“This is Erinn Wolf,” Wesley was saying. “She’s a friend of Dymphna’s.”
“I’m sure you remember me telling you about Erinn,” Dymphna said.
Cleo quickly looked Erinn up and down. Erinn’s wild hair was pinned up in a haphazard up-do, a non-ironic homage to Bernadette Peters. And her clothes were ghastly! She was wearing a blue faux-linen blazer over a white blouse that gapped slightly under her bra. The ill-fitting pants and Toms slippers completed the disaster. Cleo supposed Erinn must be one of those women with such vivacious personalities, they didn’t need to work on their looks.
“Vaguely, yes.” Cleo half rose and shook Erinn’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And I, you,” Erinn said solemnly.
So much for that theory.
“Now that we’re all here,” Wesley said, “I won’t hold everyone in suspense any longer.”
“Actually,” Erinn said, “only Ms. Johnson-Primb is in suspense. The rest of us already know why we’re here.”
“I stand corrected,” Wesley said. “All right, Cleo. I won’t hold you in suspense any longer.”
“I hope this is okay with you, Cleo,” Dymphna blurted.
“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Cleo answered.
“As you know,” Wesley said to Cleo, “Dymphna came back to Los Angeles to pick up her rabbits . . .”
“And Elwood’s car broke down,” Cleo said, relaxing. “That’s no problem at all. I can supply a car. Would you like a red Bentley Flying Spur or a blue BMW M6?”
“I need space to bring the rabbits,” Dymphna said. “Are either of them four-doors?”
“They both are,” Cleo said. “But they really aren’t suited for transporting rabbits.”
“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves,” Wesley said. “As I was saying, Dymphna is here to collect her rabbits and is staying with her friend Erinn, in Santa Monica.”
“Now I remember,” Cleo said. “You’re Erinn Elizabeth Wolf, the playwright. You used to be the toast of Broadway when you were younger. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Erinn flinched. “You aren’t wrong. Now I’m a documentarian.”
“Are you now?” Cleo said. “I thought I remembered Dymphna saying you were the brains behind a series about wine and junk food. But again, correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Again, you are not wrong,” Erinn said. “But I am pretty solidly entrenched in the documentary world now, which is why—”
“Which is why,” Wesley cut in. He took a deep breath and continued. “Which is why we’re here today. Erinn has decided to do a documentary about Fat Chance.”
“Oh?” Cleo said. “Why?”
“It’s really an incredible story,” Erinn said. “A billionaire leaves a ghost town to a bunch of strangers whose lives he somehow ruined—at least in his own mind—and the town improbably becomes successful. It’s compelling television.”
“The press has already covered all this,” Cleo said.
“The press covered the story years ago,” Erinn said. “The fact that your nephew discovered a patch of historic grapes, the fact that the artisans have started to make names for themselves, and the back stories of why and how all those people flourished in Fat Chance, will all be new avenues to explore.”
“I don’t think anyone will find this interesting in the least,” Cleo said.
“I disagree,” Erinn said.
“What if I say no?” Cleo asked.
“That isn’t up to you,” Erinn said. “Since you are Cutthroat’s daughter and part of the story, I’d like you to be part of the process. But I’m going to Fat Chance with or without your approval. This is more of a courtesy call.”
“Really?” Cleo said. “This is your idea of courtesy?”
“Cleo is just getting used to the idea,” Wesley said, patting Cleo’s arm. She jerked it away.
Wesley stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.
“I hope you’ll like this idea once you’ve had time to think it over,” Dymphna said. “And thank you for the offer of a car, but—”
“No buts!” Wesley said heartily. “You’ve got rabbits and camera equipment to move! We’ll just use the stretch limo!”
“That’s very kind, but I think we’ve been enough trouble,” Dymphna said, shooting Cleo a sheepish look.
Wesley was already escorting them to the door. Cleo stayed in her seat, giving the women a bright smile and index-finger wave. She stared out the window as Wesley ushered the two women out. When he returned, Cleo’s demeanor had changed.
“I don’t understand the urgency of all this . . . or what it has to do with me,” she said. “I cancelled plans to be here!”
“You might have noticed that the timetable isn’t up to us,” Wesley said. “That woman is making a documentary—and we need to keep an eye on her.”
“And what is this ‘we’ business? ‘We need to keep an eye on her’ and ‘we’ll just use the stretch limo’?” Cleo asked. “Are you going to Fat Chance, too?”
She turned to face Wesley, who was now pouring two hefty snifters of brandy. He handed her one.
“Yes. We’re all going together in the limo,” he said.
Cleo choked on her brandy. “Have you lost your mind? You and I are going in a limousine to Fat Chance with Dymphna and that hideous woman? Why would we ever do that?”
“Remember your father’s favorite saying,” Wesley said. “‘Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.’ That’s why.”
“Why can’t we take the private jet, like normal people?” Cleo tried to keep the whine out of her voice.
“Because I don’t want the press to get hold of this,” Wesley said. “And they watch that plane like a hawk.”
“And you think no one is going to suspect a thing as the whole gang of us sneaks off in a stretch limo?”
“If Jennifer Aniston can pull off a secret wedding, I think we can get away with it—at least for a while,” Wesley said. “I’ll plant an item that Brad and Angelina are in town registering some of their brood for school. That should keep the paparazzi busy.”
“All right,” Cleo said. “If you’re sure.”
“Really? I thought this was going to take much more persuading.”
“Don’t I always take your advice?”
“Actually, no.”
“Well, I’m taking it this time, so don’t push your luck.”
“Deal.”
Cleo took a sip of bourbon to hide her smile.
So I get another shot at my ex-husband after all.
Chapter 8
Dymphna sat in the back of the white stretch limousine that took up the whole of Erinn’s driveway. She couldn’t believe that her rabbit cages fit perfectly across the backseat. Spot, Blanche, and Earrings were going to have a cozy ride to Fat Chance. She took comfort in that—and that alone. Doubts buzzed around her head like gnats. The rabbits were so trusting. And they were happy in Santa Monica, weren’t they? Would their lives be happy in Fat Chance? Which led to the bigger question: Would her life be happy in Fat Chance?
While she’d told Professor Johnson she was going to Los Angeles to pick up her rabbits, that was at best a half-truth. She also wanted to think about her future without the responsibility of being a girlfriend. She wanted to breathe. The fact that she was heading back to Fat Change so soon after she left had her reeling. She’d gotten so swept up in Erinn’s plan for the documentary that she forgot her own reasons for leaving town in the first place.
Dymphna realized this was the story of her life. She’d get caught up in other people’s ideas and realize she wasn’t where she wanted to be. She was never one for confrontation, so instead of speaking up, she’d move on and the whole thing would start over again.
No matter where she went, there she was, as the old saying goes.
She’d had only one conversation with Professor Johnson, when she first arrived in Santa Monica. She’d promised to let him know she’d arrived safely. She wished she’d
never made that promise because she’d had to add that she’d blown up his car. In his usual fashion, Professor Johnson took the news stoically. She knew he was confused by her request to have some time to sort out her feelings. She knew she loved Professor Johnson, but he had changed over the last year while taking a leadership role in town. She was proud of him, wrestling the free spirits of Fat Chance into action when it came to the grapes and the road. But there never seemed to be an end to his ideas.
There was no doubt life was different now.
She just wasn’t sure if she liked the difference.
She reached through Earrings’ cage and stroked her soft hair, calming them both. Dymphna couldn’t remember how Erinn had convinced her that they needed to head to Texas as soon as possible. The story could not wait, according to Erinn. Erinn’s ability to persuade was almost a superpower. Here they all were, Erinn, Wesley, Cleo, and—much to her surprise—Jeffries, Cleo’s butler and driver, in the final preparations of their journey.
“I’ll get that,” Erinn said to Jeffries as he lifted the camera bag into the stretch limo’s cavernous trunk. “This stuff is expensive.”
“Ms. Johnson-Primb entrusts me with all her valuables,” Jeffries said stiffly. “I have yet to disappoint her.”
Dymphna thought about intervening but decided not to. Wasn’t that why she was annoyed with Professor Johnson? Because he was always intervening? Always solving things? She took a deep breath and decided everyone would be better off if she just settled into the backseat with her rabbit cages and left Jeffries to duel with Erinn on his own.
When Cleo and Wesley had arrived in the limo from Beverly Hills, they had decided to go for a walk in Palisades Park while Erinn and Dymphna made their final preparations for the trip. Wesley returned to the limo first, and now was settled in the backseat with Dymphna, Erinn, and the rabbits, looking at his iPad. He had the air of a man used to waiting.
The back door of the limo suddenly opened and Cleo leaned in.
“Hi, Cleo,” Dymphna said.
Cleo looked around the interior as if she’d never seen it before. Her head popped out of the stretch like a champagne cork from a shaken bottle.
“There are rabbit cages on the backseat!” Cleo said accusingly.
“Yes,” Dymphna said. “But only three. The rabbits will be no trouble, I promise. They’ll be quiet and stay in their cages most of the time.”
“Most of the time?” Cleo said. “How about all of the time?”
“That hardly seems fair.” Wesley’s voice boomed from inside the limo. “How would you like to be locked up for three full days?”
“I am going to be locked up for three days?” Cleo said, poking her head back inside. “Fat Chance is only twenty hours away! Why do we have to spend three full days on the road?”
“We don’t,” Dymphna offered. “I can drive part of the way. So can Erinn.”
“Have you ever driven a stretch limo?” Cleo asked.
“No,” Dymphna said.
“I thought not,” Cleo snapped.
“Have you?” Wesley asked.
“Of course not,” Cleo said. “But I’m not offering to drive, am I?”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Wesley said, patting the armrest, “I happen to know how to drive this baby. So if you really want to get to Fat Chance sooner, I can give Jeffries a break from time to time.”
“And what will people think if they see you?” Cleo asked, aghast.
“‘There’s Wesley Tensaw driving a bunch of rabbits’?” he offered. “Or are you thinking something more along the lines of ‘Oh, how the mighty have fallen’?”
“No one is driving the limousine but the driver,” Cleo said.
Dymphna knew Cleo well enough to understand the conversation was at an end. But Wesley’s eyes were gleaming with mischief.
“Don’t you want to know why I know how to drive a limo?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Cleo said. “Do I?”
“Probably not,” Wesley said, grinning at her. “Let’s get out. We can’t appear to be hiding.”
But I am hiding, Cleo thought.
Wesley glided out of the backseat, looking much less intimidating in his khaki slacks, polo shirt, and Timberland hiking boots than he did in one of his dark suits. Dymphna wasn’t sure if she was included in Wesley’s statement that they couldn’t appear to be hiding, but she climbed out after him, just in case. She wondered why he chose hiking boots for a three-day drive, but she had learned that the rich had their peculiarities.
“I’m not sharing the backseat with rabbits,” Cleo said as Wesley stood beside her.
Out of nowhere, Dymphna found herself enveloped in a one-armed maternal hug. It was Virginia. Already tearing up at the thought of Dymphna leaving. Virginia’s other arm was cradling Piquant, the Chihuahua, who wanted nothing to do with messy goodbyes.
“This visit was much too short,” Virginia said.
“I know,” Dymphna said, meaning every word.
“When Erinn comes back, you can always come back with her,” Virginia said. “You’re family.”
Dymphna nodded. She felt a twinge of guilt. The thought of family always inspired a flight response—even when everything was perfect.
After Erinn and Dymphna had said goodbye to Virginia, Piquant, and Caro, Erinn’s cat, the limo pulled onto Ocean Avenue, dodging jaywalkers on their way to Palisades Park. Dymphna sat nestled between two rabbit cages, facing Wesley and Erinn. Cleo opted to sit in the front with Jeffries, insisting that she was not sharing a backseat with rabbits. Dymphna watched the window between the front and the back rise. She could barely make out Cleo in the front passenger seat, saying to Jeffries:
“Another trip to Fat Chance, Texas. Can you believe it?”
“Actually, ma’am—” Jeffries replied.
The screen between the sections locked into place.
Dymphna could only imagine what Jeffries might have said.
* * *
Professor Johnson gathered the morning eggs. He’d promised Dymphna that he’d keep the farm running in her absence. Although she hadn’t said when she’d be back, he took it as an unspoken promise that she would be back. He thought back to when he’d had to leave Fat Chance at the end of their initial six months. Every fiber of his being wanted to stay, but he’d had obligations in Los Angeles that needed to be fulfilled. Leaving Thud was his unspoken promise that he would return. A few months ago, he would have bet money he and Dymphna were on the same page. But she had seemed so withdrawn lately, it was hard to tell. He took comfort in the fact that while she might leave him in the lurch, she’d never abandon her goats and chickens, not to mention her fruit trees.
Am I pathetic in taking comfort in that?
He wondered if he should ask Maggie about Dymphna. He wanted to ask Maggie about herself as well. Why was she here? He assumed the answer was more complex than “I came to visit Dymphna, my sister who never mentions me.” But just the thought of talking to Maggie made him break into a cold sweat. After their initial encounter, he’d bundled her off to the Creakside Inn. He sure couldn’t have her stay at the farm with him—just looking at her, he realized she was too hot to handle.
That night Old Bertha and Pappy had both come to the door of the inn, Old Bertha primly tying her pink flannel robe.
“This better be important,” Pappy scowled, but spotting the woman peering out from behind Professor Johnson, he brightened. “Dymphna! You’re back!”
Maggie stepped forward. Old Bertha let out a gasp.
“I’m Mary Mag—” Maggie began, but Professor Johnson cut her off.
Introducing yourself as the most famous fallen woman in the history of the world was probably not going to go over well with Old Bertha.
“This is Maggie,” Professor Johnson said. “Dymphna’s sister.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Pappy muttered.
Maggie stood with her fingertips resting lightly on her hipbones as she looked arou
nd the parlor. The room seemed to heat up several degrees just having her in it.
What were your parents thinking? Professor Johnson thought. Dymphna and Mary Magdalene Pearl.
Mary Magdalene was currently enjoying a restored reputation among scholars. She was now being touted as one of the apostles, formerly consigned to history as a tarnished tart because men feared the power of women. Professor Johnson thought this was a reasonable interpretation from a scholarly perspective. But a sideways glance at this Mary Magdalene made it hard to think anything but that she was living up to the stereotype.
Old Bertha gave her the fisheye, as Pappy appeared to be holding in his stomach.
“Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas,” Pappy boomed when he finally found his voice.
“Thanks, handsome,” Maggie said. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting a real cowboy.”
Old Bertha and Pappy both reddened. For different reasons, Professor Johnson suspected.
“What’s going on?” Polly said as she came down the stairs, yawning. She started at the sight of Maggie.
“This is Dymphna’s sister,” Pappy said, a goofy grin on his face.
“No shit?” Polly said. “Wow, you look just like her! Are you guys twins?”
“I’m eighteen months younger,” Maggie said. “We’re Irish twins.”
“I didn’t know Dymphna was Irish,” Old Bertha said suspiciously.
“You didn’t know she had a sister, either,” Maggie said, and then added playfully, “That Dymphna is full of secrets.”
Is Dymphna full of secrets? thought Professor Johnson.
* * *
As if he’d summoned her by just thinking of her, Maggie suddenly appeared in the barnyard out of the dawn fog. She was wearing a pair of jeans so tight, they were more like a nod to the concept of pants rather than an actual garment. Her blue T-shirt had lace sleeves. It was something Dymphna might wear, but on Dymphna, it wouldn’t have that come-hither look. Part of him wished Maggie would go back to wherever she’d come from—or at least back to the Creakside Inn. He could see her at breakfast at the café, where he’d feel safe. He did not want to acknowledge what the other part of him wished.
“Good morning,” he mumbled. “You’re up early.”
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 6
