She’s Gone Country

by Jane Porter; Jane Porter

  For a moment I just fold clothes, struggling with the injustice of it all.

  “You do still care for him,” Charlotte says after a moment.

  I fold the jeans, push them to the edge of the table, and look over at her. “I loved him, Char. I loved him the way you loved Brick. But I got sent away and Dane fell in love with Shellie Ann and eventually I met John. I have three great boys, boys I love with all my heart, so I’m happy.”

  “But Dane—”

  “Isn’t an option.”

  “Why not?” she asks, sounding genuinely disappointed.

  I toss up my hands. “I’m done throwing myself at him. He had his chance and he passed on it and I’m okay with that.” I see her expression and reach out to touch her arm. “Why does that bother you so much?”

  She shrugs unhappily. “I just think you and Dane could be good together.”

  I give her a long look. “Char, I know you care about him, but Dane’s not the only single man in Texas. This is a big state with plenty of available men. When I’m ready to date, I promise you, I’ll date.”

  Chapter Ten

  After Charlotte leaves, I force myself to put Dane out of my mind. It’s time to return to mother mode.

  I find Bo and we sit at the kitchen table to talk. He tells me he’s sorry about his grades and wishes he’d asked for help. He doesn’t know why he didn’t, nor does he know why he can’t get anything done. He just wants me to forgive him. And love him.

  I do.

  Together we work out a plan to help him be more organized. Turn in all missing work. Start going to teacher tutorials before and after school. Begin studying three or four days in advance for all tests.

  Bo and I break for dinner and then pick up where we left off once the dishes are done. It’s eleven before we’re finished going through the mounds of crumpled school papers, tossing the old ones, sorting the current ones, and putting everything else in the proper section in the proper folder or binder.

  Bo is happy to have me at his side, clearly relieved to have help organizing his mess. I’m happy to help him, too. I just wish he’d come to me before he’d hit rock bottom. But we’re on it now, I tell myself. Things can only go up from here.

  I kiss him good night, tuck him in, and then head to bed. The two other boys went to bed a half hour ago.

  I’m exhausted and think I’ll fall right to sleep, but I don’t. I can’t, not with so much on my mind.

  I relive the day, going over the events from Rae’s call with the opportunity to model for Neiman Marcus’s resort catalog, to the conference with Paul Peterson, to my confrontation with Bo, ending with my chat with Char about Dane.

  I linger over my conversation with Char, thinking far too much about Dane and Shellie Ann, their marriage, their son, and the fact that Shellie Ann has remarried while Dane remains single.

  Although how single remains to be seen. He was with Lulu at the party, and Lulu certainly seemed interested in him.

  I guess what I’d love to know is how interested Dane is in Lulu.

  Hopefully not a lot.

  And then I groan into my pillow. I’m doing it again. Falling for him. Fantasizing. Creating impossible scenarios that will never come true.

  Remember what you told Char, I remind myself sternly. Dane had his chance. Dane lost his chance. You’ve moved on with your life, and when you’re ready to date, there are other men out there. Lots of men who’d love to be with you.

  But as I breathe into my pillow, I know my heart. My heart doesn’t want a lot of men. My heart still craves Dane.

  Rae calls me early the next morning to say that Neiman Marcus would like me to come in for a go-see tomorrow before they commit to booking me for the shoot.

  I’m still in my pajamas and haven’t even yet driven the boys to school. The idea of rushing anywhere is far from appealing. “I thought they offered me the job,” I say, propping the phone between my shoulder and ear as I refill my coffee cup.

  “You’ve done a thousand go-sees in your career. What’s one more?”

  What I need to do is call Charlotte and Brick and see if they’d be willing to watch the boys if I did get the job. “Give me five minutes. I’ll call you right back.”

  I phone Charlotte and get right to the point. Charlotte’s delighted for me, thinks it’s exactly what I need. “I don’t have the actual days yet,” I add. “They’ll tell me after they make up the shoot schedule. That is, if I get the job. I have a go-see with them tomorrow at two—”

  “Do you need Brick to pick the boys up from school tomorrow?”

  I hadn’t thought that far, but yes, probably. And Charlotte assures me that Brick would be happy to get them, that he enjoys his time with them, that they both love spending time with the boys. It feels as if Charlotte’s trying a little too hard, but I’m grateful for the support. I thank her, hang up, and call Rae back to let her know I’ll be at tomorrow’s go-see as planned.

  The morning’s phone calls have eaten up more time than I anticipated, and I know we’re going to be late as I drive the boys to school. Bo and Coop don’t mind being late, but Hank’s bummed because he has PE first period and the PE teacher will make him run a lap for every minute he’s late.

  “Sorry, bud,” I say, pulling into the high school parking lot and heading for the front office, where he’ll have to go to get a late admittance pass.

  Hank barely looks at me as he climbs out of the truck.

  I roll down my window, call to him, “I really am sorry—”

  “I know. It’s okay,” he shouts as he walks away.

  So why don’t I feel better?

  The next day after dropping the boys at school, I return home to start getting ready for the appointment. In my bedroom, I strip off my white T-shirt and step out of my gray sweatpants and start to head for the shower when I catch sight of my reflection in the bureau mirror.

  It’s an old mirror and cloudy at the edges, but I have no trouble seeing me.

  I’m thin. Quite thin. Scrawny and scary thin, and I pray they won’t ask me to put on a swimsuit today.

  But there’s nothing I can do about my scrawny frame right now. If I get the job, I can definitely exercise and get toned again. I have three weeks. But first I need to get the job.

  The brisk shower helps calm me, but my spirits remain low as I dry off and pull on honey slacks and a loose cashmere V-necked sweater. Dressed, I look at myself in the mirror and force a smile, then pose and smile. I can do this, get through this go-see, but I could use a little polish. Get that top-model sheen back.

  Sitting at the desk in the kitchen, I’m able to book a thirty-minute massage followed by a manicure/pedicure and then a professional blowout at a midpriced spa in a not-so-ritzy part of Dallas. It’s a chunk of change, but I’m glad I spent it as I leave the spa feeling sleek and successful.

  I arrive twenty minutes early at Neiman Marcus’s corporate office at Marcus Square on Main Street for the go-see and breeze through the session knowing I look healthy and relaxed. I’m grateful that my long hair, one of my best features, hangs in a silken shimmer down my back.

  The artistic director overseeing the resort catalog is pleased by what he sees, as Rae calls me ten minutes after I’ve left the appointment to say that everyone loved me and I’m confirmed for the shoot. Once my actual shoot dates are set, they’ll have their corporate travel agent book my flight and hotel and then courier the details to me in a packet.

  I’m thrilled by the news. Feel downright victorious. This is the sort of thing John and I used to celebrate, too. Whenever I’d get booked for a big job, John would make reservations at one of our favorite restaurants. We’d order a really good bottle of wine and toast the achievement and talk about the opportunity. I used to love how he made sure we savored the successes and celebrated the accomplishments. It’s something I don’t do anymore, but I should. There’s no reason I can’t celebrate on my own or with the boys. No reason I can’t change it up and celebrate my way.


  By the time I get home, the sun is sinking and the hills and trees are more gold than green. I park next to Brick’s truck and head inside. Cooper’s in a chair in the living room, watching the previously recorded Professional Bull Rider’s Built Ford Tough Series from last weekend in Clovis, California, and Bo is flipping through Sports Illustrated. “Mom, did you know that Guilherme Marchi got a ninety-two on his final ride on Sunday? You should have seen it. The bull was insane. Totally rank.”

  I smile at his use of rank. A rank bull is a tough bull, a fierce bull, a bull that riders love and loathe, because that’s the kind of bull you get your big scores on. But it’s also the kind of bull that injures you. “Good for Marchi,” I answer, aware from Coop’s updates that the Brazilian rider is one of today’s big stars.

  Dropping my car coat and handbag on the nearest chair, I ask if they’re hungry.

  “Starving,” Bo answers, still flipping through his magazine.

  The TV show has gone to commercial, and Cooper stands up to stretch. “Uncle Brick said you were taking us out, and we want to go to the Kountry Kitchen.” As he stretches, his shirt pulls out of the waistband of his jeans, revealing thin ribs and hip bones. “Wednesday nights they offer a free slice of pie with every entrée.”

  “That’s fine with me. But where’s Hank?” I ask.

  “In here. With Uncle Brick,” Hank shouts from the kitchen. “And I’m hungry. When are we going?”

  I head to the kitchen and find Hank hanging out with Brick. “I’m ready anytime,” I answer, then look at Brick. “Are you free? Want to go with us?”

  “Char’s dragging me to a cocktail party being given by someone at the hospital.”

  “Next time,” I say, checking my smile. Brick’s a family man, dreads the social scene.

  Coop hates to leave the televised PBR program, but he’s hungry, too, so we leave a few minutes later for Mineral Wells. Only a half dozen tables are filled at the Kountry Kitchen Café, a place that’s been around as long as I’ve been alive.

  Two waitresses are working tonight, and one of them knows Hank from high school. She comes to the door to greet and seat us. She’s young and blond and cute—Traci is her name—and she chatters to Hank as she shows us to a table in her section. “Hey, Hank,” she says to him, blushing and smiling. “How are you?”

  “Good,” he answers gruffly, shooting us an embarrassed look.

  “Is this your family?” Traci asks, leading us to a big booth in the corner.

  He nods, cheeks flushed.

  Traci darts me a shy look as she passes out the menus. “My dad still has the SI swimsuit issues with you in it. You were his favorite swimsuit model.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I answer, always amazed that people remember me. I enjoyed my work and still love it when I get the chance to be in front of the camera, but I never felt like a star or top model. I’m not sure if it’s because John and I had the boys so early in our marriage or if it’s my personality, but being a mom has mattered more to me than anything I’ve achieved in my career. “Tell your dad I’m flattered, and thank you.”

  My boys are turning red now. They hate it when they hear about me in swimsuits, particularly Bo, who loves SI’s annual swimsuit issue and can’t stand to think that I used to be one of those hot girls in the skimpy suit and body paint.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to New York. Did you like living there?” Traci asks, lingering at our table.

  “I did,” I answer. “There’s so much to do, and everything’s close.”

  “Did you ride the subway?”

  “Every day.”

  “And you weren’t scared?”

  She’s too cute, I think. So earnest and eager to know more about the world. “No. There’s always people around, and most folks are pretty helpful.”

  She asks me a couple of questions, then rattles off the dinner specials before leaving to fill our drink order.

  “She’s pretty,” Bo says, watching Traci walk away. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “She’s older than you,” Hank answers.

  “So?”

  “So she’s not going to want to go out with you.”

  Before things escalate into a full-blown argument, I change the subject and tell the boys about my trip to Puerto Rico, the days I’ll be gone, and how Brick and Charlotte will be staying with them and making sure everything goes smoothly. Bo wants to go with me; he loves to travel. Cooper says he’ll miss me. Hank asks if there’s any way he can go stay with his dad.

  “It’s only for four or five days, guys. I’ll be back before you know it, and maybe this summer we can take a trip somewhere together.”

  “Like where?” Cooper asks.

  “How about a cruise,” Bo suggests. “I bet there’s lots of girls on cruises.”

  “Or Hawaii.” Even Hank’s interested. “We could go to a couple different islands. We’ve been to the Caribbean before, but never Hawaii.”

  They’re still bouncing ideas around when I spot a big black truck park at the curb outside. Dane’s truck.

  I feel an icy tingle that’s more pain than pleasure.

  I hate that he does this to me. Hate that I can’t seem to escape him. It’d be one thing if I didn’t feel anything when I saw him, but I do feel. I feel so much that it makes me hurt.

  This can’t be normal, I think, watching him climb from his truck. Can’t be healthy. Can’t be good.

  And worse, he let Cooper down. Cooper, who has never asked for anything or wanted anything or been a problem. Cooper, who just tries to get along and make things easier, make things better.

  My eyes sting and I bite down into my lower lip, mad, so mad.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, voice rough as I slide from the booth.

  “Where are you going?” Bo asks, but I don’t answer. I’m too intent on getting outside to confront Dane.

  He’s heading into the taco shop next door when I physically put myself between him and the front door. He’s big and so broad-shouldered that he practically fills the doorway. There’s not a lot of room for both of us, and I lock my knees to keep from backing away.

  “You were supposed to call,” I say huskily, aware of the size and shape of him, the warmth of him, and the scent that’s all his—hay, leather, spice, and man.

  Love this man.

  Hate this man.

  Love to hate this man.

  My throat seals closed and I swallow hard, swallow to make the lump go away. “Coop waited all week for you to call.”

  Dane stares down at me, looks momentarily baffled, and then his expression clears. “It’s been two days.”

  “Six. Today’s Friday, and you said you’d call on Sunday.”

  His powerful shoulders shift. “I got busy.”

  The brusqueness of his answer stings like lemon juice on a cut. My spine stiffens, my shoulders square. “You got busy?”

  There’s no apology in his expression. He’s a hard man, far harder than I remembered. “I run a big business, Shey. I travel. Meet people. Have appointments.”

  I look at him, shake my head a little. I know what big business is. I used to have that life and those responsibilities. But a promise is a promise, and anger whips through me. “You could have let him down that night. Just told him no then. Instead you strung him along—”

  “I just met the kid, Shey. Don’t put that on me.”

  I’ve known Dane my whole life, and he can be tough, but right now he’s just ugly. The kid. My kid. No one talks about Coop like that. “Screw you, Kelly.”

  His eyes spark and his jaw tightens. It crosses my mind that if I were a man, he’d probably take a swing at me. I almost wish he would so I could swing back. Because there’s so much I want to say. So much I want to get out.

  But a glance over my shoulder shows me my three sons all watching from the café, their faces practically pressed to the glass. With another shake of my head, I turn around and walk back to the restaurant, my heart pounding
with every step I take.

  I hate Dane Kelly. I do.

  But once inside the café, as I take my seat at the table, Cooper looks past me to Dane’s truck. “What did you say to him?” Coop asks uncomfortably.

  “Nothing,” I answer, reaching for the sweetener to add to my iced tea.

  Bo and Hank exchange glances. “Didn’t look like nothing,” Hank says. “You looked pissed.”

  I cringe at his word choice. Hate the word pissed. “It doesn’t matter.” I force a smile, will my pulse to return to normal, because I am still worked up, still fighting mad.

  Cooper is still staring anxiously at me. “You didn’t say anything about me, did you? You didn’t tell him I was hurt or upset? Because that would just embarrass me, Mom.”

  I exhale slowly, silently. “I didn’t do anything to embarrass you. You can relax. Okay?”

  Every Sunday at one, Mama calls to catch up, which is her way of checking up on me. This Sunday is no exception. “What did you all do this morning, Shey Lynne?”

  I know what she’s asking. She’s asking if I went to church, even though she knows I didn’t. But she wants to make me say it. She’s dying for the opportunity to point out my shortcomings. Again.

  “Made the boys farmers’ eggs and your sour cream coffee cake,” I answer, trying to distract her from her goal. “The one with the cinnamon-and-brown-sugar topping—”

  “I know which one.”

  “I haven’t made it in a while, and I forgot how good it is. Really moist. I saved Brick and Charlotte a slice, but the rest is already gone—”

  “Is that all you’ve done today?”

  “Well, no. I did the dishes and I’m just about to mop the kitchen floor.”

  “Shey Lynne, this is the Lord’s day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you take those boys to church?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you being smart with me?”

  “No, Mama. But we do this every week, and every week I tell you that I’m not going to take the boys—”