Never Tell. Karen Young
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“I should hold you to that, but I won’t even try because I know you don’t mean it.”
“Did you hear from Jocelyn?” he asked as they left the foyer. “Where is she, incidentally? Last I heard, she was in Key West trying her hand at journalism, but to be honest, the newspaper sounded more like an underground publication than a bona fide newspaper. Let’s hope the guy who claims to be the editor doesn’t turn out to be a jerk.”
“She called to wish me a happy birthday this morning, but she wasn’t very forthcoming as to how the job was going. The last time we talked, she couldn’t say enough about her editor, but today she barely mentioned him or the job. I know what you’re thinking, Hunter, and I agree. The last thing she needs is to get involved in another rocky relationship. Of course, I can’t discuss it with Morton.”
If there was anything of consequence his mother could discuss with Morton, it would surprise him, Hunter thought. He made a mental note to check on Jocelyn. His half sister did not need another aborted relationship to add to the mistakes she’d already chalked up.
Lillian led him down a hall to the darkly sumptuous den. He deliberately avoided looking in the eyes of the massive ram that was mounted over the mantel. Morton was an avid big-game hunter and it pleased him to show the world what he shot and killed. The den was the only room in the house whose decor didn’t reflect Lillian’s gracious, tasteful influence, but it looked exactly the way Morton wanted.
Stopping at the bar, she poured Maker’s Mark in a short glass and handed it over. “Actually, Morton’s upstairs now and should be down soon to join us for a drink. He was able to leave the office early today.”
Hunter kept his reaction to that off his face and lifted the glass. “Here’s to a beautiful lady.”
“Thank you, Hunter.” She took a sip of wine from a glass she poured for herself, then brightened as he produced the gift-wrapped box. “Oh, what a lovely package. Hmm, this is probably going to be something wonderful. Dare I ask where you got it?”
“At a shop in the Village,” he said, and relaxed against the bar as she set her wine aside to open it. “And before you brag about my good taste, I’ll tell you it was Hank’s recommendation. The artist was featured in Sunday’s Zest and he seemed to think you’d appreciate something done by her.”
“Really?” Some of her pleasure seemed to fade and a tiny line formed between her eyes. But before he could question her, Morton appeared.
“Hunter. Glad to see you.” Smiling and jovial, he held out his hand and they shook. “Your mother’s looking fantastic for an old lady of fifty-seven, don’t you think?”
“She is,” Hunter said, lifting his drink. Lillian was studying the signature wrapping paper on the package. “Go ahead, open it, Mom. I have it from the designer herself that it’ll suit you.”
“Who’s the designer?” Morton asked on his way to the bar.
“Erica Stewart,” Hunter said as Lillian pulled at the gauzy bow decorating the box.
He was looking at the gift, so he almost missed a wordless exchange between Lillian and Morton as he said Erica’s name. He thought Morton muttered an obscenity, but when he glanced at the older man, he was busy pouring himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey. “Do you know her? Hank said you’d mentioned her work. He seemed to think you’d like anything she did.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Lillian murmured, removing the lid from the box. The jacket, a creation of champagne silk lavishly trimmed with Austrian crystal, was nestled in a froth of creamy tissue. Light from the chandelier overhead reflected off the crystal as Lillian stared at it, then quickly reached for the lid and covered it. Hunter thought she seemed a little pale as she set the box on the bar, and it was with some effort that she smiled. “Thank you,” she managed to say in a shaky voice. “It’s very nice.”
“You can exchange it for something you like better,” Hunter said, frowning. “They were insistent about that.”
“They?” Lillian reached for her wine and quickly took a sip.
“She has a partner. He was in the shop when I bought the jacket.” Still trying to make sense of her reaction, he added, “Do you recognize the artist?”
Lillian perched on the edge of the sofa, her knees tight together and her wine clutched in both hands. “Yes. She’s…I think…local.”
“Mom, is something wrong? You’re pale as a ghost and you look upset.”
“No, I’m fine. Just a little light-headed.” She blinked a couple of times. “I skipped lunch and shouldn’t have.” She set the wine on the coffee table in front of her. “I shouldn’t—”
“Maybe you should have a piece of cheese or something before you head out for dinner.” He glanced at Morton. “There’s something in the kitchen that she could have, isn’t there?”
“I’ll get it,” Morton said.
Lillian waved a hand and looked distressed. “Really, it’s nothing. I—”
“Humor me, Mom. While he’s gone you can tell me what you know about Erica Stewart. She was…well, I guess I didn’t know what to expect. She was kind of reserved but really helpful in choosing your gift. You’re about the same size, so she tried this one on to give me an idea whether I thought it would fit.” Her image came instantly to mind and he smiled. “She was in this black T-shirt and black jeans and she’s got this curly hair—real dark—that she kept blowing to keep off her face. And big gray eyes. I was there just as she was opening a shipment of the stuff she works with and she kept grabbing up her sketch pad and scribbling in it.” His chuckle was soft as he gazed into his drink. “She was polite—I guess she has to be—but she made it plain she wanted me to get the hell out of there so she could go back to work.”
“Sounds like you got a pretty good fix on her,” Morton said, returning with a plate of small cheese squares, which he handed to Lillian. “I don’t know how your mother could add much to that character sketch, except to say we heard she’s going to be recognized in the next issue of Texas Today.” He reclaimed his drink. “She’s named as one of their Twenty Women to Watch in Texas, if you can believe that.”
“After seeing her shop, I can believe it.”
Morton was shaking his head at the inexplicability of it. “Proud of it, is she?”
“But modest,” Hunter said. “She went out of her way to credit her business partner. Seems he has a flair for marketing and promotion.”
“Credit should probably go to more than her business partner,” Morton said, taking a piece of Lillian’s cheese for himself. “There’s a sugar daddy somewhere, mark my words. She’s auctioning something at the symphony fund-raiser your mother’s friends have drummed up. You need to know somebody to get in there.”
“Someone like Mom, I assume,” Hunter said, wanting to knock the smirk off Morton’s face. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt a fierce desire to defend Erica. He didn’t like the idea that Erica might compromise herself for a shot at publicizing her art.
“Considering the success of her label, the auction committee was lucky she was willing to participate,” Lillian said quietly, nibbling on a bit of cheese. “And I’m not a member of that committee.” There was some color in her cheeks now, but she still seemed not quite right to Hunter. It was always like this when he had to be around the two of them, a tense undercurrent with Morton throwing his weight around and Lillian holding her breath for fear that her son and her husband would get into a row. But Hunter wasn’t in the mood tonight.
“Is Erica going to be there or is she just donating something for the auction?” he asked.
“Why, can we stick you with a couple of tickets?” Morton said, rubbing his hands together. “Your mother’s always looking for takers. And it’ll take some of