by Jo Barrett
“She’s hopeless, Lucinda,” Shelby Lynn said.
Aunt Lucinda raised her glass, smiled a tipsy, lopsided smile, and said, “Don’t blame me, chile. I ain’t her mama.”
Shelby Lynn threw her head back in the air, and they both laughed at that one. Kat’s mother had been one of the most fashionable women in Houston society, and had been voted into the Best Dressed Hall of Fame from Houston High Society magazine. It was a wonder that her only daughter was now questioning the likes of certain fashion designers.
“Let me see that killer rock of yours again,” Shelby Lynn said, pouncing on Kathleen’s hand.
“You may want to put on your sunglasses so you don’t get blinded,” Lucinda said.
Kat flashed her ring finger so Shelby could admire the antique Kashmir sapphire.
“I’m thrilled with it,” Kat said.
“Who wouldn’t be?” Shelby cooed. “And now for the finishing touches…”
Kat stood still as Shelby Lynn picked up a veil and attempted to arrange it on Kat’s head.
“The train flows out behind you like this,” Shelby Lynn said, straightening out the train behind the dress.
“Well?” Lucinda asked. “What do you think, Cinderella?”
Kat stared at herself in the mirror and bunched up her lips in a pout. It looked like a giant cream puff had exploded all over her. Granted, the shantung and lace and beading were exquisite, and the train fell perfectly down the small of her back and across the floor, but still.
Kat raised the veil up over her head. “This isn’t me,” she said.
Shelby Lynn Pierce shot her a look. “You are not buying your wedding dress at a thrift store and that is final,” she said.
“Luu-cindaa,” Kat whined, staring back at her old nanny for help.
Lucinda downed the rest of her champagne glass. “Don’t look at me, child. I’m just here for the alcohol,” she tittered.
Kat realized that Lucinda was toasted. Her warm chocolate brown eyes were even a little shiny.
“You’re buzzed.” Kat giggled.
Lucinda never drank anything except hot tea. So this was a nice change.
“I thought this was a party,” Lucinda said, waving her empty champagne flute in the air.
“It is. And we’re going to do it right,” Shelby Lynn chirped. She sent the saleslady off to bring them another round of mango fruit juice cocktails “with a kick.”
“How about a dress that’s simple?” Kat asked. She was trying to struggle her way out of the wedding dress, but something had gotten caught in her hair and she was stuck.
“Let me help you with that, silly buns.” Kat felt Shelby expertly jerking the dress this way and that, until it came off over the top of Kat’s head. A wave of relief washed over her. She was back to panties and bra and feeling free as a bird again.
“You’re too thin,” Aunt Lucinda said. “We need to put some meat on those bones.”
Shelby Lynn whirled around with her hands on her slim hips. She was model-thin herself, with a perfect figure from many hours spent in the Houstonian gym and spa, and some guessed the plastic surgery suite of Dr. Franklin Prose.
“I wish I were too thin,” she said.
Lucinda, who’d always been fifty pounds overweight, just rolled her eyes.
“You’re perfect, dear,” Lucinda trilled, flapping her hand at Shelby as if to say, And everybody knows it.
Shelby broke out into a broad smile. “Oh stop it, Luce. I’m not perfect by any means.”
Kat smiled to herself. Both Lucinda and Shelby Lynn knew the score. Lucinda knew that Shelby Lynn thought of herself as having the body to die for—which she did. And Shelby Lynn knew that Lucinda was blowing smoke up her ass.
The saleslady arrived and swirled around with a platter of fresh champagne cocktails. She’d also brought a small dish of tasty-looking petits fours.
“Oh, don’t mind if do!” Lucinda said. She grabbed the whole plate and set it on her lap.
The saleslady raised her eyebrows and shot Lucinda a quizzical look.
“Don’t worry. These little birds won’t want any,” Lucinda said, popping one of the pastries in her mouth.
“I don’t eat sugar on Mondays,” Shelby Lynn said.
“I’m still full from breakfast,” Kat piped up.
Lucinda eyed the saleslady. “See. What did I tell ya.”
Kat looked at the rack of dresses in the corner of the fitting room. “I think I need something less flouncy,” she said. “I’m thinking of a long white gown, no train, no veil.”
“Cinderella wants something sleek and classic with a little bit of sexy hoochie mama thrown in,” Lucinda said, downing her champagne.
“I have just the thing,” the saleslady said. She swooped across the rack of dresses and said, “Aha! Here we go.”
Kat held her breath as the woman held up a gorgeous long white silk gown with a swooping dropped back.
The dress looked modern and sleek, and exactly what Kat imagined.
“I love it!” Kat squealed, and clapped her hands.
“I can already tell this one’s a keeper,” Lucinda said.
“Ooh la la! Super chic! The designer is Alexander McQueen,” Shelby Lynn said, checking the label on the dress.
“Who’s that?” Kat asked, causing everyone in the fitting room to laugh. Even Aunt Lucinda, who watched E! Entertainment television religiously, and hosted her church group’s Academy Awards chicken dinner each year, knew who the various fashion designers were.
Kat marveled at herself in the mirror. The dress made her waiflike figure appear curvaceous. She felt emboldened by the dress, as if she’d suddenly transformed into an old-time Hollywood star. Ingrid Bergman herself would’ve approved.
Kat desperately wanted to ask the saleslady how much the dress cost, but since Shelby Lynn was there, she decided against it.
“How much for the dress?” Lucinda blurted out, as if reading Kathleen’s mind.
“It was originally thirty-eight hundred, but we’ve marked it down half off because it’s last season,” the saleslady replied.
“Fabulous,” Shelby Lynn said. “She’ll take it.”
Kat realized that she didn’t have anywhere near this amount in her savings. She’d just paid the rent, bought groceries, and mailed checks to pay off the monthly balances on her and Dylan’s credit card bills—without his knowledge.
“I’ll think about it.” Kat sighed, pulling the dress up over her head. She’d find a used wedding dress for a few hundred bucks at any thrift store in town.
“Ring it up,” Lucinda chimed in, motioning toward the saleslady. She was waving a champagne flute in one hand and her credit card in the other. As she stood from her chair, the plate of half-eaten petits fours fell from her lap and dumped onto the floor.
“Whoopsy-daisy, I’ve done crazy!” Lucinda giggled.
“Oh my gosh, I think she’s toast,” Shelby Lynn said.
“Lucinda. I can’t let you do that,” Kat said, in a serious tone. She was not allowing her former nanny to pay for her wedding dress.
“This is my engagement gift, chile,” Lucinda said, stumbling toward Kathleen to give her a hug.
“No,” Kat said. “It’s too much.”
“I’ll split it with you, Luce,” Shelby piped up. She pulled an AmEx black card from her small green crocodile clutch and handed it to the saleswoman.
“You guys, I can buy my own dress,” Kat said stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Honey, you may be able to fool all the other women in this town, but I know for a fact you don’t have a penny to your name because you gave all your money away like some kind of Sister Teresa,” Shelby Lynn said.
“Mother Teresa,” Lucinda corrected her.
“Sister, mother, whatever,” Shelby Lynn continued. “Why do you think I keep donating so much to your foundation, Kathleen? It’s because you do more than anyone, silly.” She was giving Kat a look that said, Who are you trying
to fool?
Kat was momentarily stunned. She had no idea that Shelby Lynn was well aware of her dirty little secret number one, and yet still remained a good friend.
“Well, Shelby Lynn. Now that you know my dirty little secret,” Kat said, “I guess you should also know that I’m barren. I can’t have children.”
Shelby Lynn shot Lucinda a quick glance. “I know. Lucinda told me.”
“Lucinda!”
“Accident.” Lucinda shrugged.
Kat shook her head back and forth. If there was one thing she’d learned from her mother, it was that there was no such thing as secrets.
“Don’t be mad,” Shelby Lynn said. “We want to help you, because you’re always helping everyone else. I mean, look what you did for me and my self-esteem by introducing me to Bo Harlan. I couldn’t have asked for a better man to help get me out of this divorce funk.”
“We want to help you, child,” Lucinda said softly. “But you’re as stubborn as your granddad ever was.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Kat mumbled. “I’m getting married, and I’m happy for that. But I’ll never be able to have children.”
“Never say never,” Shelby Lynn said, wagging her finger. “My brother is the best fertility doctor in New York and he makes miracles happen.”
Kat took a deep breath and thought about Diego. About how he’d almost died. About his three brain surgeries, his collapsed lung, and his dangerous infection. About all the trials he’d suffered in his short, young life.
If this young child could pull through with a miracle, perhaps she should have more faith.
“I guess this means we’re going to New York City,” Kat said.
“We already booked your appointment,” Lucinda said, shooting Shelby Lynn a mischievous wink.
The two women both started giggling, watching Kat standing in her bra and panties on the small fitting room platform, holding an empty champagne flute in her hand and looking entirely stunned.
“You look like the shocked version of Aphrodite,” Shelby Lynn said.
Kat broke out into a smile. “You two partners in crime can buy my dress after all.”
Shelby turned to Lucinda, and both women raised their hands up in the air and slapped a high five.
Forty-five
Dylan had been drinking. Not drinking, drinking. Like his old man used to do. But enough to where he felt sloppy.
Wyatt had arranged a birthday dinner bash for Steve at La Dolce Vita Pizzeria, and he and C. Todd Hartwell were ordering rounds of shots as if they were back in college again. They’d decided on silly shots—like Sex on the Beaches, and Lemon Drops, and Buttery Nipples, and each time they ordered them, they ordered a second round for the sexy bartender gals as well. That way, everyone was getting nice and hammered.
Dylan had drunk four glasses of Chianti and eaten an entire pepperoni pizza. But the liquor was doing a number on his stomach. He felt like having fun for a change. So he joined into the festivities and ordered a round of Sambuca—“to make you puke-a.” Which made everyone roar with laughter. He wished that Kat could’ve joined them but she was doing what she called “wedding stuff” with the girls.
As he threw back his Sambuca and felt the burn in his throat, Dylan realized that he was enjoying himself for the first time since hearing the news of Butch Grant’s death. Since dealing with the aftershocks of Butch Grant’s death.
Plus, things were looking up. He and Kat were getting married. And he’d found the stake on the ranch. Sure, it was too soon to celebrate. But heck, Dylan thought, how often did Steve from Louisiana turn thirty-seven?
Staying true to form, Steve was wearing what he called his “Supa Fly birthday suit.” A purple suit with large white pinstripes. White patent leather loafers. A white hat cocked sideways on his head. And gold…everywhere. Gold watch, gold rings on his fingers, gold chains around his neck.
“You realize that you’re a short-ass white guy!” Wyatt roared, clapping Steve on the shoulder.
“And you’re a dumb, one-legged sonofabitch!” Steve replied.
“Hey, I’ve gotta news flash, Justin Timberlake! You’re not in the NBA!” Wyatt roared.
“Ladies, this man thinks he’s Tom Cruise!” Steve shouted to the girls behind the bar. “Check out the ladies’ man over here. Straight off the plane from Las Vegas. Aren’t we lucky to have him in our podunk little city.”
Steve pointed at Wyatt, and Wyatt rolled his hand a few times and took a bow. They both broke down laughing at their tremendous brand of put-down comedy.
Dylan grabbed another shot off the bar and smiled. For some reason, his younger brother and Steve had bonded the way men do—over offensive jokes and physical shoulder slapping.
C. Todd Hartwell was swaying near a bunch of stools, looking like he was about to keel over.
“Gimme another round of shrinks!” he slurred.
One of the bartenders shook her head and pointed across the bar at her manager. “You’re cut off. Sorry, hon,” she said.
“This is bull crap!” C. Todd said. He was precariously close to falling over, and Dylan thought this was tremendously funny.
Wyatt and Steve started pounding on the bar and chanting, “Bull crap…bull crap…bull crap…” over and over, until the manager came over and threatened to call the police if they didn’t settle down.
“Fuck the po…lice!” Steve rapped, as if he were Tupac, which sent everyone into stitches.
Dylan was laughing so hard he nearly threw up. The four guys tumbled out into the parking lot and tried to hail a passing taxi.
There was no way any of them were driving. Not in this condition. And not in Texas. Where Mothers Against Drunk Driving had made a DUI akin to a death sentence.
Before Dylan could recognize the black sedan parked a few feet away from them, it was too late.
Dylan’s eyes were adjusting to the night sky when he felt the first punch land squarely across his face.
He, Steve, Wyatt, and C. Todd Hartwell were attacked from either side by four men in suits.
Dylan tried to punch his way to freedom, but the hits were coming from all angles and he felt himself going down. Something heavy landed on his arm, and he realized it was a baseball bat. Dylan felt no pain at first, until he fell to the cement. Then the pain rocketed across his arms and chest.
He felt the kicks to his ribs, abdomen, and groin. And he vomited up his pizza.
“Felix!” he gurgled. “I have your cash!”
Suddenly the kicks stopped coming. Dylan coughed and scanned the parking lot for any signs of Felix. Wyatt, Steve, and C. Todd Hartwell were writhing around on the cement, groaning in pain.
Felix appeared over Dylan’s head, his gold tooth protruding from his permanent sneer. A pave diamond–encrusted skull necklace dangled from his neck. “I told you not to make me come back here,” he snapped.
“Sorry,” Dylan grumbled. “Look. I’ve got your money. Give me a week.”
“No more time,” Felix said. “I’m out of patience, my friend.”
“We’ve got something better than cash,” Wyatt piped up. Dylan turned and glared at his brother. He saw that Wyatt had gotten the worst of the beating. His nose looked broken and his eyes were both swollen.
Dylan shook his head vigorously back and forth, trying to signal for Wyatt to Please shut up! But his brother just wrangled on ahead.
“Ah, the younger brother speaks out,” Felix said in a snide tone. “What’s better than cash?”
“Oil,” Wyatt groaned.
“I see,” Felix said. He circled around Wyatt while his men kept guard, their baseball bats propped firmly up against their shoulders.
“We’re drilling a monster well,” Wyatt sputtered.
Dylan dropped his head into his hands. Luckily, C. Todd Hartwell had passed out from the combination of alcohol and ass kicking, and was snoring loudly on the pavement. Otherwise, he probably would’ve kicked Wyatt’s ass himself.
Steve was watching F
elix—like a snake watches a hyena. Mr. Louisiana shot up off the pavement and grabbed Felix by the throat.
“Tell your guys to back off, dawg!” Steve commanded, squeezing Felix’s throat until the bookie actually yelped.
Felix motioned for his men to step away.
Dylan held his breath. He knew that Steve worked with some shady characters back in New Orleans, and so Felix was quite possibly a dead man.
“My friend over here told you you’d get your money in a week. I suggest you wait a week,” Steve hissed into Felix’s ear. “You understand?”
Felix nodded.
Steve released the bookie’s throat and watched as he gasped for air. “You’ll be all right, just breathe,” Steve said, patting Felix on the back as if he were burping a baby.
Felix stared at Wyatt and then back at Dylan.
“You need investors for this oil thing?” he choked.
“No.” Dylan wiped blood from his cheek.
It was funny, really. As soon as the words “oil well” came into play, everyone wanted in on the deal.
“What if I forgive the entire loan in exchange for a piece of it?” Felix asked.
“Could be a dry hole,” Dylan said, hoisting himself up off the pavement. “And then you wouldn’t make shit.”
“What if it isn’t a dry hole?” Felix asked.
Dylan wiped his hands against his jeans. Felix wasn’t dumb, that was for sure.
“You’d make ten times your money. Possibly more.”
“What are the odds?” Felix asked.
Dylan smirked. Mr. Vegas was now asking about the odds.
“Five to one.”
“Okay,” Felix said. “It’s a deal. Have your lawyer fax me the documents tomorrow.”
Spoken like a true businessman, Dylan mused.
“Done,” Dylan said. The bookie stretched out his hand. “Does this mean we have a gentlemen’s agreement?” he asked, flashing Dylan his gold tooth.
Dylan pointed over to C. Todd Hartwell, who was still lying on the pavement passed out cold. “Sure, Felix. But do you think your guys can help us move our buddy off the pavement?”