“Hey guys, anybody need a fill-up?” Polly’s eyes shown from the exertion of flirting with the ranchers.
“Warm-up,” Old Bertha corrected. “Does anybody need a warm-up? This is not a gas station.”
It drove Old Bertha crazy that Polly couldn’t get her automotive and waitressing terms straight.
Dymphna felt tears fill her eyes.
She would sure miss her band of misfits now that she was leaving Fat Chance.
Chapter 2
Cleo could afford good lighting.
In the last decade, she’d had several lighting specialists customize her bathroom, her walk-in closet, and bedroom. Now, catching a glimpse of her determinedly preserved face in an upstairs hall mirror, she made a mental note to soften the hallway lights as well.
Cleo knew Wesley was down in the library, but she made no attempt to rush. She was rich and he was her attorney. He had arrived without an appointment. Therefore he had to wait. It was the unspoken rule.
Well, it was one of the unspoken rules.
As she made her way down the curved double staircase—she always walked down the left one as it featured her good side—she saw her butler, Jeffries, standing outside the library door. He looked up at her impassively. When Cleo was a girl, her mother taught her to navigate stairs without ever looking down. Now that Jeffries had caught her gaze, she couldn’t break eye contact by looking down at the marble steps.
It was another damn unspoken rule.
Cleo’s life was riddled with them.
As she reached the bottom step, Jeffries gave a brief nod and opened the door to the library. Cleo stood ramrod straight as she walked through the door. She was always on her guard around Wesley, and being on guard required good posture.
“There you are!” Wesley said, standing up to greet her.
“Yes,” Cleo said, accepting a light kiss on the cheek. “Here I am.”
He smelled like expensive bourbon—her expensive bourbon—which he made a habit of drinking whenever he waited for her. Cleo went to the Waterford decanter and poured a small amount of bourbon into a glass for herself. She raised it in a toast. Wesley had settled back on the couch. He raised his glass silently and checked his Rolex.
“Early for you to be joining me in a cocktail,” he said.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere, as they say.”
“Actually”—Wesley checked his watch again—“it’s five o’clock here.”
Cleo was grateful for her latest shot of Botox. She knew her surprise didn’t show. She’d kept Wesley waiting a whole hour. She actually felt a little guilty, but Wesley showed no signs of annoyance. He appeared as unflappable as ever.
She took a seat in a wing-backed chair opposite the couch.
“With the money I pay you, I know you can afford your own bottle of Elijah Craig,” she said, taking a healthy sip of the amber liquid. “So I assume we have some business to discuss? Something that couldn’t be handled at the office?”
“Not exactly,” Wesley said.
Cleo knew Wesley well enough to know that no subtle body language or facial expression was going to give her any clue as to why he’d come to see her. She studied him. He was a handsome man, around her age. In his fifties, he was effortlessly fit and could claim a full head of hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples. It occurred to Cleo that he’d had the same amount of gray for the last five years. Maybe Wesley had his own beauty secrets. She found the idea intriguing, probably more intriguing than whatever brought him here unannounced.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘not exactly’?” she countered.
“We need to talk about Fat Chance,” Wesley said. “I thought you might be more comfortable discussing it in private.”
Cleo downed the rest of her drink and stood to refill her glass.
Cleo couldn’t deny that Wesley seemed to appreciate the motley crew of Fat Chance. He had met them all once three years ago when the lot of them gathered in this very room to hear the terms of her father’s will. Her father was known to the media as “Cutthroat Clarence” and his word was law—apparently even after he was dead. He had fashioned a bequest for a bunch of strangers, who were invited to Cleo’s house. In the DVD that served as his will, Cutthroat confessed that he’d stolen something from each of them—either directly or indirectly—and he wanted a chance to make it up to them. They were each going to receive a bequest from Clarence, but there was one condition: They must live together in a ghost town for six months. At the end of those six months, Cleo was the only member of the original band to leave. Technically, her nephew left with her, but it was only to finish out his contracted year at the university. He was always going back.
She was never going back.
She took a deep breath as she sat down.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s discuss it. Although I would hardly say I have an interest in that awful little town.”
Wesley raised one eyebrow. There hadn’t been an arched eyebrow of that caliber since Mr. Spock. Cleo suspected he had watched Star Trek as a kid and practiced in front of a mirror. She knew a studied gesture when she saw one.
“In that case, I guess I’ll leave,” Wesley said, rising slowly from the chair.
“You might as well tell me,” Cleo said hurriedly. “After all, I’m already in for your ghastly hourly plus my best booze.”
“You know I’m worth every penny,” Wesley said, sitting down and swirling the cut-glass tumbler in his hand. “And every sip.”
“I don’t know why you’re interested in Fat Chance in the first place,” Cleo continued, annoyed that Wesley was toying with her.
“I am pledged to look after all your holdings, no matter how humble,” Wesley said, saluting her with his glass.
“Oh, please,” Cleo said. “Don’t tell me that claptrap works with your other clients.”
“Actually, it does. And don’t change the subject. You would have to be made of stone not to want to know what’s going on there. And you only pretend to be made of stone.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Besides, your nephew keeps me posted,” Wesley said. “I’m just passing along family business.”
“Elwood keeps me posted, too,” Cleo said defensively.
“Well then . . . ,” Wesley said, rising once more.
“Oh, all right,” Cleo said. “The high-and-mighty Professor Elwood Johnson doesn’t check in as often as he might. But as we all know, cell phone reception is spotty out there.”
Cleo knew this last statement didn’t make any sense; if Elwood could reach out to Wesley, he could certainly reach out to her. She looked at Wesley. From the tight smile on his face, she could see that he saw the faulty logic as well. She would never admit to her lawyer that her nephew kept her at arm’s length.
Did she detect a glint of pity in his eyes?
I’d better not, or he’s fired right now!
“Well?” she asked crisply. “What’s going on in Fat Chance, Texas?”
“Everyone is very happy that the county suddenly took an interest in the place and paved the trail,” he said.
“And you were a good soldier and did not mention that I made that happen—correct?”
“Correct,” Wesley said. “Although I can’t for the life of me figure out why you wouldn’t want credit. You’ve never been the anonymous-donor type.”
“That just proves you know nothing about me.”
“Really? Name one other instance when you didn’t want credit for . . . anything.”
“The people of Fat Chance, who need help, like to think they don’t,” Cleo said. “The people of Beverly Hills, who don’t need anything, thrive on their conjured neediness.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Basically, you get points for helping here in Beverly Hills, but condemned if you even offer a hand in Fat Chance.”
“That should be a T-shirt,” Wesley said.
“It’s too long to be a T-shirt,” Cleo said. “Not t
o mention you’d never sell any in Beverly Hills, so why bother?”
Wesley laughed his $1000-an-hour laugh.
“I’m not paying you to come up with T-shirt ideas,” Cleo said. “What’s happening with Titan?”
“The forge is still hot, pardon the pun. And he still has the bull he bought, apparently,” Wesley said. “Seems he’s getting some hefty stud fees. Sound business decision.”
Cleo smiled. Only she and Titan knew that Cleo had given him the money for the bull—actually her four-karat engagement ring from her decades-defunct marriage to Powderkeg bought the bull. No need to bother Wesley with those details. Clearly, he wasn’t impressed by her quiet, grand gestures.
Cleo was jealous that her nephew seemed to be much more forthcoming with Wesley than he was with her about the happenings in Fat Chance, but she pushed the feelings aside. She was much more interested in hearing about the rest of the townspeople she’d left behind in Fat Chance two years ago. She shivered at the memory of her humiliating and futile attempt to rekindle her romance with her ex-husband. She’d failed rather publicly. “Publicly” in Fat Chance was a relative term—did eight people even qualify as “public”?—but the memory still stung.
Wesley quickly completed his update. Fernando had worked his magic opening the Cowboy Food Café, a fact Wesley might have pointed out with a little less enthusiasm had he realized Cleo ran the café before Fernando set one boot in town and had not had anywhere near the success of Fernando’s Cowboy Food Café. Her nephew had united everyone when he discovered grapes growing in Fat Chance. The entire town was now banded together, planting vines on all their property. They’d created a vineyard and now all of them were working toward building a winery within a year—just in time to start producing their very own wine.
“And it’s all going smoothly?” Cleo asked, somewhat surprised.
“Who said anything about things running smoothly?” Wesley replied.
“Are you withholding gossip?”
“No, Your Honor. But with this group, when does anything go smoothly?”
Cleo tried not to think about Fat Chance very often. She had put in her six months and hightailed it back to Beverly Hills, but her life was never the same. She’d eventually worked up her nerve to return to Fat Chance, hoping for another chance with her ex-husband, Marshall Primb, now going by the moniker of “Powderkeg.” But she had been too late. He was in love with a woman from the sprawling neighboring ranch, where she worked as a pilot.
Wesley’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “Am I boring you?”
“No!” Cleo said, realizing she’d gotten up and was staring out the window. “I was just . . .” She turned to face him, trying to keep her expression neutral. “Anything else?” she asked.
“Not much.” Wesley yawned. “Oh, apparently Powderkeg and that pilot broke up.”
Chapter 3
Dymphna had to admit, now that Fat Chance had a road, the fact that they could get Professor Johnson’s Outback up to the farm was pure luxury. It would have been hard to sneak off if she needed him to carry her bag up the trail.
The sun was rising over the farm as Dymphna tucked one small bag into the back of Professor Johnson’s SUV. She felt guilty taking his car, but not guilty enough to stay. The farm was still in shadows, but she was able to make out Thud’s form shooting through the open back and climbing into the passenger seat. He was extremely agile for a large dog. Or at least, extremely determined.
“Thud!” Dymphna called in a hoarse whisper. “Get out of the car.”
Dymphna tiptoed over to the passenger side and opened the door. Thud thumped his tail. She grabbed his collar. As soon as she was in range, Thud dealt her a slobbery kiss. Dymphna wiped the drool on her sleeve, grabbed his collar, and pulled. The dog didn’t budge.
“Come on, Thud,” she said. “Get out!”
She was not usually this stern with the bloodhound, but there was no time to lose. Dymphna had hoped to be gone by the time Wobble, her crabby rooster, crowed. Even though it was still mostly dark, she could hear Wobble flapping around the yard. The rooster was putting his all into it this morning, looking like a vintage Kellogg’s Corn Flakes ad, perched on the fence and flapping his wings in the hazy morning light.
“I’m going to miss you.” Professor Johnson’s voice pierced the fog.
Dymphna started.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t wake you,” she said.
“You didn’t,” Professor Johnson said. “Thud did.”
Dymphna knew a scowl from her would not matter in the least to Thud, so she didn’t bother.
“I . . .” She paused, then started again. “I just think it’s easier this way. We said goodbye last night . . . and . . . I mean, I’ll be back. Soon.”
“Will you?”
“I have your car,” she said, trying for a confident smile.
“And I guess I have your farm,” he said.
He had a point. While she was gone, Professor Johnson would be here, taking care of her goats and chickens, as well as packing the orders that came in for her jams and jellies. He would also have to keep an eye on Dymphna’s friend Crash the duck, who remained a wild bird but would show up at the farm every now and then to let her know he was fine.
Both of them had agreed that it was time for Dymphna to return to Los Angeles and collect her Angora rabbits. Professor Johnson and Powderkeg had made a climate-controlled environment here on the Fat Farm that was just waiting for the rabbits. When she and Professor Johnson had first started discussing the details of retrieving the rabbits, their relationship was not as strained as it was now. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it seemed as if when times were tough, the entire town pulled together. When they first got word that the trail was to be paved, it seemed like the answer to their prayers. The asphalt wasn’t even dry before the bickering began. While the town prospered, both sides claimed victory: Professor Johnson’s side thought the uptick in the town’s prosperity was due to the new access to town and would only get better if they continued paving Main Street. Dymphna’s side felt that as long as people were making their way into town, why ruin the historic nature of the place? Folks in the area were well aware of the squabbling among the Fat Chancers and snickered about Team Professor and Team Dymphna. It was idle gossip for those not involved, but tensions were running high at the farm. Neither Dymphna nor Professor Johnson took things lightly.
As the time approached for her to leave for Los Angeles, Dymphna felt she was escaping. Her thoughts turned more and more to her life in Santa Monica, the days before Fat Chance, the years before Professor Johnson. She’d had a good life there, living in the guesthouse of her best friend, Erinn. Erinn was a Broadway playwright who had reinvented herself as a TV producer and documentarian. Erinn’s family had become Dymphna’s family. Fat Chance had completely overwhelmed Dymphna and she’d somehow never made it back to Southern California. Now she was homesick, daydreaming about long walks along the coast, drinking tea at Erinn’s sister’s tea shop in Venice, catching up with how her rabbits were doing from Erinn’s mother, Virginia, who had been watching over the three rabbits that remained in her care. Virginia had moved into Erinn’s guesthouse when Dymphna made the bold move to Texas, but Erinn had said Dymphna would always have a room in the large Victorian on Ocean Avenue that Erinn somehow managed to hang on to, even with her feast-or-famine career.
Although unspoken, neither Dymphna nor Professor Johnson was sure she was going to come back immediately. Dymphna kept pushing away the thought that she might not come back at all. Tears pricked her eyes. This farm was as close to “home” as any place in her life.
Of course I’ll come back, she scolded herself.
“The rabbits will love it here,” Professor Johnson said.
The sun had made its way over the hills. She could see him clearly now, his T-shirt and sweatpants wrinkled from sleep, his hair wild from last night’s passionate goodbye. Dymphna’s heart lurched when she saw that he was barefoot�
��he had obviously run out of the house as soon as he understood what the empty side of the bed meant.
Of course I’ll come back.
“Were you going to say goodbye?” he asked.
She knew if she looked at him, she would see the little boy who no one got to see but her. The little boy who trusted her not to hurt him.
So she didn’t look. Instead, she tugged again at the dog.
“Thud, seriously,” she said. “Out.”
“Do you want to take him with you?”
This is why she had wanted to leave while he was still asleep. He could be such a dear man—when he wasn’t infuriating her.
No,” Dymphna said. “He’s been at the farm for years now. I don’t think he’d want to go back to Los Angeles.”
“But you do?”
“For a little while,” she said softly.
“Get out of the car, Thud,” he said evenly.
The dog jumped out of the passenger side and Professor Johnson closed the door with a solid thwack.
“It’s a long drive,” she said. “I really better be going.”
He nodded.
“I washed the car,” he said.
“Oh?” Dymphna looked at the Outback. Now that the sun was up, she could see it was sparkling clean.
“Thank you,” she said.
She started to put her arms around him. She wanted to hold him and say all the things that she never said. She loved him. He was the best thing that ever happened to her. She would be back. She took a deep breath, but he was the first to speak.
“If Main Street were paved, the car wouldn’t be completely trashed by the time you got through town,” he said.
Dymphna kissed him on the cheek, gave Thud a squeeze, and got in the car.
* * *
As she drove quietly through town, she passed the Creakside Inn, where Polly still kept a room in Old Bertha’s place. At one point, Fernando and Powderkeg had both been boarders, but over the last year or so, they’d built living quarters behind their businesses. Dymphna smiled as she thought about Pappy, who was often an overnight guest at Old Bertha’s, but nobody was supposed to know that. As she made her way down Main Street, all the storefronts were still dark. She knew it would be awhile until she saw these buildings again, and it unsettled her. She’d been seeing these buildings every day for almost three years—the longest she’d ever stayed in one place. She wanted to memorize every little detail in case . . .
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 2