Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(30)

“How you feelin’ today, Dallie?”

“Can't complain.”

“You were drinkin’ pretty heavy last night.”

Dallie shrugged. “I ran a few miles this morning. Did some push-ups. Sweated it off.”

Skeet looked up, knife and fork poised in his hands. “Uh-huh.”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

“Don't mean nothin’, Dallie, except I think the Dread Mondays been gettin' to you again.”

He took a sip from his coffee cup. “It's natural to feel depressed toward the end of the season—too many motels, too much time on the road.”

“Especially when you didn't come within kissin’ distance of any of the majors.”

“A tournament is a tournament.”

“Horse manure.” Skeet returned to the steak. A few minutes of silence passed between them.

Dallie finally spoke. “I wonder if Nicklaus ever gets the Dread Mondays?”

Skeet slammed down his fork. “Now, don't start thinkin’ about Nicklaus again! Every time you start thinkin’ about him, your game goes straight to hell.”

Dallie pushed back his coffee cup and picked up the check. “Give me a couple of uppers, will you?”

“Shoot, Dallie, I thought you was going to lay off that stuff.”

“You want me to stay in the running today or not?”

“‘Course I want you to stay in the runnin’, but I don't like the way you been doin’ it lately.”

“Just lay off, will you, and give me the f*cking pills!”

Skeet shook his head and did as he was told, reaching into his pocket and pushing the black capsules across the table. Dallie snatched them up. As he swallowed them, it didn't slip past him that there was a halfway humorous contradiction between the care he took of his athlete's body and the abuse he subjected it to in the form of late nights, drinking, and that street-corner pharmacy he made Skeet carry around in his pockets. Still, it didn't really matter. Dallie stared down at the money he'd thrown on the table. When you were born a Beaudine, it was pretty much predestined that you wouldn't die of old age.

“This dress is hideous!”

Francesca studied her reflection in the long mirror set up at the end of the trailer that was serving as a makeshift costume shop. Her eyes had been enlarged for the screen with amber shadow and a thick set of eyelashes, and her hair was parted at the center, pulled smooth over her temples, and gathered into ringlets that fell over her ears. The period hairstyle was both charming and flattering, so she had no quarrel with the man who had just finished arranging it for her, but the dress was another story. To her fashion-conscious eye, the insipid pink taffeta with its layers of ruffled white lace flounces encircling the skirt looked like an overly sweet strawberry cream puff. The bodice fit so tightly she could barely breathe, and the boning pushed up her breasts until everything except her nipples spilled out over the top. The gown managed to look both saccharine and vulgar, certainly nothing like the costumes Marisa Berenson had worn in Barry Lyndon.

“It's not at all what I had in mind, and I can't possibly wear it,” she said firmly. “You'll have to do something.”

Sally Calaverra bit off a length of pink thread with more force than necessary. “This is the costume that was designed for the part.”

Francesca chided herself for not having paid more attention to the gown yesterday when Sally was fitting her. But she'd been so distracted by her exhaustion and the fact that Lloyd Byron had proved so unreasonably stubborn when she'd complained to him about her awful living arrangements that she'd barely looked at the costume. Now she had less than an hour before she was supposed to report to the set to film the first of her three scenes. At least the men in the company had been helpful, finding a more comfortable room for her with a private bath, bringing her a meal tray along with that lovely gin and quinine she'd been dreaming about. Even though the “chicken coop,” with its small windows and blond veneer furniture, was an abomination, she'd slept like the dead and actually felt a small spurt of anticipation when she'd awakened that morning—at least until she'd taken a second look at her costume.

After turning to view the back of the gown, she decided to appeal to Sally's sense of fair play. “Surely you have something else. I absolutely never wear pink.”

“This is the costume Lord Byron approved, and there's nothing I can do about it.” Sally fastened the last of the hooks that held the back closed, pulling the fabric together more roughly than necessary.

Francesca sucked in her breath at the uncomfortable constriction. “Why do you keep calling him that ridiculous name—Lord Byron?”

“If you have to ask the question, you must not know him very well.”

Francesca refused to let either the wardrobe mistress or the costume continue to dampen her spirits. After all, poor Sally had to work in this dreadful trailer all day. That would make anyone cross. Francesca reminded herself that she had been given a role in a prestigious film. Besides, her looks were striking enough to overcome any costume, even this one. Still, she absolutely had to do something about getting a hotel room. She had no intention of spending another night in a place that didn't offer maid service.

The French heels of her slippers crunched in the gravel as she crossed the drive and headed for the plantation house, her great hoopskirt swaying from side to side. This time she wasn't going to make the mistake she had made yesterday of trying to negotiate with lackeys. This time she was going straight to the producer with her list of complaints. Yesterday Lloyd Byron had told her he wanted the cast and crew lodged together to develop a spirit of ensemble, but she suspected he was just being cheap. As far as she was concerned, appearing in a prestigious film didn't make up for having to live like a barbarian.