Born in Syn. Beth Kander
JFK and Jackie, proving to the East Coast-born first couple that the Southwest had its charms.
“Yep,” Four drawled. “Shapin’ up to be a nice day after all.”
“Speakin’ of shapin’ up,” Brad said, his voice falsely casual. “Things are shapin’ up pretty well with Sue Ellen Matterhorn. Her father’s eatin’ outta my hand, and so’s she. Think I’m gonna go ahead and let her pick out a ring.”
“Really?”
Four doubted his brother was actually interested in the reedy, androgynous Matterhorn girl, but her family was powerful in Dallas. Big landowners, lots of oil connections, and a solid old Texas name to boot. Brad marrying her would be a strategic boon. And it wasn’t as if he would ever be truly interested in any other woman, either, so might as well marry up.
“Can’t get a better name than Matterhorn.”
Four nodded, slowly. “All right. If you’re sure.”
“Pressure’s on you now, boy-o,” Brad winked. “Any prospects yet?”
“I’ll find someone.”
“Don’t look for a Marilyn. Look for a Jackie.”
“I’m lookin’ for both, rolled into one,” Four said.
“Good luck,” Brad chuckled. Squinting, he raised a hand in reply to someone who spotted him across the way. “That’s Joe Fordham, over there. Said he had something he wanted to talk with me about. Find you later?”
“Sure,” Four said, and watched his brother lope off to talk business. Maybe business and pleasure, given the lingering handshake Brad exchanged with the small, trim Joe Fordham.
And somehow he’s getting married before I do.
Four had to find his mythical Jackie-Marilyn match sometime soon. The Lone Star State did not value the single. If Four didn’t settle down, he’d become the brother people whispered about instead of Brad.
“Hey there, Four.”
At the sound of the molasses-thick drawl, Four turned to see Frederick Andrews. Andrews was old Dallas money; he called himself a cowboy, but he didn’t herd cattle, he owned them. A hell of a lot of them. And a hell of a lot of land. Rumor was, he also had a blindingly beautiful set of daughters.
Frederick Andrews turned on the thick Texas shtick even more than Four himself, which Four found irritating (regardless of the fact that unlike Four, Andrews was actually a born and raised Texan). He clapped his hamlike hand onto Four’s shoulder. Three of his fingers boasted large gold rings. The weight of the meaty embrace might have thrown some people off balance, but Four held his own.
“Mr. Andrews,” Four smiled, managing a shrug that slipped the other man’s big hand off Four’s shoulder and into his hand for a brusque, hard-gripped shake. “Good seein’ you out here. Figured you’d be up in a buildin’ somewhere, not slummin’ it with us down here by the street.”
“Well, like ‘em or not, I want to be as close to Jack and Jackie as I can be. You can smell the power from here, tell you what! Who knows, get close enough—maybe some of their luck’ll rub off on me.”
“Don’t think you need any more luck than you got already goin’ for you, Mr. Andrews.”
“Don’t know ’bout that,” Andrews scoffed. “Everyone can use a little more luck.”
“You a Kennedy man?” Four asked, already knowing the answer.
“Nah,” said Andrews. “No real man is. But no harm in smilin’ at the White House.”
“S’pose not,” Four agreed, and they shared a knowing half-smile.
“Tell you what, parade’s still a good ways off,” Andrews said. “If you’ll give up your spot here, I’ll take you over to my piece of real estate. Right by the route. Gloria wanted to be sure we’d be right up there by Jackie. Just loves the woman. Speaking of women, I think it’s high time I introduced you to my daughter Annabelle.”
This piqued Four’s interest. The alluring beauty of the Andrews girls was almost as legendary as their father’s fierce protection of them. An introduction to meet Annabelle was likely an introduction to court her, which was not an opportunity to be overlooked.
“Be my pleasure,” Four said quickly, in what was undoubtedly the sincerest statement he’d ever made to Frederick Andrews. Andrews winked and gave a follow-me jerk of his head. He strode confidently through the crowd, lesser mortals making way and giving the powerful man a wide berth.
Andrews wasn’t kidding about the “real estate” his wife had secured for them being prime: Dealey Plaza was crowded as could be, but the Andrews family was right up on Elm Street near the intersection at Houston, as close as the Secret Service had let anyone get to the route. Four was about to compliment the spot, but then he saw her: Annabelle Andrews.
The world stopped moving. The swelling crowd went silent. She was everything.
Head to toe, Annabelle was stunning. Shining blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin just peachy enough to banish any possibility of pale blandness. Slim but buxom. It was as if someone had custom-built her to meet the exact design specifications Four would’ve laid out in his blueprints for a bride.
“Annabelle, baby girl,” Andrews said. As she drew near, Four noted that she was at least a foot shorter than him, which added to her appeal. This woman was something to be pulled in beside him, tucked under him, protected.
“Papa,” she said, kissing Andrews’ cheek.
“This here is Four—er, Edward Kensington. The fourth. Goes by Four.”
“I like a good nickname,” Annabelle purred, flirtatious but demure, head down, eyes up.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Andrews,” Four said, tipping his hat, wondering if he should remove it. He knew the rules for indoors, but an outdoor introduction to a lady like this presented a new circumstance for the man who only recently adopted the cowboy hat.
“Annabelle,” she said. “Please just call me Annabelle.”
Anything you want, you say ‘please’ like that, you’re damn well gonna get it.
Frederick Andrews burst out laughing, a big, hearty, showy laugh. Annabelle giggled. That’s when Four realized that his last thought, which he’d intended to keep internal, had in fact been said aloud.
“I’m sorry,” Four said, reddening and hating the feel of that flush. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hoo, no, boy! Ha!” Andrews chortled, downright delighted. “You got that right, I tell you what! This one’s had me wrapped round her pretty little finger since day one, and that’s just the way it’s gotta be for Annabelle!”
Four allowed himself a sheepish smile, which Annabelle returned. He wondered how many other men her father had introduced her to like this, and how they might compare to him. He was glad for his height, his good teeth, his enviably strong jaw. He knew he was a good-looking man, successful, savvy—but Annabelle’s standards might well be as high as his own.
“She’s too young for you, right now,” Andrews warned Four, right in front of the girl. As if she were one of his prize breeding stock, paraded out before a potential buyer. “You’re gonna have to give it a good few years, you take a shining to this one.”
“Yessir,” Four said, wondering just how young she was (seventeen, sixteen? Surely not fifteen?) and how long he’d have to wait. Whatever the answer might be, one year or some sort of biblical seven-year sentence,