Never Tell

“More coffee, Morton?”

Lillian Trask lifted the decanter from the server and waited to pour. Along with coffee and juice, the breakfast cart was laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants and a collection of gourmet jams and jellies. For herself, she preferred only fruit and yogurt to start the day, but her husband liked a hearty meal. After a moment, he grunted a response and she refilled his cup.

He held a cell phone to his ear with one hand while he scanned the pages of the Sunday edition of the Houston Chronicle with the other. Open and within easy reach was his trusty Blackberry, on which he received and sent e-mail, retrieved information, accessed his address book, noted the weather and even picked up breaking news. Since sitting down to breakfast twenty minutes ago, he’d been focused on the Blackberry or talking on his cell phone. She’d once tried to declare mealtime a no-business zone, but she’d been instantly overruled. Only if they had guests did she expect conversation with a meal. When they were alone, Morton was too busy talking business to talk to her.

Actually, it was rare that they breakfasted together. When she came downstairs in the mornings, more often than not, he was already out of the house, headed downtown to the offices of CentrexO. As its CEO, he was never separated from the company, not even when he was in Galveston, where his boat was docked. She hated going out on the boat, or rather, his yacht, as he constantly reminded her. The luxurious Bertram was equipped with every convenience to live aboard for days—even weeks—at a time. But she tended to get seasick, and nothing was worse than being miles offshore with her head spinning and her stomach revolting. At those times, Morton was utterly unsympathetic. He, of course, was never seasick.

They owned a condominium overlooking the Gulf and she could spend a weekend there if she wanted, but she seldom did so. It was a seventh-floor corner unit with a great view, but when she was there, she felt lonely and isolated. There was no magic in watching a stunning sunrise or sunset alone.

She finished her breakfast, listening with half an ear to Morton’s conversation with a business associate. Maria, the housekeeper, appeared to clear the table, and when that was done, Lillian turned her attention to the stack of mail she hadn’t gotten around to opening yesterday. She didn’t hear Morton addressing her directly until he barked her name for the third time.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Morton. What did you say?”

“That was John Frazier in Washington,” he told her testily as he entered something in his Blackberry. It irritated him when he didn’t have her full attention. “He’s at the airport on his way back to Houston.”

“John Frazier.” She repeated the vaguely familiar name but couldn’t place him.

“You met him at the fund-raiser last month,” he reminded her.

She thought a minute, then remembered Frazier as a tall, thin man with a practiced smile. “He manages one of those PACs, doesn’t he?” It would be impossible to guess which one, as Morton was a heavy contributor to several political action funds.

“Yeah. And listen to this. He just left a breakfast meeting with some VIPs who have the ear of the president.” He finished entering data and looked up at her as he shut down the Blackberry. “According to John, I’m definitely on the short list for an ambassadorship. I was reasonably certain it would happen, but these things can slip away with the slightest turn of the political tide.”

“Ambassadorship?” she repeated, starring at him in stunned surprise.

“Is it so astonishing? I’ve contributed a goddamn fortune to those jackals in Washington. It’s the least they can do.”

“You mean we’d leave Houston?” And everything and everyone she held dear?

“I can hardly serve as an ambassador from my office downtown.” He was gleeful as he picked up the newspaper again. “I’ve got a short list of posts I’d prefer. How does Costa Rica sound?”

“Hot and humid,” she murmured.

“So? Houston is hot and humid, too.” And with that, Morton dismissed her reaction. “Think of it this way. You won’t have the bother of shopping for new clothes. You already have the right wardrobe.” He snapped the newspaper open before adding, “It won’t necessarily be Costa Rica. I just mentioned that country as a possibility. I could be placed in any of half a dozen other locations.”

“What about the company?” He couldn’t be serious. Nothing took Morton away from CentrexO for any length of time.

“Not a problem. I’ve been grooming Alex Winfield to take over, just in case. The experience will open other doors for me, as well, Lillian. There could be something in Washington. There would definitely be something in Washington,” he added, idly paging through the paper. “I’d make some valuable contacts, and after getting back to the States with the ambassadorship under my belt, I’d be able to write my own ticket.”

Lillian put a hand to her throat. He was serious, and it sounded as if the decision was final. She was to have no say in it.

Still heedless of her reaction, he said, “I admit I didn’t expect to hear so soon, but it’s good to know that, for all practical purposes, the deal is done.”

“I knew nothing about this, Morton,” she said, dismayed. “I don’t want to leave Houston.”

He lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over it. “Why, for God’s sake? There’s nothing you’re involved in here that you can’t find elsewhere. If we wind up in Washington, there are museums and charity causes to fill up your time, plenty of hospitals where you can volunteer.” He disappeared again behind the paper, adding, “As for the other, after a few weeks in a new country as wife of the American ambassador, you’ll adjust. Give it a chance before going negative. You might even enjoy yourself.”

She gazed down at her spoon. Not if it meant leaving Houston and her work in the arts. As the wife of a powerful and visible CEO, she was in a unique position to assist the arts community. But even without her commitment to the arts, there was Hunter. As she thought of her son, her gaze strayed to the window and the center of the immaculate lawn, where a cherub poured water from a jug into a tiny pond. It was painful to remember how close they’d once been. He tolerated a rare lunch date with her now only out of a sense of duty. She sighed, able to pinpoint the moment when their relationship had begun to deteriorate. But then, so much of the downward spiral of her life was marked by that moment. She set her spoon and yogurt aside, untouched. Between the demands of Hunter’s business and his preference for spending his free time at the ranch, she rarely saw him. If she went out of the country for any protracted length of time, she could lose touch with him altogether. As for Jocelyn, she had so little contact with her daughter that it probably wouldn’t matter if they were posted to China.

For a long moment, she watched the sparrows fluttering in the water. She was drawn to the ranch herself, but it was awkward explaining to Morton why she wanted to spend time there. He found the place dusty and hot. Totally urbanized, he didn’t ride and was repulsed by the dust, the torturous Texas heat and the smell of horses. So, they didn’t go.

With another sigh, she chose another envelope from the stack of mail and slit it open. Perhaps she’d survive a brief tour in a foreign country if she could look forward to returning to Houston and the life she’d built for herself, but if Morton had his eye on something in Washington, it was unlikely they would ever live in Texas again. She didn’t think she could bear that.

“Anything in there from Jocelyn?”

She quickly scanned the rest of the envelopes but saw nothing. No surprise there. Jocelyn wasn’t much of a correspondent. The best she could manage was a phone call to her parents once a month. “I don’t see anything,” Lillian said. “The last time we talked, she was so excited about this new job. That’s probably why we haven’t heard from her. She’s very determined to make a career for herself, Morton.”

“By reporting for some sleazy tabloid in Key West?” He folded and set aside a section of the newspaper before picking up another. “I don’t think so. Not unless we see a big change. She doesn’t stick with anything any longer than she sticks to her husbands. Twenty-five years old and two divorces, for God’s sake.”

“One divorce and one annulment. And good reasons for both,” Lillian argued. “The first was a silly, rebellious prank, and that awful Leo person was addicted to cocaine. Would you have wanted her to stay with either one of them?”

“No, but I also didn’t want her marrying either of those bozos…not that she consulted me. She’s spoiled rotten, Lillian. And it’s unlikely to change as long as you keep stepping in when she screws up. What she needs to do is grow up.”

They’d had this discussion before. Jocelyn did have a string of broken relationships behind her. In an act of open rebellion, she’d eloped on the night of her eighteenth birthday with the golf pro at the country club. Morton had been livid but had managed to avoid a major scandal by paying off the bridegroom and arranging an annulment. To the dismay of her parents, however, that first debacle established a pattern and it had been one disaster after another since, including a hasty marriage to a druggie. She seemed addicted to destructive behavior, and after so many years, Lillian wondered if her daughter would ever settle down and be happy.

“I can’t just ignore her when she needs me, Morton.”

“Give her a chance to feel the consequences of her screwups and she’ll soon straighten out,” Morton said grimly. “If she’d consulted me when the time was right, she would be set up fine and dandy on a decent career path at CentrexO, and not down in Key West consorting with who the hell knows what kind of riffraff.” He snapped out another section and scanned it through his bifocals. “But what’s the use closing the barn door after the horse is out. I’m more concerned about the present. I want you to call her and get it through her head that she’d better be on her best behavior for the next few months. I don’t want her mixed up in a scandal that would cause the president to kill my appointment.”

He was right, of course, not that she’d admit it to Morton. Their daughter was spoiled, indulged to a fault and constantly setting herself up for failure. And, unfortunately, the time was long past when she would consider consulting them about anything in her life. Morton might rant on and on about Jocelyn’s tendency to make mistake after mistake, but the blame wasn’t hers, it was theirs.

She looked up when Morton made a choking sound, sputtering into his coffee. “Did you see this?” He shoved a section of the newspaper across the table. “They do a feature article on those hokey shops in the Village and they choose hers to put front and center? This just proves my theory that they’re desperate to find anything newsworthy today.”

Lillian set an invitation to a charity function aside, then looked at the article, bracing for what she would see and the quick, sharp stab of conscience she would surely feel. Artist Erica Stewart had been photographed in her shop, intent on arranging the display in the front window. Her face was in profile, but Lillian needed no reminder to know exactly what Erica looked like. She recalled everything about her with cruel clarity, her storm-gray eyes and dark, curly hair that stubbornly refused to be tamed. Her face, with its strong features, was not quite beautiful; still, it was an arresting face, young and vibrant. As always, Lillian was unable to bear looking. She glanced quickly away and said without any emotion in her voice, “I wouldn’t call her shop hokey.”

“That whole damn neighborhood is hokey.” He made a grumpy sound. “She’s probably sleeping with somebody with clout at the newspaper to get this kind of play in the Sunday edition.”

“Actually, I think she’s quite reclusive.” The moment the words were out, she wished she’d kept quiet. This was a subject that, by tacit agreement, both avoided.

He looked up with a sharp frown. “How do you know that?”

She sighed. “I hear things, Morton. I attend an art class. I sponsor young artists. They talk.”

He held her gaze for another long moment, then disappeared once more behind the newspaper, this time with the sports section. “If she’s all that solitary, her success strikes me as even more unlikely. It takes capital to set up a business and make a go of it. I bet if we knew more about her we’d find she has a sugar daddy somewhere. Artists do that kind of thing.”

But Lillian did know about her. She knew everything there was to know about Erica Stewart, but she’d never tell Morton that. She could not remember a time when Erica hadn’t been a presence in her life even though they’d never met. It had been out of desperation that she’d found ways to be helpful to Erica without her ever knowing it. And, in doing so, had helped ease the pain of her conscience. But it had taken years. This feature article in the Chronicle was just one of several times when Lillian had been in a position to boost Erica’s career and she’d acted to do just that. Of course, it helped that the young woman was a wonderfully creative artist. And when she’d opened the shop in the Village with her friend Jason Rowland, between the two of them—Erica’s talent and Jason’s gift for sales and promotion—they’d really needed no help from anyone. Getting the article on Erica was one of those moments when Lillian had been in a position to help. She’d learned from a contact at the paper that a feature article about the Village was in the works, and she’d suggested Erica and her shop as a good example of the kind of thing that was proving so successful in the Village. Simple, really.

“She has a business partner,” Lillian said, continuing the conversation and giving in to some perverse urge that pushed her on when the prudent thing would have been to drop the matter before Morton lost his temper.

He lowered the paper to look at her. “Don’t tell me, the partner’s silent and well heeled.”

“I don’t know how silent he is or what his financial situation might be.” An outright lie, but with the bit in her teeth, she seemed bent on a headlong dash to the finish. But something—Morton’s arrogant announcement to pull up stakes and leave—drove her on. “It’s Jason Rowland,” she said.

Morton put the newspaper down slowly. “Jason Rowland? Not Bob Rowland’s son?” Now it was his turn to gaze out the window with a puzzled expression. “The one who’s an artist, right?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”