Karen Young - Never Tell

“By reporting for some sleazy tabloid in Key West?” He folded and set aside a section of the newspaper before picking up another. “I don’t think so. Not unless we see a big change. She doesn’t stick with anything any longer than she sticks to her husbands. Twenty-five years old and two divorces, for God’s sake.”

“One divorce and one annulment. And good reasons for both,” Lillian argued. “The first was a silly, rebellious prank, and that awful Leo person was addicted to cocaine. Would you have wanted her to stay with either one of them?”

“No, but I also didn’t want her marrying either of those bozos…not that she consulted me. She’s spoiled rotten, Lillian. And it’s unlikely to change as long as you keep stepping in when she screws up. What she needs to do is grow up.”

They’d had this discussion before. Jocelyn did have a string of broken relationships behind her. In an act of open rebellion, she’d eloped on the night of her eighteenth birthday with the golf pro at the country club. Morton had been livid but had managed to avoid a major scandal by paying off the bridegroom and arranging an annulment. To the dismay of her parents, however, that first debacle established a pattern and it had been one disaster after another since, including a hasty marriage to a druggie. She seemed addicted to destructive behavior, and after so many years, Lillian wondered if her daughter would ever settle down and be happy.

“I can’t just ignore her when she needs me, Morton.”

“Give her a chance to feel the consequences of her screwups and she’ll soon straighten out,” Morton said grimly. “If she’d consulted me when the time was right, she would be set up fine and dandy on a decent career path at CentrexO, and not down in Key West consorting with who the hell knows what kind of riffraff.” He snapped out another section and scanned it through his bifocals. “But what’s the use closing the barn door after the horse is out. I’m more concerned about the present. I want you to call her and get it through her head that she’d better be on her best behavior for the next few months. I don’t want her mixed up in a scandal that would cause the president to kill my appointment.”

He was right, of course, not that she’d admit it to Morton. Their daughter was spoiled, indulged to a fault and constantly setting herself up for failure. And, unfortunately, the time was long past when she would consider consulting them about anything in her life. Morton might rant on and on about Jocelyn’s tendency to make mistake after mistake, but the blame wasn’t hers, it was theirs.

She looked up when Morton made a choking sound, sputtering into his coffee. “Did you see this?” He shoved a section of the newspaper across the table. “They do a feature article on those hokey shops in the Village and they choose hers to put front and center? This just proves my theory that they’re desperate to find anything newsworthy today.”

Lillian set an invitation to a charity function aside, then looked at the article, bracing for what she would see and the quick, sharp stab of conscience she would surely feel. Artist Erica Stewart had been photographed in her shop, intent on arranging the display in the front window. Her face was in profile, but Lillian needed no reminder to know exactly what Erica looked like. She recalled everything about her with cruel clarity, her storm-gray eyes and dark, curly hair that stubbornly refused to be tamed. Her face, with its strong features, was not quite beautiful; still, it was an arresting face, young and vibrant. As always, Lillian was unable to bear looking. She glanced quickly away and said without any emotion in her voice, “I wouldn’t call her shop hokey.”

“That whole damn neighborhood is hokey.” He made a grumpy sound. “She’s probably sleeping with somebody with clout at the newspaper to get this kind of play in the Sunday edition.”

“Actually, I think she’s quite reclusive.” The moment the words were out, she wished she’d kept quiet. This was a subject that, by tacit agreement, both avoided.

He looked up with a sharp frown. “How do you know that?”

She sighed. “I hear things, Morton. I attend an art class. I sponsor young artists. They talk.”

He held her gaze for another long moment, then disappeared once more behind the newspaper, this time with the sports section. “If she’s all that solitary, her success strikes me as even more unlikely. It takes capital to set up a business and make a go of it. I bet if we knew more about her we’d find she has a sugar daddy somewhere. Artists do that kind of thing.”

But Lillian did know about her. She knew everything there was to know about Erica Stewart, but she’d never tell Morton that. She could not remember a time when Erica hadn’t been a presence in her life even though they’d never met. It had been out of desperation that she’d found ways to be helpful to Erica without her ever knowing it. And, in doing so, had helped ease the pain of her conscience. But it had taken years. This feature article in the Chronicle was just one of several times when Lillian had been in a position to boost Erica’s career and she’d acted to do just that. Of course, it helped that the young woman was a wonderfully creative artist. And when she’d opened the shop in the Village with her friend Jason Rowland, between the two of them—Erica’s talent and Jason’s gift for sales and promotion—they’d really needed no help from anyone. Getting the article on Erica was one of those moments when Lillian had been in a position to help. She’d learned from a contact at the paper that a feature article about the Village was in the works, and she’d suggested Erica and her shop as a good example of the kind of thing that was proving so successful in the Village. Simple, really.

“She has a business partner,” Lillian said, continuing the conversation and giving in to some perverse urge that pushed her on when the prudent thing would have been to drop the matter before Morton lost his temper.

He lowered the paper to look at her. “Don’t tell me, the partner’s silent and well heeled.”

“I don’t know how silent he is or what his financial situation might be.” An outright lie, but with the bit in her teeth, she seemed bent on a headlong dash to the finish. But something—Morton’s arrogant announcement to pull up stakes and leave—drove her on. “It’s Jason Rowland,” she said.

Morton put the newspaper down slowly. “Jason Rowland? Not Bob Rowland’s son?” Now it was his turn to gaze out the window with a puzzled expression. “The one who’s an artist, right?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Yes.”

He was busy mulling it over and missed the irony in her voice. “Well, I was right about one thing. He’s probably the one bankrolling the shop in the Village, but I guess that shoots my theory about her sleeping her way to success.”

Lillian sighed. “Please, Morton.”

“At least, not with Jason,” he said, smirking. “The boy’s gay, isn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lillian said stiffly. “And he’s hardly a boy. He’s almost as old as Hunter.”

“Well, he is gay. Everybody knows it. Not that Bob’s ever mentioned it. And I see him at the club frequently. As a matter of fact, we played golf last week. Naturally, he doesn’t mention Jason much, but—”

Lillian rose abruptly. “I need to talk to Maria about lunch,” she said. Not waiting to hear him out, she left the room.

To Hunter McCabe, a week when he didn’t make it to his ranch was a week that sucked. For the past seven days, he’d divided his time driving on Houston’s clogged freeways between two construction projects forty minutes apart where everything that could go wrong had. He needed to breathe something besides exhaust fumes and city smog. So it was barely daylight when he left the parking garage at his high-rise condominium and headed west out of the city. Making good time, he’d be at the ranch just as Theresa was dishing up breakfast.