A Woman of Fortune (17 page)

Feeling like a deer caught in headlights, Claire started to argue. “What? I need an excuse to come see my best friend?”

Jana Rae's gaze lasered on her. “Gossips are like roaches around here. For every one you see, there's a thousand more.”

“Why? What are you hearing?”

“A lot. But the better question is why I'm not hearing any of it from
you
.”

Claire stared at the counter for several seconds. When she looked up, she let an apology form. “I'm sorry, Jana Rae. I know we haven't talked—”

“In weeks.”

“Yes, a few weeks,” she reluctantly agreed. “But it's not like I haven't had my hands full.”

Jana Rae moved onto a barstool. “Well, let's start with Garrett. Why did he and Marcy hightail it to Houston?”

Claire reminded herself Jana Rae was on her side and launched into an explanation about how her older son had retained counsel, that he'd been advised to distance himself from this mess, and that he had a job with Marcy's dad. “And if you haven't heard, yours truly is going to be a grandmother.” She grinned despite herself.

“What?” Jana Rae popped off her seat and hugged Claire. “Oh,
honey, I'm so tickled.” Her face sobered. “How did Tuck take the news?”

She fingered her glass. “He was delighted, of course. But sad.”

Jana Rae nodded. “Can't be easy knowing he's going to miss all that.” Her friend checked her watch and moved for the oven.

There would be no better time for Claire to pose her question. She drew a deep breath. “Jana Rae, I have a problem.” She laughed—a bit tinnily, she knew. “I mean, I have another problem. And I need your help.”

Jana Rae opened the oven door and pulled the tray out, then set it on the counter. “What problem?”

Heat from the open oven drifted across the room, and Claire found herself sweating, despite her loose clothing and the air-conditioning blowing down from the vent above her head. She felt her smile stiffen. “I wouldn't ask, but I have no one else.”

She explained about complying with the terms of the plea agreement, and that on Monday a truck would show up to confiscate even Lainie's horse. “I can't let that happen, Jana Rae,” she said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a fingertip in bad need of a manicure. “My daughter's been through so much already. Her entire life changed the night they handcuffed Tuck and led him away.”

“Lainie's a big girl, Claire.” Jana Rae shut the oven door.

Claire forced a smile back in place. “Yes, I know that. But under these circumstances—”

“Look, Claire. I can be either your best friend or your worst enemy here. But someone needs to help you drink some truth juice.”

Claire's insides grew brittle. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the higher a monkey climbs, the more it shows its backside. And I think when it comes to Lainie, you're often climbing the wrong tree, Claire Massey.”

Claire grappled with Jana Rae's words. Either her best friend didn't notice her growing irritation or she didn't take it seriously. “Tree?”

“You're coddling her.” Jana Rae crossed her arms firmly over her
chest. “Seems to me you have bigger financial worries than whether or not Lainie gets to keep an expensive horse. When are you going to start thinking about
you
, and what
your
future holds? Your life has not been put on a temporary pause until Tuck is released.”

Claire's nostrils flared. “I'm trying my best to hold my family together,” she said, sliding her glass of sweet tea back across the counter. Clearly she'd misjudged her best friend's willingness to move past what Tuck had done. “Look, I just need a loan. I want to buy the horse from the trustee—for Lainie. I won't be able to pay the money back right away, but when Tuck gets out and we're on our feet again, you know I'll make sure you get
every
penny back.” Despite her carefully rehearsed plan, the request came out sounding pinched.

Jana Rae let out a quick laugh. “Added to the quarter of a million? Get real, Claire.”

“Well,” Claire said, only then noticing how little air had been moving in and out of her lungs. She shook her head. “I guess all the cards are on the table now.”

Jana Rae quickly moved to her. “No, I didn't mean—”

Claire lifted her bag from the counter, feeling an indescribable weight descend on her shoulders.

“Yes, Jana Rae. You did.”

22

T
he headline in the Monday edition of the
Dallas
Morning
News
read, “US Attorney Broadens Investigation into Massey Fraud.”

“What do you know about this?” Frank Leonard folded his arms and waited.

Max frowned at his editor-in-chief, a bald, sniveling nebbish of a man with a bloated gut, resulting from countless late nights spent downing greasy drive-in hamburgers and black coffee laden with powdered creamer. A tacky polo shirt with the paper's logo printed on the pocket added to the often-misguided illusion that Frank Leonard headed up a two-bit weekly paper because he couldn't land a real editor job at a respected metropolitan paper. Not true.

“What do you mean? What do I know about what?” Max pulled the paper across the metal desk and quickly scanned the article. When he'd finished reading the few scant details, he slid the newsprint back. “I haven't heard anything about any of this.”

“You're a Massey, aren't you?” Frank pressed.

“All the more reason the feds aren't going to march up and report what they're doing.”

A copy editor not much older than Max stepped forward. “Frank, would you take a look at this mock-up?”

“Not now,” he barked. “I'm busy.”

The girl retreated, but not before Max caught the embarrassed look on her face.

He stood, ignoring the pounding in his chest. “Look, this report doesn't make sense. The plea agreement is set.” He grabbed his cell phone from the desk. “But I'm on it.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “Those bottom-feeders at the
Morning News
aren't going to scoop us on this. Not when Massey's son sits in one of my news chairs.”

As Max made his way to his car, he couldn't help wondering if Frank remembered he wasn't an investigative reporter. He wrote political op-ed pieces, weighing in on the weekly controversy du jour. How was he supposed to find out what was going on with a federal criminal investigation, especially one that involved his own family?

Still, he appreciated the heads-up. He needed to uncover what this so-called further investigation entailed, for his family's sake.

If he'd learned anything in his line of work, it was that prosecutors often dealt from the bottom of the deck, so to speak—especially those with higher political aspirations. And Max knew that Jordan fellow wouldn't think twice about using his family's back to step up a little higher.

Right now, he'd keep all this to himself. He wouldn't call and alarm his mother. Not yet.

No matter how strong she tried to appear, Max knew these past few weeks had taken a huge emotional toll, especially Dad's hearing, where he didn't have the heart to tell his mom she'd only put mascara on one eye.

He slid into his Jeep and blasted the air-conditioning on high. While waiting for the interior to cool, he dialed and pulled his phone to his ear.

“Good morning. Mehlhaf Jennings Law Offices.”

“Is Ranger in? This is Max Massey.”

“I expect Mr. Jennings within the hour,” the receptionist on the other end of the line reported in a pecan-pie kind of voice.

Max tempered his annoyance. “Tell him I'm on my way. We need to talk as soon as possible.”

“Will Mr. Jennings know what this is regarding?”

He sighed. “I sure hope not.”

“Lainie, stop. Listen to me. Where will you go?” Claire followed on her daughter's heels as Lainie pivoted from the dresser drawer to the bed, tossing clothes in a suitcase.

“Look, Mom. I'm done with all this. I've got to get out of here.” She tucked pairs of socks in between jeans and T-shirts. “I'm sick to death of everything that's happened. And I'm not going to stand by and watch them take Pride.” Tears rolled down her daughter's face.

Claire plopped on the bed. “Sweetheart, I understand. I do. But running away isn't going to solve anything. Where will you go?” Unable to help herself, she reached out and straightened the contents in her daughter's bag.

Lainie turned, misery displayed across her features. “I'm not like you, Mom. I can't forgive Dad for what he did and what he's putting us through.” She slammed a drawer shut with her hip.

“Honey, your father loves—”

Lainie clenched her fists and stomped her foot. “Oh, would you listen to yourself? He broke the law, Mom. He stole from our friends, humiliated us, and we're losing everything because of what he did.”

On the dresser, Claire spotted the opened letter from Tuck. She reached for Lainie's arm. “Honey, I'm trying to work something out. Ranger has asked the trustee to hold off disposing of—uh, selling Pride. At least until I've had a chance to raise some money to purchase her back.” Even though Lainie pulled away, Claire continued. “This is only temporary, baby.”

Despite the confidence she forced into her voice, doubt boiled like acid. Who was she to promise anything? Where in the world could she get enough money to stop the sale of that prized horse?

“Mama, please understand. I love you, but I can't stay.” Lainie clicked the latch of the suitcase and pulled her bag to the floor.

“But this your home,” Claire argued.

Lainie glanced around at the sand-colored walls lined with riding trophies and memorabilia. “Not in ninety days, it won't be.” She walked out, leaving everything behind.

Claire followed her daughter down the stairs, past a wall of family photos. At the bottom, Margarita stood shaking her head. She opened her arms and Lainie hugged the old woman. “Ah, Miss Lainie—
vaya con Dios
.” Their housekeeper wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

Lainie turned to Claire, and they embraced. “I love you, Mom. Don't worry about me,” she whispered.

As she drove down the lane, she took Claire's heart with her. First Garrett and now Lainie. Claire's family was crumbling one by one.

“She'll be back, Mrs. Massey.” Margarita placed her arm around Claire's shoulders and led her inside. “Let me get you some tea.”

“Not right now, Margarita.” She patted her housekeeper's hand. “But thank you.”

She wandered into Tuck's office. The walls were nearly bare now, stripped of the hunting trophies and art her husband had collected and proudly displayed. His desk, normally stacked with document folders and
Cattleman
magazines, seemed a sterile shadow of its former clutter.

She slumped into Tuck's leather chair, leaning her head back into the place Tuck had so often rested his. A deep loneliness enveloped her. In times past, she'd run to Tuck to talk over problems with the children. Together they'd piece together a solution. Often their conversations would end with him reminding her she was a wonderful mother.

Now their only telephone conversation, meant for her to see if he got settled and to assure him the kids were okay, was filled with prison-line static and a fifteen-minute timer measuring every moment. Even though Claire had so much on her mind and craved his
perspective and advice, she'd taken her cues from Tuck and kept to surface conversation.

She'd told him she'd helped Margarita make corn tortillas, instead of sharing that she feared the money allotted in the plea agreement wouldn't support their living expenses
and
their housekeeper's salary. She'd already let Henry go. How much longer could she pay Margarita before money ran out?

She mentioned how the front bedding area was filled with pretty lantana blooms, but failed to disclose she'd had to cut the landscaping services, that the high grass and weeds in the yard around the stables looked disheveled and abandoned.

She recounted how she lay in bed at night and watched old movies. Rarely did she reveal she couldn't help but click to news channels and how mean the media reports were . . . still.

Just the other night, a broadcast included a clip from a female investor saying, “It pains me so much that my husband worked hard so that Tuck Massey could buy his wife a Cartier watch.” On the screen flashed a photo of Claire at the Legacy Ranch barbeque, and the camera zoomed in on the watch on her wrist, the one the trustee now held and would likely sell for pennies on the dollar.

It would certainly pain Tuck to learn of Lainie and the horse, that Garrett had decided to remain in Houston. Tuck sat in prison. Why add more to his anguish? Especially after her husband had come clean and done what he could to get all this behind them as quickly as possible. Instead of making the government fight to prove him guilty, he'd confessed, allowing assets to be sold and distributed to his investors more quickly. What Tuck had done to keep them afloat was wrong, but Claire sensed honor inside her husband that still made her proud.

Despite the fact she no longer attended church after the debacle with Pastor Richards and the elders at Abundant Hills, Claire knew forgiveness was available to all. And Tuck was sorry.

Disciplining herself to remain positive had seemed logical under the circumstances. But lately, in the short time since Tuck left,
cracks had formed in her happy facade. With every passing day, Claire found it harder to hold on to hope and keep a smile planted on her face.

Lainie claimed acting like Pollyanna wouldn't get her through the next two years. Jana Rae didn't buy her act either. She'd certainly made that clear that day in her kitchen.

Tears welled.

Claire ran her finger across the desktop, tracing the grain of the wood on the desk. What choice did she have? If she focused on everything she'd lost since that night at the Adolphus, she'd end up in a puddle on the floor.

She couldn't give in to despair. What good would that do her family?

“Knock, knock. Anybody home?”

She swiveled the chair to find Jana Rae standing just outside the office. “What are you doing here?” She swiped at the tears. “And how did you get in?”

Jana Rae tossed her purse on the sofa against the wall and slid into one of the guest chairs in front of Tuck's desk. “Margarita let me in.”

“Remind me to fire that old bat tomorrow.”

“Ah-yee, I heard that.” Margarita's voice drifted from the front foyer. “I told Miss Jana Rae you were busy. But she's pushy.”

“You can say that.” Claire brought her gaze in line with Jana Rae's. “What do you want?”

“I want you to go get those roots done. You have at least an inch of gray showing.” Her friend waited, probably hoping Claire would volley a smart remark back over the net.

Instead, Claire spiked. “Seriously, what do you want?”

Jana Rae leaned forward, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Look, I'm sorry. It's just—how was I going to lend you more money when the Urologist is already wetting his pants over what happened? Pun intended.”

She leaned back in Tuck's chair and steepled her fingers. “You don't have to explain. I understand.”

Jana Rae rubbed her forehead. “Now, don't go getting all understanding on me.”

Claire dropped her hands and took a deep breath. “Jana Rae, what do you want from me? I mean, I get it. A quarter of a million dollars is a lot to lose.”