“It’s been over two months,” Titan said, using his napkin to dab at his eyes. “I’m beginning to give up hope.”
“That’s probably realistic,” Professor Johnson offered. Everyone at the table seemed to freeze and Professor Johnson quickly reversed course. “To begin to give up hope. Not to actually give up hope.”
“That’s a very subtle distinction,” Titan said.
Fernando sniffed. “Very.”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” Professor Johnson said. “Take your mind off . . . things.”
“OK,” Titan said. “But I don’t want to talk about the road.”
“Or wine,” Fernando said.
“What else is there to talk about?” Professor Johnson said.
“I could tell you about the new guy I met,” Polly said.
“That’s perfect,” Titan said, as Fernando poured more tea. “Let’s hear all about him.”
Professor Johnson looked through the archway at his papers stacked haphazardly over in the Boozehound. But there didn’t seem to be any way to escape.
“His name is Poet, and he—”
“His name is Poet?” Titan’s eyes widened. “How fabulous!”
Professor Johnson was about to say that the man’s name was probably not Poet but a pretentious moniker he’d thought up to impress impressionable girls like Polly—and apparently grown men like Titan—but he decided to keep quiet. Titan was distracted and that was all that mattered.
“He’s staying over at the Rolling Fork Ranch with his cousin,” Polly said.
“Oh,” Professor Johnson said. “His cousin, Laureate?”
“No,” Polly said, looking confused. “His cousin Herman. Who is Laureate?”
“Never mind,” Fernando said. “Professor Johnson is just being tiresome.”
“Anyway, you’ll never guess what he does for a living,” Polly challenged.
“My money is on him being a poet!” Titan said.
Titan beamed at Professor Johnson, who just nodded. He’d gotten himself in enough trouble.
“I don’t get to guess,” Fernando said. “I already know.”
“Tell us already,” Titan said.
Polly looked each of the men squarely in the eye. Professor Johnson could barely keep from running out of the room. How could he be business partners with this group? He had to find a way to get Dymphna back here. He couldn’t manage this sort of interaction alone. Mercifully, Polly finally spoke.
“He runs a wagon train in Nebraska,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Professor Johnson said, assuming his mind had wandered and he misheard.
“She said he runs a wagon train in Nebraska,” Fernando said, daring Professor Johnson to say anything snide.
“What does that even mean?” Professor Johnson asked.
“I thought you were the smart one,” Polly said. “Don’t you know what a wagon train is?”
“Yes, I do,” Professor Johnson said. “I also know you’re talking about the Oregon Trail and that the last wagons went through in the 1880s.”
“He works in Nebraska, not Oregon,” Polly said hotly. “Shows what you know.”
Professor Johnson rubbed his temples. Perhaps he should spend his last dime rebuilding the engine of the Outback. To hell with the centrifugal de-stemmer. These people were impossible.
“Anyway,” Polly said, glowing, “he’s here to learn how to ride horses and stuff.”
“Wait.” Professor Johnson held up a hand. “I’m going to take a leap of faith here and accept that Poet runs a wagon train. But how can a man run a wagon train and not know how to ride a horse . . . and stuff?”
“That is a good question,” Titan said softly.
“OK, maybe he doesn’t exactly run the wagon train,” Polly said, a hint of petulance creeping into her voice. “But his best friend’s family owns a wagon train reenactment company and he wants to make a career of being a wagon master, so he’s here to learn. He’s just super lucky he has a cousin already in the business.”
“That is super lucky,” Titan said.
“We have a stellar career guidance center back at the university,” Professor Johnson said. “I could make a few calls . . . you know, in case this wagon master dream falls flat.”
“You don’t take anything seriously, do you?” Fernando asked Professor Johnson, an edge to his voice.
“Aren’t you usually accusing me of being too serious?” Professor Johnson shot back.
“This isn’t even about you,” Polly said to Professor Johnson.
“Please don’t fight,” Titan said. “Why is everyone always fighting these days?”
It was as if Titan had dealt them all a collective slap across the face. It might as well have been a banner over Main Street: WHY IS EVERYONE ALWAYS FIGHTING THESE DAYS?
“I think I better get up to the farm,” Professor Johnson said. “I have animals to take care of.”
Thud heard the change in Professor Johnson’s tone and struggled to his feet. The two of them walked out the door together. Powderkeg was standing in the middle of Main Street, trying to get a signal on his phone.
“I give up,” Powderkeg called out to Professor Johnson. “I was trying to get a quote on gravel, and I think the place closed while I was trying to get a signal.”
“Gravel?” Professor Johnson said. “For extending the road down Main Street?”
“Of course,” Powderkeg said. “We need a layer before we put down the asphalt, right? And the city isn’t going to pave this place.”
“I think perhaps we should wait. We don’t have a consensus on this—not even close.”
“Who cares?” Powderkeg said. “The road will be good for the town. Some of our neighbors are just too romantic for their own good. I say we pave the street and get it over with.”
“I do not want to antagonize anyone any further.”
“You just don’t want to piss anybody off right now ’cause you’re saving up for the big fight.”
“The big fight?”
“There’s gonna be some tough, expensive choices coming up in the next year about the grapes, right?”
“Right.”
“My point exactly. How does it feel to be on the unpopular side of everything?” Powderkeg said.
“I thought we were both on the same side.”
“I stand corrected. How does it feel to be the spokesperson for the unpopular side of everything?”
“Not good, actually,” Professor Johnson said. “But, as you said, these people are too romantic for their own good.”
“Well, I got your back.” Powderkeg slapped Professor Johnson on the back and disappeared into the last of the twilight.
Professor Johnson stood looking up and down the street. He felt like an utter failure. He had the best interests of the town at heart. Why couldn’t his fellow townspeople see that and just let him do what needed to be done?
“At least we got Titan’s mind off Fancy,” he said to Thud as they headed down Main Street to the cutoff that led to the farm. They passed the Creakside Inn, where Pappy and Old Bertha sat on the front porch, rocking in chairs Powderkeg had made. Thud ran up the walk, startling Patsy, Old Bertha’s miniature mule. Patsy was a gift from Pappy in the love-struck early days of their relationship. Dymphna would often say that she hoped when she and Professor Johnson were old, they’d still be in love like Pappy and Old Bertha. These discussions always confused Professor Johnson. Pappy and Old Bertha bickered more than any two people in Central Texas. Even more than Pappy and Dodge.
Professor Johnson darted up the path after his dog, but he was too late. Thud had jumped onto the porch and was begging for attention. Old Bertha peered into the dark.
“Professor Johnson?” she called. “You out there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Professor Johnson said, his boots crunching up the walkway.
“Don’t ‘yes, ma’am’ me,” she said. “Come get your dog.”
Professor Johnson tested the bottom s
tep, decided it would hold, and climbed up on the porch. He grabbed Thud’s collar.
“How’s the car?” Pappy asked.
“What car?” Professor Johnson asked.
“Your car that’s with Dymphna,” Pappy said. “Heard it threw a rod.”
“How did you hear that?”
“Who knows?” Pappy said.
“There aren’t any secrets in Fat Chance,” Old Bertha said.
Professor Johnson wanted to ask if they’d heard if Dymphna had decided when she was coming back, but decided against it.
“We were just talking about Main Street,” Pappy said, nodding toward Old Bertha. “Looks like we gotta start courting this little lady.”
“Pardon me?” Professor Johnson said.
“Well, you, me, and Powderkeg are for paving Main Street, and Dymphna, Fernando, Polly, and Titan are against it. To even tie the thing up, we need Old Bertha on our side.”
“Suppose I say I don’t care one way or the other,” Old Bertha said.
“I’d say I don’t believe you,” Pappy said.
“You calling me a liar?” Old Bertha snarled.
“Either that or you’re losing it,” Pappy said. “ ’Cause only a damn fool would be against paving that street.”
“So you’re calling me a damn fool?” she snapped.
“Nothing wrong with your hearing at least,” Pappy said.
Professor Johnson gave Thud’s collar a hefty yank. The two of them scrambled back down the walkway.
Has everyone in town gone mad?
As they made their way up the hill, Professor Johnson saw a light was on in the farmhouse. His heart started to pound. Was there an intruder? He looked down at Thud, who seemed oblivious. As usual, Professor Johnson was on his own.
He kept off the trail, treading as lightly as possible through the grass. Was he overreacting? Why would someone break into the farmhouse? Or rather walk into the farmhouse, since the door was never locked. Professor Johnson made a mental note to start locking the door from now on. Of course, first he’d have to get some keys made, but after that, the farmhouse was going to be the Fort Knox of Fat Chance. Which actually wasn’t saying much.
Professor Johnson knelt in the high grass, staring at the farmhouse. He wondered if he should tie Thud in the barn so he wouldn’t get hurt. He reached for the dog’s collar, the battered snakeskin rough to the touch. The collar was a gift from Powderkeg, a trophy to commemorate Thud’s battle with Big John the rattlesnake.
“I guess you can be heroic if the situation calls for it,” Professor Johnson said to himself. He stood up as a silhouette passed in front of the kitchen light. There was someone in there, all right.
“You be quiet,” Professor Johnson hissed at Thud as they climbed the step to the tiny front porch. The night was full of shadows, but it was still light enough to make out the entire yard. Whoever was in there had come on foot; there was no car or truck anywhere. It occurred to Professor Johnson that it would have been hard to sneak up on the farm in a vehicle anyway, as someone in town would have heard an engine.
As Old Bertha said, there were no secrets in Fat Chance.
Thud let out a muffled woof and strained at his collar. Professor Johnson thought that might be a sign that Thud was on the case, but closer inspection revealed a wildly wagging tail.
“I mean it, Thud,” Professor Johnson said. “Be quiet!”
The front door creaked open, something it always did when anyone was on the porch. Professor Johnson took a deep breath and silently made his way into the living room. He held tightly to Thud as he adjusted to the darkened room. The only light was coming from the kitchen. He approached the doorway that separated the two rooms. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered into the kitchen.
Even with her back to him, he could tell it was Dymphna standing at the sink washing dishes. He would know those wild curls anywhere.
He stared at her in silence, trying to gather his thoughts. He had refused to allow himself to think she might not come back, but in his heart, he worried that she might actually decide to stay in Los Angeles, where people were sane. Where some people were sane. Where more people were sane than in Fat Chance.
He knew he should say something, but he didn’t want to startle her. Thud was quivering with excitement, but was miraculously keeping his promise to be quiet. Professor Johnson kept hold of him, just in case. He smiled at the sight of Dymphna standing there. She was like a vision. He squinted at her. Had she put on some weight in the week she was gone? Dymphna was always slender and delicate as a leaf, but the behind in front of him was pert and rock solid, packed into black yoga pants. The muscles in her butt cheeks shifted as she put a pan in the dish rack. It was mesmerizing.
Thud suddenly couldn’t take it anymore and bounded into the kitchen. Her face was still covered by her wild hair, but he heard her laugh as she knelt down and kissed the dog.
Professor Johnson reached for her, lifting her to her feet. He enveloped her, kissing her with a passion that unnerved him.
She was back. She was in his arms. And boy, was she kissing him back.
He reached down her back, hands traveling to that hypnotizing butt. He squeezed.
Nobody’s ass could change that much in a week.
This is not Dymphna’s butt.
Professor Johnson pulled the woman away from him. Was he going insane? The woman in front of him looked strikingly like Dymphna, but this woman vibrated with an intense energy where Dymphna radiated calm. Her eyes, so much like Dymphna’s, snapped with life, as if she were enjoying a private joke. And the hair!
They stared at each other.
“You’re one hell of a welcome committee,” the woman said. “You must be Professor Johnson.”
“Who are you?” Professor Johnson heard himself ask, although he felt as if he were having some sort of out-of-body experience. The woman smiled and stepped toward him. He stepped back.
“I’m Mary Magdalene,” she said. “Dymphna’s sister. You can call me Maggie.”
Chapter 7
“You need to be in my office in one hour,” Wesley said into the phone as he paced his Century City corner office.
The pacing was business as usual, but he was using his cell phone rather than the speaker phone. This conversation could not be overheard.
“One hour?” Cleo replied. “That’s impossible! I’m getting my chakras balanced.”
“Cancel it.”
“One doesn’t cancel chakras, Wesley,” Cleo said. “That’s not how it works.”
“I don’t care how it works,” he said. “You have one hour to get over here—balanced or unbalanced chakras are up to you.”
He hung up.
* * *
Cleo was in the morning room, already dressed for Madam Molly’s Chakra Cleansing Canteen. Most of her friends had the chakra reader come to their houses, but Cleo liked to hit the streets of Beverly Hills every now and then, just to make sure she was keeping in touch with real people. She looked down at her vintage Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dress, truly the most remarkable piece of clothing ever designed. In it, Cleo could be dressed and quickly undressed for any occasion. The fact that the most exciting undressing she was doing these days was for her chakra reader was mildly depressing, but perhaps she would feel better once one or more chakras had been unblocked.
She wasn’t sure what she should do. She certainly couldn’t make it a habit of letting her lawyer order her around like she was a . . . a . . . person. On the other hand, Wesley had never been so . . . commanding.
Do I like that?
Jeffries was standing by with a pot of coffee. She felt her cheeks redden as she realized her butler had witnessed this humiliating phone call. She thought fondly of the days when she thought servants didn’t register the dramas of their employers’ lives. But Downton Abbey and The Butler had certainly put an end to that little flight of fancy.
Jeffries stood silently. If movies and TV were actually depictions of life
, then Jeffries must have an opinion about what she should do.
“Well, Jeffries, what would you do?”
“Ma’am?”
“You heard Wesley,” she said. “He’s insisting I show up at his office in an hour. Would you go?”
“He hasn’t asked me to go.”
“If you were me,” she said. “Would you go if you were me?”
“Has he ever steered you wrong?”
“No!” she said, shocked at the idea. “Never.”
* * *
“All right, I’m here,” Cleo said, storming past Ruth Ann, Wesley’s latest gorgeous receptionist. “What’s so damn—Oh, hello, Dymphna! What a surprise!”
Nobody could handle caught-off-guard better than Cleo. Cleo smiled her dazzling $20,000 smile and sailed to Dymphna, who stood to greet her.
What can my nephew possibly see (kiss to one cheek) in this little ragamuffin (kiss to the other cheek)?
“Hi, Cleo. I was hoping I’d get a chance to see you while I was in Los Angeles,” Dymphna said softly before settling back on the sofa. “I just didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances.”
“I’m so glad to see you, too,” Cleo said, taking in the stern-looking woman sitting next to Dymphna. Cleo turned to Wesley. “What are these circumstances?”
“Have a seat, Cleo,” Wesley said. “Can I have Ruth Ann get you anything? Coffee? A sparkling water? A diet soda?”
No bourbon? We are on our best behavior.
“I’m fine, darling,” Cleo said as she lowered herself, straight-backed, into the low chair.
Cleo kept her eyes averted from the woman across from her. She had learned the hard way that Wesley gathering people she didn’t know rarely—if ever—worked in her favor. She would never forget the day seven strangers had met in her living room to view the video of her father explaining his will. She was grateful for the way Wesley handled that meeting, but he hadn’t managed to come up with some spectacular loophole that kept her out of Fat Chance either.
He may have never steered me wrong, but he hasn’t done me any favors either.
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 5