A Woman of Fortune (5 page)

Claire startled at the feel of fingers brushing across her collarbone. She threw open her eyes, then broke into an immediate smile.

Speak of the devil.

She lifted from the water, all disapproval scrubbed clean with one look into his deep blue eyes.

“You'd better be careful . . .” Her husband flashed a teasing smile. “We might end up missing the party.”

Claire squeezed water from her dripping hair. “Well, mister. Maybe I won't mind,” she bantered back.

Tuck grabbed the thick bath towel from the warming rack, draped it over his arm, and offered his hand. She stepped from the tub and leaned into him. As he wrapped the plush fabric across her back, Claire tilted her head and met his kiss.

After all these years, he still made her feel desired.

“How long before we have to make our appearance downstairs?” he whispered, his breath hot on her ear.

Claire slapped at his straying hand and tried to finish drying. “Your timing is a bit off. We can't—really,” she insisted. “The gala starts in less than three hours, and the stylist still has to do my hair.”

Despite her protestations, her husband pulled the towel away. Dropping it to the floor, he took her by the hand and slowly led her to the bed. “So, you wear your hair down tonight.”

Claire smiled. She knew better than to argue. Tuck had a way of talking people into what he wanted.

“Honey, could you zip me?” Claire backed up to where Tuck was sitting, drinking a glass of sweet tea while poring through the pages of the
Dallas Morning News
. He pulled the paper to his lap and looked over his reading glasses.

“Sure. Bend down.”

“I spoke to Lainie again this morning about having Pastor Richards officiate.”

Tuck pulled up her zipper. “And did you get anywhere?”

Claire knew a grin had formed on Tuck's face. “No, not exactly. But then, you know our daughter. Once she makes up that mind of hers, there's little I can say to alter her plans.”

Of her three children, Lainie was definitely the most stubborn. She'd been born with six silver spoons in her mouth and knew it.

Once, when their daughter was nearly three, she'd climbed down the stairs still in her footie pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes with a sour look on her face.

“What's the matter, sweetheart?” Claire asked with her arms held out. “Did someone come take your happy away?”

Lainie frowned. “Are you gonna boss me today?”

Garrett, on the other hand, would melt into compliance with only a stern look from one of his parents. A pleaser.

And the baby—ha, now two decades old. A good scolding would only make him giggle. Max had found humor in everything. Still did.

Like most mothers of grown children, Claire constantly wondered how time had passed so quickly. And how three kids from the same parents could turn out so very different.

Tuck kissed the back of her neck, then patted her shoulder. “Well, Richards will understand. Besides, last week I placed a market order that netted the church a truckload of money.”

Claire stood. “You did?”

“Enough to build that youth center the elders voted for last month. Honey, I think you're making too much of all this. Everything will turn out fine. You'll see.”

She moved to the chest of drawers. “Ah, you're probably right,” she said, putting the matter to rest in her mind. If Tuck wasn't worried about offending Pastor Richards, what sense did it make for her to keep stressing over the situation?

She glanced at the clock. “You'd better hurry, Tuck.” She turned and gave her husband a pointed look. “We're a little behind schedule.”

Claire ignored his wicked grin, grabbed the diamond and sapphire earrings from the dresser, and walked to the mirror.

In the reflection, she could see Tuck watching her.

She gazed at her image. Tony had scored again. The blue Vera Wang halter dress, coupled with the boots, was just right. Claire stepped back and posed in front of her husband. “So, do you like the dress?”

“Very nice.” Tuck repositioned the newspaper and went on reading. From behind it, he added, “But, babe?”

“Yes?”

“I liked what you had on in the tub better.”

Despite numerous extravagant hotels in downtown Dallas, including the new Omni, the Masseys preferred to spend overnight stays in the iconic Adolphus.
Lavish
best described the hundred-year-old cherished landmark, with its rich paneling, Brussels tapestries, and English Regency furniture.

Claire and Tuck stepped out of the elevator on the lobby level of the hotel, then rode the escalator past the famous ornate brass chandelier. They were running a bit late. In addition to the unplanned delay upstairs, Tuck's phone had not stopped ringing.

Inside the Grand Ballroom, Lainie rushed over. “Where have y'all been? We're minutes from being served.”

Tuck kissed his daughter's forehead. “Sorry, Princess. My fault.”

The room was filled with deep-pocket contributors from around the country, including more than one celebrity. Claire recognized
several men standing near the bar—incredibly successful doctors and lawyers from Preston Hollow, many fellow members of the Petroleum Club. Over by the wall sat Lisa Blue Baron. Claire didn't know how the flamboyantly wealthy widow had possibly weathered those awful rumors of her husband's cover-up of John Edwards's affair with Reille Hunter. This town liked to place the rich on pedestals, then knock them off for sport.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Glory Sandell heading their way. “Well, you two. It's about time.” Glory gave Claire a sweeping once-over, then leaned forward and exchanged cheek-to-cheek kisses. “Andrew and I were afraid some new cattle deal had pulled you away from the festivities.” She laughed tightly.

With his arm, Tuck pulled Claire close. “Not exactly,” he said with a conspiratorial chuckle. She poked him with her elbow.

Glory's hand moved to the diamond-laden chandelier earring at her right ear. She arched her eyebrows. “Oh . . .” she murmured. “Let's get you seated, shall we?”

Tuck ignored Lainie's scolding look and placed his hand at the small of Claire's back as they followed Glory past tuxedoed servers in white gloves placing salad plates around linen-draped tables set with the finest china and crystal.

When they'd reached their designated table up front, Andrew Sandell stood to greet them. “There you are.”

Tuck gave his friend a slap on the back. “Sorry we're a bit late,” he said, taking his seat. Tuck greeted Garrett and Marcy with a nod before pulling a linen napkin onto his lap. “By the way, Andrew, I got the price locked in on those thirty weights in Amarillo. I think this deal's going to turn you a tidy profit, my friend.”

Claire had turned her attention to her pear and arugula salad when Reece stepped into view and made his way to the podium. The crowd went wild with applause. Overhead, strains of “God Bless Texas” played while confetti rained onto the stage. In the audience, a crowd of tuxedoed and sequin-gowned people waved paddle signs that said “Reece Sandell: A New Way to Stay the Same.”

“Thank you,” Reece said. “Thank you very much.” The dark-haired hopeful tried to settle the crowd by holding up his hands, but his supporters kept chanting.

“Sandell . . . Sandell . . . Sandell.”

Grinning, the young candidate pulled his iPhone from the pocket of his tailored suit, and a large screen descended behind where he stood. The room quieted.

Reece cleared his throat and bent over the microphone. “Will y'all excuse me just a moment?” He ducked his head and worked his thumbs furiously.

On the massive screen appeared his tweet as he typed, “Stand 4 TX. Vote @RSandell. 2gether we will make a #difference!”

The supporters in the room exploded once again with deafening approval of the contrast of their candidate's youth with the ways of his much older forerunners—and his opponent, a crusty older woman known for her raspy smoker's voice and mean-spirited television ads.

Claire didn't normally follow politics. But if this crowd's reaction was any indication, Reece was a shoo-in.

Tuck leaned close. “That boy has what it takes,” he said, mirroring her own thoughts.

Reece finished his speech, whipping everyone into a frenzy of giving. Claire found herself pondering the very real notion that by this time next year, her daughter might actually be living in Washington, DC, as a senator's wife.

Just as easily, Claire conjured an image of receiving a White House Christmas card in the mail with a photo of Reece and Lainie standing in front of a tree in the Blue Room, with wide smiles and Reece's precise hairline touched with gray. Lainie, of course, would never turn gray. No respectable woman from Texas ever would.

Humor aside, the implication of what may lay ahead for her baby girl couldn't be denied. Claire swallowed the emotion building in her throat.

Tuck stood and clinked his glass with the tines of his silver fork. “Excuse me,” he hollered across the room. “Could I have everyone's attention, please?” A campaign worker rushed over and positioned a microphone in Tuck's hand. “Thank you. I'd like to say just a few words.”

Claire held her breath. She expected what might be coming.

“As this young man's future father-in-law and one of his most staunch supporters, I would like to be the first to make a contribution tonight. Son”—Tuck smiled broadly—“last week I instructed my attorney to file the necessary paperwork with the Secretary of State to start my own political action committee in support of you. Claire and I are kicking off this evening with a donation of one
million
dollars.” He slipped a bank note from his pocket and held it high. He grinned. “Ah, why stop there?” Tuck pulled a second note from his other pocket. “
Two
million!”

Claire watched as Andrew Sandell's expression filled with astonishment. Reece's father tossed his linen napkin to the table and moved to where Tuck stood, patting him on the back enthusiastically, while on stage, Reece led the crowd in wild applause.

Glory forced a quick smile, then mouthed an appropriate “Thank you.”

What some considered crass grandstanding, Claire knew was simply her husband's generosity, stemming from a heart fashioned from years of caring for his alcoholic mother. Often his belly had remained empty while his mother filled hers with pretzels and tequila at the local bar.

An only child, he'd once confided to her in the quiet of their darkened room after a night of lovemaking that he'd been the one to find his mother dead with her Bible open to Proverbs 23. He was fifteen.

The morning after Tuck's confession, Claire waited until she was alone. She retrieved her Bible from her bedside table, lifted the leather cover, and flipped to the middle. Her eyes scanned across the open page before landing on verse thirty-five.

They struck me, but I did not become ill;

They beat me, but I did not know it.

When shall I awake?

I will seek another drink.

In some ways, Tuck was still hungry—and his hunger had nothing to do with food.

Claire glanced around. Small pockets of people were moving around now, chatting. Music played from the live string quartet on the stage. To the right, Lainie stood by Reece's side, laughing at something the bald man in front of them said.

Claire leaned to kiss Tuck's cheek when two men wearing dark suits stepped forward from the crowd. Another man with a camera hoisted on his shoulder followed close behind.

“Mr. Massey?”

Tuck turned, his puzzled look quickly darkening. He squinted against the bright light of the camera. “Yes? What can I do for you gentlemen?”

The taller of the two flashed a badge. “I'm afraid you are going to have to come with us.”

Claire's heart skipped a beat. She reached for her husband's hand. “Tuck?”

A look of resignation crossed Tuck's features. He turned to Garrett. “Call Ranger Jennings on your cell.”