Remember When (Foster Saga 1)

“If I were you, I guess I’d figure the best way to avoid being trapped by some gold digger is to look for a woman who already has money of her own.” Having said that, he raised his brows and waited, as if he honestly expected Cole to applaud his solution, but Cole ignored him and returned his attention to the notepad.

For the next quarter hour the silence in the room was uninterrupted except for the occasional rustling of newspaper pages being turned and folded; then Cal spoke again, on the last subject Cole wanted to discuss. From behind the pages of his newspaper barrier, Cal remarked in a desultory voice, “It says here in Maxine Messenger’s column that you’re attending the White Orchid Ball on Saturday night, and that you donated the most expensive item to be sold at the auction. Maxine says the ball is ‘Houston society’s most glittering social event.’ You won’t have to worry about latching on to a gold digger at a thing like that. Why don’t you take a look around, find a woman who appeals to you, and bring her right back here so I can have a look at her, and,” he put in slyly, “at the marriage certificate. On your first wedding anniversary, I’ll sign over my half of your company to you, just like I said I’d do on that piece of paper.”

Cole didn’t reply, and a short time later, Calvin yawned. “Guess I’ll finish the newspaper in bed,” he announced as he stood up. “It’s ten o’clock. Are you going to work late?”

Cole was studying a letter of intent that John Nederly had drafted at his request. “I’ve worked late for the last fourteen years,” he said shortly. “That’s why you and Travis are as wealthy as you are.”

For a moment Cal stood looking at him, but he couldn’t argue the truth of that, so he started slowly out of the room.

Chapter 16

COLE DID NOT LOOK UP until he heard his uncle’s bedroom door close, and then he tossed the documents he’d been reading onto the coffee table with a sharp flick of his wrist that was eloquent of his black mood.

The sheets of paper landed on top of the National Enquirer—right beside a picture of the woman who’d been jilted by her fiancé.

Right beside a picture of Diana Foster.

Cole lurched forward, picked up the paper, and read the short article with a feeling of grim sympathy for its victim; then he tossed it back where he found it, and his thoughts returned to Cal.

Cole was moodily contemplating his alternatives when a movement on his left drew his attention and he looked toward the kitchen doorway, where Letty was standing with a mug in her hand and a hesitant smile on her face.

For as long as Cole could remember, whenever he disagreed with his uncle, Letty Girandez, who was a terrible cook, had appeared soon afterward with something for Cole to eat and drink—a gesture of comfort from a kindly woman who knew she was a bad cook. In her early sixties, Letty had a plain, round face that managed to convey her inner gentleness and a soft, Spanish-accented voice that lent her an aura of quaint gentility. Cole’s expression softened as she made her way across the living room and put the steaming mug on the coffee table.

“Hot chocolate?” he guessed. Letty’s prescription for a bad mood was always the same: hot chocolate for evening and lemonade for daytime. And cake. Chocolate cake. “Where’s my cake?” he teased, reaching for the mug, knowing he was going to have to drink the entire cup to avoid hurting her feelings. The hot chocolate was traditional, and since Cole had experienced precious little family tradition in his life, he held it in particular reverence.

What familial warmth he’d known, he had mostly found here, with his grandfather’s brother and his housekeeper. Letty turned and headed for the kitchen. “There is some chocolate cake left over from yesterday. I bought it at the store.”

Although that last information made the cake more, not less, desirable, Cole wasn’t hungry. “If you didn’t bake it, it isn’t worth eating,” he teased, and she beamed at the compliment, then turned and started back to the kitchen. “Stay and talk to me for a while,” he said.

Letty sat down on the chair his uncle had occupied earlier, but she did it rather gingerly, perching on the edge of the seat, as if she felt she shouldn’t be there. “You should not argue with your uncle,” she said at last.

“You’ve been telling me that for twenty years.”

“Does your uncle’s desire to see you married very soon seem unreasonable to you?”

“That’s one way of describing it,” Cole said, struggling to keep the bite from his voice.

“I think he believes if he does not force you to marry, then you never will.”

“Which is none of his business.”

Letty lifted her face to his. “He loves you.”

Cole took another swallow of his hot chocolate and set down the cup with angry force. “Which is no consolation.”

“But it is true, even so.”

“Love is not an excuse for blackmail, even if he’s bluffing.”

“I do not think he is bluffing. I think your uncle will leave his half of your company to Travis’s two children if you do not marry.”

A fresh surge of fury rocketed through Cole at that. “I don’t know how he could possibly justify that to himself, or to me!”

The remark was rhetorical and he hadn’t expected an answer, but Letty had one, and he realized that she was absolutely right, that she had seen through all the bluster and excuses, straight through to Calvin’s real motivation: “Your uncle is not concerned with money now; he is concerned only with immortality,” Letty said as she straightened a precariously high stack of reading material on the end table. “He desires immortality, and he realizes that immortality can only be his through his son.”

“I am not his son,” Cole pointed out impatiently.

Letty gave him one of her sweet smiles, but her reply was quietly emphatic. “He thinks of you as such.”

“If immortality is what he’s after, then Travis’s two kids have already provided it for him. Travis and I are both his great-nephews. Even if I had children, they’d be related to him in exactly the same way that Travis’s are.”

Letty bit back a smile. “Travis’s son is lazy and sullen. Perhaps he will outgrow that someday, but for now your uncle does not desire to risk his immortality on such as Ted. Donna Jean is shy and timid. Perhaps someday she will show spirit and courage, but for now . . .” she trailed off, leaving Cole to conclude the obvious—that his uncle did not wish to “risk” his immortality on Donna Jean, either.

“Do you have any idea what brought on his sudden obsession with immortality?” Cole asked.

She hesitated and then she nodded. “His heart is growing weaker. Dr. Wilmeth comes often now. He says there is nothing more that can be done.”

Cole went from shock to denial in the space of moments. He already knew it was futile to try to get Cal to go to Dallas to see other doctors. Once before, after months of arguing, Cole had finally accomplished that, only to have them all concur with Wilmeth. From then on, Cal had refused to even discuss having another consultation.

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nbsp; Across from Cole, Letty drew a deep, unsteady breath and looked at him with her brown eyes filled with tears. “Dr. Wilmeth says it is only a matter of time before . . .” She broke off, then got up and rushed from the room.

Leaning forward, Cole braced his elbows on his knees, overwhelmed by a terrible sense of fear and foreboding. With his shoulders hunched and his hands loosely linked, he gazed at his uncle’s vacant chair while memories of the cozy nights and animated discussions they’d shared over the past three decades drifted through his mind. It seemed as if the only domestic warmth and happiness he’d ever known had been contained in this one shabby-cozy room. All of that would die when Cal died.

If Letty was correct, that time was not far away. His mind went black when he tried to contemplate a life without trips here to see his uncle. This man, this ranch, they were the original fabric of Cole’s life. He had discarded the cowboy boots and jeans of his youth for supple loafers of Italian leather, custom-made suits tailored in England, and handmade shirts of Egyptian cotton, but underneath all that exterior polish, he was still as rough and rugged as the denim jeans and scarred leather boots he had worn. In his youth, Cole had hated his roots. From the day he went to Houston to college, he’d worked diligently to banish all traces of the “cowboy” he’d been. He’d changed the way he walked and the way he spoke, until there was no trace of the horseman’s loping gait or a west Texas drawl.

Now fate was threatening to take away the last link he had to his roots, and the adult that Cole had become wanted desperately to preserve everything that was left.

Cal’s threat to leave his half of the company to Travis and his family was forgotten as Cole tried desperately to think of some action that would forestall the inevitable, that would breathe life into his uncle and brighten his last remaining years. Or months. Or days. Cole’s thoughts revolved in an unbroken circle of futility and helplessness. There was only one thing he could do for Cal that would make his remaining days happy.