Read an Excerpt
Don't Let It Be True
Chapter One
Every woman in Texas has a dirty little secret. A secret that could destroy her reputation, crush her fragile confidence, and sully her good name forever.
The most common Texas dirty little secret had to do with strippers. Here's how that one went: Wealthy Texas oilman divorces first wife for second wife. Second wife bears children, dresses in expensive designer clothes, and builds impressive rococo-style swirling McMansion, complete with French chandeliers and full-time gardener. Second wife joins "society" and becomes philanthropic. She is photographed at all of the best events in the best clothes. Her friends are similarly wealthy, powerful, and stylish. Second wife's dirty little secret is that she met her wealthy husband while dancing the pole at the Men's Club in Las Vegas, or worse, Tampa.
Kathleen Connor King had two dirty little secrets. The good news was that neither of them had to do with stripping. The bad news was that she was poor.
This was secret number one.
The reason for this secret is that everyone assumed Kathleen was wildly rich. Everyone who was anyone in Houston, that is. She'd been born a King. As in "the Kings" from Houston. As in owning most of the oil in the surrounding counties. Which was more fuel than anyone could possibly imagine. Except maybe the folks over at Shell, Exxon, and Texaco.
Carrying the last name of King trumped everything else about Kat. It didn't matter that she was artistic and wore all the wrong clothes. For other girls...plain girls without King in their last name...this would equate to social suicide. But Kathleen was simply viewed as eccentric.Wildly rich and eccentric! How exciting, everyone thought. And so Kat was extended all the courtesies that the Houston socialite set could afford. Free tickets to the best events. The Houston Opera Ball, the Contemporary Arts Museum Gala, the grand opening of this restaurant or that boutique; and, of course, the most fashionable charity dinners.
Kat usually made a splash at each function, wearing clothes she'd picked out from Twice Around Texas, her favorite thrift store. She was a trendsetter, to say the least. No one knew it was because she couldn't afford the designer stuff. The other society women, in their Gucci, Hermès, and Carolina Herrera, fawning over Kat in her funky, vintage threads.
The sham continued right onto the society pages. The Guccis, Hermès, and Carolina Herreras always made sure to be photographed with her. To be seen in the society pages with their arms looped around little ol' Kat, as if they were best friends forever. As if they bothered to get to know her. But they didn't. As much as Kat tried, they didn't bother to understand her personality, her flair, her art.
This was why Kat was drinking an ice-cold Corona straight from the bottle. She was nursing a splitting headache. Even after two extra-strength Tylenols chased down with beer, the pain radiated across her temples like flashes of lightning.
Kat's headache had started earlier this afternoon. When the Guccis had suggested an afternoon of shopping at Neiman Marcus followed by Botox treatments at the medical spa in Uptown Park, Kat countered with African tribal dancing, which was free on Wednesdays in Hermann Park.
The Guccis looked at her funny, smiled politely, and said:
"Oh, Kat. You're adorable, sweetie."
And then they skipped off to enjoy their shopping and Botox, leaving Kat to mull over a half-eaten Cobb salad.
Kat drank the rest of the beer, set the bottle on the floor, and considered her predicament. I don't care to be in the scene, she thought.
A part of her didn't care if Houston society found out about her dirty little secret. Sometimes, at charity events, Kat would fight the urge to jump up and shout, "Don't you people know that I'm poor!"
But she couldn't do this. She had to remain Kathleen Connor King. She had to keep the myth of her family name, the aloofness of all that wealth and entitlement alive. And why? Because of the Foundation. The foundation her grandfather...Cullen Davis King...had named after himself, and the one that Kathleen carried the torch for to this day.
The King Foundation was Kathleen's raison d'être, and not because she hosted the most powerful ticket of the year. But because deep down, despite the fact that Kathleen had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she had a heart of gold.
It was the most exclusive event of the year. It raised millions of dollars for the Pediatric Cancer Hospital. And it was hosted by Kathleen herself...the last remaining King in the prominent King family.
Using her last name like a weapon, Kathleen Connor King had single-handedly created the most famous fund-raising event in Texas. Each ticket cost (gasp!) ten thousand dollars. A table cost one hundred thousand. There were fifty tables. And Kat managed to sell out every year.
It was the reason that she suffered through society events and agreed to have her picture taken with the Guccis, Hermès, and Carolina Herreras.
It was the reason she was painting, this week. Her "jungle art" would fetch a few thousand dollars during the foundation's annual auction.
Kat dipped her brush in the can of hot pink boudoir paint and swirled it around the canvas, making the shape of a tree. She was painting a hot pink forest, in fact. Complete with hot pink birds and hot pink monkeys.
She scratched a fleck of dried paint from the tip of her thumb and wondered when Dylan would get home. She was feeling the feeling. Or, as her mother would've said, "hot between the thighs."
Don't Let It Be True. Copyright © by Jo Barrett. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
