A Woman of Fortune (29 page)

Brian chuckled. “At least you're not alone.”

Claire looked at him in disbelief. “You're kidding, right?” In some ways, she was in her own prison, and her warden wore designer clothes and had bottle-blonde hair and Yorkies.

With a heavy sigh, she looked toward the sky. “You know what's been the worst thing about all this?”

“What's that?”

“So many people thought I knew. The woman living by his side, sleeping in his bed, had to be complicit.” She didn't really have the words to describe what those early days were like—never revealed how frightened she was every time she opened the mail to find another letter with threats against her and the children. “I read in the paper that a man two days from retirement lost five and a half million. There were a lot of investment trusts and company funds invested. But many of the victims were just ordinary people. Some were our friends.”

Claire ran her fingers through her hair and stared out across the water. “Phil and Carol Johanson lost forty million. Dan and Cindy Taylor lost over ten million—so did the Hessings, the Camerons, and Albert Kensington. The Fenways, the Leonard Liptons, and Jeramie and Angela Ausmus all lost between ten and five million. Larry and Heidi Claar lost 4.6, Jonathan and Amanda Rivera 3.2,
and eighty-year-old Mrs. Shannon 1.5. That doesn't include our church fund of over twenty million, my best friend's retirement funds, and my own mother's estate.”

Brian raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that's some serious cash.”

“Ha—serious cash? Not even. Before Tuck's arrest, we were worth over a billion dollars, at least on paper. We had homes, jewelry, antiques. I had couture designers on speed dial, an unlimited account at Neiman Marcus, and over four hundred pairs of shoes. And where did all that money come from?” Claire's eyes teared. “From them—the ones Tuck stole from.”

Brian blinked. “I had no idea.”

Claire shook her head. “No wonder they hate me. I was stupid and blind.”

Brian's hand moved to her chin, his thumb gently sweeping her jawline. “You're not stupid. You were a victim, just like everybody else. His eyes drilled into her own, willing her to believe him. “Are we square on that?”

As he slowly let go, Claire nodded, embarrassed she'd lost control of her emotions.

As if reading her mind, Brian slipped her hand into his. “I'm glad you're comfortable enough to open up and share what you're feeling inside. One of my favorite quotes is this: ‘It's okay to look back, just don't stare too long.'”

“Wise words,” Claire said, wondering how someone she'd known so briefly made her feel so safe.

Acutely aware his eyes watched her every move, she slipped her hand from his and fingered her hair. “Thank you for such a lovely evening,” she said. “I've really enjoyed everything about tonight. Especially our visit.”

His lips curved into a smile. “My pleasure.” Brian lifted the linen napkin from her lap. His fingers brushed against her bare arm in the process. He smelled like the detergent aisle in the grocery store, a clean and dependable scent she found enticing.

Claire stared toward the horizon. “I'm afraid I went on and on about myself.”

“Not a bad topic,” he said.

“But I want to know more about you.”

Brian leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, you said you were married?”

He stared into the sky. “Yup. But I screwed it up.”

Everything stilled. His comment hung in the air until Claire asked, “What happened?”

“I drank too much,” he said, indulging her curiosity. “Put her through hell, if you want to know the truth of the matter.” He passed his hand over the back of his neck. “We're friends now. Carly got remarried. Eventually we shared custody until last summer when Trenton turned eighteen.”

“I'm sorry.” Claire desperately wanted to assure her new friend she understood, that she found his candor refreshing. “That must've been hard for you.”

Brian studied the pattern of the wood-planked floor. “In the days right after Carly left, I couldn't bear the loneliness. I stayed drunk.” He shook his head, the edges of his mouth curling into a slight smile. “Don't recommend that.” He lifted his chin. “The whole thing was a big wake-up call. I've been sober almost eight years now. Worked hard to piece together a life worth living after mucking everything up so badly.” His eyes took on a flinty look of determination. “That's what I mean by not letting the past define what's ahead. Life's too precious for that.”

Claire nodded. “I believe you.”

Over the next hour, they talked freely and easily, as if she and Brian had been friends all their lives. No topic seemed off-limits.

Brian confided that even though his home-building business enjoyed success, he secretly wished he could fold up the entire operation and focus on his music. Nothing would beat playing in
small-town venues across Texas, the kinds of places where musicians could really connect with their audience.

When Claire asked why he didn't just go for it, he said he had a son to put through college. “I need to be there for him now,” Brian explained.

Claire secretly dreamed of cooking. Maybe owning a bakery. Not your typical shop that put out standard cookies and cakes, but a quaint aroma-filled store offering freshly baked apricot bread and tarts filled with thick hazelnut custard.

A light breeze kicked up, and Claire brushed a strand of hair from her face. “That's what I was doing the other day in the bank. I want to start a catering company.”

“And they turned you down.”

“Yes,” she quietly admitted. “Apparently, I'm not a great credit risk these days.”

“I know someone,” he offered. “A woman who extends venture capital to women starting businesses. Let me introduce you.”

Claire's hand went to her chest. “Would you? That would be wonderful.”

“Happy to.” Brian rewarded her with a wide smile. “A first step toward that new future of yours.”

In no time, it seemed, the sky dimmed and the lights from the Gaylord Resort lit the horizon with a warm glow.

“Guess we'd better head back in.” Brian stood and squeezed her shoulder. “Are you chilly?” He grabbed a sweatshirt from a zippered bag and draped it across her back before making his way to the side of the boat, where he lifted the anchor.

Minutes later they were on their way. From his perch behind the wheel, Brian studied Claire as the pontoon slowly chugged toward the marina under the guidance of his capable hand.

The evening was nearly perfect—until they walked across the parking lot and Brian unlocked his car door.

“Hey,” a voice shouted from the darkness. A camera flashed.

“What the—” Brian swung around. He held up his hand to shield Claire. “Wait here.”

He raced in the direction of the commotion, but at the same time, two more guys stepped from behind a nearby vehicle and clicked photographs.

Claire's heart sank.

By morning, she'd be in the newspapers again. Only this time, not for Tuck's poor judgment, but her own.

39

L
ooks like quite the date.” Jana Rae slid the newspaper across Claire's table.

Claire pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders. “I told you, last night wasn't a date. I simply spent some time with a new friend who happened to be a male.”

Jana Rae laughed. “Tell that to the reporters.”

She groaned. “That may be, but please watch what you're doing with my hair.”

Few things had been harder to let go than Claire's beauty appointments. In the past, she'd spent hundreds—no, thousands—on hair extensions and color, facial peels, waxing, and Botox injections. And that was just for starters.

Now, with the constraints of living on a modest budget, all unnecessary expenditures had to go. She'd collected drawers filled with expensive cosmetics and facial treatments over the years, a supply that would last for some time. She could buff her own heels and paint her own nails. But coloring her hair . . . well, that was another story entirely.

Thankfully, Jana Rae had a knack for doing hair, something Claire took full advantage of back in college—and now.

Jana Rae yanked back a section of graying roots. “Boy, you're
right. The bloom's done gone from this rose.” She gave the plastic coloring bottle a final shake and squeezed hair dye along Claire's scalp. The cool sensation made her shiver. “Good thing it was dark when you went on that boat ride. I'd hate to think you let Lover Boy see these roots.”

Claire grunted. “What are you, in junior high?”

Her cell phone rang, and she reached across the table and checked the face. Her breath caught. “It's Garrett,” she whispered, as if her oldest son might hear her somehow.

Jana Rae paused her work. “Well, answer it.”

Nodding, Claire clicked the phone on and pulled it to her ear. “Hello, Son?”

“Mom, have you lost your mind?”

Her heart sank at the anger in her son's voice. “Well, hello to you too.”

Jana Rae set the color bottle on the table and sank to a chair, scowling. Claire frantically motioned for her to continue applying chemical. The last thing she needed was a hair disaster.

“Have you seen the newspapers this morning?” Garrett asked. “What were you thinking?”

Claire drew a sharp breath. “I beg your pardon, Son. Those photos shade the truth.” She huffed, her emotions bruised. “Besides, I don't have to explain what I choose to do to you or anyone else.”

“What? Are you going to get a divorce and start dating? When were you going to let your family in on that decision?” The edge in Garrett's voice drew blood. “Besides, I thought you loved Dad.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I will always love your father, Garrett. But I have to live my life.”

“But—”

“No buts, Garrett. Last night was
not
a date. And who I make friends with will not be open for judgment. Not by you or anyone else.”

Claire clicked off the phone and tossed it on the table, surprising even herself with her brisk reaction.

Jana Rae pulled the plastic gloves from her hands. “Whoa, honey. What was all that? I mean, maternal is not my skill set, but something tells me your son lost his binky.”

She grabbed the hand mirror from the table and examined Jana Rae's work. “Not the first tantrum he's thrown over the years.” She lowered the mirror and bit the tender flesh inside her mouth, fighting a fresh flood of tears. “Oh, Jana Rae. I didn't want Tuck to see the end of our marriage sensationalized in the papers. Or the kids.”

Jana Rae stood and checked a lock of hair to see if the color had fully taken. “Tuck's a big boy. He'll survive. But you already know what I think on the matter.” Her brows pulled together in serious thought. “You're done. Your hair, I mean.”

Claire moved to the sink and bent her head down so Jana Rae could rinse the dye from her hair. Her friend might be right about Tuck. He had twenty years in prison to adjust.

But her children? Even though they were adults, learning of the divorce was bound to sting.

Is that why she hadn't personally told them before now?

She remembered the day her mom had walked into their farm kitchen with the painful announcement. She knelt on the faded linoleum, looking Claire in the eyes. “I don't expect you to fully understand at your age,” she'd said. “But someday you'll realize what I'm doing is for everyone's best.”

Her own mother was flat wrong. Claire never recognized any good coming from splitting her family up. Even now she found the idea a tragedy. Sure, people divorced every day. But when it happens to you—to
your
family—everything turns different.

Perhaps that was why Claire hadn't called an attorney quite yet. As far as she could tell, there was no hurry, and she wasn't particularly anxious to get back in a courtroom anytime soon. Maybe after the first of the year, let things settle a bit. Then she'd file and make things official.

There was only one thing of which she was certain—she hadn't
planned on finding her life in shambles. She had no choice but to collect the pieces and move forward.

Lainie rubbed tanning lotion on her legs and arms before leaning back on the chaise lounge. With any luck, the late afternoon sunshine would provide for a perfect nap before she had to get ready for the Oil Barons Ball.

“Miss Massey?”

She shaded her eyes with her arm. “Yes?”

An older woman in a uniform stood at the edge of the pool. “Mr. McAlvain would like to see you inside.”

Lainie sighed. “I'll be in shortly. The sun's perfect right now, and I'd like to enjoy some rays.”

“I think Mr. McAlvain meant for you to come now.” The woman's voice communicated guarded authority. “What would you like me to tell him?”

Frustrated, she sat up. “Tell Sidney I'll be in—” She paused. “Soon.”

The woman nodded. “Yes, Miss Massey. I'll tell him.”

Lainie collected her glass of sweet tea and the October issue of
People
magazine and made her way to Sidney's den, where he sat behind his desk. Still dripping, she asked, “You needed me?”

He scowled at the puddle at her feet. “Yes. I hoped you'd have a glass of wine with me before we dress.”

“Now?” she said. “But it's—”

“And maybe give me a back rub.” Sidney stood, his meaning clear. He placed his cigar in the ashtray. “By the way, have you seen this morning's newspaper?” A sly smile formed on his pudgy face as he pushed the paper across the desk.

She frowned and picked it up. A large photo of her mother with some guy helping her into a silver convertible glared back. The headline read, “Wife of Famed Cattle Crook Moves On.”

Lainie's gut kicked.

Apparently, she wasn't the only one with a secret love life.