Buffy had no idea what he’d do if some stupid court gave him custody, but she didn’t intend to find out. Even if she eventually won her daughter back, being separated from Allie for even a day would be intolerable.
The reminder of their common enemy apparently doused Carter’s anger. He took a deep breath and asked, “Does this Boyce individual have a plan?”
Buffy continued folding clothes into her suitcase. “He mentioned a course of action. I’ll fly back today and meet with him tomorrow to discover what it is.”
“How does a woman with no money propose to pay for a plane ticket?” Carter asked.
She’d already calculated that. “I plan on using Roger’s frequent flyer miles. He forgets about them and they pile up.”
“And how are you planning to pay for a hotel?”
She might as well admit the rest of the story. “My lawyer says Roger insists that we stay with him.”
“Absolutely not!” He glared as if she’d suggested—well, in his mind, she probably had suggested she planned to sleep with her almost-ex, which wasn’t the case at all.
“Carter, I’m broke, and it’s a big house.” Before he could insist on paying, she added, “Boyce thinks it’s a good idea. For one thing, I might be able to sniff out some information about where the money is hidden.”
“Does Roger want to reconcile?” he asked tautly.
“Hardly!” Once Roger lost interest in a woman, he’d already mentally moved on. Thanks to the lawyer, Buffy understood his twisted reasons for wanting her to stay with him. “Boyce believes he’s trying to make a point with the judge, that he cares enough to spend time with his daughter.”
“Which is a good reason to refuse.”
“He’d turn it against me.” She understood her husband’s mind. “He’ll tell the court I’m maliciously withholding access to Allie. He just wants her as a bargaining chip to make us drop the whole missing money angle, but he’s so vindictive, he might go through with it.”
Carter didn’t say any more. After a moment, he went to get dressed.
Buffy rushed around, packing and making reservations. She used the last of Roger’s frequent flyer miles to book a flight out of Austin.
It was a four-hour drive to the airport. Gruffly Carter offered to drive her, and she accepted.
Buffy wished there were some way to recapture the warmth they’d shared last night. But it was gone, probably forever.
She’d received the answer to her question about whether Carter returned her feelings. Physically there was no doubt about his response. He’d made it clear, though, that marriage to her fell under the category of “doing anything” for his daughter.
After providing a rushed explanation to Mazeppa, Buffy called Finella and arranged for her to take over the dress operation. The other woman expressed sympathy and a sincere hope that Buffy would return.
But why should she? A broken-down car that she was going to have to sell anyway wasn’t much of a reason to come back. And if she did, it could only be temporary, until she figured out how to earn a living close enough for Carter to see his daughter, but far enough away that she wouldn’t face daily reminders of how little she meant to him.
A rushed wedding for their daughter’s sake, but who cares about that? Her heart banged painfully against her ribs at the memory of his words.
Carter had called her a fast-living woman. He was right, she conceded, straightening her spine. She did miss the fast pace of L.A., the glitz and the billboard dreams she’d grown up with. Maybe she belonged there.
In any case, Carter didn’t argue or plead with her to return. He just threw on jeans and a shirt, put on a baseball cap bearing the name of a farm equipment company, and brought the tow truck around.
Allie seemed to sense something amiss. She fussed while he was installing her in the car seat, but a few murmured words from her father eased her anxiety. Had they bonded that quickly?
Buffy stared out the window as they drove out of the garage and passed the school. She wondered if it would ever get rebuilt, and, if so, how they’d raise the money.
A few blocks later, they passed the Nowhere Junction Hospital, where she’d watched Willie Grimes give birth to May Zeppa the night before last. It was too bad Allie, who was twiddling her fingers happily in the car seat, would never get to play with the new arrival.
On Main Street, they drove between modest stores with now-familiar names. What would be on special this week at Gigi’s Grocery Store, and what kind of recipe would Finella devise with it? Would Horace Popsworthy be elected mayor, or was there really going to be a write-in campaign for Quade? She would have to call City Hall after the election and find out.
The route to Austin ran by the Nowhere Nearer to Thee 0 Lord Church. Cars and pickups filled the small parking lot, and the swelling sound of a hymn drifted through Buffy’s window.
“That’s where I ought to be,” Carter said. “Next week I’ll take Mazeppa.”
Next week I’ll be far away, she thought sadly.
Although she’d expected to be keyed up, Buffy fell asleep on the drive. She awoke once, when they pulled over so she could feed the complaining baby. Carter went outside and checked the air pressure on his tires for as long as it took. Then he got back in, and she and Allie both fell asleep again.
When they reached Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, she supposed it would be easier to say goodbye to Carter here in the tow truck, but Buffy couldn’t handle the baby, the car seat and their luggage by herself. “Would you mind helping us in?”
The tall man frowned. “You don’t have a high opinion of men, do you?”
“What do you mean?” She noted that Allie was wide awake now, staring at her father’s face.
“Did you think I would put you on the curb and say, ‘So long, fend for yourself now’?” he asked. “Of course I’ll help you in.”
His remark startled Buffy. It hadn’t occurred to her to expect kindness from a man. Hope for it, yes. Appreciate it, certainly. But take it for granted? She doubted she ever would.
At the upper-level curbside valet area, Carter turned the keys over to an attendant. “We have something called Family Friendly Valet Parking. Very reasonably priced,” he explained, and began hauling stuff from the truck while she unstrapped the baby.
There was an extra piece of luggage, Buffy noticed. Had he transferred Allie’s gear into that unfamiliar duffle bag? Well, if the airline charged extra for it, she’d pay with her earnings from the dress sales.
On the other end of the flight, she hoped she’d be able to contact her lawyer, who lived close to the airport. They could talk strategy while he drove her to Roger’s house, if he was willing.
Inside the terminal, Carter easily negotiated the confusion of skycaps and passengers. They were approaching the queue at the airline counter when a shaggy young man tried to jump the line in front of them. He took one look at Carter’s scowl, however, and stepped aside.
Buffy could have handled him. But life was much easier with a man to protect her.
Good heavens, what was she thinking? Next she’d start lacing on a corset and dropping a hoop skirt into place.
The closer they came to the counter, the more she hated to leave. Buffy had never minded being on her own before. She could take care of herself and Allie, too.
But she couldn’t hold onto her purse and hoist the baby into the air as Carter was doing, and it wouldn’t have occurred to her to blow on Allie’s tummy like that and make her laugh.
You’re an idiot, Buffy Arden. Stop wanting things you can’t have.
They reached the counter. She had a nervous moment when she feared Roger had somehow managed to cancel the frequent flyer miles, but then the agent handed over tickets for her and Allie.
“Got an extra seat?” Carter asked.
The clerk checked her computer. “Yes, sir.”
“Put it on this.” He handed her a credit card. “I’m going, too.”
“Why?” Buffy b
lurted.
“Because fathers aren’t optional,” he said.
Chapter Ten
Buffy stared at Carter. “When did you make that decision?”
“About thirty seconds ago.” He showed the agent his driver’s license. “If there’s a custody battle, I owe it to Allie to make sure the judge knows she has a real father.”
She was pleased. Confused, too. “You didn’t bring any luggage.” Then she remembered, “Except that little duffle bag.”
He glanced wryly down at his jeans. “We country yokels don’t own more than one change of clothing, anyway.”
His teasing didn’t bother her, even if Roger’s snobby friends might look at him funny. Their values were screwed up, and she’d be happy to tell them so.
Besides, plenty of people in L.A. wore jeans. Maybe no one would notice the cowboy boots. There was, however, one detail she could easily correct.
Standing on tiptoe, she snatched off Carter’s baseball cap and plopped it onto his head backward. “There,” she said. “Now you’ll fit right in.”
*
You must have the brains of an armadillo and the judgment of a cow on locoweed, Carter scolded himself as they waded through the noisy, shifting crowds at Los Angeles International.
From the moment Buffy first appeared in Nowhere Junction, he’d been aware he might do something crushingly stupid. Like, say, fall in love with her. And follow her to the big city, where he’d stand out like a cactus in a rose garden.
So what had he done? All of the above. Not only that, but he’d had sex with a married woman. Steamy, head-banging, stand-the-truck-on-its-rear-bumper sex.
A married woman. Carter had sinned ten ways to Sunday, and any minute some kind of fiery rash ought to overtake him. The only thing overtaking him in reality, however, were a couple of teenagers trotting along the moving walkway instead of tolerating its snail pace.
They didn’t even say “excuse me” as they brushed by. Nobody else seemed to mind.
Carter shifted Allie to his other arm, and tried to sort out his feelings about Buffy. She sure did look cute, with her hair fluffed out above her red velour top.
He had to admit that his decision to accompany her and Allie stemmed in part from an instinct to protect them. And to stake his claim, although he wasn’t sure that he had one.
Why had she made love to him? Was it possible she did want to be his wife? Since honor prevented him from mentioning the subject of marriage until she was legally unentangled, he would have to wait to find out.
In the claim area, Carter found Buffy’s suitcase and the baby’s bag, and waited while she used a pay phone to try to call Boyce Fringo. From her expression, he could tell she wasn’t having any luck.
He supposed he ought to break down and buy a cell phone. He’d have done that if he’d had any clue that he might land in unfamiliar territory with a woman whose husband had cut off her connection.
“Darn it!” she said, hanging up. “He’s not answering. It is Sunday. Let’s hope he calls back.”
He didn’t. Fifteen minutes later, they decided to make alternate plans. “We could check into a hotel.” Carter assumed that a place like L.A. had rooms available on short notice.
“I refuse to let you waste your money.” Buffy’s eyes narrowed as she weighed their options. “We can catch a shuttle to Roger’s house for considerably less than the cost of a hotel room.”
“We?” Carter asked. “I don’t recall him inviting me.”
Her chin lifted. He knew that fighting expression, and was grateful that it was aimed at her almost-ex-husband rather than him. “I don’t see why I can’t bring a guest. Wait! Better idea. If anyone asks, you’re Allie’s nanny.”
“I’m her what?”
She was already scooting away. A nanny, huh? Well, why not? Carter could be a good sport for a day or so.
Thank goodness he knew how to change a diaper.
*
The red-haired model in the thong bikini executed a perfect swan dive off the board. She was gorgeous, Roger thought. Why had he ever allowed that silly Yoko to monopolize his attention?
A brunette, her nearly nude body crisscrossed by black straps, smiled at him winningly from her lounge chair. He couldn’t remember her name, but he had no doubt she would leave a composite photograph with both her name and her agent’s phone number on his bedside table.
They were hoping to model for his fashion design firm, or win his support in their bid to be featured on a new reality show about aspiring actresses on which he would serve as head judge. He liked to dangle those possibilities, even though he left such selections entirely up to his marketing people.
Of course, his intimate pool party also included a tall, bosomy blonde—currently swimming laps--who would overshadow Buffy. According to her pushy lawyer, she might show up this afternoon.
He was ready.
Roger knew Buffy’s weak points: her insecurities, her overwhelming mother instinct and the emptiness of her bank account, which precluded a long legal battle. He intended to exploit her vulnerabilities until she signed away every penny she or her daughter might ever claim.
His estranged wife had some unique qualities, Roger conceded. Personality-wise, she stood out from the vacuous models he usually dated, although that hadn’t been obvious initially. At first, like them, she’d practically worshiped him and his accomplishments. He’d felt young, handsome and virile.
But as the years passed, she’d expected him to treat her like an equal, which was preposterous. Then there was this annoying business of having children. What a stroke of luck that the sperm bank had made a bonehead mistake.
At the poolside bar, he poured himself another daiquiri and paused to regard his tanned frame in a reflective window panel. The low-slung black trunks he’d bought in Japan emphasized how thin he kept himself, with scarcely a hint of paunch.
A man of forty-two was still in the thick of things. The traces of gray in his blond hair gave him a distinguished air.
He was an internationally renowned clothing designer and entrepreneur. Soon, he would go public with his new cable production company, whose planned reality show had landed a major corporate sponsor. Bigger things, including a vastly larger bank account, were on the horizon, as soon as he shed the last of his old baggage.
The doorbell rang, magnified over a speaker. Roger’s smile broadened as he waited for his housekeeper to answer it. He’d hired someone new who didn’t know Buffy and wouldn’t feel loyal to her, in case he needed her to testify about anything.
“Who could that be?” asked the redhead, dripping onto the concrete next to him. Her name was Charisse Lamar and she was the most ambitious of his three guests. Possibly the most gullible, too.
“My wife,” he said.
She shrugged, as if accustomed to other people’s unusual marital arrangements. “I hope she’s not a party pooper.”
“Not at—” He stopped, scarcely aware that his jaw had dropped.
“That’s your wife?” Charisse stifled a giggle with the back of her hand. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Right,” he said. The stout, graying woman walking toward him wasn’t Buffy. She was the woman who’d helped him launch his business twenty years ago. She was also the company part-owner he’d cut off six months ago with the same trumped-up plea of poverty that he’d made to his wife.
She was, in other words, his mother.
“Looks like you’re back in the chips again, and don’t bother to lie about it,” said Louise Arden, her sixty-seven-year-old figure ramrod straight as she marched toward him. “A girl named Yoko called me Friday. She had a few rather interesting things to say.”
When someone else rang the doorbell, Roger hardly noticed.
*
Buffy didn’t recognize the woman in the housekeeper’s uniform who opened the door. “Hi!” She extended a hand. “I’m Buffy Arden, Roger’s wife. What’s your name?”
The woman blinked in surprise. Short and
dark, she had kind eyes despite her wary expression. “I’m Sarah. Mr. Arden is expecting you and the baby.” She frowned at Carter. “Who is this?”
“He’s the baby’s nanny.” Buffy knew she had to bluff for all she was worth. “That’s how they do things in Texas these days. You know, the vanishing frontier, oil wells displacing cowboys. Everybody’s entitled to a job, right?” Hurrying on before the woman’s stunned expression could morph into a protest, she asked, “Where’s Roger?”
“By the pool.” The woman admitted them with a worried air, although she sneaked a small smile at Allie. “I will show you.”
“I know the way. Thanks, Sarah!” It occurred to her that a one-on-one meeting might be the safest way to start. “Would you take Carter and Allie to their room?”
“He only said to prepare a place for you.” Sarah shrugged. “But there are extras. This way, Mr. Nanny.”
Buffy avoided meeting Carter’s gaze. Although she was glad he’d come, he’d have to figure out his own way to fit into her world.
After only a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Much obliged,” and strode down a hallway with Sarah, Allie and the luggage.
Buffy took a deep breath. It felt strange, being in this house again, although she’d only been gone a few months.
To her left sprawled the sunken living room. Like the rest of the house, it had been decorated in subtle, blond woods, earth-toned fabrics and abstract art. Roger, having hired the most expensive designer in Beverly Hills, had refused to allow Buffy to add so much as a vase of her own.
When she first moved here as a bride, she’d been awed by the elegance. Now she found it cold.
What it lacked were toys spilling across the cream carpet and cat hairs on the tan leather sofa and a dog sprawled in a doorway. An inappropriate flowered china teapot on the coffee table would provide a refreshing note, too.
She wasn’t here to improve the decor, Buffy reminded herself. Smoothing down her black punk-inspired skirt embroidered with the words “Eat My Socks”—the latest style, with a Nowhere Junction twist—she strolled down the hall, through a vast audio-visual and game room and past the catering-quality kitchen.
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