Rana knew nothing about football, but she could sympathize with what he was telling her. She had known models who had considered their lives over at thirty because they were too old to continue their careers.

She moved closer to him, and barely resisted the urge to lay a comforting hand on his arm. “Surely you knew when you started that it couldn’t last forever.”

“Of course I did. I’m not that unrealistic. I haven’t walked around with my head in the clouds. I’ve made financial preparations for my retirement from football. I’m a silent partner in an extremely lucrative commercial real- estate firm in Houston. But I want to retire when I say I’m ready, not when I’mforcedto. Each season new talent is recruited for the team. Lord, they’re good, Ana. And so damn young.” He shook his head ruefully. “You probably think I’m whining because I’m jealous of the younger guys. I swear that’s not it.”

“I believe you,” she said softly.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes. “I want just one more season. A winning season. I want to go out on top, not as an object of pity or derision.”

Her hand found its way to him of its own accord, and she squeezed his arm to emphasize her heartfelt words. “No one would ever pity you, Trent. I think this will be your season. I know it.”

“You do?”

She stared up at him earnestly. “Yes, I do.”

Everything receded into the background. They were left in a universe of their own. She searched his face greedily, feeling the fear and insecurity behind his eyes as surely as she had felt her own so often.

If I weren‘t pretty, my mother wouldn’t love me at all.

That was what the lonely, beautiful little girl had grown up thinking. Up until six months ago, she had continued to think that her only value came from the way she looked. Since she had thrown off the Rana Look, she had cultivated two important friendships, Ruby’s and Trent ’s. She was a person worthy of love and friendship, no matter what she looked like.

For as long as she could remember, she had tried to be what her mother wanted. She had wanted Susan’s approval desperately, but she had always fallen short of her mother’s expectations.

“Stand up straight, Rana… Don’t slouch, Rana… Is that a pimple, Rana? Honestly! I’ve taught you how to clean your face, but you don’t do it… Are you wearing your retainer? Do you want crooked teeth?… You wrinkled your dress, after I spent a half an hour ironing it.”

And even when Rana had been as close to perfect as any human being could possibly be, Susan could always find fault.

Yes, Rana could identify with Trent ’s anguish and uncertainty. In his drive to succeed on the gridiron, it didn’t matter what pieces of him were left behind on the Astroturf, what bones were broken, what muscles were sprained, what pain he endured. He was a competitor. He would always go the distance, give his all. But because his very best might not be good enough, he was suffering a private hell.

“Thanks for saying that,” he said softly.

His eyes didn’t waver from her face. The air was thick with desires long suppressed. His body felt heavy and feverish with an emotion he couldn’t name, because he’d never experienced it before. All he knew was that at that moment he thought Ana Ramsey was beautiful. He wanted to hold her against him, to absorb her confidence and be worthy of it.

“I meant it.”

The atmosphere was hushed. A fly buzzed somewhere nearby, but otherwise everything was still. Sweat trickled down his face. Their bodies were taut as they tried to hold themselves separate. Still they inclined toward each other.

He rested his hand on the crown of her head and then gently brought it down to her neck. Her hair was soft against his callused palm. She tilted her head to one side and rested her cheek in his hand. He focused on her mouth. Her lips parted slightly even as he watched. They looked incredibly soft, solace-lending, pleasure-giving, vulnerable.

“Ana.” He lowered his head. His lips touched hers.

“Ana!” another voice called.

They sprang apart. Trent ’s curse was vicious and as blistering as the white-hot Texas sun that beat down outside. Rana stepped away from him quickly and ran to the door of the greenhouse. Her heart was racing.

“Yes, Ruby? Here I am. What is it?”

“Telephone call for you, dear.”

Rana glanced back at Trent. He shrugged and gave her a twisted smile, but it was strained with yearning. She crossed the yard at a trot and entered the house by the back door, which Ruby held open for her. “It’s your mother.”

Rana’s footsteps faltered. “My mother?”

Ruby nodded, an unspoken question in her eyes. Ana Ramsey had no mother that she knew about.

Rana trudged up the stairs. She and her mother had conveyed messages to each other through Morey for the last six months. They hadn’t spoken personally since Rana had walked out and thwarted Susan’s plans for her daughter’s marriage.

Why was Susan calling now? Rana wondered. Was she angry that Rana hadn’t accepted the contract? Was she calling just to say hello? Was she calling to say, “I love you”?

Rana ridiculed herself for holding on to that hope. Nonetheless her hands were shaking and her voice trembled as she picked up the extension in her apartment and said,

“Mother? Hello. How are you?”

“Morey is dead. I think the least you could do is return to New York for his funeral.”

Six

Morey is dead. Morey is dead.

It was now almost thirty-six hours since Rana had first heard those words from her mother’s lips, and she still couldn’t believe them. After standing at the grave site and seeing his casket, the very idea still seemed too incredible to accept.

So much had happened since her mother had broken the news of Morey’s death that it seemed as though the afternoon in the greenhouse with Trent had occurred in another lifetime. Both spiritual and physical fatigue settled on her as she reviewed the events subsequent to that phone call.

She had flung clothes haphazardly into a suitcase. Racing downstairs, she had asked Ruby if she could borrow her car. Ruby suggested that Trent could drive her to the airport, but Rana objected so strongly that Ruby gave her no further argument, even honoring her request that he not be called from the greenhouse to say good-bye. Rana told her friend that she would be away for an indefinite period of time. She didn’t specify where she was going.

When the landlady expressed concern for Rana’s obvious distress, the only explanation forthcoming was, “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

At Houston ’s Intercontinental Airport she had to watch two planes to New York take off without her before a standby seat on a third aircraft became available.

Once in New York, she took a cab to her apartment, where her mother was still living. They met face-to-face for the first time in six months. Susan was overtly hostile despite Rana’s need to be consoled.

“You look ridiculous, Rana. I hope you don’t expect me to claim you as mine, dressed like that.”

“What about Morey, Mother?”

“He’s dead.” She held a gold Cartier lighter to the end of a cigarette, inhaled dramatically, and then blew a cloud of smoke over her head.

Rana, exhausted from the ordeal of getting to Houston from Galveston, waiting at the airport for hours, the long flight, not to mention her mental anguish, collapsed on the sofa and closed her eyes. It was now two o’clock in the morning in New York. Her spirit was trampled and her nerves were frayed, she had just lost her dearest friend and staunchest ally, and her mother’s first comment had been about the way she looked. At that moment she hated Susan Ramsey.

“You told me that much on the telephone, Mother. What do you want me to do, beg you for the details?” She opened her eyes and confronted the woman she had never been able to please no matter how hard she had tried. “All right, I’m begging. What happened?” Her frustration finally got the best of her, and tears formed in her eyes.