As she stood by her daughter in the airport Friday morning, she kept wanting to ask Celie if she'd brought her crayons and kept checking to see that she'd tied her shoes.
They should lock me up, Joyce thought.
Celie was doing fine. Much better than her mother. Better than Polly, too, for that matter. Polly had, if anything, been even more worried about Celie than she was. Polly had been fretting all week, worrying more about Celie than about Sara.
Sara had been distracted all week. Joyce thought it might be because of that young man she'd seen so much of on the weekend, the reporter with the lovely accent and the quicksilver smile. But when she'd mentioned it to Polly, Polly had shaken her head.
"Not Sara," she'd said. "Sara will never have her head turned by any man."
Joyce supposed Polly was right. Sara was probably just worried about school. She had midterms soon and she was worried about her chemistry class.
"Do you think Sara is all right?" she asked Celie now.
"What?" Celie seemed to come back from a thousand miles away. "Sara? What's the matter with Sara?"
"Nothing. I just think she's working too hard."
"She's focused," Celie said firmly. "She knows what she wants and goes after it. Sara doesn't dither. You should be proud of her."
"I am," Joyce said. "I'm proud of all of you."
Celie made a wry face. "You don't think I'm an idiot to be doing this?"
Joyce shook her head. "I think you're very brave."
"I should have done something years ago!"
"You weren't ready," Joyce said. "Now you are."
She wasn't really as calm and collected as she pretended to be. In fact, as the plane was landing in Los Angeles, Celie wished her jaw was wired shut to keep it from sagging at the sight of the miles and miles of urban sprawl.
It was so bright, too. The blue of the ocean, white of the beaches, the seasonal green of the Santa Monica mountains…
"The brown of the smog," Sloan laughed when she told him her impression.
He came to meet her at the airport. She'd prepared herself for some studio emissary who would whisk her away to her hotel. But instead she'd got off the plane to find Sloan and a couple of dozen photographers waiting for her.
All week long Elmer had been back to normal, and the craziness of the week before the auction had faded from her mind. The exploding flashbulbs brought it all back.
"Smile," Sloan said, slipping an arm around her shoulder, "and I'll get you out of here."
Celie smiled. Sloan Gallagher has his arm around me, she thought and wondered why her knees didn't wobble and she didn't faint.
It became apparent pretty soon.
Sloan Gallagher in person was every bit as gorgeous as he was in pictures and in films. He was easygoing and casual and friendly. Like a brother.
And that was the truth, right there.
He was warm and friendly and clearly determined to show her a good time. He drove her around Hollywood, pointing out landmarks. He parked and they got out and walked on Hollywood Boulevard
. People gawked at him, and lots more cameras clicked. But he handled it all with the same grace and aplomb with which he'd handled the swarms back in Elmer, all the while making Celie feel comfortable and welcome. He was as easy to talk to as she'd ever imagined he might be.
But the spark wasn't there.
Maybe it was because he didn't look deep into her eyes the way she'd once imagined he would. Maybe it was because he was friendly without overstepping some invisible but clearly defined line.
Or maybe it was because while he told her whatever she wanted to know about Hollywood and his films and his next project, when the conversation was left up to him, it invariably went back to one thing—Polly and the kids.
At first Celie was a little annoyed. Who had spent twenty-three thousand dollars to come out here this weekend, after all?
But then she realized that what she'd told Polly was true—she'd bid on him not so much for him as for herself. It was as if she had to do this to win back her life, to get out of her rut and move on.
She'd done that. She could feel it in her bones.
"Did she call?"
It was probably the tenth or twentieth time Polly had asked the question, and it was only Sunday night. She'd gone out to Joneses' with Daisy and Jack so that Daisy could ride horses and Jack could play with Will and so that she wasn't home worrying about Celie all day long and waiting for the phone to ring.
And a good thing, too, because apparently it hadn't. She'd rung only once from her hotel room on Friday simply to say she was there.
"It's fabulous," she'd told her mother. "Like a fairy tale. A dream come true."
Polly's jaw had tightened upon hearing it.
Now her mother shook her head. "Not a word," she said, barely glancing up from the book she was studying.
To keep from gnashing her teeth, Polly focused on something else. She turned her head sideways to read the title. "Vietnamese in 21 Days? Whatever happened to Spanish?"
"I'm still studying it. This is to help Walt."
"Walt Blasingame is learning Vietnamese? Why?"
Polly was prowling around the kitchen, needing something to do. They'd eaten dinner with Taggart and Felicity and their family, so she didn't have a meal to fix. Now she started unloading the dishwasher, which at least would give her something to do. What was the matter with Celie? Why didn't she call? Didn't she know people were worried? Well, not worried exactly, but … curious.
"He went back there last year. Said he might go again." Joyce shrugged, and it took Polly a minute to realize that her mother was talking about Walt. "Some men never get over what happened in the war. They need to go back. For closure."
"Twice?" That didn't sound like closure to Polly.
"Don't ask me," Joyce said mildly.
"Aren't you worried about her?" Polly demanded.
"No."
"Well, you ought to be! He's lethal. Persistent. If he wanted her in bed, she wouldn't stand a chance."
"If."
Polly plopped into a chair, then bounced right back out again. "Am I the only one who cares?"
"About what?"
"About Celie, of course!"
Her mother just nodded and went back to her book. "Oh. Of course."
Polly went to the airport to pick Celie up Monday night, "If she's even there," she'd grumbled to her mother on the way out the door. Celie hadn't called since Friday. She might have eloped to Tijuana with Sloan. They might be honeymooning on the French Riviera or basking with the seals in Tierra del Fuego! Who knew?
Polly didn't. She gnashed her teeth and said pithy things all the way to Bozeman, getting them out of her system, determined to be blasé and indifferent by the time she was face-to-face with the little cree—with her sister.
It worked.
She dredged up the same smile she'd put to such good use during the insanity prior to the auction. It was a little worn and frayed around the edges now, but Polly was sure she could get a few more minutes out of it.
Celie was the first person off the plane. "It's what happens when you come first class," she babbled. "You get great food and hot wet towels and big plush seats and—"
"How's Sloan?"
Celie blinked, then slowly she smiled again. A Cheshire Cat sort of smile. One that said I-know-something-you-don't-know. "Fine. He's fine," she said brightly. "Lovely, actually." She batted her lashes.
Since when did Celie bat her lashes, for God's sake? Polly felt an odd clenching feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. And right on top of it came a powerful surge of anger. How dare he propose to her one day and scant days later make another woman—her sister, no less!—look like the cat that got the cream?
"How nice," Polly said through her teeth. She turned and stalked toward the baggage claim area.
"Wait!" Celie exclaimed.
But Polly kept right on walking. Steamed. Furious. Hurt. Celie caught up with her, looking worried. "What's wrong?"
>
"Nothing." Polly wiped her palms down the sides of her jeans and took a deep breath. "Nothing's wrong. I just … had a long day."
"Oh, right. Still getting the mail leftovers from Valentine's Day?"
Celie thought the post office was her problem? Polly just nodded. "That's right." She clamped her teeth together so she didn't ask anything else. She would listen. Celie would tell all eventually.
As they waited for Celie's bags, she did. She told Polly about how wonderful Sloan had been to her, how he'd taken her everywhere, shown her everything. She talked about their dinner before the premiere, about the event itself, about the movie. She went on and on about the movie. I don't need a review! Polly wanted to scream. But then Celie got to the parties after. She told Polly about Sloan introducing her to so many famous stars she couldn't remember them all.
"It was amazing."
"I bet you were exhausted."
"Oh, no! I was jazzed! Totally. Wired. So he took me back to his place."
Polly nearly bit her tongue. It was all she could do to stand there and smile and say, "Oh, really? Did he? How nice."
It was an acting job worthy of an Oscar. She'd missed her calling at the post office.
"It's a great place," Celie said. "Two stories. Right on the ocean at Malibu. You can go out on his deck at dawn and it's just the most beautiful place on earth."
At dawn. Which presumably meant Celie had slept there. Or not slept, as the case had been.
Slowly Polly felt all her anger seep away, and it was replaced by a weary sort of hollowness and a shiver of envy that Celie had gone after what she wanted and, against all odds, had got it.
"Is it?" she said listlessly.
"Oh, yes." Celie babbled on about the size of the rooms, the glorious views, the sunken tub in the master bedroom—another shaft of envy pierced a little deeper—the indoor pool.
"Just for laps, really," Celie said. "So he can stay in shape."
"Of course."
"And he has horses, too. We were going to go riding, but we didn't have time. But he said we'll do it next time."
"So you're going to see him again?" The question was out before Polly could stop it.
Celie looked at her with surprise, as if it were a stupid question, which of course it was. "See him again? Oh, yes."
By the time Celie went off to bed, still smiling, Polly had heard the story of her weekend six times over. Celie had told it to the kids one after the other. She'd told it to Gus and Mary and then to Alice and Cloris. She had been going to stay up until Joyce and Sara got home so she could tell them.
But Polly said, "You must be tired. Surely they can wait until morning."
And Celie, masking a yawn, finally agreed. But her eyes were still sparkling when she danced her way upstairs.
"Oh, what a beautiful weekend," she crooned softly.
And Polly sat in the rocker in the living room and stared at the fire in the fireplace and thought, It must have been. And she'd better get used to it, because whenever anyone asked her, "Are you seeing Sloan again?" Celie had always answered, "Yes."
Jack, of course, had been more blunt. "You gonna marry him?"
To that Celie had shaken her head. "We're just friends."
It was like one of those "no comment" statements and Polly knew it. She resigned herself. Sloan Gallagher might soon be her brother-in-law.
"Get used to it," she told herself.
Oh, yes, sure. Some year.
She ought to go to bed and try to sleep. But she didn't think sleep was in the cards.
So she stayed up and waited for Sara to come in. For a panic-stricken moment she thought she might have forgotten her daughter somewhere again. But then she remembered that Sara had said she was going to study late at the library.
"Not with Gregg?" Polly had asked.
"Maybe." Sara had been distant. Offhand.
Midterms, Polly decided. They were the only thing that could stress Sara out.
It was eleven-thirty when Sara returned. She looked surprised to see her mother sitting in the chair.
"I thought for a minute I'd mislaid you again," Polly told her with a faint grin.
Something that might have been a ghost of a smile flickered across Sara's face. "No. I was just … studying."
"Midterms?"
Sara nodded. She toed off her boots, hung up her jacket and started toward the stairs, then stopped. "Did Aunt Celie get back?"
"Yes."
"Did she have a good time?"
"Very."
Sara's eyes widened. "Really? Is she…? Do you think they…?"
Polly wasn't about to speculate. Not for anyone else. "You can ask her about it in the morning," she said shortly.
"Did she … mention Flynn?"
"Who?"
"Flynn. The writer," Sara said impatiently. "The one who was here last weekend."
As if there had only been one. Polly shook her head. "Not that I recall."
Sara's face fell. "Oh."
"What's this?" Polly asked. It was the first time she'd seen her daughter react at all to a member of the opposite sex.
Sara shook her head. "Nothing. I just wondered." She turned away. "G'night." And she hurried up the stairs.
Polly closed her eyes and rocked slowly. Sid the cat sidled up to her and leaped into her lap. He circled and curled and kneaded and, finally, settled. Both dogs sprawled at her feet. All she needed was a shawl and trifocals, Polly thought, and she'd be ready for old age.
Her life was over. It was as simple as that.
The door opened again and another blast of winter air blew in.
Her mother's cheeks were red from the cold. She looked startled to see Polly, too. "What's wrong? Did Celie…?"
"Celie's fine. Celie's faaaabulous," Polly said, quoting her sister in her sister's tone of voice. "She had a terrific time."
"Well, thank God for that," Joyce said, unwrapping her scarf and unzipping her coat. "I'd hate to think she was disappointed after all she paid."
"She's not disappointed. I think you can safely count on that."
Her tone had her mother's brows lifting. "Oh? Really? She's seeing him again?"
"So she says."
"Well, my heavens." Joyce considered that. "Amazing," she murmured as she headed for the stairs. "The world is a very strange place."
Isn't it just? Polly thought.
The fire burned down. Sid got up and stretched. He hopped off her lap and stalked around the room. The dogs got up, too, and peered out the window. Roy wagged his tail. Spiffer wagged his whole body. They ran to the door.
"Time to go out?" Polly said. "Such enthusiasm. All right. One last time."
She opened the door.
Sloan was standing there.
* * *
Chapter 17
« ^ »
"We have to stop meeting like this," he drawled, resisting the impulse to grab Polly and haul her into his arms.
He'd been aching to do it all week. All the time he'd been hauling her sister around Los Angeles, he'd wished it were Polly in her shoes. Now he grinned at her, and then had to move quickly to jam his foot in the door before she slammed it in his face.
"Hey! Whoa! What's this? I told you I'd be back!"
But Polly was still pushing, trying to shut the door on him. Sloan leaned his shoulder into it, and he was a lot stronger than she was. She didn't have a prayer. Then abruptly she stepped away and he pitched forward info the room.
"Pol'!"
But she was hurrying toward the stairs. Determined to catch her, he shoved the door shut, he vaulted over the dogs and grabbed her by the arm before she could escape the room.
"What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "What are you mad about?" She tried to shake free, but he wouldn't let go. "Damn it, Polly! Answer me!"
Her eyes flashed. "Why should I? What does it matter to you?"
"You matter to me! I told you that."
"Yes, and you also told my sister you'd see her agai
n."
"I will," he said flatly. "Tomorrow at breakfast with luck." He shoved a hand through his hair. "Why? What did you think? That I came on to you and then turned right around and came on to her?"
"She said she had a terrific time. She said she spent the night at your house. She said the sunrise was beautiful!" Polly's voice rose higher and higher.
She was jealous? Sloan didn't dare hope.
He said firmly, "And it probably was. I wouldn't know. I was asleep. In my bed. And she, I presume, woke up and got out of hers—which was in a different room."
Polly didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, in a small voice she said, "Oh."
"I didn't sleep with your sister, Polly. I don't want to sleep with your sister. And she doesn't want to sleep with me."
"I know that's not true! She spent twenty-three thousand and change on you!"
"Cripes." Sloan shook his head. "You make it sound like my price for the night. There was nothing in our weekend about goin' to bed. Maybe at one time she wanted to, I don't know. But, hey, that was before she knew me." He grimaced at his own words. "How's that for a recommendation? Once she got to know me, she changed her mind."
Polly looked doubtful. "Are you sure?"
"We discussed it."
"You did?"
"I asked her why on earth she bid that much money, and she was honest with me. She told me about what's-his-name jilting her. She told me she'd gone into a shell after that and that when she first started looking at guys again, I was the one she looked at. Dreamed about," he added self-consciously.
Polly stared at him. "Celie told you all that?"
"We don't have any secrets, your sister and I," Sloan said, and that was pretty much the truth. Celie had been more than frank with him. She'd even told him when it was she began to think he might not be the one.
"I think it happened after I'd seen you naked," she'd told him frankly, though not without blushing. "It was, um, a shock. But after I thought about it, I realized you were just another man."
That hadn't done a lot for his ego and Sloan didn't tell Polly about it now. Hopefully in the not-too-distant future, Polly would have a different opinion of his naked body.
All he said was, "Celie's got guts. She's willing to take a chance. But she knows which O'Meara daughter I'm interested in. She wished me the best of luck."
The Great Montana Cowboy Auction Page 23