“What plans?” Haley said.
“I’m moving back into the church.”
“Ted will never let you do that,” Birdie said.
“He’s had the locks changed, and I want to be back in my own place.” She didn’t mention the surveillance camera he intended to finish installing today. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.
“Yes, well, we can’t always get what we want,” Birdie said, channeling her inner Mick Jagger. “Are you ever planning to think about somebody other than yourself?”
“Mom! It’s good she’s going back. Why do you have to be so negative?”
“I’m sorry, Haley, but you refuse to acknowledge what a mess Meg has made of everything. Yesterday, at Francesca’s . . . You weren’t there, so you can’t possibly—”
“I’m not deaf. I heard you on the phone with Shelby.”
Apparently the code of silence had a few holes.
Birdie nearly upset her drink as she got up from her chair. “We’re all doing our best to clean up your messes, Meg Koranda, but we can’t do it by ourselves. We could use a little cooperation.” She grabbed her jacket and strode away, her red hair blazing in the sun.
Haley crumbled her cookie inside the wax-paper square. “I think you should go back to the church.”
“You seem to be the only one.” As Haley stared off into the distance, Meg regarded her with concern. “Obviously, I’m not doing a great job dealing with my own problems, but I know something’s bothering you. If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”
“I don’t have anything to talk about. I need to get back to work.” Haley grabbed her mother’s abandoned soda cup along with the macerated cookie and returned to the snack shop.
Meg headed back to the clubhouse to pick up the drink cart. She’d left it near the drinking fountain, and just as she got there, a very familiar, very unwelcome figure came striding around the corner of the clubhouse. Her designer sundress and Louboutin stilettos suggested she hadn’t shown up for a round of golf. Instead, she beat a determined path toward Meg, her stilettos tap-tap-tapping along the asphalt, then going silent as she stepped into the grass.
Meg resisted the urge to hold up her fingers in the sign of the cross, but as Francesca came to a stop in front of her, she couldn’t repress a groan. “Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”
“Yes, well, I’m not precisely on top of the world about this, either.” A quick flick of her hand pushed the Cavalli sunglasses to the top of her head revealing those luminous green eyes, the lids dusted with bronze, and silky dark mascara embracing her already thick lashes. What little makeup Meg had begun the day with, she’d sweated off hours ago, and while Francesca smelled of Quelques Fleurs, Meg smelled of spilled beer.
She looked down at Ted’s diminutive mother. “Could you at least hand me a gun first so I can kill myself?”
“Don’t be foolish,” Francesca retorted. “If I had a gun, I’d have already used it on you.” She swatted at a fly that had the audacity to buzz too close to her exquisite face. “Our guest cottage is detached from the house. You’ll have it all to yourself.”
“Do I get to call you Mom, too?”
“Good God, no.” Something happened to the corner of her mouth. A grimace? A smirk? Impossible to tell. “Call me Francesca like everyone else.”
“Peachy.” Meg slipped her fingers into her pocket. “Out of curiosity, is anybody in this town even remotely capable of minding her own business?”
“No. And that’s why I insisted from the beginning that Dallie and I keep a place in Manhattan. Did you know Ted was nine years old the first time he came to Wynette? Can you imagine how many of the local peculiarities he’d have picked up if he’d lived here from birth?” She sniffed. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“I appreciate the offer, just as I appreciated Shelby’s offer and Birdie Kittle’s, but would you please inform your coven that I’m going back to the church.”
“Ted will never allow that.”
“Ted doesn’t get a vote,” Meg snapped.
Francesca gave a small coo of satisfaction. “Proving you don’t know my son nearly as well as you think you do. The guest cottage is unlocked, and the refrigerator is stocked. Don’t even think about defying me.” And off she went.
Across the grass.
Down the cart path.
Tap . . . tap . . . Tap . . . tap . . . Tap . . . tap . . .
Meg reviewed her miserable day as she pulled out of the employees’ parking lot that evening and headed down the service drive toward the highway. She had no intention of moving into Francesca Beaudine’s guesthouse, or Shelby Traveler’s, or the Wynette Country Inn. But she also wasn’t staying with Ted. As angry as she might be with the meddling women of this town, she wouldn’t thumb her nose at them, either. No matter how awful they were, how intrusive and judgmental, they were doing what they believed was right. Unlike so many other Americans, the inhabitants of Wynette, Texas, didn’t understand the concept of citizen apathy. They also had reality on their side. She couldn’t live with Ted as long as the Skipjacks were around.
Out of nowhere, something came flying toward her car. She gasped and hit the brakes, but she was too late. A rock slammed into her windshield. She caught a flicker of movement in the trees, slammed the car into park, and jumped out. She slid on some loose gravel but regained her balance and raced toward the grove of trees that lined the service drive.
Stickers grabbed at her shorts and scratched her legs as she plunged into the undergrowth. She saw another flicker of motion, but she couldn’t even tell whether it came from a person. She only knew that someone had once again attacked her, and she was sick of being a victim.
She plunged deeper into the woods, but she wasn’t sure which way to go. She stopped to listen but heard nothing except the rasp of her own breathing. Eventually, she gave up. Whoever had thrown that rock had gotten away.
She was still shaking when she returned to her car. A spiderweb of shattered glass spread from the center of the windshield, but by craning her neck she could almost see well enough to drive.
By the time she reached the church, her anger had steadied her. She badly wanted to see Ted’s truck parked outside, but he wasn’t there. She tried to use her key to get in, but the lock had been changed, just as she expected. She stomped back down the steps and looked under the stone frog, knowing even as she picked it up that he wouldn’t have left a new key for her. She stomped around some more until she located a security camera mounted in the pecan tree that had once sheltered the faithful as they’d come from worship.
She shook her fist at it. “Theodore Beaudine, if you don’t get over here right away and let me in, I’m going to break a window!” She plopped down on the bottom step to wait, then hopped up again and cut across the cemetery to the creek.
The swimming hole waited for her. She stripped down to bra and panties and dove in. The water, cool and welcoming, closed over her head. She swam to the rocky bottom, kicked off, and came to the surface. She dove again, willing the water to wash away her terrible day. When she’d finally cooled down, she stuffed her wet feet into her sneakers, grabbed her dirty work clothes, and headed back toward the church in her sodden underwear. But as she stepped out of the trees, she came to a dead stop.
The great Dallas Beaudine sat on a black granite tombstone, his faithful caddy, Skeet Cooper, standing at his side.
Cursing under her breath, she ducked back into the trees and pulled on her shorts and sweaty polo. Facing down Ted’s father was a whole different ball game from dealing with the women. She dragged her fingers through her wet hair, told herself to show no fear, and sauntered into the cemetery. “Checking out your future resting site?”
“Not quite yet,” Dallie said. He rested comfortably on the grave marker, his long, jean-clad legs stretched out before him, dappled light playing in the silver threads of his dark blond hair. Even at fifty-nine, he was a beautiful man, which made Skeet’s l
eathery ugliness all the more pronounced.
Her feet sloshed in her sneakers as she moved closer. “You could do worse than this place.”
“I s’pose.” Dallie crossed his ankles. “The surveyors showed up a day early, and Ted’s out at the landfill with them. This resort deal might go through after all. We told him we’d help you move your things to his house.”
“I’ve decided to stay here.”
Dallie nodded, as if he were thinking it over. “Doesn’t seem too safe.”
“He’s set up at least one security camera.”
Dallie nodded again. “Truth is, Skeet and I already moved your things.”
“You had no right to do that!”
“Matter of opinion.” Dallie turned his face into the breeze, as if he were checking wind direction before he made his next golf shot. “You’re staying with Skeet.”
“With Skeet?”
“He doesn’t talk much. Figured you’d rather move in there than have to deal with my wife. I might as well tell you I don’t like it when she gets upset, and you sure do upset her.”
“She gets upset about the damnedest things.” Skeet shifted his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Not much you can do to talk her out of it either, Francie being Francie.”
“With all due respect . . .” Meg sounded like a lawyer, but Dallie’s calm assurance rattled her in a way the women didn’t. “I don’t want to live with Skeet.”
“Don’t see why not.” Skeet shifted his toothpick. “You’ll have your own TV, and I won’t bother you none. I like to keep the place neat, though.”
Dallie rose from the tombstone. “You can follow us over, or Skeet’ll drive your car and you can ride with me.”
His steady gaze testified that the decision had been made, and nothing she said would change it. She weighed her options. Returning to the church clearly wasn’t an option right now. She wasn’t moving in with Ted. If he didn’t understand why, she did. That left Shelby and Warren Traveler’s house, the inn, Francesca’s guesthouse, or staying with Skeet Cooper.
With his grizzled, sun-cured face and Willie Nelson ponytail falling between his shoulder blades, Skeet looked more like a derelict than a man who’d picked up a couple of million dollars caddying for a golf legend. She pulled her shredded pride together and regarded him loftily. “I don’t let my roommates borrow my clothes, but I do enjoy a little spa party on Friday nights. Manis and pedis. You do mine. I’ll do yours. That kind of thing.”
Skeet shifted his toothpick and gazed at Dallie. “Looks like we got ourselves another live one.”
“Seems that way.” Dallie pulled his car keys from his pocket. “Still too soon to tell, though.”
She had no idea what they were talking about. They set off ahead of her, and she heard Skeet chuckle. “Remember that night we almost let Francie drown in the swimming pool?”
“Sure was tempting,” Francie’s loving husband replied.
“Good thing we didn’t.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Skeet flicked his toothpick into the scrub. “He sure seems to be workin’ overtime these days.”
She’d seen Skeet’s small, stone, ranch-style house when she’d first explored the Beaudine compound. Double-hung windows flanked a front door painted a nondescript tan. An American flag, the only decorative feature, hung listlessly from a pole near the front walk.
“We tried not to mess up your things too much when we moved them,” Dallie said as he held the front door open for her.
“Thoughtful.” She stepped into an immaculately neat living area, which was painted a lighter version of tan than the front door and dominated by a pair of high-end, exceptionally ugly, brown recliners pointed directly at a large, wall-mounted flat-screen television. Dead center above it hung a multicolored sombrero. The room’s only true aesthetic touch came from a beautiful earth-toned rug similar to the ones in Francesca’s office, a rug Meg suspected Skeet hadn’t chosen himself.
He picked up the remote and turned on the Golf Channel. The wide opening opposite the front door revealed part of a hallway and a functional kitchen with wooden cabinets, white countertops, and a set of ceramic canisters shaped like English cottages. A smaller flat-screen television hung above a round wooden dinette table with four padded swivel chairs.
She followed Dallie down the hallway. “Skeet’s bedroom’s at the end,” he said. “He snores like crazy, so you might want to buy yourself some earplugs.”
“It gets better and better, doesn’t it?”
“Temporary. Until things settle down.”
She wanted to ask him exactly when he expected that might be but thought better of it. He led her into a sparsely furnished bedroom with mass-produced Early American–style furniture: a double bed covered in a quilted, geometrical-print bedspread; a dresser; an upholstered chair; and another flat-screen television. The room was painted the same tan as the rest of the house, and her suitcase, along with some packing boxes, sat on a bare tiled floor. Through the open closet door, she saw her wardrobe hanging from a wooden rod and her shoes neatly lined up beneath.
“Francie’s offered more than once to decorate the place for him,” Dallie said, “but Skeet likes to keep things simple. You have your own bathroom.”
“Hooray.”
“Skeet’s office is in the bedroom next door. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t use it for a damn thing, so you can set up your jewelry making in there. He won’t notice, not unless you lose the remote control he keeps on top of the file cabinet.”
The front door slammed, and even the Golf Channel couldn’t drown out the sound of angry footsteps followed by the demanding bellow of Wynette’s favorite son. “Where is she?”
Dallie gazed toward the hallway. “I told Francie we should have stayed in New York.”
Chapter Eighteen
Skeet turned up the volume in response to Ted’s intrusion. Meg pulled herself together and poked her head out into the living room. “Surprise.”
Ted’s ball cap shaded his eyes, but his rigid jaw indicated stormy weather. “What are you doing here?”
She made a grand gesture toward the recliner. “I’ve taken a new lover. Sorry you had to find out like this.”
“Golf Central’s on,” Skeet grumbled, “and I can’t hear a damn thing.”
Dallie came out of the hallway behind her. “That’s because you’re going deaf. I been telling you for months to buy some damned hearing aids. Hey there, son. How did things go at the landfill?”
Ted’s hands stayed aggressively planted on his hips. “What’s she doing here? She’s supposed to be staying with me.”
Dallie turned his attention back to her, his blue eyes as clear as a Hill Country sky. “I told you he wouldn’t be happy about this, Meg. Next time you need to listen to me.” He shook his head sadly. “I tried my damnedest to talk her out of it, son, but Meg sure does have a mind of her own.”
She had a couple of choices. She picked the one that didn’t involve punching someone. “It’s better this way.”
“Better for whom?” Ted retorted. “It sure as hell isn’t better for me. And it’s not better for you, either.”
“As a matter of fact, it is. You have no idea—”
“Best you two have this discussion in private.” Dallie looked embarrassed, which he wasn’t. “Your mom and I are eating at the club tonight. Normally, I’d invite you both to join us, but there seems to be a lot of tension.”
“You’re damned right there’s tension,” Ted said. “She’s got some wacko out there gunning for her, and I want her where I can keep an eye on her.”
“Doubt she’ll come to much harm here.” Dallie headed for the front door. “Except for her eardrums.”
The door closed behind him. Ted’s censorious gaze, along with her damp clothes and clammy underwear, gave her goose bumps. She stomped down the hallway to her bedroom and knelt before her suitcase. “I’ve had a hard day,” she said as he stalked i
nto the room behind her. “You can go away now, too.”
“I can’t believe you let them get to you!” he exclaimed. “I thought you had more backbone.”
She wasn’t surprised that he’d seen through his father’s charade. She pulled a bag, neatly packed with her toiletries, from the suitcase. “I’m hungry, and I need a shower.”
His pacing stopped. The mattress sighed as he sat on the edge. Seconds ticked by before he spoke so softly she could barely hear. “Sometimes I want to leave this town so bad I can taste it.”
A rush of tenderness filled her. She set aside the bag and went to him. As the sounds of a Viagra commercial echoed from the living room, she smiled and pulled off his ball cap. “You are this town,” she whispered. And then she kissed him.
Two days later, as she sat in the shade by the fifth tee reading about large-scale composting, one of the junior caddies buzzed toward her in a cart. “You’re wanted in the pro shop,” he said. “I’ll take over here.”
She drove his cart back to the clubhouse with a sense of foreboding that turned out to be justifiable. No sooner had she stepped into the pro shop than a pair of large, sweaty hands settled over her eyes. “Guess who?”
She suppressed a groan, then pulled herself together. “The manly drawl suggests Matt Damon, but something tells me . . . Leonardo DiCaprio, right?”
A hearty laugh, the hands dropped, and Spencer Skipjack turned her to face him. He wore his Panama hat, an aqua sports shirt, and dark pants. A big grin stretched his big mouth over his big square white veneers. “I have definitely missed you, Miz Meg. You’re one of a kind.”
Plus, she had ultrafamous parents, and she was more than twenty years his junior, an irresistible combination to an egomaniac. “Hey, Spence. Thanks for the presents.”
“That soap dish is from our new line. Retails for a hundred and eighty-five dollars. Did you get my message?”
She played dumb. “Message?”