Texas Heat (28 page)

“Early, late. What the hell difference does it make?”

“A lot, if you really care about Maggie. If she sees you hitting the sauce because you can't handle... whatever, she might—I'm not saying she will but she
might
—decide to take a drink herself.”

Rand was a straight-up two-finger whiskey man. His hold on the bottle was tight, the knuckles stretched taut. He put the bottle back in the rack and picked up the newspaper.

Susan sighed. “Don't worry,” she said. “I'm not going to lecture and preach. That's the one thing I don't do. I really believe I've become a fatalist.”

Rand nodded absently. His innards were roiling. He glanced at his watch. Allowing two hours for bad weather, road conditions, and other acts of God, Sawyer should be arriving within the hour. He almost wished he were back in England.

“So, what did you get everyone for Christmas?” Susan asked.

Rand's teeth dug into his lower lip. “What you really want to know is what I got Maggie and Sawyer.”

“You must have had a tough time selecting the gifts that would say something, yet say nothing. Men are always so conscientious that way. One gift for commitment and one for.... What's the word for discarded?”

“Knock it off, Susan. I've had about enough.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know why I...Forget it.

“It's almost Christmas Eve. Peace on earth, goodwill to men, right?”

“If you say so.” Rand sat down in the chair opposite Susan and picked up one of the newspapers from a nearby coffee table. “Have you decided on a name for the baby yet?” he asked idly.

“As a matter of fact, I have. If it's a boy, it's going to be called Moss. If it's a girl, it will be Jessica. What's the news in the paper?”

“It's full of peace on earth, goodwill to men. What else do you want to know?”

“Not a thing,” Susan said, going back to her magazine.

It was three o'clock when Cole returned to the house, his arms laden with red-ribboned boxes. Amelia and Riley arrived fifteen minutes later, each going their separate way. Maggie was halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rang. Susan entered the foyer from the dining room, opened the door, and immediately squealed with delight.

“Sawyer!”

Maggie's stomach heaved as she forced a smile to her lips and continued down the stairs.

Mother and daughter locked glances for just an instant. “Merry Christmas, Sawyer.”

“Merry Christmas, Maggie. Where shall I put all these?” Sawyer asked, indicating two huge shopping bags. “The other packages arrived, didn't they?”

“Yesterday. I took off the wrapping paper and string. They're in the hall closet.”

“That was nice of you. Thanks. Where is everyone?” Maggie waved her hands about. “We're having eggnog shortly and then tree trimming. Come along into the study. Susan, where are you going?”

“Where I go every ten minutes, the bathroom. Merry Christmas, Sawyer.”

As Sawyer hugged Susan, her eyes met Maggie's for the second time.

“I guess you know your grandmother won't be here for Christmas,” Maggie said, leading the way into the study.

“I know. Christmas won't be the same without her.”

“We're going to make the best of it. Rand's here. He got in early this morning. And Cary will be bringing his office girl.” Maggie looked at her watch. “About now, as a matter of fact. We're a houseful.”

Rand. In just a few seconds she would see him. Sawyer's mind suddenly went blank. All the rehearsed phrases, all the practiced smiles in the mirror, deserted her. She ached. Maggie looked so confident, so self-assured, that Sawyer's heart started to pound. If it was a fight Maggie wanted, a fight was what she would get. She set her jaw determinedly.

Out of the corner of her eye Maggie assessed her daughter, calculating the cost of her outfit with a practiced eye. Oscar de la Renta slacks fitted into knee-high Bally boots, both in the same shade of taupe. Autumn haze mink coat, styled with wide shoulders and wide leather belt. A matching hat that swallowed Sawyer's golden-blond hair. And at her neck a blazing red-orange silk scarf for that right touch of pizzazz. Chic and fashionable were the only words to describe her.

“Rand, darling!” Sawyer cried breathlessly. She ran to him, throwing her arms around him. She drew back immediately and stared into his eyes, frightened by what she saw. She kissed him lightly on the lips and linked her arm through his. “Come, sit here by me and tell me everything that's happened since July. I should strangle you for ignoring me these past...” There was a slight pause. “Weeks. Don't tell me you're still angry with me.”

“I could never be angry with you, Sawyer,” Rand said gently.

“Tell me I look lovely. You always tell me that,” Sawyer teased. “I spent a fortune on this outfit and one for tomorrow. I want to dazzle you. Maggie always said when you're in love with a man, you have to dazzle him. Isn't that right, Maggie?”

Maggie forced a laugh. “I do seem to recall saying something like that. I think Mam was the one who said it to me, or maybe it was Aunt Amelia.” She was too gorgeous for words, this daughter of hers. And somewhere between July and now, she'd learned how to fight. Maggie literally backed up a step. “What would you like to drink?”

“Same as Rand, two fingers of whiskey straight up. The things this man taught me, you wouldn't believe. Oh, darling, I'm so happy to see you! I have such wonderful plans for us. By the way, I'm taking the boys back to New York the day after Christmas. Please say you'll join us. I've arranged to take a week's vacation. We can celebrate the New Year together.”

Rand glanced at Maggie, then turned away at the look in her eyes. Fortunately, he was saved from replying by the arrival of Cary and Eileen Farrell. Their entrance, directly behind Susan's, was exuberant and filled with Christmas cheer. He could feel Sawyer stiffen at his side as Maggie made the introductions.

“English nobility!” Eileen gushed. “What a Christmas this has turned out to be.” Maggie watched with interest as Eileen settled herself beside Rand and immediately began conversing. Sawyer on one side, Eileen on the other; Susan and she directly opposite. Opposing generations.

“Where's my wife?” Cary asked enthusiastically.

“Upstairs. She just got in a few minutes before Sawyer. You have exactly thirty minutes to get back down here for drinks before tree trimming.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Cary grinned. “Take care of my girl here.”

“You can count on it,” Maggie said, and settled her gaze on Miss Farrell. She decided the woman was a man-chaser. It was obvious in the way she gushed over Rand, the familiarity with which she conducted the conversation, and the fact that she was all but ignoring her hostess. Eileen's attention automatically homed in on the male species, while her treatment of other women was apparently offhand and damn near condescending. Maggie bristled. Just what Sunbridge needed for the holidays, as if there weren't enough going on already.

Cary and Amelia made their entrance. Cary had changed from a business suit to casual light tan slacks, which fit with tailored perfection, and a White Stag ski sweater of softest mohair. But it was Amelia who came under Eileen's scrutiny, and Amelia knew it, had expected it. She'd deliberately elected to wear an understated little number by Nippon—a bright red silk shot through with silver threads, whose skirt swung easily with every step. The newly fashionable wide shoulders were emphasized in a long-sleeved shirt jacket that flattered her neck and hipline; its short skirt revealed one of Amelia's best assets, her long, gracefully turned legs.

Immediately, Eileen rose to her feet to cross the room, offering her hand in greeting. “Mrs. Assante, how nice to see you again.”

“You remember Eileen, Amelia,” Cary prompted.

“Of course.” Amelia smiled congenially. “How could I forget? Merry Christmas, Eileen.” She linked her arm once again through Cary's for much-needed moral support. Her dress and shoes cost more than half of Eileen's wardrobe, but it couldn't substitute for thick shoulder-length natural blond hair and a dewy complexion. Damn! She wished Billie were here. It was far from flattering to be an entire generation older than some of the women in the room and two generations older than the rest. “Cary, I'm going to offer your services as bartender. You don't mind, do you, Maggie? Cary makes the best hot toddies. Order up, everyone,” she said with forced gaiety. “Cary is a specialist.”

It seemed to Rand that Sawyer was at his heels for the entire afternoon. She was there when he lit the fire and again when he added more logs. It was to him that she handed each ornament to be hung on the tree, all the time chatting vivaciously, sharing memories of past Christmases. Susan and Rand also had memories in common: living in the townhouse on Halston Square, vacations in the country, the petty fights and arguments that all young people have. Amelia and Rand reminisced about wartime England and one particular Christmas when their pet dog had had puppies.

It seemed to Maggie that she was the only one without memories to share.

Cole and Riley joined in for the tree trimming, and together with Sawyer they made a happy threesome, joking and laughing and singing Christmas carols to records. Maggie couldn't remember ever seeing her son quite so happy. It was Sawyer who made the difference. Sawyer could give Cole something she couldn't. Was it that way with Rand, too?

They all shared a late dinner, carrying their plates into the living room to eat near the tree. Susan sat at the grand piano, striking familiar chords from Handel's “Messiah.” They all chanted the “Hallelujah” chorus—Eileen, surprisingly, taking the high octave soprano. Cary divided his attention between Eileen and his wife, seemingly oblivious to the look in Amelia's eyes or the grim line of her mouth.

“Perhaps you'd like to go up and lie down for an hour or so, Mrs. Assante. You look tired,” Eileen was heard to say.

“Do I?” Amelia challenged, her eyes burning coals of defiance. Eileen smiled and turned away quickly.

Maggie, witnessing this exchange, deftly interrupted when she saw Amelia's arm reach out to grasp the younger woman's shoulder. “We should all be thinking about getting into town for the midnight service, don't you think, Amelia? There's quite a few of us, so we'll have to arrange the cars. Why don't you and Cary take Riley and Susan in your car? Cole and I can take Rand and Sawyer, Eileen, and Martha in the station wagon.”

She saw the relief in Amelia's eyes and realized her aunt was near the breaking point. However, Eileen was right: she did look tired; exhausted, as a matter of fact. Her sleek brunette hair had flopped forward onto her brow. She was pale, and the bright red of her silk dress made her skin look sallow. And Maggie knew Amelia's feet had to be killing her in those four-inch heels.

“The station wagon is behind all the others, Maggie,” Sawyer said sweetly. “Why don't Rand and I take the boys, and you can use your own car to take Eileen and Martha.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Amelia said hurriedly. “I'll just run upstairs for my coat. Cary, why don't you come with me? I want you to wear something warmer.” She could hear the edge of panic in her voice. If Maggie hadn't interrupted, she would have clawed Eileen's face to shreds. She had to get control of herself. She'd had too much to drink and too little to eat. Fear and jealousy had knotted her innards. Get control, she repeated over and over.

All the way to the church Maggie was silent. With one deft stroke Sawyer had succeeded in keeping Rand and both boys to herself while she, Maggie, rode to church with a housekeeper and a stranger.

 

Maggie's mood was much uplifted by the time she returned to Sunbridge. The church service had been lovely, the choir heavenly. Meeting and greeting friends and acquaintances; Rand maneuvering to sit beside her in church. The candlelight, the music, the whisper of softly falling snow outside the stained glass windows, peace on earth and goodwill.

She shed tears for those who were not there this Christmas and held Riley's hand tight, knowing his thoughts were on the father he'd never known and his beautiful mother, Otami.

Maggie tried not to think of Sawyer, who was sitting on the far side of Rand, sharing a hymn book and helpfully turning the pages. When all their voices were uplifted in song, Maggie caught a glimpse of Sawyer's lovely face, radiant with the moment and with being so near to Rand. Her daughter, her own child. They'd been so far apart for so many years, but now there was Cole and Rand and Riley. How could two women share their men?

Maggie's eyes closed, a crystal tear shining on her cheek. What kind of woman was she to do this to Sawyer, to even entertain the thought of being in love with Rand? She'd had her chance at happiness when she'd married Cranston; shouldn't Sawyer have her chance? And Rand, what this must be doing to him.... Or was she allowing herself to be taken in again? Perhaps Rand had been a bachelor for so long that the idea of marriage was frightening to him. Perhaps he really loved Sawyer but was unable to commit himself. What if he was simply using her—Maggie—to drive a wedge between himself and Sawyer?

Maggie looked up at Rand, saw his finely chiseled profile, the gentle sweep of his brow, the soft blond hair that fell over his forehead. And then he turned, his chocolate-brown eyes meeting hers, and they were filled with a longing that told her of his love. For an instant she allowed herself to be filled with the meaning of his gaze, feeling her own emotions brim. No, Rand would never use her; he'd never use anyone to suit his own purposes. Not this man who had taken her in his arms and made love to her. The man who had whispered, “Maggie, my Maggie,” and had touched her soul with his own. She could feel Rand still looking at her when she herself had turned away.