Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(83)

She started to shake and crossed her arms over her chest as if she could hold herself together. The cat wandered off to the side of the road and began picking its way delicately through the brush. A jackrabbit darted out from a clump of dried grass. She felt as if chunks of her body were flying away into the hot, cloudless sky—pieces of her arms and legs, her hair, her face.... Since she had come to this country, she had lost everything. Everything she owned. Everything she was. She had lost it all, and now she had lost herself....

Twisted verses from the Bible invaded her brain, verses half learned from long-forgotten nannies, something about Saul on the road to Damascus, struck down into the dirt, blinded and then reborn. At that moment Francesca wanted to be reborn. She felt the dirt beneath her hands and wanted a miracle that would make her new again, a miracle of biblical proportions... a divine voice calling down to her with a message. She waited, and she, who never thought to pray, began to pray. “Please, God... make a miracle for me. Please, God... send me a voice. Send me a messenger....”

Her prayer was fierce and strong, her faith—the faith of despair—immediate and boundless. God would answer her. God must answer her. She waited for her messénger to appear in white robes with a seraphic voice to point out the path to a new life. “I've learned my lesson, God. Really I have. I'll never be spoiled and selfish again.” She waited, eyes squeezed shut, tears making paths in the dust on her cheeks. She waited for the messenger to appear, and an image began to form in her mind, vague at first and then growing more solid. She strained to look into the dimmest corners of her consciousness, strained to peer at her messenger. She strained and saw...

Scarlett O'Hara.

She saw Scarlett lying in the dirt, silhouetted against a Technicolor hillside. Scarlett crying out, “As God is my witness, FU never go hungry again.”

Francesca choked on her tears and a hysterical bubble of laughter rose from her chest. She fell back onto her heels and slowly let the laughter consume her. How typical, she thought. And how appropriate. Other people prayed and got thunderbolts and angels. She got Scarlett O'Hara.

She stood up and started to walk, not knowing where she was going, just moving. The dust drifted like powder over her sandals and settled between her toes. She felt something in her back pocket and, reaching in to investigate, pulled out a quarter. She gazed down at the coin in her hand. Alone in a foreign country, homeless, possibly pregnant—mustn't forget that calamity waiting to happen—she stood in the middle of a Texas road with only the clothes on her back, twenty-five cents in her hand, and a vision of Scarlett O'Hara in her head.

A strange euphoria began to consume her—an audaciousness, a sense of limitless possibilities. This was America, land of opportunity. She was tired of herself, tired of what she had become, ready to begin anew. And in all the history of civilization, had anyone ever been given such an opportunity for a fresh start as she faced at this precise moment?

Black Jack's daughter looked down at the money in her hand, tested its weight for a moment, and considered her future. If this was to be a fresh start, she wouldn't carry any baggage from the past. Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she drew back her arm and flung the quarter away.

The country was so vast, the sky so tall, that she couldn't even hear it land.





Chapter

17



Holly Grace sat on the green wooden bench at the driving range and watched Dallie hitting practice balls with his two-iron. It was his fourth basket of balls, and he was still slicing all his shots to the right—not a nice power fade but an ugly slice. Skeet was slouched down at the other end of the bench, his old Stetson pulled down over his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch.

“What's wrong with him?” Holly Grace asked, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head. “I've seen him play with a hangover lots of times, but not like this. He's not even trying to correct himself; he's just hitting the same shot over and over.”

“You're the one who can read his mind,” Skeet grunted. “You tell me.”

“Hey, Dallie,” Holly Grace called out, “those are about the worst two-iron shots in the entire history of golf. Why don't you forget about that little British girl and concentrate on earning yourself a living?”

Dallie teed up another ball with the head of his iron. “How 'bout you just mind your own business?”

She stood and tucked the back of her white cotton camisole into the waistband of her jeans before she wandered over to him. The pink ribbon threaded through the lacy border of the camisole turned up in the breeze and nestled into the hollow between her breasts. As she passed the end tee, a man practicing his drives got caught up in his backswing and completely missed the ball. She gave him a sassy smile and told him he'd do lots better if he kept his head down.

Dallie stood in the early afternoon sunshine, his hair golden in the light. She squinted at him. “Those cotton farmers up in Dallas are gonna take you to the cleaner's this weekend, baby. I'm giving Skeet a brand-new fifty-dollar bill and telling him to bet it all against you.”

Dallie leaned over and picked up the beer bottle sitting in the center of a pile of balls. “What I really love about you, Holly Grace, is the way you always cheer me on.”

She stepped into his arms and gave him a friendly hug, enjoying his particular male smell, a combination of sweaty golf shirt and the damp, leathery scent of warm club grips. “I call 'em like I see 'em, baby, and right now you're just short of terrible.” She stepped away and looked straight into his eyes. “You're worried about her, aren't you?”