Fancy Pants

  “I'm Dallas Beaudine,” the man behind the wheel announced. “Folks call me Dallie. That's Skeet Cooper in the back.”

  “Francesca Day,” she replied, permitting her voice to thaw ever so slightly. She had to remember that Americans were notoriously informal. What was considered boorish on the part of an Englishman was regarded as normal behavior in the States. Besides, she couldn't resist bringing this gorgeous country bumpkin at least partway to his knees. This was something she was good at, something that couldn't possibly go wrong on this day when everything else had fallen apart. “I'm grateful to you for rescuing me,” she said, smiling at him over the top of her skirts. “I'm afraid I've had an absolutely beastly few days.”

  “You mind telling us about it?” Dallie inquired. “Skeet and I've been traveling a lot of miles lately, and we're getting tired of each other's conversation.”

  “Well, it's all quite ridiculous, really. Miranda Gwynwyck, this perfectly odious woman—the brewery family, you know—persuaded me to leave London and accept a part in a film being shot at the Wentworth plantation.”

  Skeet's head popped up just behind her left shoulder, and his eyes were alive with curiosity. “You a movie star?” he inquired. “There's something about you that's been lookin’ familiar to me, but I can't quite place it.”

  “Not actually.” She thought about mentioning Vivien Leigh to him and then decided not to bother.

  “I got it!” Skeet exclaimed. “I knew I'd seen you before. Dallie, you'll never guess who this is.”

  Francesca looked back at him warily.

  “This here's ‘Bereft Francesca’!” Skeet declared with a hoot of laughter. “I knew I recognized her. You remember, Dallie. The one goin’ out with all those movie stars.”

  “No kidding,” Dallie said.

  “How on earth—” Francesca began, but Skeet interrupted her.

  “Say, I was real sorry to hear about your mama and that taxicab.”

  Francesca stared at him speechlessly.

  “Skeet's a fan of the tabloids,” Dallie explained. “I don't much like them myself, but they do make you think about the power of mass communications. When I was a kid, we used to have this old blue geography book, and the first chapter was called ‘Our Shrinking World.’ That just about says it, doesn't it? Did you have geography books like that in England?”

  “I—I don't think so,” she replied weakly. A moment of silence passed and she had the horrifying feeling that they might be waiting for her to supply the details of Chloe's death. Even the thought of sharing something so intimate with strangers appalled her, so she quickly returned to the subject at hand as if she'd never been interrupted. “I flew halfway across the world, spent an absolutely miserable night in the most horrible accommodations you could imagine, and was forced to wear this absolutely hideous dress. Then I discovered that the picture had been misrepresented to me.”

  “Porno flick?” Dallie inquired.

  “Certainly not!” she exclaimed. Didn't these rural Americans take even the briefest moment to examine a thought before they passed it on to their mouths? “Actually, it was one of those horrid films about”—she felt ill even saying the word—“vampires.”

  “No kidding!” Skeet's admiration was evident. “Do you know Vincent Price?”

  Francesca pressed her eyes closed for a moment and then reopened them. “I haven't had the pleasure.”

  Skeet tapped Dallie on the shoulder. “Remember old Vincent when he used to be on ‘Hollywood Squares’? Sometimes his wife was on with him. What's her name? She's one of those fancy English actresses, too. Maybe Francie knows her.”

  “Francesca, “ she snapped. “I detest being called anything else.”

  Skeet sank back into the seat and she realized she had offended him, but she didn't care. Her name was her name, and no one had the right to alter it, especially not today when her hold on the world seemed so precarious.

  “So, what are your plans now?” Dallie asked.

  “To return to London as soon as possible.” She thought of Miranda Gwynwyck, of Nicky, of the impossibility of continuing as she was. “And then I'm getting married.” Without realizing it, she had made her decision, made it because she could see no alternative. After what she had endured during the past twenty-four hours, being married to a wealthy brewer no longer seemed like such a terrible fate. But now that the words had been spoken, she felt depressed instead of relieved. Another hairpin fell out; this one tumbled down her front and stuck in a ruffle. She distracted herself from her glum thoughts by asking Skeet for her cosmetic case. He passed it forward without a word. She pushed it deep into the folds of her skirt and flipped open the lid.

  “My God...” She almost wept when she saw her face. Her heavy eye makeup looked grotesque in natural light, she had eaten off her lipstick, her hair was falling every which way, and she was dirty! Never in all her twenty-one years had she primped in front of a man other than her hairdresser, but she had to get herself back, the person she recognized!

  Grabbing a bottle of cleansing lotion, she set to work repairing the mess. As the heavy makeup came off, she felt a need to distance herself from the two men, to make them understand that she belonged to a different world. “Honestly, I look a fright. This entire trip has been an absolute nightmare.” She pulled off her false eyelashes, moisturized her eyelids, and applied a light dusting of highlighter along with taupe shadow and a dab of mascara. “Normally I use this wonderful German mascara called Ecarte, but Cissy Kavendish's maid—a really impossible woman from the West Indies—forgot to pack it, so I'm slumming with an English brand.”

  She knew she was talking too much, but she didn't seem to be able to stop herself. She swept a Kent brush over a cake of toffee blusher and shaded the area just beneath her cheekbones. “I'd give almost anything for a really good facial right now. There's this wonderful place in Mayfair that uses thermal heat and all sorts of other incredibly miraculous things they combine with massage. Lizzy Arden does the same thing.” She quickly outlined her lips with a pencil, filled them in from a pot of rosy beige gloss, and checked the overall effect. Not terrific, but at least she almost looked like herself again.

  The growing silence in the car was making her increasingly uneasy, so she kept talking to fill it. “It's always difficult when you're in New York trying to decide between Arden's and Janet Sartin. Naturally, I'm talking about Janet Sartin on Madison Avenue. I mean, one can go to her salon on Park, but it isn't quite the same, is it?”

  Everything was quiet for a moment.

  Finally, Skeet spoke. “Dallie?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Do you think she's done yet?”

  Dallie pulled off his sunglasses and set them back on the dashboard. “I have a feeling she's just warming up.”

  She looked over at him, embarrassed by her own behavior and angry with his. Couldn't he see that she was having the most miserable day of her life, and try to make things a bit easier for her? She hated the fact that he didn't seem impressed by her, hated the fact that he wasn't trying to impress her himself. In some strange way that she couldn't quite define, his lack of interest seemed more disorienting than anything else that had happened to her.

  She returned her attention to the mirror and began snatching the pins from her hair, silently admonishing herself to stop worrying about Dallas Beaudine's opinion. Any moment now they'd stumble on civilization. She'd call a taxi to take her to the airport in Gulfport and then book herself on the next flight to London. Suddenly she remembered her embarrassing financial problem and then, just as quickly, found the solution. She would simply call Nicholas and have him wire her the money for her air fare.

  Her throat felt scratchy and dry, and she coughed. “Could you roll up the windows? This dust is dreadful. And I'd really like something to drink.” She eyed a small Styrofoam cooler in the back. “I don't suppose there's an off chance that you might have a bottle of Perrier stashed away in there?”

  A moment of pre
gnant silence filled the interior of the Riviera.

  “Shoot, ma'am, we're fresh out,” Dallie said finally. “I'm afraid old Skeet finished the last bottle right after we pulled that liquor store holdup over in Meridian.”

  Chapter

  8

  Dallie was the first to admit that he didn't always treat women well. Part of it was him, but part of it was them, too. He liked down-home women, good-time women, low-down women. He liked women he could drink with, women who could tell dirty jokes without lowering their voices, who'd boom out that old punch line right across the sweating beer pitchers, wadded-up cocktail napkins, and Waylon Jennings on the jukebox—never wasting a moment's thought on how some blue-haired club lady in the next town might be listening in. He liked women who didn't fuss around with tears and arguments because he was spending all his time hitting a couple hundred balls with his three-wood at the driving range instead of taking them to a restaurant that served snails. He liked women, in fact, who were pretty much like men. Except beautiful. Because, most of all, Dallie liked beautiful women. Not phony fashion-model beautiful, with all that makeup and those bony boys’ bodies that gave him the creeps, but sexy beautiful. He liked breasts and hips, eyes that laughed and teeth that sparkled, lips that parted wide. He liked women he could love and leave. That's the way he was, and that's what made him pretty much turn mean on every woman he had ever cared about.

  But Francesca Day was going to be the exception. She made him turn mean just by being there.

  “Is that a filling station?” Skeet asked, sounding happy for the first time in miles.

  Francesca peered ahead and breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving as Dallie slowed the car. Not that she'd actually believed that story about the liquor store holdup, but she had to be careful. They pulled up in front of a ramshackle wooden building with flaking paint and a hand-lettered “Live Bate” sign leaning against a rusted pump. A cloud of dust drifted in through the car window as the tires crunched on the gravel. Francesca felt as if she'd been traveling for aeons; she was perishing of thirst, dying of starvation, and she had to use the lavatory.

  “End of the line,” Dallie said, turning off the ignition. “There'll be a phone inside. You can call one of your friends from there.”

  “Oh, I'm not going to call a friend,” she replied, extracting a small calfskin handbag from her cosmetic case. “I'm calling a taxi to take me to the airport in Gulfport.”

  A loud groan emanated from the back. Dallie slumped down in his seat and tipped his hat forward over his eyes.

  “Is something wrong?” she inquired.

  “I don't even know where to start,” Dallie muttered.

  “Don't say a word,” Skeet announced. “Just let her out, slip the Riviera into gear, and drive away. The guy pumping gas can handle it. I mean it, Dallie. Only a fool sets out to make a double bogey on purpose.”

  “What's wrong?” Francesca asked, beginning to feel alarmed.

  Dallie tilted the brim of his cap back with his thumb. “For starters, Gulfport is about two hours behind you. We're in Louisiana now, halfway to New Orleans. If you wanted to go to Gulfport, why were you walking west instead of east?”

  “How was I supposed to know I was walking west?” she replied indignantly.

  Dallie slammed the heels of his hands against the steering wheel. “Because the goddamn sun was setting in front of your eyes, that's how!”

  “Oh.” She thought for a moment. There was no reason for her to panic; she would simply find another way. “Doesn't New Orleans have an airport? I can fly from there.”

  “How do you intend to get there? And if you mention a taxi again, I swear to God I'll throw both pieces of that Louie Vee-tawn right over into the scrub pine! You're out in the middle of nowhere, lady, don't you understand that? There aren't any taxicabs out here! This is backwoods Louisiana, not Paris, France!”

  She sat up more stiffly and bit down on the inside of her lip. “I see,” she said slowly. “Well, perhaps I could pay you to take me the rest of the way.” She glanced down at her handbag, worry furrowing her brow. How much cash did she have left? She'd better call Nicholas right away so he could have money waiting for her in New Orleans.

  Skeet pushed open the door and stepped out. “I'm gonna get me a bottle of Dr Pepper while you sort this out, Dallie. But I'm tellin’ you one thing—if she's still in this car when I get back, you can find somebody else to haul your Spauldings around on Monday morning.” The door slammed shut.

  “What an impossible man,” Francesca said with a sniff. She looked sideways at Dallie. He wouldn't really leave her, would he, just because that horrid sidekick of his didn't like her? She turned to him, her tone placating. “Just let me make a telephone call. It won't take a minute.”

  She extricated herself from the car as gracefully as she could and, hoops swaying, walked inside the ramshackle building. Opening her handbag, she took out her wallet and quickly counted her money. It didn't take long. Something uncomfortable slithered along the base of her spine. She only had eighteen dollars left... eighteen dollars between herself and starvation.

  The receiver was sticky with dirt, but she paid no attention as she snatched it from its cradle and dialed 0. When she was finally connected with an overseas operator, she gave Nicholas's number and reversed the charges. While she waited for the call to go through, she tried to distract herself from her growing uneasiness by watching Dallie get out of the car and wander over to the owner of the place, who was loading some old tires into the back of a dilapidated truck and regarding all of them with interest. What a waste, she thought, her eyes straying back to Dallie—putting a face like that on an ignorant hillbilly.

  Nicholas's houseboy finally answered, but her hopes of rescue were short-lived as he refused the call, announcing that his employer was out of town for several weeks. She stared at the receiver and then placed another call, this one to Cissy Kavendish. Cissy answered, but she was no more inclined to accept the call than Nicholas's houseboy. That awful bitch! Francesca fumed as the line went dead.

  Beginning to feel genuinely frightened, she mentally ran through her list of acquaintances only to realize that she hadn't been on the best of terms with even her most loyal admirers in the last few months. The only other person who might lend her money was David Graves, who was away in Africa somewhere shooting a picture. Gritting her teeth, she placed a third collect call, this one to Miranda Gwynwyck. Somewhat to her surprise, the call was accepted.

  “Francesca, how nice to hear from you, even though it's after midnight and I was sound asleep. How's your film career coming? Is Lloyd treating you well?”

  Francesca could almost hear her purring, and she clenched the receiver more tightly. “Everything's super, Miranda; I can't thank you enough—but I seem to have a small emergency, and I need to get in touch with Nicky. Give me his number, will you?”

  “Sorry, darling, but he's incommunicado at the moment with an old friend—a glorious blond mathematician who adores him.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Francesca, even Nicky has his limits, and I do believe you finally reached them. But give me your number and I'll have him return your call when he gets back in two weeks so he can tell you himself.”

  “Two weeks won't do! I have to talk to him now.”

  “Why?”

  “That's private,” she snapped.

  “Sorry, I can't help.”

  “Don't do this, Miranda! I absolutely must—” The line went dead just as the owner of the service station walked in the door and flipped the dial on a greasy white plastic radio. The voice of Diana Ross suddenly filled Francesca's ears, asking her if she knew where she was going to. “Oh, God...” she murmured.

  And then she looked up to see Dallie walking around the front of the car toward the driver's side. “Wait!” She dropped the receiver and raced out the door, her heart banging against her ribs, terrified that he would drive off and leave her.

  He stopped where h
e was and leaned back against the hood, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don't tell me,” he said. “Nobody was home.”

  “Well, yes... no. You see, Nicky, my fiancé —”

  “Never mind.” He pulled off his cap by the brim and shoved his hand through his hair. “I'll drop you off at the airport. Only you have to promise that you won't talk on the way.”

  She bristled, but before she had time to reply, he jerked his thumb toward the passenger door. “Hop in. Skeet wanted to stretch his legs, so we'll pick him up down the road.”

  She had to use the toilet before she went anywhere, and she would die if she didn't change her clothes. “I need a few minutes,” she said. “I'm sure you won't mind waiting.” Since she wasn't sure of any such thing, she turned the full force of her charm on him—green cat's eyes, soft mouth, a small, helpless hand on his arm.

  The hand was a mistake. He looked down at it as if she'd put a snake there. “I got to tell you, Francie—there's something about the way you go about doing things that pretty much rubs me the wrong way.”

  She snatched away her hand. “Don't call me that! My name is Francesca. And don't imagine I'm exactly enamored with you, either.”

  “I don't imagine you're exactly enamored with anybody except yourself.” He pulled a piece of bubble gum from his shirt pocket. “And Mr. Vee-tawn, of course.”

  She gave him her most withering glare, went to the back door of the car, and pulled it open to extract her suitcase, because absolutely nothing—not abysmal poverty, Miranda's betrayal, or Dallie Beaudine's insolence—was going to make her stay in her torturous pink outfit a moment longer.