Chapter Seventeen
M eg wasn’t used to air-conditioning, and with only a sheet covering her, she got chilly during the night. She curled against Ted, and when she opened her eyes, it was morning.
She rolled to her side to study him. He was as irresistible asleep as awake. He had the best kind of bed head, a little flat here, a little spiky there, and her fingers itched to sort it out. She studied the distinct tan line across his bicep. No respectable Southern California glamour boy would be caught dead with a tan line like that, but Ted wouldn’t spare it a thought. She pressed her lips to it.
He rolled to his back, dragging part of the sheet with him, and stirring up the musky scent of their sleeping bodies. She was instantly aroused, but she needed to be at the club soon, and she forced herself out of bed. By now, everyone would know all about what had happened at the luncheon yesterday, and it wouldn’t occur to any of them to blame Ted for that kiss. A day full of problems stretched in front of her.
She was stocking the cart for the Tuesday morning women golfers when Torie emerged from the locker room. With her ponytail swinging, she marched toward Meg and, in typical Torie fashion, got down to business. “Obviously, you can’t stay at the church after what happened, and you sure can’t stay at Ted’s, so we all decided the best thing is for you to move into Shelby’s guest suite. I lived there between my first two unfortunate marriages. It’s private and comfortable, plus it has its own kitchen, something you wouldn’t have if you stayed with Emma or me.” She set off for the pro shop, ponytail bouncing, and then called over her shoulder, “Shelby’s expecting you by six. She gets upset when people are late.”
“Hold on!” Meg stalked after her. “I’m not moving into your childhood home.”
Torie planted her hand on her hip, looking as serious as Meg had ever seen her. “You can not stay at Ted’s.”
Meg already knew that, but she hated being ordered around. “Contrary to popular belief, none of you get a vote. And I’m going back to the church.”
Torie snorted. “Do you really think he’ll let you do that after what happened?”
“Ted doesn’t let me do anything.” She stomped back to the cart. “Thank Shelby for her generosity, but I’ve made my plans.”
Torie came after her. “Meg, you can’t move in with Ted. You really can’t.”
Meg pretended not to hear and drove off.
She wasn’t up to working on her jewelry while she waited for customers, so she pulled out a copy of American Earth she’d borrowed from Ted, but not even the words of the country’s most astute environmentalists could hold her attention. She set the book aside as the first foursome of women appeared.
“Meg, we heard about the break-in.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“I’ll bet they wanted to get to your jewelry.”
She scooped ice into paper cups, poured drinks, and answered their questions as briefly as she could. Yes, it was scary. No, she didn’t have any idea who’d done it. Yes, she intended to be a lot more careful in the future.
When the next foursome appeared, she heard more of the same, but it still didn’t sink in right away. Only after they were all out on the fairway did it occur to her that not one of those eight women had mentioned Ted’s kiss at the luncheon or his declaration that he and Meg were a couple.
She didn’t understand it. The women in this town loved nothing more than to pry into other people’s business, especially Ted’s, so politeness wasn’t holding them back. What was going on?
She didn’t put the pieces together until the next foursome began pulling their carts up to the tee. And then she understood.
None of the women she’d spoken to had been at the luncheon, and they didn’t know. The twenty guests who’d witnessed what had happened had formed a conspiracy of silence.
She sank back into the cart and tried to imagine the telephone lines buzzing last night. She could hear each of Francesca’s guests swearing on her Bible, or the latest issue of InStyle magazine, not to breathe a word to anyone. Twenty gossipy Wynette women had taken a vow of silence. It couldn’t last, not under normal circumstances. But where Ted was concerned, it just might.
She served the next group, and sure enough, they only talked about the break-in, with no mention of Ted. But that changed half an hour later when the final group, a twosome, pulled up. As soon as she saw the women getting out of the cart, she knew this conversation would be different. Both of them had been at the luncheon. Both of them had seen what had transpired. And they were both coming toward her with decidedly unfriendly grimaces on their faces.
The shorter of the two, a leathery brunette everybody called Cookie, got right to the point. “We all know you’re the one behind that break-in at the church, and we know why.”
Meg should have seen this coming, but she hadn’t.
The taller woman yanked on her golf glove. “You wanted to move in with him, and he didn’t want you to, so you decided to make it impossible for him to refuse. You trashed your own place before you went to work that morning at Francesca’s.”
“You can’t really believe that,” Meg said.
Cookie yanked a club from her bag without getting her customary drink. “You didn’t really think you could pull this off, did you?”
After they left, Meg stomped around the tee for a while, then slumped down on the wooden bench by the tee marker. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock, and ripples of heat already hung in the air. She should leave. She had no prospects here. No real friends. No job worth doing. But she was staying anyway. She was staying because the man she’d fallen so stupidly in love with had jeopardized the future of this town he cared so much about to let the world know how important she was to him.
She hugged the knowledge to her heart.
Her cell began to ring not long after. The first call came from Ted. “I hear the local female mafia is trying to get you out of my house,” he said. “Don’t pay attention to them. You’re staying with me, and I hope you’re planning to make something good for dinner.” A long pause. “I’ll take care of dessert.”
Her next call came from Spence, so she didn’t answer, but he left a message saying he’d be back in two days, and he’d be sending a limo to pick her up for dinner. After that Haley called asking Meg to meet her at the snack shop on her two o’clock break. When Meg got there, she found an unwelcome surprise in the form of Birdie Kittle sitting across from her daughter at one of the green metal bistro tables.
Birdie was dressed for work in an aubergine knit suit. She’d draped the jacket over the back of the chair, revealing a white camisole and plump, lightly freckled arms. Haley hadn’t bothered with makeup, which would have improved her appearance if she hadn’t been so pale and tense. She jumped up from the table like a jack-in-the-box. “Mom has something to tell you.”
Meg didn’t want to hear anything Birdie Kittle had to say, but she took the empty chair between them. “How are you feeling?” she asked Haley. “Better than yesterday, I hope.”
“Okay.” Haley sat back down and started picking at the chocolate chip cookie lying on a square of waxed paper in front of her. Meg recalled the conversation she’d overheard at the luncheon.
“Haley was with that Kyle Bascom again last night,” Birdie had said. “I swear to God, if she gets pregnant . . .”
Last week, Meg had seen Haley in the parking lot with a gangly kid about her own age, but when she’d mentioned it, Haley had been evasive.
She broke off a piece of the cookie. Meg had tried selling those same cookies from the cart, but the chips kept melting. “Go ahead, Mom,” Haley said. “Ask her.”
Birdie’s mouth pinched, and her gold bracelet clinked against the edge of the table. “I heard about the break-in at the church.”
“Yes, it seems everybody has.”
Birdie ripped off the straw wrapper and poked it into her soft drink. “I talked to Shelby a couple of hours ago. It was nice of her to invite you to stay at her house. She didn’t have to, you know.”
Meg kept her response neutral. “I realize that.”
Birdie pushed the straw through the ice. “Since it doesn’t seem as though you’re willing to stay there, Haley thought . . .”
“Mom!” Haley shot her a murderous look.
“Well, pardon meee. I thought you might be more comfortable at the inn. It’s closer to the club than Shelby’s, so you wouldn’t have to drive as far to work, and I’m not booked up right now.” Birdie jabbed at the bottom of the paper cup hard enough to poke a hole through it. “You can stay in the Jasmine Room, my compliments. There’s a kitchenette that you might remember from all the times you cleaned it.”
“Mom!” Color flooded Haley’s pale face. There was a frantic air about her that worried Meg. “Mom wants you to stay. It’s not just me.”
Meg highly doubted that, but it meant a lot that Haley valued their friendship enough to stand up to her mother. She took a piece of the cookie Haley wasn’t eating. “I appreciate the offer, but I already have plans.”
“What plans?” Haley said.
“I’m moving back into the church.”
“Ted will never let you do that,” Birdie said.
“He’s had the locks changed, and I want to be back in my own place.” She didn’t mention the surveillance camera he intended to finish installing today. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.
“Yes, well, we can’t always get what we want,” Birdie said, channeling her inner Mick Jagger. “Are you ever planning to think about somebody other than yourself?”
“Mom! It’s good she’s going back. Why do you have to be so negative?”
“I’m sorry, Haley, but you refuse to acknowledge what a mess Meg has made of everything. Yesterday, at Francesca’s . . . You weren’t there, so you can’t possibly—”
“I’m not deaf. I heard you on the phone with Shelby.”
Apparently the code of silence had a few holes.
Birdie nearly upset her drink as she got up from her chair. “We’re all doing our best to clean up your messes, Meg Koranda, but we can’t do it by ourselves. We could use a little cooperation.” She grabbed her jacket and strode away, her red hair blazing in the sun.
Haley crumbled her cookie inside the wax-paper square. “I think you should go back to the church.”
“You seem to be the only one.” As Haley stared off into the distance, Meg regarded her with concern. “Obviously, I’m not doing a great job dealing with my own problems, but I know something’s bothering you. If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”
“I don’t have anything to talk about. I need to get back to work.” Haley grabbed her mother’s abandoned soda cup along with the macerated cookie and returned to the snack shop.
Meg headed back to the clubhouse to pick up the drink cart. She’d left it near the drinking fountain, and just as she got there, a very familiar, very unwelcome figure came striding around the corner of the clubhouse. Her designer sundress and Louboutin stilettos suggested she hadn’t shown up for a round of golf. Instead, she beat a determined path toward Meg, her stilettos tap-tap-tapping along the asphalt, then going silent as she stepped into the grass.
Meg resisted the urge to hold up her fingers in the sign of the cross, but as Francesca came to a stop in front of her, she couldn’t repress a groan. “Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”
“Yes, well, I’m not precisely on top of the world about this, either.” A quick flick of her hand pushed the Cavalli sunglasses to the top of her head revealing those luminous green eyes, the lids dusted with bronze, and silky dark mascara embracing her already thick lashes. What little makeup Meg had begun the day with, she’d sweated off hours ago, and while Francesca smelled of Quelques Fleurs, Meg smelled of spilled beer.
She looked down at Ted’s diminutive mother. “Could you at least hand me a gun first so I can kill myself?”
“Don’t be foolish,” Francesca retorted. “If I had a gun, I’d have already used it on you.” She swatted at a fly that had the audacity to buzz too close to her exquisite face. “Our guest cottage is detached from the house. You’ll have it all to yourself.”
“Do I get to call you Mom, too?”
“Good God, no.” Something happened to the corner of her mouth. A grimace? A smirk? Impossible to tell. “Call me Francesca like everyone else.”
“Peachy.” Meg slipped her fingers into her pocket. “Out of curiosity, is anybody in this town even remotely capable of minding her own business?”
“No. And that’s why I insisted from the beginning that Dallie and I keep a place in Manhattan. Did you know Ted was nine years old the first time he came to Wynette? Can you imagine how many of the local peculiarities he’d have picked up if he’d lived here from birth?” She sniffed. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“I appreciate the offer, just as I appreciated Shelby’s offer and Birdie Kittle’s, but would you please inform your coven that I’m going back to the church.”
“Ted will never allow that.”
“Ted doesn’t get a vote,” Meg snapped.
Francesca gave a small coo of satisfaction. “Proving you don’t know my son nearly as well as you think you do. The guest cottage is unlocked, and the refrigerator is stocked. Don’t even think about defying me.” And off she went.
Across the grass.
Down the cart path.
Tap . . . tap . . . Tap . . . tap . . . Tap . . . tap . . .
Meg reviewed her miserable day as she pulled out of the employees’ parking lot that evening and headed down the service drive toward the highway. She had no intention of moving into Francesca Beaudine’s guesthouse, or Shelby Traveler’s, or the Wynette Country Inn. But she also wasn’t staying with Ted. As angry as she might be with the meddling women of this town, she wouldn’t thumb her nose at them, either. No matter how awful they were, how intrusive and judgmental, they were doing what they believed was right. Unlike so many other Americans, the inhabitants of Wynette, Texas, didn’t understand the concept of citizen apathy. They also had reality on their side. She couldn’t live with Ted as long as the Skipjacks were around.
Out of nowhere, something came flying toward her car. She gasped and hit the brakes, but she was too late. A rock slammed into her windshield. She caught a flicker of movement in the trees, slammed the car into park, and jumped out. She slid on some loose gravel but regained her balance and raced toward the grove of trees that lined the service drive.
Stickers grabbed at her shorts and scratched her legs as she plunged into the undergrowth. She saw another flicker of motion, but she couldn’t even tell whether it came from a person. She only knew that someone had once again attacked her, and she was sick of being a victim.
She plunged deeper into the woods, but she wasn’t sure which way to go. She stopped to listen but heard nothing except the rasp of her own breathing. Eventually, she gave up. Whoever had thrown that rock had gotten away.
She was still shaking when she returned to her car. A spiderweb of shattered glass spread from the center of the windshield, but by craning her neck she could almost see well enough to drive.
By the time she reached the church, her anger had steadied her. She badly wanted to see Ted’s truck parked outside, but he wasn’t there. She tried to use her key to get in, but the lock had been changed, just as she expected. She stomped back down the steps and looked under the stone frog, knowing even as she picked it up that he wouldn’t have left a new key for her. She stomped around some more until she located a security camera mounted in the pecan tree that had once sheltered the faithful as they’d come from worship.
She shook her fist at it. “Theodore Beaudine, if you don’t get over here right away and let me in, I’m going to break a window!” She plopped down on the bottom step to wait, then hopped up again and cut across the cemetery to the creek.
The swimming hole waited for her. She stripped down to bra and panties and dove in. The water, cool and welcoming, closed over her head. She swam to the rocky bottom, kicked off, and came to the surface. She dove again, willing the water to wash away her terrible day. When she’d finally cooled down, she stuffed her wet feet into her sneakers, grabbed her dirty work clothes, and headed back toward the church in her sodden underwear. But as she stepped out of the trees, she came to a dead stop.
The great Dallas Beaudine sat on a black granite tombstone, his faithful caddy, Skeet Cooper, standing at his side.
Cursing under her breath, she ducked back into the trees and pulled on her shorts and sweaty polo. Facing down Ted’s father was a whole different ball game from dealing with the women. She dragged her fingers through her wet hair, told herself to show no fear, and sauntered into the cemetery. “Checking out your future resting site?”
“Not quite yet,” Dallie said. He rested comfortably on the grave marker, his long, jean-clad legs stretched out before him, dappled light playing in the silver threads of his dark blond hair. Even at fifty-nine, he was a beautiful man, which made Skeet’s leathery ugliness all the more pronounced.
Her feet sloshed in her sneakers as she moved closer. “You could do worse than this place.”
“I s’pose.” Dallie crossed his ankles. “The surveyors showed up a day early, and Ted’s out at the landfill with them. This resort deal might go through after all. We told him we’d help you move your things to his house.”
“I’ve decided to stay here.”
Dallie nodded, as if he were thinking it over. “Doesn’t seem too safe.”
“He’s set up at least one security camera.”
Dallie nodded again. “Truth is, Skeet and I already moved your things.”
“You had no right to do that!”
“Matter of opinion.” Dallie turned his face into the breeze, as if he were checking wind direction before he made his next golf shot. “You’re staying with Skeet.”
“With Skeet ?”
“He doesn’t talk much. Figured you’d rather move in there than have to deal with my wife. I might as well tell you I don’t like it when she gets upset, and you sure do upset her.”
“She gets upset about the damnedest things.” Skeet shifted his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Not much you can do to talk her out of it either, Francie being Francie.”
“With all due respect . . .” Meg sounded like a lawyer, but Dallie’s calm assurance rattled her in a way the women didn’t. “I don’t want to live with Skeet.”
“Don’t see why not.” Skeet shifted his toothpick. “You’ll have your own TV, and I won’t bother you none. I like to keep the place neat, though.”
Dallie rose from the tombstone. “You can follow us over, or Skeet’ll drive your car and you can ride with me.”
His steady gaze testified that the decision had been made, and nothing she said would change it. She weighed her options. Returning to the church clearly wasn’t an option right now. She wasn’t moving in with Ted. If he didn’t understand why, she did. That left Shelby and Warren Traveler’s house, the inn, Francesca’s guesthouse, or staying with Skeet Cooper.
With his grizzled, sun-cured face and Willie Nelson ponytail falling between his shoulder blades, Skeet looked more like a derelict than a man who’d picked up a couple of million dollars caddying for a golf legend. She pulled her shredded pride together and regarded him loftily. “I don’t let my roommates borrow my clothes, but I do enjoy a little spa party on Friday nights. Manis and pedis. You do mine. I’ll do yours. That kind of thing.”
Skeet shifted his toothpick and gazed at Dallie. “Looks like we got ourselves another live one.”
“Seems that way.” Dallie pulled his car keys from his pocket. “Still too soon to tell, though.”
She had no idea what they were talking about. They set off ahead of her, and she heard Skeet chuckle. “Remember that night we almost let Francie drown in the swimming pool?”
“Sure was tempting,” Francie’s loving husband replied.
“Good thing we didn’t.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Skeet flicked his toothpick into the scrub. “He sure seems to be workin’ overtime these days.”
She’d seen Skeet’s small, stone, ranch-style house when she’d first explored the Beaudine compound. Double-hung windows flanked a front door painted a nondescript tan. An American flag, the only decorative feature, hung listlessly from a pole near the front walk.
“We tried not to mess up your things too much when we moved them,” Dallie said as he held the front door open for her.
“Thoughtful.” She stepped into an immaculately neat living area, which was painted a lighter version of tan than the front door and dominated by a pair of high-end, exceptionally ugly, brown recliners pointed directly at a large, wall-mounted flat-screen television. Dead center above it hung a multicolored sombrero. The room’s only true aesthetic touch came from a beautiful earth-toned rug similar to the ones in Francesca’s office, a rug Meg suspected Skeet hadn’t chosen himself.
He picked up the remote and turned on the Golf Channel. The wide opening opposite the front door revealed part of a hallway and a functional kitchen with wooden cabinets, white countertops, and a set of ceramic canisters shaped like English cottages. A smaller flat-screen television hung above a round wooden dinette table with four padded swivel chairs.
She followed Dallie down the hallway. “Skeet’s bedroom’s at the end,” he said. “He snores like crazy, so you might want to buy yourself some earplugs.”
“It gets better and better, doesn’t it?”
“Temporary. Until things settle down.”
She wanted to ask him exactly when he expected that might be but thought better of it. He led her into a sparsely furnished bedroom with mass-produced Early American–style furniture: a double bed covered in a quilted, geometrical-print bedspread; a dresser; an upholstered chair; and another flat-screen television. The room was painted the same tan as the rest of the house, and her suitcase, along with some packing boxes, sat on a bare tiled floor. Through the open closet door, she saw her wardrobe hanging from a wooden rod and her shoes neatly lined up beneath.
“Francie’s offered more than once to decorate the place for him,” Dallie said, “but Skeet likes to keep things simple. You have your own bathroom.”
“Hooray.”
“Skeet’s office is in the bedroom next door. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t use it for a damn thing, so you can set up your jewelry making in there. He won’t notice, not unless you lose the remote control he keeps on top of the file cabinet.”
The front door slammed, and even the Golf Channel couldn’t drown out the sound of angry footsteps followed by the demanding bellow of Wynette’s favorite son. “Where is she?”
Dallie gazed toward the hallway. “I told Francie we should have stayed in New York.”