Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(69)

“And what if I tell you I'm not doing it?” he sneered.

“I should imagine your guardian would object.” She regarded Skeet. “Tell me, Mr. Cooper, what is your position regarding physical violence?”

“Don't bother me none,” Skeet replied.

“Do you think you might be capable of physically restraining Dallas if he doesn't do as I ask?”

“Hard to say. I've got him on weight, but he's got me on height. And if he's hurt too much, he won't be able to hustle the boys at the country club this weekend. All in all, I'd say no.”

She didn't give up hope. “All right, then, Dallas, I'm asking you to do your assignment voluntarily. For the sake of your immortal soul.”

He shook his head and stuck a toothpick in his mouth.

She was quite disappointed, but she hid her feelings by rummaging in the tie-dyed tote bag she'd brought with her and pulling out a paperback book. “Very well, then. I observed your visual exchanges with the young ladies in the class today and came to the conclusion that anyone as obviously interested in sexual activity as you should read about it from one of the world's great writers. I'll expect an intelligent report from you in two days.” With that, she thrust a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover into his hand and left the house.

For nearly a month she relentlessly dogged the small apartment, thrusting banned books at her rebellious student and badgering Skeet to put tighter reins on the boy. “You don't understand,” Skeet finally complained in frustration. “Regardless of the fact that no one wants him back, he's a runaway and I'm not even his legal guardian. I'm an ex-con he picked up in a gas station rest room, and he's been pretty much taking care of me, instead of the other way around.”

“Nevertheless,” she said, “you're an adult and he is still a minor.”

Gradually Dallie's intelligence won out over his sullenness, although later he would insist she had just worn him down with all her dirty books. She talked him back into school, moved him into her college-bound class, and tutored him whenever he wasn't playing golf. Thanks to her efforts, he graduated with honors at age eighteen and was accepted at four different colleges.

After he left for Texas A&M, she missed him dreadfully, although he and Skeet continued to make Wynette their home base and he came to see her during vacations when he wasn't playing golf. Gradually, however, his responsibilities took him farther away for longer stretches of time. Once they didn't see each other for nearly a year. In her dazed state, she had barely recognized him the night he found her sitting in the thunderstorm on the curb at Main and Elwood wearing her nightgown.

Francesca had somehow imagined Dallie living in a modern apartment built next to a golf course instead of an old Victorian house with a central turret and pastel-painted gingerbread trim. She gazed at the windows of the house in disbelief as the Riviera turned the corner and slipped into a narrow gravel driveway. “Are those rabbits?”

“Two hundred fifty-six of them,” Skeet said. “Fifty-seven if you count the one on the front door. Look, Dallie, that rainbow on the garage is new.”

“She's going to break her fool neck one of these days climbing those ladders,” Dallie grumbled. Then he turned to Francesca. “You mind your manners, now. I mean it, Francie. None of your fancy stuff.”

He was talking to her as if she were a child instead of his lover, but before she could retaliate, the back door flew open and an incredible-looking old lady appeared. With her long gray ponytail flying behind her and a pair of reading glasses bobbing on the gold neck chain that hung over her daffodil yellow sweat suit, she rushed toward them, crying out, “Dallas! Oh, my, my! Skeet! My goodness!”

Dallie climbed out of the car and enveloped her small, thin body in a bear hug. Then Skeet grabbed her away to the accompaniment of another chorus of my-my's.

Francesca emerged from the back seat and looked on curiously. Dallie had said his mother was dead, so who was this? A grandmother? As far as she knew, he had no relatives except the woman named Holly Grace. Was this Holly Grace? Somehow Francesca doubted it. She'd gotten the impression Holly Grace was Dallie's sister. Besides, she couldn't envision this eccentric-looking old lady showing up at a motel with a Chevy dealer from Tulsa. The cat slipped from the back seat, looked around disdainfully with his one good eye, and disappeared under the back steps.

“And who is this, Dallas?” the woman inquired, turning to Francesca'. “Please introduce me to your friend.”

“This is Francie... Francesca,” Dallie amended. “Old F. Scott would have loved her, Miss Sybil, so if she gives you any trouble, let me know.” Francesca darted him an angry glare, but he ignored her and continued his introduction. “Miss Sybil Chandler... Francesca Day.”

Small brown eyes gazed at her, and Francesca suddenly felt as if her soul was being examined. “How do you do?” she replied, barely able to keep herself from squirming. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Miss Sybil beamed at the sound of her accent, then extended her hand for a hearty shake. “Francesca, you're British! What a delightful surprise. Pay no attention to Dallas. He can charm the dead, of course, but he's a complete scoundrel. Do you read Fitzgerald?”

Francesca had seen the movie of The Great Gatsby, but she suspected that wouldn't count. “I'm afraid not,” she said. “I don't read much.”