by Nunn, Mae
She was putting the same pressure on her contractors. Karl complained that she was on the phone with him at least once a day, and the work hadn’t even begun yet. How would Gillian act once the property was crawling with crews? Could she step aside and let them do the work she was paying them for, or would she be up in their business, questioning every detail?
By all indications, if left to her own devices, Gillian would implode before the first frost. He didn’t have to do anything to derail her plan. She was doing it herself. It should have made him happy, but somehow he didn’t relish the idea of watching her fail. Still he reminded himself she didn’t have as much to lose as he did.
Meanwhile he was making quiet inquiries into funding in case Temple Territory went back on the market. After Gillian trampled every toe in town and made her retreat to the security of corporate life, he’d be ready to step in and make an offer to the bank. Pap’s place would end up in the family after all. Hunt would restore and remodel the kitchen and dining room, but the rest of the mansion would remain as his grandfather had intended; a memorial to the life of an independent Texas oilman. So what if people still claimed Mason Dixon Temple was crooked as a dog’s hind leg? J. R. Ewing was no better, and he was as big a legend as Hunt’s real life namesake, the great H. L. Hunt.
“So what do you suggest I do instead?” Gillian asked. “Wait patiently and let the holiday season come crashing down on my head?”
“What’s the worst that can happen if you don’t open the doors in December?”
Her eyes couldn’t have been any more incredulous if a horn had sprouted from his forehead. “I can’t believe you’re asking that question, as if missing the deadline were an option.”
“I’m not insinuating it is, but you’re sitting here with too little to keep you busy and too many people to pester, so I’m asking you to consider the worst-case scenario and get it over with.”
She dumped a heaping teaspoon of raw cane sugar into her cup and stirred as if her life depended on it. She couldn’t make a permit materialize, but by golly she would make those crystals dissolve.
“I can’t even consider that possibility.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“No, I mean I can’t. There’s more at stake than I’m willing to admit out loud. The consequences of failure are even steeper than the rewards of success.”
She dipped her chin toward her chest. A curtain of golden hair swung out from behind her ear, hiding Gillian’s face from his view. She must have struck a heavy bargain with her daddy to be so worried about the outcome of her first business venture. Naturally she wanted to do well, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if she didn’t. She was an only child. If her parents had been willing to bankroll her once, they’d do it again. And again.
“Buenos días, Miss Gillian and Mr. Hunt,” Alma greeted as she came through the door. Hunt jumped to his feet to help with the bag she carried. Fresh mustard greens sprouted from the top of the recycled shopping sack Alma filled almost daily at the farmer’s market.
“Buenos días, señora,” Gillian responded. “¿Cómo es usted?”
“Muy bien! You’ve been practicing,” Alma said, complimenting Gillian’s efforts to learn some phrases in Spanish.
“It only took a few days in Texas for me to figure out a crash course was in order.”
“These greens are almost as pretty as you,” Hunt teased Alma as he sorted the contents of the bag, appreciating her eye for the freshest produce.
“This one is the sweet-talker of my boys.” Alma pretended to share a secret with Gillian. “He will have you eating from his hand and twisted around his pinkie finger.”
Hunt wrapped Alma in a hug from behind. He towered over the short woman, pinned her arms to her sides and lifted her feet off the ground. “How am I supposed to stay ahead of my new boss if you give away my secrets?” he hissed.
“Put me down, you bully.” Standing on her feet again, Alma tugged at the hem of her navy housekeeper’s dress. “I’m sure this pretty lady has figured out for herself that you will say anything to get your way.”
“That’s only with you, Mamá Pequeña,” he said, calling her by the name she loved, Little Mama.
Gillian wondered how accurate Alma’s statement was. Hunt hadn’t done anything more to cause his loyalty to be questioned, nor had he made any further effort to kiss her. But he was definitely clear on who buttered his bread.
“Hunt’s being honest, Alma. He hasn’t tried any lines on me that I’d categorize as sweet talk.”
“Give him a while longer.” Alma winked, and then went about the job of rinsing and storing her fresh vegetables.
Hunt took his seat at the table again. “Thanks for speaking up for me, Gillian. You’d expect her to be prejudiced in favor of her youngest. Instead she’s always expected the worst from me.”
“What I expect from you is to put those cups and saucers in the dishwasher and then get out of my kitchen. It’s a beautiful fall day. You kids go outside and play.”
“She’s right. Let’s not waste this perfect weather. How about a drive out to Lake Cherokee, Gillian? I’ll show you where my brother Mac lives and we can have lunch at the marina.”
“Under one condition.”
“That’s a shock.” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if the condition would be painful. “Go ahead, name it.”
“That we stop by the courthouse on the way through town to check for word on my permits.”
“You’re going to irritate those folks if you’re not careful.” He slanted a warning look her way.
“Thanks for the advice on interpersonal skills, Dr. Phil.”
“Just consider yourself forewarned.”
“Hey, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet,” she reminded Hunt.
“You’ve got me there.”
* * *
SITTING IN THE passenger seat of Hunt’s ancient Wrangler as they cruised the shore of Lake Cherokee seemed oddly natural to Gillian.
“My father had a Jeep when I was a teenager,” she mentioned above the growl of the engine.
“Did he teach you to drive it?”
“No, it was a model with a history of rolling over, and he didn’t want me behind the wheel. He taught me in Mother’s Lincoln.”
She remembered the mammoth sedan they’d bought secondhand and driven until the wheels had fallen off. Her mother had always been partial to gas-guzzling land yachts. But Dad said she put in so many hours, either behind the front desk or filling in for the catering office when they were short-staffed, that she deserved the comfort of a big luxury car. It was their one indulgence as they socked away money for the future. Her no-nonsense father had been raised to save and he’d taught Gillian the same strict discipline. Living well within her means had become second nature, so the extravagant spending on Moore House was nerve-racking.
Every day that passed without moving closer to opening the doors was a waste of twenty-four precious hours. She used them as wisely as possible, but Hunt made a good point. If she continued to pressure everyone she came into contact with, she’d get a reputation for being difficult. Even if she had good reason for earning that reputation, it would make business harder down the road.
“Well, what do you say?” Hunt pulled the hand brake.
“About what?” She’d tuned him out a few miles ago.
“McCarthy’s place?” He pointed toward a two-story A-frame home that perched on a ledge beside the four-thousand-acre lake. The house was designed from deep red cedar, huge panes of glass and chunks of ruddy-colored rock. The view from inside had to be breathtaking.
“Your oldest brother’s done very well for himself.”
“Mac’s the mathematician in the family, a natural bean counter. He did his best to guide the rest of us to use our inheritance wisely,
but he’s the only one who really parlayed his money into a serious nest egg.”
“The inheritance you received when your parents died?” She’d done enough research to learn his folks had gone down in a private plane when the boys were all probably still in school.
Hunt leaned forward and crossed his forearms over the steering wheel. He nodded. “Pap had died years earlier when natural gas caused a rig to explode in West Texas. But Daddy didn’t find out about it till long after the fact when an old friend of Pap’s came through Kilgore and stopped for a visit.”
“Nobody notified the family that your grandfather had been killed?” Gillian was mortified.
“Nope. My dad and grandfather hadn’t spoken in years. Dad wasn’t even sure where Pap was living.”
“How sad. Do you mind telling me why?”
“Pap was convicted just as our dad was applying for college. The state took everything they had, and since Dad was already eighteen there wasn’t even a provision for his support. He was forced to leave Temple Territory and move in with neighbors to finish his senior year or go stay with his mother’s people in Georgia. He’d never even met them, and they didn’t exactly welcome him with open arms, since they assumed he was somehow messed up in Pap’s dirty business dealings.”
“I’m sorry to keep prying, but what was your grandfather convicted of?”
“Drilling slanted wells.” Hunt made an angular motion with his hand. “A lot of wildcatters were doing it, and plenty of people were aware of the practice. Slant-well drilling was a way to get even with the major oil companies for squeezing out the independents.”
“That’s a Robin Hood way of thinking.”
“Sort of, justifying the crime didn’t make it right. Others were charged but Pap was the only one convicted. His foolish refusal to fill his wells with cement to hide the evidence of his crime cost him fifteen years of freedom.”
“What happened to your father when his dad went to prison?”
“He stayed in Kilgore, got into college and worked three jobs to support himself. After he married my mother, she helped to put Dad through medical school, and he agreed to come home to practice in order to get grants from local businesses.
“By the time Pap was paroled, Daddy was in private practice at the only hospital in town. He and Mama had four young’uns and a life of their own, so Pap went quietly out West. My dad got a letter from the Texas Department of Corrections saying Mason Dixon Temple had been paroled, but Pap never got in touch, and my folks left it alone.”
“What did your parents tell you boys about your grandfather?”
“They didn’t have to tell us much of anything. The town made sure we heard all the old stories and probably a lot besides. I asked my daddy once why he didn’t change our name and move away from the gossip, and he said, ‘What my Pap did will hurt like the dickens for a couple of generations, and then people will forget. We’ll make our own name. This is our home, and we’re not going to run away.’”
“Then your grandfather’s friend just dropped by out of the blue?”
Hunt nodded. “Wilbur was one of Pap’s roughnecks on Temple One back in the day. They met up again out in West Texas and worked together until Pap was killed. Poor old Wilbur had no idea he was breaking the news when he told Daddy how sorry he was about Pap’s death.”
“How did your father deal with it?”
“Not aware his Pap had died and not even knowing where he was buried gnawed at Daddy in ways you can’t even imagine. But he was determined to honor the old man’s wishes and keep the rest of us clear of the shame. Pap took it to the grave with him, and that’s the way he wanted it.”
Hunt stared past her toward the lake that could be seen beyond his brother’s magnificent home. The wind gusted whitecaps on the water that lapped at the shoreline.
“Did you ever meet your grandfather?”
“Nope.”
“That’s just tragic.” The sentiment was heartfelt. “When did you find out about Temple Territory?”
“I can’t remember ever not being aware it was Pap’s place. It was the only part of the story that we boys could be proud of when kids said we were a family of thieves.”
“Children can be so cruel.”
“Adults can, too, and unfortunately the memories here are still sharp. That’s one of the reasons the property’s been empty for so long. The story that Temple Territory is jinxed kept locals from wanting to invest in it.”
“So that first day when you said the place was cursed, you weren’t just making that up to scare me off?”
Hunt leaned his head against the seat and laughed.
“Oh, I probably said it to scare you away, but I didn’t have to make it up. Remember, this is Texas. The truth here is bigger and stranger than the whoppers anywhere else.”
“And the legend of the Caddo well? Was that story just to scare me, too?”
“No, ma’am.” He shook his head, once again serious. “It’s never been proven, but the Caddo believe that hole was dug by their ancestors whose spirits still haunt the well. Pap respected that, and I do, too.”
“That nasty thing stinks.”
“The supernatural usually does.” He sounded ominous.
“You can’t really believe that story.” She brushed him off. He was messing with her head.
“The descendants of the ancient tribe believe that the spot is sacred. Pap honored their superstitions by preserving the well, and if you’re smart you’ll leave it just as it’s been for hundreds of years.”
“Or what?”
“You watched the film Poltergeist, didn’t you? I wouldn’t want to be around when you find out the hard way that Pap was right.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
TO GILLIAN’S RELIEF, the building permits began to trickle in by the end of October. Serious work finally got underway but it was out of order. Things were happening, just not according to Gillian’s carefully conceived plan.
She started each day full of hope that she’d make progress, and then fell into bed at night beneath the weight of more stress than she had ever imagined possible. Six weeks into the renovation and she was constantly second-guessing herself. Maybe Hunt had been on to something when he’d tried to get her to consider the worst-case scenario. Plan A was not coming together, and there simply was no plan B.
Either Gillian was failing or what the locals said was true: Temple Territory was jinxed. Either way, it would be fatal. And after her father’s call a few hours earlier, she wasn’t sure she would bear up under another blow.
“Miss Gillian, would you come approve this molding before I sign off on the delivery and let the guy unload?”
“Sure, Alberto,” she agreed. She followed the foreman of Karl Gates’s team to the area where building supplies were being staged. A flatbed had been backed up near the temporary Quonset barn that shielded construction materials from the elements. The truck driver in his familiar orange apron waited with his clipboard for a signature.
“Is this what you and Mr. Karl agreed on? I expected the crown to be eight inches wide.” Alberto slid a length of wood forward for Gillian’s inspection and laid a tape measure across the width. “This is only four.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” Even before Gillian got her hands on the molding, she realized this was no laughing matter. The custom order was half the width they’d expected. This material, arriving two weeks late, would never give the ceiling the illusion of a French drawing room. She took aim at the innocent driver, her last nerve shot.
“Get your boss on the phone,” she demanded.
“Um, ma’am, I don’t carry a cell. Can’t afford it.”
She stomped toward the open door of the flatbed, reached inside and yanked the built-in microphone off its dashboard mount. “Is there someone on the other end of this
thing?”
Anxious eyes looked to Alberto and then back to Gillian. The driver nodded his head in response.
It took all the composure she could muster not to shoot the messenger. She stretched the chord to its fullest extent and thrust the mic toward the driver. “Get your dispatcher on the line and inform him the lady who owns Moore House is beyond furious!”
“Moore House?” he questioned.
She blew out a sigh when a scream was really what she wanted to let loose.
“Temple Territory, then. Tell them the lady who is remodeling Temple Territory is, to put it in local terms, madder than a wet hen! And as soon as it is humanly possible, Mr. Gates will be at your store with some choice words for the idiot who screwed up my custom order.”
To Gillian’s horror, her throat began to thicken and her eyes burned from emotion that wouldn’t be held in. She ducked her head, brushed past Alberto and made a beeline for the mansion. Once inside and up the staircase, she closed herself into the sitting room that served as her on-site command center. With no one to see and no reason to fight away the tears, she let them flow.
* * *
HUNT RECOGNIZED A golden opportunity when one smacked him upside the head. He’d watched from the Jeep as Gillian and Karl’s foreman hurried out the terrace door. They’d examined the load on the delivery truck and then Gillian had pitched a hissy fit. He could have made things more embarrassing by stepping into the scene before she fled inside, but that pesky niggling kept him frozen to the spot.
He’d come to this moment with a clear conscience, but it would never be clear again if he didn’t do the right thing now. One day soon he’d succeed in his own right, he was sure of that in his heart. But it wouldn’t be at the expense of a hardworking, hardheaded woman who was determined to give her all, even if she went down in flames in the process.
“Aw, man,” Hunt muttered as he crossed the parking lot and motioned for the delivery driver to give him a minute.
“I didn’t hear exactly what Ms. Moore said to you, but I got the impression there’s been a mistake of some sort. I apologize for not stepping in sooner to deal with the problem myself, but if you’ll give a copy of the purchase order to my friend Alberto, I’ll call your store and get this all straightened out.”