by Jo Barrett
Kat had taken measured refinement to another level, as her demeanor in public was the talk of the town among the Gucci set. The Guccis who envied her, and who aspired to be born to the King family name, often were quoted praising Kat’s “poise” in the glossy society magazines. In Houston’s glossy press, Kat was often referred to as Texas “royalty.”
It was common for the captions under Kat’s photos to read, Kathleen Connor King spotted at the Black Tie and Boots Gala in a majestic gown of unknown origin. Ms. King sipped from a single champagne flute all evening and seemed to channel Grace Kelly with her stunning frock and stately updo.
Unbeknownst to the world of society, Kat had found the “gown of unknown origin,” in a costume shop on the gritty east side of San Antonio, while shopping for used canvases. Her “stately updo” was a Kat specialty—a last-minute throw-your-hair-up-in-a-loose-bun-and-stick-a-dainty-seed-pearl-clip-in-it. Hairclip, four dollars and ninety-nine cents, Chinese import Web site.
Kat inhaled nervously and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Dr. Levin had begun to regale her with a list of volunteer duties around the hospital.
He doesn’t get it, she noticed. He assumed that Little Miss Philanthropist who paid for everything the hospital had, including his own salary, wanted more volunteer work—like counseling troubled parents, or making sure the break room was stocked with coffee and creamers and sugar packets.
Kathleen held up her hand and shook her head. “I’m looking for a paid position,” she said bluntly.
Dr. Levin was the only person in Houston, and possibly the entire world, whom she could share this with. He was strictly business. And didn’t have a gossip bone in his whole body.
But, Kat noticed, he blinked at her several times.
“You mean…a salaried job, Ms. King?” He swallowed. “With benefits?”
Kat shrugged.
Sure, she thought. Why not?
“You’re chairman of the board of this hospital, you could have my job if you wanted it.” Dr. Levin chuckled.
“No, Dr. Levin. I don’t want your job because you have the hardest job in the world,” Kat said. She’d known Dr. Levin since she was a mere child, and noticed how old he’d started to look. With tufts of gray hair spurting from behind his ears. Her grandpa had once told her, in his rough and swagger voice, that Dr. Levin was the type of Hebrew surgeon who held God in his steady hands every day. And that “only special people” knew what it was like to hold God in their hands.
“Of course, Ms. King. A paying job it is,” Dr. Levin announced. “Come with me.”
He led her through the powder blue hospital hallway and ushered her inside his cramped, paper-stuffed office.
“Sit, sit,” He motioned for Kat to take a seat. “So, let’s see what the budget has in store for us.” He swooped behind his desk, opened a file drawer, and took out a thick manila folder.
“We just hired two more nursing staff this week to fill the weekend gap,” he explained, pulling on a pair of reading glasses, and breezing through the folder.
“Looks like we could cut the Children of Hope program, and that would give us room to start you around…let’s say…forty-five thousand dollars?” Dr. Levin said the number hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure if Kat wanted more, or why a woman from the wealthiest oil family in the history of Houston would want a salary in the first place. But he wasn’t the type to question.
The Children of Hope program had been one of Kat’s ideas. In it, children who were released from the hospital after their surgeries were paired with nurses who came to the home to help parents with the day-to-day primary care role. The nurses would drop by the child’s house to deliver medicine, check blood levels, and make sure the child was recovering. The program had received many accolades in the press, and Kathleen had been awarded a Philanthropy of Peace medal from the Women’s League of Texas, which she kept in her precious belongings drawer at home.
No, the Children of Hope program is here to stay, Kat thought.
“Any other ideas?” she asked, fidgeting in her chair.
“A few of us could do without an end-of-the-year bonus,” Dr. Levin said, flapping his hand at her. “Look Kathleen. I’m an old man. I already have a swimming pool in my backyard. What else do I need?”
Kat’s eyes roamed over the photos of Dr. Levin’s family smiling at her from the silver frames on his desk.
I’m not taking a penny of your salary, Kat thought.
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable with that,” she said.
Across the room, Dr. Levin eyed her over the top of his reading glasses.
“Ms. King, in order to put you on the payroll, we have to make a few tweaks here and there. But remember, this is your foundation. You bring in the money. So just tell me what you want.”
Kathleen stood from her chair and stretched her legs. She rolled her ankle in a circle and felt a small pop.
“For starters, I would like to get periodic updates on Diego Ramirez,” she said.
Dr. Levin patted the front pocket of his white lab coat. He pulled out a pen and scribbled himself a note.
“You’ve become close with this patient?” he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.
Kathleen nodded. “I guess I’m wondering if my presence here matters,” she said. She was lying now. But this was the only way out. To lie. She couldn’t press on about the money. She couldn’t say, Dr. Levin. Your benefactor is broke. No. Things had to proceed in a nice, smooth line. The way they always had.
The doctor took the bait. “Ms. King, you are the reason we exist. You are the reason for”—he waved his hand across the room—“for all of this.” He paused, took his reading glasses off, set them on his desk. “Whether you’re reading bedside stories, or spending time with these parents, you’re doing an invaluable service.” He folded his hands together and gave her a meaningful look. “I assure you, Ms. King, your presence matters.”
Kat beamed. “That’s all I needed to know.”
Dr. Levin stood from his desk and gave Kat a quick handshake, just before she bounded out the door.
Sixteen
“We’re SOL,” Wyatt said, taking a slug from his beer. He wiped the froth off with the back of his hand.
Wyatt was known for his “movie star eyes.” And now Dylan’s brother was using them to dramatic effect. Raising two perfect brows and staring at Dylan with his huge blue sparklers.
Dylan knew he didn’t have Wyatt’s good looks. In contrast to Wyatt’s blond hair and blue eyes, Dylan’s features were dark. The running joke was that Dylan’s mother had slept with the postman, and all that jazz. Of course, Dylan and Wyatt were both the unfortunate sons of the recently deceased Butch Grant.
Ah, the shame of it, Dylan thought.
He sat next to Wyatt, nursed his Heineken, and pondered. He estimated that there were five big problems facing him. I should write this down, he thought. Grabbing a cocktail napkin off the bar, Dylan motioned for the bartender goddess in her tight jeans and shimmering low-cut top.
She breezed over and flashed Wyatt one of those take-me-home-or-leave-me-forever smiles.
“Another round, boys?” she asked, staring at Dylan’s brother as if he were Brad Pitt.
“I need a pen,” Dylan said sharply.
“I would love another beer, darlin’,” Wyatt grinned.
The bartender goddess wiped her hands against her jeans, served Wyatt a draft beer on tap, and flicked a pen across the bar toward Dylan.
Dylan felt his brother’s eyes peering over his shoulder as he scribbled out a list on the napkin.
THINGS TO DO:
Pay off Wyatt’s gambling debt.
Kill Bo Harlan.
Steal Titan Energy’s seismic data and drill our own well.
Liquidate savings account, move to cheaper apartment.
Ask Kat to get married before she wises up.
Wyatt nudged Dylan in the ribs and took a slug from his beer. “You can’t ask Kat to marry yo
u while you’re plumb broke, you dumb shit.”
Dylan whirled around on his bar stool. “Why not? Kat is the last person to give a damn about the cash.”
“Which is why she gave away her entire trust fund. But think of her feelings, man. You’ve been dating her since the playground and high school and college and all these years, and she’s been dying to get married and all of a sudden, you decide it’s up and time to tie the knot.”
Dylan stared at his brother. “Your point?”
“What lit the fire under your butt?”
“I love her,” Dylan said.
“Jesus, you’re like a bad movie.” Wyatt shook his head.
Dylan glanced over at the urn sitting on the bar stool next to him. No one had noticed it, of course. Dylan had toted the urn inside the bar like it was no big deal. As if he was carrying a briefcase.
It’s a fitting tribute, really. To have a last drink with dear ol’ Dad, Dylan thought. Butch Grant had spent his entire life in a bar, so why not enjoy one last round?
“Should we raise a toast to Butch?” Wyatt asked, and for a split second, Dylan saw an angry glint flash across his brother’s eyes.
“Sure.”
Wyatt raised his beer in the air. “Rest in peace, you sonofabitch.”
Dylan chuckled and rapped on the urn with his knuckles. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Seventeen
The reinforcements had arrived in the form of Crazy Aunt Lucinda. Everyone called her “the Duchess.” Not because Aunt Lucinda was titled or wealthy or any of those things, but because she held her nose upturned like royalty. As if she were constantly sniffing something amiss in the air.
So here sat the Duchess. On Dylan’s sprawling leather couch, no less. Admiring the view from the windows with her nose upturned in the air as if she’d just smelled a fart.
“Mighty expensive view, sugar,” Aunt Lucinda said, crinkling her eyes in Kat’s direction.
Kathleen tiptoed across the floor and handed the Duchess a cup of Earl Grey. She loved Aunt Lucinda, whom she called her aunt even though Lucinda wasn’t her own flesh and blood. She’d been Kat’s nanny growing up.
“Dylan chose this apartment when he was working at Enron.”
“Must be some rent,” the Duchess mused. She took a sip from her tea and stared out the window toward the downtown skyscrapers. “Who does he think he is? Mister Donald Trump?”
“What am I going to do, Lucinda?” Kat folded her arms across her chest. “And don’t be shy when you tell me.”
“Have you told him yet?”
Lucinda was eyeing Kat the way she sometimes did. As if Kat were the one at fault.
Kat took a sip of tea. Hopefully the cinnamon chai will help calm my nerves.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell him. My doctor’s appointment was the same day he went to the funeral home.”
“When do you plan on telling him? Never?”
Kathleen shrugged. “He hasn’t buried his father yet. I think the news can wait, don’t you?”
“He’s not a child, sugar. How do you expect to move forward if you’re not being honest in your relationship? If you’re trickling out information on your own terms?”
Kathleen bit her lip. It was just like Lucinda to call a spade a spade. Even if the old woman was a bit crazy.
I can’t have children, Kat thought. The reality hit her like a hammer.
“What am I going to tell him, Lucinda? That I’m barren. That the King family name dies with me!”
“Come here,” Lucinda said. She set her teacup on Dylan’s coffee table and reached her arms out for Kat.
“I didn’t mean to judge. Come give your aunt some love.”
Kat rushed forward and hugged Lucinda tight. It was the first time the two women had hugged since Pa Pa’s funeral. Kat thought back to Lucinda’s black toile dress. The type of fancy dress that older black women wore to funerals. Filled with lace parts running high up the neck. A wide-brimmed black hat pulled low over the Duchess’s eyes.
Lucinda Jones Washington had borne the loss—so personally. Her grief-stricken face etched like fine black marble.
Kat had always suspected her grandpa and Lucinda had been intimate, but it took the funeral to nail it home. Now, Kat was sure, sure.
Cullen Davis King had found happiness with the one woman in his life who gave a damn. The woman who, when he fell sick, changed his bedsheets, fed him piping hot chicken soup, and cared for him more than anyone.
Before she’d given away her entire inheritance to the King Foundation, Kat had made sure Aunt Lucinda was set for life.
The Duchess received a check each month and lived in Cullen King’s old white-columned house in River Oaks, which she would live in until the day she died. Kat figured the house belonged more to Aunt Lucinda, a woman who’d spent half a century living there and caring for things, than anyone else.
She sat on the couch and let Aunt Lucinda pat her on the back, the way her nanny used to do when Kat was little. Patting gently as if Kat needed burping.
“There, there,” Aunt Lucinda said, “all better now?”
The Duchess closed her strong hands over Kat’s shoulders and held Kat out for her to examine. Her mocha eyes, as deep as canyons, lit up at the sight of Kat’s features.
“You’re beautiful, sugar, just like your mama was. Dylan would be a fool,” she said, shaking her head and tsk-tsking with her lips.
“I need to tell him the truth,” Kat said. “So he can choose whether he still wants to marry me.”
“Speaking of marriage, what’s the word?” Lucinda shot back. “It’s time that boy got on the stick.”
No kidding, Kat thought.
“I don’t know. I guess we fell into something comfortable.”
“It’s been comfortable for years. I mean, look at you, child. Here you are. Socked up inside this apartment all day long. He’s got everything he wants.”
Kat giggled and covered her mouth. “Maybe I should pretend I’m pregnant.”
Aunt Lucinda pounded the sofa with her fist.
“Girl, you got the devil in you!” she hooted.
“Look. Let’s be realistic here, Lucinda. Dylan wants to have children. It’s not fair to him. He deserves to be with a woman who can give him a real family.”
She furrowed her brow. Thinking of her barrenness had put her into a funk. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Even her eyes looked dark underneath. Reaching her hand into her empty teacup, Kat pulled out the tea bag and set it on top of her eye.
“You crazy, child,” Aunt Lucinda said. “Tea bags, cucumbers, these fancy-schmancy spas, nothing works like good ol’-fashion Vaseline. I use it every night. A little dab under each eye. You should try.”
Kat pressed the tea bag firmly against her eye and felt a stream of warm tea trickle down her cheek. She dropped the tea bag into the cup and wiped her hand across her face.
“The tea bag fountain of youth,” she said.
“Are you sure you can’t get pregnant, sugar? Don’t listen to those doctors. They don’t know hoo-ee.” Lucinda flicked her finger in the air and pointed up at the ceiling. “Have you spoken with the Lord?”
Kathleen sniffled. “I tried. But I think he was having lunch with Joel Osteen.”
“Nonsense, child!” Crazy Aunt Lucinda clapped her hands, causing Kat to flinch. She proceeded to poke Kat in the ribs, which Kat recognized as Lucinda’s coming-to-Jesus move.
It was Lucinda’s way of torturing Kat—poking her in the ribs to nail home her point. Which was usually a Psalm from the Bible. Lucinda read the Bible like cats drank milk.
“He transforms the barren woman into a glad mother of children, hallelujah. That’s from Psalms,” Lucinda announced.
“So, you’re saying I should pray more?”
Lucinda arched her eyebrow as if to say, Duh.
“You’re right.” Kat sighed. “But that still doesn’t solve the marriage question.”
Lucinda shi
fted on the couch, causing the cushion under Kat to slide out.
“Why don’t you ask him to marry you, sugar? Be a modern lady, like your mama was?”
“Get real.”
“I’m serious as a stroke, honey. You take that boy someplace romantic. You look him in the eye and you say: Dylan, I may not be able to bear your child, but if we love each other, we can find a way. I’m ready to get married. How about it?”
“You want me to say, I’m ready to get married. How about it?”
“You can put your own spin on it.”
No way in hell, Kat thought. She leaned back against the couch and scratched a small welt on her leg. “That’s not traditional. The girl asking the guy.”
“Kathleen, you’ve been living with him since you were in college! At this point, what does it matter?” Crazy Aunt Lucinda was looking at her now. With those wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee eyes.
“You want to marry that boy, don’t you?”
Kat nodded vigorously. “More than Brad Pitt.”
“Well then.”
“What would I do without you?” Kat said simply.
“Oh, sugar. I’m not gonna be around forever,” Lucinda said, rubbing her arms. “The way this old woman’s bones have been cracking, I think the Lord is ready for me.”
“Nonsense,” Kat said. She didn’t know how old Lucinda was. No one did. It was a closely guarded secret. Like more closely guarded than who killed JFK.
“I’m getting up there in the years, child.”
Kat managed a smile. “How old are you? I always forget.”
The Duchess clucked and turned her nose up in the air.
Eighteen
Dylan and Wyatt bumped along I–10 toward Winnie, Texas. Sabine Lake, the site where they’d chosen to scatter Butch Grant’s ashes, was located just off Port Arthur, between Galveston and Beaumont.
They rode in silence, with the muted sound of the Toyota’s tinny radio blaring bad country music. Once in a while, Wyatt would clap Dylan on the shoulder and cast an odd look across the passenger seat.