Texas Sunrise (13 page)

“Introduced them to our local version of MTV. They're women of the nineties now.” Cole laughed uproariously. Riley thought it a good sound.

Thirty minutes later he was on the phone with Ivy. Cole and Sumi sat directly across from him.

After he hung up, Riley's face was the color of old parchment. He repeated Ivy's news, his vision blurred by the mist in his eyes. He rubbed them and saw tears trickling down Sumi's cheeks.

“You must go now, Cole,” she said. “I will pack your bags. There is nothing to worry about where I am concerned. I have my sisters and a very fine doctor. Tell your family I will be with them in spirit.”

Cole hugged his wife. “Are you sure, Sumi?”

“I am absolutely sure. You will give my love to all and express my regrets.”

“Sumi—”

“It is your family, Cole, you must go. Help me up, please.”

Cole pretended to grunt. “Two tons at least.”

“At least,” Sumi sniffed. Riley jerked back when she whistled shrilly between her teeth. The sisters came on the run, their kimonos flapping in a rainbow of color. With her index finger, Sumi pointed to each sister and issued orders in rapid-fire Japanese. Riley tried to get the gist of it, which was, Snap to it, don't drag your feet, and be here with my husband's bag in ten minutes along with a basket of food.

“Do not move, Riley, I have a present for little Moss. I bought it yesterday on the Ginza and was going to mail it tomorrow. Now you can take it to him and tell him it is from his aunt Sumi and uncle Cole.” She waddled away.

“She's one in a million,” Cole said quietly.

“Try two in two million,” Riley whispered.

“That . . . that holocaust out there . . . Grandmam Billie . . . Cary ... it really is us now.”

“Cole,” Riley whispered, “I don't have anyone left. My grandfather, Grandmam Billie . . . my mother and father.”

“I know what you're trying to say here, Riley, but you're wrong. You have Ivy and Moss. Hell, you're the perfect brother. You have all these ditzy aunts coming out of the woodwork, and you have all the Colemans. You said it before—family is what counts. It's all coming full circle. Grandmam Billie says life does that. Your grandfather and Grandmam Billie—they did their best to make it right for us. It's up to us now. We can handle it, Riley, I know we can. While we're in Texas, we are going to unite our families spiritually and financially. From this moment on we are—”

“One family,” Riley said in a hushed whisper.

“One family,” Cole agreed.

“In alphabetical order,” Riley said airily.

“Now why did I know you were going to say that?”

“Coleman-Hasegawa Enterprises. I like that.”

“I do too,” Cole said.

The trees with their budding spring foliage rustled
softly in the early morning air. Two plump birds sat atop the barbecue grill, tussling over a fat worm. Inside, peering between the chintz kitchen curtains, Rand watched with interest. He noticed that the bird feeders, placed strategically around the small yard, were empty. He wondered whose job it was to fill them—Ferhs's or Susan's? Before he left, he would check the garage to see if there was any seed, and if there wasn't, he'd go to the nearest feed store and buy some. Nobody, human or animal, should have to fight for food, he thought.

Rand turned from the window to survey the tidy kitchen. He loved kitchens. His adopted mother Amelia loved kitchens too. All the Colemans loved kitchens. Kitchens were like nesting places, warm and cozy, where families gathered to eat together, to share their day. He liked Susan's little clay pots on the extra wide . windowsill. He leaned over and sniffed. Mint, thyme, parsley, and rosemary. The same herbs Maggie had on their windowsill at home. It must be something sisters did.

The sun would be up in a few minutes, and if it was going to be a nice day, the kitchen would flood with light and warmth. His eye swiveled to the huge Mickey Mouse clock on the wall, and he laughed silently to himself. Susan must have hung the clock for Jessie, to try and teach her how to tell time. Or she hung it for the child in herself. Suddenly he wanted to know why the Mickey Mouse clock was in the kitchen. He stored the question in his mind. When the proper time presented itself, he would ask his sister-in-law.

Time to start breakfast. He realized he was ravenous. As he rinsed the coffeepot and added fresh grounds, he thought about the reasons he was here and what he hoped to accomplish. Two days to pay the outstanding bills and have the phone turned back on. Two days to have Susan's car serviced and filled with gas. Two days to buy a few groceries and pack Susan's belongings in the three large traveling cases in the attic. One case alone was full of sheet music, old contracts, brochures, and playbills.

When he heard the first plop of the percolator, Rand added strips of bacon to the frying pan. He'd just finished whipping the fluffy yellow mixture in the bowl when Valentine padded into the kitchen dressed in a thick, sky-blue terry robe with a matching towel on her head. She looked about sixteen, Rand thought.

“What'll it be, scrambled eggs or pancakes?”

“Both. Lots of bacon and three pieces of toast. I like to dip my toast in coffee. Soft butter, and by any chance do you have strawberry jelly?”

“No, but we have apple butter,” Rand said, expertly flipping the bacon.

“Sounds good,” Val said, lighting a cigarette. “You do that like a pro.”

“I always make breakfast on the weekends for Maggie. In the beginning, she'd make me do it over and over till I got it right. One time I used up four dozen eggs till I got them scrambled just the way she likes them. You should see my pancakes. They're so light they almost float.”

Val laughed as she poured herself a cup of coffee, then sat back down. “In the scheme of things, I'd say that's pretty important.”

Rand laid the crisp bacon on paper towels to drain, washed the frying pan and added butter just the way Maggie taught him. She didn't like the little specks of bacon that were in the eggs when you fried them in bacon grease. He searched for bowls for the pancake mix. With his head in the cabinet under the sink, he muttered, “You can use the car. I'm going to be stuck here all day waiting for the realtor who didn't show up yesterday.”

His glance lingered on her for a moment. She looked cute, he thought, with cold cream all over her face. Cute, for God's sake. How could a legal barracuda be
cute
? Yet he couldn't help but wonder what she had on under that thick robe. The thought tormented him, and he replaced it in his mind with a picture of Maggie.

“If everything goes okay,” he said, “I think I can leave tomorrow. I'm going to fly on to Texas. What about you?”

“I think I'm about ready to make my move today too. I have a few phone calls to finish up, and then I have to go over to the bank and wait for some faxed papers I need from a friend of mine.”

“How do you think it looks for Susan?” Rand asked.

“Susan will do fine. Why shouldn't she, as long as we fight her battles for her? I mean, this is the second time we've bailed her out and I would be surprised if it's the last. She's forty-eight, Rand, time enough for her to have gotten herself together. I can understand why
I'm
here. I'm the family lawyer. But you? You're putting the house up for sale; you're closing out bank accounts with ten dollar balances, serving a car that's ready to fall apart, shopping for groceries, and packing up Susan's belongings. For God's sake, you even called a used furniture dealer to give you an offer on the contents of this house. Susan should be doing all this herself. And don't tell me how she's a creative talent and creative people aren't like the rest of us. That's bullshit, Rand, and you know it.”

Rand stiffened. Val was only saying aloud what he had been thinking since his arrival. Still, he felt obligated to defend Susan. “For God's sake, her only daughter died. That has to be the worst thing in the world for a mother. This thing with Ferris made it a double blow. You don't bounce back from something like that overnight.”

“Of course you don't. But you don't run away from it either. Running solves nothing. Susan should be here, fighting for herself.” She got up to pour herself a refill.

“I offered to come here.”

“To make things easy for her. Everyone makes it easy for her. Somewhere deep inside, Susan knows everyone else will make things right for her, and after a suitable period of time, she'll go right back to her old patterns. She's not stable, Rand.”

“What do you think we should do? Everyone isn't as tough as you, Val. There are certain things Susan just wouldn't be willing to do to get what she wants.” The moment he said the words, he wished he hadn't. Val looked as if she had been slapped. “God, I'm sorry. You know I didn't meant that.”

Val blinked. “Yes, you did.” She lit a cigarette. “I offend you, don't I? You've made a judgment about me—or at least my morals. You'd prefer me to be more like Susan—irresponsible, weak, someone who needs you to help her out all the time. Well, I'm a survivor, Rand. I survive no matter what it takes, no matter what I have to do, and whatever that makes me, I'm still the one you come to when you have to pull your sister-in-law's chestnuts out of the fire. So don't you ever,
ever
judge me,
Lord
Rand Nelson. Now, where the hell is my breakfast? On second thought, don't bother, I'll eat out.” She ran from the kitchen, the terry robe flapping about her ankles.

Now what was that all about? Rand asked himself as he dumped the eggs in the frying pan; he didn't know what else to do with them. He gagged with the smell of burned butter and looked around helplessly before he threw the mess into the sink. A cloud of smoke rushed up from the toaster. The smoke alarm went off at the same time. He rushed to open the window and then the door. “Son of a bitch!”

He reached down for Val's cigarette, which was still in the ashtray. He brought it to his mouth and puffed furiously. The smoke alarm was still shrieking. In a fit of something he couldn't define, he unplugged the toaster, picked it up and pitched it out the back door. It landed with a loud thwack on the concrete patio. A flock of crows took wing, squawking angrily.

“Goddamnit!” With the cigarette between his lips, he climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs and yanked at the smoke alarm. He ripped it from the ceiling. The sudden silence roared in his ears. He climbed off the chair and slammed the kitchen door shut so hard that the glass in the multiframe cracked. “Oh shit!”

Val's voice was soft, just short of apologetic, when she appeared in the doorway. She looked, Rand thought, gorgeous. She also looked like the professional she was. Her suit was the same Pacific-blue as the ocean back home. She wore a trim white blouse, and at her throat an antique brooch. Her makeup was flawless, her hair perfection. The only thing missing, Rand thought, was the sparkle in her eyes.

“I should be back by four,” she said, “no later. I'll drop the car off and call a taxi to take me to the airport.”

“Val—”

“I'll be sending you the balance of the old family retainer when I wind things up here. I think it's best if we sever our ties when I wrap this up. You can find a lawyer you approve of.”

“Val . . . I'm sorry. What happened here? One minute everything was fine, and then, bam, you're resigning from . . . what the hell
is
it you're doing?”

“I don't want to work for you or your damn family anymore, Rand. You obviously don't respect me, but you're perfectly willing to use me for your own ends.”

“Use you? It works two ways, you know. You use the family too. It sure didn't hurt your practice to say you were the family lawyer. With the money we paid you, you started up your own firm.” He sounded too defensive. Why is that? he wondered.

Val threw her hands in the air. “Truce.” She affected a smile. “Have a good day, and try to get the smell of burnt toast out of the house. The realtor won't like it.”

A moment later she was gone, with a flash of leg. Rand felt a strong urge to run after her, but dug his heels into the carpet. At that moment he would have done anything in his power to wipe the vulnerable look from Val's face.

 

The bank was almost empty when Val walked in. She headed straight for the president's office. Her smile when the balding bank officer looked up was of the five hundred watt variety. Her handshake was firm, and her eyes even twinkled when the president held her hand a moment longer than necessary. She kept right on twinkling as she scanned the papers he was handing her one by one. When the stack of faxed papers grew to forty-five, she raised her head and said, “This is all sooo wonderful. I can't thank you enough, Harry, for being so kind to me. This is just what I need. I really appreciate the use of your fax machine.”

“My pleasure, dear lady. Here we believe in service, even if you aren't a customer. I'm sorry though to hear that Mrs. Armstrong is relocating. Very talented woman. Her husband is so well thought of here in the community.” He let his voice trail off when he realized what the attorney was holding in her hands. “Of course my lips are sealed.”

Val waved a playful finger. “I know where to come if word does leak out.” She smiled the five hundred watt smile again.

“Mrs. Armstrong is a very nice lady,” the bank officer said limply.

“Thank you again, Harry. Perhaps the next time I find myself in your little town, we can have lunch.”

“I'd like that, Miss Mitchell. If I can be of further service, don't hesitate to call.”

“Oh, I won't.”

Every eye in the bank followed Valentine's exit.

Her next stop was a drugstore on Main Street, where she called Dr. Ferris Armstrong's office and requested a consultation appointment. She said her name was Linda Baker and she was referred by the chief of staff at the hospital. She managed to use the word urgent three times in as many minutes. She smiled when the young voice said Dr. Armstrong could fit her in at eleven-fifteen.

Brody's was an old-fashioned drugstore with a counter, stools, and soda fountain. Danish, English muffins, and corn muffins sat on a lace doily under a plastic dome. Old-fashioned sugar bowls with silver spoons dotted the long counter. It smelled wonderful, Val thought. She perched on a stool and looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the service station. She could see containers of egg salad, tuna salad, and plates of greens and tomatoes behind a glass display case. Probably for the luncheon trade. A huge coffee urn with a real spigot brought a smile to her face. The milk pitcher was pink Depression glass. It was pretty. “Coffee and toast, cream cheese on the side,” she said to the waitress in the yellow uniform with brown-and-white-checkered apron. Val assumed she was the pharmacist's wife, and gave voice to the thought.

“Yes, I'm Mrs. Brody. I haven't seen you around here before, have I?”

“No, I'm here on business. I was in a drugstore like this once a long time ago,” Val said softly. “It has character; I like that.”

“Well, we've lived here all our lives. Our customers are comfortable with things the way they are. Change . . . we're too old to change. There's one of those bright, shiny all-night drugstores out on the highway. Prescriptions are higher out there,” Mrs. Brody said, pursing her mouth into a round O of disapproval. “We carry everything that's needed, but not a whole bunch of different brands. We sell only what our people want. We give credit too, and I don't mean credit cards. Not many drugstores do that anymore.”

“That's important,” Val said, biting into her toast. “Do you have cherry phosphates?”

“We certainly do, and lemon squeezes too.”

“No!”

“Yes we do.”

“I want one of each,” Val said happily. “I want some of that penny candy too. One of each. How can you sell it for a penny?” she asked curiously.

“It's for the children. Most of the time we just give it to them. The little ones come in with their pennies, and it's just a joy to see them take a candy stick and lick it. Mr. Brody and myself never had any children. We didn't put the candy crocks there to make money.”

“Do you know Dr. and Mrs. Armstrong?” Val asked quietly.

“Very well. It was a shame about little Jessie. She liked the lemon sticks the best. Mrs. Armstrong was always in here, at least once or twice a week. After Jessie passed away, she would still come in and take a lemon stick. She never bought more than toothpaste or shampoo after . . . She had so many prescriptions to fill for the little girl. It was very sad.”