“Yeah.”
“It’s my job.”
“Hmm,” Polly said, looking out the passenger window as the Hill Country rolled by. “My father told me that if you pay attention, you can smell bullshit a mile away.”
“Well,” Jeffries said, looking in the rearview mirror, “we are in Texas.”
Polly laughed. But she was not to be deterred.
“You very skillfully managed not to stay when you dropped Cleo off the first time. What changed?”
“I guess I’m getting rusty.”
“So that’s all I’m going to get?”
“That’s it,” Jeffries said. “Let’s talk about you, shall we?”
“Works for me.”
Jeffries turned on the windshield wipers as Polly warmed to the topic.
“Do you want to hear about my boyfriend or my plans for the future?” Polly asked.
“Surprise me.”
“Well, Poet is leaving soon for Nebraska. I think I told you he’s going to work on a wagon train, which is so cool. But I’m not sure he has the personality for that, you know? He’s kind of quiet. Sort of like you.”
“But I’m not planning on running a wagon train.”
Polly giggled. “Anyway, when Erinn interviewed me, she asked about my plans for the future and I said I didn’t really have any. But that got me thinking. Maybe I should go with Poet. I could be the friendly one.”
“I see,” Jeffries said. “What does Poet think of this?”
“He doesn’t know yet,” Polly said. “But on the other hand, I really like making my hats and other crafts and they’re starting to really take off.”
“Both directions sound very interesting.”
“Can I ask you something? How come you became a chauffeur?”
“I look good in a uniform,” Jeffries said. “And it pays better than the military.”
“Seriously?”
“No,” Jeffries said. “The fact of the matter is, I don’t even remember. So, here’s my advice—do one or the other. Or do neither and stay in Fat Chance. But own your decision. Don’t wake up one day, look at your life, and wonder how you got there.”
“OK,” Polly said. “Thanks.”
They stared out the window, one lost to the future, one to the past.
* * *
Erinn and Wesley were falling into a rhythm. Erinn carried the camera and a backpack full of gear while Wesley toted the tripod and light bar. Erinn quickened her pace when she spotted Cleo on the boardwalk.
“Cleo!” Erinn called out, but Cleo walked on. Erinn turned to Wesley. “Can you get her attention?”
“Not in the past twenty-five years,” he said, smiling.
Erinn glowered and tried again.
“Cleo,” she called. “Ms. Johnson-Primb?”
Cleo turned around and smiled at them. Erinn’s antennae went up. Cleo wasn’t one to smile. Cleo stood still, waiting for Wesley and Erinn to make their cumbersome way to her.
“She couldn’t come to us?” Erinn said under her breath to Wesley.
“Have you met her?” Wesley said, almost looking like a ventriloquist as he spoke through his flashing white teeth while smiling brightly at Cleo.
“Yes?” Cleo asked when Erinn and Wesley finally reached her.
“I was wondering when might be a good time to interview you for the documentary,” Erinn said.
“Never,” Cleo said, her smile hardening. “Didn’t Wesley tell you I never do interviews?”
“You do interviews all the time,” Wesley said.
“Not about family, I don’t,” Cleo said. She turned to Erinn. “When you want to know my opinion on the latest happenings in Beverly Hills, I’ll be happy to talk to you.”
Cleo turned on the heels of her cowboy boots and started walking toward the inn at the far end of town. Erinn and Wesley watched her go.
“I don’t understand,” Erinn said. “What’s with the reluctant debutante routine? She came here because of the documentary, didn’t she?”
Wesley didn’t say anything.
“Howdy,” Powderkeg said, startling Erinn.
“Oh! Hi, Powderkeg,” Erinn said.
Powderkeg tipped his hat but kept walking down the boardwalk.
“What am I missing?” she asked, turning to Wesley.
Wesley met her eyes, then looked down the boardwalk toward the end of town. Erinn followed his gaze. Cleo was headed up the stairs of the inn, turning and scanning the boardwalk before heading inside. Powderkeg was taking his time down the final stretch of boardwalk. He stepped into a cloud of dust on Main Street and made a beeline for the inn.
“Oh.” Erinn looked up at Wesley.
Wesley barely nodded.
Erinn looked back at the inn and saw Powderkeg disappear inside.
“Oh!” she said.
Erinn mentally crossed Cleo off her to-do list of interviewees. She only had Old Bertha and Titan left, which made her nervous. She should have an angle on the story by now, and she didn’t. If anything, the story seemed to be getting away from her. If she were doing a reality show, she thought, she’d have a gold mine. She could almost visualize it: two sisters, estranged, facing old demons for the first time in years. An heiress having a fling with her artisan ex-husband. A disappearing senior citizen leaves behind his heartbroken paramour. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. There was also the boy-crazy but equally talented tough-as-nails hat-maker with a heart of gold, a man the size of a mountain who turned to his craft to distract him from his sorrow over losing a beloved pet (Erinn wasn’t sure the MIA buzzard would make the cut, but you never knew), and the thrill and passion of local politics as played out by the café owner and the museum curator.
She stole a glance at Wesley. If only his clients could see him now, sweating and struggling with camera gear as they made their way back down the boardwalk toward the grocery store.
She smiled to herself as she returned to producing the reality show in her mind. Comic relief provided by one of the most respected attorneys in the Golden Triangle of Beverly Hills. Her smile faded when she thought of Jeffries, the man in the background with the biggest secret of them all. He’d confided in her when he found out he’d be driving them all to Fat Chance, on the off chance she could think of a reason for him to stay. She thought of a reason, all right: He could be her production assistant. But Wesley seemed determined to dog her every step. At least Jeffries wasn’t banished to Beverly Hills.
So much drama for such a small town.
If only she could capture some of that humanity for her documentary. But she was after more weighty stuff.
“We’re here.” Wesley’s voice brought her back to the present.
Erinn looked up and they were standing in front of the grocery store. She peered in the window and could see Old Bertha stocking the shelves.
“Come on,” Erinn said. “Let’s see if we can sweet-talk Old Bertha into an interview.”
“Maybe you should let me do the talking,” Wesley offered as they stumbled into the grocery store. “She can be a little cantankerous.”
Erinn gave Wesley a quizzical look.
Wesley shrugged. “I have a way with the ladies. If I do say so myself.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Erinn said.
She tried not to be a little stung that he hadn’t felt an urge to extend that charm to her.
Old Bertha looked up from stocking her three rolls of paper towels. She watched as Erinn and Wesley put their gear down. They stared at one other.
“Got a special going on walnuts,” Old Bertha finally said, putting another roll of paper towels on the shelf.
“Bertha, dear,” Wesley said. The sappiness in his voice made Erinn cringe. “Could we have a moment of your valuable time?”
“Bertha, dear? My valuable time?” Old Bertha squinted at him. She turned to Erinn. “Is he trying to sell me snake oil?”
“I need to interview you for my documentary,” Erinn said. “If now is a convenient time.”
&n
bsp; “Good a time as any,” Old Bertha said. She turned to Wesley. “Your swanky ways won’t get you anywhere with me, young fella.”
“Apparently,” Wesley said good-naturedly.
Erinn saw that she had perfect natural light streaming through the store windows, so she quickly set two chairs in place. When she turned to set up the camera, she saw that Wesley already had it set on the tripod. He looked at her.
“Lens height OK?” he asked.
Erinn had to admit, the man was a quick study.
Old Bertha sat herself heavily in the chair opposite Erinn.
Bertha Belmont said her name and spelled it, as instructed. At Erinn’s prompting, Old Bertha began to reminisce.
“I guess I’m the only one who knew Clarence before he became ‘Cutthroat,’” Old Bertha began. “I was barely twenty and he was edging toward thirty. I thought we were so grown-up, but looking back, we were practically kids. I’ll never forget the day he hired me to work in his hardware store. I saw him hanging the Help Wanted sign in the window. I wasn’t even looking for a job, to tell the truth, but when I saw that sign go up in the window, I didn’t think twice. I walked right in and applied for the job. Which turned out to be a cashier. Every girl in town had a crush on Clarence, but he was all business. I didn’t really think I had a chance with him, but getting to work in the store was better than nothing. And of course the bragging rights were, as Polly would say, off the hook.”
Erinn could see Old Bertha was pleased with her twenty-first-century reference.
“You didn’t even know what the job was?” Erinn asked.
Dymphna had been a font of background information, but Erinn hadn’t absorbed it all and needed to consult her notes.
“Nope,” Old Bertha said, suddenly looking decades younger. “That’s one thing Clarence and I always had in common, I guess. We saw an opportunity and we never looked back.”
“In your own words, tell me about coming to work one day and finding a Sold sign across the door. How devastated were you?”
“Why?” Old Bertha frowned. “Your words are just fine.”
“Because my words don’t matter,” Erinn said, shaken at the truth of the statement. “Only yours do.”
Old Bertha seemed to retreat into herself. Her protective walls seemed to have crashed, leaving her looking smaller and more vulnerable.
“That’s all there was to it. I showed up for work one day, the hardware store was closed, and Clarence was gone. It took me nearly fifty years, until I was at Cleo’s house for the reading of his will, to know what really happened.”
“Which was?” Wesley asked.
Erinn spun around and glowered at him. He put his hands up in surrender.
Old Bertha took a deep breath. “He got a lead on a better investment. I think he said it was a restaurant. Have I got that right, Mr. Tensaw?”
“Yes, I believe that’s what he said. Please go on,” Wesley said, trying to return the spotlight to Old Bertha.
“In his videotape, he said he used the money he’d saved up for my engagement ring to buy into it,” Old Bertha said. “I never knew he was planning on asking me to marry him.”
“Would you have said yes?” Erinn asked, realizing she was once again slipping out of the documentarian mode she was trying so hard to maintain.
“What difference does that make?” Old Bertha said forcefully, her protective walls shooting back up.
The interview ended. Erinn noticed that Old Bertha had made some progress on her leather and canvas quilt. It sat lumpily on the checkout counter. Erinn wanted to ask about it, but decided against it. Old Bertha didn’t seem to invite conversation about her personal life. Erinn was lucky to get on tape what little information Old Bertha had offered. Erinn thanked her for her time. Old Bertha went about her business and Erinn and Wesley went about theirs.
* * *
Rain pounded the limousine as it made its way into Galveston.
“This is some storm,” Polly said, squinting through the windshield. “I hope Lucinda’s shop is open.”
“Lucinda?” Jeffries asked.
“The lady who’s buying my hats and stuff,” Polly said, looking into the back of the limo to make sure everything was still there. “Can’t imagine anybody’s out shopping on a day like this.”
Polly, luxuriating in cell phone reception, tapped on the weather app.
“Big storm coming through,” Polly said.
Jeffries turned on the windshield wipers full blast.
“You really don’t need an app to tell you that,” he said. Jeffries followed the GPS to a small but elegant store on Moody Street.
He cut the engine and sat, listening to the storm. Hard rain blanketed the entire area from the stretch to the storefront. Suddenly, Polly’s passenger door whipped open and a tall woman shielded by an enormous umbrella leaned inside.
“Hey, Polly! Crazy storm, right?” the woman said. She looked at Jeffries. “Nice ride. I’m Lucinda.”
“Jeffries,” Jeffries said, then glancing at Polly, added, “Donald. Donald Jeffries.”
“Well, Jeffries Donald or Donald Jeffries, do you think you can get this boat behind the store so we can unload?” Lucinda asked, pointing up the street. “There’s an alley around the corner.”
“Sure,” Jeffries said.
Lucinda slammed the door and disappeared into the store. Jeffries started the car and headed slowly up the street.
“If only this were a boat,” Polly said.
Jeffries noticed Polly was gripping the seat so hard her knuckles were white.
“We’ll be fine,” Jeffries said. “This car has never let me down.”
“There’s always a first time,” Polly said.
Chapter 27
Fernando watched the clouds grow darker and darker over the grapevines. The tender stalks trembled on the hills.
He thought back to the days working in Napa alongside his father, shouldering the responsibilities and hard, hot labor of planting and nurturing grapes. He had sworn he would never get lured back into that life, but here he was, staring up at the trellises, willing them to survive whatever monster storm was headed their way.
They get under your skin, he thought. You watch over them like children, watch them grow and do your best to help them be something special. His father always assumed Fernando resented the hard work, but it was the heartbreak when the harvest failed that got to him. If only Professor Johnson could understand that.
As if summoned out of thin air, Professor Johnson suddenly appeared in the archway between the Boozehound and the café. He looked as worried as Fernando.
“Want some peach brandy?” Fernando offered.
Professor Johnson nodded, dropping wearily into a chair at the center table. Fernando watched him. How had this man become his adversary? They’d started out wanting exactly the same thing—a wine in which they could take pride. Their differences of opinion seemed silly now. Worse than silly. A complete waste of resources and energy.
“We’re in for it, I think,” Professor Johnson said. “I can’t get any weather information even on Main Street. But the sky keeps getting darker.”
“Green?” Fernando asked as he poured the yellow liquid into two mason jars.
“Pardon?”
“Is the sky green?”
“Now that you mention it, there was a greenish cast.”
“That means we’re probably going to get a full-blown tornado.”
“Can the grapes survive?” Professor Johnson asked, taking a sip of the brandy.
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Fernando shrugged. “Tornados are funny. They can take out one whole side of a street and not even touch the other. They can level a house and the house next to it won’t have lost a single shingle.”
“I’d hate to see all of this taken away before we even got started.”
“I’ll drink to that, amigo.”
“How do you know so much about tornados?” Professor Johnson asked. “I thought you alwa
ys lived on the West Coast.”
“I did,” Fernando said. “But I did a lot of research in my academic career.”
“I didn’t know you had an academic career.”
“See? You’ve never given me enough credit.”
“Where did you go?”
“St. Ellen’s,” Fernando said. “Did my third grade extra credit report on tornados after seeing The Wizard of Oz.”
Silence ensued until Professor Johnson said, “Well, I don’t think there is anything we can do now to protect the vines from a tornado. Our differences seem ridiculous now. When the storm is over, we might not even have grapes or a road.”
“On the other hand, we might have no damage at all,” Fernando said. “And we can go right back to fighting.”
“To fighting,” Professor Johnson said, raising his mason jar.
“Sí, a peleando,” Fernando said, saluting in return.
Chapter 28
The clouds continued to roll in. An unearthly calm would suddenly give way to howling winds which would in turn subside again into eerie quiet.
Dymphna and Professor Johnson struggled up the hill from town toward the farm. The wind had started to pick up. Dymphna wanted to make sure all the animals were safely inside the barn. Thud’s jowls quivered in the breeze.
“If there’s a tornado coming, we should get the animals into the cellar,” Professor Johnson said.
“I thought we were just supposed to have a storm,” Dymphna said.
“Better play it safe,” Professor Johnson said, deciding not to repeat all he’d learned from Fernando’s third-grade report. “But I’m guessing there is a fine line between storm and tornado around here.”
“Do you think we’ll survive a tornado?” Dymphna asked. “I know the town has been nearly destroyed twice. Are we in better shape to withstand one?”
“There’s no way to calculate that,” Professor Johnson said. “It depends on a lot of things. The ferocity of the twister, the improvements to the buildings and road . . .”
“You’re not starting on the roads again, are you?” she asked. “We might be headed into a disaster and you’re fixating on the road?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” Professor Johnson said. They picked up their pace as they got near the gate. “I’m much more worried about the grapes than I am the road.”
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 18
