She studied the photograph of Teddy on her desk. It showed him floating in a Flintstones inner tube, his small, skinny legs glistening with water. If Dallie hadn't wanted to contact her again, he should at least have made some attempt to get in touch with Teddy. She felt sad and disillusioned. She had thought that Dallie was a better person than he had turned out to be. As she headed home that evening, she told herself she had to accept the fact that she had made a gigantic mistake and then forget about it.
Before she got dressed for her date with Stefan, she sat with Teddy while he ate his dinner and thought about how carefree she had been only two months before. Now she felt as if she were carrying the troubles of the world on her shoulders. She should never have had that ridiculous one-night stand with Dallie, she was getting ready to hurt Stefan, and the network might very well fire her. She was too miserable to cheer up Holly Grace, and she was terribly worried about Teddy. He was so withdrawn and so obviously unhappy. He wouldn't talk about what had happened in Wynette, and he resisted all of her efforts to draw him out about the trouble he was having in school.
“How did things go with you and Miss Pearson today?” she asked casually, as she watched him sneak a forkful of peas underneath his baked potato.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Just okay?”
He pushed his chair back from the table and cleared his plate. “I've got some homework to do. I'm not too hungry.”
She frowned as he left the kitchen. She wished Teddy's teacher weren't so rigid and punitive. Unlike Teddy's former teachers, Miss Pearson seemed more concerned with grades than with learning, a quality that Francesca believed was disastrous when working with gifted children. Teddy had never worried about his marks until this year, but now that seemed to be all he thought about. As Francesca slipped into a beaded Armani gown for her evening with Stefan, she decided to schedule another appointment with the school administrator.
The party at La Côte Basque was lively, with wonderful food and a satisfying number of famous faces in the crowd, but Francesca was too distracted to enjoy herself. A group of paparazzi was waiting as she and Stefan emerged from the restaurant shortly after midnight. She pulled the fur collar of her coat high around her chin and looked away from the flashing strobes. “Sable sucks,” she muttered.
“That's not exactly a popularly held opinion, darling,” Stefan replied, leading her toward his limousine.
“That media circus happened because of this coat,” she complained after the limo had slipped out into the traffic on East Fifty-fifth Street. “The press hardly ever bothers you. It's me. If I'd worn my old raincoat...” She chattered on about the sable, stalling for time while she tried to find the courage to hurt him. Finally she fell silent and let the old memories that had been nagging at her all evening take hold—thinking about her childhood, about Chloe, about Dallie. Stefan kept gazing over at her, apparently lost in thoughts of his own. As the limousine swept past Cartier, she decided she couldn't put it off any longer, and she touched his arm. “Do you mind if we walk for a bit?”
It was past midnight, the February night was chill, and Stefan looked at her uneasily—as if he might suspect what was coming—but he ordered the driver to stop anyway. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, a hansom cab passed, the hooves of the horse clomping rhythmically on the pavement. They began walking down Fifth Avenue together, their breath clouding the air.
“Stefan,” she said, resting her cheek for a brief moment against the fine woolen sleeve of his overcoat. “I know you're looking for a woman to share your life, but I'm afraid I'm not the one.”
She heard him take a deep breath, then expel it. “You're tired tonight, darling. Perhaps this discussion should wait.”
“I think it's waited long enough,” she said gently.
She talked for some time, and in the end she could see that she had hurt him, but perhaps not as much as she had feared. She suspected that someplace inside him, he had known all along that she was not the right woman to be his princess.
Dallie called Francesca the following day at the office. He began the conversation without preamble, as if he'd just talked to her the day before instead of six weeks ago and there were no bad feelings between them.
“Hey, Francie, you've got half of Wynette ready to lynch you.”
She had a sudden vision of all those glorious temper tantrums she used to throw in her youth, but she kept her voice calm and casual, even though her spine was rigid with tension. “Any particular reason?” she asked.
“The way you ran all over that TV minister last week was a real shame. People down here take their evangelists seriously, and Johnny Platt is a real favorite.”
“He's a charlatan,” she replied, as calmly as she could manage. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Why couldn't Dallie just once say what was on his mind? Why did he have to go through all these elaborate camouflaging rituals?
“Maybe, but they've got him scheduled opposite 'Gilligan's Island' reruns, so when people consider the alternative, nobody's too anxious to see his program get canceled.” There was a short, thoughtful pause. “Tell me something, Francie—and this should be right up your alley—with Gilligan and his buddies shipwrecked on that island so long, how's come those women never ran out of eye makeup? And toilet paper? You think the captain and Gilligan used banana leaves all that time?”
She wanted to scream at him, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. “I have a meeting, Dallie. Did you call for any particular reason?”
“As a matter of fact, I'm flying to New York next week to meet with the boys at the network again, and I thought I might stop by around seven on Tuesday night to say hello to Teddy and maybe take you out to dinner.”
“I can't make it,” she said coldly, resentment leaking from every one of her pores.
“Just for dinner, Francie. You don't have to make a big deal out of it.”
If he wouldn't say what was on his mind, she would. “I won't see you, Dallie. You had your chance, and you blew it.”
There was a long silence. She willed herself to hang up, but she couldn't quite coordinate the motion. When Dallie finally spoke, his easy tone was gone. He sounded tired and troubled. “I'm sorry for not calling you earlier, Francie. I needed some time.”
“And now I need some.”
“All right,” he said slowly. “Just let me stop by and see Teddy, then.”
“I don't think so.”
“I have to start fixing things with him, Francie. I'll take it easy. Just a couple of minutes.”
She had grown tough over the years; she'd had to. But now when she needed that toughness the most, all she could do was visualize a little boy shoving peas under his baked potato. “Just for a few minutes,” she conceded. “That's all.”
“Great!” He sounded as exuberant as a teenager. “That's just great, Francie.” And then, quickly, “After I see Teddy, I'll take you out for a bite of dinner.” Before she could open her mouth to protest, he had hung up.
She put her head down on the desk and groaned. She didn't have a spine; she had a strand of limp spaghetti.
By the time the doorman buzzed her on Tuesday evening to announce Dallie's arrival, Francesca was a nervous wreck. She had tried on three of her most conservative outfits before she'd rebelliously settled on one of her wildest—a mint green satin bustier set off by an emerald velvet miniskirt. The colors deepened the green of her eyes and, in her imagination at least, made her look more dangerous. The fact that she was probably overdressed for an evening with Dallie didn't deter her. Even though she suspected they would end up in some seedy dive with plastic-covered menus, this was still her city and Dallie would have to be the one to fit in.
After fluffing her hair into casual disarray, she draped a pair of Tina Chow's crystal pendants around her neck. Although she had more faith in her own powers than in the mystical ones of Tina Chow's fashionable necklaces, she decided that she shouldn't overlook anything that would help her get through what
could only be a difficult evening. She knew she didn't have to go to dinner with Dallie—she didn't even have to be here when he arrived—but she wanted to see him again. It was that simple.
She heard Consuelo opening the front door, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She forced herself to wait in her room for a few minutes until she felt calmer, but only ended up making herself more nervous, so she walked out to the living room to greet him.
He was carrying a wrapped parcel and standing by the fireplace admiring the red dinosaur that hung above it. He turned at the sound of her approach and gazed at her. She noted his well-cut gray suit, dress shirt with French cuffs, and deep blue tie. She had never seen him in a suit, and unconsciously she found herself waiting for him to start pulling at the collar and unknotting his tie. He did neither.
His eyes took in the little velvet miniskirt, the green satin bustier, and he shook his head in admiration. “Damn, Francie, you look better in hooker clothes than any woman I know.”
She wanted to laugh, but it seemed more prudent to fall back on sarcasm. “If any of my old problems with personal vanity ever crop back up, remind me to spend five minutes in your company.”
He grinned, then walked over to her and brushed her lips with a light kiss that tasted vaguely of bubble gum. The skin on the side of her neck prickled with goose bumps. Looking squarely into her eyes, he said, “You're just about the prettiest woman in the world, and you know it.”
She moved quickly away from him. He began looking around the living room, his gaze drifting from Teddy's orange vinyl beanbag chair to a Louis XVI mirror. “I like this place. It's real comfortable.”
“Thank you,” she replied a little stiffly, still trying to take in the fact that they were face to face again and that he seemed a lot more at ease than she. What were they going to say to each other tonight? They had absolutely nothing to talk about that wasn't either controversial, embarrassing, or emotionally explosive.
“Is Teddy around?” He passed the wrapped parcel from his left hand to his right.
“He's in his room.” She saw no sense in explaining that Teddy had thrown a fit when she'd told him that Dallie was coming over.
“Do you think you could ask him to come out here for a minute?”
“I—I doubt that it'll be that easy.”
A shadow fell over his face. “Then just show me which room is his.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and led him down the hallway. Teddy was sitting at his desk idly pushing a G.I. Joe jeep back and forth.
“What do you want?” he asked, as he looked up and saw Dallie standing behind Francesca.
“I brought you a little something,” Dallie said. “Sort of a late Christmas present.”
“I don't want it,” Teddy retorted sullenly. “My mom buys me everything I need.” He pushed the jeep over the edge of the desk and let it crash to the carpet. Francesca shot him a warning look, but Teddy pretended not to notice.
“In that case, why don't you just give these to one of your friends?” Dallie walked over and laid the box on Teddy's bed.
Teddy eyed it suspiciously. “What's in there?”
“It might be a pair of cowboy boots.”
Something flickered in Teddy's eyes. “Cowboy boots? Did Skeet send them?”
Dallie shook his head.
“Skeet sent me some other stuff,” Teddy announced.
“What stuff?” Francesca asked.
Teddy shrugged his shoulders. “Just a whoopee cushion and stuff.”
“That was nice of him,” she replied, wondering why Teddy hadn't mentioned it to her.
“Did the sweat shirt fit?” Dallie asked.
Teddy straightened up in his chair and stared at Dallie, his eyes alert behind his glasses. Francesca looked at them both curiously, wondering what they were talking about.
“It fit,” Teddy said, his voice so soft it was barely audible.
Dallie nodded, lightly touched Teddy's hair, then turned and left the room.
The cab ride was relatively quiet, with Francesca nestled into the velvet collar of a beaded jacket and Dallie glaring at the driver. Dallie had brushed off her question when she'd asked him about the incident with Teddy and, even though it went against her nature, she didn't press.
The cab pulled up in front of Lutèce. She was surprised and then illogically disappointed. Although Lutèce was probably the best restaurant in New York, she couldn't help but think less of Dallie for trying so obvious a ploy to impress her. Why didn't he just take her someplace where he'd be comfortable, instead of a restaurant so obviously foreign to his nature? He held the door for her as they walked inside and then took her jacket and passed it over to be checked in the vestiaire. Francesca envisioned an uncomfortable evening ahead, as she tried to interpret both the menu and the wine list without damaging his male ego.
Lutèce's hostess saw Francesca and gave her a welcoming smile. “Mademoiselle Day, it is always a pleasure to have you with us.” And then she turned to Dallie. “Monsieur Beaudine, it's been almost two months. We've missed you. I've held your old table.”
Old table! Francesca stared at Dallie while he and madame exchanged pleasantries. She'd done it again. Once more she'd let herself buy into the image Dallie had created for himself and forgotten that this was a man who had spent the best part of the last fifteen years hanging out in the most exclusive country clubs in America.
“The scallops are especially good tonight,” madame announced, as she led them down Lutèce's narrow brick hallway to the antegarden.
“Just about everything's good here,” Dallie confided after they were settled in the wicker chairs. “Except I make sure to get an English translation of anything that looks suspicious before I eat it. Last time they almost stuck me with liver.”
Francesca laughed. “You're a wonder, Dallie, you really are.”
“Now, why's that?”
“It's hard to imagine too many people who are just as comfortable at Lutèce as they are in a Texas honky-tonk.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “It seems to me you're pretty comfortable both places.”
His comment knocked Francesca slightly off balance. She had grown so accustomed to musing over their differences that it was hard to adjust to the suggestion that they had any similarities. They chatted about the menu for a while, with Dallie making irreverent observations about any item of food that struck him as overly complex. All the time he talked, his eyes seemed to be drinking her up. She began to feel beautiful in a way she had never felt before—a visceral kind of beauty that came from deep within. The softness of her mood alarmed her, and she was glad of the distraction when the waiter appeared to take their order.
After the waiter left, Dallie swept his eyes over her again, his smile slow and intimate. “I had a good time with you that night.”
Oh, no, you don't, she thought. He wasn't going to win her over that easily. She had played games with the best of them, and this was one fish who would have to wiggle on the hook for a while. She widened her eyes innocently, opening her mouth to ask him what night he was talking about, only to find herself smiling at him instead. “I had a good time, too.”
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand, but then let go of it almost as quickly as he had touched it. “I'm sorry about yelling at you like that. Holly Grace got me pretty upset. She shouldn't have busted in on us. What happened wasn't your fault, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”
Francesca nodded, not actually accepting his apology, but not quite throwing it back in his face, either. The conversation drifted in safer directions until the waiter appeared with their first course. After they were served, Francesca asked Dallie about his meeting with the network. He was guarded in his reply, a fact that interested her enough to make her probe a little deeper.
“I understand that if you sign with the network, you'll have to stop playing in most of the bigger tournaments.” She extracted a snail from a small ceramic pot where it lay b
athed in a buttery sauce rich with herbs.
He shrugged. “It won't be long before I'm too old to be competitive. 1 might as well sign the deal while the money's good.”
The facts and figures of Dallie's career flashed through her head. She sketched a circle on the tablecloth and then, like an inexperienced traveler cautiously setting foot in a strange country, commented, “Holly Grace told me you probably won't play in the U.S. Classic this year.”
“Probably not.”
“I wouldn't think you'd let yourself retire until you'd won a major tournament.”
“I've done all right for myself.” His knuckles tightened ever so slightly around the glass of club soda he'd picked up. And then he began telling her how well Miss Sybil and Doralee were getting along. Since Francesca had just spoken with both women on the telephone, she was far more interested in the way he had changed the subject than in what he was saying.
The waiter arrived with their entrées. Dallie had selected scallops served in a rich dark sauce of tomatoes and garlic, while she had chosen a flaky pastry stuffed with an aromatic mixture of crabmeat and wild mushrooms. She picked up her fork and tried again. “The U.S. Classic is becoming almost as important as the Masters, isn't it?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Dallie captured one of the scallops with his fork and dredged it through the thick sauce. “You know what Skeet told me the other day? He said as far as he's concerned you're the most interesting stray we ever picked up. That's quite a compliment, especially since he didn't used to be able to stand you.”
“I'm flattered.”
“For a long time he was holding out for this one-armed drifter who could burp 'Tom Dooley,' but I think you changed his mind during your recent memorable visit. Of course, there's always a chance he'll reconsider.”
He rattled on and on. She smiled and nodded and waited for him to run down, disarming him with the easiness of her manner and the attentive tilt of her head, lulling him so completely that he forgot he was sitting across the table from a woman who had spent the last ten years of her life prying out secrets most people wanted to keep hidden, a woman who could go in for the kill so skillfully, so guilelessly, that the victim frequently died with a smile on his face. Gently she decapitated a stalk of white asparagus. “Why don't you wait until after the U.S. Classic before you go into the announcers' booth? Whatever are you afraid of?”