Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(129)

“Teddy,” she said, clasping both his hands between hers, “we've talked a lot about how important it is to tell the truth. Sometimes, though, it's hard for a mother to always do that, especially when her child is too young to understand.”

Without warning, Teddy snatched his hands away and jumped up from the bed. “I have to go see Skeet,” he said. “I told him I'd be right back down. I have to go now.”

“Teddy!” Francesca jumped up and caught his arm before he could reach the door. “Teddy, I need to talk to you.”

“I don't want to,” he mumbled.

He knows, Francesca thought. On some subliminal level, he knows I'm going to tell him something he doesn't want to hear. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Teddy, it's about Dallie.”

“I don't want to hear.”

She held him tighter, whispering into his hair. “A long time ago, Dallie and I knew each other, sweetheart. We—we loved each other.” She grimaced at this additional face-saving lie, but decided it was better than confusing her son with details he wouldn't understand. “Things didn't work out between us, honey, and we had to separate.” She knelt down in front of him so she could look into his face, her hands sliding down his arms to catch his small wrists as he still tried to pull away from her. “Teddy, what I told you about your father—about how I'd known him in England, and he died—”

Teddy shook his head, his small, blotched face contorted with misery. “I have to go! I mean it, Mom! I have to go! Dallie's a jerk! I hate him!”

“Teddy—”

“No!” Using all his strength, he twisted out of her hands and before she could catch him, he'd raced from the room. She heard his feet making fast, angry thumps down the stairs.

She sagged back on her heels. Her son, who liked every adult male he'd ever met in his life, didn't like Dallie Beaudine. For a moment she felt a petty rush of satisfaction, but then, in a sickening flash of insight, she realized that no matter how much she might hate it, Dallie was bound to become a factor in Teddy's life. What effect would it have on her son to dislike the man who, sooner or later, he must realize was his father?

Shoving her hands through her hair, she got up and pushed the door shut so she could get dressed. As she pulled on slacks and a sweater, she saw a vision of Dallie's face as he had looked when he was watching them. There had been something familiar about his expression, something that reminded her of the lost teenage girls who waited for her outside the studio at night.

She scowled at herself in the mirror. She was too fanciful. Dallie Beaudine wasn't a teenage runaway, and she refused to waste a moment's sympathy on a man who was little better than a common criminal.

After peeking into the sewing room to reassure herself that Doralee was still asleep, she took a few minutes to collect herself by making a phone call to set up an appointment with one of the county social workers. Afterward, she went in search of Teddy. She found him slumped on a stool next to a workbench in the basement where Skeet was sanding the bare wooden head of a golf club. Neither of them was talking, but the silence seemed to be companionable rather than hostile. She saw some suspicious streaks on her son's cheeks and slid her arm around his shoulders, her heart aching for him. She hadn't seen Skeet in ten years, but he nodded at her as casually as if it had been ten minutes. She nodded back. The heating duct above her head clattered.

“Teddy here's gonna be my assistant while I regrip those irons over there,” Skeet announced. “Most times I wouldn't even think about letting a little kid help me regrip clubs, but Teddy's about the most responsible boy I ever met. He knows when to talk, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut. I like that in a man.”

Francesca could have kissed Skeet, but since she couldn't do that, she pressed her lips to the top of Teddy's head instead. “I want to go home,” Teddy said abruptly. “When can we go?” And then Francesca felt him stiffen.

She sensed that Dallie had come into the workroom behind them even before she heard his voice. “Skeet, how 'bout you take Teddy upstairs for some of that chocolate cake in the kitchen?”

Teddy jumped up from the stool with a rapidity that she suspected spoke more of his desire to get away from Dallie than of his craving for her chocolate cake. What had gone on between the two of them to make Teddy this miserable? He had always loved Holly Grace's stories. What had Dallie done to alienate him so completely? “Come on, Mom,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Let's go get some cake. Come on, Skeet. Let's go.”

Dallie touched Teddy's arm. “You and Skeet go on up. I want to talk to your mother for a minute.”

Teddy tightened his grip on Francesca's hand and turned to Skeet. “We got to regrip those clubs, don't we? You said we had to do those clubs. Let's get started right now. Mom can help us.”

“You can do it later,” Dallie said more sharply. “I want to talk to your mother.”

Skeet put down the wooden club head he was holding. “Come on, boy. I got some golf trophies I want to show you anyway.”

As much as Francesca would have liked to put it off, she knew she couldn't postpone the confrontation. Gently disengaging herself from Teddy's grasp, she nodded toward the door. “Go on now, sweetheart. I'll be up in a minute.”