Читать книгу The Rebel's Return - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 10

Dylan Bridges removed his coat and tie, tossed them on the bed, then slipped out of his Italian loafers and padded across the lush carpet to the closet. He removed a pair of faded jeans from a wooden hanger and retrieved a Texas A&M T-shirt from the top drawer of a built-in dresser. After all these years, he still preferred casual wear to hand-tailored suits and five-hundred-dollar silk ties. He supposed that at heart he was still just a middle-class guy from Mission Creek.

As he changed clothes, he chuckled, thinking about how surprised the good folks in his old hometown would be if they could see him now. Seventeen years ago he’d been shipped off to the Texas Reform Center for Boys in Amarillo, and when he’d walked out of that hellhole after serving his full two years, the last place on earth he’d wanted to go was back to Mission Creek. And the last person he’d wanted to see was his father.

Yeah, his feelings for his old man had only grown more hostile during his incarceration. And even a sweet little letter from Maddie Delarue while he was serving time hadn’t lessened his resentment toward her.

Dear Dylan,

I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you were sent away to reform school. I know I should have tried to help you in some way, but at the time I didn’t have the courage to speak to my father on your behalf. Please know that I think about you. Stay strong and keep out of trouble while you’re there. I’ve learned the hard way that life isn’t always fair and can throw you some cruel punches.

If you want to write to me, send your letter to the post office box address on the outside of the envelope.

Maddie

Figuring that she’d written the letter either as some do-good, philanthropic club project or simply because she had a guilty conscience, Dylan hadn’t responded. And he never received another letter from her. But truth be told, he’d never forgotten Maddie Delarue. In a totally illogical way, she remained the ultimate, unattainable goal.

Dylan made his way into the living room of his luxury penthouse apartment, poured himself a drink—Jack Daniel’s, straight—and relaxed in the overstuffed, tan leather easy chair. Why was he thinking about Maddie, a girl he hadn’t seen since he was sixteen? It wasn’t as if he’d been pining away for her all these years. He hadn’t. In his twenties women had come in and out of his life like tourists through a revolving door at a New York hotel. And now, at thirty-three and the wealthiest stockbroker in Dallas, all he had to do was snap his fingers and the lovely ladies came running.

The only reason he’d thought about Maddie was that he planned to return to Mission Creek. He was going to do something he’d thought he would never do—go home to see his father. And who knew, he’d probably run into Maddie while he was there. Maybe he’d make a point of it.

Nothing would please him more than to show her—and everybody in Mission Creek—that the town bad boy had turned out all right. Actually better than all right.

After leaving Amarillo, he’d bummed around the country for a couple of years, had attended some night classes at several community colleges and then had come home to Texas and settled in Dallas. The odd thing was that when he finally channeled his energy—including his anger and aggression—into something productive, he discovered he had a talent for finances, the stock market in particular.

The kid who’d been sent to reform school for stealing another man’s Porsche now owned one of his own. And a Jag and several antique vehicles. His penthouse apartment had cost him in the millions, he owned a home in Aspen and he was part-owner of a chain of resort hotels in the Bahamas.

Oh, yeah, a part of him would love to rub Maddie Delarue’s nose in his success. Of all the people back home, she was the only one he really wanted to impress. She was probably married now, with a couple of kids. Surely she hadn’t married Jimmy Don Newman, Dylan thought.

Since her father’s death a few years ago, she was now the richest woman in Texas. Dylan chuckled. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t be that impressed with him after all.

Grinning, Dylan sipped on his whisky. Even after several days of mulling over the entire matter, he still found it difficult to believe that his father had called him. Out of the blue, after all this time, Judge Carl Bridges had set aside his unswerving pride and telephoned his only child.

“Son, I’m asking you to forgive me,” Carl had said. “Can you find it in your heart to give your father a second chance? Is there any hope that we can put the past behind us and build a new relationship?”

Strange that he hadn’t vented years of frustration and rage directly at his father. Even stranger was the fact that he, too, wanted nothing more than to put the past to rest, to reach out and forge a new relationship with his father. As a man of experience, he now realized what a rebellious hellion he’d been as a teenager, and how both he and his father had allowed their grief over Leda Bridges’ death to separate them instead of bring them closer together. Yes, his father had made mistakes, had concentrated on his career more than his son, had given Dylan no room for failure. But Dylan knew that he had made a lot of mistakes himself, that he’d acted up time and again hoping to get his father’s attention.

If staunch, unyielding Carl Bridges could admit mistakes and ask for forgiveness, then so could his son.

Dylan had ended his conversation with his father by saying, “Yeah, Dad, I’ll think about coming to Mission Creek for a visit. I just need some time to get used to the idea.”

This morning when he awoke, he decided right then, even before his first cup of coffee, that there was no better time than the present to find out if his dad and he could reconnect as father and son. Besides, he needed a vacation. He worked too much; even his closest friends told him he’d become a workaholic. But despite his wealth and great success, he didn’t have anything else in his life that truly mattered. Only work.

Long ago, he’d come to the conclusion that a guy couldn’t count on anyone or anything except himself. Family was a bogus term. He felt as if he’d lost his only family when his mother died. The desire to marry and start a family of his own had eluded him, mainly because he’d never met a woman he thought he could spend the rest of his life with—never loved or trusted a woman enough to make a serious commitment.

He supposed he should call his father and apprise him of his plans, but he liked the idea of just showing up on his dad’s doorstep and surprising him. He’d already gotten a reservation on a flight to Mission Ridge, the nearest airport to his hometown. He’d be home in time for supper. Maybe he’d take his dad to the country club, to the Empire Room. Now, wouldn’t that be something—to go back to the Lone Star Country Club as a guest instead of an employee.

And who knew, maybe if things worked out with his father, he might even relocate to Mission Creek.

“Mrs. Delarue, please stop.” Alicia Lewis jumped up from behind her desk in Maddie Delarue’s private office space in the Lone Star Country Club and rushed forward toward her boss’s mother. “Maddie is very busy and I’m not supposed to let anyone disturb her.”

“Well, my dear young woman, I’m Maddie’s mother and I can assure you that I’m not just anyone.” Over the years Nadine Delarue had perfected the royal put-down. “My daughter’s position as the events manager here at the club is nothing more than a hobby for her anyway, so she can’t possibly be that busy.”

Hearing the ruckus outside her office, Maddie groaned. Oh, Lord, just what she needed this afternoon—dealing with her self-pitying, hypochondriacal mother. For the past sixteen years, ever since her parents’ widely publicized, bloody divorce and her father’s death a few years back, Nadine had clung to Maddie with a tenacious stranglehold. Only by sheer force of will had Maddie been able to live her own life. But her life was often interrupted by her mother’s histrionics. Maddie did her best to be the dutiful daughter, but there were times when the burden became almost too much for her to bear.

When Maddie opened the office door, she found Alicia standing there blocking Nadine’s path. The moment her mother saw her, she burst into tears.

“This awful girl wouldn’t let me see you.” Nadine hiccuped. “And I told her that I was your mother.”

Oh, great, her mother was tipsy. “It’s all right, Alicia.” Maddie patted her assistant’s shoulder. Alicia was new on the job, so this was her first encounter with Nadine the Terminator. When the bewildered young brunette stepped aside, Nadine flung herself at Maddie, who wrapped her arm around her mother’s shoulders and led her into her office. “Have you had anything to eat today? You seem a little unsteady.”

As Maddie closed her office door, her mother wiped her eyes and sniffed several times. “I had lunch with the girls here at the club,” Nadine said.

“I see.” Lunch had undoubtedly consisted of several martinis. “I don’t mean to rush you, Mother, but I am very busy this afternoon. The Mystery Gala at the club is this weekend and I have a zillion loose ends to tie up. Is this something that could wait?”

Nadine slumped down on the sofa, upholstered in a beige-and-white striped silk. Maddie groaned internally. No way was Nadine going to let her get off so easily.

“You’re always too busy for me.”

Nadine stroked the soft waves of fine white-blond hair that lay close to her face in an attractive, modern style that her hairdresser had assured her took years off her appearance. But not nearly as many years as her most recent facelift, Maddie thought. Since the day her husband had walked out on her, left her for a much younger woman, Nadine had been obsessed with staying young. After the divorce, she’d gone through a succession of suitors half her age, but was left high and dry by each one when they realized that her divorce from billionaire Jock Delarue had not gained her half his net worth. Grandfather Delarue had been a smart old buzzard; he’d insisted Nadine sign a prenuptial agreement before she wed his only son, something not standard procedure in the mid-sixties.

“I’m sorry, Mother. Really I am. But I do have a job, you know. Responsibilities. People counting on me.” Maddie eased her behind down on the edge of her elaborately carved, antique mahogany desk.

“I’m counting on you, Maddie. You’re all I have in this world.”

Oh, here we go again, Maddie thought. I’m all alone. No one needs me. No one loves me. I gave birth to you. An excruciating labor. You were a colicky baby. My every thought since the day you were born has been of you. She’d heard it all before—ad nauseam.

“What do you want? What can I do for you today?” Maddie focused her attention directly on her mother.

“I—I…well, I’m not sure. It’s just that the others, my friends…well, they were all going home to husbands. And you know that I don’t have a man in my life. And they all have grandchildren to dote on. I’d think the least you could do is give me a grandchild.”

“I’d like nothing better, and maybe someday I’ll—”

“Why must you work here? Why do you bother with such a mundane little job? You’re the wealthiest woman in Texas. For God’s sakes, Maddie, your father left you several billion dollars. You don’t need to work. If you spent half as much time socializing as you do playing with this silly job of yours, you might find a husband.”

Maddie groaned. Nadine hiccuped, then shook her head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs.

“I socialize,” Maddie said. “But let’s face it, I haven’t had much luck with men. They all seem far more interested in my money than in me. Does that ring a bell, Mother?”

“No need for you to be cruel. And there’s no need for you to remain single, either. There are several eligible men in Mission Creek. Young men wealthy in their own right. You could have had Flynt Carson or Matt Carson if you hadn’t let them get snapped up by other women. Neither of whom was half as suitable as you to become a Carson bride.”

“Let’s don’t go there again. I’ve known Matt and Flynt all my life. They’re simply my friends. They could never have been anything more.”

Tears trickled down Nadine’s rosy cheeks. She sniffed several times. “Why must you scream at me? I’m not a well woman.” She clutched her silk blouse where the material draped across her breasts. “Sometimes I don’t know why the good Lord sees fit to let me go on living. I suppose I haven’t suffered enough.”

Nadine stood on wobbly legs and made a valiant—if somewhat overly dramatic—effort to walk toward the door. Halfway there, she stumbled. Maddie rushed to her mother’s side, slid her arm around Nadine’s waist and sighed deeply.

“Let me drive you home,” Maddie said. “A nice, long drive in the fresh air will be good for both of us.”

“Yes, dear, that would be lovely.” Nadine patted Maddie’s cheek. “You can be such a good daughter…when you want to be.”

Maddie sat her mother back on the sofa until she could clear off her desk and retrieve her handbag. On the way out, she instructed Alicia to forward any important calls to her cell phone and take messages about anything that could be handled tomorrow.

Ten minutes later, with Nadine secured by the seat belt in Maddie’s white Mercedes-Benz convertible, they headed down Gulf Road, past County General Hospital. With wind humming around her, her hair flying like a bright red flag, Maddie shut out the sound of her mother’s droning whine. Complain, complain, complain. Was there never any end to it? Why couldn’t her mother be content? Sometimes Nadine didn’t care that no one responded to her incessant chatter; all she seemed to require was an audience to listen.

Still tuned out to everything except her private thoughts about the upcoming gala at the club, Maddie whipped the convertible off the road and into her mother’s private drive. After their divorce, Jock had generously given Nadine the home they had shared for nearly twenty years, and Maddie now paid for the upkeep as her father had once done. The palatial Georgian sat on twenty acres, all immaculately groomed.

Maddie parked, helped Nadine from the car and to the front door. Instead of bothering with trying to unlock the door, she simply rang the bell. Ernesta Sanchez, her mother’s longtime housekeeper, opened the door.

“Oh, my, Señora Delarue, are you all right?” The short, squat Ernesta’s concern was genuine. Maddie knew, even though her mother would never admit being fond of a servant, that Ernesta was probably her mother’s best friend.

“Mother’s had a busy day.” Maddie escorted Nadine past Ernesta and into the huge marble-floored foyer. “She had lunch with the girls at the club.” Maddie and Ernesta exchanged so-she-had-too-much-to-drink glances. “I’ll have one of the valets bring her car home later. She didn’t feel quite up to driving herself.”

“Let me help you.” Ernesta took Nadine over completely, her big arm securely circling her employer’s waist. “What you need is a nice, long afternoon nap.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Nadine said, smiling forlornly at her housekeeper. “I am a bit tired.” Nadine glanced at Maddie. “Do you mind terribly, dear? I’m sure you’d hoped we could spend the afternoon together. But I’m afraid I suddenly have a horrific headache.”

“I don’t mind,” Maddie said. “Let Ernesta help you up to your room. I’ll run along, but I’ll phone later this evening to check on you.”

“Yes, do that. Please. I do so look forward to your calls.” Nadine allowed Ernesta to lead her toward the massive staircase. “You should phone more often. I get terribly lonely.”

“I promise that I’ll do better in the future.”

While Nadine leaned on Ernesta as the two walked up the stairs, Maddie let herself out and rushed to her car. She sat behind the wheel for a couple of minutes, contemplating her mother’s life and their relationship. She had been trying—unsuccessfully—for the past ten years to get her mother to see a psychiatrist, to seek professional help for her depression, but Nadine adamantly refused.

“I’m perfectly sane,” she’d said. “As sane as any woman could be whose husband humiliated her in front of the whole world. The man promised to love and honor me, to be faithful to me until death. Whatever you do, Maddie, never trust any man. They’re all alike. They’ll break your heart.”

Snap out of it, Maddie told herself. If you let yourself, you could wallow so deeply in your mother’s self-pity that you might wind up drowning in it the way she has.

Twenty minutes later, Maddie parked in the garage in the basement of her condo. After college, her mother had insisted she move home with her, but Maddie had struck a blow for independence then and there. And she’d never regretted having moved into the condo and separating herself from her mother. If she hadn’t done that, she doubted she would have survived without psychiatric help of her own.

As she unlocked the door of her three-thousand-square-foot, two-story home, she heard music playing. That could mean only one thing. Thelma was here. Thelma Hewitt was her personal maid, a five-foot-tall ball of fire, with gray-streaked, short black hair and keen brown eyes that saw straight through most people and especially Maddie. Highly efficient, but a notorious busybody, Thelma had worked for Maddie for twelve years. Maddie hadn’t wanted a live-in maid, having grown up with a house full of servants. Being a daily maid had suited Thelma just fine. After all, she needed time for her husband, five children and fifteen grandchildren.

After tossing her handbag and keys on the velvet Louis XIV chair in the foyer, Maddie followed the sound of the country-western music, which led her into the kitchen. There stood Thelma, singing along with an old Eddy Arnold tune, peeling apples and dropping the slices directly into an uncooked pie shell.

“You look busy,” Maddie said.

Thelma gasped, dropped her knife and the half-peeled apple onto the granite countertop. “Good Lord, gal, you scared the bejesus out of me!”

“Sorry, I thought you heard me walk in.”

Thelma wiped her hands on her apron, reached over to turn off the radio, then looked Maddie up and down. “What are you doing home at three o’clock?”

Maddie eased up and onto a stool at the bar area that ran behind the work center. “I had to drive Mother home from the club.”

Thelma raised her eyebrows. “How is Nadine?”

“The same.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, I’m fine.” Thelma was a mother-to-the-world type of woman and she’d been mothering Maddie since the first day she came to work for her. “I just wish there was something I could do for Mother, some way I could help her.”

“Nadine doesn’t want to be helped. She wants to be pitied. So you just go on pitying her and doing what you can. Can’t nobody help that woman but herself. You should be concentrating on your own life a bit more.”

“Is this the get-married-and-have-babies talk that we’ve had on numerous occasions?”

Thelma picked up the apple and the paring knife. “I know you modern girls think you don’t need a man to complete your life or kids of your own to give you a reason to live, but—”

“But you think I’m the kind of woman who needs to have a husband and children.” Maddie reached over and picked up an apple slice from inside the pie pan. “On that one subject, you and Mother agree totally.” Maddie popped the apple bite into her mouth.

“There’s a man out there waiting for you. You just haven’t found him yet.”

“There are dozens of men out there waiting for me,” Maddie said. “Probably hundreds, if not thousands. And they all want one thing—my money. You know the funny thing is that Mother wants me to get married and give her grandchildren, but at the same time she warns me to never trust any man. And you know what, Thelma? I don’t trust men. Not any of them.”

“Ah, but one of these days—”

“One of these days, what? Some daring man will sweep me off my feet, make mad, passionate love to me and not give a damn that I’m the richest woman in Texas?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re daydreaming.”

“Dreams are free, Maddie, my girl. If we don’t have our dreams, we don’t have anything. So what’s wrong with your dreaming about being swept off your feet by some handsome man?”

“The last time I got swept off my feet, I wound up at the police station. It seems my Romeo had stolen a car to impress me.”

“You’re talking about that Bridges boy…Dylan Bridges. That youngun sure was a boil on his daddy’s backside. Did everything and anything to rile the judge. I wonder whatever happened to him. Last time I saw him was right before he got sent off to Amarillo to that reform school. Lord, he was a sight, with that long hair and that earring. Looked like a damn hippie.”

Maddie hopped off the stool, opened the refrigerator, removed a bottle of Perrier and headed for the door. “I think I’ll get some work done in my study. Say goodbye before you leave, okay?”

“Sure thing. And I’ll bring you a piece of this pie, just as soon as I take it out of the oven.”

Maddie smiled, then escaped to her study, a small, cozy retreat, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three sides and a wall of windows on the fourth. As she positioned herself in the oversized, navy-blue leather chair and placed her feet on the matching ottoman, she thought about Dylan Bridges. Over the years she’d thought of him from time to time, and always wondered what had happened to him. Rumors had abounded: he’d become everything from a mercenary to a priest. Which was highly unlikely because his family wasn’t Catholic.

Where was Dylan now? And what was he doing? He’d been one boy who hadn’t given a damn that her daddy was Jock Delarue. He’d liked her. Wanted her. She’d known that fact as surely as she’d ever known anything. If only Dylan had come into her life later, when she’d been more mature—when they’d both been adults.

If she met a guy like Dylan Bridges now, would she have the guts to reach out and grab him? Or would she let her doubts and insecurities about love, marriage and men in general stop her from taking a chance?

Maddie shrugged. What difference did it make what she might or might not do? She was about as likely to meet a man like Dylan Bridges as she was to sprout wings and fly.