Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(37)

"Depends. What movie did you watch?"

"Todd," I protested, wanting a serious answer from him.

"Haven, don't ask me to define the boundaries of normal. You know how I was raised. My father once stuck strands of his own pubic hair onto a painting and sold it for a million dollars."

I had always liked Todd's father, Tim Phelan, but I'd never understood his art. The best explanation I'd heard was that Tim Phelan was a revolutionary genius whose sculptures exploded conventional notions of art and displayed common materials like bubble gum and masking tape in a new context.

As a child I had often wondered at the perplexing role reversal of the Phelan household, in which the parents seemed like children, and their only child, Todd, had been the grown-up.

It had only been at Todd's insistence that the family kept standard hours for eating and sleeping. He had dragged them to parent/teacher conferences even though they didn't believe in the grading system. Todd had no luck, however, in curbing their wild house decorating. Sometimes Mr. Phelan would pass through the hallway, pause to sketch or paint something right on the wall, and continue on his way. Their house had been filled with priceless graffiti. And at holiday time, Mrs. Phelan would hang the Christmas tree, which they called a bodhi bush, upside down from the ceiling.

Now Todd had become an enormously successful interior designer, mostly because of his ability to be creative without going too far. His father disdained his work, which pleased Todd tremendously. In the Phelan family, Todd had once told me, beige was an act of defiance.

"So," Todd said, returning to the subject of the jacket. "Can I come over and smell it?"

I grinned. "No, you'd take it for yourself, and I have to give it back. But not until tomorrow, which means I have at least twelve hours left with it."

"I think you need to talk with Susan this week about why you're so afraid of a guy you're attracted to that you can't handle anything more than fondling his jacket. While he's not in it."

I was instantly defensive. "I already told you, he's a family enemy and I — "

"I call bullshit," Todd said. "You didn't have any problem telling your family to go to hell when you wanted to be with Nick."

"Yeah, and as it turned out, they were all right about him."

"Doesn't matter. You have the right to go after any guy who appeals to you. I don't think you're afraid of your family's reaction. I think it's something else." A long, speculative pause, and then he asked gently, "Was it that bad with Nick, sweetheart?"

I had never told Todd that my husband had physically abused me. I wasn't at the point that I could talk about it with anyone other than Gage, Liberty, or the therapist. The concern in Todd's voice nearly undid me. I tried to answer, but it took forever to force a sound from my tight throat.

"Yeah," I finally whispered. My eyes flooded, and I wiped them with my palm. "It was pretty bad."

Then it was Todd's turn to wait a while, before he could manage to speak. "What can I do?" he asked simply.

"You're doing it, you're being my friend."

"Always."

I knew he meant it. And it occurred to me that friendship was a lot more dependable, not to mention long-lasting, than love.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When an apartment at 1800 Main became available, it never lasted long despite the multimillion-dollar price tag. No matter whether your place was a thousand square feet — the size of my manager's apartment, which I loved for its coziness — or four thousand square feet, you got the best views in Houston. You also had the benefits of twenty-four-hour concierge and valet service, designer kitchens loaded with granite and quartz, Murano glass light fixtures, bathrooms with travertine floors and Roman soaking tubs, closets you could park a car in, and membership to a sixth-floor club featuring an Olympic-sized pool, a fitness center, and your own personal trainer.Regardless of all those amenities, Gage and Liberty had moved out. Liberty was not much on high-rise living, and she and Gage had both agreed that Matthew and Carrington needed to live in a house with a yard. They had a ranch north of Houston, but it was too far from the city and Gage's offices to be their main residence. So they had found a lot in the Tanglewood subdivision and had built a European-style home there.

Once the apartment was empty, our leasing agent, Samantha, began to show it to prospective buyers. But before anyone was able to see a place in 1800 Main, Samantha had to get a reference from a bank or law firm to make sure they were legit. "You'd be amazed," she told me, "how many weirdos want a peek at a big fancy apartment." She also revealed that about a third of our residents had paid cash for their apartments, at least half were business executives, and almost three quarters of them were what Samantha considered "new money" people.

About a week after I had messengered Hardy's dry-cleaned jacket to his office, I got a call from Samantha.

She sounded tense and distracted. "Haven, I can't make it in today. My dad had some chest pains over the weekend, and he's in the hospital and they're doing tests."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes." She gave a groan. "Would you please tell Vanessa for me? I feel terrible. She made it clear we were supposed to give twenty-four-hours' notice before taking a day off."