Chapter Twenty-Two
A dark cloud had settled over Wynette. A tropical storm blew in from the Gulf, flooding the river and taking out the bridge on Comanche Road. The flu season started too early, and everybody’s kids got sick. A kitchen fire closed the Roustabout for three weeks, and the town’s only two garbage trucks broke down on the same day. While they were still reeling from all that, Kenny Traveler duck-hooked his drive on the eighteen hole at Whistling Straits and missed the cut in the PGA Championship. Worst of all, Ted Beaudine had resigned as mayor. Right when they needed him the most, he resigned. One week he was in Denver; Albuquerque, the next. Chasing all over the country trying to help cities get off the grid instead of staying in Wynette where he belonged.
Nobody was happy. Before Haley Kittle set off for her freshman year at U.T., she sent out a mass e-mail with a detailed account of what she’d seen the day she’d come on Spencer Skipjack threatening Meg Koranda at the swimming hole behind the old Lutheran church. Once everybody knew the truth about what had taken place, they couldn’t in good conscience blame Ted for punching Spence. Sure, they wished it hadn’t happened, but Ted could hardly turn his back on the insults Spence was throwing out. One person after another tried to explain that to him on the few occasions he returned to town only to have him nod politely and hop on a plane the next day.
The Roustabout finally reopened, but even when Ted was around, he didn’t show up. Instead, a couple of people saw him hanging out at Cracker John’s, a shabby bar near the county line.
“He’s divorced us,” Kayla moaned to Zoey. “He’s divorced the whole town.”
“It’s our own damned fault,” Torie said. “We expected too much from him.”
Word had spread from various well-placed sources that Spence and Sunny had gone back to Indianapolis, where Sunny had buried herself in work and where Spence got shingles. Much to everyone’s shock, Spence had broken off negotiations with San Antonio. Word was, after being courted so vigorously by the people of Wynette, he’d lost interest in being a small fish in a big pond, and he’d given up his plans to build a golf resort anywhere.
With all the upheaval, people had almost forgotten about the Win a Weekend with Ted Beaudine contest until the library rebuilding committee reminded everybody the bidding closed at midnight on September 30.. That night, the committee gathered in Kayla’s first-floor home office to commemorate the occasion, as well as to show Kayla their appreciation for the way she’d continued to run the online contest even after her father cut off her bidding.
“We couldn’t have done this without you,” Zoey said, from the Hepplewhite settee opposite Kayla’s desk. “If we ever get the library reopened, we’re putting up a plaque in your honor.”
Kayla had recently redecorated the office with Liberty print fabric walls and neoclassic furniture, but Torie elected to sit on the floor. “Zoey wanted to hang the plaque in the children’s section,” she said, “but we voted to put it by the fashion shelves. We figured that’s where you’ll be spending most of your time.”
The others shot her a dirty look for reminding Kayla she’d be reading about fashion instead of setting trends at the boutique she’d always dreamed of owning. Torie hadn’t meant to be tactless, so she got up to refill Kayla’s mojito and admire the way her skin looked since her chemical peel.
“One minute to midnight,” Shelby chirped with false enthusiasm.
The real suspense had ended a month earlier when Sunny Skipjack had stopped bidding. For the past two weeks, the top bidder, at fourteen thousand five hundred dollars, was a TV reality star only the teenagers had ever heard of. The committee made Lady Emma break the news to Ted that it looked as though he’d be spending a weekend in San Francisco with a former stripper who’d specialized in turning over tarot cards with her butt cheeks. Ted had merely nodded and said she must have excellent muscle control, but Lady Emma said his eyes were empty, and she’d never seen him look so sad.
“Let’s count it down, just like New Year’s Eve,” Zoey said brightly.
And so they did. Watching the computer screen. Counting backward. At exactly midnight, Kayla hit the refresh button, and they all started to call out the name of the winner, only to fall silent as they saw that it wasn’t the butt-talented stripper at all, but . . .
“Meg Koranda?” A collective gasp went up, and then they all started talking at once.
“Meg won the contest?”
“Hit the button again, Kayla. That can’t be right.”
“Meg? How could it be Meg?”
But it was Meg, all right, and they couldn’t have been more shocked.
They talked for an hour, trying to figure it out. Every one of them missed her. Shelby had always admired the way Meg could anticipate what each of the women golfers might want to drink on any particular day. Kayla missed the profit Meg’s jewelry had brought in, along with Meg’s quirky fashion sense and the fact that nobody else would touch Torie’s castoffs. Zoey missed Meg’s sense of humor as well as the gossip she generated. Torie and Lady Emma simply missed her.
Despite the trouble she’d caused, they all agreed Meg had fit perfectly into the town. It was Birdie Kittle, however, who’d turned into Meg’s most outspoken advocate. “She could have had Haley arrested the way Ted wanted, but she stood up for her. Nobody else would have done that.”
Haley had told her mother and Birdie’s friends everything. “I’m going to keep seeing a counselor at school,” she’d said. “I want to learn how to respect myself better so nothing like that ever happens again.”
Haley was so honest about what she’d done and so ashamed of her actions that none of them had been able to stay angry with her for long.
Shelby, who’d switched from mojitos to Diet Pepsi, slipped out of her new pewter flats. “It took guts to face down everybody at the Roustabout the way Meg did. Even if nobody believed a word she said.”
Torie snorted. “If we hadn’t all been so depressed, we’d have fallen off our chairs laughing when she talked about how she controlled Ted, then dumped him, like she was some big man-eater.”
“Meg has honor, and she has heart,” Birdie said. “That’s a rare combination. She was also the hardest-working maid I ever had.”
“And the worst paid,” Torie pointed out.
Birdie immediately got defensive. “You know I’m trying to make up for that. I sent a check in care of her parents, but I haven’t heard a word.”
Lady Emma looked worried. “None of us have. She should at least have kept her phone number so we could call her. I don’t like the way she’s disappeared.”
Kayla gestured toward the computer screen. “She picked a heck of a way to resurface. This is a desperation move on her part. A last attempt to get Ted back.”
Shelby tugged on the waistband of her too-tight jeans. “She must have borrowed the money from her parents.”
Torie wasn’t buying it. “Meg’s too proud to do that. And she’s not the kind of woman who’ll chase after a man who won’t commit.”
“I don’t believe Meg placed that bid,” Zoey said. “I think her parents did it.”
They pondered the idea. “You might be right,” Birdie finally said. “What parents wouldn’t want their daughter to end up with Ted?”
But Lady Emma’s quick brain had taken a different path. “You’re all wrong,” she said firmly. “Meg didn’t place that bid, and neither did her parents.” She exchanged a long look with Torie.
“What?” Kayla said. “Tell us.”
Torie set aside her third mojito. “Ted placed the bid in Meg’s name. He wants her back, and this is how he’s going to get her.”
They all wanted to see his reaction, so the committee members spent the next half hour arguing about who would inform Ted that Meg had won the contest. Would he pretend shock or come clean about his ruse? Eventually Lady Emma pulled rank on them and announced that she would do it herself.
Ted returned to Wynette on a Sunday, and Lady Emma showed up at his house early Monday morning. She wasn’t altogether surprised when he didn’t answer the door, but it wasn’t in her nature to be put off, so she parked her SUV, pulled a lavishly illustrated biography of Beatrix Potter from her tote, and prepared to wait him out.
Less than half an hour later, the garage door opened. He took in the way she’d blocked both his truck and his Benz, then approached her car. He was wearing a business suit and aviator sunglasses, and carrying a laptop in a black leather case. He leaned down to address her through the open window. “Move.”
She snapped her book closed. “I’m here on official business. Something I would have told you if you’d answered the door.”
“I’m not the mayor any longer. I have no official business.”
“You’re the mayor in absentia. We’ve all decided. And it’s not that kind of business.”
He straightened. “Are you going to move your car or am I going to do it for you?”
“Kenny would not approve of you manhandling me.”
“Kenny would cheer me on.” He pulled off his sunglasses. His eyes looked tired. “What do you want, Emma?”
The fact that he didn’t address her as “Lady Emma” alarmed her as much as his pallor, but she concealed how worried she was. “The contest is over,” she said, “and we have a winner.”
“I’m thrilled,” he drawled.
“It’s Meg.”
“Meg?”
She nodded and waited for his reaction. Would she see satisfaction? Shock? Was her theory right?
He slipped on his sunglasses and told her she had thirty seconds to move her damn car.
,
Francesca’s vast, walk-in closet was one of Dallie’s favorite places, maybe because it reflected so many of his wife’s contradictions. The closet was both luxurious and homey, chaotic and well organized. It smelled of sweet spice. It testified to overindulgence and rock solid practicality. What the closet didn’t show was her grit, her generosity, or her loyalty to the people she loved.
“It’s never going to work, Francie,” he said as he stood in the doorway watching her pull a particularly fetching lace bra from one of the closet’s built-in drawers.
“Rubbish. Of course it will.” She shoved the bra back in the drawer as if it had personally offended her. That was all right with him because it left her standing in front of him in nothing but a pair of low-cut purplish lace panties. Whoever said a woman in her fifties couldn’t be sexy hadn’t seen Francesca Serritella Day Beaudine naked. Which he had. Many times. Including not half an hour ago when they’d been tangled up in their unmade bed.
She pulled out another bra that looked pretty much the same as the last one. “I had to do something, Dallie. He’s wasting away.”
“He’s not wasting away. He’s reassessing. Even when he was a kid, he liked taking his time to think things over.”
“Rubbish.” Another bra met with her displeasure. “He’s had over a month. That’s long enough.”
The first time he’d seen Francie, she’d been stompin’ down the side of a Texas highway, dressed like a southern belle, mad as hell, and determined to hitch a ride with him and Skeet. It had turned out to be the luckiest day of his life. Still, he didn’t like letting her get too far ahead of him, and he pretended to inspect a nick on the doorjamb. “What did Lady Emma have to say about your little plan?”
Francie’s sudden fascination with a bright red bra that didn’t come close to matching her panties told him she hadn’t mentioned her plan to Lady Emma. She slipped on the bra. “Did I tell you Emma is trying to talk Kenny into renting an rv and driving around the country with the children for a few months? Homeschooling them while they’re on the road.”
“I don’t believe you did,” he replied. “Just like I don’t believe you told her you were going to set up an e-mail account in Meg’s name and make the winning bid in that stupid-ass contest. You knew she’d try to talk you out of it.”
She pulled a dress the same color as her eyes from a hanger. “Emma can be overly cautious.”
“Bull. Lady Emma is the only rational person in this town, and I’m including you, me, and our son.”
“I resent that. I have a great deal of common sense.”
“When it comes to business.”
She turned her back to him so he could pull up her zipper. “All right, then . . . You have a great deal of common sense.”
He brushed the hair away from the nape of her neck and kissed the soft skin beneath. “Not when it comes to my wife. That got wiped out the day I picked you up on that highway.”
She turned and gazed up at him, her lips parting, her eyes going all dewy. He could drown in those eyes. And, damn it, she knew that. “Stop trying to distract me.”
“Please, Dallie . . . I need your support. You know how I feel about Meg.”
“No, I don’t.” He zipped the dress. “Three months ago you hated her. In case you’ve forgotten, you tried to drive her out of town, and when that didn’t work, you did your best to humiliate her by making her wait on all your friends.”
“Not my finest hour.” She wrinkled her nose, then grew thoughtful. “She was magnificent, Dallie. You should have seen her. She didn’t bend an inch. Meg is . . . She’s rather splendid.”
“Yeah, well, you thought Lucy was rah-ther splendid, too, and look how that turned out.”
“Lucy is wonderful. But not for Ted. They’re too much alike. I’m surprised we didn’t see that as clearly as Meg did. Right from the beginning, she’s fit in here in ways Lucy could never quite manage.”
“Because Lucy’s too levelheaded. And we both know that ‘fitting in’ isn’t exactly a compliment when you’re talking about Wynette.”
“But when we’re talking about our son, it’s essential.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe Ted was in love with Meg. Dallie had thought so, but then he’d changed his mind when Ted had let her go as easily as he’d let Lucy go. Francie seemed sure, but she wanted grandbabies so much that she wasn’t objective. “You should have just given the library committee the money right from the beginning,” he said.
“You and I talked about that.”
“I know.” Experience had taught them that a few families, no matter how well off, couldn’t support a town. They’d learned to pick their causes, and this year, the expansion of the free clinic had won out over the library repairs.
“It’s only money,” said the woman who’d once lived on a jar of peanut butter and slept on the couch of a five-hundred-watt radio station in the middle of nowhere. “I don’t really need a new winter wardrobe. What I need is to have our son back.”
“He hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“Don’t pretend not to understand. More than losing the golf resort is bothering Ted.”
“We don’t know that for sure, since he won’t talk to any of us about it. Even Lady Emma can’t get him to open up. And forget about Torie. He’s been dodging her for weeks.”
“He’s a private person.”
“Exactly. And when he discovers what you’ve done, you’re on your own, because I’m going to be conveniently out of town.”
“I’m willing to take that risk,” she said.
It wasn’t the first risk she’d taken for their son, and since it was easier to kiss her than argue, he gave up.
Francesca had an immediate problem. The committee had used the e-mail address Francesca had established in Meg’s name to notify her she’d won, which left Francesca with the job of locating her to deliver the news. But since Meg seemed to have disappeared, Francesca was forced to contact the Korandas.
She’d interviewed Jake twice in the past fifteen years, something of a record, given his obsession with privacy. His reticence made him a difficult interview subject, but off camera, he had a quick sense of humor and was easy to talk to. She didn’t know his wife as well, but Fleur Koranda had a reputation for being tough, smart, and completely ethical. Unfortunately, the Korandas’ brief, awkward visit to Wynette hadn’t given either Francesca or Dallie a chance to deepen their acquaintance.
Fleur was cordial, but guarded, when Francesca phoned her office. Francesca patched together a cobbled version of something approximating the truth, leaving out only a few inconvenient details, such as her part in all this. She spoke of her admiration for Meg and her conviction that Meg and Ted cared deeply about each other.
“I’m absolutely certain, Fleur, that spending a weekend together in San Francisco will give them the chance they need to reconnect and repair their relationship.”
Fleur was no fool, and she zeroed in on the obvious. “Meg doesn’t have nearly enough money to have placed that bid.”
“Which makes this situation all the more tantalizing, doesn’t it?”
A short pause followed. Finally, Fleur said, “You think Ted is responsible?”
Francesca wouldn’t lie, but neither did she intend to confess what she’d done. “There’s been a lot of speculation in town about that. You can’t imagine the theories I’ve heard.” She hurried on. “I won’t pressure you for Meg’s telephone number . . .” She paused, hoping Fleur would volunteer to hand it over. When she didn’t, she pressed on. “Let’s do this. I’ll make sure the itinerary for the weekend is sent directly to you, along with Meg’s round-trip plane ticket from L.A. to San Francisco. The committee had planned on using a private jet to fly them both from Wynette, but given the circumstances, this seems like a better solution. Do you agree?”
She held her breath, but instead of answering, Fleur said, “Tell me about your son.”
Francesca leaned back in her chair and gazed at the snapshot of Teddy she’d taken when he was nine. Head too big for his small, skinny body. Pants belted too high on his waist. The too-serious expression on his face at odds with his worn T-shirt, which announced born to raise hell.
She picked up the photo. “The day Meg left Wynette, she went to our local hangout and told everyone that Ted’s not perfect.” Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t try to blink away. “I disagree.”
Fleur sat at her desk replaying her conversation with Francesca Beaudine, but it was hard to think clearly when her only daughter was in so much pain. Not that Meg would admit anything was wrong. The time she’d spent in Texas had both toughened and matured her, leaving her with an unfamiliar reserve Fleur still hadn’t adjusted to. But even though Meg had made it clear that the subject of Ted Beaudine was off-limits, Fleur knew Meg had fallen in love with him and that she’d been deeply hurt. Every maternal instinct she possessed urged her to protect Meg from more pain.
She considered the gaping holes in the story she’d just heard. Francesca’s glamorous exterior concealed a razor-sharp mind, and she’d revealed only as much as she wanted to. Fleur had no reason to trust her, especially when it was clear that her son was her priority. The same son who’d put the new sadness in Meg’s eyes. But Meg wasn’t a child, and Fleur had no right to make a decision like this for her.
She reached for the phone and called her daughter.
The chair Ted had commandeered in the lobby of San Francisco’s Four Seasons Hotel gave him a clear view of the entrance without making him immediately visible to whoever walked in. Each time the doors swung open, something twisted in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t believe he’d been thrown off stride so badly. He liked taking life easy, with everybody having a good time and appreciating one another’s company. But nothing had been easy since the night of his wedding rehearsal when he’d met Meg Koranda.
She’d been wrapped in a few twists of silky fabric that left one shoulder bare and hugged the curve of her hip. Her hair was a belligerent tangle around her head, and silver coins swung like nunchucks from her ears. The way she’d challenged him had been annoying, but he hadn’t taken her nearly as seriously as he should have. From that very first meeting, as he’d watched her eyes change from clear blue to the green of a tornado sky, he should have taken everything about her seriously.
When Lady E. had told him Meg was the winning bidder in the stupid-ass contest, he’d experienced a surge of elation followed almost immediately by a crashing return to reality. Neither Meg’s pride nor her bank account would have allowed her to place that bid, and it didn’t take him long to figure out who’d done it. Parents had always liked him, and the Korandas were no different. Even though he and Meg’s father hadn’t done more than exchange a few glances, they’d communicated perfectly.
The doorman helped an elderly guest into the lobby. Ted made himself ease back into the chair. Meg’s plane had landed well over an hour ago, so she should be walking in any minute. He still didn’t know exactly what he’d say to her, but he’d be damned if he let her see even a hint of the anger that still simmered inside him. Anger was a counterproductive emotion, and he needed a cool head to deal with Meg. His cool to her hot. His orderly to her messy.
But he didn’t feel either cool or orderly, and the longer he waited, the more anxious he got. He could barely sort out all the crap she’d thrown in his face. First she’d dumped on him about what had happened at the luncheon. So what if he’d known the women wouldn’t say anything? He’d still made a public declaration, hadn’t he? Then she’d announced she’d fallen in love with him, but when he’d tried to tell her how much he cared, she’d discounted it, right along with refusing to attach any importance to the fact that he’d stood at the altar three months earlier, ready to marry another woman. Instead, she wanted some kind of everlasting promise, and wasn’t that just like her—jumping into something without putting the situation in any kind of context?
His head shot up as the lobby doors once again swung open, this time admitting an older man and a much younger woman. Even though the lobby was cool, Ted’s shirt was damp. So much for her accusation that he stood on the sidelines where he didn’t have to sweat too much.
He checked his watch again, then pulled out his phone to see if she’d sent him a text, just as he’d done so many times since she’d disappeared, but none of the messages were from her. He shoved the phone back in his pocket as the other memory crowded in. The one he didn’t want to deal with. What he’d done to her that day at the landfill . . .
He couldn’t believe he’d lost control like that. She’d tried to brush it off, but he’d never forgive himself.
He tried to think about something else, only to end up stewing over the mess in Wynette. The town refused to accept his resignation, so his desk at City Hall sat empty, but he’d be damned if he was jumping back into that disaster. The truth was, he’d let everybody down, and no matter how understanding they all tried to be, there wasn’t a person in town who didn’t know he’d failed them.
The lobby doors opened and closed. In the course of one summer, his comfortable life had been destroyed.
“I’m messy and wild and disruptive, and you have broken my heart.”
The unbearable hurt in those green-blue eyes had cut right through him. But what about his heart? His hurt? How did she think he felt when the person he’d grown to count on the most left him in the lurch right when he needed her?
“My stupid heart . . . ,” she’d said. “It was singing .”
He waited in the lobby all afternoon, but Meg never appeared.
That night, he wandered through Chinatown and got drunk in a Mission District bar. The next day he pulled up the collar of his jacket and walked the city in the rain. He rode a cable car, drifted through the tea garden in Golden Gate Park, poked into a couple of souvenir shops on Fisherman’s Wharf. He tried to eat a bowl of clam chowder at the Cliff House to warm up but set it aside after a few bites.
“Just the sight of you made me feel like dancing.”
He woke up too early the next morning, hungover and miserable. A cold, thick fog had settled in, but he hit the empty streets anyway and climbed to the top of Telegraph Hill.
Coit Tower wasn’t open yet, so he walked the grounds, gazing out across the city and the bay as the fog began to lift. He wished he could talk this whole mess over with Lucy, but he could hardly call her up after all this time and tell her that her best friend was an immature, demanding, overly emotional, unreasonable nutcase, and what the hell was he supposed to do about that?
He missed Lucy. Everything had been so easy with her.
He missed her . . . but he didn’t want to wring her neck like he wanted to wring Meg’s. He didn’t want to make love with her until her eyes turned to smoke. He didn’t yearn for the sound of her voice, the joy of her laughter.
He didn’t ache for Lucy. Dream about her. Long for her.
He didn’t love her.
With a rustle of leaves and a chilly gust, the wind carried the fog out to sea.