Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(123)

Francesca remembered all too well what had happened after “China Colt” had made Holly Grace famous. Every detail of her unusual marriage to one of professional golf's most colorful players had suddenly become fodder for the media, and as one wild story followed another, neither of them could go anywhere without being dogged by paparazzi. Holly Grace handled it better than Dallie, who was accustomed to sports reporters but not the sensationalistic press. It hadn't taken him long to start throwing his fists, which had eventually attracted the attention of the PGA commissioner. Following a particularly nasty altercation in Albuquerque, Dallie had been suspended from tournament play for several months. Holly Grace had divorced him soon after to try to make both their lives more peaceful.

The house still bore its lavender trim and chain of leaping jackrabbits, although the tangerine paint had been touched up by a less skillful hand than Miss Sybil's. The old schoolteacher met Francesca at the door. It had been ten years since they'd seen each other. Miss Sybil had shrunk in size and her shoulders were more stooped, but her voice hadn't lost its authority.

“Come in, my dear, come in and get out of the cold. My, my, you'd think this was Boston instead of Texas, the way the temperature's dropped. My dear, I've been at sixes and sevens ever since you called.”

Francesca gave her a gentle hug. “Thank you for letting me come. After everything I told you on the phone, I wasn't sure you'd want to see me.”

“Not want to see you? My gracious, I've been counting the hours.” Miss Sybil led the way toward the kitchen and asked Francesca to pour them both coffee. “I don't like to complain, but life hasn't been very interesting lately. I can't get around the way I used to, and Dallas was keeping company with such a dreadful young woman. I couldn't even interest her in Danielle Steel, let alone the classics.” She gestured Francesca into a seat across from her at the kitchen table. “My, my, I can't tell you how proud I am of you. When I think of how far you've come...” She suddenly drilled Francesca with her schoolteacher's gaze. “Now tell me all about this dreadful situation.”

Francesca told her, sparing nothing. To her relief, Miss Sybil wasn't nearly as condemnatory as Holly Grace had been. She seemed to understand Francesca's need to establish her independence; however, she was clearly worried about Dallie's reaction to discovering that he had a child. “I believe Holly Grace is correct,” she finally said. “Dallas must be on his way back to Wynette, and we can be quite certain he won't take this well. You'll stay in the guest room, Francesca, until he gets here.”

Francesca had planned to stay at the hotel, but she gratefully accepted the invitation. As long as she remained in the house, she would feel that she'd somehow gotten closer to Teddy. Half an hour later, Francesca found herself curled up beneath an old patchwork quilt while the winter sunlight trickled in through the lace curtains and the old radiator hissed out a comforting flow of heat. She fell asleep almost instantly.

By noon of the next day, Dallie still hadn't appeared and she was nearly frantic with anxiety. Maybe she should have stayed in New York? What if he wasn't coming to Wynette?

And then Holly Grace called and told her that Skeet had disappeared.

“What do you mean, disappeared?” Francesca exclaimed. “He said he'd contact you if he heard anything.”

“Dallie probably called him and told him to keep his mouth shut. I expect Skeet's gone to meet him.”

Francesca felt angry and impotent. If Dallie had told Skeet to put a gun to his head, he would probably have done that, too. By midafternoon, when Miss Sybil left to go to her pottery class, Francesca was ready to jump out of her skin. What was taking Dallie so long? Afraid to leave the house for fear Dallie would appear, she tried to study the American history material for her citizenship exam, but she couldn't concentrate. She began pacing through the house and ended up in Dallie's bedroom, where a collection of his golf trophies sat in the front window catching the thin wintry light. She picked up a copy of a golf magazine with his picture on the cover. “Dallas Beaudine—Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride.” She noticed that the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper and his features had a sharper cast, but maturity hadn't robbed him of one morsel of his good looks. He was even more gorgeous than she remembered.

She searched his face for some small sign of Teddy, but saw nothing. Once again, she wondered how he had known that Teddy was his son. Putting down the magazine, she looked over at the bed and a shower of memories drifted over her. Was that where Teddy had been conceived, or had it happened earlier, in a Louisiana swamp when Dallie had stretched her out over the trunk of that Buick Riviera?

The phone next to the bed rang. She banged her foot on the bed frame as she raced over to it and snatched up the receiver. “Hello! Hello?”

Silence greeted her.

“Dallie?” The name came out like a sob. “Dallie, is that you?”

There was no answer. She felt a prickling along the back of her neck, and her heart began to race. She was certain someone was there; her ears strained to catch a sound. “Teddy?” she whispered. “Teddy... it's Mommy.”

“It's me, Miss Fancy Pants.” Dallie's voice was low and bitter, making her old nickname sound like an obscenity. “We've got some talking to do. Meet me at the quarry north of town in half an hour.”