Slim Pickings in Fat Chance, Texas

by Bonaduce, Celia

  He leaned back against a tree and looked up at the sky.

  “What do you think of that, Mama?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Cleo put on another coat of mascara and sighed. As the daughter of one of the richest men on earth, she’d traveled the entire world—Paris, London, Hong Kong, Moscow, Monte Carlo—but always managed to return to the world of the Ladies Who Lunch, unscathed. It had been a year since she’d been the café owner and cook in Fat Chance, Texas, but she felt the town had left its mark. Weekly trips to the dermatologist and med-spa had certainly returned her baby-smooth complexion, but there was a gleam in her eye now—a knowledge of the world beyond that of the rich and famous—that she just couldn’t shake.

  Last month, Cleo hosted the Beverly Hills Garden Society in her home, as she always did. The group had started work on the garden tour they called the Beverly Hills Annual Spring Fling. After everyone had been served coffee, which they drank, and petit fours, which they ignored, Cleo casually mentioned that—just perhaps—they might consider touring some of the gardens south of Wilshire.

  “You want to tour the Flats?” Her friend Annette gasped, trying not to sneer at the part of town where there were homes that sold for under five million dollars and—if one could believe it—apartments.

  “Yes,” Cleo said. “Just the other day, I noticed some beautiful lawns on La Peer Drive with amazing roses. It occurred to me it might give the Fling some new life.”

  “I don’t understand,” Janet said. “What’s wrong with the life we already have?”

  “Everything,” Cleo said before she could stop herself.

  “What I don’t understand,” Marsha said, “is what were you doing on La Peer?”

  Cleo’s attorney, Wesley Tensaw, was in the library waiting for her. After her stint in Fat Chance making meals that had to be served on time, her customary habit while in Beverly Hills of making everyone wait twenty minutes now seemed silly. But she knew what was expected of her as the primary recipient of Cutthroat Clarence’s fortune. So she sat in her dressing room while her two-thousand-dollar-an-hour attorney cooled his heels downstairs. She knew they didn’t have anything important to discuss. Just the monthly visit to check in—and put in the time to make his Tesla payment.

  She studied her face in the vanity mirror. She knew she looked older since giving up Botox. Without the miracle drug keeping her face smooth, at age fifty-three, tiny lines were reappearing at the corners of her eyes. She reminded herself to be careful not to betray any emotions now that they’d show on her face again. She thought about being in Fat Chance, where there was always something real to think about, real problems to be solved. Living in Beverly Hills was like living in Lotus Land. Problems were solved for her. Like so much about her life in Southern California, Botox now seemed ridiculous.

  She looked at her watch. She’d only been keeping Wesley waiting ten minutes, but she couldn’t stand it any longer. She stood up, gave herself one last look in the mirror, and headed down to the library.

  Wesley had helped himself to the scotch, as he always did. He saluted her with her own Waterford tumbler as she entered the room.

  “Your timing is off,” Wesley said, looking at his watch. “I wasn’t expecting you for eight more minutes.”

  “Very funny,” Cleo said, although she reddened. She had no idea her ruse was so transparent. “You’ve been well, I hope?”

  “Can’t complain,” Wesley said. “Golf game is improving. They have a great new pro over at the club. Have you heard?”

  “No.” Cleo sat in an armchair by the fireplace. “I haven’t been over to the club in a while.” The club seemed as boring as everything else.

  As Wesley prattled on about his golf game, Cleo looked around the room. It was here where she, her nephew, five strangers (Dymphna, Old Bertha, Polly, Titan, and Wally), and her estranged ex-husband had first learned of her father’s crazy scheme to send them all to Fat Chance to give each of them a shot at capturing the American Dream. Cleo had known it would never work. She’d counted the days until she could leave Texas. She knew she didn’t belong there. And yet she’d felt at home as long as she’d been in Fat Chance—and now she didn’t feel as if she belonged anywhere.

  Her nephew was a different story. He was sure he belonged in Fat Chance. Professor Elwood Johnson was in love with Dymphna, that girl who was raising Angora goats. Dymphna was a nice enough young woman, but Elwood didn’t have much experience with women and he shouldn’t settle for a . . . farmer. Once Cleo was gone, all the money and responsibility of the Johnson fortune would be his. Cleo fancied he’d do better meeting a fellow professor or other learned professional—maybe a lawyer. She shot a glance at Wesley, who was demonstrating a new golf swing he’d learned. Even though he was in his fifties, Wesley knew lots of smart young women. Perhaps he’d help her find a suitable match for Elwood.

  The thought of having a worthwhile task ahead of her made Cleo perk up. She tuned back into the conversation.

  “How is that new associate of yours, Wesley?”

  “Kimberly Goodman?” he asked, stopping mid-swing. “She’s doing a great job. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just curious. I’ve been thinking of starting a mentoring program. And I thought I’d start with her.”

  “Mentoring for what? She graduated third in her class from UCLA and is now an associate at one of the most well-respected law firms in the city. She seems to be doing all right for herself.”

  “There’s more to being successful in this town than good grades and a prestigious job, Wesley,” Cleo said—although she couldn’t really think what those things might be. “But if you don’t think she needs my help . . .”

  “I’m sure she’d be delighted,” Wesley said, backtracking.

  “Good,” Cleo said, feeling a bit more like her old self. “Let’s meet here tomorrow—about seven o’clock?”

  “Tomorrow?” Wesley frowned. “That isn’t much notice.”

  Cleo lifted a non-Botoxed eyebrow to full effect.

  “I’ll have to check her schedule, of course,” Wesley said. “But I’m sure Kimberly will be grateful you’re taking such an interest in her.”

  “One does what one can.”

  “Is that you, Elwood?” Cleo called.

  One of the problems with living in a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion was that it was hard to pin another person down without, well, stalking them.

  “Yes, Auntie,” he said, his voice echoing in the marble-tiled foyer.

  “I’m in the dining room,” Cleo called back.

  She’d been sitting for an hour, hoping to have a chat. She knew the servants must find her pathetic, but she had other concerns. Top on her worry-list was: Did a grant come through today? Would he be leaving for Fat Chance tomorrow?

  The defeated look on Professor Elwood Johnson’s face told her that the grant still eluded him.

  Cleo walked a fine line with Elwood. She had cultivated an attitude that she was not interested in parting with her money—and to some degree that was true. The last thing this family needed was for the last of the Johnson heirs to go off half-cocked to Texas. This was not Downton Abbey—there wasn’t a male successor conveniently lurking in the next mansion. And it certainly worked to her benefit that Elwood refused to ask for monetary assistance. He was determined to get to Fat Chance on his own merits. Luckily for her, the university moved at such a glacial pace that she had time to distract him.

  “I saved you some dinner,” Cleo said, ringing a dinner bell as Elwood sat heavily at the table. “I can tell by the look of you—you haven’t eaten.”

  As Elwood sat down, a sturdy middle-aged man arrived carrying a tray.

  “Thank you, Jeffries,” Elwood said wearily as he placed a napkin in his lap. He looked over the perfectly balanced meal before him. “I know the kitchen staff retired over an hour ago. I appreciate this.”

  “I’m sorry things are taking so long with the grant,” Cleo said.

  “It
is what it is.” Elwood shrugged.

  Cleo blinked in surprise. It wasn’t like Elwood to use banalities. She attributed this new habit to his association with the inhabitants of Fat Chance. She knew he missed the girl and the dog, but if he was stooping to clichés, it was time for some subversive tough love.

  “I’m having a little dinner party tomorrow,” Cleo said cautiously. “Wesley and his protégée are coming over. I would like you to be there, to round out the party, if you don’t have any other plans.”

  “Whatever,” Elwood murmured.

  If he knew about her matchmaking plans, he would resist. As long as he didn’t ask any questions, Cleo didn’t have to make excuses. This was all for his benefit. Never apologize, never explain.

  “Whatever” indeed!

  CHAPTER 8

  Dymphna and Thud were up bright and early, she feeding, he terrorizing, the chickens. The goats, having been shorn the day before, appeared to accept their baldness. As she raked the barnyard, Dymphna caught a slight whiff of something . . . delicious . . . coming from town. Any aroma that could permeate the barnyard was noteworthy. But whatever she was sniffing was downright heavenly. Thud smelled it too. He stood with his front paw on the fence, looking down the hill to Main Street.

  “What is it, boy?” she asked, patting Thud’s head and tousling his wrinkles.

  She stood with her hands on her hips as she watched Polly and Old Bertha walking toward the café from the Creakside Inn. Powderkeg, Titan, and Pappy converged on the café from the other side of town. She sniffed again. The delectable smells were certainly emanating from the café, which must mean that Fernando had decided to stay! Clearly everyone in town knew. Living up on the hill, Dymphna was often out of the loop. Would it have been too much for someone to come over yesterday afternoon to let her know something this momentous had transpired? She felt her cheeks flush as she thought back to yesterday’s feverish shearing of the goats with the handsome vet.

  Perhaps it’s best that nobody from town came by.

  “Who wants breakfast?” she asked Thud, as she opened the gate. The chickens let up a collective squawk and she looked back at them. “You’ve had your breakfast already.”

  Dymphna’s stomach was rumbling by the time she reached the café. Thud had raced ahead of her and was sitting with his massive head on Titan’s thigh. Dymphna stood in the doorway, looking at everyone. Just like old times, they had pushed all of the tables together to make one communal eating area. The tabletop had three jars of wildflowers grouped together in the center. Two baskets flanked the centerpiece, heaped with something lumpy. Biscuits? Scones? The possibilities were enticing. A huge, dented coffeepot and three small bowls of jam were also on the table.

  Since her own homemade jams were the only ones around, Dymphna knew they had to be hers. She felt a little flutter of anticipation, wondering if they met with the great Fernando’s approval. As Dymphna took a seat, the scene around her made her misty eyed. It made her miss Professor Johnson. She looked to see if Thud was feeling the same way. Thud looked over at her, heaving a sigh from Titan’s lap. He looked very sad. But he was a bloodhound. Bloodhounds always looked sad.

  Dymphna sat next to Old Bertha, who was inspecting the contents of the basket. She held it up to Dymphna’s nose. “Smell.”

  Dymphna inhaled deeply.

  Heaven! There were scones and tiny muffins.

  “Stop worshipping them and pass them down,” Polly called from the other end of the table.

  “You have your own basket down there,” Old Bertha said, stacking two scones and a mini-muffin on her plate.

  “That’s what you think,” Polly said, frowning as she held up an empty basket.

  Dymphna took a quick look at Pappy and Powderkeg’s plates, which were heaped with muffins. Titan had just one scone and he was sharing it with Thud. Dymphna took a muffin and walked the basket over to Polly, as it didn’t seem safe sending it through the enemy lines of the hungry men. She returned to her seat and savored the sight of the golden-topped muffin on her plate. She hadn’t realized how much she missed Cleo’s food. She considered herself a true artist when it came to making her knitted angora creations, and even with her canning and jam making. But when it came to cooking a tasty meal, well, Dymphna’s strengths lay elsewhere. She took a small scoop of her strawberry jam and slathered it on the muffin. As she bit into it, Old Bertha held up the coffeepot and waggled it at Dymphna, who nodded. As the smell of fresh coffee filled her nostrils and the tang of the strawberries and sweet muffin hit her tongue, Dymphna closed her eyes, savoring every moment. Old Bertha broke her reverie.

  “I don’t know why he decided to stay, but if that man comes to his senses and tries to leave, I’m going to hog-tie him,” Old Bertha said, popping half a scone in her mouth.

  Fernando came out of the kitchen carrying an enormous pile of fluffy pancakes in one hand and a new basket of breadstuffs in the other. He plunked the breadbasket down in front of Titan and Polly. Pappy put his hands in the air, ready to grab the tray of pancakes. Fernando held it away from him.

  “Were you raised by wolves?” Fernando snapped at Pappy. He bowed to Old Bertha and Dymphna. “Ladies first.”

  “Hey! What about me?” Polly asked. “I’m a lady. You could have started with me.”

  Fernando held the tray as Old Bertha took two pancakes and put them on her plate.

  “Age before beauty,” Pappy said, winking at Old Bertha across the table.

  Old Bertha looked up, fork poised over the pancakes. Fernando glared at Pappy, who looked confused.

  “Don’t help,” Fernando said.

  “That’s not a compliment,” Titan whispered to Pappy.

  Pappy frowned as he grabbed another muffin from the basket Polly was trying to hoard.

  “These are delicious,” Dymphna said, saluting him with her second helping from the breadbasket.

  “Honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Fernando said, passing the pancakes around. “I need to get into that town . . . Spoonsville.”

  “Spoonerville,” came a chorus from the table.

  “OK, Spoonerville,” Fernando said. “Anyway, I’ve made an extensive shopping list. There wasn’t much to work with here.”

  “Your shopping list can be as extensive as you want,” Powderkeg said. “The store in Spoonerville isn’t exactly Harrods.”

  “Well, one can dream,” Fernando said, winking at Powderkeg.

  “You can always order supplies,” Pappy said. “We’d have to pick them up from Dodge’s store and bring them around by the creek. Or if we take the Covered Volkswagen, we can carry them down the trail, since we obviously don’t have a working road.”

  “Yeah,” Fernando said, grabbing a cup of coffee and sitting next to Dymphna. “Let’s talk about that.”

  There was silence in the room as everyone stared at Fernando.

  “Talk about what?” Polly asked.

  “The lack of a working road,” Fernando said.

  “What about it?” Pappy asked.

  Dymphna could see tension building in Fernando’s features. She wished there was some way to just speed up the settling-in process. Pappy had been in Fat Chance so long, he’d forgotten how extreme the place appeared to a newcomer.

  “Why isn’t there one?” Fernando asked.

  The inhabitants of Fat Chance looked at each other, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads.

  “There just isn’t,” Dymphna said.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever thought it might be nice to have a road into town?” Fernando spoke slowly, as if to children.

  “Of course it would be nice, young fella,” Pappy said. “And it would be nice if the buildings stood up straight and we had cell phone reception from one end of Main Street to the other, but that’s just not the way it is. You Hollywood types want everything done instantly.”

  “First of all, I was raised in Napa Valley, so I’m not a ‘Hollywood type,’” Fernando said. “And secondly, it looks lik
e there hasn’t been a road down the hill for about a hundred years—”

  “Twenty,” Pappy said, cutting him off.

  “Excuse me, twenty.” Fernando sat back in his chair. “I can see how you wouldn’t want to rush things.”

  “The thing is,” Titan said softly, “we’re doing what we can with what we’ve got. It’s the only way to be happy here.”

  Everyone at the table looked at him, including Fernando.

  “Good to know,” Fernando said. “More pancakes, anybody?”

  A year of living in Fat Chance, Texas had not diminished the preparation required for a trip to Spoonerville. Because there was no road and Pappy’s Covered Volkswagen was the town’s only official transportation, the townspeople had settled, by silent agreement, that Pappy would drive over in the VW bus with Old Bertha, and the younger people would walk over to the store with Pappy’s mule, Jerry Lee. Everyone would buy their supplies, Pappy would load up the van and the mule, and then the parade back to Fat Chance would begin.

  Fernando arrived in the middle of Main Street with his shopping list, ready to join the procession. He could see Pappy and Old Bertha climbing up the trail toward the Covered Volkswagen. Powderkeg and Polly were wearing steel-framed backpacks and Dymphna was kneeling in the dirt, tying saddlebags to Thud. This group was ready to shop.

  Titan had a firm grip on a halter worn by an old mule. The mule was also wearing saddlebags.

  “This must be Jerry Lee,” Fernando said.

  “He’s very friendly for a mule,” Polly replied.

  Fernando stretched out his hand to pat the animal, but Jerry Lee nipped the air in front of Fernando’s fingers. Fernando retracted them instantly.

  “I thought you said he was friendly,” Fernando said accusingly to Polly.

  “For a mule. I said he was friendly for a mule.”

  Powderkeg looked down at Fernando’s feet and shook his head. “I’m a leather-worker, so I know those are quality boots. But you won’t make an eight-mile round trip in anything that new—not to mention that’s a stacked heel, not a flat heel. More for show than for any real work. And not exactly perfect for hiking.”