New Way to Fly

“Look, Brock, I’m not getting executed, I’m getting married. I think there’s some difference, you know.”

“That,” Brock said, “depends entirely on your point of view. What’s up?”

“Just checking,” Vernon said, sounding almost too happy to contain himself. “Making sure you’re going to remember to bring the ring, and all that.”

“Look, Vern, I like you some, but if you bother me one more time about that damn ring, the wedding’s off. I won’t come.”

Vernon chuckled. “Come on, have a heart. It’s a big day for me, Brock. I’ve waited forty years for this woman, you know, and I want everything to be just perfect.”

“Well, you sure do sound a whole lot happier than any man has a right to be,” Brock said, feeling suddenly wistful. “An’ you don’t have to worry, Vern. I’ll bring the ring, unless Alvin eats it before I can get it to you.”

“If he eats it,” Vernon said in the dark tone of one who was well acquainted with Alvin’s habits, “then Manny will just have to do a little emergency surgery this afternoon. You tell Alvin that, Brock.”

Brock chuckled. “I’ll tell him,” he said, looking down at Alvin, who seemed to understand the conversation, and was eyeing his master with sudden deep apprehension.

“So, it’s three o’clock at the courthouse, okay? Second floor?”

“Yeah, Vern. As if you haven’t told me that about a thousand times already. I’ll be there.”

“Are you dressed yet?”

Brock laughed. “No, Vern, I’m not dressed yet. I just finished pulling a couple dozen porcupine quills outa one of my little Brangus bull calves, an’ now I’m having my lunch.”

“But…shouldn’t you be getting ready by now? It’s past one o’clock,” the other man said.

“Vern, settle down,” Brock told him gently. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be there before three, an’ I’ll have the ring, an’ you an’ Carolyn will get married, an’ then we’ll all go out to the Double C for a nice big party. Nothing will go wrong. Relax, okay?”

“I guess you’re right,” Vernon said. “I just can’t believe it’s really happening, Brock. I’m so damned happy.”

“Well, you deserve it, fella,” Brock said gently. “An’ I’m happy for both of you. I truly do wish you all the best, Vern. Now, go have a stiff drink or something, an’ try to pull yourself together, an’ I’ll see you in a little while.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Brock sat staring at the telephone for a long time. At last he levered himself upright, dislodging Alvin, who had fallen asleep on his master’s stocking feet. He walked to his bedroom.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room was tidy, with a bright woven rag rug on the hardwood floor, a clean faded spread covering the neatly made bed and a bank of worn colorful books in handmade shelves along one wall.

Brock gazed wistfully at the books. Normally, he allowed himself a half hour or so of reading in the middle of the day, a treat that he looked forward to all morning.

But then he recalled the panicky tone in Vernon Trent’s voice and shook his head.

“Poor ol’ Vern,” he said to Alvin, who had followed him into the room and was trying to scramble up onto the bed. “I guess I should try to be early if I can, just so he doesn’t fall apart before the ceremony gets under way. Alvin, you’re such a mess,” he added, watching the fat dog struggle in vain to scale the high old-fashioned bed. Alvin fell back heavily onto the rug.

Brock scooped up the dog and tossed him onto the bed, grinning as Alvin gathered his dignity with an injured air, turned around briskly a few times and sank into a ragged ball in the center of the mattress, ears drooping contentedly, eyes already falling shut.

“Gawd, what a life,” Brock commented enviously, watching the sleepy dog for a moment. Finally he turned, stripped off his shirt, jeans and socks, and padded down the hall to the bathroom, his hard-muscled body gleaming like fine marble in the shaded midday light.

He showered energetically, singing country songs aloud in a pleasant deep baritone, toweled himself off and then examined his face in the mirror, fingering his firm jaw.

“Better shave again,” he muttered aloud. “There’ll likely be somebody taking pictures, an’ Carolyn’s not gonna like it much if I’m showing a five-o’clock shadow in every photograph.”

He lathered his face and began to shave carefully, thinking about the strange twist of fate that had brought his dream woman to appear to him on the same television screen with Beverly Townsend, the daughter of the woman that his friend Vernon Trent was marrying today.

Because, of course, Brock was fully aware that if he decided to make use of this connection, he could learn more about the mysterious woman, maybe even get to meet her.

He paused, razor in his hand, and gazed into his own dark eyes, wondering if he really wanted to meet Amanda Walker. After all, there was a certain risk to having dreams come true. The woman in his fantasies had warmed and sustained him through a lot of hard lonely years, but would the reality of her be as satisfying as his dreams?

Brock frowned, thinking about the woman in the velvet chair, recalling her air of sophisticated grace and calm elegance. That hadn’t really disturbed him, because he’d always pictured his woman as being quiet, gracious and serenely poised. What did bother him was the kind of superficial ambience the television commercial exuded, the popular idea that “image was everything.” And despite her serenity the woman on the television screen seemed ambitious, almost a little hard-edged.

Brock shook his head, still gazing thoughtfully at his reflection. The misted glass of the mirror shimmered before his eyes and he saw her face again, that lovely pure oval with the warm sapphire eyes and a mouth made for kissing. She was gazing at him, inviting him, lips softly parted, blue eyes full of tenderness and an alluring elusive promise so wild and sweet that his knees went weak and his body began to tremble with longing.

Then, abruptly, she vanished and Brock was staring into his own brown troubled eyes again, feeling strangely bereft.

“You’re such a fool,” he told himself, gripping the handle of his razor in a shaking hand. “You’re such a goddamn fool.”

Grimly he returned to his task, forcing himself to concentrate on the day ahead. But then he remembered the joyous tone in Vernon Trent’s voice and his friend’s unashamed declaration of happiness, and he felt lonelier than ever.

At last he finished shaving, rinsed off his razor and cleaned the sink mechanically, then wandered back into his bedroom to dress.

He paused in front of his closet, gazing in brooding silence at the few clothes that hung there, mostly Western-style shirts and clean folded jeans.

When Vernon had asked Brock Munroe to be his best man, he’d questioned Brock tactfully about suitable clothing for the occasion, and Brock had assured his friend that of course he had a dark suit.

And he did, but it was the same suit he’d worn to his high school graduation, almost twenty years ago. Brock lifted the suit bag from its hanger and unzipped it, examining the garment inside and wishing that he’d taken the time to buy something new for the wedding.

Brock frowned, holding the plain black suit aloft in his brown callused hands and gazing at it. He’d tried it on recently, and it still fitted reasonably well. How could anybody possibly tell that it wasn’t brand-new?

“After all, I only wore the damn thing a couple times in my whole life,” he said defensively to Alvin, who was watching him with sleepy detachment. “It’s just like new. Why should I spend all that money on another one, just for one day?”

He thought again of Amanda Walker’s television commercial, and remembered her sweet voice commenting that image perfection consisted of tiny intangibles that added up to a total look.

“Tiny intangibles!” Brock scoffed aloud to his dog, trying hard to feel as confident as he sounded.

“Like what? Clean socks? No soup stains on your tie? Well, I can look after stuff like that as well as the next guy, Alvin. I’m not worried.”

He dressed rapidly in the dark suit and a crisp white shirt that he’d spent almost half an hour ironing the day before. Finally he slipped on black socks and sturdy polished brogues, knotted his dark maroon tie and glanced at his watch in sudden panic.

“Look after things, okay, Alvin?” he said, heading for the door, rushing out through his cluttered kitchen and down the walk to his truck. A minute later he was back in the room.

“Forgot the damn ring,” Brock said to Alvin with an abashed grin. He rummaged in a bureau drawer for a small velvet case, which he slipped into his suit pocket.

Alvin coughed and gnawed rudely on one of his hind paws.

Brock gave the ugly little dog a cold glance. “Alvin,” he said, “you’re a real hard dog to love, you know that?”

Then he was gone, running lightly out through the house and down to his truck.

Alvin waited a moment, listening to the fading hum of the vehicle motor down the long winding road. Then he stood, yawned and scrambled off the bed. He paused to scratch himself with great energy, then wandered out into the messy living room, checking wistfully to see if any surviving bits of the salami had somehow lodged under the chair or coffee table.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NOISY WEDDING celebration swirled through the entire lower floor of the big Double C ranch house, occasionally spilling out onto the veranda and patio. Lettie Mae Reese and Virginia Parks, cook and housekeeper respectively at the Double C, circulated among the laughing crowd carrying heaped trays of food, exchanging news and jokes with people they seemed to have known all their lives.

In fact, Amanda Walker thought wistfully, everybody here seemed to have known everybody else since birth. The merry gathering exuded family warmth and intimacy. It made her feel lonely and out of place.

Amanda knew hardly any of the people at this party except for the bride, Carolyn Townsend, her new husband, Vernon Trent, and Carolyn’s daughter, Beverly, whom Amanda had met years ago at college. And of course she knew her host and hostess, J.T. and Cynthia McKinney, as well as J.T.’s adult children.

But all these other people were strangers to her, loud-talking sun-browned people with drinks in hand, laughing uproariously and hugging each other and shouting ribald jokes at the smiling couple seated near the fireplace.

Amanda stood quietly beside a curtained alcove, gazing at Vernon and Carolyn, her blue eyes misty with affection. They both looked warmly contented and so deeply in love that when they smiled at each other they seemed to have no connection to the rest of the world. They were alone in their quiet circle of tenderness.

Amanda hadn’t attended the actual wedding ceremony, fearing that her presence might be an intrusion, though Beverly had pressed her to come to the courthouse with the rest of them. Now she wished she’d gone, just so she’d have a memory of these two people exchanging their vows. Vernon Trent and his new wife both seemed so completely happy, so perfect for each other.

Amanda noted as well, with a practiced professional eye, that the bride was dressed beautifully. She wore a trim silk suit of pale smoky mauve that looked wonderful with her fine tanned skin and golden coloring.

From long habit, Amanda glanced around the crowded rooms, playing the familiar game of trying to pick out the best and worst-dressed women guests at the party.

With no hesitation at all she awarded the best-dressed accolade to Cynthia McKinney, even though the woman was very pregnant. Cynthia, who had been one of Amanda’s very first clients, wore a flowing, deceptively simple top of pale glimmering silver that swirled over slim black silk trousers, and she looked graceful and glamorous despite her impressive bulk.

Worst dressed was harder to decide on, Amanda told herself with a wry private smile, because there were some truly atrocious outfits scattered throughout the big room. Bulging velour jumpsuits, low-cut sweaters with rhinestone appliqués, a tight leather miniskirt and patterned panty hose…

Suddenly Amanda’s critical eye fell on the worst mistake of all, a sagging polyester pantsuit of the kind she fervently wished would vanish from the face of the earth. This one was a faded rusty color with shapeless jacket, plastic buttons and a tacky fringed scarf that did nothing at all to improve the look.

The woman, whoever she was, stood sideways with her face turned away from Amanda, and her figure didn’t seem nearly as terrible as her outfit. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, with carelessly styled graying auburn hair and weathered skin.

Amanda was eyeing the woman with pained attention, picturing how a soft windblown haircut and some clothes that suited her wholesome fine-boned look would transform this woman. Possibly a rough slub-linen jacket in a raw oatmeal shade, and a longer soft wool skirt with a…

Just then the object of her attention turned to look past Amanda at somebody across the room. Amanda gazed at the older woman’s face, stunned by the expression she saw there. Amanda forgot her criticism of the woman’s clothes, speculations about image improvement, everything but a wrenching sympathy and a passionate desire to help.

“Having a good time all alone in the corner, Amanda? Come on, why aren’t you socializing and getting to know people?”

Amanda turned to smile at her friend Beverly Townsend, who was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful and well-dressed women in the room. Beverly’s blue eyes shone with excitement, and her lovely golden face was glowing.

Amanda suspected that at least part of Beverly’s glow was due to the young man behind her. Jeff Harris had paused to joke with a group on the other side of the archway while Beverly tugged impatiently at Amanda’s sleeve, trying to draw her friend out into the room.

Amanda shook her head. “Beverly Townsend,” she teased, “this isn’t a college dorm party, you know. We’re both twenty-five years old. Don’t you think it’s about time you quit trying to line me up with eligible men?”

“Oh, pooh, I’m not talking about men,” Beverly protested, though the mischievous sparkle in her eyes somewhat belied her injured tone. “I’m talking about potential customers. Come on, Mandy,” she whispered, leaning closer to her friend, “look at the clothes some of these women are wearing. Now, could they or could they not use some professional help with their image?”

Amanda nodded. “Maybe,” she said, her eyes falling involuntarily on the tight leather miniskirt and black-spangled panty hose that swayed past Beverly at that moment.

“Oh, her,” Beverly said with scorn, following Amanda’s gaze. “That’s Billie Jo Dumont. Forget it, Mandy, she’s hopeless. She doesn’t have the sense God gave a chicken, or she wouldn’t have come here at all today. It’s hardly even decent,” Beverly added, her blue eyes suddenly fierce.

“Why not?” Amanda asked, bewildered. “I mean, it’s a truly tacky outfit, but you can’t really call it indecent, Bev.”

“No, no, I was talking about her gall, coming to this party.” Beverly leaned closer to her friend. “See the woman by the archway, that nice little lady in the awful polyester pantsuit?”

Amanda nodded, trying not to gaze conspicuously at the woman Beverly indicated.

“Well, that’s Mary Gibson.” Beverly paused for dramatic effect, giving Amanda a pointed significant glance.

Amanda looked at the other woman in puzzled silence. “The name kind of rings a bell,” she said at last, “but I…”

“Bubba’s wife,” Beverly whispered. “Bubba Gibson.”

Amanda’s eyes widened. “The one who’s in jail? He killed somebody, didn’t he?”

“He killed some of his horses for the insurance. If it had just been people he killed,” Beverly added, “folks around here would probably be able to forgive him. But horses, that’s something else altogether. Far, far more serious.”

Amanda gazed at her friend, startled and appalled. “You’re kidding. Aren’t you, Bev?”

Beverly considered. “Maybe a little,” she conceded, “but not much.”

“And the girl in the leather skirt, where does she come into it?” Amanda asked.

Beverly eyed her beautiful dark-haired friend with scant patience. “Come on, Amanda,” she said, sighing. “You’ve been living in Austin for months, and visiting out here all the time, and it’s all anybody’s been talking about. How can you not know what’s going on?”

Amanda shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to gossip,” she said. “You know that, Bev. I’m just not that interested in dishing the dirt.”

“Well, it’s dirty, all right. The girl in the miniskirt, she was Bubba’s mid-life folly long before the mess with the horses. That little affair went on for ages, right under Mary’s nose, and everybody knew it. They were just awful, the pair of them.”

Amanda’s blue eyes widened. She gazed surreptitiously at the gorgeous young woman with her pouting red lips and sumptuous figure, and then at the stiff middle-aged woman in the dowdy suit who stood near the archway.

“The poor woman, Bev. How can she stand it?”

“It can’t be easy,” Beverly agreed with a flash of the generous compassion that often surprised people who didn’t know her well. “And the worst part of it is that Mary’s such a darling. She truly is, Mandy. Everybody loves her. And she’s never said one word against Bubba, not once during this whole mess. If she has opinions, she keeps them to herself.”

She keeps her agony to herself, too, Amanda thought. And it’s probably going to kill her, the poor woman.

“Come with Jeff and me,” Beverly was urging in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “There’s lots of people I want you to meet. You can’t hide here in the shadows all evening, girl.”

“Hmm?” Amanda asked, giving her friend a distracted glance.

“I said, I want you to come with me and…”

“Oh, right. Sure, Bev, in a minute, okay? I just have to…to find a powder room, and then I’ll come right out. Where will you be?”

“On the patio. Just through that door over there,” Beverly said, pointing with a graceful scarlet-tipped finger. “Don’t get lost.”

“I won’t,” Amanda promised. “I’ll be out right away.”

She stood watching with an automatic smile as Beverly took Jeff’s hand, paused to give him a quick kiss and headed for the patio, dragging the handsome young man laughing behind her.

After they were gone, Amanda took a fresh drink from one of the serving girls, exchanged a few cheerful remarks with the youngster and then edged toward the woman by the archway, who was gripping her elbows in white-knuckled hands and staring at the swirling crowd with a blank unseeing stare.

“Hello,” Amanda said in her quiet musical voice.

“My name’s Amanda Walker.”

The older woman turned to look at her with a dismal expression. Then she smiled and her face was transformed. Mary Gibson had a luminous, childlike smile that lit her weathered features and shone warmly in her hazel eyes. Amanda swallowed hard and smiled back.

“I’m Mary Gibson,” the woman said, extending a slim brown hand. “And I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“I saw you on TV. I think you’re just beautiful.”

“Oh.” Amanda’s cheeks tinted a delicate pink when she thought how trivial her show about correct accessorizing must seem to Mary Gibson.

But Mary didn’t seem at all troubled by the superficial glamour of Amanda’s presence or position.

“That one outfit,” she said wistfully, “the one Beverly wore, you know, that was all white with a little trimming around the edges?”

Amanda nodded, gripping the stem of her glass and smiling absently as a couple brushed past her, shouting loudly to someone across the room.

“Well, I thought that was just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Mary said shyly. “And when you showed how the silver earrings highlighted it and brought out the turquoise tones, I could see exactly what you meant.”

Amanda felt a quick rush of pleasure, and a surprising desire to hug the woman.

“You know, I’m so glad to hear you say that. I wasn’t convinced that the image would translate all that well onto the television screen,” she said.

“Watching those commercials of yours, it always makes me wish I was thirty years younger,” Mary went on in the same wistful tone. “It must feel so wonderful to wear clothes like that, and look pretty in them.”

“Why would you have to be younger?” Amanda asked. “You’d look beautiful in clothes like that right now, Mary.”

The other woman gave her a quick wary glance, as if fearful that she was being made fun of. But Amanda returned Mary Gibson’s gaze quietly, her lovely face calm, her eyes warm and sincere.

At last Mary shrugged awkwardly and looked away into the crowd. “That’s just plain silly,” she said in a flat miserable voice. “I couldn’t wear clothes like that. I wouldn’t know the first thing about buying them, and even if I did, I couldn’t afford them.”

“Buying clothes for people is my job, Mary,” Amanda said. “That’s what I do for a living. It’s what the television commercials are all about. And as for the prices, well, it just so happens…”

She paused and set her wineglass on the tray of a passing server, then folded her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers childishly. Amanda always hated telling lies, even tiny little white ones, and she was about to come up with a real whopper.

But she thought about Mary Gibson’s sad defeated look and the sudden childlike wonder of that glowing smile, and steeled herself to plunge on.

“It just so happens,” Amanda said, “that I’ve had a bit of bad luck this past month, Mary. I bought quite a lot of things on spec for a woman who…who got sick, and has to spend a few months in therapy, and she doesn’t feel like buying anything new just now. So I’m stuck with them. And the odd thing is, this woman is just about your size and coloring. I think some of them would be perfect for you.”

Amanda paused for breath and found Mary Gibson staring at her with that same wary cautious look. But there was something else in the woman’s eyes, too, a glint of hope and longing that nerved Amanda to continue with her story.

Not that all of it was a complete lie. The clothes she was talking about did exist, all right. But they were Amanda’s own clothes, hanging in the bedroom closet of her apartment back in Austin.

Amanda allowed herself a brief flash of private humor, thinking how aghast her New York friends would be if they knew that Amanda was proposing, quite literally, to give this virtual stranger the clothes off her back.

But, Amanda told herself, they hadn’t heard Mary Gibson’s story. And they hadn’t seen that small shining smile of yearning. Besides, Amanda wasn’t being completely selfless. There was a plan forming at the back of her mind, a way that she might turn this generous impulse to her business advantage.

“I couldn’t afford clothes like that,” Mary said finally, with a brief hopeless shrug. “They’d be far too expensive for my budget. Things are real tight around my place these days.”

“You might be surprised,” Amanda said. “You see, I’m just starting out in business, Mary, and things are awfully tight for me, too.”

At least that statement was the absolute truth, Amanda told herself grimly, pausing to take a praline from a tray carried by Virginia Parks.

“So, what I’d be willing to do,” she went on, chewing the small sugary confection, almost overwhelmed by the delicious flavor, “is sell you a few of the outfits at cost, just to get them off my hands.”

Mary hesitated. “How much would ‘cost’ be?” she asked after a moment.

“Well, it varies, of course. One of the outfits I’m thinking of particularly is a two-piece suit, kind of a longer Chanel style, in a really soft wool that would be just lovely on you.”

Amanda paused, feeling a tug of regret at the thought of parting with this particular suit, one of her personal favorites.