curious. She guzzled the first martini her father handed her and immediately got a refill. The doorbell rang as the rim of the martini glass touched her lips.
“I’ll get it,” she said, glad to have any reason to leave the room. She hurried to the foyer before an objection could be made.
She threw the door open and her mouth fell agape.
“Porchia?” Darren asked.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’d taken Darren a couple of days to wheedle Porchia’s parents’ address out of his sister, KC. He’d finally had to break down and tell her the truth…that he was going after Porchia because he was in love with her. KC had screamed with joy, which had made his ears hurt and got everyone else in the office coming to see what the problem was.
Damn his sister. Now the entire Montgomery & Montgomery office knew how he felt about Porchia. If she kicked him back to Texas, everyone would know that too. Still, he had to try.
Darren was stunned when the airport cab pulled up to the gate of an old, very large, extremely ornate Southern mansion. Porchia had never mentioned coming from money. In fact, he’d even heard her complain about her struggle to make ends meet on more than one occasion.
The cab pulled up to an elaborate iron gate and rolled forward enough to allow Darren to reach the callbox button.
Darren rang and waited for an answer.<
br />
“Yes?” a female voice said.
Darren leaned his head out the window and spoke in a loud voice. “I’m a friend of Porchia Summers. I was told she would be here.”
“Porchia?”
“That’s correct.”
“One minute please.”
There was a long pause and then the gate swung open slowly.
While waiting through the long pause before the gate opened, Darren wondered if he’d gotten the wrong address. However, this must be the right address since the person at the other end of the security callbox allowed the cab to proceed up a paved curved drive to park in front of a set of double doors.
After paying the driver, Darren set his duffle bag off to the side of the door and rang the bell. While he waited for someone to answer, his heart raced like a thoroughbred coming down the home stretch.
He’d hoped Porchia’s reaction to his arrival would be to throw her arms around his neck with a cry of delight. What he got was a somewhat more reserved reaction.
She opened the door, a bright smile on her face that instantly dropped into a stupefied expression.
Darren’s hungry gaze ran over her, from her heels, up her legs—was she wearing nylons?—to a dress that accented her luscious curves to her beautiful face—was she wearing eye shadow?—to a hairstyle that made her look elegant and way out of his league.
He looked down at his jeans, cowboy boots and simple snap shirt. She didn’t just look out of his league, she was.
He gulped. “Porchia?”
“Darren? What are you doing here?”
“I…” He turned to leave. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”
“Wait.” She grabbed his arm. “Don’t go.”
“Who’s there, Katherine?” a male voice asked from the foyer.
Katherine? Did Porchia have a twin sister she’d never mentioned?
“A friend,” Porchia answered.
“Well, invite your friend in.”
“Um…” A flush climbed up her neck. “Do you want to come in?”
“Katherine? Who’s Katherine?” Darren asked.
Porchia shut her eyes for a minute as though gaining strength to continue. “That’s me. Katherine is my first name. Porchia is my middle name.”
Texas Hustle Page 22