She laughed appreciatively and then dropped her voice so that only he could hear. “I'll bet you've invented trouble in a lot of places besides golf courses.”
“I do my best.” He gave her a slow grin.
“Look me up next time you're in L.A., why don't you?” She scribbled something on the pad he handed back to her, ripped it off, and gave it to him right along with another smile.
As she moved away, he shoved the paper in the pocket of his jeans where it rustled against another piece of paper that the girl at the Avis counter had slipped to him when he'd left Los Angeles.
Skeet growled at him from the window seat. “Bet you she don't even have a nephew, or if she does he's never heard of you.”
Dallie opened a paperback copy of Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions and began to read. He hated talking to Skeet on airplanes about as much as he hated anything. Skeet didn't like traveling unless he was doing it on four Goodyear radiais and an interstate highway. The few times they'd had to abandon Dallie's newest Riviera to fly cross-country for a tournament—like this trek from Atlanta out to L.A. and back—Skeet's normal temper, prickly at best, turned completely sour.
Now he glowered at Dallie. “When are we getting in to Mobile? I hate these damned planes, and don't you start in on me again ‘bout the laws of physics. You know and I know that there's nothing but air between us and the ground, and air can't hardly be expected to hold up something this big.”
Dallie closed his eyes and said mildly, “Shut up, Skeet.”
“Don't you go to sleep on me. Dammit, Dallie, I mean it! You know how much I hate to fly. Least you could do is stay awake and keep me company.”
“I'm tired. Didn't get enough sleep last night.”
“No wonder. Carousing till two in the morning and then bringing that mangy dog back with you.”
Dallie opened his eyes and gave Skeet a sideways glance. “I don't think Astrid would like being called a mangy dog.”
“Not her! The dog, you fool! Dammit, Dallie, I could hear that mutt whining right through the wall of the motel.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Dallie answered, turning to meet Skeet's scowl. “Leave it starving by the freeway?”
“How much did you give ‘em at the motel desk before we left this morning?”
Dallie muttered something Skeet couldn't quite hear.
“Whadju say?” Skeet repeated belligerently.
“A hundred, I said! A hundred now and another hundred next year when I come back and find the dog in good shape.”
“Damn fool,” Skeet muttered. “You and your strays. You got mangy dogs boarded away with motel managers in thirty states. I don't even know how you half keep track. Dogs. Runaway kids...”
“Kid. There was only one, and I put him on a Trailways bus the same day.”
“You and your damn strays.”
Dallie's gaze slowly swept Skeet from head to toe. “Yeah,” he said. “Me and my goddamn strays.”
That shut Skeet up for a while, which was exactly what Dallie had intended. He opened his book for the second time, and three pieces of blue stationery folded in half slipped out into his lap. He unfolded them, taking in the border of romping Snoopys across the top and the row of X's at the end, and then he began to read.
Dear Dallie,
I'm lying at the side of Rocky Halley's swimming pool with just about an inch and a half of purple bikini between myself and notoriety. Do you remember Sue Louise Jefferson, the little girl who worked at the Dairy Queen and betrayed her parents by going north to Purdue instead of to East Texas Baptist because she wanted to be the Boilermakers’ Golden Girl, but then she got knocked up after the Ohio State game by a Buckeye linebacker instead? (Purdue lost, 21-13.) Anyway, I've been thinking about one day a few years back when Sue Louise was still in Wynette and she was feeling like Wynette High and her boyfriend were getting to be too much for her. Sue Louise looked over at me (I'd ordered a vanilla chocolate twist with sprinkles) and said, “I been thinking that life's like a Dairy Queen, Holly Grace. Either it tastes so good it gives you the shivers or it's melting all over your hand.”
Life's melting, Dallie.
After coming in at fifty percent over quota for those bloodsuckers at Sports Equipment International, I was pulled into the office last week by the new V.P. who told me they're promoting someone else to southwest regional sales manager. Since that Someone Else happens to be male and barely made quota last year, I hit the roof and told the V.P. he was looking right down the bosom of an Equal Opportunity lawsuit. He said, “Now, now, honey. You women are too sensitive about this sort of thing. I want you to trust me.” At which point I told him I wouldn't trust him not to get a hard-on in an old ladies’ retirement home. Several more heated exchanges followed, which is why I'm currently lying beside old Number 22's swimming pool instead of living in airports.
News on the brighter side—I Farrah Fawcetted my hair until it looks just short of spectacular, and the Firebird's running great. (It was the carburetor, just like you said.)
Don't buy any bridges, Dallie, and keep making those birdies.
Love,
Holly Grace
P.S. I made up some of that about Sue Louise Jefferson, so if you happen to see her next time you're in Wynette, don't mention anything about the Buckeye linebacker.
Dallie smiled to himself, folded the letter into quarters, and tucked it into his shirt pocket, the closest place he could find to his heart.
Chapter
6
The limousine was a 1971 Chevrolet without air conditioning. This was especially irksome to Francesca because the thick, heavy heat seemed to have formed a cocoon around her. Even though her travels in the United States had until that day been limited to Manhattan and the Hamptons, she was too preoccupied with her own misjudgment to show any interest in the unfamiliar landscape they had passed since leaving Gulfport an hour earlier. How could she have blundered so badly in her choice of wardrobe? She glanced down with disgust at her heavy white woolen trousers and the long-sleeved celery-green cashmere sweater that was sticking so uncomfortably to her skin. It was the first day of October! Who could have imagined it would be so hot?
After nearly twenty-four hours of travel, her eyelids were drooping from weariness and her body was covered with grime. She had flown from Gatwick to JFK, then to Atlanta, and from there to Gulfport where the temperature was ninety-two in the shade and where the only driver she'd been able to hire had a car without air conditioning. Now all she could think about was going to her hotel, ordering a lovely gin and quinine, taking a long, cold shower, and sleeping for the next twenty-four hours. As soon as she checked in with the film company and found out where she was being lodged, she'd do exactly that.
Pulling the sweater away from her damp chest, she tried to think of something to cheer herself up until she reached the hotel. This was going to be an absolutely smashing adventure, she told herself. Although she had no acting experience, she'd always been a wonderful mimic, and she would work very hard in the film so that the critics would think she was marvelous and all the best directors would want to hire her. She would go to wonderful parties and have a lovely career and make absolutely scads of money. This was what had been missing from her life, that elusive “something” she'd never quite been able to define. Why ever hadn't she thought of it before?
She pushed her hair back from her temples with the tips of her fingers and congratulated herself on having so neatly cleared the hurdle of finding enough money to cover her air fare. It had been a lark, actually, once she'd gotten over the initial shock of the idea. Lots of socialites took their clothes to stores that bought designer labels for resale; she didn't know why she hadn't done so months before. The money from the sale had paid for a first-class airline ticket and settled the most pressing of her bills. People made financial matters so unnecessarily complex, she now realized, when all it took to solve one's difficulties was a little initiative. She abhorred wearing last season
's clothes, anyway, and now she could begin buying an entire new wardrobe as soon as the film company reimbursed her for her ticket.
The car turned into a long drive lined with live oaks. She craned her neck as they rounded a bend and she saw a restored plantation house ahead, a three-story brick and wooden structure with six fluted columns gracefully set across the front veranda. As they drew nearer, she noticed an assortment of twentieth-century trucks and vans parked next to the antebellum home. The vehicles looked just as out of place as the members of the crew who wandered about in shorts with T-shirts, bare chests, and halter tops.
The driver pulled the car to a stop and turned to her. He had a large round American Bicentennial button affixed to the collar of his tan work shirt. It read “1776-1976” across the top, with “AMERICA” and “LAND OF OPPORTUNITY” at the center and bottom. Francesca had seen signs of the American Bicentennial everywhere since she'd landed at JFK. The souvenir stands were loaded with commemorative buttons and cheap plastic models of the Statue of Liberty. When they passed through Gulfport, she'd even seen fire hydrants painted to look like Revolutionary War minute-men. To someone who came from a country as old as England, all this celebrating of a mere two hundred years seemed excessive.
“Forty-eight dollar,” the taxi driver announced in English so heavily accented that she could barely understand it.
She sifted through the American currency she had purchased with her English pounds when she'd landed at JFK and handed him most of what she had, along with a generous tip and a smile. Then she climbed out of the cab, taking her cosmetic case with her.
“Francesca Day?” A young woman with frizzy hair and dangling earrings came toward her across the side lawn.
“Yes?”
“Hi. I'm Sally Calaverro. Welcome to the end of nowhere. I'm afraid I'm going to need you in wardrobe right away.”
The driver set the Vuitton suitcase at Francesca's feet. She took in Sally's rumpled India print cotton skirt and the brown tank top she had unwisely chosen to wear without a bra. “That's impossible, Miss Calaverro,” she replied. “As soon as I see Mr. Byron, I'm going to the hotel and then to bed. The only sleep I've had for twenty-four hours was on the plane, and I'm frightfully exhausted.”
Sally's expression didn't change. “Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to hold you up a little longer, although I'll try to make it as fast as possible. Lord Byron moved up the shooting schedule, and we have to have your costume ready by tomorrow morning.”
“But that's preposterous. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'm going to need a few days to get settled in. He can hardly expect me to start working the moment I arrive.”
Sally's pleasant manner slipped. “That's show biz, honey. Call your agent.” She glanced at the Vuitton suitcases and then called to someone behind Francesca's back. “Hey, Davey, take Miss Day's stuff over to the chicken coop, will ya?”
“Chicken coop!” Francesca exclaimed, beginning to feel genuinely alarmed. “I don't know what all this is about, but I want to go to my hotel immediately.”
“Yeah, don't we all.” She gave Francesca a smile that bordered on being insolent. “Don't worry, it's not really a chicken coop. The house where we're all staying sits right next to this property. It used to be a convalescent home a few years back; the beds still have cranks on them. We call it the chicken coop because that's what it looks like. If you don't mind a few cockroaches, it's not bad.”
Francesca refused to rise to the bait. This was what happened, she realized, when one argued with underlings. “I want to see Mr. Byron at once,” she declared.
“He's shooting inside the house right now, but he doesn't like being interrupted.” Sally's eyes flicked rudely over her, and Francesca could feel her assessing the mussed clothes and inappropriate winter fabric.
“I'll take my chances,” she replied sarcastically, staring at the wardrobe mistress for one long, hard moment before she pushed her hair back and walked away.
Sally Calaverro watched her go. She studied that tiny, slim body, remembering the perfect makeup and the gorgeous mane of hair. How did she manage to flip her hair like that with just a little shrug? Did gorgeous women take hair-flipping lessons or what? Sally tugged on a lock of her own hair, dry and frizzed at the ends from a bad perm. All the straight males in the company would start behaving like twelve-year-olds when they caught sight of that woman, Sally thought. They were accustomed to pretty little starlets, but this one was something else, with that fancy-schmansy British accent and a way of staring at you that reminded you your parents had crossed the ocean in steerage. During countless hours in too many singles bars, Sally had observed that some men ate up that superior, condescending crap.
“Shit,” she muttered, feeling like a fat, frumpy giantess firmly entrenched on the wrong side of twenty-five. Miss High-and-Mighty had to be suffocating underneath her two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater, but she looked as cool and crisp as a magazine ad. Some women, it seemed to Salty, had been put on earth just for other women to hate, and Francesca Day was definitely one of them.
Dallie could feel the Dread Mondays descending on him, even though it was Saturday and he'd shot a spectacular 64 the day before playing eighteen holes with some good ol’ boys outside Tuscaloosa. Dread Mondays was the name he'd given the black moods that seized him more frequently than he wanted to let on, sinking sharp teeth right into him and sucking out all the juice. In general, the Dread Mondays screwed up a hell of a lot more than his long irons.
He hunched over his Howard Johnson's coffee and stared out the front window of the restaurant into the parking lot. The sun wasn't up all the way and other than some sleepy-eyed truckers the restaurant was nearly empty. He tried to reason away his lousy mood. It hadn't been a bad season, he reminded himself. He'd won a few tournaments, and he and PGA Commissioner Deane Beman hadn't chatted more than two or three times on the commissioner's favorite subject—conduct unbecoming to a professional golfer.
“What'll it be?” asked the waitress who came up next to his table, an orange and blue hankie tucked in her pocket. She was one of those squeaky-clean fat women with sprayed hair and good makeup, the kind who took care of herself and made you say that she had a nice face underneath all that fat.
“Steak and home fries,” he said, handing her the menu. “Two eggs over easy, and another gallon of coffee.”
“You want it in a cup or should I shoot it straight into your veins?”
He chuckled. “You just keep it coming, honey, and I'll figure out where to put it.” Damn, he loved waitresses. They were the best women in the world. They were street smart and sassy, and every one of them had a story.
This particular waitress took a few moments to look at him before she moved away, studying his pretty face, he figured. It happened all the time, and he generally didn't mind unless they also gave him that half-hungry look that told him they wanted something from him he damn well couldn't give.
The Dread Mondays came back in full force. Just this morning, right after he had crawled out of bed, he had been standing in the shower trying to get his two bloodshot eyes to stay open when the Bear had come right up next to him and whispered in his ear.
It's almost Halloween, Beaudine. Where are you going to hide yourself this year?
Dallie had turned on the cold water faucet as far as it would go, but the Bear kept at him.
Just what the hell does a worthless no-account like you think you're doing living on the very same planet with me?
Dallie shook away the memory as the food arrived along with Skeet, who slid into the booth. Dallie shoved the breakfast plate across the table and looked away while Skeet picked up his fork and sank it into the bloody steak.
“How you feelin’ today, Dallie?”
“Can't complain.”
“You were drinkin’ pretty heavy last night.”
Dallie shrugged. “I ran a few miles this morning. Did some push-ups. Sweated it off.”
Skeet looked up, knife and fork poised in
his hands. “Uh-huh.”
“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”
“Don't mean nothin’, Dallie, except I think the Dread Mondays been gettin' to you again.”
He took a sip from his coffee cup. “It's natural to feel depressed toward the end of the season—too many motels, too much time on the road.”
“Especially when you didn't come within kissin’ distance of any of the majors.”
“A tournament is a tournament.”
“Horse manure.” Skeet returned to the steak. A few minutes of silence passed between them.
Dallie finally spoke. “I wonder if Nicklaus ever gets the Dread Mondays?”
Skeet slammed down his fork. “Now, don't start thinkin’ about Nicklaus again! Every time you start thinkin’ about him, your game goes straight to hell.”
Dallie pushed back his coffee cup and picked up the check. “Give me a couple of uppers, will you?”
“Shoot, Dallie, I thought you was going to lay off that stuff.”
“You want me to stay in the running today or not?”
“‘Course I want you to stay in the runnin’, but I don't like the way you been doin’ it lately.”
“Just lay off, will you, and give me the fucking pills!”
Skeet shook his head and did as he was told, reaching into his pocket and pushing the black capsules across the table. Dallie snatched them up. As he swallowed them, it didn't slip past him that there was a halfway humorous contradiction between the care he took of his athlete's body and the abuse he subjected it to in the form of late nights, drinking, and that street-corner pharmacy he made Skeet carry around in his pockets. Still, it didn't really matter. Dallie stared down at the money he'd thrown on the table. When you were born a Beaudine, it was pretty much predestined that you wouldn't die of old age.
“This dress is hideous!”
Francesca studied her reflection in the long mirror set up at the end of the trailer that was serving as a makeshift costume shop. Her eyes had been enlarged for the screen with amber shadow and a thick set of eyelashes, and her hair was parted at the center, pulled smooth over her temples, and gathered into ringlets that fell over her ears. The period hairstyle was both charming and flattering, so she had no quarrel with the man who had just finished arranging it for her, but the dress was another story. To her fashion-conscious eye, the insipid pink taffeta with its layers of ruffled white lace flounces encircling the skirt looked like an overly sweet strawberry cream puff. The bodice fit so tightly she could barely breathe, and the boning pushed up her breasts until everything except her nipples spilled out over the top. The gown managed to look both saccharine and vulgar, certainly nothing like the costumes Marisa Berenson had worn in Barry Lyndon.