Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(132)

“Are you going to talk to this prince fellow or not?” the cleaning lady demanded.

A jackhammer went off inside Francesca's skull. She wanted to scream at all of them to leave her alone. Her friendship with Holly Grace was crumbling before her eyes; Doralee looked as if she was going to attack; Teddy was ready to cry. “Please...” she said. But no one heard her.

No one except Dallie.

He leaned toward Skeet and said quietly, “How about holding on to Teddy for me?” Skeet nodded and moved closer to the boy. The angry voices grew louder. Dallie stepped forward and, before anyone could stop him, hoisted Francesca over his shoulder. She gasped as she found herself upended.

“Sorry, folks,” Dallie said. “But y'all are gonna have to wait your turn.” And then, before any of them could stop him, he carried her out the door.

“Mom!” Teddy shrieked.

Skeet caught hold of Teddy before he could run after Francesca. “Now, don't get yourself riled, boy. This is the way your mama and Dallie always carry on when they're together. You might as well get used to it.”

Francesca shut her eyes and leaned her head against the window of Dallie's car. The glass felt cool against her temple. She knew she should be filled with righteous outrage, lambasting Dallie for his high-handed macho theatrics, but she was too glad to be away from all those demanding, censorious voices. Abandoning Teddy upset her, but she knew Holly Grace would settle him down.

A Barry Manilow tune began to play softly on the radio. Dallie reached forward to punch the button, and then, glancing over at her, stopped himself and left it alone. Several miles slipped by, and she began to feel calmer. Dallie didn't say anything to her, but considering what they'd been through, the silence was relatively restful. She'd forgotten how quiet Dallie could be when he wasn't talking.

She shut her eyes and let herself drift until the car turned into a narrow lane that ended in front of a two-story stone house. The rustic little house was set in a grove of chinaberry trees with a line of old cedars forming a windbreak along the side and a row of low blue hills in the distance. She looked over at Dallie as they pulled up to the front walk. “Where are we?”

He turned off the ignition and got out without answering her. She watched warily as he walked around the front of the car and opened her door. Resting one hand on the roof of the car and the other on the top of the door frame, he leaned in toward her. As she gazed into those cool blue eyes, something strange happened in the vicinity of her middle.

She suddenly felt like a hungry woman who had just been presented with a tempting dessert. Her moment of sensory weakness embarrassed her, and she frowned.

“Damn, you're pretty,” Dallie said softly.

“Not half as pretty as you,” she snapped, determined to squash whatever strangeness was lurking in the air between them. “Where are we? Whose house is this?”

“It's mine.”

“Yours? We can't be more than twenty miles from Wynette. Why do you have two houses so close together?”

“After what happened back there, I'm surprised you can even ask that question.” He stood aside to let her out.

She stepped from the car and gazed thoughtfully toward the front porch. “This is a hideaway, isn't it?”

“I guess you might call it that. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anybody that I brought you here. They all know about this place, but so far they've kept their distance. If they find out you've been here, though, it'll be open season and they'll be lining up with sleeping bags and knitting needles and coolers full of Dr Pepper.”

She walked toward the front step, curious to see the inside, but before she could get there he touched her arm. “Francie? The thing of it is, it's my house, and we can't fight in it.”

His expression was as serious as she had ever seen it. “What makes you think I want to fight?” she inquired.

“I guess it's pretty much in your nature.”

“My nature! First you kidnap my son, then you kidnap me, and now you have the nerve to say that I want to fight!”

“Call me a pessimist.” He sat down on the top step.

Francesca clutched her arms, uncomfortably aware that he'd gotten the best of her on that exchange. And then she shivered. He'd carried her out of the house without her jacket, and it couldn't be much more than forty degrees. “What are you doing? Why are you sitting down?”

“If we're going to have it out, let's do it right here, because once we go inside that house, we have to be real polite to each other. I mean it, Francie, that house is my retreat, and I'm not going to have it spoiled by the two of us going after each other.”

“That's ridiculous.” Her teeth began to chatter. “We have things to talk about, and I don't think we're going to be able to do it without getting upset.”

He patted the step next to him.

“I'm freezing,” she said, thumping down at his side, but even as she complained, she found herself secretly pleased by the idea of a house where no arguments were allowed. What would happen to human relationships if there were more houses like this one? Only Dallie could have thought of something so interesting. Surreptitiously, she moved closer to his warmth. She'd forgotten how good he always smelled—like soap and clean clothes. “Why don't we sit in the car?” she suggested. “You only have on a flannel shirt. You can't be all that warm yourself.”