Texas fury (37 page)

They sat in the airport coffee shop drinking coffee and holding hands across the table. "I appreciate you coming to see me off, babe. I know you have a busy schedule," Cary said.

"Darling, if you were just taking a bus across Miranda, I'd still see you off. You have your St. Christopher medal on now, don't you?"

Like a kid, Cary fished around his neck and pulled out a dull, worn silver medal on a chain.

"I think they're starting to board, darling," Amelia said, almost in a whisper.

"Amelia, please don't look so sad."

"I wish I was going. Don't have too good a time till I get there, okay?"

Cary kissed Amelia soundly. "Three weeks at the most, babe. I'm going to wrap up this deal so tight, even Rand won't believe it. Should I look for a house for us to buy or rent while I'm there?"

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"If it feels right, go for it," Amelia said happily.

"I want you to promise you'll meet me as soon as you can. Swear to me, Amelia. Swear nothing will stand in the way. I want you there with me."

Amelia looked for some sign that Cary was mouthing words with no meaning. Satisfied, she nodded. "Two weeks."

"1*11 call you every day, your time."

"You're sure you have everything now, Cary? The key to the house, the map, your tickets and car rental reservation?"

"Right here in my briefcase."

"Do good, darling. Make me proud." Amelia smiled.

"That's what it's all about, babe. You just make sure you're on that plane in two weeks."

"You make sure you're at the airport to meet me."

"I'll be the guy in the flowered shirt carrying a lei. Try and miss me a little, okay?"

"How about a lot. This is the last boarding call, Cary."

I trust you, Cary, I really do, Amelia said silently.

At thirty thousand feet, Cary fished around his pockets for a cigarette. He undid his seat belt and tilted his seat backward. Now he was comfortable. These past weeks he felt like he'd been walking on winged feet. His and Amelia's life was wonderful. The phone calls back and forth to Hawaii and England had been hourly for a few days. Everything was going swimmingly with the refinery deal. Maggie and Rand insisted that he and Amelia use the house. Family was so wonderful. You could always count on family to come through for you.

He hadn't called Julie again after hearing her message. He'd been a fool, temporarily out of his mind. Now he had purpose, direction—and Amelia. All his energies were properly focused. It was coincidence that he would be in Hawaii at the same time as Julie. He was going to be on the North Shore, and Julie would be in Waikiki. He'd checked the map—a good hour to an hour and a half apart by car. He'd be spending a lot of time in meetings and on the different islands. They'd never run into each other.

He was going to the most romantic house in the world, according to Billie and Maggie. For years he'd heard tales about that house. A house for lovers, Billie said. Maggie said it was a house that opened its arms to you and then embraced you. Amelia, she said, would love it. Thad called it Paradise. They told him the story of Ester Kamali and how she and Billie had become friends. When she finally made the decision

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to sell the house, Billie was the first person she called, and Billie called Maggie. Maggie left Sunbridge behind, with all its ghosts and memories, and embarked on her new life with Rand in the house meant for lovers. Now he and Amelia were going to have a chance to live in the same wonderful house for a little while. If things worked out right, he and Amelia might be the Nelsons' neighbors. He knew Amelia would like that.

Julie was only a memory. Sometimes, though, he wondered what she thought when he stopped calling. Had she guessed that her message had scared the hell out of him? Whatever you sow, you reap, or so Amelia said. He hadn't been fair to Julie, though. Somewhere along the way he was going to be called on to answer for it. What goes around comes around. But Waikiki was a long way from the North Shore.

The view from the penthouse balcony was awesome, Cole decided. The Coleman apartment had a ten-mile view in all directions. Nothing but the best. He shrugged. He could get along with a lot less than the best. Hell, he could probably hack driving a truck overland. He could do anything he set his mind to. He could be a commercial pilot if that was what he wanted to do. It wasn't. He didn't want to drive a truck either.

He rubbed at his arms, tugging at the heavy gunmetal-gray sweater. It was cold out here. But he didn't want to go inside to the heat of the apartment. Out here, up high like he was, he could think better.

Things were bad in the oil industry, prices at rock bottom. Somehow, someway, Riley would save Coleman Oil—for the family. Riley was so obsessed, so dedicated, Cole thought. Compared to his cousin, he was a slouch. No one would ever pin a family business medal on him. Shit, he'd never even get the gold watch on retirement, because he wouldn't be around that long. Riley's watch would be platinum and studded with diamonds. It would be engraved and probably say something corny, like he was a savior or ... He hated it now when his thoughts returned to Riley.

It was weeks now since he had stormed out of Sunbridge, and he was still smarting. He'd done nothing but dwell on the situation since it happened. He was comfortable here at As-sante Towers, in the Coleman condo reserved for visiting businessmen, but it didn't feel like home, and he wasn't

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conducting any business, and he was sick of feeling like a houseguest in a hotel.

Cole paced the white carpeting, the soft strains of a Billy Joel tune wafting about the apartment. His Nike tennis shoes left deep imprints in the thick pile. He was worried. It now looked as though Coleman Enterprises could go completely down the tube. What would the Colemans do if the good life came to an end? He grimaced. He'd pack up his old kit bag and trundle off into the sunset, he supposed; the decision would be made for him. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

He'd done a lot of soul-searching these past weeks. He and Riley were the only ones left, besides Sawyer, who could run the family's affairs. If Sawyer got married and decided to have a family, that would cut her out. Sawyer only did one thing at a time.

He'd winced when he'd gone over the ledgers. Riley had spent millions and millions by listening to Coots Buckalew. They were in over their heads, like everyone else. Sawyer didn't have any magic this time around, and Riley was so trenched in, he couldn't see beyond the end of his nose. Where does that leave you, Cole? Between a rock and a hard place, teetering over a yawning abyss, he answered himself. Now, in retrospect, he realized Coots had very little to do with the way things were. Lacey had nothing to do with Riley's decision making, either. The bottom line was the single-digit price of oil.

The only options the Colemans had at this point were Riley's EOR operation and to wait out OPEC. When there was no other alternative, you opted for the long shot and hoped for the best. That's what he had to put in a letter to Riley's grandfather, and he had to do it now. Ever since he'd started corresponding with the old Japanese, he'd written once a week. He couldn't even remember now how it had all come about. The old man had written first, that much he did remember. He found himself looking forward to the letters and even to writing the replies. He knew it was the old man's way of keeping in touch with Riley without actually doing it. He didn't mind; he liked Riley's grandfather, always had. He'd even confessed to the old man, in his second or third letter, that his and Riley's youthful rivalries stemmed from his own refusal to acknowledge that the Colemans needed help, and the Japanese branch of the family had come through for them.

Cole had set up a home office in one of the bedrooms. His

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files, his personal correspondence, along with his portable typewriter and an Apple II, were ready for him when he wanted to work at home, the way he'd done at Sunbridge.

There was no time like the present to do the letter he'd been putting off. The paper rolled into the portable with a snap. The margins were set. All he had to do was let his fingers pick out the words he wanted. First he had to read Hasegawa's letter again so he knew exactly what he was responding to.

Coleman san,

It is this old one's wish that this letter finds you and your family well.

Japan is cold now, just as I imagine Texas is cold. Your mother is a very wise woman to have moved to a warm climate where the sun shines every day. I long for sunshine so I can walk in my garden. If one can free one's mind of troubles, the garden is peaceful. Sometimes I think of it as a sanctuary. Do you understand that, Coleman san?

I particularly enjoyed your last letter. It was three days before anyone could tell me what "overload" meant. You must not tire your spirit, only your body. I did enjoy the phrase "We all march to a different drummer." Once I understood it, I practiced it on my doctor, my attorneys, and some members of my family. They don't understand that I no longer want to be pushed and prodded. They mean well, and I try to be patient with them.

I understood what you meant when you said each of us must be free to sing our song. Understanding and accepting it is difficult for this old Japanese. Old ways die hard. Each day I try. I cannot say I am successful.

You, Coleman san, have brought a breath of fresh air into this old man's life with your witty, cheerful letters. I have no wish to be a burden to you. If you feel you have no time to write to me, do not worry.

My heart aches for my grandson. I sense that his spirit is in a turmoil, much as your own. It saddens me that the path he has chosen to follow is not the one I have chosen for him. I place no blame, Coleman san. I did for a while, but a walk in my small sanctuary showed me that you are right. My grandson must be

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free to sing his song. If he must sing it, let it be where he is happy—in Texas, where his father lived. Buddha is a gentle god, who forgives me. Finding the strength to forgive myself is something I pray for each day.

Give my regards to all members of your family. If it is not too much trouble, please tell Riley I think of him each day. If you can, explain to him that this old one's anger is abating because my days grow shorter. When he sings his song, Coleman san, ask that he dedicate it to me. Age must count for something.

My warm affection to you, Coleman san, for making this old man's days brighter.

Shadaharu Hasegawa.

"Riley, you are a fucking son of a bitch!" Cole cried. Witty and cheerful, huh? Well, here goes nothing.

Dear Mr. Hasegawa,

The days are cold, the nights colder, here in Texas, and I'm waiting patiently for the first sign of spring, because summer rides its coattails. I've noticed that people in warm climates, where the sun shines most of the time, seem happier and they smile more. Often I wish I was a writer so I could express certain things for other people to read, to see if they share my thoughts. Perhaps when I am old and wise like yourself, I will pursue that dream of mine, one I have snared only with you.

We are all fine. Mother is in England with Rand and his new daughter. Any addition to the family is always welcome. The bigger the better, Texans say.

Cary is in Hawaii and plans to go into business with Rand. Their plan is to buy a sugarcane plantation and build a refinery. Aunt Amelia thinks it's a blast because now we can all get fat. She plans to join Cary in ten days or so. There's even talk that they may buy a house in Hawaii to get away from this cold weather. I can't say I blame them.

Growing up is painful. Just this evening I was wondering what I'd like to be when I grow up. I'm not sure I was meant to be here, doing what I'm doing. I'm doing it because it is expected of me. Riley is here because he wants to be. He's doing what he's doing be-

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cause he loves it. That can't be wrong. If anyone can turn Coleman Oil right side up, it's Riley. My family, myself included, wish there were some way for us to ease your pain and anguish. Perhaps time, which I understand is your enemy, will make things right.

When you write your next letter to me, use this address at Assante Towers. I'm staying here temporarily.

I will continue to do as I have been doing. Stay well, my friend.

Coleman.

Cole addressed the envelope, fixed the stamp neatly in the corner, filed the Hasegawa letter, and resumed his pacing.

Thoughts of Riley whirled around Cole's head. It was always like this these days. In the shower, out on the street, eating, before going to sleep, thoughts of Riley would attack him. Was he happy now that he was sole owner of Sunbridge? Cole grimaced. Sunbridge, the Coleman shrine. Jesus, how he hated it. Sometimes, he thought, I even hate the Colemans. Adam would tell him life was too short to spend it hating a place or doing something you hate. Move on, Tanner, do what you want, carve out your own niche. Find a nice young woman, get serious, get married. And while you're at it, find a job that will make you happy. Shake the dust off this family and move on.

Cole snorted. Easier said than done. Still, in his gut he knew he would have done just that if the oil crunch hadn't come along. He would have taken off, followed his star. Now it was too late. If he left now, it would be like a rat leaving a sinking ship.

"Damn!" Cole exploded. He rubbed at his throbbing temples. If he didn't put Riley on the back burner and get on with his own day-to-day living, he was going to be in emotional trouble. He forced his mind to other things. He had to fly up to Galveston on Saturday. Maybe Adam would let Jeff go along for company. The kid would have a ball if he let him take the controls for a few minutes.

Sometimes life was a bitch.

Maggie hated London and everything about it. If it were up to her, she'd never come back. She especially hated the elegant, stuffy, old-fashioned hotel. She was surprised at herself; she'd never been one to hate anything. Usually she was the

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eternal optimist, the one who viewed the glass as half-full rather than half-empty. She knew she wasn't being fair to the lovely city or to the old traditional hotel. It was the circumstances that she hated, she decided. And right now she had a terrible case of cabin fever. Waiting for Chesney to come back from her holiday had been sheer torture.