A Woman of Fortune (33 page)

46

U
tility bills weren't the only things in Claire's mail. On Tuesday, the morning of the big election, she found a surprise in her mailbox—another letter from Tuck.

She didn't open the envelope right away. Instead, she slipped the correspondence into her nightgown drawer. She didn't have time for distraction. She'd bought a mailing list from a vendor who put on the local bridal show each year at the Dallas Convention Center (Brian's idea), and later this morning she was meeting with the designers who created a flyer targeted to people with upcoming nuptials.

After the deb ball fiasco, Claire set her mind and decided she would never again work society events. Her bread and butter, so to speak, would come from regular folks, people with manners and regard for human beings.

It embarrassed her to recall how she'd often acted much the same as those horrible women. Barking orders at the help. Complaining and acting like the queen of Sheba, all because she had money.

As it turned out, it wasn't even her money, but funds stolen from the retirement accounts of some of those same hardworking individuals all bustling to make her life easier.

Shame on those women at the ball.

Shame on her.

With any luck, and with Margarita's prayers, Della Claire Catering would soon be a thriving business—one with heart.

It was well after dinner when Claire turned her attention to the waiting letter. She should know better than to open it. Likely the contents would just make her lose much-needed sleep. But she also knew she'd have a hard time slumbering not knowing. So she bid her mother good night, took a hot bath, and slipped into a pair of wonderful flannel pajamas, then retrieved the letter.

In bed, she leaned against the pillow.

Dear Claire,

I don't know where to begin. There's so much I need to say, things I'm sure you need to hear. I do not write to change your mind about the divorce. I simply need to express how sorry I am.

I have no excuse for my actions. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of everything good and right. My greed took me severely off course. No one is responsible for what happened except me.

I've spent the last months looking deep inside myself. With the help of godly men who visit and hold weekly Bible studies—guys who mentor me—I've seen my true nature. Deep down, fear drove everything I did for the past thirty years. And now, in God's mercy, he let the thing I feared most come true. I am stripped of everything I hold dear. And in that state, I'm learning God is enough.

My sweet, precious Claire. I'm not writing to ask for forgiveness. I simply want you to be happy. You are so beautiful—inside and out. I treasure the memories of our years together and will spend what time I have left inside this place praying for you and our children, and learning to forgive myself for what I did to you all.

Tuck

His words blurred as tears pooled. With trembling fingers, Claire slowly dropped her hand and the letter to her lap. In her mind, she could imagine Tuck leaning over a metal desk, pen in hand. She saw the downy hair on his earlobe, the familiar freckle on his cheek. Closing her eyes, she remembered the way his arm bulged just below his shoulder and the way his rough palm felt against her own.

Despite her resolve, she ached. For him . . . for herself.

Life was too short to stay bitter.

Clearly Tuck was now sorrowful over what he'd done. His words somehow untied the knot of anger that had tangled her emotions over the past months since his arrest.

Yet how could she forgive and live alone for twenty years, without a man's touch? Without someone across the dinner table at night and by her side when her granddaughter blew out birthday candles each year?

Claire thought of Brian. They may be only friends at this juncture, but at some point she'd have to release the old in order to move on and embrace someone new—Brian or otherwise. There was no way around that.

Her fingers swept the words on the lined paper.

Now tell that to her heart.

She carefully refolded the paper and slipped the letter back inside the envelope. She climbed from bed and placed Tuck's correspondence safely back in place, next to a gown that had been one of his favorites.

Determined to move the melancholy from her mind, she grabbed the remote and turned on the small television on her chest of drawers.

Reece Sandell's face appeared. Below his photo, a banner scrolled: “Sound victory lands Sandell as the youngest senator from Texas.”

The camera cut to a shot of a hotel room filled with supporters. In the background, Glory and Andrew Sandell beamed. Claire clicked the television off.

Although it may have been several years since the last time, she bowed her head. She asked God to watch over Lainie tonight. The election results would no doubt stab her baby girl's heart.

And then Claire did something totally unexpected.

She prayed for Tuck.

47

C
laire sat in her booth at the Dallas Bridal Show, watching girls and their mothers wander the aisles. From what her vendor friend said, people who attended these shows were often the ones who couldn't afford expensive event planners. Finances forced these families to scour shows like these, trying to mimic high-society weddings on low budgets—people Brian gently explained were now her target market.

Just as well, Claire thought. No more running into investors who'd lost money with Tuck. No more catty attitudes, no more pressure to create the perfect foie gras, fly truffles in from France, or order lilies of the valley out of season. Frankly, she was happy to step outside those circles. Helping typical families celebrate their life events appealed to her renewed sensibilities.

A woman with gorgeous auburn shoulder-length hair, dressed in a stunning green top that flowed over her petite frame, manned the booth next to hers. She sold gowns. “Leave everything to me,” she assured a rather big-boned bride-to-be. “I'll make sure you look stunning on your special night.” The girl's eyes lit up. She turned to her mother, who smiled back at the vendor with appreciation written all over her face.

Kindness went a long way.

“Claire? Claire Massey?”

She turned to find a young woman standing in front of her booth with one of her flyers in her hand. “Do you remember me? I'm Daisy Anheuser.”

She stared at the blonde, trying to place her. Finally, she shrugged. “I'm so sorry. You look familiar, but . . .”

Daisy smiled. “Well, I can't blame you. I'm dressed—uh, a bit differently. We met at your barbeque. I was with Sidney McAlvain.”

Claire's breath caught. She took a closer look. “Oh, oh—of course! I'm sorry I didn't make the connection.” Certainly this girl had toned down her attire. She now looked like a farmer's daughter from Kansas, not an arm candy bimbo for some fat man.

Claire shuddered. No, now that was Lainie.

Remembering her manners, she extended her hand. “Well, it's good to see you again.”

Daisy glanced at the brochures displayed at the booth counter. “So, you're a caterer?”

Claire smiled. “Yes, I own Della Claire.”

Daisy's eyes lit up. “Are you expensive? Your party was so wonderful. I—I'd like your help. If I can afford it, that is.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I'm on a budget.”

“Oh, I think we could work something out.” She grabbed a thick three-ring binder she'd assembled with potential menus and table decoration ideas. “When's the big day?”

Daisy giggled. “In two weeks. My guy's a soldier stationed at Fort Hood. He deploys soon, so we don't have a lot of time.”

“I see. Well, tell me what you've got in place so far. Venue?”

“We haven't decided where yet. We don't even have a minister lined up or anything.”

“Tell you what, you come by Della Claire in the morning, say about ten o'clock, and I'll have some ideas for you then.” Claire glanced at the woman in the neighboring booth. “Leave everything to me, Daisy. I'll make sure you have a wedding to remember.”

Planning a wedding with Daisy was pure joy. Claire soon found that the young woman was not at all the Betty Boop with nothing between her ears. Instead, she was warm and funny and so appreciative of everything Claire suggested. And she was kind to Margarita, which placed her on the top of Claire's best client list.

Daisy needed an inexpensive venue, so Claire reserved a quiet little park in the town of Mansfield, a small community in the southern part of the Dallas metroplex. At the back of the park, a quaint pond would provide a great backdrop to an archway, where the vows would be exchanged. They would set up a white tent and leave one end open to the view.

Jana Rae's brother, the pastor, agreed to officiate gratis. Mike's little girls would even serve as flower girls. Jana Rae insisted on buying their dresses. “They'll wear them over and over. No sense Daisy dishing out the money. Let me.”

Daisy gave Claire full rein as long as she stayed within her meager budget. Oh, and she didn't want daisies in the floral arrangements, for obvious reasons. “Growing up, I was forced to wear one in my hair every day. I hate 'em,” she said.

To save money, Claire planned to forego a sit-down dinner. Instead, she'd pass hot hors d'oeuvres, which would be perfect for the small guest list and the outdoor venue. Mushrooms stuffed with gorgonzola cheese and prosciutto with chopped fresh rosemary. Shrimp skewers and grilled pineapple rings glazed with Kahlúa. Potato skins topped with sour cream, cheese, and bacon bits. Scallops wrapped in bacon.

Claire baked homemade crackers to serve with a terrine of five different cheeses molded into the shape of a heart. She assembled a massive antipasto tray with varieties of olives and tiny marinated carrots and cauliflower florets.

For dessert, chocolate-covered strawberries and vanilla cupcakes with passion fruit frosting. And, of course, wedding cake.

She talked Daisy away from using colors, urging her to go with a slate of cream and chocolate brown, with russet and yellow accents. “It'll make for an elegant fall ceremony. Your portraits will be gorgeous.” Then she added, “From the flatware to flowers, lighting to linens, everything should compliment the overall look to create a unified experience.”

Daisy clasped her hands and nodded. “Like something out of a magazine,” she said with reverence.

Never before had Claire felt so in her skin. She always enjoyed cooking and putting on parties, but this was so fun she should be paying Daisy for the entertainment value.

“Claire, you are really gifted at this,” Brian said more than once.

Jana Rae agreed. “Yeah, just think. Up until now, you were living with only half your burners turned on.”

Even her mother had caught the change in Claire, the way she got up in the morning filled with anticipation. She told Max, “Your mother's little hobby seems to be agreeing with her.”

“What do you mean, Grandma?”

Claire's mother sipped her coffee and raised her brow in Claire's direction. “Yesterday she came home with flour in her hair. When I told her, she didn't even comb it out. Instead, she just smiled and gave me a hug.”

It was true. In many ways, she was happy.

On the day of Daisy's wedding, everything came together perfectly. Beneath a wedding arbor decorated with cream-colored mums, white lilies, and tiny French roses the color of vanilla, the groom, Trevor Rudd, watched as Daisy made her way down the aisle to join him. His eyes had that soft look as the wonder of the moment washed over him and he realized he was the luckiest guy on the planet.

Claire knew that look.

When Daisy reached her place up front by her fiancé's side and the last note of “Pachelbel's Canon” quieted the crowd, Jana Rae's brother Mike stepped forward.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of Daisy Anhauser and Trevor Rudd in marriage. Unlike any other institution, matrimony was established by God. He is the author and the sustainer of this covenant relationship that is meant to be an earthly depiction of his relationship with his bride, the church. Hopes, dreams, and expectations of a good and happy marriage can be shattered when a husband and wife fail to walk in God's precepts for this holy union.”

Mike's words formed a bubble of unexpected emotion around Claire's heart, a deep sadness despite such a happy occasion. She'd never wanted to be one of those statistics. Yet what choice did she have?

Daisy and her groom looked so happy. So ready to commit their lives to each other. But could they really map the road ahead and know “forever” would pan out?

Mike instructed the couple to grasp hands, then said, “When I was fairly young, I spent a summer working on a horse farm about an hour or so south of here. Not far from the farm there was a blacksmith shop. One afternoon I was sent in to get a broken cattle gate welded. When I got there, the blacksmith, a rather hefty guy with a black beard, told me he'd fix me up. I could even watch if I wanted. Fascinated, I stood nearby as the blacksmith welded together two pieces of metal.

“First, he stoked the fire until it was glowing red. Then, when it was so hot I could feel the heat on the other side of the shop, he shoved two pieces of metal into the middle of the fire and made the fire even hotter with his bellows. Next, he took the two pieces of metal out of the fire, laid them on the anvil, and pounded them together with his hammer again and again. Then he shoved the metal, now one piece, into the fire again.

“Over and over he did the same thing. Fire. Pounding together. Fire. Pounding together. Finally, when he was satisfied, he plunged the metal into a bucket of water. Then he turned to me and said, ‘This old-fashioned way of welding together two pieces of metal
into one is the strongest weld known to man. The metal may fracture in other places, but the weld will not break.'

“Trevor and Daisy, in a very real sense, this is a holy moment. God is the master blacksmith. As you recite these vows, he is taking two individuals and creating one. And you are promising before these witnesses never to break that bond.”

Claire's eyes teared up. Certainly she and Tuck had been through fire and they'd both ended up fractured. Now, out of desperation, she'd decided to break their marriage bond.

Jana Rae's brother told a nice story. But the application didn't apply in her situation.

A part of her would always love Tuck. She might even forgive him. But what kind of marriage remained when he was incarcerated? Under such unique circumstances, her decision was more than justified.

Wasn't it?

Regardless, it didn't do any good in life to pine for what she could no longer have. Like so much of her former life, her marriage was over.

As if reading her mind, Margarita, who was standing near, pulled her into a hug and whispered, “Mrs. Massey, God makes all things possible.”