Texas Heat (13 page)

Maggie sat in her favorite lounge chair on Sunbridge's
back patio soaking up the late-August sun. It felt good, warming her to the core. It wasn't often she felt warm these days; Cole's hostility had been arctic since Cranston's visit just after the Fourth of July.

Nothing had been settled by the time he left, and he'd returned to New York alone. Maggie knew then that he hadn't really wanted the boy; if he had, neither heaven nor hell would have prevented him. But Cole could not be convinced. Meanwhile, she had to suffer their son's petulant antagonisms.

Aside from that, however, things had progressed nicely for Maggie. The Fourth of July bash had given her entrée into several social circles, mainly the country club set in and around Crystal City. Her calendar was filled with tennis and luncheon dates, and she often reciprocated with informal picnics at Sunbridge. Last week she'd held a cocktail hour and sit-down dinner for twenty in honor of Jamison Royce, an artist of acclaim whom she'd known back in New York. Her ability to bring new and interesting people to the Crystal City set guaranteed her success.

Amelia and Cary were busy with Cary's project, but not too busy to decorate most of Maggie's shindigs with their special kind of West Coast glamour. Maggie's newfound status also brought another benefit—Riley was making friends with the younger set. Cole, of course, was an entirely different matter. Maggie felt a frown wrinkling her brow when she thought of her son and purposefully smoothed the lines with her fingertips. She felt drowsy sitting here frying in her own fat, and she didn't want to think about anything unpleasant, including Cranston's impending return visit to Sunbridge sometime tomorrow.

Cole appeared out of nowhere, a talent he seemed intent on developing; obviously he enjoyed the way it unnerved his mother. He plopped down at the foot of her chaise, the all-too-familiar scowl on his young face. Maggie squinted through the sunlight at him, noting he was dressed in snowy white ducks and a striped jersey that seemed to accentuate his slimness.

“So, Mother, did you hear from my father? Have you two come to a decision?”

“You already know my decision, Cole.” Wearily Maggie laid her head back and closed her eyes again. “Your dad wili be here sometime tomorrow. Monday is the last day for school registration; I'd like to settle this once and for all before then. . . . Cole, why aren't you down at the corral with the others? Don't tell me Riley didn't invite you, because I heard him myself. There's at least a dozen kids down there setting up for tonight's barn dance and they're having the time of their lives. Don't you like to have fun?”

“Not that kind of fun. Riley's a fag.”

“The others don't seem to think so. I think he's adapted very nicely, and he certainly has gone out of his way to make friends. You're the one who refuses to get involved, Cole. Personally, I think you're a glutton for punishment. Or is it that you want to embarrass me and Riley?”

“If you say so, Mother,” he replied insolently. “Are they all staying for dinner?”

“They're having an afternoon cookout. Then they'll go home and be back for the dance tonight. I told Martha not to fuss with my lunch; a sandwich will do me. I thought you'd be with the others. . . . I'm really sorry you've been so unhappy this summer, Cole. I was hoping you'd meet me halfway.”

“Look, Mother, I don't want to go to this yokel school. Did you get a look at those kids? The girls especially!”

“Of course I did. They look like kids anywhere, and that includes your fancy military academy.”

“They're all a bunch of faggots. I don't like them; can't you understand that? I don't fit in with them, and I don't want to. I don't belong here.”

Maggie sighed. “At least make an appearance down at the barn. Sunbridge is your home, Cole, and you're the host. Do the proper thing.”

“Riley's doing it for me. He's the one they like, not me. And don't tell me it's my fault, 'cause I don't want to hear it. Besides, I don't care. I got one over on old Riley this morning, didn't I?”

“How?”

“With that letter I got from Sawyer, that's how. Riley hasn't heard from her in weeks, but I have. He pretends it doesn't bother him, but I know it does and I'm glad.”

Maggie hadn't realized Cole was hearing from Sawyer, and she was instantly curious. There were questions she wanted to ask about her daughter, things she wanted to know, but when she saw the look of smug satisfaction on Cole's face, she decided not to play into his hands. “Are you or aren't you going down to the corral?”

“All right, have it your way. But I don't understand why you're doing this to me. I hate it here. I hate everything about Sunbridge. Why are you making me stay?” His voice had risen to an agonized pitch somewhere between the frustration of a boy and the rage of a man.

Maggie's face drained of all color; she was speechless. She'd once cried those words—but in reverse. Light years ago she'd howled,
“Why are you sending me away? I belong here. Don't make me go! Why are you doing this to me?”

Cole stared at his mother. He'd never seen that look on her face before and it frightened him. She seemed about to shatter into a thousand pieces. “I'm going, I'm going! Forget I said anything. Just forget it.” He turned and began to run toward the corral, where Riley and the other kids were cooking hot dogs. He knew he'd hit a nerve, a very sensitive and painful nerve. It exhilarated him to have such power over her, and at the same time it frightened him to realize that his mother could be so easily destroyed.

“Hey! There's Cole! Just in time for lunch!” called one of the boys, enjoying the titters of laughter from the others.

“Where've you been, Cole?” one of the girls demanded, brushing her hands off on the seat of her jeans. “We've just hung the last paper streamer in the barn, everything's ready for tonight, and you didn't do a thing to help us.” She giggled. “Maybe you shouldn't come to the dance tonight, even if it is your party.”

“Cole had something to do for Aunt Maggie,” Riley said quickly. “Otherwise he'd've been hanging from the rafters like the rest of us. Who gets the first hot dog?”

Cole bristled; he didn't need Riley to defend him and lie for him. “I didn't have—”

“Hey!” someone shouted from the barn. “Look what I found! Let's have a tug-o'-war! Guys against the girls!”

“No fair! No fair!” the girls complained. “It's even-steven or nothing!”

Sides were chosen, weight estimated and evenly distributed on both sides. Cole was encouraged to join and instinctively chose to pull opposite Riley. Riley was the tallest of the boys and he also had the prettiest girl beside him—if you didn't care about her braces, that was.

Cole grabbed his end of the rope and dug his heels into the soft ground. He felt the hardness of his muscles in his thighs, the tension and rigidity across his shoulders. This wasn't a game; it was personal. He clenched his teeth and pulled, surprising himself with his strength. Sawyer had been right; all the work he'd been doing this summer was the same as bodybuilding.

“Pull, Cole, pull! I think we've got 'em,” the yell went up.

“That's what—you think,” came from the other side, grunting. “C'mon, Riley, pull! Use those—muscles. You're—the anchorman.”

“And his anchor's in his ass!” Cole shouted. He gave the rope a vicious yank, straining so hard he thought he tasted blood. His leg muscles shivered, his hands grew slick with sweat and threatened to slip, a pain tormented the back of his neck, and there was a freight train pounding through his head. But he kept his eyes focused on Riley, groaned and grunted and held his ground. He was the first man on his side of the rope, Riley the last on his. Inch by inch Cole's grip closed the distance between them; step by step Riley's team fought defeat. They were giving way; they were losing. If it killed him, Cole was determined to see Riley go down.

Cole's hands were still frozen around the rope when his teammates were laughing and clapping him on the back. “We did it! We won!” A tiny girl named Marcy kissed Cole on the cheek. “That's for winning.” Cole blushed.

Riley dusted himself off and grinned as he held out his hand. “That was great, Cole. I guess you're right about where my muscles are. Hefting that pitchfork all summer really built you up!”

Cole looked pointedly at his cousin's outstretched hand. Then he smirked and walked away.

Embarrassed, Riley flushed and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Hey, Riley, lean down here,” Marcy said.

“Why?”

“'Cause I want to kiss a loser. Don't pay any attention to Cole. He ruined Grace's party, too, by being a jerk. Ignore him,” she said, planting a wet kiss on Riley's cheek.

Riley shrugged. Cole wasn't a jerk. He wasn't sure what Cole really was, but he wasn't a jerk.

Feeling cocky and smug, Cole sauntered back to the house. His mother was nowhere in sight. He flopped down on the chaise she'd been in and pulled Sawyer's letter from his hip pocket.

It was a long letter, but only a single sheet of paper. Typed. Cole grinned. Sawyer would never make it in the office pool: the letter was full of typos and crossouts. But what mattered was that she'd taken the time out of her busy schedule to drop
him
a note. He'd already rehearsed several versions of his response, but he wouldn't actually write till he heard his parents' decision regarding school.

Cole stared at the scrawled signature for a long time. Up till now it hadn't mattered that he had a sister. Now it was different. He had to remember to tell her about the tug-of-war. She'd laugh. He could almost see her eyes crinkle up and then the thick fringe of her lashes would glisten.

He read the letter a second time. Christmas in New York sounded great. Better than here. Maybe he could make a deal with his parents. If they decided he'd have to stay here, and he was sure that was the way it was going to be, then he'd simply make the deal for Christmas. Or he'd threaten to run away. That always put the fear of God into a parent.

 

Maggie slithered into a cornflower-blue lounging gown shot through with silver threads. The high mandarin collar brought the color close to her gently tanned face and cloud of dark hair, while the short capped shoulders exposed her gracefully rounded arms. Two side slits from the ankle to above the knee softened the line of an otherwise severely straight skirt. The outfit looked as though it had been made for her, and it had.

She knew Cranston would approve of the way she looked tonight. Glamour, that's what he expected and demanded, glitter and glitz, all the things that had nothing to do with reality and living.

Cranston didn't know Maggie Coleman Tanner anymore, she reflected wryly. He didn't know that she was different now, inside as well as outside. But tonight was her chance to show him that he wasn't dealing with the old Maggie, that Cole was important to her and that she'd fight for him if she had to. With all the Coleman money and the Coleman legal firm behind her, she could put up a pretty impressive fight. She hoped it wouldn't come to that.

She patted a stray strand of hair into place. Pearls? Why not. Her grandmother Agnes's matched strand would be perfect. She put them on and admired her reflection in the mirror. Yes, Cranston would be impressed. He knew real from imitation—and this time, she was real. More real than he was.

She twirled around until she was dizzy. “Hey, look at me now!” she cried to the empty room. Then, just for a moment, she felt foolish. She didn't have to prove anything to anyone. She didn't have to impress anyone, either.

The old Maggie did things like that.

Still, she didn't remove the pearls or the cornflower-blue dress. They were part of her. They, too, were Maggie Coleman Tanner.