“I couldn’t sleep,” Maggie said. “Thought maybe you’d be up, too.”
Did she just wink?
“I need to get these eggs to Fernando,” Professor Johnson said.
“Do you want some help?” Maggie asked, moving closer to him.
“No, no . . . no-no-no,” he stammered. “I’ve got this.”
He tried to appear calm, holding up an egg, which promptly plopped onto his foot. Thud loyally raced in and gobbled up the mess.
“This is a sweet spread,” Maggie said as she looked around the barnyard. “All this is Dymphna’s?”
“Ever since Cutthroat deeded it to her,” Professor Johnson said.
“It seems to be in better shape than the rest of the town.”
“I think I heard that Pappy lived up here in his hermit days, but moved into town, such as it was, when he heard we were coming.”
“That was nice of him.”
“I don’t think he had a choice,” Professor Johnson said.
“I don’t suppose you ever asked him?”
“Asked him what?”
“If it bothered him that he had to move into town.”
“I’m not inclined toward that kind of dialogue and neither is he,” Professor Johnson said, trying not to look at her.
“What kind of dialogue are you inclined to?”
Professor Johnson’s hands started to sweat. He was never going to collect enough eggs if Maggie didn’t leave.
“Powderkeg offered me a job yesterday,” Maggie said, propping herself on a hay bale. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About me taking a job here in town.”
“What would you be doing for Powderkeg?” he asked. “Do you know anything about carpentry or leather?”
“I’ve had some experience with leather, you could say.” Maggie leered. As Professor Johnson’s face colored, she smiled. “He said he needed some help around the place. He’s getting so many orders that he can’t do everything himself. He bought a really intense sewing machine for working on saddles and boots. He figures we can learn how to use it together.”
“I’m sure your sister would be happy to have family around.”
“Then you don’t know my sister,” Maggie said with a slight snort.
Chapter 9
At Dymphna’s request, Wesley knocked on the partition between the front and back of the limo. Dymphna knew there was a fancy intercom system, but liked the fact that Wesley was comfortable just rapping his knuckles on the window. The partition slowly lowered. Wesley, who was riding backwards, turned around to face front.
“We’ve got carsick rabbits back here,” Wesley said.
“They’re not running around willy-nilly, are they?” Cleo looked into the back. “I don’t want any animals throwing up on the seats.”
“Calm down,” Wesley said. “They’re still in their cages and the seats are leather anyway.”
“The carpet isn’t leather,” Cleo huffed as Jeffries pulled the stretch limo over to a rest stop.
“And rabbits don’t regurgitate,” Erinn offered over Wesley’s shoulder.
“Then how do you know they’re carsick?” Cleo asked. “Oh, never mind.”
“The rabbits just need a break,” Dymphna said to Wesley. “They’re freaking out. It’s their version of carsick.”
Jeffries expertly swung the limo into a parking spot.
“Dare I ask,” Wesley said to Dymphna, “how you can tell they’re freaking out? They look the same to me.”
“She just knows,” Erinn said. “There’s an impressive amount of rabbit knowledge going on in that head.”
Dymphna smiled shyly at the compliment. She’d been thinking how much rabbit knowledge of her own Erinn had picked up over the three years she’d been guardian of the Angoras. She smiled gratefully at Erinn as she harnessed all three rabbits. Cleo got out of the limo, slammed the door pointedly, and walked toward the ladies’ room.
“Do you want to walk them with me?” Dymphna asked Erinn.
“You go ahead,” Erinn said as they stepped out of the car for the first time in hours. “I’m sticking close to Wesley.”
Dymphna sighed. She knew Erinn thought she was going to get some juicy information from Wesley about Cutthroat Clarence, but Dymphna had her doubts. Wesley J. Tensaw did not get where he was by falling into traps set by filmmakers—even filmmakers as smart as Erinn.
“I’ll help you with the rabbits, miss,” Jeffries said.
Dymphna didn’t really need help, but she welcomed the company.
“You know Cleo tried to kidnap me once,” Jeffries said in his studied, bored voice.
“I remember,” Dymphna said sympathetically. “When you drove her to Fat Chance three years ago. You said you’d stay if she knew your first name. I thought that was quite a gamble on your part.”
“It wasn’t really,” Jeffries said. “I’d been working for her family for over twenty-five years, but I knew she’d never even thought about me having a first name.”
“I can still see you standing there, at the turnout above Fat Chance, waiting for Cleo to come up with the answer,” Dymphna said. “And you were right, she didn’t remember your first name. But all of us who witnessed that scene remember! Your name is Donald.”
“Thank you, miss,” Jeffries said.
“Please call me Dymphna. And should I call you Donald?”
“No, thank you, miss,” Jeffries said with a whisper of a smile. “But I appreciate the gesture.”
A tiny bead of sweat formed on her upper lip as she realized she was running out of conversation. She suddenly brightened.
“Remember when you dropped Cleo off at the turnout, we had to carry all the bags down the hill because the trail was so messed up?” Dymphna said. “Well, we have a new road!”
“Do you, now?” Jeffries said, his voice returning to its flat timbre.
“Yes! You can take the limousine all the way into town now.”
“That will be very convenient.”
“Main Street still isn’t paved. Just the trail. But that should be enough. Right?”
“I’m not sure Ms. Johnson-Primb would appreciate four-wheeling in the limousine,” Jeffries said.
Dymphna was a little hazy on the details, since neither Cleo nor Wesley felt obliged to tell her their plans, but Dymphna had pieced together that the limo was going to replace Professor Johnson’s Outback and stay in Fat Chance. Dymphna almost broke her own rule about radio silence to Fat Chance. She thought it only fair to tell Professor Johnson that his replacement car was a forty-foot land whale. But she respected the fact that Professor Johnson had abided by her wishes and she didn’t think it fair to change the rules mid-hiatus. Besides, the limo would carry an awful lot of supplies from Spoonerville. Pappy’s VW bus with the canvas roof—the vehicle they called the Covered Volkswagen—wasn’t getting any younger.
From snippets of overheard conversation, Dymphna had divined that Jeffries was going to take the private jet back from Austin and return when summoned to drive Cleo and Wesley home. Dymphna wasn’t sure what plans Erinn had made about leaving. She would be very interested to find out, just in case she wanted to hitch a ride.
I’m not even back and I’m planning to leave?
“I think I’ll wash the windows as long as we’re taking a break,” Jeffries said with a small bow.
Dymphna looked for the rest of their party. Cleo appeared to be staggering, but Dymphna realized she was just talking into her cell phone while marching up and down the curved walkway. Erinn and Wesley were standing by the vending machines. The limousine was stocked with imported bottled water, alcohol, and mixers, but Erinn had a bottle of soda while Wesley had purchased a bag of chips. She knew Erinn and Wesley were playing a mental game of chess, and Dymphna would be interested to see who would win. She nudged the rabbits closer to them.
“You took over the firm very early in your career,” Erinn was saying to Wesley. She wasn’t wast
ing any time.
“I was young,” Wesley said. “But I was being groomed by Sebastian Pennyfeather, the senior partner. When he died in a boating accident, I took over the firm.”
“That isn’t my understanding of how large law firms work,” Erinn said.
“When Cutthroat Clarence is your premiere client and he suggests that a junior partner take over . . .” Wesley shrugged.
“Understood,” Erinn said. “But there must have been some hostility? Some resentment?”
“That was years ago. I don’t think anyone still resents it,” he said, pointing to his hair. “I certainly am the right age now. Mr. Pennyfeather always said people want their attorneys to have gray hair. It makes them seem wise.”
“Well, you do appear to have very wise hair,” Erinn said.
“Why do you want to know all this?” Wesley asked. “I thought the documentary was about Cutthroat. I don’t see what my legal career has to do with that.”
“Neither do I,” Erinn said. “Yet.”
“One for the road?” Wesley asked, pointing to the vending machine.
“This should hold me,” Erinn said, raising her soda in a toast.
As if by telepathic message, everyone returned to the limo at the same time.
“Are the rabbits feeling any better?” Cleo asked, as Jeffries opened the front passenger door.
“Yes,” Dymphna said. “Thanks for asking.”
“I was joking,” Cleo said, getting in the front seat. Jeffries closed the door and raised an eyebrow at Dymphna.
“Interesting sense of humor,” Erinn said as she helped Dymphna scoop up the rabbits and climb into the backseat.
* * *
Dymphna dozed, lulled by the smooth ride of the limousine and the murmur of Wesley’s and Erinn’s voices.
Chapter 10
“I just don’t understand why he won’t ask me to marry him,” Old Bertha said. “I mean, we aren’t getting any younger!”
Polly was heating soup in the tiny Creakside Inn kitchen. The sun had recently set and it was Polly’s turn to cook.
“You want to get married? To Pappy?” Polly said, tapping some salt into the pot.
“Of course I do,” Old Bertha said. “Just because I don’t go around begging the man . . .”
“So you want him to put a ring on it?” Polly asked in surprise. “Does he know you want to get married?”
“I’ve given him a few hints,” Old Bertha said. “Easy on the salt. I’ve got high blood pressure.”
“What kind of hints?” Polly said, putting the saltshaker down. “What have you said?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Old Bertha said. “Hmmm, maybe I have been playing my cards a little too close to the vest.”
“Maybe,” Polly said. “I don’t think anybody in town—and that includes Pappy—thinks you’ve been all that interested.”
“A woman can’t be too obvious,” Old Bertha said. “Men lose all respect if you seem too anxious.”
“You know what I’d do?” Maggie said, taking the kitchen by storm. “I’d make him jealous. Start dating other men.”
“What other men?” Old Bertha said. “The only other man in my age bracket is forty miles away.”
“GU?” Maggie said, taking a chocolate chip cookie from the cookie jar.
“GU?” Old Bertha repeated.
“Geographically undesirable,” Polly interpreted. “It means you won’t date a guy who isn’t conveniently located.”
“That sounds snooty,” Old Bertha said. “It’s not that. It’s just that at my age, I don’t commit to a long novel, let alone a date with someone who lives far away. Besides, I hate to say it, but Pappy is the one for me.”
“How long has it been since you’ve—” Maggie began, but one look at Polly and she changed gears. “Since you’ve been in love?”
Old Bertha flushed. “Oh, maybe since Clarence . . . back in 1955.”
“In 1955?” Maggie said. “That’s impressive.”
“There have been other men since then, but nothing like what I had with Clarence Johnson, that’s for sure.”
“Clarence Johnson?” Maggie almost choked on her cookie. “You mean Cutthroat Clarence?”
Polly and Old Bertha exchanged a look.
“Don’t you know that it’s because of Cutthroat Clarence that we’re all here?” Old Bertha asked.
Maggie shook her head.
“I have no idea why you’re all here, to tell you the truth,” Maggie said. “Seems like a pretty weird existence, if you ask me.”
“Then how did you end up finding Dymphna if you didn’t know the story?” asked Polly, bringing mugs of soup to the table.
“What story?” Maggie said. “All you guys have one story?”
Old Bertha quickly ran through the particulars of Cutthroat Clarence’s last will, including details of how each person fit into the billionaire’s sweeping mea culpa. From choosing a young hoodlum named Wally Wasabi because Cutthroat had swindled a store from a Japanese family during their internment during World War II, to Old Bertha’s own broken engagement.
“I’m telling you Wally’s part of the story ’cause he’s not here, and I’m telling you mine ’cause I am,” Old Bertha said. “You’ll have to ask the others if you want to know how they fit into Fat Chance. It’s not my place to say.”
“Fair enough,” Maggie said. “So, Polly, what’s your deal? Why did Cutthroat Clarence want you to come here?”
“My father was a first responder during 9/11,” Polly said, putting her cookie, which was on its way to her mouth, down on the table. “Cutthroat said he backed Big Oil when he knew there would be trouble. He said he couldn’t make amends to all the firefighters’ families. He kind of just picked me out of a hat, I guess.”
“So, you just stayed?” Maggie said. “This seems like a pretty dead town for somebody who’s not even twenty-five yet.”
“Things can get slow,” Polly said. “But I love it here.”
“Are you going to stay, like, forever?” Maggie asked.
“Now, how is she supposed to know that?” Old Bertha asked. “Forever is a long time.”
“Your turn,” Polly said, picking her cookie back up. “If you didn’t know any of this, how did you know Dymphna was here?”
“I didn’t,” Maggie said. “I was googling random stuff a few years ago and typed in ‘Dymphna Pearl.’ That podcast she did about knitting came up. When that went off the radar, I kind of checked online every once in a while to see if any of her knitting ever showed up. I found her stuff for sale online from a store in Dripping Springs. So I called. The lady at the store told me Dymphna lived on a farm in a place called Fat Chance, which isn’t even on the map.”
“We know,” Polly and Old Bertha said simultaneously.
“I finally got here,” Maggie said, “but all I found up at the farm was that strange professor dude. Dymphna had left. In typical Dymphna Pearl fashion.”
Polly and Old Bertha both looked surprised.
“Dymphna was always pretty private,” Old Bertha said. “We never even knew she had a sister.”
“Well, she does,” Maggie said. “But I’m all there is. No other siblings, no parents.”
“What’s your plan now, if you don’t mind my asking?” Old Bertha asked.
“I don’t mind. And I don’t have a plan,” Maggie said. “Dymphna would probably say ‘in typical Mary Magdalene Pearl fashion.’ ”
Maggie got up from the table and headed toward the back door.
“Are you going out?” Old Bertha said. “It’s after eight o’clock.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said, flipping her hair. “I thought I’d go up to the farm and see what Professor Johnson and Thud are up to.”
* * *
Maggie was heading up the hill toward the farm when she spotted Titan down by the creek. It hadn’t taken her long to get to know everyone in Fat Chance. That was the beauty of hanging out in a small town. She glanced up at the farmhouse. Whatever pl
ans were formulating in her head could wait. She turned toward the trickling stream.
“Hey, Titan,” she said. “No luck with finding Fancy?”
“Nothing yet,” Titan said as he looked up, sorrow etched in his face.
“I’ll bet she was quite a girl,” Maggie said, sitting on a rock that projected out of the water.
“She was,” Titan said. “She is. I know this sounds crazy, but I think I’d know if she was gone. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “But you can be wrong, you know. I thought my sister would come back when she first left. But she didn’t. I don’t want to stop you from hoping. But our feelings sometimes don’t have anything to do with reality. They just jack us up.”
“I think Fancy is alive,” Titan said. “And I think if she’s gone, she must have had a good reason to go.”
“She might have had a good reason to go,” Maggie said. “I’ll give you that.” She stood up and leapt gracefully off the rock.
“Good luck,” she called, without turning around.
* * *
Powderkeg and Pappy sat with Fernando in the café. Pappy poured a dark red liquid into three jelly jars.
“I made this wine with the grapes from my arbor,” Pappy said as he held the liquid up to the light and swirled it. “This isn’t the swanky stuff we’ll be getting once the vines start producing. But I gotta say, I don’t think it’s bad. We could start generating wine right out of the gate.”
“Have you joined the ‘drink it now’ camp?” Fernando said, sniffing gingerly at the wine.
“I’m not in any camp,” Pappy said. “I just thought I’d do some experimenting so I have a realistic idea of what to expect. Can we make a profit right away by selling young wines? Or will our wines need to be cellared before we can sell them?”
“It’s not a question of selling young wines and making a profit,” Fernando said. “We have an opportunity to make a good wine—maybe even a great wine. We’re building a reputation in this town as a respected group of artisans. Now we’re going to churn out a shitty wine? We’re going to need patience.”
“And money,” Powderkeg said as he took a sip. “Tastes good to me.”
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 7
