Texas Hustle (29 page)

Porchia stepped from the car.

Growing up, she’d thought the large mansion to be magical. Now it looked impressive, as though announcing to the world how much money the occupants must have.

The front door opened and a young, thin, dark-haired woman Porchia didn’t know stood there. Dressed in a pencil skirt, matched sweater set and a strand of pearls, she was the quintessential Georgia peach as designed by Porchia’s mother.

“Hello,” the woman said. “Welcome home. I’m Rudy Wells, your mother’s new personal secretary.” The woman’s Southern accent was so thick Porchia wasn’t sure if it was natural or enhanced. There was a tangible lack of warmth exhibited by most Southern-bred ladies.

For some reason, this woman rubbed Porchia the wrong way. Maybe it was her manner of welcoming Porchia into her own family’s home. Or maybe it was the way she seemed to be looking down her nose at Porchia, as one did when one encountered a foul odor.

Porchia nodded. “Hello. Is my mother home?”

“I’m sorry. She’s been delayed at the club.”

The club. Ah. Her mother’s home away from home.

“In fact,” Rudy added, “Jimmy, as soon as you unload Katherine’s luggage, you need to pick up Mrs. Randolph. I’ll let her know you’re on your way.”

Jimmy set the two pieces of luggage on the drive. “Do you need me to take these up for you?” he asked Porchia. “I’ll be happy to.”

“No, that’s fine. I can manage.”

Jimmy doffed an imaginary hat and left.

Porchia looked at the snide woman still standing in the doorway. “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me with my luggage.”

It gave Porchia perverse pleasure to see the stunned face and fish lip reaction on Miss Prissy Pants.

“Oh, and the name is Porchia, not Katherine.”

Rudy blew out a breath. “I’ll show you to your room,” she said, lifting the small carry-on tote bag, leaving the two larger pieces for Porchia.

Porchia stifled a snort of pleasure, grabbed the handles on her bags and rolled them up the stairs and into the grand foyer. Rudy was headed up the curved staircase but stopped long enough to look down at Porchia. Then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and continued climbing.

Did this fool not realize that Porchia had grown up in this house? Did she really think Porchia didn’t know about the luggage elevator?

With a roll of her eyes, Porchia wheeled her luggage to the small dumbwaiter, loaded her bags and started the lift rising. Only then did she head up the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Two

June Randolph arrived ninety minutes after Porchia. From her upstairs bedroom window, Porchia watched her mother gracefully exit the rear seat of the Mercedes sedan. Each fluid movement, high-heeled step and elegant hand gesture announced that June Randolph was a proper Southern lady, which had always amused Porchia since her mother had been born to a lower middle class family in Arkansas. She had moved to Whispering Springs, Texas, when Porchia’s grandfather had taken a job in an oil field. All her mother’s refinements had come after she’d met law student Paul Randolph.

Porchia’s father had been raised in Atlanta by a Supreme Court judge and his stay-at-home wife. He’d been indoctrinated since birth with the charm and grace all Southern gentlemen should exhibit. Not following in his father’s judicial footprints had never entered his mind. He searched for, and found, the perfect woman he could mold into a wife to help propel him toward his goals.

He had wanted a male heir to carry on the family name and career, but it was never meant to be. After several miscarriages, he and June had Katherine Porchia Summers Randolph. They had loved Katherine, but she’d fought the constraints of being a Randolph as soon as she could voice her opinion. Nonetheless, they were proud of her academic and athletic achievements. The incident with Slade Madden had destroyed their faith in their daughter.

Porchia wanted to reconnect with her parents. She wanted what Darren shared with his parents…love…trust…respect.

She hurried down the stairs to greet her mother as she entered the mansion.

“Mom,” Porchia cried.

June raised her gaze to watch her daughter rush down the stairs. “Katherine,” she admonished. “Is that how you enter a room?”

Porchia slowed, taking the last four steps with precise, measured movements.

“That’s much better,” June praised. “Now, come give your mother a kiss.”

For June, kissing meant air-kisses above each cheek. If her lips were to actually touch another’s face, her artfully applied lipstick could smudge, or leave a mark on another’s face. Neither outcome was acceptable.

June air-kissed Porchia, a daughter she hadn’t seen in months, as though it were a lunch with a friend. Porchia placed her uncolored lips on her mother’s cheek, which produced a gasp. But her mother recovered quickly and overlooked the perceived
faux pas
.

Holding her daughter at arm’s length, she studied Porchia. “Darling. Your hair.” June picked up the strands of long blond hair and tsked. “You know that long hair ages the face of a mature-aged woman.

“I’m only thirty-two,” Porchia protested.

“Still,” her mother said on an exhaled sigh. “I’ll call Mr. Nick and see if we can get you an emergency appointment for this week. It’ll be hard because he’s the best and everyone in Atlanta wants him to do their hair, but he owes me a favor or two, so I’m sure I can get him to see you.”

Her mother sighed a few more times. “And these clothes.”

Porchia looked down at her khaki cargo pants and polo shirt. “What? It’s all new.”

“I’m sure it is,” her mother replied, followed by a long-suffering sigh. “But you know how slacks make your hips and thighs look unnaturally large.”

Porchia looked down at her size-ten body and couldn’t think of anything to say.

“No problem, my dear. This will give us an excellent excuse to do some shopping tomorrow. I do hope you have a skirt for dinner.” June checked her watch. “We have time for a quick cocktail. That should give you adequate time to put your face on and change clothes.”

Putting her face on meant make-up. Unlike her Whispering Springs life where powder, eyeliner and lipstick would constitute make-up on a good day, her mother felt any woman was underdressed without base, powder, blush, eye shadow, liner and lip color. And Porchia might as well drag out the under-eye concealer or she’d hear about that over dinner.

She allowed herself to be led into a small room off her father’s office. Here, her mother had set up her own office. Decorated in soft pastel colors, the room sported a delicate writing desk, lounger, sofa and a couple of wingback, upholstered chairs. In the corner, her mother had a small tea tray with decanters of varying shades of brown down to clear liquid. Her mother was quite the mixologist.

“I’m having a very dry martini,” June said. “What would you like?”

Porchia wanted a beer, very cold and preferably in a chilled, icy mug. She knew, however, that request would not be well-received. “What you’re having is fine.”

The first sip made Porchia’s eyes water. She wasn’t that much of a hard-liquor gal. The second one went down better, not much better, but at least she felt like she could keep it down.

Her mother stretched out on her fainting couch, as Porchia has always referred to it, and took a long drink from her glass. “Ah,” her mother said. “Much better.” She caught Porchia’s gaze. “The morning was brutal. I am in charge of the Christmas decorations for the flower club and, I’m sad to say, the only taste Mabel Steinbrenner has is in her mouth. The woman thought we should alternate red and white poinsettias in the entry hall. Can you imagine such a tacky display?” She took another gulp of her martini. “Why, we’d be the laughing stock of Atlanta. We’ve always done solid red. It’s so much more dignified and classic.”

Porchia doubted they’d be the laughing stock of anywhere, much less Atlanta. No one would even notice the alternating colors. And Porchia could envision a beautiful candy-cane effect with the red and white, but she knew better than to proffer an opinion not sought. So she simply said, “Uh-huh.”

“Oh, you remember Sally Pope, don’t you? She’s married to Dr. Harry Pope, the cardiac surgeon. I think they had a son about your age. Myron Pope. You remember Myron, don’t you, dear?”

Oh, yeah, she remembered Myron Pope. He was a couple of years older than her, had a face so scarred by acne everyone called him pizza face, and—if she remembered correctly—had only a passing acquaintance with soap.

“Uh-huh. I remember him.”

“Well,” her mother said. “Sally and Harris belong to the same golf club we do, and we saw them just the other night. Myron has moved back to Atlanta to be closer to them. Isn’t that great? I told Sally you’d love to see Myron, so we’re meeting them at the club for dinner on Wednesday evening. Won’t that be fun? You and Myron have so much in common.”

“Uh-huh. But that’s the night before Thanksgiving. Won’t we have a lot to do that evening?”

“I can’t think of what. Cook will be preparing the next day’s meal. No, I think an evening with the Popes is just the perfect way to start the holiday.”

Her mother had called the family’s personal chef Cook for as long as Porchia could remember. It didn’t matter if the chef was male or female or even if they had a preference of how they’d like to be referred to. It was always Cook.

“Mother, don’t you want to talk about what happened in Texas? With Slade and my bakery?”

June stood and walked over to the teacart bar. After refilling her martini glass to the rim, she turned to face Porchia and took a long swallow. “That business in Texas is over. It was unpleasant for me to think about, much less to speak of it. My advice, dear, is to simply put it out of your mind and move on. The past is the past. Now…” She checked the Patek Phillippe on her wrist.

Porchia had never seen that particular diamond watch, so she assumed it was some ridiculously expensive gift from her father.

“Now,” her mother continued, “you need to get dressed for dinner. And please put your face on and do something with that stringy hair. I’ll telephone Mr. Nick while you dress.” She waved her hand. “Go on. I wouldn’t want you to have to hurry.”

Porchia finished her drink, set the glass on the teacart and headed up to the bedroom assigned her. She didn’t really have a designated bedroom here any longer. After she’d opted to not move back home after college, her mother had disposed of all Porchia’s clutter and redecorated it as guestroom, not that June and Paul had occasion to entertain overnight that much.

The martini was doing its trick. Porchia felt the intoxicating drink in the swirl of her brain. She had a couple of hours before dinner, more than enough time to lie down and still have plenty of leeway in her schedule. She set her phone alarm for thirty minutes and fell face-first on the mattress.

When she awoke—fuzzy-brained and disoriented—it took a cold shower to clear the cobwebs. After carefully applying her make-up, every layer as expected by her mother, she artfully twisted her hair into an up-do. Dressed in the only skirt she’d brought, a nice blouse and a pair of loafers, she girded herself for her meeting with her father.

She found her parents in the formal living room, each holding a martini glass.

“Katherine,” her father said. “How nice to see you.”

She’d thought he might come over to her, hug her or at minimum, give her an air-kiss. He did nothing but grant her the smile she’d seen him give large political donors.

“Hello, Father. It’s nice to see the house hasn’t changed much.”

“Oh, well,” her mother said. “You know how your father dislikes change.”

“It’s not that I dislike change,” Paul said. “It’s that change for change’s sake is a waste of good money.”

“Yes, dear,” her mother said. “Of course.”

Porchia wanted to gag, but these were her parents. She’d come here to rebuild those bridges she’d burned so many years ago.

“Well, it’s nice to be home,” she said.

“What are your plans?” Paul asked.

“I’m not sure. The bakery is a total loss.”

“Are you having any trouble with your insurance paying?” Paul asked. “I can certainly give them a call if so.”

Porchia was sure a phone call from Judge Randolph would speed the process, but she had never liked to use pull to get something if she could avoid it.

“No, but thank you. My agent has been more than responsive, so I should have my check soon.”

“You’ll be coming into the trust fund my sister left you soon. Do you have plans for that?”

“Oh, Paul. Let’s not talk business. Let’s just go in and have a nice dinner.” Brackets of disappointment appeared around her mother’s lips.

Porchia had no idea how much, or how little, was in the trust fund that Aunt Betty had left her. Her father’s sister had died before marrying and without any children. She’d left her estate to her niece when Porchia had been only ten. She did need to learn more about trusts and what would happen when she turned thirty-five, but it seemed more like a story from her childhood than a reality of adulthood.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Mostly the sound of sterling silver flatware clicking on fine china broke the silence. Her father and mother talked about their days, who they’d seen and what difficulties they’d dealt with. A couple of times, Porchia wondered if they remembered she was there. They tried to include her in the conversation but seemed at a loss what to ask her about. However, it became glaringly apparent her mother did not want to talk about the incident with Slade and her father would follow her lead.