Chapter Six
T he old wooden church sat on a rise at the end of a gravel lane. Meg’s headlights picked out the squat white steeple just above the central doors. In the dark, she couldn’t see the overgrown graveyard off to the right, but she remembered it was there. She also remembered Lucy retrieving a hidden key from somewhere near the base of the steps. She shone her headlights on the front of the building and began fumbling around among the stones and shrubbery. The gravel ground into her knees, and she scraped her knuckles, but she couldn’t find any evidence of a key. Breaking a window seemed sacrilegious, but she had to get in.
The glare of the headlights sent her shadow shooting grotesquely up the simple wooden facade. As she turned back to her car, she spotted a roughly carved stone frog perched underneath a shrub. She picked it up and found the key beneath. Tucking it deep in her pocket for safekeeping, she parked the Rustmobile, retrieved her suitcase, and climbed the five wooden steps.
According to Lucy, the Lutherans had abandoned the tiny country church sometime in the 1960s. A pair of arched windows bracketed the double front doors. The key turned easily in the lock. The inside was musty, the air hot from the day. When she’d last visited, the interior had been washed in sunlight, but now the darkness reminded her of every horror movie she’d ever seen. She fumbled for a switch, hoping the electricity was turned on. Magically, two white wall globes sprang to life. She couldn’t leave them on long for fear someone would see—just long enough to explore. She dropped her suitcase and locked the door behind her.
The pews were gone, leaving an empty, echoing space. The founding fathers hadn’t believed in ornamentation. No stained-glass windows, soaring vaults, or stone columns for these stern Lutherans. The room was narrow, not even thirty feet wide, with scrubbed pine floors and a pair of ceiling fans hanging from a simple stamped-metal ceiling. Five long transom windows lined each wall. An austere staircase led to a small wooden choir loft at the rear, the church’s only extravagance.
Lucy had said that Ted had lived in the church for a few months while his house was being built, but whatever furniture he’d brought here was gone. Only an ugly easy chair with stuffing showing through a corner of its brown upholstery remained, along with a black metal futon she discovered in the choir loft. Lucy had planned to furnish the space with cozy seating areas, painted tables, and folk art. All Meg cared about right now was the possibility of running water.
Her sneakers squeaked on the old pine floor as she made her way toward the small door positioned to the right of what had once been the altar. Beyond it lay a room barely ten feet deep that served as both kitchen and storage space. An ancient, silent refrigerator, the kind with rounded corners, rested next to a small side window. The kitchen also held an old-fashioned four-burner enameled stove, a metal cupboard, and a porcelain sink. Perpendicular to the back door another door led to a bathroom more modern than the rest of the church with a toilet, white pedestal sink, and shower stall. She gazed at the X-shaped porcelain faucets and slowly, hopefully, twisted one handle.
Fresh water gushed from the spout. So basic. So luxurious.
She didn’t care that there was no hot water. Within minutes, she’d retrieved her suitcase, peeled off her clothes, grabbed the shampoo and soap she’d pilfered from the inn, and stepped inside. She gasped as the cold splashed over her. Never again would she take this luxury for granted.
After she dried off, she tied the silk wrap she’d worn to the rehearsal dinner under her arms. She’d just located an unopened box of saltines and six cans of tomato soup in the metal cupboard when her phone rang. She picked it up and heard a familiar voice.
“Meg?”
She set the soup can aside. “Luce? Honey, are you all right?” It had been almost two weeks since the night Lucy had run away, and that was the last time they’d spoken.
“I’m fine,” Lucy said.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because . . .” A pause. “Would I be . . . like . . . a total skank if I slept with another guy now? Like in about ten minutes?”
Meg stood straighter. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Do you like him?”
“Kind of. He’s no Ted Beaudine, but . . .”
“Then you should definitely sleep with him.” Meg spoke more forcefully than she’d intended, but Lucy didn’t pick up on it.
“I want to, but . . .”
“Be a skank, Luce. It’ll be good for you.”
“I guess if I’d seriously wanted to be talked out of this, I’d have called somebody else.”
“That tells you a lot, then.”
“You’re right.” Meg heard the sound of water being shut off in the background. “I have to go,” Lucy said in a rush. “I’ll call when I can. Love you.” She hung up.
Lucy sounded frazzled, but excited, too. Meg thought about the call as she finished a bowl of soup. Maybe this would all turn out okay in the end. At least for Lucy.
With a sigh, she washed the saucepan, then laundered her dirty clothes with some dishwashing detergent she found under the sink amid a scatter of mouse turds. Every morning, she’d have to wipe out the signs that she’d been here, pack her possessions, and stow them in her car in case Ted stopped by. But for now, she had food, shelter, and running water. She’d bought herself a little more time.
The next few weeks were the worst of her life. As Arlis made her days increasingly miserable, Meg dreamed of returning to L.A., but even if she could have gotten back, she had nowhere to stay. Not with her parents, whose tough-love speech was seared into her brain. Not with her friends, all of whom had families, which was fine for an overnight stay, but not for an extended visit. When Birdie grudgingly informed her that she’d finally worked off her debt, Meg felt nothing but despair. She couldn’t quit the inn until she had another source of income, and she couldn’t move as long as Lucy’s church was her only shelter. She needed to find another job, one in Wynette. Preferably a job that provided immediate tip money.
She applied to wait tables at the Roustabout, the honky-tonk that served as the town’s gathering place. “You screwed up Ted’s wedding,” the owner said, “and you tried to stiff Birdie. Why would I hire you?”
So much for the Roustabout.
Over the next several days, she stopped at every bar and restaurant in town, but none was hiring. Or at least they weren’t hiring her. Her food supply was nonexistent, she was purchasing gas three gallons at a time, and she had to buy Tampax soon. She needed cash, and she needed it fast.
As she removed still another revolting hair plug from still another crusty bathtub, she thought about how many times she’d forgotten to tip the housekeepers who cleaned the hotel rooms after her. So far, all she’d picked up in tips was a measly twenty-eight bucks. It would have been more, but Arlis had an uncanny ability to spot the guests most likely to be generous and make sure she checked their rooms first. The upcoming weekend might be lucrative if Meg could figure out how to outsmart her.
Ted’s former best man, Kenny Traveler, was hosting a golf outing for his friends who were flying in from all over the country and staying at the inn. Meg might regard the sport with contempt for the way it gobbled up natural resources, but money was to be made from its disciples, and all day Thursday, she thought about how she could profit from the weekend. By evening, she had a plan. It involved an expenditure she could ill afford, but she made herself stop at the grocery after work and turn over twenty dollars from her meager paycheck as an investment in her immediate future.
The next day she waited until the golfers began trickling in from their Friday afternoon rounds. When Arlis wasn’t looking, she grabbed some towels and started knocking on doors. “Good afternoon, Mr. Samuels.” She plastered on a big smile for the gray-haired man who answered. “I thought you might like some extra towels. Sure is hot out there.” She set one of the precious candy bars she’d bought the night before on top. “I hope you had a good round, but here’s a little sugar in case you didn’t. My compliments.”
“Thanks, honey. That’s real thoughtful.” Mr. Samuels pulled out his money clip and peeled off a five-dollar bill.
By the time she left the inn that night, she’d made forty dollars. She was as proud of herself as if she’d made her first million. But if she intended to repeat her scheme on Saturday afternoon, she needed a new twist, and that was going to involve another small expenditure.
“Damn. I haven’t had one of those in years,” Mr. Samuels said when he answered the door on Saturday afternoon.
“Homemade.” She gave him her biggest, most winning smile and handed over the fresh towels, along with one of the individually wrapped Rice Krispies treats she’d stayed up until well past midnight last night making. Cookies would have been better, but her culinary skills were limited. “I only wish it were a cold beer,” she said. “We sure appreciate you gentlemen staying here.”
This time he gave her a ten.
Arlis, already suspicious over their dwindling towel inventory, nearly caught her twice, but Meg managed to dodge her, and as she approached the third-floor suite, registered to a Dexter O’Connor, her uniform pocket held a comfortable weight. Mr. O’Connor had been out yesterday when she’d stopped, but today a tall, strikingly beautiful woman wrapped in one of the inn’s white terry robes answered the door. Even just out of the shower, with her face scrubbed free of makeup and strands of inky hair clinging to her neck, she was flawless—tall and thin with bold green eyes and iceberg-size diamond studs in her ears. She didn’t look like a Dexter. And neither did the man Meg glimpsed over her shoulder.
Ted Beaudine sat in the room’s easy chair, his shoes kicked off, a beer in hand. Something clicked, and Meg recognized the brunette as the woman Ted had kissed at the gas station a few weeks ago.
“Oh, good. Extra towels.” Her splashy diamond wedding ring sparkled as she grabbed the package on top. “And a homemade Rice Krispies treat! Look, Teddy! How long has it been since you’ve had a Rice Krispies treat?”
“Can’t say as I recall,” Teddy replied.
The woman tucked the towels under her arm and pulled at the plastic wrap. “I love these things. Give her a ten, will you?”
He didn’t move. “I’m fresh out of tens. Or any other currency.”
“Hold on.” The woman turned, presumably to get her purse, only to whip back around. “Holy Jesus!” She dropped the towels. “You’re the wedding wrecker! I didn’t recognize you in your uniform.”
Ted unwound from the chair and approached the door. “Selling baked goods without a license, Meg? That’s a direct violation of city code.”
“These are gifts, Mr. Mayor.”
“Do Birdie and Arlis know about your gifts?”
The brunette pushed in front of him. “Never mind that.” Her green eyes glittered with excitement. “The wedding wrecker. I can’t believe it. Come on in. I have some questions for you.” She shoved the door fully open and tugged on Meg’s arm. “I want to hear exactly why you thought What’s-Her-Name was so wrong for Teddy.”
Meg had finally met someone other than Haley Kittle who didn’t hate her for what she’d done. It wasn’t exactly shocking that this person would be Ted’s apparently married lover.
Ted stepped in front of the woman and disconnected her hand from Meg’s arm. “Best for you to get back to work, Meg. I’ll be sure to let Birdie know how diligent you are.”
Meg gritted her teeth, but Ted wasn’t quite done. “The next time you talk to Lucy, be sure to tell her how much I miss her?” With a flick of his finger, he tugged open the loose knot on the front of the woman’s robe, pulled her against him, and kissed her hard.
Moments later, the door slammed in Meg’s face.
Meg hated hypocrisy, and knowing everybody in town regarded Ted as a model of decency when he was banging a married woman made her crazy. She’d bet anything the affair had been going on while he and Lucy were engaged.
She pulled up to the church that evening and began the laborious process of dragging all her possessions back inside—her suitcase, towels, food, the bed linens she’d borrowed from the inn and intended to return as soon as she could. She refused to spend another second thinking about Ted Beaudine. Better to concentrate on the positive. Thanks to the golfers, she had money for gas, Tampax, and some groceries. Not a huge accomplishment, but enough so she could postpone making any humiliating phone calls to her friends.
But her relief was short-lived. On Sunday, the very next evening, as she was about to leave work, she discovered that one of the golfers—and it didn’t take any great detective skills to figure out which one—had complained to Birdie about a maid trolling for tips. Birdie called Meg to her office and, with a great deal of satisfaction, fired her on the spot.
The library rebuilding committee sat in Birdie’s living room enjoying a pitcher of her famous pineapple mojitos. “Haley’s mad at me again.” Their hostess leaned back into the streamlined midcentury armchair she’d just had reupholstered in vanilla linen, a fabric that wouldn’t have lasted a day at Emma’s house. “Because I fired Meg Koranda, of all things. She says Meg won’t be able to find another job. I pay my maids more than a fair wage, and Miss Hollywood shouldn’t have been deliberately soliciting tips.”
The women exchanged glances. They all knew Birdie had paid Meg three dollars less an hour than she was paying everybody else, something that had never sat quite right with Emma, even though Ted had come up with the idea.
Zoey toyed with a glittery pink pasta shell that had dropped off the pin she’d stuck to the collar of her sleeveless white blouse. “Haley’s always had a soft heart. I’ll bet Meg took advantage of it.”
“A soft head is more like it,” Birdie said. “I know y’all have noticed the way she’s been dressing lately, and I appreciate that none of you have mentioned it. She thinks lettin’ her boobs hang out will make Kyle Bascom notice her.”
“I had him when I taught sixth grade,” Zoey said. “And let me just say that Haley is way too smart for that boy.”
“Try telling her that.” Birdie drummed her fingers on the chair arm.
Kayla put down her lip gloss and picked up her mojito. “Haley’s right about one thing. Nobody in this town is going to hire Meg Koranda, not if they want to look Ted Beaudine in the face.”
Emma had never liked bullying, and the town’s vindictiveness toward Meg was starting to make her uncomfortable. At the same time, she couldn’t forgive Meg for the part she’d played in hurting one of her favorite people.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Ted lately.” Shelby hooked one side of her blond bob behind her ear and gazed down at her new peep-toe ballerinas.
“Haven’t we all.” Kayla frowned and touched her pavé diamond star necklace.
“Way too much.” Zoey started to chew on her bottom lip.
Ted’s newly single status had once again raised their hopes. Emma wished they’d both accept the fact that he would never commit to either of them. Kayla was too high maintenance, and Zoey inspired his admiration but not his love.
It was time to draw the conversation back to the subject they’d been avoiding, how they were going to raise the rest of the money to repair the library. The town’s normal sources of big money, which included Emma and husband Kenny, still hadn’t recovered from the hits their portfolios had taken in the last economic downturn, and they’d already been tapped out by half a dozen other vital local charities in need of rescue. “Anyone have any new fund-raising idea?” Emma asked.
Shelby clicked her index finger against her front tooth. “I might.”
Birdie groaned. “No more bake sales. Last time, four people got food poisoning from Mollie Dodge’s coconut custard pie.”
“The quilt raffle was a dreadful embarrassment,” Emma couldn’t help but add, even though she didn’t like contributing to the general negativity.
“Who wants a dead squirrel staring back at them every time they go into their bedroom?” Kayla said.
“It was a kitten, not a dead squirrel,” Zoey declared.
“It sure looked like a dead squirrel to me,” Kayla retorted.
“Not a bake sale and not a quilt raffle.” Shelby had a faraway look in her eyes. “Something else. Something . . . bigger. More interesting.”
They all regarded her inquisitively, but Shelby shook her head. “I need to think about it first.”
No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get any more out of her.
,
Nobody would hire Meg. Not even at the ten-unit motel on the edge of town. “You got any idea how many permits it takes to keep this place open?” the ruddy-faced manager told her. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to piss off Ted Beaudine, not as long as he’s mayor. Hell, even if he wasn’t mayor . . .”
So Meg drove from one business to the next, her car guzzling gas like a construction worker gulping water on a summer afternoon. Three days passed, then four. By the fifth day, as she gazed across the desk at the newly hired assistant manager of Windmill Creek Country Club, her desperation had developed a bitter center. As soon as this interview fell through, she’d have to swallow her final shard of pride and call Georgie.
The assistant manager was an officious preppy type, thin, with glasses and a neatly trimmed beard he tugged on as he explained that, despite the club’s lowly status, being only semiprivate and not nearly as prestigious as his former place of employment, Windmill Creek was still the home of Dallas Beaudine and Kenny Traveler, two of the biggest legends in professional golf. As if she didn’t know.
Windmill Creek was also the home club of Ted Beaudine and his cronies, and she’d never have wasted gas coming here if she hadn’t seen the item in the Wynette Weekly announcing that the club’s newly hired assistant manager had last worked at a golf club in Waco, which made him a stranger in town. On the chance that he didn’t yet know she was the Voldemort of Wynette, she’d immediately picked up the phone and, to her shock, snagged this afternoon’s interview.
“The job’s eight to five,” he said, “with Mondays off.”
She’d gotten so used to rejection that she’d let her mind wander. She had no idea what job he was talking about, or if he’d actually offered it to her. “That’s—that’s perfect,” she said. “Eight to five is perfect.”
“The pay’s not much, but if you do your job right, the tips should be good, especially on weekends.”
Tips! “I’ll take it!”
He eyed her fictionalized résumé, then took in the outfit she’d pulled together from her desperately limited wardrobe—a gauzy petal skirt, white tank, studded black belt, gladiator sandals, and her Sung dynasty earrings. “Are you sure?” he said doubtfully. “Driving a drink cart isn’t much of a job.”
She bit back the urge to tell him she wasn’t much of an employee. “It’s perfect for me.” Desperation made it alarmingly easy to set aside her beliefs about golf courses destroying the environment.
As he led her outside to the snack shop to meet her supervisor, she could barely comprehend that she finally had a job. “Exclusive courses don’t have drink carts,” he sniffed. “But the members here can’t seem to wait for the turn to grab their next beer.”
Meg had grown up around horses, and she had no idea what “the turn” was. She didn’t care. She had a job.
When she got home later that afternoon, she parked behind an old storage shed she’d discovered in the undergrowth beyond the stone fence that surrounded the graveyard. It had long ago lost its roof, and vines, prickly pear, and dried grasses grew around its collapsing walls. She blew her curls off her sweaty forehead as she hauled her suitcase out of the trunk. At least she’d been able to hide her small stash of groceries behind some abandoned kitchen appliances, but even so, the constant packing and unpacking were wearing on her. As she lugged her possessions through the graveyard, she dreamed of air-conditioning and a place to stay where she wouldn’t have to erase her presence every morning.
It was nearly July, and the church felt hotter than ever. Dust motes flew as she turned on the overhead fans. They did nothing more than stir the air, but she couldn’t risk opening the windows, just as she tried to avoid turning the lights on after dark. It left her with nothing to do other than go to bed around the same time she used to head out for the evening.
She peeled down to her tank and underpants, slipped into her flip-flops, and let herself out the back door. As she wove through the graveyard, she glanced at the names on the tombstones. dietzel. meusebach. ernst. The hardships she faced were nothing compared with what those good Germans must have endured when they left the familiar behind to make a home in this hostile country.
A thicket of trees lay beyond the graveyard. On the other side, a wide creek fed by the Pedernales River formed a secluded swimming hole she’d discovered not long after she’d moved into the church. The clear water was deep at the center, and she’d started coming here every afternoon to cool off. As she dove in, she wrestled with the unhappy knowledge that Ted Beaudine’s fan club would try to get her fired as soon as they spotted her. She had to make sure she didn’t give them a reason beyond basic hatred. What did it say about her life that her highest aspiration was not to screw up driving a drink cart?
That night the choir loft was especially hot, and she tossed on the lumpy futon. She had to be at the country club early, and she tried to will herself to fall asleep, but just as she finally drifted off, a noise jarred her awake. It took a few seconds to identify the sound of the doors below opening.
She shot up in bed as the lights came on. Her travel alarm read midnight, and her heart pounded. She’d been prepared for Ted to show up at the church during the day while she was gone, but she’d never expected a nighttime visit. She tried to remember if she’d left anything out in the main room. She eased off the bed and sneaked a peek over the choir loft railing.
A man who was not Ted Beaudine stood in the middle of the old sanctuary. Although they were about the same height, his hair was darker, almost blue-black, and he was a few pounds heavier. It was Kenny Traveler, golf legend and Ted Beaudine’s best man. She’d met him and his British wife, Emma, at the rehearsal dinner.
Her heart kicked up another notch as she heard the crunch of a second set of tires. She lifted her head a little higher but couldn’t see any signs of abandoned clothes or shoes. “Somebody left the door unlocked,” Kenny said a few moments later as the person entered.
“Lucy must have forgotten to close up the last time she was here,” an unpleasantly familiar male voice replied. Barely a month had passed since his aborted wedding ceremony, but he uttered Lucy’s name impersonally.
She inched up her head again. Ted had wandered into the center of the sanctuary and stood before the place where the altar had once been. He wore jeans and a T-shirt instead of a robe and sandals, but she still half expected him to raise his arms and start addressing the Almighty.
Kenny was in his early forties, tall, well built, as exceptionally good-looking in his way as Ted. Wynette definitely had more than its fair share of male stunners. Kenny took one of the beers Ted handed him and carried it over to the far side of the room, where he sat against the wall between the second and third windows. “What does it say about this town that we have to sneak away to have a private conversation?” he said as he popped the top.
“It says more about your nosy wife than about the town.” Ted sat next to him with his own beer.
“Lady Emma does like to know what’s going on.” The way Kenny caressed his wife’s name spoke volumes about his feelings for her. “She’s been on my ass ever since the wedding to spend more quality time with you. Thinks you need the solace of male friends and all that bullshit.”
“That’s Lady Emma for you.” Ted sipped his beer. “Did you ask her what she meant by quality time?”
“Afraid to hear her answer.”
“No question she’s real big on book clubs these days.”
“You should never have appointed her the town’s cultural director. You know how seriously she takes things like that.”
“You need to get her pregnant again. She doesn’t have as much energy when she’s pregnant.”
“Three kids is enough. Especially our kids.” Once again, his pride shone through his words.
The men drank in silence for a while. Meg allowed herself a flicker of hope. As long as they didn’t wander into the back where her clothes were scattered, this could still turn out all right for her.
“You think he’ll buy the land this time?” Kenny said.
“Hard to tell. Spencer Skipjack’s unpredictable. Six weeks ago he told us he’d decided on San Antone for sure, but now here he is again.”
Meg had overheard enough conversations to know Spencer Skipjack was the owner of Viceroy Industries, the giant plumbing company, and the man they were all counting on to build some kind of local upscale golf resort and condo complex that would attract both tourists and retirees and rescue the town from its economic doldrums. Apparently Wynette’s only decent-size industry was an electronics company partially owned by Kenny’s father, Warren Traveler. But one company wasn’t enough to sustain the local economy, and the town was in bad need of jobs along with a fresh source of revenue.
“We have to show Spence the time of his life tomorrow,” Ted said. “Let him see what his future’ll be like if he chooses Wynette. I’ll wait until dinner to get down to business—lay out the tax incentives, remind him of the bargain he’ll be getting on that land. You know the drill.”
“If only we had enough acreage at Windmill Creek to bulldoze the place and put the resort there.” The way Kenny said it suggested this was something they’d frequently discussed.
“It would be a lot cheaper to build, that’s for sure.” Ted set his beer can aside with a thud. “Torie wanted to play with us tomorrow, so I told her if I saw her anywhere near the club, I’d have her arrested.”
“That won’t stop her,” Kenny said, “and having my sister show up is the last thing we need. Spence knows he can’t outplay us, but he’d hate getting beat by a woman, and Torie’s short game is practically as good as mine.”
“Dex is going to tell Shelby she has to keep Torie away.”
Meg wondered if Dex was short for Dexter, the name that Ted’s love nest at the inn had been registered under.
Ted leaned against the wall. “As soon as I got wind of Torie’s plan to fill out our foursome, I made Dad fly back from New York.”
“That’ll definitely pump up Spence’s ego. Playing with the great Dallas Beaudine.” Meg detected a trace of petulance in Kenny’s tone, and apparently Ted did, too.
“Stop acting like a girl. You’re almost as famous as Dad.” Ted’s smile faded, and he dropped his hands between his bent knees. “If we don’t pull this off, the town’s going to suffer in more ways than I want to think about.”
“It’s time you let people know exactly how serious the situation is.”
“They already do. But for now, I don’t want anybody saying it out loud.”
Another silence fell as the men finished their beers. Finally, Kenny stood to leave. “This isn’t your fault, Ted. Things were already in the crapper before you let yourself get elected mayor.”
“I know that.”
“You’re not a miracle worker. All you can do is give it your best effort.”
“You’ve been married to Lady Emma too long,” Ted grumbled. “You sound just like her. Next thing, you’ll be inviting me to join your damn book club.”
The men kept on like that, jabbing at each other as they made their way outside. Their voices faded. A car engine roared to life. Meg sagged back on her heels and let herself breathe.
And then she realized the lights were still on.
The door opened again, and a single set of footsteps echoed on the pine floors. She peered down. Ted stood in the middle of the room, his thumbs tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. He gazed toward the place where the altar had been, but this time his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, offering her a rare glimpse of the unguarded man beneath the self-possessed exterior.
The moment passed quickly. He moved toward the door that led to the kitchen. Her stomach tightened with dread. A moment later, she heard a very loud, very angry curse.
She ducked her head and buried her face in her hands. The angry thud of feet echoed through the church. Maybe, if she stayed very quiet . . .
“Meg!”