Fancy Pants

  “Please, Dallie,” she had cried, mortified.

  “Just shut your mouth and move your feet.”

  She had continued to plead with him, but he ignored her. Her lipstick had disappeared, her underarms had become a public disgrace, and she had felt absolutely certain that she was going to cry.

  Just then, right in the middle of the dance floor, Dallie had stopped moving. He had looked down at her, dipped his head, and kissed her full on her beery mouth. “Damn, you're pretty,” he had whispered.

  She remembered those gentle words now as he pulled her none too gently through the orange and black paper streamers toward the jukebox. After three weeks of posturing, posing, and trying to work miracles with dime store cosmetics, she had only once wrung a compliment about her appearance out of him—and that had been when she looked terrible.

  He bumped into two men on his way to the jukebox and didn't bother to apologize. What was the matter with him tonight? Francesca wondered. Why was he acting so surly? The band had taken a break, and he dug into the pocket of his jeans for a quarter. A chorus of groans rang out along with a few catcalls.

  “Don't let him do it, Francie,” Curtis Molloy called out.

  She tossed him a mischievous smile over her shoulder. “Sorry, luv, but he's bigger than I am. Besides, he gets dreadfully ornery if I argue with him.” The combination of her British accent with their lingo made them laugh, as she'd known it would.

  Dallie punched the same two buttons he'd been punching all night whenever the band stopped playing, then set his bottle of beer on top of the jukebox. “I haven't heard Curtis blabber so much in years,” he told Francesca. “You really got him going. Even the women are starting to like you.” His words sounded more grudging than pleased.

  She ignored his bad mood as the rock tune began to play. “What about you?” she asked saucily. “Do you like me, too?”

  He moved his athlete's body to the first chords of “Born to Run,” dancing to Springsteen's music as gracefully as he did the Texas two-step. “Of course I like you,” he scowled. “I'm not so much of an alley cat that I'd still be sleeping with you if I didn't like you a whole lot better than I used to. Damn, I love this song.”

  She had hoped for a somewhat more romantic declaration, but with Dallie she'd learned to settle for what she could get. She also didn't share his enthusiasm for the song he kept playing on the jukebox. Although she couldn't understand all of the lyrics, she gathered that the part about tramps like us who were born to run might be what Dallie liked so much about the song. The sentiment didn't fit well with her own vision of domestic bliss, so she shut out the lyrics and concentrated on the music, matching her body movements to Dallie's as she was learning to do so well in their own deep night bedroom dance. He looked into her eyes and she looked into his, and the music swept up around them. She felt as if some kind of invisible lock had snapped them together, and then the mood was broken as her stomach gave one of its queer pitches.

  She wasn't pregnant, she told herself. She couldn't be. Her doctor had told her very clearly that she couldn't get pregnant until she started having her menstrual periods again. But her recent nausea had worried her enough that the day before at the library she'd looked through a Planned Parenthood pamphlet on pregnancy when Miss Sybil wasn't watching. To her dismay, she had read the exact opposite and she found herself desperately counting back to that first night she and Dallie had made love. It had been almost a month ago exactly.

  They danced again and then went back to their table, the palm of his hand cupped over the small of her back. She enjoyed his touch, the sensation of a woman being protected by the man who cared about her. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she actually was pregnant, she thought as she sat down at the table. Dallie wasn't the kind of man who would slip her a few hundred dollars and drive her to the local abortionist. Not that she had any desire to have a baby, but she was beginning to learn that everything had a price. Maybe pregnancy would make him commit himself to her, and once he made that commitment everything would be wonderful. She would encourage him to stop drinking so much and apply himself more. He would begin to win tournaments and make enough money so they could buy a house in a city somewhere. It wouldn't be the sort of fashionable international life she'd envisioned for herself, but she didn't need all that running about anymore, and she knew she would be happy as long as Dallie loved her. They would travel together, and he would take care of her, and everything would be perfect.

  But the picture wouldn't quite crystallize in her mind, so she took a sip from her bottle of Lone Star.

  A woman's voice with a drawl as lazy as a Texas Indian summer penetrated her thoughts. “Hey, Dallie,” the voice said softly, “make any birdies for me?”

  Francesca sensed the change in him, an alertness that hadn't been there a moment before, and she lifted her head.

  Standing next to their table and gazing down at him with mischievous blue eyes stood the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen. Dallie jumped up with a soft exclamation and enveloped her in his arms. Francesca had the sensation of time frozen in place as the two dazzling blond creatures pressed their heads together, beautiful American thoroughbreds in home-grown denim and worn cowboy boots, superhumans who suddenly made her feel incredibly small and ordinary. The woman wore a Stetson pushed back on a cloud of blond hair that fell in sexy disarray to her shoulders, and she'd left three buttons on her plaid shirt unfastened to reveal more than a little of the impressive swell of her breasts. A wide leather belt encircled her small waist, and tight jeans fit her hips so closely they made a V at her crotch before clinging in a smooth line down a nearly endless expanse of long, trim leg.

  The woman looked into Dallie's eyes and said something so quietly only Francesca overheard. “You didn't think I'd leave you alone for Halloween, did you, baby?” she whispered.

  The fear that had seemed like a cold fist clutching Francesca's heart abruptly eased as she realized how much alike they looked. Of course... she shouldn't have been so startled. Of course they looked alike. This woman could only be Dallie's sister, the elusive Holly Grace.

  A moment later, he confirmed her identity. Releasing the tall blond goddess, he turned to Francesca. “Holly Grace, this is Francesca Day. Francie, I'd like you to meet Holly Grace Beaudine.”

  “How do you do?” Francesca extended her hand and smiled warmly. “I would have recognized you as Dallie's sister anywhere; you two look so much alike.”

  Holly Grace pulled the brim of the Stetson forward a bit on her head and studied Francesca with clear blue eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you, honey, but I'm not Dallie's sister.”

  Francesca regarded her quizzically.

  “I'm Dallie's wife.”

  Chapter

  15

  Francesca heard Dallie call out her name. She began to move faster, her eyes nearly blinded with tears. The soles of her sandals slipped on the gravel as she ran through the parking lot toward the highway. But her short legs were no match for his long ones, and he caught up with her before she could reach the road.

  “You mind telling me what's going on here?” he shouted, catching her shoulder and spinning her around. “Why'd you run out, cussing at me like that and embarrassing yourself in front of all those people who were starting to think you were a real human being?”

  He was yelling at her as if she were the one at fault, as if she were the liar, the deceiver, the treacherous snake who'd turned love into betrayal. She drew back her arm and slapped his face as hard as she could.

  He slapped her back.

  Although he was mad enough to hit her, he wasn't mad enough to hurt her, so he struck her with only a small portion of his strength. Still, she was so small that she lost her balance and bumped into the side of a car. She grabbed the sideview mirror with one hand and pressed the other to her cheek.

  “Jesus, Francie, I hardly touched you.” He rushed over and reached out for her arm.

  “You bastard!” She spun on him and slapp
ed him again, this time catching him on the jaw.

  He grabbed both of her arms and shook her. “You settle down now, do you hear me? You settle down before you get hurt.”

  She kicked him hard in the shin, and the leather of his oldest pair of cowboy boots didn't protect him from the sharp edge of her sandal. “Goddammit!” he yelped.

  She drew back her foot to kick him again. He thrust out his uninjured leg and tripped her with it, sending her down into the gravel.

  “Bloody bastard!” she screamed, tears and dirt mingling on her cheeks. “Bloody, wife-cheating bastard! You'll pay for this!” Ignoring the stinging in the heels of her hands and the dirty scratches on her arms, she began to push herself back up to go after him again. She didn't care if he hurt her, if he killed her. She hoped he would. She wanted him to kill her. She was going to die anyway from the horrible pain spreading inside her like a deadly poison. If he killed her, at least the pain would be over quickly.

  “Stop it, Francie,” he yelled, as she staggered to her feet. “Don't come any closer or you'll really get hurt.”

  “You bloody bastard,” she sobbed, wiping her nose on her wrist. “You bloody married bastard! I'm going to make you pay!” Then she went after him again—a pampered little British house cat charging a full-grown, free-roaming all-American mountain lion.

  Holly Grace stood in the middle of the crowd that had gathered outside the front door of the Roustabout to watch. “I can't believe Dallie didn't tell her about me,” she said to Skeet. “It doesn't usually take him more than thirty seconds to work my existence into any conversation he has with a woman he's attracted to.”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Skeet growled. “She knew about you. We talked about you in front of her a hundred times—that's what's making him so mad. Everybody in the world knows the two of you've been married since you was teenagers. This is just one more example of what a fool that woman is.” Worry etched a frown between his shaggy eyebrows as Francesca landed another blow. “I know he's trying to hold her off without hurtin' her too much, but if one of those kicks lands too close to his danger zone, she's gonna find herself in a hospital bed and he's gonna end up in jail for assault and battery. See what I told you about her, Holly Grace? I never knew a woman as much trouble as that one.”

  Holly Grace took a swig from Dallie's bottle of Pearl, which she'd picked up off the table, then remarked to Skeet, “If word of this little altercation makes its way to Mr. Deane Beman, Dallie's gonna get his ass kicked right off the pro tour. The public doesn't much like football players beating up women, let alone golfers.”

  Holly Grace watched as the floodlights caught the sheen of tears on Francesca's cheeks. Despite Dallie's determination to hold that little girl off, she kept going right back after him. It occurred to Holly Grace that there might be more to Miss Fancy Pants than what Skeet had told her on the telephone. Still, the woman couldn't have much sense. Only a fool would go after Dallas Beaudine without holding a loaded gun in one hand and a blacksnake whip in the other. She winced as one of Francesca's kicks managed to catch him behind the knee. He quickly retaliated and then managed to immobilize her partially by pinioning both her elbows behind her back and clamping her to his chest.

  Holly Grace spoke quietly to Skeet. “She's getting ready to kick him again. We'd better step in before this goes any further.” She handed off her beer bottle to the man standing next to her. “You take her, Skeet. I'll handle Dallie.”

  Skeet didn't argue about the distribution of duties. Although he didn't relish the idea of trying to calm down Miss Fran-chess-ka, he knew Holly Grace was the only person with half a shot at handling Dallie when he really kicked up. They quickly crossed the parking lot, and when they reached the struggling pair, Skeet said, “Give her to me, Dallie.”

  Francesca let out a strangled sob of pain. Her face was pressed against Dallie's T-shirt. Her arms, twisted behind her back, felt as if they were ready to pop from their sockets. He hadn't killed her. Despite the pain, he hadn't killed her after all. “Leave me alone!” she screamed into Dallie's chest. No one suspected she was screaming at Skeet.

  Dallie didn't move. He gave Skeet a frozen stare over the top of Francesca's head. “Mind your own goddamn business.”

  Holly Grace stepped forward. “Come on, baby,” she said lightly. “I got about a thousand things I've been saving up to tell you.” She began stroking Dallie's arm in the easy, proprietary manner of a woman who knows she has the right to touch a particular man in any way she wants. “I saw you on television at the Kaiser. Your long irons were looking real good for a change. If you ever learn how to putt, you might even be able to play half-decent golf someday.”

  Gradually, Dallie's grip on Francesca eased, and Skeet cautiously reached out to draw her away. But at the instant Skeet touched her, Francesca sank her teeth into the hard flesh of Dallie's chest, clamping down on his pectoral muscle.

  Dallie yelled just long enough for Skeet to whip Francesca into his own arms.

  “Crazy bitch!” Dallie shouted, drawing back his arm and taking a lunge toward her. Holly Grace jumped in front of him, using her own body as a shield, because she couldn't stand the thought of Dallie getting kicked off the tour. He stopped, put a hand on her shoulder, and rubbed his chest with a knotted fist. A vein throbbed in his temple. “Get her out of my sight! I mean it, Skeet! Buy her a plane ticket home, and don't you ever let me see her again!”

  Just before Skeet dragged her away, Francesca heard the echo of Dallie's voice coming from behind her, much softer now, and gentler. “I'm sorry,” he said.

  Sorry... The word was repeated in her head like a bitter refráin. Only those two small words of apology for destroying what was left of her life. And then she heard the rest of what he was saying.

  “I'm sorry, Holly Grace.”

  Francesca let Skeet put her into the front seat of his Ford and sat without moving as he turned out onto the highway.

  They drove in silence for several minutes before he finally said, “Look, Francie, I'm gonna pull into the gas station down the road and call one of my friends who works over at the county clerk's office to see if she'll put you up for the night. She's a real nice lady. Tomorrow morning I'll come on over with your things and take you to the airport in San Antonio. You'll be back in London before you know it.”

  She made no response and he looked over at her uneasily. For the first time since he'd met her, he felt sorry for her. She was a pretty little thing when she wasn't talking, and he could see that she was hurt real bad. “Listen, Francie, there wasn't any reason for you to get so riled up about Holly Grace. Dallie and Holly Grace are just one of those facts of life, like beer and football. But they stopped making judgments about each other's bedroom lives a long time ago, and if you hadn't gotten Dallie so mad with all that carrying on, he probably would have kept you around a while longer.”

  Francesca winced. Dallie would have kept her around— like one of his mongrel dogs. She swallowed tears and bile as she thought how much she had shamed herself.

  Skeet stepped down harder on the accelerator, and a few minutes later they pulled into the gas station. “You just sit here and I'll be right back.”

  Francesca waited until Skeet had gone inside before she slipped from the car and began to run. She ran down the highway, dodging the headlights of the cars, running through the night as if she could run away from herself. A cramp in her side finally made her slow her pace, but she still didn't stop.

  She wandered for hours through the deserted streets of Wynette, not seeing where she was going, not caring. As she walked past vacant stores and night-quiet homes, she felt as if the last part of her old self had died... the best part, the eternal light of her own optimism. No matter how bleak things had been since Chloe's death, she had always felt her difficulties were only temporary. Now she finally understood they weren't temporary at all.

  Her sandal slipped in the dirty orange pulp of a jack-o'-lantern that had been smashed on the street, and
she fell, bruising her hip on the pavement. She lay there for a moment, her leg twisted awkwardly beneath her, pumpkin ooze mixing with the dried blood from the scratches on her forearm. She wasn't the kind of woman men abandoned— she was the one who did the abandoning. Fresh tears began to fall. What had she done to deserve this? Was she so terrible? Had she hurt people so badly that this was to be her punishment? A dog barked in the distance, and far down the street an upstairs light flicked on in a bathroom window.

  She couldn't think what to do, so she lay in the dirt and the pumpkin pulp and cried. All her dreams, all her plans, everything... gone. Dallie didn't love her. He wasn't going to. marry her. They weren't going to live together happily ever after forever and ever.

  She didn't remember making the decision to start walking again, but after a while she realized her feet were moving and she was heading down a new street. And then in the darkness she stumbled over the curb and looked up to see that she was standing in front of Dallie's Easter egg house.

  Holly Grace pulled the Riviera into the driveway and shut off the ignition. It was nearly three in the morning. Dallie was slumped down in the passenger seat, but although his eyes were closed, she didn't think he was asleep. She got out of the car and walked around to the passenger door. Half afraid he would slump out onto the ground, she braced the door with her hip as she pulled it slowly open. He didn't move.

  “Come on, baby,” she said, reaching down and tugging on his arm. “Let's get you tucked in.”

  Dallie muttered something indecipherable and let one leg slide to the ground.

  “That's right,” she encouraged him. “Come on, now.”

  He stood and draped his arm around her shoulders as he'd done so many times before. Part of Holly Grace wanted to pull away and hope that he would fold up on the ground like an old accordion, but the other part of her wouldn't let him go for anything in the world—not a shot at being southwestern regional sales manager, not a chance to replace her Firebird with a Porsche, not even a bedroom encounter with all four of the Statler Brothers at the same time—because Dallie Beaudine was the person she almost loved best of anybody in the world. Almost, but not quite, since the person she'd learned to love best was herself. Dallie had taught her that a long time ago. Dallie had taught her a lot of good lessons he'd never been able to learn himself.