from the ocean whipped through the open balcony door and rustled the drapes. On this bright sunny day, she felt gray and heavy, thick and sullen. She believed herself to be the perpetrator of a great wrong. She'd inflicted pain on a man she had loved-maybe still loved-and she'd hurt her son in the process.
Though hardly a religious woman, she wondered if she did not deserve some divine retribution. But then, maybe God didn't have time to trifle with misdemeanors.
More time passed, and she discovered that she'd been crying without even realizing it. Finally, she stood and walked to the bathroom. Her makeup was ruined. She splashed cold water on her face, then scrubbed at her skin with hotel soap. She rinsed again, then reached for a towel, her eyes still closed.
What she grabbed felt like a towel, but it was too small. Before she opened her eyes, she knew what it was, and her heart ached with the knowledge. It was as if someone plunged a knife deep inside her, then yanked it up and around like a child's jump rope.
In Texas, she knew, there were many icons. An oil derrick set against a barren landscape, the legendary Alamo, longhorn cattle. There were the pecan trees, the mockingbirds, and the bluebonnets. To the men of Texas there was one more, and she held it now, gripping it fiercely in both hands, trying to tear it in half, but the pink, terrycloth headband — symbol of cheerleader Shari Blossom — held fast.
Bobby never would have done this, she thought. For all his faults-his stubbornness, his self-righteousness-he never would have been unfaithful.
Damn you, Craig Stringer!
He had denied ever being involved with Shari Blossom, even in the past. She should have trusted her instincts. Craig was a born womanizer. Everybody knew it. She had known it but she would change him. What monumental ego! A flood of emotions washed over her, equal doses of anger and humiliation. Did everybody in the organization know about it? Did those boob-heavy cheerleading twits laugh about her behind her back?
Oh Bobby, you were right. Why didn't I listen to you?
She dropped the headband, and trembling with rage, paced through the suite like a tiger in a cage, from the bathroom to the living room to the balcony overlooking the ocean. Feeling feverish, she stood there a moment, letting the breeze cool her. Along the beach, sea birds dipped and whirled, crying like angry children. Christine felt a tear track down her cheek to the corner of her mouth where she tasted its saltiness. After a moment, she came back inside, mustering the courage to walk into the bedroom. Once there, she stared at the king-size bed, crisply made up by housekeeping, a cover of red and pink hibiscus flowers. What acts of betrayal occurred beneath that floral cloak? What lies were told between those sheets?
On the night stand was a framed photo of Craig astride Temptation, his leopard Appaloosa. She'd been a magnificent horse with striped hooves, a beautiful spotted coat, and a pleasant disposition. Christine had loved that horse nearly as much as Craig did. She had cried when Temptation died in the barn fire and cried now, in mourning for the death of something else. Then, incongruously, she laughed. It was Temptation's photograph, not hers, that decorated Craig's bedside. There was something darkly amusing about the revelation that he loved his horse more than he loved her.
Oh, how she had been fooled. Craig had shown such deep sensitivity and vulnerability when Temptation died that Christine was drawn to him in a nurturing mode.. He was an emotional wreck, needy and open to her love.
That's why I fell for you, you big creep.
She studied the photo now. Rider and horse, both mugging for the camera, Craig's smile even more horsey than Temptation's. Maybe she didn't notice it before, but weren't Craig's teeth ridiculously big?
She knew that she was employing a defense mechanism, finding flaws in the man who had just violated her trust, and in so doing, ended their relationship. She didn't need to do that. There was only one flaw in Craig that mattered: he cared only about himself. He satisfied his own pleasures and took whatever he needed from whomever would give it. She felt used and abused. And stupid!
In that moment, she decided she was through with love. Look where it had gotten her so far. A husband who self-destructed before her eyes and a semi-fiance who wanted to set scoring records on and off the field. Suddenly, she needed to talk about it. She wished she could turn to Bobby, but how could she, after what happened in court today? Alone, adrift, she needed to talk to a man, but no, not Bobby.
Daddy was at practice with Scott, but she would wait for him in the quiet of his hotel suite, five floors above Craig's. Daddy had taught her strength and self-reliance, but there was only so much she could do alone. He would understand.
Her father had given her an extra key to his suite, and as she let herself in, another thought came to her. With the game two days away, Daddy would insist that she put off any explosive scenes with Craig. She imagined what he would say.
'Darling, you can't be upsetting Craig's fragile ego right before The Big Dance.'
She had no illusions about her father's reaction to her plight. He would put the game ahead of her feelings because they were, after all, only feelings. They weren't real, like a glistening trophy you can park on the mantle.
But how could she ignore what had happened? How could she smile and pretend that she loved that fake, that womanizer Craig Stringer, just so he won't be upset and throw into double coverage?
As she closed the door behind her, a sound came from the suite's second bedroom, which had been turned into a study. 'Daddy?' she called out.
No answer.
It could be housekeeping, someone tidying up while listening to an iPad to drown out the drudgery of the task.
She headed through the living area, a 1960's sunken room with white leather sofas, an aquarium with tropical fish, and a gas-lit fireplace, useful in case of snow in Miami Beach. A plaque on the wall boasted that Frank Sinatra, Jacqueline Kennedy, and Muhammad Ali had all stayed in the suite, though presumably not at the same time. From this height at the top of the hotel, the ocean, viewed through floor-to-ceiling windows, was a calm sheet of aquamarine.
As she neared the study, she saw a shaft of light under the closed door. 'Hello,' she called out. 'Anyone there?'
She stopped and listened a moment, but there was only the white noise of the air conditioning. Telling herself it was foolish to be alarmed, she turned the knob and opened the door. A man sat at the desk, reading a sheaf of papers, his scarred face hideously lit by a desktop lamp. Calmly, he looked up and nodded, as a priest would to parishioner. 'Howdy, Christine,' Houston Tyler said. 'Why don't you come in and sit for a spell?'
39
Christine did not sit down. Instead, she walked closer to the desk, hardly believing this was the man she had known nearly all her life. When she was a small child, she thought he was a member of the family. The Tylers were constant guests in the Kingsley home. Her mother played golf with Corrine, and the two men were partners for nearly 20 years until the Texas City refinery fire tore them apart and sent Houston Tyler off to prison.
Her memories of her father's partner were strange and conflicting. There was the broad-shouldered man who laughed uproariously and gave her piggy-back rides in the swimming pool. There was the profane, hard-drinking man who cursed her father in language she'd never before heard. And there was the weeping man who comforted her after her mother died.
But the man sitting in front of her was none of those. His head was shaved and loose folds of skin hung from his goose-slim neck. His skin was the color of warm milk, and when he smiled, a purple scar that ran from cheekbone to scalp slid into the folds of his face. His left eye was chalky white and seemed to look in an entirely different direction than the right. She felt herself staring at his scar.
'Guess I don't look too pretty,' he said.
