A Woman of Fortune (30 page)

40

T
he final days of September arrived, and along with them the Texas State Fair. In former years, Tuck and Claire had packed the children up and hauled them to Fair Park near downtown Dallas to ride the Ferris wheel and eat fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, an annual favorite of fairgoers.

Claire hadn't attended the fair in years, not since the kids were grown, certainly. Crowds strolling the midway and crying toddlers with cotton-candy hands weren't exactly her idea of a good time.

So when Max called and extended an invitation, she initially turned him down, instead urging him to consider an afternoon trip to the Crow Collection of Asian Art, where they were exhibiting treasures of jade and objects of art from China's imperial dynasties.

“C'mon, Mom. Let's go have fun. Just the two of us,” Max said. “I'll even follow you around the quilt exhibit. Huh, what do you say?”

What could she say? She'd park on the moon to spend time with one of her kids, even if it meant going to the fair. Besides, her mother would be out all afternoon at the groomers with those dogs. “All right. But you're buying dinner.”

“Deal.” She could almost see Max smile over the phone. “Pick you up around noon tomorrow.”

The fairway was dirtier than she remembered. The people bumping into her sported more tattoos. But the greasy, sweet smell wafting through the air was exactly as she recalled.

After wandering the midway a bit, they headed for the food concessionaires. Max followed Claire's lead and ordered a corn dog swathed in yellow mustard, the way Tuck used to eat his. They made their way to a small table with an umbrella, which had a great view of the well-known cultural icon, Big Tex, the fifty-two-foot-tall mechanical man who welcomed fairgoers with his friendly loud drawl, “Hoooowdy, folks!”

“I'd forgotten how good these are,” Max said, licking dabs of mustard from the corners of his mouth.

Claire smiled. “You hated them when you were little. Cotton candy and caramel apples were the only things you'd eat. If we tried to push anything with nutritional value—and I use that term loosely—you'd scream.”

For the next few minutes, she and Max ate in comfortable silence, watching the faces of the little children light up when Big Tex boomed his greeting.

“I went to see Dad last week.”

She stopped mid-bite. “You did? Why?” The minute the awkward question slipped from her mouth, she was sorry. Of course Max could visit his father. He didn't have to explain his reasons. “Son, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that like it sounded.” She sighed. “Well, maybe I did. But I—you have every right to see him if you want.”

“You know, Mom, I've turned what happened over in my head a thousand different ways. No matter which way I look at what Dad did, I just can't make sense of it. So I had to go. I needed him to help me understand.”

Claire spotted a tall man wearing a tank top with a beer logo. He smiled at her, revealing yellowed teeth. “What did he say?”

Several seconds passed. “He claimed he's sorry.” His voice caught. He cleared his throat and looked up at Big Tex. “And get
this—Dad's joined a Bible study in there. Says he prays for each of us every night. Especially you.”

A space inside Claire hollowed out. So Tuck had seen the light in prison and now clung to religion. How was that for a cliché?

Ignoring her own emotions, she swallowed her food—and her bitterness—and placed a consoling hand over her son's. “I suppose that's understandable, honey. He was an elder at Abundant Hills, don't forget.”

Max shook his head in disgust. “An elder who stole the church blind,” he said. “Along with most of the members.”

Claire quietly finished the last of her corn dog. She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, then folded it carefully and laid it aside. “You know, a friend told me something the other night. He said I had a right to be bitter, but not to let that shadow my future.”

“That the guy in the newspaper?”

Her face flushed. “You of all people should know not to believe everything you read in the news.”

“Dad said you want a divorce. Is that true?”

“Yes. I think so,” she said. “I haven't seen an attorney yet. At times I want out, and yet in many ways I find it hard to let the past completely go.” Claire brushed crumbs from her capris. “A year ago, who'd have imagined my home and everything we owned would be gone, my husband would be in prison convicted of federal crimes, Garrett and Marcy would be in Houston working for her dad, and your sister would be hiding out in places unknown?”

This time Max reached for her hand. “I want you happy, Mom.”

“I know, Son. I plan to be.” Claire turned her face upward, letting the sun warm her skin. “I called my friend Brian and took him up on his offer to connect me with a lady who makes money available to women who want to start a business and don't have the financial resources necessary. I'm thinking of using my degree in culinary arts and opening my own catering business. Small at first. Build from there.”

Max grinned. “That's great.”

“I googled catering businesses and submitted dozens of employment applications, expecting to hear good news. Unfortunately, my hopes dampened when no calls came. Potential employers view me as a liability, I suppose. Even Abundant Hills wouldn't hire me to cater their annual missions gala, the event I used to chair. The new person in charge thought it might ruffle too many feathers—under the circumstances.” Claire propped her elbows on the table and gave her son a wistful smile. “I'm hopeful this lady with the investment capital turns out to be everything Brian promises. Because frankly, I don't have a lot of other options.”

“Mom's starting a catering business? Are you serious?”

Max zipped his Jeep around a dump truck and accelerated. He adjusted his Bluetooth. “You heard me, Lainie. She's meeting with some lady who sets up women like Mom with needed financing when banks won't make a loan.”

“I can't believe Mom's going to work.”

Max rolled his eyes. His sister could be so shallow at times. “What do you think she's going to do without any money? She doesn't exactly have a lot of options after what Dad did. I mean, short of taking up with some wealthy dude, she has to earn a living.” The phone went silent for several seconds. “Sis, you there?”

“I'm here,” Lainie said quietly.

“Well, I've got another bombshell for you.” He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. “I went to see Dad.”

She huffed. “You're kidding, right? Why would you do that?”

“Funny, that's what Mom said.”

“You told her?” She sounded shocked. “How did she respond to that?”

“Ah, you know . . . at first she was surprised. Then cautiously supportive.” Max glanced in his rearview mirror, then signaled and switched lanes.

“Well, what did Dad say? Did he even know you were coming?”

“Among a lot of things, he asked about you. I didn't know what to tell him.” Max slowed behind a lagging sedan driven by a white-haired woman whose head barely reached above the steering wheel. “Where are you, Lainie? Time to end the hiding-out act, don't you think?”

He could hear his sister sigh. Or was she . . . ?

“Lainie, are you crying? Sis, talk to me.”

It took several seconds before she responded. Finally, she whispered in the phone, “Oh, Max. At age twenty-three, I never expected to feel this tired.”

41

A
t exactly two o'clock, Claire walked into the lobby of the north tower of The W, a hotel complex with luxury condominiums in downtown Dallas. Her heels clicked against shiny cream-colored tile flooring as she admired the sophisticated modern design and furnishings of the posh and beautifully appointed venue, a place she and Tuck had often patronized before life went into a tailspin.

The concierge directed her to the bar, where Brian waited. Even though they'd had to wait a few weeks for her potential benefactor to return from a trip abroad, as promised, Brian arranged for a meeting with Maybelline Knudsen, Dallas's real estate grand dame—and, if things went well, the woman who would provide funding for Claire's new business.

When Brian disclosed the identity of his “friend,” Claire had immediately balked. Unlike her, Maybelline had not relied on any man's wealth. And most certainly the woman some claimed to now be in her eighties had never lived through the kind of financial debacle Claire had faced these past months. She was savvy and had a no-nonsense approach to life. At least in the articles Claire had read over the years.

So much was riding on this meeting. Claire's nerves betrayed the
confidence she hoped to convey as she and Brian rode the elevators up to the top penthouse condominium where Maybelline lived.

“Look,” Brian said, pressing the button to the top floor, “Maybelline made her fortune in the early seventies, when men ruled the real estate market in Dallas. You think she doesn't know what it's like to be sold down the river for money?” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Why do you think she's so motivated to help women get ahead in the business world? I promise there's nothing for you to worry about.”

Claire didn't feel so convinced. “I bring a lot of baggage.”

Brian gave her arm a little squeeze. “Maybelline knew everything and she wanted to meet you. So relax.”

Brian's friendship had been a pleasant addition to her life. Despite the trouble the media tried to cause, he was a sweet spot after months of turmoil. At first, guilt over how quickly she'd connected with a man other than Tuck overshadowed her budding affinity for Brian, the easy way they talked and supported one another. Claire quickly moved past that frame of mind. There was nothing inappropriate about simply enjoying a friendship she very much needed.

Following his instruction, she took a deep breath and tried to be calm. “You're right,” she said. “Thank you for brokering this meeting, Brian. I appreciate what you've done for me.”

Before he could respond, the elevator slowed and a melodic chime sounded. The doors shifted open, revealing an elegant white-haired woman smartly dressed in a nautical pantsuit standing there waiting for them.

“Brian, right on time, as always.” Maybelline Knudsen leaned forward and Brian brushed her cheek with a kiss. “This boy is like a son to me,” she told Claire while guiding them into a living area with walls of glass overlooking the city.

In the center of the room, several plush leather sofas in shades of lemon-yellow and sage created an inviting seating area. Claire was no stranger to exquisite homes, but Maybelline's place topped the charts on lavish living. Despite her host's age, the condominium
was surprisingly modern, no doubt assembled by designers with superior taste. Even the carpets screamed
luxurious
. Claire's shoes sank in a good two inches with each step.

She wanted to ask who furnished her home, then she remembered. It didn't matter. She no longer lived in that world.

Maybelline sat across from her. They were served tea and small cookies filled with raspberry crème on delicate plates with lacy edges. After a few minutes of small talk, their host turned to Claire. “So, Brian tells me you want to start a catering business?”

Claire swallowed her nerves and described her plans. With Brian's help, she'd assembled the necessary financials and marketing proposal. “I intend on starting very small and building from there,” she explained, handing the woman her business plan.

Maybelline nodded. “With my help, you're going to do just that.”

Claire returned home that day battling a mixture of feelings. She'd been elated when Brian's friend leaned forward, placed her diamond-laden hand over hers, and said, “Claire, I've got your back. I'm happy to provide the start-up capital you'll need to launch this effort . . . on a confidential basis, of course. Funding will come through a company I've set up for this very thing. Long-term success will depend on you.” She looked her squarely in the eyes. “Honey, you up for the challenge of making it on your own?”

Claire assured her she was. She'd done her homework, put together a reasonable budget, determined equipment needs. All she required now was clients, and that would be the one thing that might hinder her enterprise, at least initially. The circles she and Tuck had run in were prime customer targets, but most held grudges for losses they'd endured, or they had climbed onto personal judgment seats rendering anything connected to the scandal unsavory and not worthy of association. Or both.

She adjusted her earlier thoughts. She'd have to go outside those circles, which wouldn't be easy. She knew from years of experience
that a caterer worthy of his or her salt (and every other spice in the rack) was hard to find. She'd have to build trust through word of mouth. And that would take time. Precious time she didn't necessarily have.

Despite Maybelline Knudsen's generous support, Claire would have to turn a profit and make a living . . . and soon. If she wanted to eat and have electricity, that is.

She shared those concerns with Brian over dinner that evening, quietly nestled in a booth at an out-of-the-way burger joint. One that served homemade onion rings dipped in light batter and fried to a delicate golden crisp—the kind of meal she rarely ate. Not if she intended to stay a size 6.

“You worry too much.” Brian squirted ketchup from a red plastic bottle onto his open bun. “I learned a few years back to live in the moment. Don't dwell on the past, don't worry about tomorrow.”

Claire sighed and slid a slice of raw onion from her burger, placing it on the edge of her plate. “I know you're right. It's just hard to not think about what I might face. Despite the assurances I gave Maybelline, I've never stepped out on my own before. Tuck handled the business and financial end of things.” She cut her burger in half. “Throughout most of my marriage, I never paid a bill, bought groceries, cleaned house, or maintained a checking account. I'm afraid I feel a little overwhelmed at times. I mean, who do I think I am starting a catering business?”

“So . . . you're paying bills, right?”

“Right.”

“You're buying groceries, cleaning house, and maintaining a checking account?”

“I see where you're heading.” She grinned and reached for the ketchup bottle.

Brian reached across the table and took her hand. “You are a beautiful and capable woman. Success is in your future. I promise.”

Claire found herself unable to pull her eyes from his thoughtful gaze. Had he just called her beautiful?

“Bet you say that to all the girls.” She playfully whacked at his hand, ignoring the way her heart raced. In an attempt to redirect the conversation, Claire put ketchup on her burger and chattered about her plans.

“I'm going to need an industrial kitchen, fully stocked. My big ticket items, to start off, will be the portable ovens and hotboxes, and I'll need a transport van. Of course, I can go with a used vehicle. So long as the thing is mechanically sound. I can't risk breaking down on the way to a job. That would be a disaster.”

She lifted her burger to take a bite but stopped. “You know, I think the only permanent staff I'll need will be a kitchen manager and a driver. I could offer Margarita, my former housekeeper, the kitchen job. Henry can be my driver—well, Henry's fairly old, but I still want to put him on my regular payroll, if at all possible.”

Claire paused. He was staring again. “What are you smiling at?”

“You.” Brian leaned back against the red vinyl booth, his clear green eyes looking at her the way Tuck often had. “I'm looking at you.”

Claire drove home with a bad case of indigestion. Not from the greasy meal she so seldom ate, although the thick burger and onion rings likely contributed. No, she knew her stomach roiled in large part because of that look in Brian's eyes.

She wasn't sure how it had happened so quickly, but things between them had taken an abrupt turn. At least on Brian's part. In her mind, she'd been careful to draw a line between friendship and romantic interest. Brian, on the other hand, single-handedly used a giant eraser tonight and left the line blurred.

She wasn't a schoolgirl, for goodness' sake. Claire had no business flirting with this kind of danger. She was a forty-nine-year-old
married
woman. She'd assured everyone, most importantly her children, that her friendship with Brian was just that—friendship.

She startled as her cell phone rang. Without checking the caller ID, she picked up. “Hello?”

“Claire? It's Brian.”

A motorcycle whizzed by Claire's vehicle, driving dangerously fast. “Brian?”

“Look, I sensed I made you uncomfortable tonight.”

“No—uh, I just—” Claire frowned and slid her foot to the brake. She slowed her own vehicle as the motorcycle crowded into the lane in front of her. “It's just that I'm still
married
.”

“I know, and that's why I called to apologize. I had no right to place you in that position,” he said. “But at the same time, I can't live my life in any other manner than absolutely honest. Took a lot of years and many hours in rehab and AA, but pretending is what makes us all sick inside. So I'm not going to claim that I'm not attracted to you, Claire. I'm not going to deny I lay in bed at night thinking about you, that my waking hours drag until we meet for dinner.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I feel like a kid sitting behind the prettiest girl in class, wanting nothing more than to get a whiff of her hair.”