Never Tell

“No way, you’re gorgeous and you’ll still be gorgeous when you’re ninety.”

“Thank you, son.”

He thought he heard a catch in her voice. “Gotta go, Mom. I’ll send a check for the tickets. And hey, thanks.”

Lillian clicked the phone off and stood with it in her hand, thinking. It was a toss-up to decide which was more unusual—Hunter’s sudden and unusual interest in going to the symphony gala, or his interest in what she might be wearing, which was also sudden and unusual. He’d never before expressed the slightest interest in what she wore. Like countless moms before her, she’d long ago become used to being almost invisible to her son as far as her physical appearance went.

It was that damn jacket.

“Who was that on the phone?”

She blinked and turned to face Morton, who stood in the arched entrance to the den with a half-finished drink in his hand. “It was Hunter.” Realizing she still held the phone, she replaced it. “He wants tickets to the symphony gala. Two tickets.”

“What’s the problem? You’ve been trying to drag him to one or another of your artsy affairs for years, so now he’s going. Why do you look as though it’s bad news?”

“He wants me to wear the jacket.”

“What jacket?” He watched her walk past him to the bar and pull a wineglass from a line of stems suspended from a rack beneath the counter.

“The Erica Stewart jacket he gave me for my birthday.” After dropping ice into the glass, she poured only a scant shot of gin before adding a wedge of fresh lime. She was trying to limit her drinking. It’s numbing effect had become too inviting lately.

“Is that what’s making you look so glum?” Morton finished his drink and moved behind the bar to pour himself another. “You said you loved it when Hunter gave it to you. So, wear it. Make him happy. God knows, you’ve never hesitated to put Hunter’s happiness above your own before.”

His jealousy of Hunter was a familiar bone of contention between them, but Lillian wasn’t in a mood to take him on just now. “He wanted two tickets, but I don’t think the other one is for Kelly. When I mentioned he’d waited until it was pretty late to ask her, I had a feeling he hadn’t even thought of asking her.”

“Meaning he’s got some other woman in mind,” Morton said, recapping the whiskey bottle. “Doesn’t surprise me. It’s been your and Hank Colson’s fantasy that those two would get together someday, but if that was what Hunter wanted, he’d have done it by now. No red-blooded thirtysomething puts off marrying if he’s found the woman he wants.” Using a swizzle, he noisily stirred the fresh drink. “Kelly’s a nice gal, smart and fairly attractive, but I don’t see him putting a ring on her finger.”

“It’s her. That’s why he’s suddenly interested in going.”

“Kelly? You just said—”

“No. Erica.” She walked to the window and stood looking out.

“Erica?” He stared at her, the swizzle going still in his hand. “You lost me. We’re talking about Kelly, aren’t we?”

“Erica Stewart. The artist. Didn’t you hear it in his voice when he brought me the gift? He couldn’t stop talking about her. He was…dazzled.”

“Dazzled.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, following the lights of a neighbor’s car across the street. “I’m imagining things. I’m seeing a disaster where there’s nothing. I’m jumping to a ridiculous conclusion. But I just have this dreadful feeling, Morton. What if he—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Lillian, get hold of yourself. He’s got tickets to bring a date, and if it was her, he’d have mentioned it since we could hardly shut him up when he was over here talking about her last week. You’re right about that, at least. Besides, he’d only met the woman that day and she’s been on the agenda for the symphony thing forever, which means she’s had her plans made forever.” He crossed the room and picked up the remote for the television set. “It’s time for the news. Sit down and relax. Forget about Erica Stewart. The woman’s ancient history as far as we’re concerned.” And with that, he clicked the remote, tuned in the local station and settled back to view current events in Houston and the crime of the day.

Six

Erica cocked her head and studied the look of a jacket she was designing for a client. “No…no…no…” she mumbled, reaching for an eraser. She carefully removed the neckline she’d sketched in a minute ago. Third try and it was still wrong, totally wrong, she thought with disgust. She sat for a minute, then took up her pencil again and drew a few more lines to see if a mandarin collar would work. She knew before she’d made half-a-dozen lines that it was wrong, too. With a muttered curse, she flung the pencil in a nearby tray, ripped the sheet from her sketch pad and crumpled it in both hands. It hit Jason in the chest, dead center, when he appeared at the door.

“What is the matter with you?” he demanded, wading through a sea of balled-up paper on the floor. “You’ve been in here scribbling and muttering to yourself all morning. Take a break. Make yourself a cup of tea. Chill out.”

“Tea won’t help,” she growled, and shoved back off her stool. Looking around, she found the photographs of the client whose jacket she was designing. “Look at her,” she said, thrusting the prints at him. “I’ve tried boxy, I’ve tried slightly nipped at the waist, I’ve tried classic blazer, but nothing seems right. She’s expecting something nice, something flattering, and everything I’ve dreamed up looks like something she could have found on Harwin Street.”

“Natalie Rodrigue,” Jason said, studying a photo. “It’s not the jacket, sugar, it’s the client. Coco Chanel couldn’t design a jacket to make the woman look good.” He sat on her stool and crossed his legs. “It doesn’t matter what you come up with, she’s gonna be so proud to wear an original Erica Stewart that she’ll think it’s gorgeous. She’ll think she’s gorgeous.”

Erica studied another photo. “Maybe no collar at all…” Then, with a curse, she flung it away. “I hate the fabric she chose, anyway. I wanted her to pick the flat black silk, but she wants brocade. It’ll make her look as big as…as—”

“As she is?”

She gave a short laugh. “I guess that’s the problem.” She bent down and began gathering up wads of paper. “One of these days, I’m going to be brutally honest with a client and just say flat out, ‘Spend your money on a piece of jewelry instead of a jacket that will do nothing to flatter you. At least you can pass diamonds on to your grandchildren.’”

“Okay, sugar, spit it out. What is wrong with you? And don’t bother telling me it’s nothing. I haven’t seen you so agitated since we were negotiating for this building and the landlord forced a five-year lease on us.”

“Because there was no guarantee we’d be in business that long and we’d both mortgaged most of our assets.”

“Considerable for you, but peanuts for me.”

“Which you had to borrow from your mother, God bless her.”

“Off the subject, Erica. What’s bugging you today? And don’t give me that garbage about the creative process being stressful. You usually turn out jackets and quilts at the same pace as a rabbit giving birth. For which I’m thankful, as it’s the source of our bread and butter, but you don’t usually have a face like a thundercloud and you don’t usually have any difficulty making a client look elegant.”

She chose to interpret that as an insult. “Well, if my work is the next thing to assembly-line trash,” she muttered, “maybe I should look for another line of work.”

He actually turned pale. “My God, don’t even joke like that, Erica. And you know that’s not what I meant.” Leaving the stool, he caught her by the arm and led her to a small couch set against the wall. After urging her down, he took a seat facing her. “Now, tell Daddy Jason all about it. When I left the shop last night, you were in a huddle with Michael Carlton.” He stopped abruptly. “Oh, Jesus. Have you lost all your money? Is that it? Has that goof-ball blown your nest egg and you’re penniless?”

“No, but that reminds me, Jason. Did you realize you failed to lock up when you left the shop last night?”

He frowned. “Did I? Let me think…Oh, now I remember. When I was closing out the register, I had another one of those crazy calls from the idiot who lives in the apartment next door to mine complaining again about my dog barking. I guess I forgot. Shit!” He smacked himself on the forehead. “I’m the idiot, aren’t I? Why, did something happen? Is that what’s wrong?”

“Michael hasn’t mismanaged anything, and fortunately nothing happened when you left the door unlocked…unless—”

“Unless what?” As his eyebrows went up, the telephone rang. “Wait, hold that thought.” Rising, he moved across the room and, with his back to her, answered the phone, then stood listening. After a minute, he turned with a gleam in his eye, raised his hand and pointed his index finger at Erica as if it were a gun barrel. “Yeah, good to hear from you, Hunter. Sure, she’s right here.”

Erica sprang off the couch as soon as she realized it was Hunter on the phone. Shaking her head and flapping her hands wildly, she mouthed, “I’m not here.” She’d spent a long and sleepless night and Hunter was the reason. Nine years and she had avoided any attempt by a man to get close enough for intimacy. But she’d been almost seduced by their conversation in the bar, then rocked to her core by that kiss. She’d been so rattled that when she got in her car, she started making plans to call him first thing and cancel their date. So, why hadn’t she?

To block her escape, Jason casually stepped in front of her, still chatting with Hunter. “So she tells me. And your timing’s perfect. You interrupted the lecture she was giving me for failing to lock up last night. But I swear, I thought I locked the damn door.”

He paused to listen, ignoring the motion Erica made to slice his throat. “Horseback riding, you say? No, she didn’t mention it. But it sounds like fun to me.” With his shoulder propped on the door frame, he crossed his ankles. “Nothing like country air and a horseback ride to clear away the smog and renew the spirit, I always say.”

The only time Jason had ever been on a horse was when he’d modeled Western gear at the Houston Rodeo. Rolling her eyes, Erica reached over and took the phone from him. “Hello.”

“Hi, it’s Hunter.”

Even braced for it, her tummy took a tumble at the sound of his voice. “Hi.” She glanced over and met Jason’s wickedly dancing eyes and instantly turned her back on him. “How are you?”

“I’m good. And you?”

“I’m fine. Busy.”

“Yeah, I guessed that. Okay, I’ll be quick. I realized after I left last night that I don’t know where you live. We can be at the ranch by eight if we leave early enough on Sunday morning, but I need your address. Are you an early riser or one of those types that sleeps in on the weekend?”