“It’s always good to see you, Donny. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, John.”
John went off to check his tequila inventory. Donny ate another chip and waited for the show to begin.
But before that happened, there was a commercial, a thirty-second spot for the upcoming season of Quintessential Quilting. Donny had never seen it before. No one had. This was the first time it aired.
Donny recognized the woman in the rust-bucket pickup as Mary Dell, of course, but couldn’t for the life of him imagine why the hell she’d done her hair like that. It was so stiff and high it looked like a beaver had been trying to build a dam on top of her head.
The Mary Dell he knew always took care of herself, never left the house unless her hair was looking just so. She could spend an hour and a half locked in the bathroom with a blow dryer and a can of spray. Seeing as the double-wide they’d purchased upon their marriage had only one bathroom, this sometimes caused problems. But it had been worth it to see her emerge at the end of her ministrations looking as pretty as a picture, dressed in something feminine and bright that hugged all her curves as tight as a race car hugs the road.
But now . . . Why was she wearing that ugly gingham shirt tied up at her midriff? She looked like she’d walked off the set of The Beverly Hillbillies. Was this somebody’s idea of a joke?
When a sleek red Lamborghini drove into the scene and a young woman who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of a magazine climbed out of the car and faced off with his wife in a mock duel, Donny concluded it was a joke and that Mary Dell was the butt of it.
That irritated him, but the thing that propelled him off the barstool was the voice that came in at the end of the ad and said, “Quintessential Quilting with Mary Dell and Holly—there’s a new sheriff in town.”
A new sheriff? What the hell was that supposed to mean? What was wrong with the old sheriff? And where was Howard? What had happened to his son?
The sound of boot heels against wooden floorboards made John the bartender turn away from his tequila bottles. “Hey, Donny. You need something?”
“No, I’m good.” Donny stopped in his tracks, remembering the bill, then took ten dollars from his back pocket and laid it on the bar.
John glanced over to the television. “Your show’s starting.”
“I got to go and make a call.”
“You need a phone? Here.” John lifted the telephone from a charging station and held it out to Donny.
Donny shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll find a phone booth.”
“A phone booth? Donny, I don’t think there’s a phone booth within a hundred miles of Alpine.”
“I know,” he said, and walked quickly toward the door. “That’s why I need to get going.”
CHAPTER 28
Dr. Geraldine Gillespie looked up from her tablet computer and smiled. “Everything looks good, Taffy. Blood pressure is good, urine test came back fine, and your cholesterol is down ten points.”
“Are you sure?” Mary Dell said suspiciously. “She practically lives on fried chicken and sausage gravy.”
“Maybe,” Dr. Gillespie replied, “but it doesn’t seem to be hurting anything. Taffy’s weight is exactly the same as it was this time last year.”
“But I’ve gained six pounds since I moved home,” Mary Dell grumbled.
“There is one thing,” Dr. Gillespie said, addressing Taffy, who was sitting, fully dressed, with her legs dangling over the edge of the exam table and had just given her daughter a smug look. “I’d like to keep you on a maintenance dose of the antibiotics, at least for the time being. You’ve had four urinary tract infections in the last year. I’d like to stay on top of that. At your age, those UTIs can really knock you for a loop.”
The smirk fled from Taffy’s face. “At my age?”
“Yes, which is eternally youthful.” The doctor closed the lid of her tablet computer and stood up. “Keep this up, Taffy, and you’ll live to be one hundred.”
“One hundred? Now, why would I want to go and do a fool thing like that?”
Taffy reached for Mary Dell’s hand and slid off the exam table. Mary Dell grabbed her mother’s purse off the chair, handed it to her, and opened the door.
“Momma, you go on to the waiting room. I’ll be along in just a minute.”
“Why?” Taffy scowled. “So you can talk about me behind my back?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. I’ll go see if the receptionist has any of those little Snickers bars left in the candy jar.”
After Taffy left, Mary Dell turned to face the doctor.
“She really is fine? All that flirting and outrageous behavior was just because of urinary infections?”
“Well . . .” Dr. Gillespie sat back down on her rolling chair, then took off her glasses and rubbed the lenses with the edge of her lab coat. “Taffy has always enjoyed male attention. As we age, we tend to become more of what we were to begin with, so I don’t see her giving up flirting anytime soon. But now that we’ve got the infections under control, the other stuff—the disorientation, not knowing where she is or what she’s doing, forgetting that Dutch is dead and confusing other people with him . . .”
“Stealing pickup trucks and strolling around town half-dressed?”
The doctor nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem. If it happens again, you call me and we’ll get her in right away.”
“So there’s no sign of dementia,” Mary Dell said, just to confirm.
“None. But that being said, I am glad you’re back home. Medically speaking, your mother is in great shape, but at her age she needs somebody watching out for her. Cady was doing the best she knew how, but she’s had her own problems to deal with.”
“She said she came in to see you a while ago. Did you give her anything? Because she seems like she’s doing better.”
Dr. Gillespie smiled. “I really can’t discuss that with you, Mary Dell. But you can ask Cady if you’re curious.”
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I really wasn’t trying to pry information from you. I’m just happy she’s feeling better.”
“So am I,” Dr. Gillespie replied, and rose from her chair. “Hey, I saw some folks setting up video cameras out by Puny Pond when I was driving to work last week. And you’ve got a new co-host, right? That movie star’s daughter?”
“Holly Silva. Rachel McEnroe is her momma.”
“That’s right. The one who just got fired from the Miss Millennia Pageant. Too bad about that. I always liked her. Seems like her daughter is doing all right, though.”
“It was rough at first, but Holly and I are getting along fine now. Can’t help but wish Howard were still hosting, but,” Mary Dell said with a shrug, her tone philosophical, “it was time for him to get out on his own. Did I tell you? He’s taking classes at the community college.”
“He is?” Dr. Gillespie reflected Mary Dell’s smile back to her. “That’s wonderful. Good for him! You must be proud.”
“I am. Real proud.”
“And we’re all proud of you. Bringing your TV show home? That’s pretty big doings for little old Too Much.” She held open the door for Mary Dell. “Looks like you’re going to put us on the map.”
“Could be,” Mary Dell said, “but the jury is still out on whether or not that’ll turn out to be a good thing for the town. Or for me.”
As they were driving down the road, Taffy looked across the seat at her daughter. “What were you doing in there so long? Making plans to slap me into an old folks’ home?”
“As if they’d have you,” Mary Dell said. Taffy gave her a smirk. “No, I just had a couple of questions about your medication. And then we got to talking. Dr. Gillespie wanted to know how the show is going.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Taffy said. “You sure seemed like you were in a bad mood when you got home last night. Something go wrong at the shoot?”
Mary Dell made a left hand turn. She really didn�
��t feel like talking about it, especially not with Taffy. But she knew her mother well enough to know she wouldn’t drop the subject until she got some answers.
“No, the shoot itself went fine. We wrapped up two more episodes. Everything came off smooth as silk. It’s what will happen after the shoot that’s bothering me. Holly and I can do a great job on-camera, plan out every minute of our presentation, but the director is the one calling the camera shots, and he’s the one editing the footage and putting the whole dang thing together. Or, in Artie’s case,” she said, her eyes sparking with anger, “tearing it apart.”
Seeing the look of confusion on Taffy’s face, she elaborated.
“He showed us the final cut of the first episode, and it’s just a big old mess. He keeps shooting at all these crazy angles. Instead of putting the camera on the sewing machine or the cutting table or somebody’s hands, he’s focusing the cameras on our faces almost the whole time. Also, he’s shooting us in profile, so we’re never actually making eye contact with the viewers. It looks like we’re just staring off into the horizon. Stupidest-looking thing . . .”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Taffy protested. “How are people supposed to figure out how the quilt goes together if they don’t see your hands? You can’t learn to quilt by watching somebody’s face.”
“To be fair, they’ll mostly be seeing Holly’s face. Artie tends to cut me out of the shot whenever possible. Sometimes even when you’d think it’d be impossible—say, when I’m the only one on-camera.”
Mary Dell knew that a lot of what she was saying didn’t make sense to Taffy. It wasn’t a commentary on her mother’s mental acuity; it was just that all this talk about camera angles and editing wouldn’t make much sense to anyone who hadn’t spent much time in a television studio and didn’t understand how much control the director had over the finished product. Even if Taffy had worked in the business, she probably wouldn’t have believed how badly Artie had mangled the final edit. Unless she’d seen it with her own eyes, Mary Dell wouldn’t have believed it either.
“He cut my four-and-a-half-minute segment down to two minutes. What’s left is mostly a slide show of the quilt variations. He sped up the camera and zipped through them so fast it almost made me dizzy. And during the demonstration on making a folded version of Courthouse Steps, he cut out the whole middle part of the instructions. Anybody trying to make that block is going to be confused, or frustrated, or mad—probably all three. And do you know who the complaint letters will be addressed to?” she asked bitterly and rhetorically. “Me, that’s who. When that episode airs, I am going to be buried in angry letters from disgruntled viewers.”
“I don’t understand,” Taffy said. “Why would he do that?”
“Oh, Momma.” Mary Dell sighed. “You tell me and we’ll both know. I’m not sure if he’s ruining the show on somebody’s orders or if he honestly thinks his way is better. I’m actually inclined toward the latter. I mean, he’s so darned excited about it. He actually couldn’t wait to show us the edited footage!”
Approaching a stop sign for the lonely stretch of road that led to the ranch, Mary Dell slowed but didn’t actually stop, instead glancing quickly to the right before making the turn.
“I think he’s trying to be artistic, or cutting-edge. Or some damfool thing. This is a quilting show, not a reality show and not a film school final. We exist to teach people how to quilt—that’s it. Hopefully we do it in a way that’s entertaining, but if it comes down to a choice between entertainment value and instruction, instruction wins out every time. Artie just doesn’t seem to get that. I don’t think he’s evil or anything, just not very bright.
“But,” she continued, her tone more pointed now, “I think the person who hired him knew exactly what he was doing.”
The car bumped over the cattle guard that marked the edge of their property and then beneath the big metal arch emblazoned with the F-Bar-T brand.
“That Jason?” Taffy asked. “The man at the network who doesn’t like you?”
“That’s him. He’s the one who hired Artie, and I think he did it on purpose. He hates the show and he hates me. Don’t know why, but he does.”
They drove the last few hundred feet on the long dirt road that led to the house in silence. Mary Dell glanced quickly over at her mother, who was squinting into the sun and looking out the passenger side window, and wondered what she was thinking. When she pulled up in front of the house and set the parking brake, Taffy let her know.
“I think it’s your fault.”
“My fault!” Mary Dell choked out an incredulous laugh. “I didn’t do anything. How can it be my fault?”
“Because this Jason person and that Artie are your bosses. It’s your job to try and get along with them. Not the other way around,” Taffy said as she unlocked the car door and climbed out. “That’s always been your problem, Mary Dell. No respect for authority.”
Mary Dell jumped out of the Eldorado and ran around the front of the vehicle, facing off with her mother.
“That is not fair, Momma! And it’s not true.”
“You sure about that?” Taffy asked, drawing out the question and shooting her a look.
Actually, it was the look, the one that all mothers have mastered and all daughters recognize, the look that can make any woman, be she sixteen or sixty, feel put upon and anxious and guilty all at the same time, even if she’s done nothing wrong. Especially if she’s done nothing wrong.
“Yes, I’m sure! Why is everything always my fault? When I was in the eighth grade Mrs. Caruthers gave me detention for a week, even though Delia Simpson was the one who drew the cartoon of Mrs. Caruthers trying to stuff her big behind into a pair of pantyhose. And when I came home and told you about it, you grounded me for two weeks and made me shovel out the barn to boot!”
Mary Dell planted her hands on her hips, daring her mother to deny it, but Taffy didn’t even try.
“Mrs. Caruthers wouldn’t have punished you if you hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t even know what was on that paper until Mrs. Caruthers opened it and got all red in the face. I was passing it down the row to Lila Jane Meacham.”
“And if you’d been paying attention in class instead of passing notes, you wouldn’t have gotten in trouble, now, would you?”
Mary Dell threw up her hands and stomped off toward the porch. “You know what? Never mind. There’s no point in talking to you.”
Taffy shouted after her. “Mary Dell? Don’t you dare walk away from me! I mean it. You come back here and talk to me right now.”
She stopped at the base of the porch steps and turned around to face her mother. “Why? You never take my side. Never.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Taffy scolded. “I’m your momma. I’ve always been on your side and I’m on your side now. And if you’d listen for a change instead of getting your panties into a twist over something that happened forty-five years ago, you’d realize that I’m trying to help you.”
Mary Dell didn’t say anything, just stood there with one hand on her hip.
“What I meant to say,” Taffy continued in a slightly more conciliatory tone, “was that if these men are acting within their authority, there isn’t any point in railing and fussing about it, now, is there? No matter how much you might dislike this Artie fellow, he’s the director. So I suggest you start making some effort to get along with him. Then maybe he’ll listen to you. You always catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
Mary Dell puffed in exasperation. “So what am I supposed to do? Send him a fruit basket?”
“Invite him to dinner after the shoot next week,” Taffy said. “I’ll make fried chicken with all the trimmings. You said he’s a big fella. Nothing goes to a big man’s heart like a home-cooked meal.”
“I don’t want to win his heart. I just want to convince him to quit ruining my television show.”
Mary Dell felt her jaw clen
ch. She really didn’t think inviting Artie home for dinner was going to solve her problems, but at this point, she was willing to try just about anything. Besides, when Taffy made up her mind about something, there wasn’t much point in trying to talk her out of it.
“Fine. I’ll ask him to supper. But not for Monday. People are too tired to socialize after a shoot, and the crew will all drive back to Dallas that night anyway.”
Taffy climbed the porch steps and passed Mary Dell on her way into the house. “Sunday, then. He can have supper and then stay the night.”
“You want him to stay here?”
Taffy walked through the kitchen and toward the bathroom, ignoring the question.
“Fine,” Mary Dell said. “I’ll ask him to stay over.”
Taffy’s voice came from the hallway, asking what Mary Dell wanted for supper, at the same time the phone started to ring. Mary Dell walked over to answer it.
“You don’t need to cook, Momma. Cady’s going out and Linne is staying over at a friend’s house. Rob Lee’s off somewhere too. I’ll make us a salad.”
Taffy called back from behind the bathroom door, but Mary Dell couldn’t hear what she said.
“Hang on a minute, Momma! I’ve got to get the phone!”
She picked up the receiver, held it to her ear, and said hello. For a moment, all she heard was silence. She almost hung up, thinking it was one of those robotic telemarketer calls. But then a man spoke. His voice was low and gravelly. And familiar.
“Hey, Mary Dell.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to bother you. I saw a commercial for the new season today. Howard wasn’t in it. Is he all right?”
Mary Dell’s hand rose to cover her mouth; she was momentarily dumbstruck. Then she pressed it against her breast. She felt her heart beating hard inside her chest.
“Donny?”
CHAPTER 29
Mary Dell had started taking Hub-Jay’s calls again after he returned to Dallas.
At the end of the business day, it had become Hub-Jay’s habit to recline on top of the duvet in his private suite, still dressed except for his shoes, jacket, and tie, and relax while he and Mary Dell talked. The discussion wasn’t particularly romantic, just a general chat about their days and respective activities, but Hub-Jay had come to look forward to this as the best part of his day.
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