Taking advantage of Laura Bell had been almost too easy. When the Swamp Donkey had dated Avery Dorman and weaseled her way into the A-list, Jo Lynn had quickly learned two things about her: the girl was head over heels in love with Avery (how clueless could she be?) and she’d kill to be a debutante.
So Jo was taking down Laura in two ways: one, distributing the photo to ensure that Laura’s name wouldn’t be anywhere on the list of ten Rosebuds-to-be, and two, writing the script that had Camie begging a ride to school from Avery so that Laura could watch and weep.
If that hadn’t doused any fire that had been rekindled between the debu-skank and Avery, Jo Lynn wasn’t sure what would.
The doorbell rang, knocking the smile from Jo Lynn’s face.
“I’ll get it,” she shouted instinctively, because she was standing right there, at the foot of the stairwell, her hand on the balustrade.
She walked barefoot across the rosa aurora marble floor, hearing the grandfather clock chime the quarter hour as she passed. A glance at the ornate face told her it wasn’t yet five. Had one of the GSC selection committee members shown up a tad early?
She peered through the peephole and spied Dillon standing on the doorstep. He wore an Astros cap, and he kept thumbing the bill, looking nervous.
Her heart did a little two-step at the sight of him, and she hurriedly unlocked the dead bolt to let him in.
“Hey,” she said, and he gave her an anxious smile. “You want to come inside?” She gestured back at the foyer, but he shook his head.
“I can’t stay, but I wanted to come by and apologize in person,” he told her, “for leaving you high and dry on Saturday night. It’s just that something came up.” He shifted on his feet. “A friend of mine, well, he got really drunk, and—”
“You had to go take care of things,” she finished for him, figuring it was something like that. Dillon was so generous, way too big-hearted for his own good. People tended to take advantage of him, and it crazed Jo Lynn when he let them do it. “I’m just glad you’re here,” she told him, grinning like a fool as she reached for his hand. “I was worried about you. You should’ve called me back. Sometimes texting just isn’t the same as talking.”
“Forgive me?” he said, and his fingers wrapped tightly around hers. He pulled her into a bear hug, rocking her back and forth on the welcome mat.
Jo Lynn’s answer was to tip her head so he could kiss her, which he did quite soundly, his lips firmly pressed against hers.
All too quickly, he drew away. “I’ve gotta go. Football practice calls,” he said, and Jo Lynn nodded. “We’ll go out soon, okay? You pick the place.”
“Sounds perfect,” she told him as he gave a wave and loped back to his Mustang. He had the top down, so she could see him climb inside and flip his ball cap backward before he gunned the engine and took off.
Jo touched a finger to her lips, still feeling his mouth on hers. The worry in her belly seemed to dissolve, and she grinned as she headed back inside and shut the door behind her.
Dillon’s still mine, Laura Bell’s about to get her big ass booted from the deb list, and all is right with the world, she thought as she strolled into the living room and plopped down on the chintz sofa. She picked up a copy of Elle from the coffee table and kept her eye on the front hallway.
It won’t be long before the guillotine slices down on poor Laura’s neck, she realized, and shivered with anticipation when the doorbell finally chimed at a few minutes till five. This time, she made no move to answer it, as her mother’s high heels click-clacked in response.
Jo Lynn recognized Tincy Bell’s voice the moment she heard her saying, “Bootsie, darlin’, I flew all the way back from Telluride on Harry’s jet after you phoned, and I raced over straight from the airport. What the hell’s going on? You can’t believe this garbage is real. Somebody’s playin’ us for fools. You know these kind of things can be done on computers….”
“This way, Tincy, if you would, and we’ll talk a moment privately before the meeting begins.” Bootsie caught her friend’s elbow and guided her in the other direction, away from Jo Lynn, toward the study, too far away for Jo to hear.
Within another ten minutes, the entire contingent had shown up, and Nanny Nan had them all sequestered in the dining room, or so Jo Lynn thought. Which was why it surprised her when the doorbell rang once more and the voice that declared, “Well, hey, there, I’m here for the meetin’,” was one Jo Lynn didn’t recognize.
“I truly need to speak with Miss Boots alone, please, before anything gets started,” the clubber-come-lately insisted, and Jo Lynn set the Elle aside, wanting to see who the hell the woman was, because none of the regulars in the GSC would’ve ever called Bootsie “Miss Boots” without fearing reprisal.
“Tell her that Mrs. Daniel Mackenzie wants to have a word with her, and I think she’ll appreciate hearin’ me out.”
Mrs. Daniel Mackenzie?
As in Mac Mackenzie’s new mommy?
Jo Lynn knew nothing about the woman except what she’d read in the Society pages of the Chronicle before and after the shotgun wedding. Supposedly, the second Mrs. Mac had worn a tiara or two in her day, though Jo Lynn didn’t remember any of the older crowd. It’d been difficult enough to keep tabs on the girls in her tier.
Maybe it was time to get properly introduced.
She got up from the sofa and strode into the front hallway, stopping just shy of where mousy Mac’s new mummy stood tapping a toe on the floor impatiently.
“I’ll take care of Mrs. Mackenzie, Nan,” Jo said, and shooed away the housekeeper, who murmured something about fetching iced tea for the committee members already congregated.
Jo Lynn crossed her arms while Honey glanced above her at the two-story-high ceiling with its hand-painted mural depicting Michelangelo’s masterpiece in the Sistine Chapel. A Venetian-glass chandelier dripped from its center.
“Nice place you have here. Very refined,” Mrs. Mackenzie said, walking over to the Louis XIV bombé chest and running a finger over the art deco bronze atop it. “I’m redecorating a house myself, and it’s not as easy as it seems.”
“My mother has an interior designer from Paris.”
“Is that so?” The woman finally stopped gawking and turned around, hands on hips, cocking her head and giving Jo Lynn the once-over. “So you’re the infamous Jo Lynn Bidwell, I take it.”
“And you’re the first Mrs. Mac’s replacement,” Jo replied, sizing up the trophy wife, from her retro blond flip to her vivid makeup and perfect posture. She noted the snug white cropped jeans that were clearly Juicy Couture and the black off-the-shoulder top that was most certainly Michael Kors. The red patent-leather pumps with the cutout toes had to be Miu Miu. “Wait a second,” she said, thinking the woman looked awfully familiar somehow. “Were you the Miss Houston runner-up, like, five years ago?”
Mrs. Mackenzie turned, clearly looking amused. “I was Honey Potts back then, and I should’ve won, but my damned accordion blew a pleat.” She put her hands on her hips, her chin jerking up. “Though I guess I could’ve stolen the title if I’d been a little more cunning. Like you, sweet pea.”
Is the woman on drugs?
Jo Lynn sniffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Honey smiled, a perfect pageant grin, showing just the upper teeth, which were as straight and white as Chiclets.
“Oh, darlin’, I think you know precisely what I’m talkin’ about. I was still hangin’ around the circuit when you were working the junior scene. I did makeup and clothes styling, and I even judged a little.” She tapped a pink-painted fingernail against her dimpled chin. “You were such a single-minded thing, I’m sure you looked right through me then. But I’ll never forget all the stories I heard about you and how something terrible always happened to the front-runner in all the pageants you won.”
Jo Lynn’s mouth went dry, and her heart started racing. She wet her lips and managed to say, “Just what are you implying?”
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br /> “Oh, sister, I know you’re not even close to stupid, so don’t play dumb with me.” Honey took a few steps closer, so that they were nearly nose to nose. “If you really want to stir up the pot, like you’re doing with that poor Laura Bell—”
“I didn’t do anything—” Jo Lynn started to deny the accusation, but Honey talked right over her.
“—then I can toss a whole lot more spice into the mix. Don’t you think folks would love to put all the pieces together? I know more than a few girls out there who’d be interested to hear all about how you fixed near about every contest where you came out on top.”
“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jo Lynn snapped; she felt her armpits dampen, her palms get slick. “So why don’t you just bounce, and I’ll tell my mother you couldn’t stay for the meeting.”
“Bounce?” Thinly plucked brows shot up. “I don’t think so, sugar. I came to share my own little bombshell with the committee. I mean, if you’re aiming to get Laura Bell’s name knocked off the deb list with a doctored-up picture—”
“It’s not doctored!” Jo blurted out before she could stop herself.
Honey’s plucked eyebrows arched. “I thought you didn’t know what I was talkin’ about?”
Jo Lynn grabbed the woman’s arm. “Get out,” she growled.
But Honey shook her off. “You remember Miss Teen Grand Prairie?” she started reeling off. “Seems she got a bad case of the runs after someone put stool softener in the brownies she found in her welcome basket. Poor girl couldn’t leave the ladies’ room long enough to sing ‘Ave Maria’ in the talent competition for Miss Teen Texas.” The woman cocked her head. “With her out of the picture, your flaming baton routine put you in the lead. Funny how that worked out.”
“Do I have to call the cops to get you to leave?” Jo Lynn said, looking around frantically. She had to get this woman out of there. Where had she put her cell?
“Oh, but I’m not finished with you yet.” Honey shook her fluffy blond head. “And what about Miss Junior South Padre Island? Remember her? She had a terrible fear of spiders, and somehow a big ol’ hairy tarantula from a local pet shop ended up in the poor thing’s bed at the Marriott. She fainted dead away, chipped a tooth on the nightstand, and had to drop out of the contest altogether.” The woman squinted at her. “Without Debra Jane in the swimsuit competition, you had it won hands down and took the crown. Is any of this ringin’ any bells?”
Jo Lynn felt frozen to the marble floor. “This has to be a joke, right?”
“Sorry, sweet pea, but it’s no joke.” Honey paused and opened her black Prada hobo bag and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. “Once I put out the word this afternoon to my old friends on the circuit, a whole slew of ’em sent me e-mails, swapping memories of you. Seems everyone has a story to tell, which made me got to thinkin’ what might happen if they started comparing notes”—she blinked double time—“my oh my, but you’d be in deep doo-doo. You might have to return all your trophies and tiaras. I hope you haven’t gotten too attached to ’em all.”
Jo Lynn could hardly breathe. “You’re bluffing,” she got out, voice raspy. Even to her own ears, she sounded scared.
“Tit for tat, sweet pea,” Honey said, more steel magnolia in her voice than sugar, and Jo could see in her face that she meant it.
Hell’s bells! How did this bitch get on the selection committee? Or in the GSC, for that matter?
“You all right? You’re lookin’ a bit green around the gills.”
Jo Lynn wanted to scream.
“Look, it’s easy,” Honey Mackenzie said softly. “Either you have a word with your momma, baby girl, or I will. Just tell her it was all a bad prank, and you’re sorry. Then I’ll shut my mouth and you won’t hear from me again. But if you’d rather have your name smeared all over the history books of every pageant you’ve ever been in, well, that’s your choice. And you’ve got five seconds to make it.”
The woman paused and moved her mouth as she silently counted, One, two, three, four, five.
“Time’s up, sweet pea, and I didn’t hear you volunteer to confess to your mama. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a meetin’ to attend. I believe the housekeeper said the dining room was that-a-way.” Honey brushed past Jo Lynn, who held her breath for a long moment before calling, “Wait.”
Did this really just happen?
Jo Lynn had never ever been outmaneuvered like this. Nothing Bootsie had taught her had prepared her for getting outfoxed. She swallowed hard, tasting crow and wishing she could spit it out right on the second Mrs. Mackenzie’s feet.
“I’ll talk to Mother,” she said glumly, giving in despite the way every fiber in her body resisted. She had no way to fight against Honey’s threats. “I just need a minute, okay?”
What the hell was she going to say?
She’d have to lie through her teeth and blame someone else, because she couldn’t very well tell Bootsie her plan to bring Laura down had been shot to hell by a has-been runner-up to Miss Houston. Bootsie had absolutely no tolerance for failure.
Shit.
Jo Lynn fumed as she reluctantly hunted down her mother. Someone was going to pay for this someday. And she knew just who that someone was.
* * *
Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse.
—Lily Tomlin
If being a deb isn’t life or death, why does it feel that way to me?
—Laura Bell
* * *
Seventeen
Laura sat on the edge of a chair in the den, waiting for the doorbell to ring, completely on edge. She hadn’t been able to swallow a bite at dinner, and she’d managed to chew her nails down to the quick already. If she didn’t hear the bell chime soon, her cuticles were next.
It wasn’t even seven o’clock, but she’d already gotten word that the Rosebud invitations had gone out hours ago.
What if the Bimbo Cartel had succeeded and her worst fear came true? What would she do if no one came to the door at all?
Laura turned on the TV, then switched it off again. Even the noise couldn’t drown out her gloomy mood.
Ginger had called half an hour ago to say her invitation had been delivered. “By a dude in white gloves, top hat, and tails,” she’d gushed. “In some funky old car my mother said is a Bugatti. I’m sure yours will come soon.”
Her cell suddenly vibrated against her thigh, and Laura snatched it open.
“Mine just showed up,” Mac said, sounding awfully calm and cool, when Laura would have been busting a gut. “Any sign of yours?”
“No,” Laura winced, “and I’m beginning to have my doubts.”
“No worries, remember?” Mac tried to reassure her. “I told you what Honey said, that she scared the pants off Jo Lynn with some dirt from her pageant friends. By the time the committee meeting broke up last night, everyone was convinced the photographs were a prank. Honey swore that no one altered the list, and your name was there the last she’d seen.”
“I hope you’re right,” Laura whispered, hardly knowing what to believe. All she could do was wait it out. In another hour or so, she’d know if she’d lost and Jo Lynn Bidwell had won. If that was the case, it was too unbearable to consider. She’d have to pack up and move to Burundi for sure.
“Call me when you get yours, okay?”
“Yeah,” Laura said dully. Then she hung up and tossed the cell onto a nearby club chair. Tears threatened her eyes, but she made herself breathe slowly in and out. I am who I am, she kept telling herself, and I will not fall apart.
Tincy popped her head in. “You doing all right, sweetheart? Want some company?”
“Sure.” Laura blinked the tears away, putting on a happy face so her mother wouldn’t decide to give her a pep talk. Tincy had been so panicked when she’d heard about the obscene photo from Bootsie Bidwell that she’d jetted home from the cabin in Telluride and had been practically glued to Laura’s side ever since.
Her mother settled down beside her. She was so tiny it was like a bird perching on a twig. The sofa cushion barely registered Tincy’s weight as she crossed her thin legs and took Laura’s large hand in her petite one. “Everything will be fine,” her mom assured her, and Laura sighed.
“Can we talk about something else, please?”
“All right.” Tincy tossed back her chocolate-brown hair streaked with copper, gazing at the den’s fifteen-foot ceilings until she came up with a topic not off-limits. “Did I tell you how fit you’re lookin’, sweetheart? All that fresh air must’ve done you good.”
“Yeah, terrific,” Laura said, hoping her mother wouldn’t get into her weight and how she was still the same size she’d been before she’d left.
Instead, Tincy went in another direction. “How’s school goin’ so far? You like your classes?”
Laura refrained from rolling her eyes. “It’s only been two days, Mother. Ask me again in about a month.”
If Tincy was annoyed by being put off, she didn’t show it. “Well, okay then, how about boys?”
“What about them?”
“Laura,” Tincy drawled, and made a frustrated face, her powdered nose wrinkling. “You’re not seeing that Dorman boy again, are you?”
Like Laura wanted to discuss Avery any more than she wanted to talk about her missing Rosebud invitation? Not!
“No,” she said.
“Laura?” Her mother gave her that look, clearly disbelieving.
She half-turned on the sofa, staring Tincy straight in the eye and telling her pointedly, “No, ma’am, I am not seeing Avery Dorman at the moment.”
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