Don't Let It Be True

by Jo Barrett

  Dylan pounded his fist against the steering wheel.

  “Don’t get cross,” Kathleen said.

  “I’m excited, hon. You’re as right as right can be. I’m gonna drop you off, head straight to the ranch, and you’re not gonna see me till this thing’s panned out.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Kat murmured.

  “Don’t worry, babe. You’ll have a lifetime with me.”

  Kat rolled her eyes.

  Dylan chuckled. He turned the keys in the ignition and roared out of the parking lot.

  Fifty-five

  Kat glanced around the plush first-class cabin of the Continental Boeing 777. A flight attendant was passing around champagne and orange juice mimosas on a small silver tray. Kat accepted the cocktail and drank it in two long gulps.

  She’d never taken a girls-only trip before, and could barely contain her excitement. Spending the weekend in New York City with Shelby Lynn Pierce and Kinkaid Whipley was sure to be a riot.

  Aunt Lucinda had canceled at the last minute due to some phantom “appointment” she swore she couldn’t break. Kathleen had raced over to the house and begged her to join them, but Lucinda was deathly afraid of flying. Kat had offered to drug her with Xanax and drag her on the plane anyway, but Lucinda put up a hollering fight.

  So Kat let it go.

  She and Shelby Lynn and Kinkaid would probably drive Lucinda nuts anyway.

  Kat took a sip from her champagne glass and giggled. New York City! What a hoot!

  Shelby Lynn Pierce had wanted to take the Pierce family jet, but apparently it was “in the shop.” The multimillion-dollar Gulfstream needed repairs to its navigation system, and Shelby Lynn cursed the plane as if it were a lemon she’d just driven off the car lot.

  “Damned thing won’t start,” she’d joked, stepping onto the Continental aircraft and sniffing the air as if it were poison.

  Kathleen had suggested purchasing coach class seats she found on sale at Expedia, but Kinkaid and Shelby Lynn insisted on upgrading using their miles. Kathleen realized that they’d upgraded her, too, using miles from one of their accounts.

  God bless my friends, she thought, as the plane accelerated down the runway and took off.

  Their plan was not to have a plan.

  “I know New York like a stripper knows a fat cat,” Kinkaid Whipley said. She’d put her finger against her lips and said, “Shhhh. I’m originally from South Jersey but don’t tell anyone.”

  Shelby Lynn Pierce said, “I slept with a guy from New Jersey once. He smelled like pork sausage.”

  She pulled a black satin eye mask down over her eyes. “Ladies, I need my beauty rest if we’re going to hit the ground running,” she announced.

  Kinkaid Whipley said, “Go to sleep, fatso,” and they all laughed.

  A few hours later, the three women were whizzing around Manhattan in the back of a yellow taxi. Kinkaid Whipley took them to the new “in” shops on the Lower East Side around Rivington Street.

  Kathleen bought rhinestone hair barrettes in the shape of butterflies.

  Kinkaid Whipley bought a leather motorcycle jacket from a boutique called Dykes with Bikes.

  Shelby Lynn Pierce clutched her orange lizard Birkin bag tightly under her arm, stuck her nose in the air, and said, “I’ll wait for Madison Avenue, thank you very much.” Houston’s most famous Pierce was wearing head-to-toe black—black turtleneck, tight black pants, and high-heel black boots. She looked sleek and stylish and just off the runway.

  “I only wear black in New York,” she explained.

  They decided to grab pastrami sandwiches from Katz’s deli, and while they were sitting at one of the tables, Kinkaid Whipley reenacted the Meg Ryan orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally.

  Later, they checked into the Four Seasons Hotel, where Jonathan Whipley had a corporate account, and proceeded to get nice and buzzed in the downstairs bar.

  When a group of men approached and offered to buy drinks, Shelby Lynn Pierce pointed to Kinkaid Whipley and said, “Stand back. She’s got a bomb!”

  The women laughed a lot, strolled around the city until midnight, ate sushi at a little place in the West Village, and then collapsed back at their hotel suite.

  The next morning, Kathleen woke early and got dressed. She didn’t want to disturb Kinkaid or Shelby Lynn, who were sleeping as if in a coma, and so she quietly exited the room and made her way to the doctor’s office.

  Shelby Lynn’s brother had set up his fertility clinic right smack-dab in the middle of where New York society women felt the most comfortable. Sixty-eighth and Park—next to all the best salons and the bagel shop that charged nine dollars a pop for a “schmear” of homemade cream cheese.

  Kathleen walked briskly up Fifth Avenue past Central Park, and then turned onto Sixty-eighth. The air was crisp around the park and she suddenly missed Dylan. How romantic it would be to spend a few days with him in NYC, she thought.

  Stepping inside the office, Kathleen thought she was in the wrong place. Rather than a drab waiting room, Dr. Pierce’s office resembled a chic recording studio at a hot new record label. The walls were adorned with large framed black and white vintage posters of Jimi Hendrix, the Stones, the Beatles, and Bob Dylan.

  The waiting room looked like it had been designed by Ian Schrager—with fashionable white leather sofas, white lacquer tables filled with the latest magazines, and a small side bar with juices, fresh pastries, and an espresso machine.

  “I’m here for my nine A.M. with Dr. Pierce,” Kathleen said, stepping up to the appointment desk.

  The woman behind the desk passed her a clipboard. Kathleen signed herself in, filled out all the necessary paperwork, and took a seat in the empty waiting room. She was glad to see that she was the first patient of the morning.

  Within minutes, a nurse called her into the back. Kathleen stripped off her jeans, put on the hospital gown, and waited. Her entire body was shaking suddenly, and she felt cold. She’d brought a folder with all of her previous medical records, CAT scans, and her most recent blood tests. She opened the folder and stared down at her most recent scan. The cyst looked like a small white egg. She’d had surgery to remove it, but there was still scar tissue.

  Dr. Pierce stepped inside the room, and Kathleen could immediately see the resemblance. He was tall, slim, and smooth as butter—just like Shelby. And he held himself with the same poise and confidence possessed by the entire Pierce clan.

  “Kathleen King, it’s a pleasure,” he said in a deep voice, shaking Kathleen’s hand.

  Kathleen squirmed on the examination table. Dr. Pierce was so handsome, he reminded her of one of those soap opera doctors on afternoon TV.

  Oh Lord help me, she thought, as Shelby Lynn’s brother proceeded to examine her. Kat felt cold all over and her skin was covered in goose bumps.

  “Just relax,” Dr. Pierce said sexily, reaching his hand underneath her gown.

  “I hope you’re gay.” Kathleen giggled as he dug his hands into her abdomen and felt for the cyst.

  Dr. Pierce laughed and said. “Worse. Happily married.”

  “How many kids?”

  “Five.”

  Dr. Pierce pointed across the room at a photograph. His five children smiling in bathing suits on the beach. His wife in the background trying to herd them together for the shot.

  “Lucky,” Kathleen said. “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”

  Dr. Pierce gave her a serious look and sat down on a small stool. “I’m not going to lie to you, Kathleen. This is going to be a tough road.”

  “Will I have to take shots?”

  Dr. Pierce nodded. “Twice a day.” He tapped the top of his thigh. “Right here, in your thigh. Do you think you can do that?”

  Kathleen crinkled her nose. “I’ve never given myself a shot.”

  “Do you have someone who can do it for you?”

  Kathleen thought of Dylan fainting the time he’d tried to put in contact lenses.

  “I think it’s better if
I learn it myself,” she said. She’d spent so much time at her own hospital, administering a shot to herself couldn’t be that difficult. If she had trouble, Dr. Levin was always there to help.

  “Good. I want you to start immediately. There’s a new medication on the market. They’re calling it the ‘fertility miracle drug.’”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  Dr. Pierce slapped his hands against his legs and stood up. “Just remember, in order for this to work, you’ve got to focus on your cycle—the times of the month when you’re most likely to get pregnant. I’m going to send you off with an ovulation kit—it’s not difficult—it’s just like an over-the-counter pregnancy test that you buy in the pharmacy.”

  “Dr. Pierce?”

  “Yes, Kathleen?”

  “What are my chances?”

  “I don’t like statistics. If this doesn’t work, we can explore other options.”

  “Like a surrogate?” Kathleen asked. She wondered what it was like to use a surrogate mother. To entrust another woman with your own biological baby.

  “This is one option, certainly.”

  “Why can’t I be normal?” Kathleen sighed.

  “Sometimes it’s a good thing.” Dr. Pierce chuckled. “And besides, any friend of my sister is certainly not normal.”

  Kathleen smiled and shook Dr. Pierce’s outstretched hand.

  “Why all the rock star posters?” she asked as he opened the door to the examination room.

  “I always wanted to be John Lennon,” he said, clicking the door shut behind him.

  Fifty-six

  Around eight o’clock that evening, Shelby Lynn insisted on having dinner at “Chips,” which was Cipriani on Fifty-ninth and Fifth.

  Kathleen wore her favorite little black dress and strappy high heels; Shelby Lynn Pierce wore a stunning floor-length forest green gown with a jade choker around her neck and jade bracelets running up the length of her arms; Kinkaid Whipley wore her new motorcycle jacket over a pair of black suede pants.

  The three women scored a table near the “action” at the bar, and ordered salads for appetizers and steaks for entrees. They drank an entire bottle of Chardonnay, and when a group of men at a nearby cocktail table sent them a round of Bellinis, Shelby Lynn raised her glass and hooted, “Thanks for the drink, but I was looking for sex.”

  The women drank and laughed and gossiped in that kind, cautious way that women tend to do. About halfway into her steak, Kinkaid Whipley whipped around toward Kathleen and admired her engagement ring.

  “When’s the big day?” she asked, gulping back the last of the Bellini in her glass.

  Kathleen curled a strand of hair around her ear. “It’s a surprise.”

  “C’mon, Kathleen! You big sneak! Share the wealth. When are you two doing the deed?” Kinkaid pressed.

  “You’ll see,” Kathleen said, allowing a glimmer of a smile to creep past her lips.

  After many restless nights, she and Dylan had finally figured out the perfect wedding arrangements. It would be unlike anything anyone had ever seen, or would ever expect. When Lucinda suggested holding the wedding reception in the Cullen King mansion, Dylan confided in Kathleen that he didn’t like the idea.

  “I want this to be our special day, hon,” he’d said. “Not some circus filled with gawkers wanting to see where your grandfather used to live.”

  Kathleen realized that Dylan had a point. While he was alive, her grandfather had never allowed people in his home, never hosted parties, and had been a mystery among the Houston socialite crowd. His aloofness made the notion of attending his granddaughter’s wedding inside his home all the more tantalizing, and Dylan admitted to Kathleen that he didn’t want their wedding to have that type of draw. Even after her grandfather’s death, Dylan had rarely set foot inside the mansion himself—except to have brunch with Lucinda in the kitchen or out on the sun patio. It was as if the mansion was not a living, breathing home but was instead a Parthenon—a mausoleum in memory of this great man, Lucinda being its sole caretaker.

  Kathleen breathed through her nose and wished Kinkaid Whipley would drop the subject. Everyone would find out soon enough about the wedding plans.

  Shelby Lynn and Kinkaid shot each other a look, and Shelby Lynn grabbed Kathleen’s hand and said, “What’s with all the mystery, Kit Kat?”

  “Believe me, Shelby Lynn. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Shelby Lynn clapped her hands against her cheeks. “You know I hate surprises, darling. My husband surprised me with that little prostitute of his. I’m surprise-scarred for life.”

  “But you used to love surprises,” Kat said. “I thought Bo was a surprise. Falling in love with him the way you did…”

  Shelby Lynn stared down at the table. “Bo is a good man,” she said slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for replacement love. Someone to fill the void.”

  Kinkaid Whipley polished off the rest of her steak and set her knife down with a loud clack. “I’ve seen the way that man looks at you,” she said. “As if you hung the moon.”

  “I could certainly do worse,” Shelby Lynn said.

  “All the good ones are married or gay.” Kinkaid Whipley nodded. “Believe me, I thank my lucky stars that Jonathan and I met back in college.”

  Kathleen smiled to herself and though about Dylan. He was certainly a catch.

  She wondered how things were progressing at the drill site.

  The waiter swirled around the table and produced delicate chocolate soufflés for dessert, and glasses of ice wine. When Shelby Lynn Pierce reached over and dipped her fork in one of the soufflés, Kinkaid Whipley said, “Stop stealing my soufflé, fatty.”

  Kathleen giggled. She relaxed her shoulders and allowed herself to breathe. A moment later, her cell phone buzzed in her purse.

  “Let me guess,” Shelby Lynn said, popping a teeny bite of chocolate in her mouth. “It’s el Jefe.”

  Kathleen pulled her phone from the purse and was pleased to see Dylan’s number pop up. He’d programmed her phone to read, “Dylan Grant, your Master and Commander,” every time he called.

  “Hi babe,” Kathleen cooed into the phone. It had been weeks since Dylan left for the ranch, and she felt a knot in her stomach at the sound of his voice.

  “Are you girls having fun?” he asked, right off the bat.

  Kathleen gripped the phone in her hand. She was having a phenomenal time, but she didn’t want to mention her doctor’s appointment.

  “We’re having a blast,” Kat said, winking across the table at Shelby Lynn and Kinkaid. “In fact, we’ve met some lovely men across the bar who persist in sending us rounds of drinks.”

  “Sounds like I need to jump the next plane to New York and open up a can of Texas whoop ass,” Dylan said, which caused Kathleen to laugh.

  “How are things down there?” she asked cautiously.

  “Well, Einrich and Wyatt can tuck down more barbecue than anyone I’ve ever seen. I swear they each leveled a rack of ribs last night.”

  “What about the drilling?” Kathleen asked. She didn’t want to sound too brazen, but this was her land, after all.

  “It’s right on track, hon. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Aw, hell Kathleen. An oil well is like a woman. You don’t really get to know her until you sleep with her.”

  Kathleen smiled and felt her heart soar in her chest.

  “You sound just like Pa Pa,” she said. She knew this was the highest compliment she could pay Dylan.

  He paused a moment. And then his voice came on the line.

  “Thank you, hon,” he said softly. “That means a lot.”

  Kathleen hung up the phone and stared at her two friends. “My fiancé is now, officially, a wildcatter,” she announced.

  “God. Bless. Texas.” Shelby Lynn drawled, raising her glass in the air.

  The three women raised their glasses and clinked a toast. Kathleen summ
oned the waiter and reached in her purse to pay for the check. It was the least she could do for such supportive friends. And especially for Shelby Lynn—who’d set up the doctor’s appointment with her brother. This debt, Kathleen knew, she could never repay.

  When the waiter brought the check, he announced that it had already been taken care of over the phone by a Mr. Bo Harlan from Houston, Texas.

  “Oh brother,” Shelby Lynn said, drumming her fingernails against the table.

  “You’re in trouble now, girlfriend,” Kinkaid Whipley said.

  Kathleen flung her napkin across the table at Shelby Lynn. “You better hurry up with that divorce so you can get remarried, fatty,” she said, and everyone laughed.

  Fifty-seven

  The oil business was all about delays. Delays and risk. It took a steel stomach to embroil oneself in the nitty-gritty, the ins and outs, the dirty details. Ever since he’d arrived at the ranch, Dylan had been popping an hourly Tums.

  He knew full well that the flash-in-the-pan, overnight success stories were bogus. Any oilman who recounted how he’d made the big one, the big gusher, without any problems was a braggart and a liar. It was the same as those Boston whaling men, and all their big fish stories. Men would be men. But in the oil business, exaggeration often meant staggering losses.

  Dylan didn’t want to get his hopes up. He’d pinned everything on a single well. Common sense dictated that it was better to spread risk among many different wells, but this was a luxury Dylan didn’t have. He was playing a high-stakes game. It was all or nothing.

  Inside the mobile command unit, Dylan stood side by side with Einrich Von Hearn. The Golden Buddha scanned his computer monitors by the minute, tugging on his white beard. Dylan stared out the windows of the high-tech RV. The drill site was laid out in front of him. He watched the men working the platform covered in sweat and dirt, and Dylan knew how they felt.