Christina Dodd, the dearest friend in the world, who told me I could write a "contemporary," and turned out to be right. And Liz Beverly. Connie Brockway, Eloisa James, and Teresa Medeiros, who always pick me up when I fall, defend me right or wrong, and surround me with a circle of love. I couldn't do it without you.
Geralyn Dawson, Susan Sizemore, and Susan Kay Law, who listened patiently, offered invaluable insights, showed me how to make caramel cashew bars, plot vampire stories, and eat cereal out of teacups, and became friends I want to keep forever.
Stephanie Bascon and Melissa Rowcliffe. two dynamic and beautiful women, for sharing their legal expertise, and even more for the gift of friendship.
Billie Jones, the most generous woman I know, and her husband, James Walton Jones, for their love, wit, and wisdom, and for the dinner party one summer evening, spent with friends who shared precious memories and helped me to understand the real issues of my Story. Thanks to these friends who have inspired me in a multitude of ways: Mayor and Mrs. Norman Erskine, Mena Nichols, Betsy Allen, J. C. Chatmas, Weezie Burton, Charlsie Brown, Necy Matelski, Nancy Erwin, Gene Erwin, Sara Norton. Hammond Norton. Lois Cooper, Bill Reynolds, and Mary Abbot Hess.
Patsy and Wilson Kluck, for their priceless reminiscences and their love, and especially to Patsy for showing me all that is best about Texas women.
Virginia Lake, who influenced me to write the story of a woman who triumphs over hardship with grace, determination, and humor—all qualities she has in abundance.
Sandy Coleman, for her friendship, support, and love of the romance genre.
Michelle Buonfiglio. a woman of great intelligence and charisma who makes me proud of my profession.
Amanda Santana and Cindy Torres, not only for answering technical questions about the hairstyling profession but also for sharing personal observations and memories.
Most of all, I am thankful for my children—my two miracles—who fill my heart and every corner of my soul with joy.
CHAPTER 1
When I was four, my father died in an oil-rig accident. Daddy didn't even work for the drilling outfit. He was a company man who wore a suit and tie when he went to inspect the production and drilling platforms. But one day he stumbled on an opening in the rig floor before setup was completed. He fell sixty feet to the platform below and died instantly, his neck broken.
It took me a long time to understand Daddy was never coming back. I waited for him for months, sitting at the front window of our house in Katy, just west of Houston. Some days I stood at the end of the driveway to watch every car that passed. No matter how often Mama told me to quit looking for him, I couldn't give up. I guess I thought the strength of my wanting would be enough to make him appear.
I have only a handful of memories of my father, more like impressions. He must have carried me on his shoulders a time or two—I remember the hard plane of his chest beneath my calves, the sensation of swaying high in the air. anchored by the strong pressure of his fingers around my ankles. And the coarse drifts of his hair in my hands, shiny black hair cut in layers. I can almost hear his voice singing "Arriba del Cielo," a Mexican lullaby that always gave me sweet dreams.
There is a framed photograph of Daddy on my dresser, the only one I have. He's wearing a Western dress shirt and jeans with creases pressed down the front, and a tooled leather belt with a silver and turquoise buckle the size of a breakfast plate. A little smile lingers in one corner of his mouth, and a dimple punctuates the smoothness of his swarthy cheek. By all accounts he was a smart man, a romantic, a hard worker with high-carat ambitions. I believe he would have accomplished great things in his life if he'd been given the gift of more years. I know so little about my father, but I'm certain he loved me. I can feel it even in those little wisps of memory.
Mama never found another man to replace Daddy. Or maybe it's more accurate to say she found a lot of men to replace him. But hardly any of them stayed around for long. She was a beautiful woman, if not a happy one, and attracting a man was never a problem. Keeping one, however, was a different matter. By the time I was thirteen, Mama had gone through more boyfriends than I could keep track of. It was sort of a relief when she found one she decided she could stick with for a while.
They agreed they would move in together, in the east Texas town of Welcome, not far from where he'd grown up. As it turned out, Welcome was where I lost everything, and gained everything. Welcome was the place where my life was guided from one track to another, sending me to places I'd never thought of going.
On my first day at the trailer park, I wandered along a dead-end road that cut between rows of trailers lined up like piano keys. The park was a dusty grid of dead-end streets, with a newly built loop that circled around the left side. Each home sat on its own concrete pad, dressed in a skirt made of aluminum or wooden latticework. A few trailers were fronted by patches of yard, some featuring crape myrtle with blossoms crisped a pale brown and the bark shredded from the heat.