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  Outside in the clear, cold daylight, everyone clambered

  {«}

  into the sleek new jitney. The tour guide picked up his mike, tapped it once to see if it was on, and continued his spiel. Billie and Thad huddled closer and tuned him out as the jitney moved slowly forward toward the main thoroughfare of Miranda.

  In five minutes, the real thing, looming up ahead, took everyone's breath away. From the south curve and Main Street they proceeded onto the Grand Concourse. As far as they could see to their left was a combination of Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue, an international shoppers' paradise, with gold-braided and festooned entrance porticoes, parked Rolls-Royces, and liveried doormen. On their right the park beckoned, velvety green and majestically jeweled with flowering entrances and graceful, generously sized park benches.

  The jitney came to a halt in front of the Assante Towers building. The guide directed his enthralled charges to its entrance, shepherding them like schoolchildren to the first-floor mezzanine. All eyes were drawn upward to the first five floors, dense with trees and hanging plants, elegant food emporiums, and boutiques of all types. Shining green-tinted glass enclosed it all. Sea-green wrought-iron filigreed causeways and balconies laced the structure, and the sound of gently falling water filled the air. The guide signaled the group to divide into two as he led them to the egg-shaped, glass-enclosed elevators, framed in black wrought iron. Under ceilings sectioned with Tiffany glass, they were slowly carried to the fifth floor.

  After giving them a few moments to absorb the wondrous sight below, the guide ushered them toward large iron gates draped in ivy and flowering wisteria.

  "This is the Cardinal's Nest restaurant," he announced. "We bring everyone here for coffee early in the tour because the Cardinal's Nest affords the finest bird's-eye view of the entire heart of Miranda."

  The guide pointed to New Trump's, directly across the park. "Sparkling and majestic, the entire one-hundred-and-twenty-five-floor building is at once there and not there. It is enclosed in a special mirrored glass that reflects everything around it. This feat is most strikingly apparent when one realizes that the last fifty or so floors reflect the sky and the clouds back to the viewer...."

  Billie and Thad couldn't listen anymore. All they could do

  {9}

  was squeeze each other's hands and try not to howl like coon dogs.

  "Are you used to the apartment yet, babe?" Cary asked with a smile on his face.

  "Darling, I could live in a shack as long as you're with me," Amelia laughed back. "To answer your question, yes, I love it. And we're going to need all eight rooms and three baths. It's amazing what you builders can do. Here we are living high in the sky in an apartment that's bigger than most people's houses."

  "It's all for you, Amelia. I had it down on paper right to the last nail. I know you wanted a state-of-the-art kitchen. I kind of like the sunken Jacuzzi myself." He leered at her.

  "I know you do." Amelia leered back. "You know what I like best, Cary? The balcony. It's as big as the patio at Sun-bridge. The first thing I did was set out my sundial. It fits perfectly on the pedestal. Cary, I just love it. I know I'm going to spend a lot of time out there when the weather is good."

  "We can sit out there all year-round. Did you forget about the special heater I installed? The canopy and the sides are insulated. We'll be as snug as two bugs in a rug."

  "I did forget, Cary. There are times when living in an apartment, no matter how big it is, gets to you. The need to walk outside, to touch something green, makes all the difference. Thank you, Cary."

  They walked hand in hand through the apartment. Each time they did it they noticed something different—an object with a memory, a special gift, something they'd bought together because it pleased them, the colors they'd chosen after months of looking at fabric and paint samples, a cushion with a petit point cover. All the little things that made up their new home in Assante Towers. In Miranda.

  "We're going to be happy here, babe."

  "Not going to be happy, Cary. We are happy. I'm so proud of you and all this."

  "Couldn't have done it without you," Cary said.

  Amelia knew he meant every word. Cary was probably the most honest person she'd ever met. "I love you, Cary."

  "And I love you, more than life itself. And because I love you, I am going to carry you to that large sofa we bought so

  {10}

  we could snuggle into it together. If I remember your words correctly, you said we could get lost in it."

  "A nap sounds good to me. What are you going to do?"

  "Not a damn thing except reflect on Miranda. I might go out to the balcony and try out that heater."

  Amelia smiled at her husband as he settled her in the softness of the sofa. He propped bright orange pillows behind her head and covered her with one of her mother's afghans that had seen far too many washings. "Warmer than cashmere," Amelia whispered as she drifted into sleep.

  Cary watched the tour bus from the heated balcony of his penthouse apartment. He straightened his shoulders and threw out his chest. He wasn't going to burst, he was going to bust ... with pride. He'd created it all, lived it all, 365 days a year for ten long years. For a moment he felt like God surveying His creation. God had created the world out of nothing. He, Cary Assante, had taken his imagination, his own money, his wife, Amelia's, faith in him, and had gone to work. Five years into his project, he'd run out of money. Unable to let his dream slip into obscurity, he'd solicited the aid of the Cole-mans and the Hasegawas. They'd all invested—in him, they said. From that point on he'd doubled his workday, arriving at the building site before first light and returning home long past midnight. Amelia should have divorced him for his neglect; instead, she encouraged him to keep on. He was glad now that he'd listened. He hadn't lied to the Colemans, to Thad Kings-ley, and to Shadaharu Hasegawa when he told them their investment would be returned tenfold. Their belief in him made him deliver; it was that simple.

  Cary felt like singing. Lyrics bubbled forth. Come fly with me. .. .He wished he could remember the rest of the words to the song. He hummed the melody as he leaned on the railing of his balcony. Down below ... his blood, his sweat, and his tears.

  Nothing in his life had prepared Cary for this moment, this day. This was the bubbly. He'd earned this moment—a moment of aloneness to savor his creation. For a little while, until the dedication, Miranda had belonged to him. Now it would belong to the world.

  Come fly with me. ... It sounded right. If only he could take wing and fly over his creation. ... If only. ... He wished

  he could keep forever this wonderful, intoxicating feeling that was transfusing his body.

  This was his dream. Dreams were something the Colemans understood. Moss, Amelia's brother and Billie's first husband, had had a dream, too, but leukemia claimed his life before his revolutionary' slant-winged aircraft—his dream—could be brought to reality. After Moss's death, Billie forged ahead, with the family's help, to make the dream a reality. She'd faltered just as he had, but she'd righted herself, just as he had. And with the aid of Shadaharu Hasegawa, Moss Coleman's slant-winged plane took wing before the entire world.

  Cary shivered, but not from the cold, even though the temperature was biting and well below the freezing mark. It was a shiver of elation and pride. He imagined he could see Moss Coleman standing on some fluffy cloud giving him his cocky thumbs-up salute and saying, "I couldn't have done it better!"

  There was no doubt in his mind that he now belonged.

  His feeling of pride stayed with him. Yes, he'd faltered, and yes, the Japanese side of the family had come to the rescue again—to his rescue. He'd never negate the monetary help he received or forget the confidence the Colemans had in him and in his ability.

  Cary's step was jaunty, his grin in place. Not bad for a boy raised on the charity of a New York City orphanage. From runny-nosed, barefoot, bare-assed orphan to this.

  He belonged now. He proved to himself that
he was finally worthy of being one of them.

  Come fly with me. .. .

  The cold November wind buffeted him, pushing him back against the sliding doors. He should go inside, where it was warm and cozy. Inside with Amelia.

  "If you'd take those clumsy clodhoppers off, you might be able to walk normally. How many times do I have to tell you to leave those work boots by the back door—you almost broke my figurines!" Tess Buckalew shrilled.

  Coots Buckalew was in a fighting mood. Nothing had gone the way he'd planned today, and this shindig at Miranda had him twisted in knots. Tess had signed a lease and told him afterward that he'd forked out sixty grand in rent for a suite of rooms at Assante Towers for a year. Rent he couldn't afford. He'd wring her skinny neck, but then he'd go to prison, and

  {12}

  there was no way in hell he was going to spend his remaining years in jail because of Tess.

  The voice he aimed over his shoulder was a thick mixture of gravel and molasses. "Shut up, Tess. You got me into this, and I don't want to hear a goddamn word out of you. I haven't forgotten that little trick with the Towers. We can't afford sixty grand. When are you going to get it through that pea brain of yours that we have to cut back? I mean, way back. And you better not tell me you and the girls bought new clothes for this thing tonight."

  "Damn right, I'm going to tell you that!" Tess shouted. Coots barely kept himself from jumping. He hadn't seen her creep up behind him. Tess was two feet away from him and, judging from her pulsing temples and bulging eyes, fighting mad. The thought that Coots would even try to get in her way now meant war. "Do you want us shamed? Of course you do, I can see it in your eyes. You're a hateful man, Coots Bucka-lew. We were specially invited, so that means something. We have to look our best." Tess poked her clawlike finger into his chest. "That means new clothes." Each word was accompanied by a jab of the claw.

  Coots began to strip down on the spot, in the middle of her bedroom. He knew it would aggravate her, just as he also knew using her shower would set her into a tizzy. Not that he made half the mess she did. Cold air from the marble floor swirled around his ankles and up his legs. His erection died instantly. Tess laughed.

  "It wasn't for you," Coots grumbled.

  "A piss hard," Tess mocked. "Don't you-all worry, Coots honey, I'm not interested in that little, and I do mean little, joystick of yours. It's seen the inside of too many whores for me to be the least bit interested—which is why you sleep down the hall."

  Coots laughed. He was far from beaten. "At least I get to sleep. Those damn bones of yours don't attack me in all the wrong places." He was just getting warmed up. This was the fun part, because this tack never failed. He turned on the faucets. "You look like a scarecrow," he bellowed over the sound of the running water. "How much do you weigh in at this week, eighty-five pounds? Bones with skin plastered over them, that's all you are." He adjusted the water temperature. "No titties, no ass," he shouted, "no goddamn anything. Ugly, too. Your hair looks like a bird's nest." He howled with laugh-

  {13}

  ter before he added, "Without the birds!" Coots stepped into the shower, still howling.

  Tess stormed about the bedroom on her three-inch spike heels. If she'd known where the main hot water valve was, she'd have turned it off in a second and locked the shower door. Let him freeze his fat ass off, for all she cared. Then the thought of scalding his fat ass brightened her thoughts.

  Fifteen minutes later, Coots walked through the bedroom wrapped in a bath sheet. He stopped in midstride and stared at his wife, sitting at her pink velvet and white satin ribbon-festooned vanity. And then he doubled over laughing.

  "I've seen everything now. Rubber bands to pull back the wrinkles—so that's why your hair looks like a bird's nest!" He was laughing so hard he began to slap his thighs, struggling to speak. "You're going to be one pretty mess if those rubber bands snap in the cold weather."

  Tess ignored him. She hated what she was doing, but the advertisement had looked so promising—at least ten years of wrinkles gone in minutes. She'd sent her twelve dollars airmail the same day she'd read it. It was unfortunate, but she'd been cursed with her mother's skin. No elasticity. When Coots was in a really foul mood he'd torment her by saying her wrinkles were trenches and if he dropped seeds in them, he was sure they would sprout. She wondered if the rubber bands would really snap with the cold. Damn.

  "Coots honey, I need some help here," she called sweetly. "Zip me up and I'll tie your tie. I think we should put our differences aside for tonight. We're going out in high society, and neither one of us need shame the other. We are a family and have to present a united front. Agreed?" Coots grumbled something that sounded like agreement. But he couldn't resist one last dig as he yanked up her zipper.

  "You buying your underwear at the sports center these days? Padded brazeers and padded underpants."

  Tess had the last jab. "Not at all, Coots honey. My bra and panties came from Neiman-Marcus and cost eighty-five dollars. Chew on that for a while, sweetie."

  Buckalew Big Wells, Oakes and Tess Buckalew's personalized version of Tara, got its name from the oil gushers that had enabled the Buckalews to build Tess's dream house in the first place. It sat, curious and sprawling, at the end of the three-mile driveway on the northeast corner of their property. With no recognizable architectural form, its many wings and

  {14}

  added-on rooms stretched like tentacles in every direction.

  In the early years, at the onset of its construction, Tess had fought with every architect she engaged. Not one, it seemed, wanted to put his name to the monstrosity she wanted to create. In the end she'd hired local contractors, at least a dozen of them to add the cupolas, the Tudor trim, and the widow's walk she insisted upon. The stained-glass arched windows, trimmed in jutting Belgian block, had been Austin's sole topic of discussion for weeks, with the glazier and mason refusing to comment other than to say they were well paid.

  In the days when money was no object, Oakes, better known as "Coots," had given Tess free rein, never dreaming Buckalew Big Wells would turn out to be known all over the state of Texas, and probably the eastern seaboard, as a nightmare of architectural misdesign.

  Coots, away working in the oil fields, had left the construction to Tess. If he'd been riding a horse when he returned from the fields six months later, he'd have fallen off. As it was, the pickup truck he was driving ground to a halt in the blaze of light emanating from a dozen or so floodlights Tess had ordered installed to emphasize the house's crazily unique exterior. Nothing in his hardworking life had prepared him for the pretentious monstrosity that was to be his home for the rest of his life.

  Although Coots hadn't had much fancy schooling, he was a man driven to achieve through hard work. His parlor manners, such as they were, had been learned late, and he only used them when he happened to be in the mood. Tess, on the other hand, garnered most of her education from magazines and movies. Her sole aim in life was to fit her family into what she thought was high society—the Colemans' kind of society.

  Among the oilmen Coots did business with, the consensus was that he was an okay guy but his wife was off her rocker. The womenfolk were more astute in their understanding of Tess; they knew she was hell-bent on breaking into Austin's formidable social circle. It was no wonder she never succeeded. The snobbery and pecking order of that elite circle carefully managed, over the years, to allow Tess Buckalew only just so much access, cutting her off when the truly important functions came up. That same elite circle made no bones about accepting her healthy donations to their causes. Tess sighed and glanced at her watch under the rosy glow of

  {15}

  the pink-shaded lamp on her dressing table. Coots had stomped on out of the room, and the silence was a blessing. But she couldn't get the past out of her mind. Maybe because tonight was a landmark.

  Tess had always known that Coots had no great dreams or aspirations. He had never had any. All he wanted from life was to be able
to work the oil wells and perhaps, if God was willing and kind, get another gusher. Right now, though, she knew, all he wanted was to survive the oil crisis. The hell with the gusher and everyone else. ... At the moment, survival was the name of Coots's game.

  Tess thought about her own dream. She knew she'd give up every fur and every jewel she owned if she could be half as important as one of them. The Colemans. Revered, wealthy, and accepted. So far the dream had eluded her. Things will change, she told herself. Circumstances changed on a minute-to-minute basis, didn't they? Her daughter Lacey just might be her salvation, if she could just get Riley Coleman to marry her. Lacey had lost out with Cole Tanner; now, at her father's insistence, she'd set her cap for Riley, the Colemans' Japanese-American grandson. With their union in the bag, Tess would be one of the Colemans, one of them. Then she would be called upon for her opinions as well as her donations. Tess daydreamed about what she'd wear and what she'd say, how she'd arrive at every luncheon, every tea, and every social function. She'd be automatically invited to all of them, not just the down-home barbecues Texas was famous for. Getting invited to tonight's bash, even though it was only because of Lacey and Riley's romance, was just the beginning.

  Tess could hear Coots stomping about the master suite. She wondered for the thousandth time why she'd ever married him, and, why she'd stayed married all these years. He'd been virile and she'd been lusty. He'd been six four and she'd been tiny, a little under five feet. He'd been her protector and she'd been his adoring clinging vine. Coots had come to the marriage with only his bare hands and the promise that he would give her whatever she wanted, sooner or later. She'd had seventy thousand dollars, a legacy from her parents that still remained intact in the bank. No matter how rough things were in the beginning, Coots had never asked for a dime and she'd never offered. What was hers was hers. What was Coots's was theirs. Never once had she allowed Coots to forget his promise to her. Everything she wanted. And by God, she wanted.