Wildcatter's Woman Page 7

  “When you walked out on me”—his low, harsh voice traveled across the room to cut into her—“at a time when I needed you most, I swore I’d never let you tear me up like that again. I went through hell when you left me. You aren’t worth it.” His condemnation tore at her, but she managed to choke back the sobs and keep silent. When she saw him move, Vanessa shrank behind the post, trying to make herself small. “This time,” Race continued in a cold, contemptuous tone, “I’m the one who’s walking out the door. I don’t want to be in your bed.”

  Vanessa heard the sound of his footsteps, but a part of her didn’t believe he actually intended to leave. When his lean bulk blocked out the light from the doorway, she stared in frozen silence. Without a backward glance, he disappeared into the living room. Seconds later she heard the slam of the apartment door. Race had left.

  Numbly she sank onto the velvet-covered mattress. A tremor started in her legs and traveled all the way up her body. Something wet trickled onto her lips. She licked at it with her tongue and tasted the saltiness of a tear. More followed.

  IN THE three weeks that followed, Vanessa felt like she was living in a vacuum. Nothing seemed to touch her. She went through the motions of doing all the usual things, putting in her regular time at the shop and attending the social functions that might be beneficial to her business, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was subdued and quiet, unwilling to reason with clients when she disapproved of their choices of color or fabric.

  Phillip Cantrell had been released from the hospital a little over two weeks ago, so her evening visits with him had stopped. Still she called him regularly every day. When he invited her out to dinner on Friday evening, Vanessa accepted without interest.

  At seven-thirty on the dot, she drove her silver Porsche up to the entrance to the Pontchartrain Hotel and left it with the doorman to park. As she entered the marble-walled foyer, the heels of her gold shoes made tap-tapping sounds on the tiled floor. She was well aware of the old, elegant hotel’s reputation for gourmet cuisine in the Creole tradition.

  Her steps faltered as she was jolted by the memory of the first time she had dined here. Race had brought her. She remembered how impressed she had been with the Old World grace and charm of the place. She had gone on and on about the little touches of class that elevated it above other fine hotels. Race had reacted with amusement, that irritating dry and mocking kind.

  Vanessa glanced around the foyer with its richly marbled walls. Her cheeks grew warm as she recalled how Race had insisted that she take a closer look at some of the natural designs in the stone’s swirling colors. After he had pointed out the second small nude figure in the marble, she had become embarrassed and indignant. She had stiffly informed him that he was crude and vulgar for noticing such things. Race had retaliated by accusing her of being self-righteous and puritanical.

  Straying from her course to the hotel’s main dining room, Vanessa wandered over by the elevators to study the design in the marble. With the tips of her fingers, she absently traced the outline of a nude. Why wasn’t she offended by the sight of it now? Did her acceptance of it come from the accumulation of experience and exposure to a freer discussion of sex by the people she’d met? She had been young and immature when she was Race’s wife. She hadn’t come to terms with her own sexuality. Did she understand it any better now? Did she accept it?

  With a heavy sigh, she turned from the wall and crossed to the short flight of steps that led past the desk to the dining room. The maître d’ greeted her with a slight bow and a softly murmured “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” she responded automatically. “Mr. Phillip Cantrell’s table, please.”

  “He’s waiting for you, Mrs. Cantrell,” he informed her, then turned with another bowing gesture. “This way, please.”

  The voices of the fashionably dressed diners at the tables were muted, influenced by the elegant atmosphere that subtly demanded a proper decorum. A cordon of waiters went quietly about their work, trying to attain a kind of invisibility. Even the tinkling splash of water spilling over a decorative fountain could be heard.

  When Phillip noticed her approach, he rose from his chair. A faint smile touched her mouth at how healthy he looked. It seemed hard to believe he was recovering from a heart attack. The silvering at his temples had invaded more of his dark hair, but he looked the same otherwise.

  “You look wonderful.” Vanessa brushed his smoothly shaved cheek with a kiss of greeting before sitting in the chair the maître d’ held for her.

  “I feel wonderful,” Phillip replied. “But I must warn you, if I’m not home by ten o’clock, my car will turn into a pumpkin. It’s one of Dr. Foley’s curses. And I thought I was too old for a curfew.”

  Their initial conversation centered around the usual inconsequential chitchat, frequently interrupted by a hovering waiter who offered suggestions on the wine list, went through the ritual of serving it, left the dinner menus, and came back for their order. Vanessa actually did very little of the talking, nodding in all the right places and murmuring an appropriate response when it was necessary.

  Phillip lifted his wineglass in a toast. “To my first evening on the town and the lovely lady who is with me.”

  After a demure nod of her head, Vanessa sipped at the delicate white wine. “Are you certain the doctor allows you to drink alcohol?” she questioned.

  “He has restricted me to one glass,” Phillip admitted with a rueful smile. “So you’ll have to drink this whole bottle by yourself.”

  “I think not,” she murmured.

  The appetizer was followed by the main course, fresh red snapper drowning in a spicy Creole sauce rich with shrimp and crabmeat. Lately, food had been one of the least interesting things in her life but Vanessa found herself enjoying this delectable seafood dish.

  “If I have chest pains tonight, I shall never know whether it’s indigestion or another heart attack,” Phillip declared as he savored each bite with exaggerated pleasure.

  “I wish you wouldn’t joke about that,” Vanessa protested mildly, drawing a keen look from her former father-in-law.

  “What’s the matter, Vanessa?” He studied her closely, no longer wearing his jovial expression. “You don’t seem like yourself tonight. You’re unnaturally quiet.”

  “All I need is a little more wine.” But her smile was faint as she took another sip from her wineglass.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Something’s bothering you. How is the decorating business?”

  “It couldn’t be better,” Vanessa replied truthfully.

  “Then what is it? Are you tired? Have you been working too hard?” The slight lift of one corner of his mouth reminded Vanessa of Race. She quickly lowered her gaze to her plate.

  “I suppose I am a little tired.” She pretended that was the reason for her quiet mood, when it was much more complicated than that. “It’s the end of a long week.”

  “You should make a point of resting up over the weekend,” he said.

  “I will.” She stirred her fork idly around in the Creole sauce, struggling to appear offhand as she inquired, “Have you seen anything of Race lately?”

  Phillip slowly lowered his fork to the plate while he considered her thoughtfully. “He stopped at the house for an hour shortly after I came home from the hospital. And I talked to him on the telephone just yesterday.”

  “Oh?” It was a prompting sound. She waited for him to tell her more.

  “I’ve never put much stock in that old cliché about a silver lining behind every cloud, but I guess something good did come out of my heart attack,” he said. “It forced you and Race to see each other again. There was a time, not too long ago, when his name didn’t enter any of our conversations. I’m glad you can finally talk about him, Vanessa, without any rancor.”

  “I don’t expect we can ever be friends.” It was something she regretted. There was a trace of irony in her smile, because their relationship had touched nearly every base but that on
e—from stranger to lover to mate to enemy. Yet they had never been friends.

  “Divorced couples can rarely make that transition,” Phillip agreed.

  “No, I don’t suppose they can.” But Vanessa didn’t want to talk about that. “How is Race doing? Did he say?”

  “Fine.” He nodded an affirmative but noninformative answer. “He mentioned that they had drilled to ‘total depth’ at his well in Assumption Parish. The initial tests showed the presence of natural gas.”

  Vanessa brightened at the news, a sparkle showing in her violet irises. “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s a little early to say how wonderful,” Phillip cautioned wryly. “Race still has to run more tests to see if it’s present in sufficient quantity to make it economical to complete the well.”

  “But just the fact that it’s there is a good sign, isn’t it?” Vanessa frowned, realizing more of her ignorance about Race’s work.

  “The odds are against him.” The conservative banker in him showed his skepticism for long shots.

  “But…” She paused, trying to recall the scant statistics she knew. “Didn’t you say that the odds were nine to one that he wouldn’t find any oil or gas? There is natural gas present, so wouldn’t it mean—?”

  Phillip was already shaking his head before she could finish the question. “The odds against finding an oil field with a million barrels of recoverable oil—or the equivalent in natural gas—are fifty to one. So the fact that he found natural gas doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “How long before he knows?”

  “A couple of weeks…a month, maybe longer. It depends on a lot of variables.” He sighed, the corners of his mouth pulling down. “There was a wildcatter up in Canada that discovered a gas field that could have supplied an entire city the size of Winnipeg. The problem was, it was a kind of gas that wouldn’t burn. I’ve never been able to figure out whether a wildcatter is a special breed of man… or just a fool.”

  “I think… they’re a special breed,” Vanessa hesitantly ventured her opinion.

  “You could be right.” He smiled at her, briefly sharing a mutual reevaluation of Race.

  A small silence ran between them. Vanessa bit at her lower lip, nibbling on it while she debated whether to confide in Phillip about the belated surfacing of doubts that was plaguing her.

  “Phillip,” she began, hesitating a little, “do you think I was wrong to leave Race?”

  He breathed in deeply, surprised by her question. “I can’t answer that for you,” he denied.

  “I’m only asking your opinion,” Vanessa reasoned.

  “There is very little to be gained by secondguessing,” Phillip countered.

  “I know…but at the time, I was so positive I was doing the right thing. Now, I’m not sure,” she admitted.

  “My dear.” He reached across the table and covered her hand. “No one could say that you didn’t have cause to divorce him. It’s a man’s obligation to provide for his family’s future. In Race’s business, it’s practically impossible—as time has shown. It was unfair of him to ask you to scrimp and save and go without while he literally gambled away everything the two of you owned.”

  “I know all that.” It wasn’t the issue that was bothering her. “But he lost everything too. My marriage vow was ‘for better or worse.’ But when it got worse, I left. I’m beginning to feel like that rat that deserted the sinking ship while the noble captain went down with it.”

  “Vanessa, you’ve come to be like my own daughter.” Phillip squeezed her hand in deep affection. “I’m not just saying that, either. You are as much a part of my family as Race is. But you are more like me than my own son. I couldn’t take the strain and pressure of his kind of life—never knowing from one day to the next whether I’m going to have a dollar in my pocket and a place to sleep. Neither can you.”

  “But did I try?” Vanessa persisted, unable to shake the guilt she was experiencing.

  “From my point of view, you did.” He arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me what brought all this on? Was it seeing my son again?”

  “Partly,” she admitted. “But it was something he said, too.”

  “What was that?” he asked calmly.

  “He accused me of being glad that the well had come in dry and that we’d lost everything.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Phillip scoffed at the thought, releasing her hand and leaning back in his chair.

  “But it isn’t.” She lifted her head to look at him. “I was glad, because I thought he’d finally quit that stupid business and go to work for you at the bank. When he didn’t, that’s when I walked out. I thought if he really loved me, he’d give it up.”

  “Vanessa, I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself,” he argued reasonably. “If you and Race were still married today, do you honestly believe things would be any different than they were?”

  “Probably not,” she sighed, because Race still didn’t understand her concern about tomorrow. There was a hint of bitterness in her brief smile. “But I’ll never know, will I?”

  “Financial problems have broken up more marriages than adultery,” Phillip stated. “Yours is definitely not the first.” He deliberately changed the subject. “I hope you’re going to leave room for dessert. They serve the best mile-high pie in town.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  OUTSIDE THE French windows of the shop, the shadows in the courtyard were lengthening to indicate the lateness of the afternoon hour. It looked very cool and peaceful to a harassed Vanessa while she tried not to let her true feelings show to her client.

  “This isn’t what I had in mind at all.” Mrs. Perez discarded the two wall-fabric samples Vanessa had selected as being totally unsuitable. “Don’t you have something else?”

  “Of course.” She smiled sweetly.

  In her opinion, either of the two choices would have been perfect. Mrs. Perez was being unreasonably picky, Vanessa thought angrily. The woman was redecorating her entire fourteen-room house, and the last two and a half hours had been spent discussing one bathroom. The older woman had very definite ideas about what she wanted. At least that’s what Vanessa kept telling herself so she wouldn’t lose her temper.

  “I want something very dramatic,” Mrs. Perez reiterated with a haughty lilt to her voice, betraying her impatience with the time spent.

  Vanessa ran the tip of her tongue along her back teeth and silently counted to ten. “Salmon pink and black would make a very striking combination,” she suggested with quiet desperation, because it would mean throwing out the few decisions already reached.

  The blue-haired woman blinked at her and touched the gleaming strands of pearls around her neck. Slowly a pleased expression stole across her heavily made-up face.

  “Black marble with faint swirls of pink through it.” Mrs. Perez elaborated on the thought as if visualizing it in her mind’s eye. “It would be effective.”

  “I can assure you there would be nothing else like it in New Orleans,” Vanessa murmured, and lifted a hand to signal Carla to come over.

  Her secretary doubled as a kind of waitress when they entertained clients in the shop. In her self-effacing way, Carla seemed to materialize beside the sofa, and hovered there like a shy brown moth, awaiting Vanessa’s request.

  “Mrs. Perez would like to look at the sample marble squares. And would you bring some more coffee, too?” Vanessa indicated the delicate china coffeepot sitting on a tray with two demitasses. The session promised to take longer than Vanessa had realized. She felt in need of the caffeine stimulant so prevalent in the black New Orleans coffee.

  As Carla came around the sofa to pick up the coffeepot, the door to the shop opened. Aware that Carla would deal with the customer, Vanessa cast a barely interested glance to see who it was. A tall, dark-haired man had entered the shop, wearing a dark suit and tie.

  The shock of disbelief rolled through her when she recognized Race, looking so different, so world
ly in the tailored suit. A little fever of excitement began licking through her veins, bringing a sheen of pleasure to her eyes. All thought of Mrs. Perez’s importance as a wealthy client on the verge of spending a lot of money with Vanessa’s firm flew right out of her head. Without even a glance at the woman, Vanessa stood up to greet Race, a hesitant smile of welcome spreading across her face.

  “Hello, Race.” Her voice was softly husky.

  When he started across the room, Vanessa sensed something wasn’t quite right. His dark gaze seemed fixed, and he walked with a kind of stiffness. The lazy smile that lifted the corners of his mouth seemed slightly dreamy.

  “Happy anniversary, darlin’,” he drawled, and raised the unopened magnum of champagne he was carrying. “I thought we’d celebrate the occasion.”

  Confusion clouded her expression. What was the matter with him? Vanessa thought. This wasn’t their anniversary. They’d been married in March—not July.

  “Who is this?” Mrs. Perez inquired, inspecting Race with growing interest, not too old to appreciate his innately virile looks.

  “Race Cantrell,” Race introduced himself when Vanessa was slow on the uptake.

  “How nice that he remembered your anniversary, Mrs. Cantrell,” the woman stated with a trace of envy. “Unfortunately, I have to start dropping hints at least a month in advance if I expect Mr. Perez to remember ours.”

  “I’ve always been good with dates, haven’t I, darlin’?” Race insisted with that same drawling intonation in his voice that was out of character.

  When he curved an arm around her waist and hugged her to his side in an amorous display of affection, Vanessa was close enough to catch the potent smell of liquor on his breath. A raw frustration irritated her nerve ends as she realized Race was drunk. She had to get him away from Mrs. Perez before her client discovered his sodden condition.

  “Would you excuse us for a minute, Mrs. Perez?” Vanessa murmured, conscious that more and more of his weight was leaning on her, warning her that he was none too steady on his feet.

  Slipping an arm around his waist, she hoped it would look like a display of affection to Mrs. Perez rather than an attempt to support Race. As she directed him to her private office, she understood why he had walked so stiffly. It had been an instinctive attempt to keep himself from staggering drunkenly.