A Woman of Fortune (32 page)

44

C
laire's first booking was a small garden tea hosted by Governor Jackson's wife. Despite the risk of associating with a Massey, the lovely older couple remembered Tuck's past help, highlighting the difference between politicians and statesmen.

Claire busied herself piping sweet dough, which would later become her signature crème puffs, onto a baking sheet. Despite the exhilaration of landing this job, her joy was tempered by her fight with Lainie.

Her mind couldn't help but scroll back through the horrible exchange. Emotions had run high, and both she and Lainie lost their tempers, saying things they shouldn't have.

“Mrs. Massey? Which serving platters do you want moved into the truck?”

Claire looked at her former housekeeper, now her catering assistant. “Let's use the cream-colored ones with the tiered racks. I think they'll match the fall mums perfectly.”

Margarita placed her fingers on Claire's arm. “Lainie's a good girl. She'll turn around. I promise.”

Tears pooled in Claire's eyes. Her old friend always saw right through her. “I keep wondering where I went wrong. Lainie and
her brothers were given the world, every advantage. We loved them and tried to raise them right—even took them to church.”

“Ah-yee, I agree. A person can't pray one way and live life another. Lainie will soon discover she's on the wrong path. And when she does—we'll all open our arms to her. Just like Jesus.”

Claire hugged Margarita. “I'm so glad you're back.”

She slid the baking pans into the industrial ovens and set the timer. Margarita was right. Lainie had walked away from her morals and anything related to faith. A long time ago, really. So had all her children. None of them made going to church a priority.

A twinge of guilt poked its unwelcome head inside Claire. She supposed she'd been the first to set a bad example. She wasn't sure when, but going to church had become just a ritual they did on Sundays. Then when Pastor Richards declined to support Tuck—well, that was the tipping point. Claire had easily released that part of her life and moved on.

She envied Margarita's sure knowledge that nothing came into her life without first being sifted by God's hands, that her Maker loved her. That was enough to keep Margarita from being anxious about the unfairness of life.

And as Claire had learned, life could be very unfair.

Her cell phone rang. She wiped her hands and picked up. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

Her heart skipped a beat. It was Garrett. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he assured her. “And I'm really sorry about that telephone call. I had no right to climb all over you. Of anyone, I should understand that life's choices are not always black and white.”

Claire let out the breath she was holding. “Oh, honey. I've missed talking. I'm so glad you called. How's Marcy? And our little one?”

“That's why I'm phoning, Mom. We had an ultrasound. It's a girl!” Garrett's voice filled with pride. “I'm going to have a daughter.”

“Oh, Garrett! Congratulations, baby.”

They talked for several minutes. Garrett told her about his wife's cravings and mood swings, and how Marcy wanted to do the nursery in soft apricot. “Looks like orange to me,” he said. “But what do men know?”

When they ended their conversation and Claire hung up, she rejoiced in the fact Garrett had finally reconnected. And her heart soared at the news the next generation would emerge with a baby girl—her granddaughter. The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

She was far too young to be a grandmother.

But, oh . . . a baby girl.

Lainie wandered the mall alone with a fistful of Sidney's credit cards. He'd been tied up with work for days, something about a merger. Regardless, she was restless. Even Saks failed to provide any entertainment value.

Lately, melancholy had draped over her like a bad curtain, especially since her mother had charged into Sidney's place, her moral guns blazing.

“Lainie, what did you expect Mom would do?” Max asked when she'd relayed what had happened over the phone.

“It's such a double standard. Garrett and Marcy sure weren't saints, and nobody said a thing.”

Max laughed. “You're kidding, right? First, Garrett wouldn't put mayonnaise on his sandwich if Mom or Dad didn't want him to. Second, I agree with Mom. Sidney McAlvain is old and creepy. And if you thought you were in the right, why hide?”

He had a point, Lainie supposed. She could make the argument she didn't want to invite the trouble she knew would come. But the truth?

She was deeply ashamed.

Lainie wanted to show them all—her dad, Reece, everyone—that she was tough. Their wounds could not pain her for long. Only, she never counted on her own choices bloodying her soul.

She ruffled through a rack of fall sweaters, the colors blending together as she focused instead on her mother and how mad she'd been. Lainie said awful things meant to hurt her mother. The cupcake remark had certainly hit the target.

She'd taken things too far. Her mother didn't deserve more hurt, even if she'd pushed Lainie into a corner. Truth was she loved her mom.

She needed to call and apologize. But something held her back. Perhaps the knowledge she'd severely disappointed her mom, that her mother was so disgusted by her choices.

Why had she ever thought hooking up with a mean creep like Sidney McAlvain would fix things? If anything, his demeaning treatment left her feeling dirty and used—and broken inside.

Depressed and feeling trapped, she wandered out of the store and headed for Starbucks, stepping in line behind a young family. The man had his hand on his wife's back. She was pregnant and held tight to a toddler carrying a Veggie Tales stuffed toy, similar to the one Max used to own as a child.

After they ordered, Lainie stepped forward. “I'll have a venti iced hazelnut macchiato.” She paid for her drink with Sidney's credit card, then moved into a chair to wait. She checked her texts. Finding no new messages, she leaned back and watched people. An older gentleman reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. A table of college-aged girls drinking Frappuccinos and chattering about a physics class.

She looked out into the open courtyard filled with seating areas and potted plants and again spotted the young family. The man guided his very pregnant wife to a chair. Taking great care, he held her hand as she lowered herself into the chair. Then he knelt, slipped off her shoes, and massaged her swollen feet while their little son stood nearby, watching.

The sight twisted Lainie's gut.

She wanted
that
.

If she stayed with Sidney McAlvain, she'd never want for any
material thing. But Lainie knew deep inside that trading her affections for monetary security would never be enough. Worse, it would eventually break her soul.

Her eyes filled with tears.

How could she have settled for a muddy pond when she was meant to ride the waves of the ocean?

45

W
ith the success of Helen Jackson's tea event, word quickly spread about Della Claire Catering. In the days following, the phone rang and Claire's calendar filled, to her extreme delight.

By far, her most ambitious booking was the upcoming Women of Dallas Philanthropic Society Debutante Ball, an annual event steeped in tradition. The Women of DPS, founded in 1954 as one of the primary charity funding organizations in the Dallas/Fort Worth area, enjoyed hundreds of members—Claire being one of them.

This year's black tie ball would be held at the Meyerson Symphony Center, with the price tag for presenting running well over three thousand dollars and individual tickets in the hundreds.

Claire tried not to think about the pressure as she and Margarita sat to plan the menu. The key was to offer something different and yet much the same. Not exactly an easy feat. In the end, she relied on her instincts. She'd attended many of these events and was not exactly new to the “ball” game.

She would serve butternut squash bisque for the first course. The entree—dry-aged filet of beef, grilled medium rare and covered with a coffee-infused sauce. That would please the fathers and grandfathers in attendance. For the women and vegetarians, she'd need something lighter. This is where she could stray from
convention. After digging through numerous cookbooks, Claire decided to serve two sides—braised artichokes and smoked fingerling potato puree. Top that off with a dessert of cherry walnut tarts with pomegranate caramel sauce, and Della Claire Catering would make its mark.

No doubt the menu would be tough to price with much profit margin, but the business magazines Claire had been reading all said you had to spend money to make money.

She would dip into her marketing budget for the additional kitchen help she'd need, for servers, and for the high cost of food items. With any luck, she'd ace this dinner and, as a result, drum up business for months to come. The holiday season was right around the corner, so nothing could be more time sensitive for a start-up catering enterprise.

As she'd told Brian last night, this function was the big break she needed, and she wasn't going to blow it.

So important, in fact, she'd called and rescheduled her appointment with the attorney until after the holidays. She just didn't have the time right now. Or, more truthfully, the emotional stamina to deal with launching a new business while ending her marriage.

On the day of the big event, she arrived at the kitchen at three o'clock in the morning. Margarita was already inside, packing glasses for transport. Claire rolled up her sleeves and worked all day alongside the staff she'd hired, cutting and peeling, baking and stirring under Margarita's careful eye.

The trucks arrived promptly at three o'clock. Claire's former trusted driver, Henry, was now on staff as her transport director. She gave him a warm hug. “I knew I could count on you to be right on time.”

She raced home for a quick shower before heading to the Meyerson. While she brushed a little color on her cheeks, her mother stood in the doorway of the bathroom, her arms filled with Yorkies. “I don't understand how you can serve those people. You can't be
peers and the help all at the same time. Don't you see how mixed up that seems?”

Claire looked at her mother's reflection in the mirror. “You act like I have a choice, Mama. Life—all of it—got turned upside down with Tuck's arrest. My high-society days are over. I'm a working gal now.”

Her mother frowned. “Only temporarily, dear. Until you give in and get serious with that nice construction fellow.”

Jana Rae had a similar attitude about her working the ball. “I, too, have plenty of friends I don't like. But you won't see me kissing their—”

“Jana Rae! I thought you were a God-fearing woman?”

Her friend huffed. “I was going to say kiss their
shoes
, gutter mind.”

Claire arrived at the Meyerson Concert Hall two hours prior to the start time. Margarita had done a beautiful job seeing the tables were set with linen tablecloths and white service ware. The entire feel—if done correctly—was meant to create the austere look of purity. Every cotillion event she'd seen was done in a similar white-upon-white theme.

All the girls would be wearing white gowns with full skirts—no mermaids in this group. Claire knew from going through the process with Lainie that the fifty girls had undergone months of debutante training, learning how to walk perfectly erect, to ballroom dance, and most important, to curtsy in a perfect Texas Dip.

That had been one of the hardest efforts for Lainie. Every time she'd stretch her arms straight out, bend, and tuck, she'd end up lopsided. It took hours of practice for her to get the traditional bow down perfectly.

In the service kitchens, the additional staff Claire had hired for the evening were busy plating the entrees under Margarita's watchful eye. She looked over her list several times, from sheer nerves.

Wine—check.

Beef—check.

Sauces—check.

Guests began arriving in earnest by six thirty, and soon the cloakroom looked like a fur storage vault. Generations of family and friends gathered, eager for the festivities and the chance to applaud their debs.

Claire couldn't help it. Her mind wandered back to Lainie's coming-out party. Unlike her own, where the ball served as an unveiling of young women available for the marriage market, Lainie's deb ball had been more about making connections in society that would last a lifetime . . . unless your father pulled off white-collar fraud, that is. Federal crimes could certainly tarnish one's social standing.

When Lainie debuted, Tuck had already sold fake inventory. What ran through his mind as he escorted his daughter through the crowd, wearing his red sash and tails? On the stage, when he passed her white opera-gloved hand off to her two brothers, who served as her Honor Guard escorts, did he consider that his actions could be a lethal injection to their Dallas aristocracy?

Never mind that now. Claire needed to be thankful. With this opportunity, she'd be able to pay her electric bill for the next six months.

Hours later, at exactly nine o'clock, the chimes rang, calling the guests to their proper places for the grand promenade. Dinner had come off without a hitch—no small thing. Claire had already heard that Cindrette Sloane-Wisner, one of the cochairs, was thrilled with the food.

The servers had cleared the tables and were quietly placing dessert plates when the lights dimmed. In front of the stage, rows of empty chairs waited for the fathers after their stage duties were done. The deb moms were seated on the aisle seats of the orchestra floor.

The master of ceremonies tactfully advised the audience that a show of appreciation for each deb was welcome—to a point—reminding them that decorum should be followed at every point. He then acknowledged the Honorary Chair and thanked the cochairmen for their support.

That was when Claire heard the commotion.

She turned. At the back of the room, Margarita apologized profusely to a woman in a lavender gown. The white linen tablecloth was spotted with deep brown spots, and the woman was dabbing furiously at her lap with a napkin. Margarita held a silver coffee service, her face nearly white.

Claire hurried to the scene.

“What's the matter with you?” the woman spat. “Look what you've done—you—you—get away.” She pushed Margarita back, causing the old woman to lose her balance.

Margarita knocked into the lady sitting directly behind her, sending her coffee cup flying. “Oh my—watch out. What are you doing?” she said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear.

Margarita's face paled further. Her eyes shone brightly with tears.

“Hey, there's no reason to be mean.” Claire glared first at one woman, then the other. “Obviously, what happened was an accident. There's no call for your horrible behavior toward this woman.” She tried to keep her voice low, but her temper was boiling. How dare those rich, cast-iron witches treat Margarita in such a manner!

Heads were now turning. A woman with blonde hair piled high on her head and diamond earrings dancing from her ears gave them a dirty look. “Shh,” she said. “Pipe down.”

The woman with the coffee spots stood. She threw her napkin down. “I know who you are, Claire Massey.” Her eyes became slits. “And I'll see to it that you and your little cooking business are done in this town.” She marched away in a huff.

And she was right.

By the end of the week, Claire received a number of calls, all canceling. Her once-crowded calendar now sat nearly empty.

Her one big shot had turned out to be a tiny pop on the social horizon, and she now had a severely depleted marketing budget.

Worse, utility bills kept coming in the mail.