Chapter Fourteen
T ed’s mother wore black skinny pants and a hot pink corset top that shouldn’t have looked so good on a woman approaching her midfifties. Her shiny chestnut hair showed no signs of gray, so she was either lucky or she had a skillful colorist. Diamonds glittered at her earlobes, the base of her throat, and on her fingers, but nothing about her was overdone. Instead, she reflected the elegance of a self-made woman possessed of beauty, power, and personal style. A woman who still hadn’t spotted Meg as she launched herself at her beloved son’s bare chest.
“I’ve missed you!” She looked so petite in the arms of her tall offspring, it was hard to believe she could have given birth to him. “I rang, honestly, but your bell is out of order.”
“It’s disconnected. I’m working on an entrance lock that can read fingerprints.” He returned her hug, then released her. “How did your interview with the hero cops go?”
“They were marvelous. All my interviews went well, except for that beastly actor person, whose name I shall never again speak.” She threw up her hands. And that’s when she spotted Meg.
She must have seen the Rustmobile parked outside, but the shock that widened her green cat’s eyes suggested she’d assumed the car either belonged to a service person or the most lowborn of Ted’s unorthodox group of friends. Meg’s and Ted’s disheveled appearances made it more than obvious exactly what they’d been up to, and every part of her bristled.
“Mom, you remember Meg, I’m sure.”
If Francesca had been an animal, the fur would have stood up on the back of her neck. “Oh. Yes.”
Her enmity would have been comical if Meg hadn’t felt like throwing up. “Mrs. Beaudine.”
Francesca turned away from Meg and focused on her beloved son. Meg was used to seeing anger in a parent’s eyes, but she couldn’t stand seeing Ted on the receiving end of it, and she cut in before Francesca could say anything. “I threw myself at him just like every other woman in the universe. He couldn’t help it. I’m sure you’ve seen this at least a hundred times.”
Francesca and Ted both stared at her, Francesca with overt hostility, Ted with disbelief.
Meg tried to tug the hem of his T-shirt lower over her bottom. “Sorry, Ted. It . . . uh . . . won’t happen again. I’ll—be going now.” Except she needed the car keys stuffed in the pocket of her shorts, and the only way she could retrieve them was to return to his bedroom.
“You’re not going anywhere, Meg,” Ted said calmly. “Mom, Meg didn’t throw herself at me. She can barely stand me. And this isn’t any of your business.”
Meg shot up her hand. “Really, Ted, you shouldn’t talk to your mother that way.”
“Don’t even try to suck up to her,” he said. “It won’t do any good.”
But she made one final attempt. “It’s me,” she told Francesca. “I’m a bad influence.”
“Cut it out.” He gestured toward the food containers on the counter. “We’re getting ready to eat, Mom. Why don’t you join us?”
That so wasn’t going to happen.
“No, thank you.” Her clipped British accent made the words even icier. She drew back on her strappy heels and gazed up at her son. “We’ll talk about this later.” She shot from the kitchen, her shoes beating a furious tattoo across the floor.
The front door shut, but the scent of her perfume, faintly overlaid with hemlock, lingered behind. Meg regarded him glumly. “The good news is, you’re too old for her to ground you.”
“Which won’t stop her from trying.” He smiled and lifted his beer bottle. “It sure is tough having an affair with the most unpopular woman in town.”
“He’s sleeping with her!” Francesca exclaimed. “Did you know this was going on? Did you know he was sleeping with her?”
Emma had just sat down to breakfast with Kenny and the children when the doorbell rang. Kenny had taken one look at Francesca’s face, grabbed the muffin basket, snatched up the kids, and disappeared. Emma ushered Francesca onto the sunporch, hoping her favorite place in the house would soothe her friend, but a scented morning breeze and a lovely view of the pasture weren’t nearly enough to calm her.
Francesca jumped up from the shiny black rattan chair she’d just collapsed into. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, not that she needed much of it, and she’d shoved her small feet into a pair of clogs Emma happened to know she only used for gardening. “This was her plan from the beginning.” Francesca’s small hands flew. “Precisely what I told Dallie. First get rid of Lucy, then move in on Teddy. But he’s so wise about people. I never thought for an instant he’d fall for it. How can he be so blind?” She stepped over a battered copy of Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy . “He’s still in shock or he’d see right through her. She’s wicked, Emma. She’ll do anything to get him. And Dallie is completely useless. He says Ted is a grown man and I should butt out, but would I butt out if my son had a serious illness? No I would not, and I won’t butt out now.” She snatched up Fancy Nancy and pointed the book at Emma. “You had to have known. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I had no idea it had gone so far. Let me get you a muffin, Francesca. And would you like some tea?”
Francesca tossed the book on a chair. “Someone must have known.”
“You haven’t been here, so you can’t comprehend how complicated things have gotten with the Skipjacks. Spence is obsessed with Meg, and Sunny wants Ted. We’re fairly sure that’s why Spence came back to Wynette after the wedding fell through.”
Francesca dismissed the Skipjacks. “Torie told me about Sunny, and Ted can handle her.” Hurt shadowed her eyes. “I can’t understand why you or Torie didn’t call me?”
“It’s been confusing. Meg did tell certain people she was in love with Ted, that’s true. But we assumed she was merely using him to get Spence to back off.”
Francesca’s green eyes widened with astonishment. “Why wouldn’t you believe she was in love with him?”
“Because she didn’t act like it,” Emma explained patiently. “I’ve never seen any woman, other than Torie, give him such a hard time. Meg doesn’t get starry-eyed around him or hang on to his every word. She openly disagrees with him.”
“She’s even smarter than I thought.” Francesca plowed a hand through her already unkempt hair. “He’s never had a woman give him trouble. It’s the novelty that’s attracting him.” She sagged onto the couch. “I hope she isn’t on drugs. It wouldn’t surprise me. The drug culture is everywhere in Hollywood.”
“I don’t think she’s on drugs, Francesca. And we did try to persuade her to leave. Sunny Skipjack doesn’t want any competition for Ted, and Spence dotes on his daughter. It’s getting too messy. We knew Meg didn’t have any money, so we offered her a check. Not our finest hour, I assure you. Anyway, she refused.”
“Of course she refused. Why take your paltry check when she has Ted and his money in her sights?”
“Meg might be a bit more complicated than that.”
“I’m sure she is!” Francesca retorted hotly. “Her own family has disowned her, and you can’t tell me that was done lightly.”
Emma knew she had to proceed carefully. Francesca was an intelligent, rational woman, except when it came to her son and husband. She loved both men ferociously, and she’d fight off armies to protect them, even if neither wanted her protection. “I know it might be difficult, but if you got to know her . . .”
Francesca grabbed a Star Wars figure that had been jabbing her in the hip and tossed it aside. “If anyone—and that includes my husband—thinks I’m going to stand by and watch that woman bewitch my son . . .” She blinked. Her shoulders collapsed, and all the energy seemed to seep out of her. “Why did this have to happen now?” she said softly.
Emma went over to sit next to her on the couch. “You’re still hoping Lucy will come back, aren’t you?”
Francesca rubbed her eyes. From the shadows underneath, it was obvious she hadn’t slept well. “Lucy didn’t return to Washington after she ran off,” she said.
“No?”
“I’ve talked to Nealy. We both think this is a positive sign. Being away from home, from her job and her friends, will give her the opportunity to come to a deeper understanding of herself and what she’s given up. You saw her with Ted. They loved each other. Love each other. And he refuses to talk about her. That tells you something, doesn’t it?”
“It’s been two months,” Emma said carefully. “That’s an awfully long time.”
Francesca was having none of it. “I want everything to stop.” She was up off the couch again, pacing. “Just long enough to give Lucy a chance to change her mind. Can you imagine if she finally returns to Wynette only to discover Ted’s having an affair with the woman she considers her best friend? It doesn’t bear thinking about.” She spun on Emma, lines of stubborn determination forming around her mouth. “And I’m not going to let it happen.”
Emma tried again. “Ted is quite capable of looking after himself. You mustn’t—you really mustn’t do anything rash.” She gave her friend a worried look, then headed for the kitchen to make tea. As she filled the kettle, she pondered one of Wynette’s most frequently recounted legends. According to local lore, Francesca had once flung a pair of four-carat diamonds into a gravel quarry to prove a point about how far she’d go to protect her son.
Meg had better take care.
,
The day after Meg’s encounter with Francesca Beaudine, she received a summons to report to the office. As she drove the drink cart past the pro shop, Ted and Sunny emerged. Sunny wore a short blue-and-yellow harlequin print golf skirt and a sleeveless polo with a diamond quatrefoil pendant nestled in the open neck. She looked well organized, confident, self-disciplined, and perfectly capable of bearing Ted a genius baby in the morning, then heading to the course for a quick nine holes.
Ted’s pale blue polo coordinated with hers. They both wore high-tech golf shoes, although he wore a ball cap instead of the yellow clip visor she slipped into her dark hair. Meg couldn’t help but think how completely at ease he seemed with this woman who was holding him for ransom in exchange for a golf resort and condo development.
Meg parked the cart and made her way through the club to the office of the assistant manager. Minutes later, she was leaning across his desk trying not to yell. “How can you fire me? Two weeks ago, you offered me a promotion to snack shop manager.” A promotion she’d turned down because she didn’t want to be stuck inside.
He tugged on his stupid pink necktie. “You’ve been running a private business from the drink cart.”
“I told you about it from the beginning. I made a bracelet for your mother!”
“It’s against club policy.”
“It wasn’t last week. What’s happened since then?”
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Meg. My hands are tied. This has come down from the top.”
Meg’s thoughts raced. She wanted to ask him who was going to tell Spence she’d been fired? Or Ted? And what about the retirees who played every Tuesday morning and liked the way she kept coffee for them on the cart? Or the golfers who noticed that she never screwed up their drink orders?
But she didn’t say any of that.
When she got to her car, she saw that someone had tried to rip off her windshield wipers. The seat covers burned the backs of her thighs as she slid behind the wheel. Thanks to her jewelry sales, she had enough money to get back to L.A., so why did she care about this shitty job?
Because she liked her shitty job, and she liked her church with its shitty, makeshift furnishings. And she liked this shitty town with its big problems and weird people. Ted was right because, most of all, she liked being forced to live on her own hard work and wits.
She drove home, took a shower, and pulled on jeans, a white boho top, and her pink canvas platform sandals. Fifteen minutes later, she passed through the stone pillars of the Beaudine compound, but she didn’t head for Ted’s house. Instead she pulled the Rustmobile into the circular drive in front of the sprawling limestone and stucco home where his parents lived.
Dallie answered the door. “Meg?”
“Is your wife home?”
“She’s in her office.” He didn’t seem too surprised to see her, and he stepped back to let her in. “Easiest way to get there is to follow the hallway to the end, go out the door, and cross the courtyard. Big set of arches in the wing on the right.”
“Thanks.”
The house had roughly plastered walls, beamed ceilings, and cool, tile floors. A fountain splashed in the courtyard, and the faint scent of charcoal suggested someone had fired up the grill for dinner. An arched portico shaded Francesca’s office. Through the door panes, Meg saw her sitting at her desk, reading glasses perched on her small nose as she perused the paper in front of her. Meg knocked. Francesca looked up. When she saw who’d come to call, she leaned back in her chair to think it over.
Despite the Oriental rugs on the tile floors, the carved wooden furniture, folk art, and framed photographs, this was a working office with two computers, a flat-screen TV, and bookcases piled with papers, folders, and binders. Francesca finally rose and crossed the floor in rainbow flip-flops. She’d pulled her hair away from her face with a pair of small silver heart barrettes that counterbalanced the more mature half-glasses. Her fitted T-shirt announced her loyalty to the Texas Aggies, and her denim shorts displayed still-trim legs. But the informal wear hadn’t made her give up her diamonds. They sparkled at her earlobes, around a slender wrist, and on her fingers.
She opened the door. “Yes?”
“I understand why you did it,” Meg said. “I’m asking you to undo it.”
Francesca pulled off the half-glasses but didn’t budge. Meg had briefly entertained the notion that Sunny had been responsible, but this was an emotional act, not a calculated one. “I have work to do,” Francesca said.
“Thanks to you, I don’t.” She stared down the green icicles shooting from Francesca’s eyes. “I like my job. Embarrassing to admit, since it’s hardly a big-time career, but I’m good at it.”
“Interesting, but as I said, I’m busy.”
Meg refused to move. “Here’s the thing. I want my job back. In exchange, I won’t rat you out to your son.”
Francesca displayed her first trace of wariness. After a short pause, she stepped aside just far enough to let Meg in. “You want to deal? All right, let’s do that.”
Family photos filled the office. One of the most prominent showed a younger Dallie Beaudine celebrating a tournament win by lifting Francesca off her feet. She hung above him, a lock of her hair tumbling over her cheek, a silver earring brushing her jaw, her feet bare, and one very feminine red sandal balanced on the top of his golf shoe. There were also photos of Francesca with Dallie’s first wife, the actress Holly Grace Jaffe. But most of the pictures were of a young Ted. They showed a skinny, homely boy with oversize glasses, pants pulled up nearly to his armpits, and a solemn, studious expression as he posed with model rockets, science fair projects, and his father.
“Lucy loved those pictures.” Francesca settled behind her desk.
“I’ll bet.” Meg decided on a little shock treatment. “I got her permission before I slept with your son. And her blessing. She’s my best friend. I’d never have done something like that behind her back.”
Francesca hadn’t expected that. For a moment, her face seemed to collapse, and then her chin came up.
Meg plunged on. “I’ll spare you any more details about your son’s sex life except to say he’s safe with me. I have no illusions about marriage, babies, or settling into Wynette forever.”
Francesca scowled, not as relieved by that statement as she should have been. “Of course you don’t. You’re a live-for-the-moment person, aren’t you?”
“In a way. I don’t know. Not so much as I used to be.”
“Ted’s been through enough. He doesn’t need you messing up his life right now.”
“I’ve noticed a lot of people in this town have strong ideas about what they think Ted needs and doesn’t need.”
“I’m his mother. I’m fairly clear on the subject.”
Here came the tricky part, not that it had been exactly smooth sailing so far. “I guess an outsider, someone without preconceived notions, sees a person a little differently from those who’ve known him for a long time.” She picked up a photo of a very young Ted with the Statue of Liberty in the background. “Ted is brilliant,” she went on. “Everybody knows that. And he’s wily. A lot of people know that, too. He has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He can’t help that. But here’s what most people, especially the women who fall for him, don’t seem to notice. Ted intellectualizes what most people process emotionally.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She set down the photo. “He doesn’t get swept away in romantic relationships like other people do. He adds up the pros and cons in some kind of mental ledger and acts accordingly. That’s what happened with Lucy. They fit together in his ledger.”
Outrage propelled Francesca from her chair. “Are you saying that Ted didn’t love Lucy? That he doesn’t feel things deeply?”
“He feels a lot of things very deeply. Injustice. Loyalty. Responsibility. Your son is one of the smartest and most morally upright people I’ve ever met. But he’s totally practical about emotional relationships.” The more she spoke, the more depressed she got. “That’s what women don’t pick up on. They want to sweep him off his feet, but he’s not sweepable. Lucy’s decision traumatized you more than him.”
Francesca shot around the side of the desk. “This is what you want to believe. You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“I’m not a threat, Mrs. Beaudine,” she said more quietly. “I’m not going to break his heart or try to trick him into marriage. I’m not going to hang on to him. I’m a safe place to stash your son until a more appropriate woman comes along.” That hurt a lot more than she wanted it to, but she somehow managed a carefree shrug. “I’m your dream girl. And I want my job back.”
Francesca had herself under control again. “You can’t really see a future in doing menial work at a small-town country club.”
“I like it. Who knew, right?”
Francesca picked up a notepad from her desk. “I’ll get you a job in L.A. New York. San Francisco. Wherever you want. A good job. What you do with it is up to you.”
“Thanks, but I’ve gotten used to getting things for myself.”
Francesca set down the notepad and twisted her wedding ring, finally looking uncomfortable. Several more seconds ticked by. “Why didn’t you take your grievance against me straight to Ted?”
“I like to fight my own battles.”
Francesca’s brief moment of vulnerability vanished, and steel took over her spine. “He’s been through enough. I don’t want him hurt again.”
“Trust me when I tell you that I’m not important enough for that ever to happen.” Another painful pang. “I’m his rebound girl. I’m also the only woman, other than Torie, that he can be bad-tempered with. It’s restful for him. As for me . . . He’s a nice break from the losers I generally hook up with.”
“You’re certainly pragmatic.”
“Like I said. I’m your dream girl.” Somehow she managed a cocky smile, but as she left the office and headed back across the courtyard her bravado faded. She was sick of feeling unworthy.
When she showed up for work the next day, no one seemed to remember that she’d been fired. Ted stopped by her drink cart. True to her word, she didn’t mention what had happened or his mother’s part in it.
The day turned blistering hot, and by the time she got home that evening, she was a sweaty, sodden mess. She couldn’t wait to get to the swimming hole. She pulled her polo over her head as she walked past the battered old table that held her jewelry supplies. One of the ecology books she’d borrowed from Ted lay open on the worn couch. In the kitchen, a stack of dirty dishes waited for her in the sink. She kicked off her sneakers and opened the bathroom door.
All the blood drained from her head as she saw what was scrawled across the mirror in a vicious smear of crimson lipstick.
GO AWAY