Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(117)

Popping the lid on the Dr Pepper, he walked back to the piano and looked around for another picture of Francesca's son, but found only the one. He got a kick out of the fact that whenever the child was mentioned in an article about Francesca, he was always identified as the product of an unhappy early marriage—so unhappy that Francesca had refused to give the child his father's last name. As far as Dallie knew, he, Holly Grace, and Skeet were the only people who knew the marriage had never existed, but all of them had enough respect for what Francesca had done with herself to keep their mouths shut.

The unexpected friendship that had developed between Holly Grace and Francesca seemed to Dallie one of life's more interesting relationships, and he'd mentioned to Holly Grace more than once that he would like to drop in some time when the two of them were together to see how they got along. “I just can't picture it,” he'd once said. “All I can see is you going on and on about the last Cowboys game while Francie talks about her Gucci shoes and admires herself in the mirror.”

“She's not like that, Dallie,” Holly Grace replied. “I mean, she does talk about her shoes, but that's not all.”

“It just seems ironic,” he answered, “that somebody like her should be raising a male child. I'll bet you anything he grows up strange.”

Holly Grace hadn't liked that remark, so he'd stopped teasing her, but he could tell she was worried about the same thing. That's how he knew the kid was pretty much a sissy.

Dallie had rewound Born in the U.S.A. for the third time when he heard a key turn in the front door. Holly Grace called out, “Hey, Dallie. The doorman said he let you in.

You weren't supposed to show up until tomorrow.”

“I had a change of plans. Damn, Holly Grace, this place reminds me of a doctor's office.”

Holly Grace had a peculiar look on her face as she walked in from the foyer, her blond hair sweeping over the collar of her coat. “That's exactly what Francesca always says. Honestly, Dallie, it's the spookiest thing. Sometimes the two of you give me the willies.”

“Now, why's that?”

She tossed her purse down on a white leather couch. “You're not going to believe this, but you have these strange similarities. I mean, you and me, we're like two peas in a pod, right? We look alike, we talk alike. We have just about all the same interests—sports, sex, cars.”

“Is there a point in here somewhere, because I'm starting to get hungry.”

“Of course there's a point. You and Francesca don't like any of the same things. She loves clothes, cities, fancy people. Her stomach gets queasy if she sees somebody sweat, and her politics are definitely getting more liberal all the time—I guess maybe because she's an immigrant.” Holly Grace perched one hip on the back of the couch and looked at him thoughtfully. “You, on the other hand, don't care much about fancy stuff, and you lean so far to the right on the political spectrum that you're just about ready to fall off. Looking at the surface, two people couldn't be any more different.”

“I guess that's pretty much an understatement.” The Springsteen tape had reached “Darlington County” again, and Dallie tapped out the rhythm with the toe of his shoe while he waited for Holly Grace to get to the point.

“Except you're alike in the most peculiar ways. The first thing she said when she saw this apartment was that it reminded her of a doctor's office. And, Dallie, that girl just about has you beat when it comes to picking up strays. First it was cats. Then she branched off into dogs, which was interesting because she's scared to death of them. Finally, she began picking up people—teenage girls, fourteen, fifteen years old, who'd run away from home and were selling their wares on the street.”

“No kidding,” Dallie said, his interest finally caught. “What does she do with them once she—” But then he stopped as Holly Grace pulled off her coat and he caught sight of the bruise on her neck. “Hey, what's that? It looks like a sucker bite.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” She hunched up her shoulders to cover the mark and escaped into the kitchen.

He followed her. “Damn, I haven't seen one of those things in years. I remember when I put a few of those on you myself.” He propped himself in the doorway. “You feel like telling me about it?”

“You'll only start yelling.”

Dallie gave a snort of displeasure. “Gerry Jaffe. You saw your old commie lover again.”

“He's not a commie.” Holly Grace yanked a Miller Lite from the refrigerator. “Just because you don't happen to agree with somebody's politics doesn't mean you should go around calling him a commie. Besides, you're not half as conservative as you try to make people believe.”

“My politics don't have anything to do with it. I just don't want to see you get hurt again, honey.”

Holly Grace deflected the conversation by curving her mouth into a syrupy sweet smile. “Speaking of old lovers, how's Bambi? Has she learned to read those movie magazines yet without moving her lips?”

“Aw, come on, Holly Grace...”

She looked at him with disgust. “I swear to God I would never have divorced you if I'd known you were going to start dating women with names that end in i.”