The Girl with the Golden Spurs. Ann Major
More sexual partners? Juice? I, for one, didn’t know that. Is that what you want, Bryce?
Lizzy hated being caught in the middle of her parents. In the past she’d never been close to her mother, who used to be stern and strict and so in control. Now her mother called her in the afternoons, and her father called her every morning, each wanting her to reassure them.
This morning her father had called before her alarm had even gone off, and he’d sounded anxious.
“You have to come home, damn it.”
And really be caught in the middle? No, thank you. “I was just there. I’m still playing catch-up. I do have a life here, you know.”
“If something happens, promise you’ll come home.”
He was anxious. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
“Just promise, damn it.”
Both her parents wanted her home. They were living on separate floors of the house and driving each other crazy. They didn’t understand about her impossible job at the television station or about Bryce, who wanted her all to himself.
“Bring him to the ranch,” her father had bellowed.
Not yet. Not yet. Guys changed when they realized who she was.
When they realized how rich she was.
“Bring him to the museum opening,” her father had insisted.
In less than a month the Golden Spurs would celebrate its birth with the opening of a ranch museum. Her parents along with Walker, who’d been the ranch archivist, had hired designers, artists and a sculptor. Before Daddy had quarreled with Walker and Walker had quit, her parents had worked on the project together. Since Cherry had entered the picture, her mother had done most of the work on the museum opening alone.
While the museum and the celebration weren’t generating the headlines the board would have liked, her daddy’s six-month affair with Cherry and her parents’ divorce were the talk of Texas. As soon as possible, her father, a high-profile rancher, who’d once seemed so sane and stolid and respectable—if overbearing—would be free to marry Cherry Lane, the stripper he’d met in a saloon in Houston where he’d gone with other cowboys for a night’s entertainment.
“You’ll love Cherry when you get to know her,” her father had actually had the gall to say once.
Right. A girl who’d tipsily showed a reporter her big diamond ring on her twentieth birthday and bragged she’d bleached her pubic hair silver in anticipation of her honeymoon, saying, “I want to be virginal for him,” couldn’t be all bad.
Lizzy hoped the only thing she and Cherry had in common was the pale color of their hair. If Cherry quit coloring hers, they wouldn’t even have that.
Lizzy wasn’t beautiful, or at least she didn’t think she was. Nor did she enhance her perfectly proportioned features with layers of heavy makeup and bright red lipstick the way Cherry did. People never said she was pretty. What they said was she had an open, friendly face.
Naturally slim, Lizzy would probably stay that way since she ate mostly vegetables—it broke her heart to think of killing animals for food. She also ran in the park every morning before work because she missed grass and trees more than she wanted to admit. Unlike Cherry, she had small breasts with no plans of enhancing them even if Bryce had made a comment or two.
She knew she should cut her long pale curly hair and attempt a more sophisticated style, but the shorter she cut it, the frizzier it got. So she still tied it back in her cowgirl ponytail.
Of course, she’d intended to learn about fashion when she came to the city. But because she loved roaming the streets of New York on Saturday, she shopped for her clothes at fairs and secondhand shops instead. Thus, with her wild hair and mismatched outfits, she looked more like a gypsy than the sleek career woman of her fantasy.
“How’s Vanilla?” her mother repeated in a louder voice, interrupting Lizzy’s thoughts.
“Sorry, Mom. My mind was somewhere else.” She patted Vanilla’s diaper. “Your granddaughter is as heavy as a sack of wriggling lead!” Lizzy hiked up her long blue skirt and started up the stairs.
“She made me laugh. I shouldn’t have let you take her—”
“You were too tired, what with everything that’s been going on… You needed the rest.”
“I just laze around and spend way too much time with the hatchlings. I’m always missing meetings that have to do with the museum.”
“It’s called depression, Mom.” Lizzy’s behavior had been similar to her mother’s when she’d first come to the city. “You should see someone…talk to someone.”
“My little birds are so darling. I can’t get packed or meet with the museum sculptor about doing a bust of your uncle Jack. I can’t do…” Her voice faltered.
“You need to talk to somebody.”
“This whole thing—I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I seem to do is spend time with my gentle birds. They’re so angelic and lovely.”
No use to tell her mother what to do. Her mother never listened any more than Lizzy listened when people told her what to do. Her mother hadn’t asked about Walker, so Lizzy didn’t mention him.
Lizzy paused on the first landing. Mia’s pregnancy and sudden, rather mysterious marriage to Cole, followed by her tragic death nine months ago that none of them had been able to handle, had been the beginning of a landslide of terrible events. Was it any wonder her mother couldn’t face moving out of the house where she’d raised her family to let someone like Cherry move in?
“How can a ten-month-old feel heavier than a brick?” Lizzy said aimlessly.
“Give my plump little pumpkin head a kiss—”
“Don’t you dare call her that. Besides I’m panting too hard to talk and climb and kiss her at the same time.”
“Where’s Bryce?”
Her heart thumped. She thought, Good question. She said, “He should be home any minute.”
By the time Lizzy reached the third floor of the brownstone with Vanilla, she was truly breathless. Something in her mother’s voice made Lizzy’s too-imaginative mind whirl with the sinking feeling that something really was wrong between Bryce and herself.
Fool that she was, Lizzy had told her mother having the baby here for a month would be fun. Too bad she hadn’t asked Bryce first. Vanilla had been here a week, and he was sick of her.
Vanilla clapped when she saw the tall oak door to their apartment. Her latest trick was to clap when she was pleased. Usually Lizzy clapped and laughed, too. It was one of their games. As Lizzy fumbled for her keys, Vanilla quit clapping and began to squirm.
“Mom, did you call me for a special reason?”
“No….”
“Everything’s okay?”
The pigeons cooed in the background. Her mom said, “It’s just the waiting—”
“You’ll be fine. The worst is over.”
“But I have to leave my home.”
“It’s hard, I know, but you’ll adjust. You have to. We all do. I love you, Mom.”
“I wish you’d come home.”
Guilt stabbed Lizzy. “I will, when I bring Vanilla back. Right now it’s pretty hectic at work. My boss, Nell, keeps the pressure on. I can’t seem to do anything right. She keeps pulling my stories.”
“Quit. You don’t have to work.”
And