A Woman of Fortune (25 page)

34

D
espite falling into bed exhausted, Claire stared at the alarm clock face, watching the minute dial turning to a new digit every sixty seconds.

Two thirty-four a.m.

She lifted and punched the pillows, settling into a new position. For the next few minutes, she worked to consciously slow her breathing into a rhythm that might foster sleep.

Outside her bedroom window, she heard a low growl, which quickly turned to a cat's screech. She pulled the pillow over her ears, trying unsuccessfully to drown out the sound.

Finally, she gave up and clicked on the lamp. The first night in her new place was definitely not going well.

In the kitchen, she started a pot on the stove to heat water for tea. A guest on the
Dr. Oz Show
said herbal tea had—what did she call it? Natural sedative properties.

Realizing she was a bit hungry, Claire pulled a small cardboard cup wrapped in cellophane from the pantry. She'd never eaten ramen noodles, but even at this age she was game for new things.

Minutes later, she sat at her table with her tea and noodles and let her mind wander. She'd have to find a job soon. Between the rent and the small fortune it'd taken to stock her kitchen, even as
careful as she'd been, her financial resources were dwindling faster than she'd hoped.

She had to get employed.

There was a time she'd have shelled out her monthly rent amount for one night in a fancy hotel and thought nothing of it. But thanks to Tuck, everything had changed.

At one point in her life, she'd loved to cook. Despite her mother's urging otherwise—“Oh, honey, be practical. People like us don't cook”—Claire had majored in culinary arts in school.

In fact, she was the only one in a class of over twenty who had whisked her yolks into the pan of hot butter slowly enough that the hollandaise didn't break. Everyone else's sauce separated into what looked like scrambled eggs in grease. The memory caused her to smile, thinking back on how proud she'd felt when the instructor pointed out her accomplishment.

She blew on the hot noodles and slipped a bite in her mouth. Hmm . . . not bad for thirty-five cents.

If she had to work, perhaps she could cook. Better yet, she could work for an event planner and do large weddings and social gatherings. If she knew anything, it was how to put on a party.

“Claire, you up?” Her mother scuffled into the room, the bottom of her styled hair wrapped in layers of folded toilet paper held with bobby pins, her method of keeping her curls in place while she slept.

“No, Mom. I'm not up—I'm sitting here sleeping.”

Her mother waved off the comment. “Oh, you know what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know.” Claire grinned and offered her mom some tea. “I can also make you a mean cup of noodles.”

“Claire, dear, how are you ever going to live without a housekeeper? Who's going to cook?” Her mother wrinkled her nose. “And do toilets?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, I thought you might—”

“Oh no.” Her mother raised her hand like a stop sign. “I gave up housework years ago.”

“When you left my father,” Claire added.

“That's right. And I'm not about to turn back now.” Her mother watched as she moved to the cupboard and retrieved a mug. “Do you have a teacup, dear? Those mugs are so heavy.”

“Sure, Mom.” She exchanged the mug and pulled a cup and saucer from the shelf, then opened a tea bag. “You hungry?”

Her mother shook her head. “No. And you shouldn't be eating ramen. Those packaged noodles are filled with fat. You're going to have to stay trim to attract another husband, you know.”

Claire rolled her eyes while filling the cup with hot water. “Who says I intend to look for a husband?” The minute the words left her mouth, she regretted opening the door to what she knew was an invitation for her mother to pontificate further.

“Of course you're going to marry again. Otherwise your only future is this.” Her mom made a sweeping motion with her hands.

“What's wrong with living simply?” she challenged.

“What's wrong with it?” Her mother huffed. “You're my daughter, that's what. You were meant for so much more.”

Claire stared across the table at the woman looking back, at the toilet-papered hair and the face she knew had been heavily creamed before bed. “Mama, I had all that. Look where it landed me.”

Suddenly she felt exhausted. She placed the steaming cup in front of the woman who likely meant well but whose attitude had helped shape Claire and park her here in the first place. “I don't mean to be rude, but all of a sudden I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open.” She kissed her mother's cheek. “Good night, Mama.”

“Sleep tight, Claire. But don't brush off what I'm telling you. You're going to need a good man.”

The following morning, Claire walked to Starbucks and grabbed a newspaper. Nestled in an overstuffed chair, she opened the
Dallas Morning News
and flipped to the Life section. Over the next half hour, she created a list of the caterers mentioned in the articles.
Later she'd google the names and call for appointments. Surely, with her background, she'd have a job in no time.

The thought buoyed her spirit. Claire had a plan, and for the first time in months she felt in control of her life. In fact, she should celebrate by splurging on a second salted caramel macchiato, venti sized.

Smiling, she shuffled the paper into a neat pile on her lap and folded it in half. Then she saw something that made her breath catch.

She pulled the paper closer, staring at the front page, which displayed a large color photo of Reece Sandell, his arms around a perky-looking gal with short, cropped hair. The woman wore a stunning strapless cocktail dress in shell pink. A Badgley Mischka design, according to Claire's estimation. Below the photo, the headline read, “Polls Show Sandell Climbing Back.”

Claire downed her remaining drink and read on.

The senatorial race in Texas is heating up and heading for what many believe will be a photo finish in November. Reece Sandell, plagued by his former engagement to the daughter of Theodore “Tuck” Massey, seems to have successfully distanced himself from the man who bilked investors of millions in a cattle investment scam.

“I strongly commend the US Attorney's Office for their work pursuing criminals who steal,” said Sandell. “The scope of Theodore Massey's illicit activities is a serious concern. Each year, hundreds of millions of dollars are siphoned off unsuspecting investors to line the pockets of white-collar criminals, hurting our economy as a whole.

“Today Theodore Massey sits in prison. This action is an important step in our fight against fraud and abuse in the commodities markets. It is my sincere hope that these law enforcement actions will serve as both a warning and a deterrent to others that Texans are not to be manipulated for personal gain.”

Claire slowly closed the paper.

Two tables over, a man leaned to the woman sitting next to him. On their table lay the newspaper. They stared at Claire, whispering.

She looked at her hands, feeling her brave facade crumble.

No matter how many times she tried to move on from the familiar story, the shame of what Tuck had done still stripped her confidence.

Worse, she knew the article would leave Lainie emotionally naked as well.

Lainie closed the newspaper, her eyes burning with tears. She tossed it across the dining table, sending a glass of juice spilling over. “How dare he take back up with Miss Perky,” she muttered under her breath.

A woman in a black uniform and white apron scurried from the kitchen, rag in hand. She busied herself wiping up the river of liquid running over the side of the table and puddling on the floor. Lainie grabbed her linen napkin and bent to help, giving the woman an apologetic look.

“What have we here?” Sidney McAlvain entered the room, wearing a suit and tie. He glanced between Lainie and his housekeeper, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. “Thank you, Gladys,” he said, reaching for the scattered paper.

Lainie straightened, wishing she'd curbed her reaction. Too late now. Without a word she moved to the buffet and poured herself a cup of coffee from the silver tea service. She turned as Sidney finished reading. He tightly folded the paper and placed it on the table.

“Did you sleep well, Lainie?”

She sat. Using a spoon, she stirred the coffee, hoping to cool it down. “Yes. And you?”

He eyed her with appreciation, even at this early morning hour. “I have several meetings this morning. At three, my car will pick you up and bring you to meet me at my hangar at Houston Executive.
We'll be flying to Dallas tonight.” Sidney's face broke into a slight smile. He reached in his pocket and set a black velvet box on the table in front of her. “I'd like you to wear this.”

Curious, Lainie reached for the oblong box. Inside, a bracelet laden with diamonds sparkled back at her. “Oh my! It's beautiful, Sidney. Thank you.”

“Just a little something for my princess,” he said, using her daddy's pet name. “Later this morning, a dress will be delivered. I took the liberty of having something designed for my gal.”

She averted her eyes. “I—where are we going? I mean, I have my own things. I'm sure I have something that would work.” She liked the extravagant gifts, but she knew it was highly unlikely Sidney McAlvain's tastes matched her own. “I appreciate it, really I do—but I like to pick my own clothes, Sidney.”

“The dress is a Fiona DeLacey—designed special for tonight.” He looked at her with a chilly smile. “I insist.”

Lainie grew uncomfortable under his stare. “Uh—sure. If you really want me to wear the dress, then of course.”

“And why don't you wear your hair up tonight? Leave that pretty neck bare.” He moved next to her, gathered her hair in his sausage-like fingers, and buried his face in it, breathing deeply.

“Sidney?”

“Yes?”

“Where are we going? Tonight, I mean.”