A Winter's Rose

Prologue

T
he shop, Small Miracles, was nestled into a corner of the Houston Galleria's second level. Although not usually interested in antiques, Bentley Barton Cunningham stood outside the shop's front window, transfixed by a domed box displayed there.

The piece measured about eight inches in height and four inches across. Its glass dome rested on a luminous wood base decorated with gold filigree; inside the dome stood the figure of a southern belle, her hands filled with bunches of tiny, star-shaped flowers.

Although exquisite, it wasn't the beauty of the piece that had beckoned Bentley back to this window again and again. Bentley moved closer to the glass, her heart beginning to race. No, what had drawn her was the uncanny resemblance between herself and the figure inside the dome.

I could have posed for it,
Bentley thought, studying the belle's face. Delicate, chiseled features; full, almost pouty mouth; almond-shaped eyes that slanted exotically up. Even the smile—the slight lifting of the lips that she'd been accused of fabricating but which had been hers almost from birth—was the same.

She wanted to buy the box; so much so, the want gnawed at her.

She hadn't even allowed herself inside the store for a closer look.

After tomorrow she wouldn't be able to afford it, Bentley acknowledged. The box or anything else. A sliver of fear speared through her, and she called herself a coward. She was a grown woman with both a college degree and a divorce under her belt. She should be able to support herself. She should be able to
do
something.

But what?

An ache, now familiar but no less disturbing for being so, settled in her chest. Bentley drew in a ragged breath. She was a twenty-six-year-old woman who had never done anything but look good.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She fought against them and the feelings of failure and frustration that had been with her for as long as she could remember. The feelings that had intensified with her marriage. And divorce.

Bentley lifted her chin a notch. Sink or swim. She had to find out if she could do it, find out what she was made of. And if she discovered she was made of nothing tougher than wrapping paper, then at least she would know.

“Well, sugar,” a woman drawled from the doorway of the shop, “why don't you just come on in and take a look.”

Bentley dragged her gaze from the domed box to the woman, surprised to see the husky, southern drawl attached to a woman who looked amazingly like a pixie. Bentley smiled hesitantly. “This is your shop?”

“Sure is.” The tiny woman held the door a bit wider. “Welcome to Marla's Small Miracles. I'm Marla. Come on in.”

Mouth dry, Bentley followed her inside, feeling like a giant alongside the other woman. “I was noticing the—”

“Music box,” Marla supplied, plucking it from the window. “For about a week now.”

Bentley laughed. “It
is
lovely.”

“Turn of the century,” the pixie woman said, placing it in Bentley's hands. “The base is pecan wood, the filigree twenty-four-karat gold. The figure inside is hand-fashioned porcelain.”

As the shopkeeper talked, Bentley ran her fingers over the smooth, polished wood, over the filigree. “May I wind it?” Marla nodded, and Bentley turned its small gold key. As the lilting tune played, the figure inside the dome circled the base.

“It's as if she's offering her flowers,” Bentley murmured, charmed. She met the other woman's eyes. “How much is it?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

“Oh.” Bentley's heart sank a bit. Last week she wouldn't have thought twice about spending that on something she wanted a lot less. But last week she hadn't realized just how much money that was.

“Now, sugar,” Marla coaxed, “I bet you spend that on a dress. This is, after all, a piece of history.”

Bentley looked from the piece to Marla, the blood beginning to thrum in her head. “Do you know where it's from? Who owned it?”

The little woman nodded. “Another tragic southern story, I'm afraid. It's from a Mississippi plantation. The family has fallen on hard times and has been forced to sell their heirlooms. I understand that one of the last surviving family members is trying valiantly to hold on to the property. I've gotten some other lovely things from that plantation. Ashland, it's called.”

“Ashland,” Bentley repeated softly, a fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach. Panic, she acknowledged. If she didn't buy the box today, she couldn't tomorrow. This was her last chance.

She had to have it.

Bentley lifted her gaze to the shopkeeper's. “Is she anyone?” Bentley asked, referring to the figure. “Do you know?”

“Sorry, hon, I don't.” The woman smiled, the curving of her mouth slow and satisfied. “The resemblance
is
amazing. Saw it right off.”

She knows I'm going to buy it,
Bentley thought, lightly touching the glass.
She knows I can't resist.

And she couldn't. With a feeling of inevitability, Bentley handed the woman her gold card.

Chapter One

H
er mother had already arrived.

Bentley smoothed a hand over the hip of her raw silk skirt, wishing she could soothe her nerves so easily. Sink or swim, she told herself for about the billionth time. She would never know until she tried. Telling her parents what she planned to do was her first step into the water; she'd already prepared herself for their response.

Prepared or not, it would be difficult. She hated disappointing them, but she couldn't go on the way she had been.

Smiling with a confidence she far from felt, Bentley crossed the sunny, plant-filled café to where her mother waited. The older woman looked up as she approached. As always, Bentley experienced a moment of stunned admiration at her mother's beauty. Tiny, curvaceous and totally pampered, her mother was as much art object as flesh and blood woman.

“Bentley, darling, you look wonderful.” Her mother smiled and stretched out her hands.

Bentley clasped them, bent and brushed her lips against her mother's unlined cheek. “Thanks, Mom. Where's Daddy?”

“He had to cancel.” The older woman pulled out her compact and inspected her face, making sure Bentley's kiss hadn't marred her makeup. Satisfied, she snapped it shut. “You know how his schedule is.”

Bentley did know. Only too well. She slipped into the chair opposite her mother's, acknowledging hurt and disappointment. She'd told her father that she had an announcement, that it was important to her that he be here. Business had still come first. But then, Nick “The Slick” Cunningham hadn't built an oil empire by kowtowing to the demands of his wife or children. Or anyone else.

“You've changed your hair-style,” her mother murmured, studying Bentley.

“Mmm.” Bentley laid her napkin in her lap. “Suzanne altered the angle of the cut so it would fall away from my face.”

Her mother smiled. “I approve. It's very flattering.” Reaching across the table, she brushed an errant wave from her daughter's cheek. “There. Now it's perfect.”

Bentley automatically lifted a hand to her hair to assure herself it was, indeed, perfect, then dropped it again, annoyed with herself and the self-conscious gesture. What was it about her mother that made her feel thirteen and lacking?

As she gazed at her mother, Bentley remembered being ten and overhearing one of her father's business associates say that one look at Trixy Cunningham confirmed his faith in both God and His gender. She hadn't realized, until this moment, how much that comment had affected her.

The waiter arrived with the menus and took their drink order. “Were you waiting long?” Bentley asked after he'd walked away.

“Not long.” Trixy scanned the menu, then set it aside. She met her daughter's eyes, her own serious. “Bentley…honey, we have to talk.”

Bentley frowned and set her menu aside. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes.” Her mother leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. “Honey, in Texas, you are only as good as your family name.”

Bentley knew exactly what her mother referred to, and the heat of anger—and shame—stung her cheeks. “We've been through this before, Mother. I didn't take David's name with me after the divorce. I didn't want it or anything else of his.”

Trixy Cunningham lowered her voice even more, her drawl becoming as sweet and thick as molasses. “Weaver is a fine old name. Almost as distinguished as Barton. Besides, David will take his daddy's seat in Austin one day. The connection wouldn't hurt.”

“Well, I guess I'll just have to try to stumble my way through without it,” Bentley said stiffly as the waiter approached with their mineral waters.

After he'd taken their lunch order, Bentley turned to her mother. She didn't want to argue, nor did she want to talk about her ex-husband, her marriage or her divorce—all favorite topics of her mother's. No, today she wanted to talk about her own life. Her own dreams and ambitions.

Taking a deep breath, Bentley leaned toward her mother. “I asked you and Daddy to lunch because I have something I want to tell you. Something I think is wonderful, and I hope you will, too.”

Her mother's eyes lit up. “You've met someone.”

“No, Mother. I—”

“You and David are getting back together?”

“No,” Bentley said, tensing.

Trixy Cunningham raised her eyebrows. “Then, I can't imagine.”

Of course she couldn't. Bentley laced her fingers together in her lap, fighting feelings of helplessness and failure. She drew in a deep breath. She
could
do this. “The wonderful thing is, I've made a decision about my life. I'm going to work.”

“To work,” her mother repeated as if she'd heard incorrectly. “What do you mean, `work'?”

“I'm getting a job.”

For several moments her mother sat in stunned silence. Then she shook her head. “But why, Bentley? You have everything. We've given you…everything.”

And that was the problem. They'd
given her everything. She'd never had to work for anything. She'd never had to struggle, never had to stretch. Her beauty had been an effortless accomplishment; her social position, the gift of her birth.

She'd always yearned to be more. To achieve something on her own and for herself. But she'd never had the courage. Until the last of David's humiliations had pushed her to the edge.

But she hadn't gone over, she reminded herself. And she wouldn't. Not without a fight.

Bentley caught her mother's hands. “For a long time I've felt like I was…drifting. Like there was nothing to connect me to the real world, nothing that was mine—that I'd created or worked for.” Tears clogged Bentley's throat, and she fought to clear it. But still, when she spoke her voice was husky. “I've felt useless. And I think if I had a job, I would feel—”

“You're just rebounding from your divorce,” her mother interrupted, squeezing her daughter's fingers, then releasing them. “If you and David had tried harder, or if you'd been able to get pregnant…”

Bentley dropped her hands to her lap. Her inability to conceive had been a great source of pain during her marriage; she still ached every time she allowed herself to dwell on the fact that in all probability, she would never be a mother. But an even greater source of pain was her own self-doubt and cowardice. Would she ever have the guts to tell her mother the truth? About her nightmare of a marriage?
About David?

“Don't you understand, Mother? This has nothing to do with marriage or pregnancy. This has to do with how I feel.” Bentley pressed a hand to her chest. “With the kind of person I think I am.”

Trixy made a small, breathy sound of exasperation. “You're a beautiful woman, darling. You come from a good family. You don't
have
to do anything.”

Bentley looked at her mother. Trixy Cunningham had devoted her life to maintaining her physical beauty and her place in Texas society, and to enjoying the life-style she had been taught to expect as her due.

Her mother would never understand, Bentley realized, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Her mother would never give her the approval she so desperately wanted. Bentley blinked against the tears. She had to move on without it.

Bentley reached into her pocketbook for her credit card case. Knowing that the act would change the course of her life, she handed it to her mother. “Give these to Daddy for me.”

Her mother looked blankly at the case, then at her daughter. “I don't understand, Bentley. What is this?”

“My credit cards. I won't be using them any more.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I've never been more serious about anything.” Bentley drew in a deep breath. “I'll be out of the town house by the end of the month.”

“But where will you live?”

“As soon as I get a job I'll find something else, something I can afford on my salary.”

“Oh…my.” The older woman sank back against her chair, looking totally befuddled. “And the BMW?”

Bentley thought of her beautiful little car, knowing that in all probability she would have to sell it. “That was a birthday gift. I'm going to keep it. But from now on, I'm paying for the insurance and upkeep. I'll have the policy changed over immediately.”

“But what are you going to…do?”

Bentley paused, some of the wind going out of her sails. “I don't know,” she said softly. Thinking, oddly, of the music box and of the beautiful doll inside, she stiffened her spine. “I'll find something. I have a college degree.”

Trixy gazed at her eight-karat diamond solitaire as if it were a crystal ball. After a moment, she looked at her daughter. “Are you sure you've thought this through, darling? Why don't you take a vacation. The islands are wonderful this time of year, and I'm sure if you—”

“A vacation from what, Mother? From shopping? From manicures and lunch with my friends?” Bentley caught her mother's hands once more, hoping to lessen the sting of her tone. “I
have
thought this through.
In fact, I've thought of nothing but this for weeks now. My mind is made up.”

Their food arrived then, and they picked at the seafood salads, exchanging an occasional bit of gossip, neither of them addressing the subject foremost on their minds.

And as the minutes passed, Bentley's mood fluctuated between exhilaration and terror, confidence and doubt.

* * *

A week later her mood swings had become less dramatic—and less positive. Curled up on her white leather couch, the music box on the end table beside her and the
Houston Chronicle
's want ads spread out before her, Bentley wondered if she'd been crazy to think she could do this.

Her liberal arts degree qualified her for nothing. Every job seemed to require specific or technical degrees. And experience. Even the lowest-paying and least prestigious of jobs preferred experience.

She'd never even baby-sat.

Bentley picked up the music box and gazed at her look-alike trapped inside the dome. “What am I going to do?” she wondered aloud. A dozen employers over the past week had taken one look at her and ever-so-politely told her no, thank you. Another dozen had refused to even see her.

Frowning, Bentley wound the music box and watched the figure slowly circle its base. How naive she'd been. She had imagined some entry-level position, a nice office complete with a helpful co-worker willing to train her. Embarrassment stung her cheeks. In a week, she hadn't even been able to get an interview for such a position.

Maybe she
had
been too hasty…maybe her mother was right and she hadn't thought this through. Bentley sighed and touched the dome's cool glass. When she'd made her decision, all she'd known was that she had to make a change, that she had to try to make her way on her own.

The phone rang; Bentley jumped for it. It was her mother.

“Darling, I didn't wake you, did I?”

“No.” Bentley shifted her gaze to the newspaper, determined not to let her distress or doubts show. “I was going through the want ads.”

“Any luck?”

“Some possibilities. Nothing definite yet.”

“Then I'm in time.” Her mother paused dramatically. “I've found you a job.”

“A job?” Bentley repeated, not sure she'd heard correctly.

“That's right. And not,” the older woman hurried to add, “with Cunningham Oil.” She paused again. “The position is with an environmental group over in Galveston. Baysafe, it's called. They're in desperate need of help, and, well…nonprofit is a good career for a lady.”

Bentley wrapped her finger around the phone cord. “We talked about this, Mother. If I'm going to make it on my own, I need a salary.”

“It's a paid position,” Trixy responded stiffly. “I do listen when you talk.”

“I'm sorry,” Bentley said automatically. “I know you do.”

“So? What do you think?”

Bentley drew in a cautious breath. “I appreciate your help, Mother, really I do. But please try to understand, I prefer to find something on my own.”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. After a moment, Trixy murmured, “Forgive me. I was only trying to help.”

At the hurt in her mother's voice, Bentley sighed. “I know, Mom. It's late and I'm tired. Tell me about the job.”

“Very well.” The older woman cleared her throat. “Baysafe is a very well-respected group, and you would be working directly under Jackson Reese, Baysafe's originator. They're in need, and the position comes without the annoyance of having to apply…or the humiliation of being turned down.”

Bentley shifted her gaze to the
Chronicle
's classified ads, the humiliation of the past week—and with it all her self-doubts and insecurities—barreling into her.

In the past seven days she'd been turned down for everything from receptionist to waitress. What if no one would hire her? Bentley imagined having to tell her parents she had failed, imagined asking for an extension on the town house or worse, to borrow back one of her credit cards.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Wasn't the point not about how she got a job, but about doing it and supporting herself?

“They really want me?” Bentley asked, hating the tiny tremor in her voice.

“They're ready and waiting.”

Bentley drew a deep breath. “All right,” she said. “I'll take it.”

* * *

“You did what?” Furious, Jackson Reese faced his thirteen year-old daughter, Chloe.

She inched her chin up defiantly. “I called Mom. I told her how horrible you are.”

“You called your mother,” Jackson repeated slowly, carefully. “The one who is vacationing on the French Riviera, to tell her what a terrible parent I am.”

Chloe glared at him. “That's right.”

Jackson worked to hold on to his temper. “And what did she say?”