“I hope I didn’t scare you, Dymphna,” the man rumbled.
She was immediately on guard. How did this stranger know her name?
“Do I know you?” she asked, backing up toward her shears. She could see Thud at the window, inside the house. He was jumping up and down, trying to get out. She really wished he had opposable thumbs right about now.
“No,” the man said, pulling off his sunglasses. “But I know you. Well, I know Thud.”
He continued to smile. His eyes were emerald green. He made no attempt to come in through the gate.
“How do you know my dog?” she asked, stalling for time. If she couldn’t get to the shears, She’d consider throwing a chicken at him if things got weird.
“I’m sorry! I really should introduce myself. My name is Constantino Valentine.”
OK, nobody is really named Constantino Valentine, thought Dymphna.
“I’m a veterinarian,” he continued. “Thud was my patient . . . after his snake bite.”
Dymphna’s breath caught. She still couldn’t think about that terrible day months ago without a chill running up her spine. Thud had saved the life of Dodge Durham, a man from a neighboring ranch. Dodge was no friend of anyone in Fat Chance, but he had found the dog after Thud saved him from a rattler. Dodge nursed the dog back to health with the help of a vet so this man’s story held together, but still . . .
“That was a while ago,” Dymphna said, not ready to let her guard down.
“I know,” said Constantino. “I would have come sooner, but I’ve been out of the country. But once you’ve met him, Thud sort of stays with you, you know what I mean?”
Dymphna did know. She looked over at the house, where Thud continued to bay at the window. He seemed frantic to get out, but now Dymphna could see that he just wanted to see their guest. Constantino followed her gaze and caught sight of the dog. His entire face lit up.
“There’s the big guy,” he said, heading over to the house.
Constantino walked over to the window and tapped on the glass. Thud put his paws up and licked the inside of the window. It was obvious Thud knew him and was happy to see the man. Dymphna relaxed.
“May I let him out?” Constantino asked.
“Sure,” Dymphna said. “I think he’s going to break the window if you don’t.”
Constantino opened the front door and Thud came hurtling out, jowls and ears flapping. He jumped on the man on the porch, but Constantino was ready for him. With his paws on Constantino’s shoulders, the dog was almost as tall as the vet.
Dymphna walked over to the house. Constantino tried to push the dog to the ground, but Thud sprang back up. The vet just laughed and continued to wrestle with him.
“Thud!” Dymphna commanded. “Get down.”
Thud ignored her.
“I’m so sorry,” Dymphna said. “He has terrible manners.”
Dymphna suddenly remembered her own manners.
“Would you like some iced tea?” She picked up a large screw-topped jar of sun tea on the porch railing. “I just brewed some this morning.”
“Sure!” said Constantino, finally getting Thud to stay on the ground. “That sounds perfect.”
Dymphna ran into the house and returned with two glasses of ice. She opened the jar and poured the fragrant tea.
“It’s mint tea, Doctor Valentine,” Dymphna offered.
“Love it.” He took a glass from her. “But call me Tino. Everyone does.”
“That’s pretty informal for a doctor,” Dymphna said, thinking fleetingly of her maybe boyfriend, Professor Johnson.
“Well, when you’re up to your elbow in somebody’s mare, you tend to get to the informal stage pretty fast.”
Dymphna felt the color rising in her cheeks, which surprised her. She had been around animals her entire life and she certainly knew her way around a farm. But there was something about Dr. Valentine’s wicked grin that made his barnyard banter feel almost like . . . flirting.
Every morning, he woke up in confusion. With his eyes still closed, Professor Johnson uncurled his wiry frame and patted the nightstand for his glasses. He sat up as he put them on. The enormous room, filled with the finest décor, was not in his apartment in Los Feliz nor in Fat Chance. Sunlight filtered through the room, as if demanding he rise and shine, damn it. But Professor Johnson, with his PhD in natural sciences, knew the sun was not pointing rays at him personally. He had to face the facts: He’d awakened, as he had for the last six months, in one of the four guest rooms at his aunt Cleo’s mansion in Beverly Hills.
Spring was in the air—even in Los Angeles, where spring was always in the air. He’d wanted to visit Fat Chance over the university’s spring break, but he had to work on another grant proposal, his only real hope at getting back to Texas full time, and wireless access being what it was in Fat Chance, he had opted to stay in California. He had told himself that summer was just around the corner, and, even if he didn’t get one of the myriad grants he’d applied for, he would at least be able to spend the summer there. Now there were whisperings that he was going to be given a new summer course to teach. He could “just say no,” but he knew academic politics. In the long run, turning it down would hurt him.
Now there was no Dymphna, no Thud, no progress on his proposal to the university. He took his glasses off, put the pillow over his eyes, and refused to meet the morning until the last possible instant.
When Professor Johnson finally came down for breakfast, Cleo was already in the solarium. She was absently running French manicured nails through her highlighted hair. No amount of upkeep was too large or too trivial to be overlooked by Cleo Johnson-Primb. Cleo’s Lafont reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose. She took them off as soon as she heard her nephew enter the room.
“You don’t need to take your glasses off,” he said, heading to the sideboard for coffee. “It is only I.”
“Force of habit, darling,” she said.
Professor Johnson added sugar to his coffee. His aunt took hers black, but as soon as he’d moved in, she’d added the sugar bowl to the sideboard.
“Did you know there’s a new trend in housing? Living in less than six hundred square feet? It’s a whole lifestyle apparently,” Cleo said, putting her glasses back on and returning to the Wall Street Journal. “Even the Republicans have heard about it.”
“A whole six hundred feet? That doesn’t seem unreasonable,” he said, sitting opposite his aunt. “Dymphna’s cabin is probably only five hundred square feet—if that.”
He and his aunt had a psychological game of chess going. She didn’t like discussing anyone or anything that had to do with Fat Chance, Texas. He was at her house only because he was trying to save enough money to get back there as soon as possible. Once Cutthroat’s estate had made good on the Fat Chance challenge and distributed generous amounts of money to his charities, Cleo was Cutthroat’s primary beneficiary. Professor Johnson’s aunt now had discretionary income coming out her chemically peeled pores—but he didn’t want any of it. At thirty-two years of age, Professor Johnson had been making his own way for many years now and he saw no reason to change.
“Any word from the university?” his aunt asked.
“Nothing concrete.” He shook his head.
He wasn’t sure if his aunt wanted the university to come through with the funding or not. They never discussed it. What was clear was that his aunt didn’t want him to return to Fat Chance anytime soon. He knew it didn’t really have anything to do with him. She just looked a little less awful if she wasn’t the only one who had turned her back on Fat Chance as soon as she could.
Professor Johnson was uneasy about having left Fat Chance at all. Of course, he had his responsibility to the university. But was that enough reason to give up a shot at real happiness with the only woman with whom he’d ever really connected? Was that enough reason to leave his dog? He knew leaving Thud to watch over Dymphna was the right thing to do. It was even selfish in a way. He reste
d easier knowing that Thud was there to protect her. He couldn’t stand the thought of her all alone on that ramshackle little farm.
Dymphna and Tino collapsed against the hay bales, exhausted and out of breath.
“Wow!” Dymphna panted. “Thank you.”
“Are you kidding? I should be thanking you,” he said, straightening his shirt.
“You’re just saying that.” Dymphna could feel her cheeks heating up.
“No, it’s true. It’s been a while. But I guess it’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget.”
“That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d learn at school,” Dymphna said.
“Nah.” He shook his head, then rested it against the hay bale. “I was raised on a small spread in Montana. These things pretty much come naturally to a farmer, I guess.”
Dymphna leaned back into the hay as well. “Well, you showed me a thing or two.”
Tino reached over and carefully pulled a piece of straw from her hair. As if snapping out of a daze, Dymphna sat up and stared at the goats they had just finished shearing. She suddenly found it easier to look at them than at him.
The four shorn goats raced around the pen, their mohair piled high near the house. Thud sniffed at the mohair suspiciously. Now that Dymphna and Tino weren’t in the act of actually shearing the goats, she found herself unexpectedly self-conscious.
“Well,” she said, trying to wrangle her hair into submission. “It was extremely nice of you to help.”
We were only shearing goats! she thought. So then why do I feel so guilty?
CHAPTER 4
Fernando left the Creakside Inn armed with a mix of facts and innuendo about Fat Chance. Old Bertha certainly had her opinions about everybody and everything. He’d learned never to dismiss the observations of old women, and Old Bertha did seem to have her finger on the pulse of this dead town.
He headed back the way he’d come, listening to the sound of his boots echoing on the boardwalk. He had to admit—it was a romantic, very Western sound.
He stood still for a moment, flashing back to the movie he’d seen on the plane. The Longest Something or Other. The Longest . . . what? Yard? Nope. The Longest . . . Ride! It starred Clint Eastwood’s kid, Scott. Fernando never put in his earbuds, so he wasn’t exactly sure if the kid could act or not, but he was sure good-looking. He had to admit, the thought of riding rough with Scott Eastwood as his wingman had its appeal. Sleeping on the ground, a saddle for his pillow.
Fernando shook his head. Nope, not in his wildest dreams could he picture himself doing that. He couldn’t even imagine doing it on purpose. His idea of roughing it was a night in a hotel that served powdered eggs for breakfast.
He turned his attention back to the boardwalk, just in time to skirt another bunch of tumbling tumbleweeds. He wondered briefly why anyone bothered to write songs about the damned things. He looked around again, trying to get a better sense of just where everything was in this less than dynamic hub.
Back on the boardwalk, Fernando stood in front of the first store. The beautifully carved sign above it read: The Boozehound Saloon.
Might as well start here. Maybe I can get a stiff drink.
Fernando wondered if he should knock. Deciding it was a place of business, and therefore knocking was probably not the right protocol, he turned the knob and the door squeaked open. The place was deserted.
This must have belonged to the billionaire’s nephew—Professor Somebody or Other—the one who left town at his first opportunity.
Fernando smiled as he realized he was judging the man for leaving after six months, when he himself was planning on leaving at the first opportunity.
He took a deep breath. He could smell the years of whiskey soaked into the floorboards. Even under a thick layer of dust, it was impossible to disguise the workmanship of the bar, with its marble top and heavily carved base. He went behind the bar but there was no booze.
Of course there was no booze. No man smart enough to leave this place is dumb enough to leave his booze behind.
But there was a player piano! Intrigued, he walked over and studied it. He saw a sliding panel above the keyboard and moved it gently to the left. Inside was a scroll of music. He leaned in and could just make out the faded printing that read “A Bird in a Gilded Cage.” Fernando was tempted to try to make the thing play, but he had no idea how to operate it. Reluctantly, he slid the panel back in place. He’d have to leave town without ever knowing if the poor bird got out.
In the center of the saloon were a few beautifully crafted display cases. It was as if the place was a museum, not a saloon.
Well, I guess when you’re a saloon owned by a professor, things happen.
Fernando saw that Cleo’s Café was attached to the saloon, something he hadn’t really noticed when he was having his powwow with Dymphna and Pappy. He walked through the archway into the café.
These tables should be turned the other way . . .
He mentally shook the image out of his head. You do not redecorate when you are leaving. He resolutely walked out the door of the café.
As he made his way back uptown, he saw city hall, the jail, and the bank, all clearly marked with signs. He knew these buildings all belonged to Pappy, so he pressed on. The next shop was Polly’s Tops, Hats and Tails. He looked at the display window. There were decorated cowboy hats, steampunk hats, Victorian hats, Mad Hatter tea party hats. Ribbons, bows, feathers, and sequins in every conceivable and inconceivable combination. The display took his breath away. He could see the shadow of a figure inside, but he hesitated at the door. Old Bertha had said Polly could be a little prickly. That observation, coming from somebody as snappish as Old Bertha herself, made him a little leery. But, he reasoned, he had nothing to lose—and he really wanted to meet the woman behind the creations in the window, so he went in.
“Hey,” said the woman who must be Polly. “You must be the guy everyone is talking about.”
“News travels fast,” Fernando said.
“Let’s face it,” Polly said. “It doesn’t have all that far to go.”
Polly was tall, with dyed red hair pulled up in two pigtails. The pigtail holders were a complicated affair of ribbons and bits of hardware. She had a row of silver stud earrings in graduated sizes marching down her earlobes and sported a tiny diamond nose stud as well. The hair needed work, he thought, and the nose stud looked uncomfortable to him, but he admitted that was a personal prejudice.
“I’m not staying,” he said.
“That’s not exactly a surprise,” she replied. “None of the young guys stay. It’s slim pickins’ around here as far as that goes.”
“I’m thirty-five,” Fernando said. “I’m not that young.”
“I think Titan’s about that age. Young enough to go, old enough to stay.”
“I’m not staying,” Fernando repeated.
“I know. You said that. Here, come hold this.”
Polly was standing at a large butcher-block table in the center of the store, working on a felt top hat. The hatband was made of leather and was styled to look like a miniature corset. Polly was lacing up the corset with black lace and needed Fernando to hold the knot while she made a bow. Once the bow was puffed to her satisfaction, she started digging around in a box of what looked like gears from old watches.
“You do amazing work,” Fernando said.
“That’s the thing about Fat Chance,” Polly said distractedly. “There’s nothing else to do. We’re all doing stuff we never dreamed of.”
“Maybe that’s what your benefactor had in mind.”
“That’s probably wishful thinking.” She attached two small watch hands to the hat. “I’m pretty sure Cutthroat wasn’t into the arts. I think he was hoping we’d figure out how to be . . . you know . . . financially successful. It still might happen, but all of us who stayed are spending more than we’re making.”
“Try this,” Fernando said, picking up a coil. He handed it to Polly, who beamed and add
ed it to the hat.
“Of course, the rent’s cheap.” Polly smiled.
“Old Bertha told me about you guys. The ones who stayed. And I know about Chloe . . .”
“Cleo,” Polly corrected. “Yeah, and Professor Johnson, her nephew. Yeah, they left—Cleo couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Professor Johnson had a commitment to a university. He didn’t want to go. You can’t blame him for leaving.”
I wouldn’t blame anybody for leaving, thought Fernando.
He had put his own brown cowboy hat on the table. Polly picked it up and studied it.
“This seems sort of plain for you,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure what sort of impression I needed to make.”
“Since you’re leaving, I guess you don’t have to make any impression. Want a red feather?”
Fernando accepted his hat, now sporting an embroidered headband and a jaunty red feather.
He studied himself in the mirror.
“I love it,” he said, admiring himself from all angles.
“Let me get a picture.” Polly grabbed her iPhone. She surprised Fernando by coming around to get in the picture with him.
“Since we barely use our phones for anything that requires cell phone reception,” Polly explained, “I’ve become a cell phone photographer.”
Polly held up the phone in classic selfie mode—opening her mouth in the required young female “I’m having the best time”—and snapped a picture of them both.
“Eat your heart out, Instagram,” Fernando said.
“Really.” Polly nodded. “Actually, when we go to Dripping Springs, I jump online at the Internet café, but whatever pictures I’ve taken are old news by then.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fernando said. “I never become old news.”
He left Polly to her wizardry and selfies. Next door to Polly’s shop was the town grocery store. He peeked in. Old Bertha was sitting behind the counter, reading a paper. He opened the door and leaned in.
Slim Pickings in Fat Chance, Texas Page 3