“Because I’m afraid to ask you,” he said.
“Why? Why would you be afraid to ask me?”
“Because you have no reason to stay,” Professor Johnson said. “You can take your animals and go anywhere. Your home is gone.”
“No, it isn’t,” Dymphna said. “As long as you’re living and breathing, I have a home.”
Professor Johnson pulled her out of her chair, swept back her hair and kissed her. Both of them had tears in their eyes.
“I didn’t dare hope . . .” Professor Johnson said. “I’ve been focused on all the wrong things, and I—”
“Shhh,” Dymphna said. “No, you weren’t. When you told Fernando that you were more worried about my house than the grapes, I realized I was the one focusing on the wrong things, adding up all the stupid little slings and arrows.”
Thud scrambled to his feet and tried to join their embrace. When the dog stood on his hind legs, he was taller than Dymphna. Professor Johnson had become adept at holding them both up. It was second nature to all three of them to stand that way.
“Does anybody care if I’m staying?” Maggie blurted resentfully.
There was a stunned silence. No one spoke.
“Well, I’m not,” Maggie said.
“Where are you going?” Polly said, genuinely interested.
The telltale vibration of trucks coming down the road from the highway interrupted her reply. Maggie knew it was Dodge, although it sounded as if he had several men with him as well.
“I don’t know exactly where I’m going,” Maggie said, “but I think I’m about to get a whole bunch of options.”
As the trucks hit the sludge of Main Street, the whine of gears shifting into low ran through the café.
“Better put more coffee on,” Fernando said. “Sounds like it’s going to be business as usual.”
No, Maggie thought as Fernando and Polly headed to the kitchen. It’s not.
Chapter 39
Dodge was putting down his tailgate as Maggie fought her way through the steady stream of cowboys heading into the café. Ranch hands and Fat Chance locals exchanged horror stories of the day before, a new Texas tall tale being born every minute.
“You got something for me?” Dodge growled at Maggie.
“I do,” Maggie said. But before she could reach for the pouch, the residents of Fat Chance came out on the boardwalk.
“You have our paint?” Dymphna asked excitedly. “This is perfect timing! If we’d painted the buildings two days ago, it would have been a waste.”
“That really would have been a damn shame,” Dodge said, a huge smile on his face. “Here you go.”
He gestured toward the back of his truck. Dymphna and Titan looked in. Excited anticipation dropping from their faces.
“What is this?” Dymphna asked.
“The paint you ordered,” Dodge said, barely containing his glee.
“But we ordered whitewash,” Dymphna said.
“I don’t understand,” Titan said, taking in the truck-bed full of paint cans. “What are all these colors? Do any of them even match?”
“Sure,” Dodge said genially. “There are four cans of Ruddy Rose, four cans of Sunburst, four cans of Lemon Maze, four cans of Green Apple, four cans of Sky, four cans of In-Ya-Go Blue and my favorite, Old Bruise . . . it’s a kind of purple.”
Titan tried again. “We ordered white.”
“If you remember, I said I could get you a deal. This is what I got a deal on.” Dodge sneered. “You should like it, Titan. It’s the rainbow.”
Jeffries and Fernando took a step forward, but Powderkeg stopped them.
“Let Titan handle it,” he said.
“But we gave you a thousand dollars,” Titan said in disbelief.
All the townspeople and cowboys were now on the porch, witnessing Dodge’s victory.
“Wow, Dodge, you can be a real asshole,” came a voice no one knew.
It was Poet.
“Watch your mouth, Poet, or you’re fired,” Dodge said.
“I don’t work for you,” Poet said, jumping off the boardwalk and standing under Dodge’s nose. He was half Dodge’s size. He looked into the truck, then back at Polly.
“What do you say, Polly, you think your hat store would look better in Old Bruise or Green Apple?” asked Poet.
“Well,” Polly said, considering, “if we’ve got red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, maybe we should paint the town in order of the rainbow?”
“Nah,” Poet said. “This is Texas. Let’s make our own rainbow.”
“My God,” Old Bertha said. “He is a poet.”
Dodge stood, in all his pettiness, yelling at the Rolling Fork Ranch cowboys as they helped unload the paint. Some had already started to clear the mud from the buildings. Old Bertha insisted the inn, as the biggest building in town, needed two colors.
Maggie watched as her sister and Professor Johnson seriously discussed which horrible color to paint the Boozehound. Fernando was laughing with two huge ranch hands who were scraping big chunks of mud off the Cowboy Food Café. Erinn and Wesley helped Jeffries clean the limousine.
“All right,” Dodge said, “let’s get down to business. What have you got for me?”
Maggie stared at him. She was alone. The outsider. Again. The difference this time was that she didn’t blame her sister. These people had been ready to accept her when she arrived in Fat Chance. Her sister had not run Maggie out of town when Dymphna walked in on Maggie hitting on Professor Johnson. Old Bertha had taken Maggie in until Maggie accused Old Bertha of stealing. Powderkeg had given her a job. Cleo had found her a place to stay—even if it was just to keep Maggie away from Cleo’s ex. And Cleo had reason to worry. Maggie knew she had made herself the outsider. But it didn’t have to be that way. And maybe it wasn’t too late to change.
“For you?” Maggie asked. “I’ve got nothing for you.”
She walked away down the boardwalk until she reached Powderkeg and Cleo. Cleo showed Maggie the can of In-Ya-Go Blue.
“For Powderkeg’s shop,” Cleo said. “What do you think?”
“I like it,” Maggie said.
She watched Dodge’s truck screech up the road. She knew he was fuming, thwarted by his own pettiness.
That’s the epitaph I don’t want, Maggie thought. “Here lies a woman thwarted by her own pettiness.”
She made her way to Pappy’s side.
“I have something for you,” she said.
She walked behind the building and Pappy followed. She handed him the pouch. His hands shook as he held it.
“I found it up at the farm one day,” she said.
“It was hidden,” Pappy said. “It’s been hidden for years.”
“I know.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Trouble,” Maggie said. “I was looking for trouble. But now I’m not, so I thought you might like to have it, you know, as a souvenir of other days.”
“A souvenir of another life,” Pappy said, almost to himself.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Maggie said. “I’m going to see if I can help my sister.” She left Pappy standing alone. She didn’t look back.
With shaking fingers, Pappy undid the strings.
He lifted out an old belt.
The buckle was copper, almost green now. He rubbed his thumb over the etched feather.
He thought he’d dodged a bullet with Erinn, but all the time there was this other time bomb waiting to go off. Maggie could have taken his life away from him and she chose not to. He knew better than to think he was safe forever. But he had to admit he’d been pretty lucky so far. He might still be exposed one day. But now that Titan and Old Bertha knew his terrible secret, he was free to build a life with Bertha—and to be a real father figure to Titan.
If Titan wanted him. But that was for Titan to decide.
Pappy found Old Bertha sitting on the swing on her front porch. She was looking down Main Street, watching Polly a
nd Poet fall further in love. Pappy sat down and put his arm around her.
“I don’t want her to go,” Old Bertha said. “She’s become like a daughter to me.”
“I know she has,” Pappy said. “But that happens with daughters—and sons. They go their own way if and when the time is right.”
“Maybe if I told her . . .”
“Now, Bertha, damn it, you can’t go guilting the girl,” Pappy said. “If she’s gonna go, she’s gonna go, and it would be wrong to stop her.”
“You’re right,” Old Bertha said, looking toward Polly. “But when she does, I’m sure gonna miss her.”
* * *
Jeffries looked up at Erinn and Wesley as they brought buckets of clean water to wash off the limousine.
“Excuse me, sir,” Jeffries said, reverting to his formal speech pattern. “If I’m staying here, what are you going to do about getting home?”
Erinn stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t thought about that!
“I told you before,” Wesley said. “I know how to drive one of these. I was a chauffeur in college.”
“You were?” Erinn asked.
“I was,” Wesley said. “I haven’t always been the world’s worst production assistant. I paid my dues.”
Erinn went to collect more water and saw Dymphna sitting by herself on the edge of the boardwalk. Erinn sat down next to her.
“Wesley and I are going to head out in the morning,” she said. “But maybe I’ll come back when the town is strutting its stripes. Maybe I can get a story out of it.”
“I’m sorry this has been a waste of time,” Dymphna said.
“It wasn’t a waste of time,” Erinn said. “Not at all. I’ve learned a lot of valuable lessons here.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, it looks like I can date a Republican.”
Dymphna smiled the confused smile she found herself using around Erinn.
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” Erinn said, looking around at the marvel that was this little town and the people who loved and protected it so fiercely.
“What happens in Fat Chance, Texas, stays in Fat Chance, Texas.”
See how it all began in Celia Bonaduce’s
WELCOME TO FAT CHANCE, TEXAS
For champion professional knitter Dymphna Pearl, inheriting part of a sun-blasted ghost town in the Texas hill country isn’t just unexpected, it’s a little daunting. To earn a cash bequest that could change her life, she’ll have to leave California to live in tiny, run-down Fat Chance for six months—with seven strangers. Impossible! Or is it?
Trading her sandals for cowboy boots, Dymphna dives into her new life with equal parts anxiety and excitement. After all, she’s never felt quite at home in Santa Monica anyway. Maybe Fat Chance will be her second chance. But making it habitable is going take more than a lasso and Wild West spirit. With an opinionated buzzard overlooking the proceedings and mismatched strangers learning to become friends, Dymphna wonders if unlocking the secrets of her own heart is the way to strike real gold . . .
A Lyrical e-book on sale now!
CHAPTER 1
“Please don’t talk to anyone at the yoga stand,” Erinn Wolf said.
“Those people are dead to us.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Dymphna Pearl said.
“They threw down the gauntlet,” Erinn replied. “Not us.”
“I just don’t want there to be any hurt feelings,” Dymphna said, as she loaded two of her Angora rabbits into the hatchback of the car. Erinn, who was her best friend, landlady, and business partner, filled the backseat with knitwear—hats, scarves, bags, and gloves. When Erinn was upset, it was as if she lived in some medieval melodrama—or at least with the New York Mafia.
“Yes,” Dymphna said, as she buckled herself into the passenger side of the car. “But we won. We have to see those people every Sunday. Don’t you think it would be nicer to offer an olive branch?”
“By ‘olive branch’ I take it you mean ‘carrot cake’?” Erinn asked as she pulled out of the driveway.
Dymphna winced. “How did you know?” she asked, eyes downcast.
“I could smell it as soon as I woke up!” Erinn said. “I could smell it before I woke up. I dreamt the gingerbread man was chasing me—until I realized it was the cinnamon and cloves coming from the guesthouse. I knew to what you were up.”
Even when Erinn was in scolding mode, her grammar was perfect.
“I just think we could take the high road,” Dymphna said. “I don’t want to have enemies at the farmers’ market.”
“As Franklin Roosevelt once said, ‘I ask you to judge me by the enemies I have made,’ ” Erinn said.
Dymphna thought that Erinn might want to rethink that particular philosophy. Did she really want to be judged by these enemies—people offering peace and spinal alignment?
Erinn drove down a deserted Ocean Avenue toward the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market on Main Street, where Dymphna had a booth called Knit and Pearl. Dymphna was a bit of a celebrity, since she was the host of a video podcast—produced by Erinn—also called Knit and Pearl. The show fueled sales at the farmers’ market and the clientele at the farmers’ market created new viewers. Erinn, who knew what it took to get attention, insisted that a giant Angora rabbit would trump any display of yoga pants on the aisle, so Dymphna always brought at least two of her six angora yarn–producing rabbits. It seemed like a straightforward business plan, until the owners of the Midnight at the Mirage yoga stand complained the animals were disrupting the quiet zone that was imperative to the success of their business. Dymphna could see their point—people often came to her booth just to pet the fluffy fur of the animals that looked like an explosion in a cotton factory. It was anything but calm.
But Erinn would have none of it. She told the farmers’ market board that Dymphna was using the rabbits as educational tools—teaching the public about the proper care of Angora rabbits and their fur. Knit and Pearl was every bit as enlightening as a chakra massage. Erinn won, but Dymphna got a stomachache every time the owners of Midnight at the Mirage looked over at a family squealing with delight over one of her rabbits. Dymphna didn’t want to stir up Erinn’s wrath, which was formidable no matter what the issue, but she thought maybe she’d sneak the carrot cake over to the yoga instructors when Erinn wasn’t looking.
Dymphna understood all too well that sinking feeling when you thought your business was threatened. One of her greatest regrets was that she had never made a go of her shepherding business. She had tried to raise a small herd of sheep in Malibu, but when the land she was renting got sold out from under her it just proved to be too expensive. So she traded in her sheep for six Angora rabbits and moved out of the hills. Sometimes she felt guilty about trying to raise rabbits in Santa Monica. Dymphna wasn’t sure city life was healthy for rabbits.
Erinn stopped the car near their allotted space and started to unload the collapsible tables and the knitted accessories, while Dymphna tended to Snow D’Winter and Spot, the two giant Angoras chosen to represent the show at the stall.
By midmorning, the farmers’ market was humming. Once the booth was set up and everything was running smoothly, Erinn usually headed off to shop for produce. She offered to go shopping for Dymphna, who was stuck at the booth all day, but Dymphna could never gather up all her various scraps of paper on which she’d written reminders of what she needed. At one point, Erinn tried to relieve Dymphna at the booth so she could do her own shopping, but the customers all wanted to talk to Dymphna Pearl, designer of the knit creations, or they wanted to ask questions about the rabbits—questions to which only Dymphna had answers. Dymphna was perfectly content buying her groceries at an actual grocery store, but she knew better than to share that with Erinn.
Erinn started to gather her shopping bags and her detailed list. She turned to Dymphna and held out her palm. “Let me have it.”
“Have what?” Dymphna asked.
“The ca
rrot cake. I don’t want you to have a weak moment.”
Dymphna handed over the carrot cake and watched Erinn stride purposefully into the crowd. On one hand, Erinn could be exasperating, but on the other you had to hand it to her—she had amazing instincts.
Dymphna gave Spot and Snow D’Winter some fresh water. When she turned back toward the front of the booth, a tense-looking woman was standing in front of a display of knitted scarves. She didn’t appear to be all that interested in them, though. Instead she was staring intently at Dymphna.
“May I help you?” Dymphna inquired.
The woman seemed startled that Dymphna was talking to her. Nothing about this woman suggested she resided in a casual beach neighborhood. Dymphna guessed the woman to be in her midfifties, her salon-highlighted hair glinting expensively in the sun. She extended a long French-manicured talon and snatched up a cream- and rust-colored scarf.
“Yes,” the woman said. “I want to buy this.” She thrust the scarf at Dymphna.
“Great!” Dymphna said, taking a charge card from the woman and sliding it through a contraption on her smartphone. She held her breath. She couldn’t believe her phone could actually ring up sales. Dymphna handed the card back to the shopper. The name on the credit card was C. J. Primb.
“Thank you, Ms. Primb,” Dymphna said. “Would you like me to e-mail you a receipt?”
Ms. Primb looked startled. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not!”
“All right,” Dymphna said, handing over the knitwear. “I hope you’ll enjoy the scarf.”
As the woman took the scarf, Dymphna noticed a small gold band on C. J. Primb’s left hand. It was sitting on the index finger, between the first and second knuckle joints. Such odd placement, Dymphna thought. She herself would never be able to get any real work done without losing a ring so precariously placed.
Perhaps that’s the point.
Dymphna was happy to turn her attention to another shopper, who was scanning the hats. Ms. Primb was making her nervous. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was just something about the woman that made her very uncomfortable.
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 25