As she let the screen slam behind her, she heard Jack’s furious whisper, “What in the fucking hell happened today? She hasn’t looked like that since she first came home. Damn it all to hell and back, Gideon!”
She walked up the stairs and wondered if she’d ever be as strong as Amy, strong enough to simply live life again.
Chapter 20
Dallas, Texas; late October; almost a year and a half later
“Mrs. Pepperton,” Morgan said as she hurried into her office at Gaelord’s Antiquities Firm, late from her professor wanting to expound on the historical accuracies in art. “I apologize for the delay.”
Mrs. Pepperton was a Dallas socialite born and bred. She’d been a cattleman’s daughter and an oil tycoon’s wife. Now she was a very wealthy widow with more money to spend than she knew what to do with. The gray-haired dame had been a top client of Gaelord’s since Morgan’s father ran the antiquities firm.
“Think nothing of it, my dear. At my age patience is all I’m made of.”
Morgan smiled, set her briefcase down and asked, “Do you need anything? Tea? Coffee? Water?”
The lady shook her head and Morgan noticed Mrs. Pepperton still favored pink skirt suits. Morgan wondered why the woman had called and made an appointment that morning, but knew she’d find out.
“I wanted to ask you,” Mrs. Pepperton started, “if the reproduction Edwardian piece will be as flawless as the original we missed at the auction.”
Morgan sighed, tried to relax the muscles in her shoulders that driving from point A to point B always seemed to tighten. Her leather chaired sighed against her. “Mrs. Pepperton, I realize you wanted an original. However, I believe this is a good alternative. Besides, the insurance premium will be more to your liking,” she added with a smile, knowing how the woman hated insurers and believed they took advantage of her. Morgan tapped her pen on the desktop.
Morgan listened to the same complaints that she had from their client for the last two weeks. The woman wanted the original European washstand, supposedly English, Victorian or Edwardian era. Morgan thoroughly believed the washstand had been of the former. It had been a rare piece in perfect condition, but they’d been outbid with the price range Mrs. Pepperton had specified.
Listening, and nodding, Morgan quickly shuffled through her afternoon agenda thinking of her upcoming meeting with their marketing firm.
“Well, I did like the other alternative,” the old woman said. “You mentioned last week that there was a similar piece in New Orleans. Are you certain it is an original?” Mrs. Pepperton’s raspy voice asked.
Morgan straightened as Jack strode by her office. “Yes, Mrs. Pepperton, we have dealt with this dealer for years. And you know at Gaelord’s we pride ourselves on not only acquiring the piece you want”—as long as the customer was willing to pay the price, she added to herself—“but also on authenticating pieces and setting clients up with a list of antiquities insurers. Or in your case helping push the required paperwork through.”
Several minutes later, Morgan had the woman’s permission to purchase the piece at the asking price. With that, the matron looked at her watch and said, “You must forgive me, my dear, but I must be going. My driver needs to get me to my doctor’s appointment. Damned old age.”
Morgan helped the woman to her feet and to the door, where her driver took over and helped her to the elevator. Morgan stood at the railing, staring at the floor below, watching as Jack now walked the two out the door.
She sighed and relaxed, leaning a hip on the black ironwork. Gaelord’s was located in a turn-of-the-century brick building. Jack and Gideon had purchased the building, an old bank, over ten years ago, and had it renovated. The bottom floor, or show floor, with its double floor and high ceilings, allowed for the easy moving of antiques, a loading dock in the back alley. What had originally been the third floor was Gaelord’s second, and it modernized the look of the office with its floor-to-ceiling glass-walled outer offices. There were three, one for each of them, and a conference area. The glass walls opened to the balcony and allowed them to see what was going on below. Everything else was left as was, or carefully reproduced to retain the old charm of the building. At almost two in the afternoon, the place was quiet, but their busiest times were generally in the mornings, or late in the afternoon before closing at five. The only time Gaelord’s stayed open later was on Friday and Saturday, until nine. In a suave, downtown three-story building, they saw a steady stream of clients, from the honeymooning tourists to the dedicated collectors and wanting-to-please designers.
As she turned to go back into her office, she realized how much she loved this job. A year ago she’d finally ventured out of the house, something telling her it was time. It had taken six months after the mall fiasco, as she still referred to it. She’d stayed at the ranch, seeing Dr. Stewart once a week there, and an instructor had been hired and taught her self-defense twice a week. And Morgan used her computer to finish her degree in business. She’d then wanted her master’s. Last year, she’d enrolled in the local college and took marketing and art history courses, wanting to concentrate in that area to help make her mark in the family business.
Surprisingly, it seemed to be working. She still saw Dr. Stewart, though usually it was now once every two weeks, sometimes every three weeks. She’d learned to drive herself without passing out from fear. How she hated the fear—and it was still always with her. She’d just learned to control it, for the most part, instead of letting it control her.
Control. It was all about control.
Jack grinned as he walked up the wide staircase to her. “You did good with Pepperton. I knew you would.” He walked her back to her office and plopped in the chair across from her wide mahogany kneehole desk, one of her pride and joys.
Morgan glared at her brother as she made her way around to sit back in her own chair. He’d had enough of the old besom and had given Mrs. Pepperton Morgan’s number. She hadn’t had peace since.
She picked up her pen and threw it at Jackson. “You owe me big.”
He laughed, lines bracketing his mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners. She was getting wrinkles at twenty-seven and he was attaining character. Semantics sucked.
“Ah, but Mrs. Pepperton acts so much better with you,” he said, leaning back. She looked out the glass panels that made up one wall and door to her oversized office on the top floor of the building. Jack and Gideon’s offices were down the hall.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked, crossing one jean-clad leg over his knee.
“Nothing. So what are you doing here? Don’t you have some clients to wheedle? Impress? Take to dinner? I thought you had a meeting in Houston today.” She opened a file on the computer and added the last conversation she and Mrs. Pepperton had.
“I just wanted to say you did a great job with the Bainbougher acquisitions.”
She didn’t look up at him. She hadn’t wanted the damn clients. In fact, she rarely spent time with people. Her end was marketing—for the most part. Gideon handled the security of everything from Dresden figurines to the anti-hackerware for their computer network.
J. D. Gaelord was the point man. He schmoozed, wined and dined clients.
They all did their parts.
“Why do you and Gideon feel I need more people experience?” she asked quietly while typing.
An error message popped up on-screen. “Freaking PC.” She ran a hand through her mop of short hair—she found she preferred her hair short—back to its natural dark brown hue. She’d learned to sit and not panic in a salon. Okay, so she went to the local Cedar Hill Beauty Parlor. But damn it, Tico could cut hair just as well as anyone else and Morgan felt comfortable going once a month with Suzy. Gideon wouldn’t let her live it down. She’d tried every color under the sun—the worst being her bleached blond day when she’d walked out of the salon looking like she’d taken her buttery yellow sweater in for a color pattern. He’d really loved that one. The ass had laughed for
a month.
Realizing Jack hadn’t answered her, she looked up and over the edge of her black-rimmed reading glasses.
“What?”
His fingers were steepled in front of his mouth, his elbows on the chair arms.
“We’re in a bit of a bind.”
Her shoulders sank. “Jack. Find someone else. I’m trying to get the new website up and Gideon is too enthralled in the latest security system here to be of much help.” She stood, raked her hands through her hair again. “I need to get with the caterers and the historical board before the benefit at the Adam’s Mark in three weeks and set up meetings for you to attend. And Antiquity magazine is wanting a damn interview that I refuse to give and you and Gid keep brushing off.” She counted off on her fingers. “Town & Country wants the ad in early, since I pulled the last one. And why the hell do you keep that marketing guy? He doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. And yesterday Traveler’s Magazine contacted us wanting to put a snippet in their Touring Dallas guide.” She looked out her window at the already congested metroplex traffic. “And I have an art history paper I personally know is a pile of bullshit, all so I can get a decent grade because the professor doesn’t know the difference between Regency and Victorian.”
What did Jack want? Whatever it was, it wasn’t something he knew she’d want to do.
He cleared his throat. “There is a client in Maine who wants us to go with them to Canada to—”
“No.” She didn’t even turn around.
She heard his sigh. “Morgan. This is big. Please.”
Morgan looked over her shoulder. He would never understand and he never could because he didn’t know. “Jackson, I don’t travel. Period. Find. Someone. Else.”
He shook his head. “Why, for God’s sake? It’s Canada. People love to go to Canada.”
She shrugged. “I’m not one of them. There is nothing wrong with that.”
Once upon a time she’d loved traveling, Canada, Europe, England, France, hell, even Prague held beauty once. Now Europe, Canada, just the thought of traveling farther than Austin made her stomach muscles tighten.
There were any number of things she’d conquered. The time in Prague, the weeks that followed, often seemed like they happened to another girl. Except she knew they happened to her. She’d only to look at her left hipbone, where there were cigarette burns in a crescent shape, or awaken from a nightmare, smell a scent that brought it all back . . .
She’d come a long way though. The therapy sessions, the workouts with her trainer, had taken the edge off most of the fear.
Morgan learned how to battle the nightmares back, how to take control again. But still she stayed at the ranch with Jack. The idea of living on her own terrified her. She should have taken that last step and gotten a place here in town, if for nothing else than to ease the strain on her gas intake, but she hadn’t. Gideon had offered to let her stay with him, had offered to find her a condo or house in his neighborhood, but the idea of all those people . . .
She took a deep breath. “Jack, it took me six months just to leave the ranch. I still hate driving. If it wasn’t for classes, I’d do all my work from home.”
“But you did,” he said, standing and walking to her. “You did leave, you went out, you lived. Are living life. Now, if we could only get you to brush up on your social skills and get a few friends,” he said behind her.
Thinking of the still daily emails from Amy, she smiled. “I have friends. Amy’s in New Mexico. And Lincoln still contacts me. I have friends.” Lincoln contacted her. Even with his numbers and cell phone he’d left for her, she never contacted him unless it was in reply to his tagging her first.
He huffed. “I was thinking someone you actually had to interact with.”
On a sigh, she turned to face her brother. “I’m doing all I can, and I finally made something of myself.” Maybe not a lot to others, but it was an accomplishment to her, not only to have attained those but to work in the family business. “There are some things you can push me on and I’ll learn to do again.” Staring into his pale blue eyes, she warned, “Some things, don’t push. The edge may be farther away than it used to be, Jack, but it’s still there and sometimes I get all too close. Please don’t shove.”
J.D. watched his sister. Damn right she’d made something of herself. “I’m proud of you.” He chucked her chin. “You did good. You’re doing great with the business and have a knack for dealing with people that Gid and I can’t, like Mrs. Pepperton. At least think about Canada.”
He felt like an ass for pushing her, but damn it, she’d always loved traveling and he wanted her to be completely over those shadows that still drifted over her all too often.
“Would your friend Amy go with you?” he asked. He’d met the girl once, this last Christmas when Morgan announced she’d invited a friend.
Morgan snorted. “You think I’m a hard case? No way is Amy going. Neither of us is, so forget trying to bribe her into it.”
J.D. would never understand the tie that bound the two women, but it was undoubtedly strong. He knew they emailed constantly and talked on the phone several times a week. A more edged, contrary woman he’d never met. One Amy Rodriguez didn’t give an inch in anything. He didn’t question their friendship, just accepted it.
“Morg, come on. This will be the biggest deal Gaelord’s has ever closed.” He propped a hip on her desk.
“All the more reason you should go, brother dear.”
He thought a minute then grinned. “Think of the shopping.”
If Morgan had one weakness she’d kept through everything it was shopping, or so he could see. She and Gideon went every few months and J.D. was glad her taste in fashion had matured from what it had been in her modeling days.
Today she wore a chocolate pinstriped pantsuit, the jacket narrow at the waist and hit mid-thigh. The French cuffs of her white shirt stuck out the ends of the jacket sleeves. She wore no jewelry except for the gold chain she’d worn since she’d come home. It had a plain gold band at the end of it. Normally she kept it tucked into her clothing, but he’d seen it on nights when he’d awakened her from nightmares. He had no idea what meaning it held for her and he’d never asked, though he’d wanted to. Plain gold bands said wedding, marriage, commitment. But he didn’t ask, he never asked.
She was the epitome of a confident businesswoman dressed to slay opposition if she desired.
He’d not lied when he said he was proud of her. She’d gone from being a terrified waif to a very beautiful, driven woman. Last year, after the fiasco at the mall, she’d told him she wanted a new computer and Gideon got her one, and from then on it was downhill—or rather uphill.
He noticed she was packing up files. “Where are you off to? We’re not done discussing this.”
She grinned at him. “Yes, we are. Tell Gideon to go.”
J.D. winced. For all the intelligence their brother had, his tastes were a little more . . . eclectic than traditional.
“Be nice,” she said, laughing. “He can’t do that badly.”
“Morgan,” he said, trying to get her to understand, “this is a very lucrative job. Gideon isn’t exactly what we need.”
“And I am?”
He ran his gaze over her face, the sharp intelligent eyes that were narrowed on him. “Oh, yeah.”
“Whatever. The answer is no and I just remembered I have a meeting at three with the president of the Women’s Help Coalition. We’re updating the website and adding more help links.”
She’d also taken to working on several women’s charities. A fact that amused and confused him. He was damn proud of her, but he didn’t know if he’d ever understand her.
“When are you coming home?” he asked, shifting out of her way. He hadn’t wanted her to move out of the ranch when Gideon suggested it, but J.D. had gone along, thinking maybe it would help in some way. He’d been more relieved than he’d ever have guessed when she refused. He’d heard her crying in the middle of the n
ight, rocked her after nightmares, held her when she’d been so frightened she was ill. He knew the battles she’d fought had taken a toll, but she’d beaten them.
And even with her progress and the fact she was an adult, he still worried about her.
She shoved some files into her briefcase and he realized she was talking.
“What?” he said, shaking his head.
Morgan narrowed a glare at him over those glasses. They made her look like a lawyer or librarian, and he had to give up razzing her about them because she’d thrown a paperweight at him one day and he’d ended up having to pay for a new pane of glass.
“Yes, I’ll be home around six, probably. Depending on how long this takes, and then the meeting with the Adam’s Mark rep.” She wagged a finger at him. “Jack, we have to hire someone to help Suzy. She uses the old carriage house, but after her heart attack I don’t like the fact she still wants to do it all.”
“You tell her we’ve hired someone else then.” No way was he facing that wrath.
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