Can't Hurry Love Read online

  That’s what you get for making a plan under the influence of a handsome man’s devastating kiss and a bottle of wine.

  But she wasn’t going to let go. There was merit in this idea. Merit in her, drunk or not. She had to believe that.

  Without it, all she had was some hay in a rainstorm—and she wanted more.

  “What do you know about spas?” Ruby asked.

  She smiled; with this at least, she was comfortable. “There’s nothing I don’t know about spas,” she said.

  “Except how to run one,” Celeste pointed out, a tiny blow dart right to Victoria’s throat.

  “I will hire someone for that. For the day-to-day management. But how a spa should look, what it should create and offer, that I know. The differences between a good spa vacation and a world-class destination—I know that by heart. By touch.”

  She was painfully aware of Celeste just sitting there, silently judging her. No doubt condemning Victoria and this idea to the pit of bad ideas. She glanced down again at her list—she’d written it last night, had listed all the reasons why she was perfectly suited for this project—and she gleaned some strength from it.

  “My life has made me a connoisseur of manicures and salt rubs and mud baths and the environments to which they are best suited. I know what people want when they walk in the front doors of a spa, from the décor down to the staff. And this land, the Crooked Creek, could be something special. The acreage I’ve saved is the most beautiful in the whole county. The views alone make us different from every other resort in the area. And that’s to say nothing of what we can do to this house. We’re close enough to Dallas to attract and maintain global interest, but removed enough that we can hit that fine balance between cosmopolitan and rustic. Staff can commute from the city, and esthetician schools there should offer us plenty of hiring opportunities.”

  “You’ve thought this out,” Celeste finally said.

  “I have.”

  Celeste’s silence was like the Spanish Inquisition. And it was on the tip of Victoria’s tongue to say, You’re right. Of course this is a ridiculous idea. What could I have possibly been thinking?

  But she bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood.

  “Well, I think it’s a great idea!” Ruby cried, her eyes alight with excitement. The spa idea grew back its weight and heft. It was solid, once again in the palm of her hand.

  “I’m glad you think so, because I would like you to be my chef, Ruby,” Victoria said.

  “But … I … I am just a cook. A housekeeper. What do I know about spas?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Celeste finally piped up, breaking the icy façade she’d developed over the last five minutes. “You know food. With some work—”

  “Work?” Ruby bristled, casting aside her self-effacing modesty. “Listen to you. What would you even know about food? You barely eat.”

  “Ruby,” Victoria sighed. “Would you like the job? I can’t pay you more, not at first, but I will offer you profit sharing.” She held her breath.

  “Of course. I would love to cook for your spa. We will do great things.”

  Ruby clapped and Victoria laughed, and suddenly she found herself pulled into the woman’s fierce hug.

  “I hate to break up the celebration, but how are you going to afford this?” Celeste asked.

  Victoria stepped away from Ruby’s enthusiasm and support into the chill of Celeste’s doubt.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Ruby whispered. “She is miserable and dried up and doesn’t know how to have fun.”

  “Don’t you have a pie crust to see to?” Celeste asked, as imperial as the woman who had terrified Victoria as a child.

  “The money from the sale of the cattle will get us started, and the money from the leases that are rolling in should keep us going through the renovations.”

  “It’s going to take more than three quarters of a million dollars and a few thousand dollars a month to change this eyesore into a resort.”

  “I have some money,” Ruby offered, surprising both Victoria and Celeste.

  “Stealing silverware again?” Celeste asked.

  “Very funny, but no, you sour old woman. I have no children. No husband. I have lived here rent free, so most of my salary has been saved. A hundred thousand dollars.”

  Victoria gaped at Ruby’s generosity. But, as flattered as she was, she wasn’t going to take Ruby’s safety net. What if this failed? She’d suck Ruby down into the abyss with her. No, if she was going to take money from people, it would be from people who had money to spare.

  “That’s retirement money, Ruby,” she said. “I couldn’t—”

  “Boob job,” Ruby said with a shrug. “I just could never commit.”

  Even Celeste’s perfect face creased into a smile.

  “What about me?” Celeste asked. “Will you take my money?”

  The question was an accusation and Victoria bristled, suddenly feeling like a beggar at Celeste’s door.

  “You offered a few months ago to pay for me to go back to school—”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, I was hoping perhaps you would let me have that money and apply it toward this.”

  “Just to be clear. The ‘this’ you are referring to is turning this very ugly house into a spa?”

  “First-class spa and resort. Canyon Ranch meets The Red Door.”

  Celeste laughed. “Well, my dear, when you lose your mind you really lose your mind.”

  Victoria had had enough of the woman’s condemnation. She’d been a victim of it all her life and was working hard to shake her low self-esteem. Which was hard enough without Celeste’s judgment dogging her every move.

  “I’m not kidding, Celeste, and if you don’t believe in this project, you can leave.”

  “I didn’t say that. You’re just going to have to renovate.”

  “I know.”

  “Suites, dining room—”

  “Kitchen upgrade,” Ruby interjected.

  “I know,” Victoria said. “All of it. I know. That’s … that’s why I was hoping for the money. But, frankly, Celeste, if you want me to beg, I can find another way.”

  Celeste lifted her hand and Victoria stopped on a dime, such was the power of Celeste’s hands. “You can have the money. And I do believe. I believe in you and this project. I think it’s a fantastic idea. I can’t think of anyone better suited to the creation of a spa than you, except perhaps me. And that’s why this isn’t a loan. I want to be your partner.”

  “A partner?” Victoria gasped. The idea was … ludicrous.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “You come with the money?” she asked.

  “I usually do.”

  “I will never understand white people,” Ruby muttered.

  “Frankly, Celeste, I find it odd that you want to be a part of this project, since you’re acting like it’s a colossal mistake.”

  “I just want to make sure you understand what you’re taking on. This idea is huge and not to be taken lightly. And if this is just a reaction to Eli selling the herd—”

  “This has nothing to do with Eli.”

  Celeste licked her lips. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  The words hung in the air, faintly smoking with her ire.

  Celeste smiled. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Now, I have a question for you.”

  “I will not be your masseuse.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking.”

  The question burning on her lips seemed counterintuitive to her needs, but for some reason Victoria wanted her future cut free from the past.

  “I want to know if you’re giving me this money because you feel guilty.”

  “Guilty? Me?”

  “For my dad and the way he treated Luc and me after you left him.”

  Celeste’s alabaster skin turned pink. Her lips parted, letting out a shaky breath. “Let’s say I do feel guilty. You woul
d turn down the money?”

  “I … no.” She wasn’t an idiot. “I’d still take the money. But I don’t want you thinking you need to do this to make things right. Dad was Dad. You leaving had nothing to do with how he treated me.”

  For one very strange moment, Celeste’s face seemed to melt, transformed by grief and regret and sadness, revealing a human side to her otherworldly beauty.

  “The money is yours,” Celeste said. “My reasons are mine.”

  In the end Celeste invested one hundred thousand dollars and in the partnership agreement that Randy Jenkins drew up, that hundred thousand dollars bought her a 25 percent share of the Crooked Creek Resort and Spa. Initially, Victoria worried that even 1 percent would be too much, but in the week that followed, she was astounded to find that Celeste’s opinions fell into place with her own.

  When it came time for Victoria to show her amateurish sketches of the mud bath verandah, the dining room, the foyer beneath the glass portico, and the small but elegant suites, she’d expected them to be attacked with a red pen.

  But the small changes Celeste suggested only enhanced the vision.

  And her total revamping of the treatment rooms made for more rooms in the same amount of space.

  On Monday, when the first architect they’d consulted came out to look at the house and discuss the project, Victoria showed him their amateur drawings and when the brash Texan sniffed, a smug little smile on his face, Victoria tried to convince herself that the whiff of misogyny that was wafting off of him was all in her head.

  “Neanderthal,” Celeste said, once the front door shut behind him.

  Victoria was delighted not to call him back.

  By the time the sixth architect showed up, they still hadn’t had any luck. He was a handsome young man with very cool glasses and a borderline offensive attachment to his cell phone.

  “Excuse me,” he said for what had to be the fifth time since his arrival. They were still in the foyer. He rudely turned away, cell phone pressed to his ear.

  Victoria glanced over at Celeste, who shook her head and left, silently inviting her to get rid of the boy once he was off the phone.

  “You know what we need?” Victoria asked that night at dinner. The sun was setting in the wide windows behind them, casting the whole room in shades of pink and yellow. Jacob, coloring beside her at the eat-in counter, looked good enough to eat in the late afternoon light.

  She kissed him and he wiggled away. “Come on, Mom. I’m working.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Schulman,” she murmured and kissed him again for good measure.

  As beautiful as her son looked in the light, the kitchen did not fare equally well. The terra-cotta and Mexican tiles that covered nearly every flat surface might have been slightly fashionable twenty years ago. Now they were kitschy; the grout was gray and the tiles were cracking.

  Everywhere she looked there was more money to be spent. More money that was needed to make this plan work.

  “More money?” Celeste asked as if she could read her mind.

  “Besides that.”

  “You need to pay attention to what you’re eating,” Ruby said, her back to them as she stood at the stove spooning something green and goopy into bowls. She wore a pair of red sweatpants with the words Hot Mama across the seat.

  “What are we eating?” Jacob asked as the bowl was slid in front of him.

  “Watercress.” Ruby wiped her hands on a towel and tossed it over her shoulder. “Why you want me to make lettuce soup, I don’t know. But it was in the cookbooks.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to puree this?” Celeste asked, and Ruby glared at her.

  “You know, Ruby,” Victoria felt compelled to say, because while she’d never been a fan of watercress soup, this one looked particularly unappealing. “You don’t have to change the way you cook.”

  “You think all those rich people are going to want to come here and eat tamales?”

  “If they’re yours, yes.”

  “She doesn’t eat them.” Ruby pointed at Celeste, who had pushed aside the bowl.

  “She’s a robot.”

  Ruby laughed and turned back to the stove, promising a better second course.

  “A female architect,” Celeste said.

  “What?”

  “That’s what we need. A female architect. Someone who won’t just be humoring us. Someone who can share our vision.”

  It was exactly what they needed. Someone who understood the whole earth mother/sophisticated socialite vibe they were going for. “Yes! Exactly. Girl power,” Victoria whispered.

  Celeste stared at her. “You can be so odd sometimes.”

  “I know one,” Ruby said, this time placing plates piled high with roasted squash and arugula in front of them. The salads were drizzled with mustard vinaigrette and pomegranate seeds.

  “That’s better,” Celeste muttered.

  “You know a female architect?” Victoria asked.

  “We all do.” Celeste and Victoria shared a blank look, as Ruby pleated and unpleated the edge of the dishcloth over her shoulder. “But … I think it might not be a good idea.”

  “Is she an ex-con?” Victoria asked, worried by Ruby’s odd attitude, the worry on her face.

  “I don’t know any ex-cons. Lesbian?” Celeste asked.

  “Celeste!”

  “What? Lesbians are wonderful to work with. Very no-nonsense.”

  “She’s not a lesbian.” Ruby tilted her head. “I don’t think. Though that would explain a lot.”

  “Then what’s with the secrecy, Ruby? Who is she?”

  “Eli’s mother.”

  chapter

  8

  Eli’s father had once had a thing for these half-broke Criollo ponies he got from a breeder down in Mexico. And at dawn the morning after Eli’s mother had left, Mark loaded his son into the truck, and they set off on a two-day trip down to the southern tip of Sonora, the horse trailer dragging behind them.

  After crossing the border, Eli finally gathered up the courage to ask if his mom had left for good. His father’s silence was answer enough, and Eli spent the rest of that first day staring out the window at the sun, burning his retinas so that his tears wouldn’t fall. He had been eight at the time. Eight-year-old boys didn’t cry—his dad had told him that clear enough.

  Once they got to the dusty, hardscrabble pocket of land on the flat edge of the desert, Mark and José Ontegna shook hands and discussed horseflesh.

  Forgotten, Eli dozed in the truck, his hat pulled low over his eyes. It was tough ignoring the hunger making his stomach growl and even tougher to ignore the bitterness that ached in his muscles. Bitterness over his mom. Over the fact that they didn’t have enough money to stop at McDonald’s after the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Mark had made were gone, but they had money for horses.

  When the passenger-side door was jerked open, Eli fell out, barely managing to catch himself against the door before meeting the hard red dust.

  “What’s going on?” He squinted up at Mark.

  His father’s face was different. Not angry or sad, but blank. Like extra skin had grown up around his eyes and mouth, armor against showing emotion. He wasn’t going to smile. Or cry. Ever again.

  “Come on out here. We’re gonna break these ponies before we put ’em in the trailer.”

  The thick, sturdy Criollos stirred in the paddock as if they’d heard Mark’s words and started running the edges of the pen, their manes and tails black banners behind them.

  Eli had watched his father break dozens of horses over the years and he stepped up to the split wood of the fence, climbing to the top rung, where he planned on watching.

  But Mark put a hand in the collar of his denim jacket. “Come on,” he said.

  “Me? You want me to break them?”

  “That one.” Mark pointed to the only mare of the three in the paddock. “You’re big enough.”

  Fear and excitement made his spit sour, his mouth a dry cave. That hors
e was huge and his body felt so small.

  “Dad—”

  “You a coward?”

  This version of his dad wasn’t totally unfamiliar—he usually showed up after fights with his mom—but that blankness on his face was terrifying, and Eli knew he couldn’t admit he was scared. He couldn’t say he was only eight and that his dad was acting crazy.

  The tough Mexican vaqueros lined the paddock, shaking their heads, but Dad ignored them.

  “You don’t leave because something’s hard, Eli. You don’t get to walk away just because you’re unhappy.”

  That day, getting the beating of his life from a strawberry mare, Eli was given the first taste of what the next twenty years of his life would be like as a substitute for his mother.

  His dad wasn’t abusive, but he was cold and unforgiving. The crimes he couldn’t pardon weren’t even Eli’s—they were Eli’s mother’s.

  And happiness, starting that weekend, became a rumor. A ghost. A bedtime story other kids were read.

  It wasn’t as if he was happier after getting fired by Victoria. But a week later, after the sting and the shock wore off and the shame was something he was used to, he did feel lighter. He could stand up straight without the weight of a hundred-year-old grudge on his back.

  He owned his house and the ten acres of land around it. He had a barn full of strong, good-looking horses with excellent pedigrees and he still had money in the bank.

  This was more than he’d had his entire life. He felt rich with possessions and purpose.

  And for the first time in his adult life he could focus on the now. And the now was a lot of work. The now kept him pretty busy.

  Sitting up on the roof of his barn, Eli took another nail out from between his lips and hammered in the last of the shingles. Twilight was turning purple around the edges and Eli knew he’d have to head inside soon, but he wanted to finish the roof on the barn tonight.

  He had four horses he needed to pick up from Crooked Creek tomorrow. And if he stopped working he’d have to think about seeing Victoria again, about what he would say to try to make what he’d done right, so he just kept working.