The Texan

Nestled at the far end of Post Oak Lane beneath the shadow of the twenty-seven-story One Riverway building, a group of elegant, cosmopolitan townhomes had been built during the oil-boom days of the late seventies and early eighties.

As Angela hit the automatic garage door button and drove her BMW inside, she remembered the day she bought her home. She’d only been twenty-six years old when she’d discovered this building, with its open and spacious floor plan. It had been about to go into foreclosure. Though the Houston real estate market had been in the doldrums back in 1992, Angela believed enough in her own abilities and talents to know that, no matter what, she would always make the mortgage payment. Having saved the bulk of her commissions ever since she’d graduated from University of Texas with a business degree, she had not only negotiated the price to thirty thousand dollars below the appraisal value, she’d used just half her savings for the down payment, keeping the rest in U.S. Treasury bills. She knew that the overpriced homes in that area would never appreciate, and if she ever did eventually break even on her investment it would be due solely to her negotiating skill. She had also believed that living in a safe neighborhood less than ten minutes from her office was peace of mind money could never buy.

At the time, Julia, Ilsa and every other person with whom she’d had even the briefest encounter thought she was nuts. Four years later she’d not only moved the last of her family heirlooms out of storage, had them refinished and reconstructed, but she’d created a nostalgic blend of Old West and an early 1920s “prairie” look that suddenly was now all the rage.

Though the sweeping circular staircase might have seemed out of place with her Navajo rugs, chandelier, dark brown leather club chairs and off-white-cotton-slipcovered sofas, she redeemed it by ripping up the old white carpeting and installing honey-colored wood steps to match the same-hued wood on the first floor.

She remembered the two-story ranch house her great-grandfather, Daniel, had built for her great-grandmother, Evelyn. The open prairie had been a stark contrast to Evelyn’s extravagant surroundings in New Orleans. She’d let Daniel have his way with nearly all the house designs, except for the staircase. She’d told him from the day they were married in 1885 that she intended that he wait for her at the bottom of the stairs every evening before dinner, because she wanted to see his face light up the way it had when she’d walked down the aisle at their wedding. The staircase was his wedding gift to her.

Angela was the first Morton in generations to move out of that house. At the tender age of eighteen, she had lost both her parents in a private plane crash near Ruidosa, and had suddenly found herself responsible for not only all the funeral arrangements and the will, but also for a large mortgage that her father had taken out on the house to keep the cattle ranch going “until things turned around.” Angela realized she would have to sell the ranch.

Sentimentally attached to every rock, tree, bird and bush on the property, and to every brick and board of the house, Angela cried for weeks over the prospect of losing her family home. However, once she understood that her future depended on no one but herself, she slipped out of her teens and into adulthood overnight She listed the house herself, showed it to every prospective buyer and negotiated the final sale. Without a backward glance she packed everything down to the last dish, and put it all in storage to wait until she had finished college and built or bought a house of her own.

It took her nine years to build up the capital she needed and in the process she developed a credible reputation as a Realtor in the nation’s fourth-largest city. Nothing had come easily to Angela but she’d always had twice the determination and drive of her colleagues, and certainly more than her competitors. She was proud of her home and her accomplishments.

Awkwardly loaded down with birthday gifts, mementos, balloons and bows, Angela entered the blue-and-white country kitchen. She leaned over and dumped her belongings on the kitchen counter. Glancing at her phone recorder she saw that the red light was steady. There had been no calls.

Walking into the foyer, Angela found her hundred-and-ten-pound pedigreed six-year-old golden retriever, Rebel, sitting on the third step of the winding staircase happily panting in anticipation of his usual bear hug.

“Hiya, fella,” Angela greeted him, putting her face next to his. Rebel licked the tip of her nose. “Oh, thank you for my kisses. Mommy likes those kisses.” She patted his head. “You had to wait up a long time for me tonight, didn’t you? Well, I really appreciate it,” she said hugging him again.

Rebel kissed her face again and she laughed at him.

“Was that my birthday kiss?” she asked. Suddenly, she heard her own voice turn hollow and empty.

I’ve already gotten my birthday kiss, but I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him except that he wasn’t as impressed with me as I was with him.

How very odd that this year she’d dreaded her birthday. Julia had wanted to chalk up her depression to ticking biological clocks and all that sort of thing, but Angela liked to think she was being practical. For the first time since college her birthday would not revolve around the breaking-up, making-up, or getting-over-it stage of another rotten relationship. This year she could honestly say she was “man-free.” She’d kicked the habit of rushing into yet another love affair in which she did most of the loving.

In the past year or so Angela’s greatest revelation had been that she’d always settled for less than Mr. Perfect because she’d felt alone ever since her parents died. She missed them greatly, but nothing could ever bring them back to life. Now she was in the process of teaching herself how to keep their memories alive, yet still continue on with her own life.

Being honest with herself, she had to admit that she liked the peace and serenity of being without a demanding relationship. She didn’t particularly want or need a man. With a wide circle of friends and co-workers who included her in their family traditions, Angela knew how to get through family holidays without a family. She wasn’t the least bit lonely.

The prospect of attending the upcoming holiday office parties and dinners without a date did not daunt her. She’d spent far too many Christmases having her illusions shattered by boyfriends who turned out to be nothing special at all.

“Then you had to show up!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms in the air.

Rising from the steps, she went into the living room and flopped on the new white-slipcovered antique sofa she’d had refurbished for the holidays. She crooked her arm over her eyes hoping to wipe out the vision of her dream man’s face. She could still feel the warmth of his arms and hear his heartbeat. He wasn’t a dream. If anything he was alarmingly real. His presence poked holes in every single one of her resolutions. He had made her want someone special in her life, just as her mother had told her she would.

Angela’s parents’ marriage was one of those incredible romantic flings that old Cary Grant movies depicted, except that their marriage had lasted over twenty years before they died. Perhaps if her parents had divorced, like nearly everyone else in the country, then Angela could at least have blamed her inability to choose the proper mate on her parents’ bad example.

Doomed to believe in true love practically since her first breath, Angela had finally come to understand that her trust in her fellow man was misplaced. The rest of the world was not kind to people like herself. It was too easy for her to be taken advantage of, duped and left brokenhearted. However, Angela had decided years ago she was not the cynical type, like Julia, even though Julia seemed to get through problems with greater ease. Angela’s only defense was to elect to leave the rest of the world to its own devices.

Her plan for the future had nearly worked.

This is all so silly. I don’t even know his name. Or where he lives or works. He only knows I’m a Realtor like hundreds of other women in this city. Crooking her arms behind her head she stared at the ceiling. And what was all that about a “prior commitment,” anyway? Probably some Heather Locklear look-alike with a Ph.D.!

Sullenly, she rose from the sofa, stepped over Rebel who was sleeping on the floor in the foyer, and went up the stairs.

She turned on the light in her bedroom, a mix of her mother’s beautiful Southern antiques and her grandmother’s delicate handmade lace spreads and bed linens. Crossing the room she stopped at the gilded French mirror that had once belonged to her great-grandmother.

Looking deeply into the reflection of her brown eyes she was surprised to see tears forming. Silently, the tears dropped straight to the vanity, not marking her cheeks. Angela knew why they were falling.

I’m the only one who will ever know what really happened to me tonight, she thought, turning toward her closet where she hung up her clothes.

The house held a chill that night, as gusty winds brought a cold front. Sleeping under a down comforter was a luxury in subtropical Houston. This was just the kind of night meant for snuggling, she thought as she crawled between the sheets.

“Julia is right, as usual,” she said aloud to herself. “I have exaggerated this whole thing. It was just a dance. Just a kiss. Nothing more.”

If it was only a kiss, then why can’t I forget his kiss like I have so many others? Why were his lips so divine that their touch has somehow wiped out the memory of every other man’s lips? If our meeting was so darned insignificant, then why can I still hear the particular sweet sound of his voice? Why can I still smell him as if he were lying here in this bed with me? Why is he haunting me like this?

Angela thought she could see his eyes looking at her, flashing like blue crystals in the night, seeking her out in the darkness. As if she were still wrapped in his arms, she could feel the tension in his muscles, still hear the soft sound of his breath as he placed his lips next to her ear. How was it possible to continue experiencing him as if he’d never left her?

Many times Angela had met a man and come home feeling as if she could dance on the ceiling, but there had always been signals telling her that something was not quite right. Maybe she’d forgotten the color of his eyes even on the fourth date. She couldn’t remember his name or where he worked. She didn’t like the cut of his clothes or the thousand and one bad habits or bad manners Tom or Allan or Sid had displayed. There had always been some tiny “thing” she’d convinced herself she would have to abide in order to make this or that relationship “work.”

But this man tonight was different. For the life of her she resisted saying those corny things she’d read in novels or heard in dialogue on the soap operas. Angela didn’t believe in soul mates or destiny. She believed in being practical with her life. For months she’d been hell-bent on raising self-reliance to an art form. Suddenly, she found herself wanting someone.

It’s just the romance of the holidays that is making me think this way. Feel this way.

She hugged herself and pulled the comforter to her neck. She was just fine within the cocoon of the life she’d created for herself. She didn’t need dream heroes walking in and messing up everything.

Besides, there was no such thing as a modern-day hero. The last of them had lived nearly a hundred years ago when her great-grandfather had lived in West Texas.

The man she’d met and danced with tonight would undoubtedly never think about her again. It was only right that she should banish him from her mind as well.

Confident she would awaken in the morning with only the faintest memory of her birthday kiss, Angela closed her eyes.

In minutes Angela slipped easily into sleep as her mystery man walked boldly into her dream.

Three

Angela walked out of the weekly staff meeting feeling like five pounds of dog meat. “Does Randy always have to pick on me?”

“Right now, you’re the only one screwing up. This isn’t like you, Angela. Last year, you were number one in the company and one of the top twenty-five producers in Houston. Then six months ago, your numbers started falling. Sometimes I think you’ve taken this birthday thing too much to heart.”

It’s not being thirty that bothers me. It’s finding out there’s no such thing as a “hero” anymore. “It’s an inner-growth thing, Julia. Don’t worry about it.” I’ll look for a group workshop for “fairy-tale junkies.”

Julia put her hand on Angela’s shoulder and pulled her aside. “I’m only saying this for your own good Randy’s right. Sales haven’t been this good in Houston since the oil crash. We’re all making money and you’re not. The problem is only with you, sugar. Maybe if you’d get that damn mystery cowboy out of your head, you’d...”

Feigning ignorance, Angela tossed her arms in the air. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

Julia leaned over conspiratorially as a trio of their fellow agents passed by. “I know guys like him, Angela. They breeze into your life, make you think you hung the moon and then whammo! You never see or hear from them again. You don’t even know his name. So forget him.”

“I will. I mean, I did,” Angela replied quickly, but from the quelling look in Julia’s eyes she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’m working the phones all this week. I even signed up for the graveyard shift on Sunday. How’s that?”

Julia shook her head. “I know it sounds as if I’m criticizing, but I’m just worried about you, is all. Besides, if you don’t make some vacation money how can we plan our February trip to Grand Cayman, huh?” she asked jovially.

Nodding, Angela smiled. “I came to the same conclusion myself, Julia. I can do anything once I put my mind to it.”