Glitter Baby (Wynette, Texas #3)(131)

With his parka draped over her satin gown and her feet encased in wool sweat socks, she followed him to the basement. While he knelt on the concrete to light the pilot, she stuck her free hand under his shirt. “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“After the house heats up—”

“Hold that flashlight steady, will you? I almost have it.”

“After the house heats up, what would you think about—I mean, would you think it was silly if—”

“There, that’s got it.” He shook out the match and straightened up. “What were you saying?”

“What?”

“You were saying something. Would I mind if—”

She swallowed. “Nothing. I forget.”

“Liar.” He slipped his hands inside the parka and around her waist so he could draw her against him. “Don’t you know there’s nothing I’d rather do?” His lips caught her earlobe, then traveled across her cheek until he could whisper against her mouth. “You’ll have to put your hair back up again with those pins. That was my favorite part.”

As it turned out, Jake found other parts he liked even better…

When it was over, the room was warm, and they were sated. They kicked away all the covers and dozed. Fleur finally stirred from the cozy comfort of his chest. “Next time I get to hold the gun,” she said as she eased back into her pillow.

He nipped her bare shoulder. “Nobody holds a gun on Bird Dog.”

“Is that so?” She cocked her finger and pointed it as his chest.

“Wow. That’s a fast draw you have there.”

“Fastest draw in the Big Apple.” She blew on her finger. “Seems like Bird Dog’s going to have to adjust his thinking.”

Jake rubbed his thumb against the corner of her mouth. “Seems like Bird Dog already has.”

He smiled, and she smiled back. Snow tapped at the windowpane. The furnace hissed. They gazed at each other with perfect trust.





Epilogue




The young man’s body formed a perfect arc as he dived into the turquoise water of the pool behind Belinda’s Bel Air home. His name was Darian Boothe—the final “e” had been her idea—and when he came to the surface, she blew him a kiss. “Wonderful, darling. I love watching you.”

He gave her a smile that she suspected might not be totally sincere. As he pulled himself out of the water, his biceps knotted, and his tiny red nylon Speedo rode up into the crack of his rear. She hoped the network would buy his pilot. If they didn’t, he’d be miserable, and she’d have to expend too much energy trying to cheer him up. On the other hand, if they did buy it, he’d move out and forget about her, but it wouldn’t be difficult to find another handsome young actor who needed her help.

She moved her legs farther apart so the sun could reach the insides of her oiled thighs, and pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes. She was tired. It hadn’t been easy to fall back asleep after Jake’s phone call last night telling her the twins had been born.

She’d known Fleur was having twins ever since the sonogram, so it wasn’t a surprise, but Belinda couldn’t imagine getting used to being a grandmother of three. Fleur and Jake had been married for three years. Three years and three children. It was embarrassing. And they didn’t plan to stop there. Her beautiful daughter had turned into a broodmare.

Only to herself did Belinda admit that Fleur had turned into something of a disappointment. Her daughter sent thoughtful gifts and called several times a week, but she didn’t really listen to Belinda anymore. Belinda tried to be fair. With the opening of Fleur’s West Coast office last year, not even the most dedicated skeptic could say that she hadn’t turned her agency into a huge success. And she had been photographed for Vogue wearing Michel’s gorgeous new line of maternity clothes. But it was clear to Belinda, if no one else, that Fleur wasn’t living up to her potential. All that beauty gone to waste…God knew, she didn’t need it to sit behind a desk. Then, on weekends, she and Jake buried themselves at that godforsaken farmhouse in Connecticut instead of staying in Manhattan where they could be the brightest, most sought-after couple in town.

Belinda remembered her last visit to the farmhouse two months ago. It had been early July, just after the Fourth. She’d stepped out of her car directly into a pile of dog refuse from one of those dirty animals Fleur insisted upon keeping. Her new Maud Frizon pumps were ruined. She rang the front doorbell. No one answered, so she had to let herself into the house.

The interior was cool and fragrant with kitchen smells, but it wasn’t Belinda’s idea of what the inside of a house belonging to two such famous people should look like. Wide-pegged floors instead of marble. Two braided rugs—“rag rugs” they’d called them in Indiana—instead of Persian carpets. A basketball was shoved into one corner of the foyer. A galvanized watering can held some very ordinary garden flowers. And, on the console, she spotted something that looked suspiciously like the Peretti evening bag she’d given Fleur two Christmases earlier, except now Big Bird’s fuzzy yellow head stuck out the top.

Belinda had removed her soiled pumps and padded through the silent downstairs into the dining room. A manuscript sat on the sideboard, but Belinda wasn’t tempted to look at it, although she knew dozens of people would give anything to get an early peek at a new Koranda play. Despite all his awards and honors, Jake’s writing didn’t interest her. And the book about Vietnam that had won him his second Pulitzer was the most depressing thing she’d ever read.