Authors: Rachel Cartwright
Colonel Hayes put his drink down on a table beside the purple, brocaded Turkish couch. “I appreciate your offer, Bret; to be sure,” he replied. “Taking me and all of us into your confidence like this.” He scooped up a fresh oyster in the half shell from the silver tray on the table. “But young Dawson is right, for once. A man should only trust what he can see, touch, or taste.”
The colonel opened his wet, corpulent lips and tilted back his head. “Cotton and cattle on land.” He brought the oyster to his lips, sucked the meat out of the shell, and swallowed. “Or cargo and ships on the water.” The colonel smacked his lips and belched.
Bret swirled his drink in the glass. “I’ll admit there have been unforeseen delays at Spindletop that we didn’t expect.” He took a quick sip, then another. “But Lucas and Higgins are certain there are natural reservoirs of petroleum in those elevated mounds around Beaumont.” He took a step closer to the Colonel. “If you could just see your way clear, Colonel Hayes, to investing a few thou—”
“Bret.” The older man put his fleshy hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Remember what side of the Mason-Dixon line you’re on.” He pressed his bulky fingers into Bret’s sinewy flesh. “This is Texas, not Pennsylvania. Just because the Yankees have had some luck up north doesn’t mean every fool has to go full chisel and tear up perfectly good cotton and cattle fields looking for something that isn’t there.”
Bret gestured toward the bay window. “How can you say that, Colonel? What about Corsicana?
Colonel Hayes shrugged. “What about it? Less than fifty barrels a day from what I’ve been told. In my book that’s no return on investment. That’s a loss.”
The other men nodded and murmured in agreement.
“Yes sir,” the colonel continued. “So it’s not hard to see why those pushy Pennsylvania oil ‘experts’ have already sold their stake and headed back east.”
The colonel picked up another oyster shell from the next tray. “Texas has an abundance of many things, Bret, but oil just isn’t one of them. Higgins has already tried this fool notion of his in ’93 and what did it get him?”
“It’s the drilling rig, Colonel. They’re not right for our sand and clay. With new investment we can purchase a newer, heavier rotary rig and hire an expert crew to use it.”
The Colonel stared at him for a few moments as guests wove around them. “Son, I don’t know anything about dirt and rocks except they’re best left in the ground where God put them.”
“I hope that’s not your final opinion of the matter, Colonel.” Bret glanced back at the front foyer. There was still no sign of Gabrielle or her father.
The colonel patted his lips with a napkin. “All I’m saying, Bret, is that you need more than black dirt to convince a man there’s black gold under there. Show me something I can fill a barrel with and sell and then we’ll talk some more.”
“But since when,” Hadlee cut in, “should we be listening to foreigners tell us what to do in our own backyard?”
Liam pointed his glass at Bret. “Hadlee’s right. The paper says this Higgins is a one-armed mechanic and self-taught geologist. More like a one-armed bandit and self-taught conman if you ask me.”
Bret looked away as his guests snickered at Liam’s drunken wit. Recovering his composure, he turned to his younger friend. “None of us has to look too far back for the name of a ship that brought our forefathers over.”
“Ahh. But at least they could pronounce the ship’s name in English,” Hadlee said.
The other men chuckled and clinked their glasses.
Bret leaned closer. “Captain Anthony Lucas is the United States expert on salt dome formations. He’s as patriotic and American as you or—”
“Sure he is,” Liam interrupted. “With a name like
Luchick
,
Luchich
, or something like that. I read in the paper that’s what his original name was before his family immigrated here. Sounds like another damn Jew or worse.”
He downed half his shot of scotch. “A no account, thievin’ gypsy bastard. The kind the government is lettin’ swarm in like flies.” Liam threw back the last of his drink and puckered his brow. “Before you left I trusted you in all our business matters, but I have to draw the line here, old friend. Are those the kind of people you want us to be giving our money to?”
Bret stared at his guests without saying another word. The surface of the liquor in his glass trembled under the power of his constricting grip.
Sometimes friendship extended no further than the length of a signature on contract, beyond that it was blank, like the paper. He glanced once more at the front foyer. “Please, excuse me gentlemen, but my glass is almost empty. I seem to conduct better business when it’s full.” Bret turned and made his way through the mingling crowd toward the opposite side of the ballroom.
He paused for a moment and drew in his breath when he spotted Gabrielle and her father talking to some guests. Bret cursed himself for having missed their arrival during his unnecessary exchange with Liam.
Gabrielle glanced in his direction, her eyes like sparkling gems, and her red lips beckoning to be kissed.
Bret stood, transfixed by the sight of her in a black velvet evening dress. The sleek fabric sloped away from her lithe, slender neck and her hair, uncurled, fell in long, thick, dusky waves across her smooth, bare shoulders.
Remembering other parties together and seeing Gabrielle now at her most stunning made Bret forget himself and the reasons he had left.
Good God, man.
How could you have ever let her go?
Somebody bumped into him breaking his reverie. Bret smiled his respects to Gabrielle and Arley nodded in return. For the moment, Gabrielle seemed more intent on speaking with Timothy DeRocha and the attendants taking their coats.
Best to give her polite distance after yesterday’s conversation. Let them loosen up and enjoy your hospitality.
Bret sipped his bourbon and pocketed a longer look this time. Lord, she was still gorgeous in black. Not a woman here who could top her in looks and charm. Catching Gabrielle’s eye, he raised his glass in a friendly toast to welcome her. It was all a matter of polite timing. The colonel was still interested and if he could show him something . . . a sample, anything, he might convince Arley and the others to take the risk. And that better be soon, or he wouldn’t have a glass left to pick up.
Bret spotted Philip standing to the side of the band and gave him the signal to introduce the evening’s main entertainment.
Philip raised his hand and the band completed its song with a loud finale. His old friend grinned. “Most gracious ladies and honorable gentlemen,” he called out loudly to the crowd. “May I have your attention, please.”
He pointed to a deep red velvet curtain hanging behind the buffet table at the rear of the ballroom. “Your generous host, Mister Bret McGowan—”
Polite clapping rose from the hands of the ladies. Philip gestured toward the curtain. “Is pleased to offer you tonight’s entertainment.”
Bret and his guests watched the cakewalk dancers appear from opposite ends of the curtain. The colored waiters, dressed in long-tailed tuxedos and starched white shirts, kicked up the heels of their black leather shoes as they walked around the right corner of the buffet table.
The waitresses, dressed in flowing, graceful evening gowns, walked around the left corner, joining up with their partners in front of the table. The waiters bowed to the waitresses, who curtsied in turn, each like a costumed actor playing the aristocracy in a popular farce.
The guests clapped at every wide-eyed, grinning caricature the couples made as they pranced in a line, one after the other, in exaggerated formality to the syncopated rhythm of ‘The Maple Leaf Rag.’
Bret turned away from the spectacle and made his way toward the liquor table to formally greet his new guests. “Arley, how are you? I’m so glad you could make it.”
“I cancelled my business trip to Dallas.” Arley wheezed. “Quite the heat wave they’re having.”
“And Gabrielle . . .” Bret bowed graciously. “I’m honored that you’ve decided to attend my modest and humble gathering.”
Gabrielle smirked. “And to think, Father, that I once actually found those two qualities to be a sign of character in a man.”
Bret tilted his head back and laughed. “Always a joy, my dear, to find you in good spirits. I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep you feeling that way . . . all night.”
Gabrielle arched her eyebrow.
“Mmm,” Arley huffed as he patted his sweaty forehead with a white, monogrammed handkerchief. “I can’t stand any place when it’s like the devil’s backyard. Make sure you keep the windows and doors open. I can’t enjoy myself if I can’t breathe.”
Bret laughed again and nodded at the waiter. The young colored boy quickly handed a tall glass of to Gabrielle and a bourbon to Arley.
“I’m shocked. You actually remembered my favorite.” Gabrielle sneered at him.
“I remember many things, my dear, and I promise that I will be the perfect host. I’ll do everything I can to keep you and your father happy.”
Gabrielle studied him over the rim of her glass. “We’ll see.” She took a quick sip.
Arley appeared busy surveying the crowd. “At least we have a fresh Gulf breeze at night. Dallas can wait until the fall when the days cool down.”
The musicians suddenly broke into a second, faster ragtime song.
“Oh Lord. Not this racket again.” Arley shook his head. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to talk to the colonel on the terrace until things quiet down for the old folks.”
Gabrielle laughed. “Father, please.” She tugged at his arm.
Arley downed his bourbon. “Splendid party.” He grabbed another from a passing tray. “Except for the music. Excuse me.”
Bret and Gabrielle watched him wind his way through the crowd.
“Father says this is just like the old days, when he was a boy. He doesn’t care much for that music, though. Too fast and loud for his generation I suppose.”
Gabrielle brushed off a trace of white sand from the front of her black evening dress. “He’s still huffy that you handed me the invitation in the street like a messenger. Really, Bret, I think you left your manners back in Europe with God knows what else.”
Bret gazed into her shimmering blue eyes. “Nothing to fear, dear lady. What God knows, he must approve, or he wouldn’t allow a man to do it in the first place.”
The flush in Gabrielle’s ivory cheeks turned a shade deeper than her powdered blush. “Don’t appeal to God to pardon your crimes.” She twisted away from him. “He saves it for those who truly deserve it.”
She paused and turned slowly back around to face him again. “And the things you were filling Verna’s head with the other day. I’m still angry with you.”
Bret shrugged. “Gabrielle, you know I didn’t—”
“Hush. Verna’s an innocent country girl. You know how young they are when they get started. She wants to be a teacher and I’ve promised I’d help her with tuition to Tuskegee University in Alabama, but if she lets one of those horny toads jump through her window at night—” She was interrupted by the flourish of instruments as the band launched into a ragtime arrangement of ‘A Hot Time in the Old Town.’
Gabrielle and Bret turned and watched the dancing couples form a square with the men on the inside. Taking lively strides in time to the song, the men took turns executing a complex series of expert kicks, leaps, and fancy steps, all in perfect syncopation to the rhythm.
“For heaven’s sake, Bret,” Timothy DeRocha protested from behind his host’s back. “If Gabrielle and I want to see dancing monkeys, we’ll wait for the circus to come to town.”
Bret turned and lowered his gaze on the shorter man. “It’s been my experience, Timothy, that a man fears something new simply because it’s unfamiliar.” He pointed to a group of guests awkwardly trying to mimic the cakewalk dancers. “Some of our guests are giving it a go. It’s great fun, I assure you. Perhaps Gabrielle and you—”
Timothy shook his head. “Dance? To those animal sounds? No sir. This ‘ragtime’ lacks all class and refinement. Its lewd, licentious appeal may be popular now, but soon, after people have had enough, then it will be replaced with something more cultured and dignified. Isn’t that true, Gabrielle?”
Gabrielle touched the silver jeweled heart pendant that hung just above the white lace neckline of her bodice. “There’s nothing wrong with a slow waltz, is there Bret?” She took a step closer to him. “Or have you forgotten how?”
Bret glanced down at his imported black Italian leather shoes. “I fear I may be a little rusty my dear, but . . .”
He offered his hand to Gabrielle. “If you will be kind enough to grant me a few minutes of your time to practice in private before we take to the floor, I am willing to overcome my embarrassment . . . if you are.”
Timothy’s mouth fell open. The guests standing close by stared at them and whispered amongst themselves. Gabrielle hesitated. Many of her father’s friends and business associates shook their heads in disapproval, but others—mostly their wives—simply smiled as if to offer her the encouragement she so desperately needed.
“Gabrielle?” Timothy touched her shoulder. “Please, your father insisted that I—” She finished his sentence. “Remain a gentleman in my presence, and thank you, Timothy, for always staying true to your word.”
Gabrielle took Bret’s arm and he escorted her through the guests. Timothy glared at Bret as he accompanied Gabrielle toward the terrace at the rear of his spacious home. A group of young society women next to him tittered with muffled laughter.
Timothy glanced down at his shoes as if he had stepped in something foul smelling. Looking up, he spotted Hadlee, Liam and the rest of their cohorts grinning and chuckling at him from the opposite side of the ballroom. “Ah, my friends are here.” He coughed. “Please excuse me.”
Still holding Bret’s arm, Gabrielle glided through the open French doors on to the empty veranda. The summer night sky over Galveston Bay had become uncommonly murky and dim with only a few pinpoints of starlight managing to pierce through the gloom.
“I didn’t think you were the nostalgic type,” she sighed. It’s been a few years since we last danced under moonlight, and there’s not much of that tonight.”