Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars #2)(36)

“Eat first. I’ll tell you later.”

He began to follow her, but came to a sudden stop as he heard a strange, muffled sound. “Is somebody in there?”

No sooner had the question slipped out than he realized his mother was dressed for bed in a light blue silk robe. He felt a painful constriction. She’d never mentioned anything about seeing other men since his dad had died, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t.

He told himself it was her life, and he had no right to interfere. His mother was still a beautiful woman, and she deserved every bit of happiness she could find. He certainly didn’t want her to be lonely. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, he felt like howling at the idea of his mother being with any man other than his dad.

He cleared his throat. “Look, if you’re seeing somebody, I understand. I didn’t mean to walk in on anything.”

She looked startled. “Oh, no. Really, Bobby Tom… “She began fiddling with the sash on her robe. “Gracie Snow is in there.”

“Gracie?” Relief rushed through him, followed almost immediately by anger. Gracie had scared the life out of him! When he’d been imagining her dead in a ditch somewhere, she’d been cozying up with his mother.

“How did she end up here?” he asked in short, clipped tones.

“I picked her up on the highway.”

“She was hitchhiking, wasn’t she? I knew it! Of all the damn fool—”

“She wasn’t hitchhiking. I stopped when I saw her.” Suzy hesitated. “As you can probably imagine, she’s a bit upset with you.”

“She’s not the only one who’s upset!” He pivoted toward the sliding doors, but Suzy’s hand on his arm restrained him.

“Bobby Tom, she’s been drinking.”

He stared at her. “Gracie doesn’t drink.”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that until she’d gone through my supply of wine coolers.”

The idea of Gracie slugging down wine coolers made him even angrier. Gritting his teeth, he took another step toward the doors, only to have his mother once again interrupt him.

“Bobby Tom, you know those people who get giddy and happy when they drink?”

“Yeah.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Gracie isn’t one of them.”





7




Gracie sat curled up on the sofa with her clothes rumpled and her hair standing out from her head in coppery clumps. She had a blotchy face, red eyes, and a pink nose. Some women could cry pretty, but Bobby Tom saw right away Gracie wasn’t one of them.

She looked so miserable that his anger faded. As he gazed down at her, he found it hard to believe that this sorry excuse for a female was the same spunky, bossy lady who’d done the worst striptease in history, thrown herself over his car door like a human cannonball, sabotaged his T-bird, and given Slug McQuire a blistering lecture on sexual harassment after he’d come on a little too strong to one of the waitresses at Whoppers.

Normally, he would rather have been locked in a room with a swarm of killer bees than a crying woman, but since this particular woman was Grace, and she’d somehow become his friend, he made an exception.

Suzy gazed at him helplessly. “I invited her to stay the night. She was fine at dinner, but when I came home from my board meeting, I found her like this.”

“She sure is carryin’ on.”

At the sound of his voice, Grace looked up, gazed at him with bleary eyes, and hiccupped. “Now I’m”—a drawn-out sob—“not ever going to”—another sob—“have sex.”

Suzy made a beeline for the door. “Excuse me, but I believe I have some Christmas cards I need to address.”

As she disappeared, Gracie fumbled for the box of tissues that sat on the sofa next to her, but she had trouble locating it through her tears. Bobby Tom walked over, plucked one out, and put it in her hand. She buried her face in it, her shoulders shaking, pitiful mewing sounds coming from her lips. As he sat down next to her, he decided she was, without a doubt, the most miserable drunk he’d seen in his life.

He spoke softly. “Gracie, honey, how many of those wine coolers did you drink?”

“I don’t d-drink,” she said between sobs. “Alcohol is a cr-crutch for the weak.”

He rubbed her shoulders. “I understand.”

She looked up and, tissue in hand, pointed toward the oil painting of him that hung over the fireplace. His father had given it to his mother as a Christmas present when Bobby Tom was eight years old. It showed him sitting cross-legged in the grass hugging the dog he’d grown up with, a big old golden retriever named Sparky.

She jabbed her finger toward the portrait. “It’s h-hard to believe a sweet child like that could grow up into such a d-depraved, egotistical, immature, w-womanizing, job-stealing rat!”

“Life’s funny that way.” He handed her another tissue. “Gracie, honey, do you think you could stop crying long enough for the two of us to talk?”

She shook her head in a wobbly arc. “I’m not ever going to st-stop. And do you know why? Because I’m going to sp-spend the rest of my life eating m-mashed potatoes and smelling like disen—disen—fectant.” Another wail. “Do you know what happens when you’re around d-death all the time? Your body dries up!” She startled him by clasping her hands over her breasts. “They’re drying up. I’m drying up! Now I’m going to die without ever having s-sex!”