Slim Pickings in Fat Chance, Texas

by Bonaduce, Celia

  As she got closer, she could see Titan and Rocket on the hill behind her farm. The acreage beyond the Fat Farm was part of Titan’s bequest, which was certainly beneficial, now that he had a longhorn who needed plenty of land to roam. Dymphna bit her lip. Hanging over the anticipation of Fernando’s grand opening was the knowledge that Titan was going to lose Rocket—and Fat Chance would then lose Titan. As she and Thud walked down the hill every morning for breakfast, she’d see Titan head into the Cowboy Food café, and watch Fancy make her lopsided scramble back to the forge. What would become of that poor bird? Only Titan loved her, and she only loved Titan.

  The thought brought tears to her eyes. She wiped them away as she saw Titan wave. She waved back and headed toward him. As she got closer, she burst into laughter. Titan was walking beside Rocket, who shuffled along with Fancy riding on his head between the horns.

  “Oh my gosh, Titan,” Dymphna said in a quiet voice, though she had no idea why she was whispering. “How did you get Fancy to do that?”

  “It was more about Rocket going for it,” Titan said. “But I kept trying, and Rocket finally let me put Fancy on his head. They’ve been walking around like this for an hour. I’m not sure Rocket even remembers she’s there.”

  Dymphna found herself disconcerted to be at eye level with Fancy. Fancy blinked her one good eye, and Dymphna backed away. She could only hope that somehow Titan could take the bird with him to the ranch . . . but she was fairly sure the ranch hands would not want a one-eyed, one-winged buzzard around.

  Dymphna left Titan to continue his slow march around the field. When she arrived at the farmhouse, Tino was waiting on the porch step with Crash in his lap and Thud at his feet.

  “He heard me coming and ran right up to me,” Tino said, petting the duckling and sounding delighted.

  “He must remember you,” Dymphna said.

  “He’s grown.” Tino studied the duckling. “He’ll be ready to fly anytime now.”

  “I know. Every day now I brace myself for it.”

  “He might stay, you know.”

  “And he might not.”

  Crash struggled out of the doctor’s lap and came to sit with Dymphna, who had joined Tino on the step.

  “What brings you to Fat Chance?” Dymphna asked.

  “Elvis.”

  “Again?”

  “I swear, Old Bertha is like a new mother with that mule. Elvis can’t even sneeze without her sending Pappy to come get me.”

  “Just be glad she doesn’t have Internet service. At least she’s limited on what she can research. I want to check on the vegetable garden.” Dymphna stood up, putting Crash on the ground. “Want to walk with me?”

  Tino stood up without reply. She took that as a yes. They walked to the side of the yard where Dymphna had planted her vegetables.

  “They look happy,” Tino said, looking over the neat rows of greens.

  Dymphna smiled. She liked the idea that her vegetables were happy. Suddenly, without warning, she reached out and put her arms around Tino’s neck and kissed him—which wasn’t easy, because she had to stand on her toes. The problem was, now that they were kissing, she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go from here. Her boyfriend was coming home in two weeks!

  Should I even be thinking right now?

  “Where did that come from?” Tino asked when they were done.

  “I don’t know,” Dymphna said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I can’t say this has never occurred to me. It’s just that . . .”

  “Yes? Am I in the friend zone? Are you married? Gay?”

  Every cliché she’d discussed with Fernando and Polly came pouring out.

  “Wow! None of those things,” he said, and then added, “What’s the friend zone?”

  “I’m a little vague on it myself,” Dymphna said. “But it doesn’t sound good.”

  “Well then, that’s not it. Look, Dymphna, it’s a complicated, confidential situation. But as soon as I can talk about it, I will. I promise.”

  “So it’s nothing personal.”

  “God, no,” Tino said. “You’re the kind of woman a man dreams about. Especially this man.” Tino drew her to him again, smoothed her hair back and kissed her gently, both hands cupping her face. “I just don’t want anybody to get hurt—you or me. I’ve got a conference coming up. I’ll be gone for a few weeks. When I come back, we’ll talk, OK?”

  He kissed her again, then turned and walked away from the farm. Dymphna smiled and touched her lips. She saw Thud staring at her and she blushed. Thank God Thud couldn’t speak.

  Professor Johnson waited for Kimberly Goldman at the Urth Caffé in Beverly Hills with a cup of coffee and a matcha tiramisu. The tiramisu was for Kimberly. He knew it was a bribe, but what could he do? He saw her at the front door and waved her over to their table, which was in front of a fireplace. He found the whole idea of a fireplace in a Southern California coffeehouse exceedingly silly, but there it was. And he had bigger problems. How was he going to tell Kimberly he was going to Fat Chance in less than a week?

  As she walked over, smiling, he studied her. She really was a very attractive woman, well dressed, intelligent. He thought about the few but interesting times they had spent together. She had a good mind and could argue her side of any argument effectively. He supposed she’d better be able to do that, given her profession, but it was still a lovely attribute in a dinner partner. She sat and grabbed a spoon.

  “A matcha!” she said, taking a bite and rolling her eyes in delight. “Just what I wanted.”

  Professor Johnson cleared his throat.

  Kimberly stopped chewing and looked at him. “What?”

  “Nothing . . . really,” he hedged.

  “Listen,” she said, pointing her fork at him, “I make two hundred and fifty dollars an hour, so I don’t have time for horseshit. Let me have it.”

  She must be a very good attorney, Professor Johnson thought. “I may have mentioned that I’ve gotten a grant,” he said.

  “Yes, you have.”

  “Well, I haven’t really delved into the ramifications of this with you. But what it means is . . . well . . . I get to start my museum.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . the museum is in Texas.”

  “So you’re leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “In a few days.”

  Kimberly took another bite of the tiramisu. Professor Johnson watched her for any sign of emotional distress. He wasn’t good at reading people—female people in particular—but he didn’t think he was registering sadness or hysteria in his dining partner.

  “May I have a sip of your coffee?” she asked.

  Professor Johnson slid the cup toward her, touching the porcelain to make sure it wasn’t hot, should she decide to throw it at him. She took a sip, put the cup back in its saucer, and looked at him.

  “So that’s what’s been going on with you,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just thought you weren’t that into me.”

  “No! I think you are a very intelligent woman.”

  “Thank you,” Kimberly said, barely containing a smile. “Because I’m pretty insecure about my intelligence.”

  “Well, there is no need to be.”

  “Thanks,” Kimberly said dryly. “And you did mention that there was that woman.”

  “Yes.” Professor Johnson nodded. “Dymphna.”

  “Yes. Dymphna. OK . . . well”—Kimberly stood up—“have a good time in Texas.”

  He stood up and received a kiss on the cheek.

  “And thanks for not being a dick,” she said before walking out the door.

  CHAPTER 23

  Wesley poured himself another two fingers of scotch. He looked out at Cleo’s circular driveway from the bay window in her library.

  “Wesley, darling, you’re going to have to turn around and discuss this sooner or later,” Cleo said from her seat
in one of the wing-backed chairs.

  “Fine.” Wesley spun around and stalked to the other chair. He sat and faced her. “I think you’ve lost your mind.”

  “I can’t argue with you,” Cleo said, taking a sip of her cocktail. “But I’m miserable here.”

  “But you said you hated Fat Chance. You hated the Hill Country. You hated Texas.”

  “That was all very true. But . . . I don’t know. I miss it. I miss me. I was fabulous in Fat Chance. I made a difference. I made breakfast every morning, did you know that?”

  “You could make breakfast here.”

  “Don’t be obtuse. It doesn’t suit you. I’ve been keeping my eye on things,” Cleo said as she powered up her tablet. “Polly posts once in a while on Facebook.”

  Wesley and Cleo both put on their reading glasses and stared at the photos. Most were of Polly modeling her hat creations, her pouting duck lips peeking out from under a drawn-down brim. Others featured her openmouthed signature selfie. Very few featured the other townsfolk.

  “Who is that?” Wesley asked, pointing to Fernando. “I don’t recall him.”

  “He wasn’t one of Daddy’s finds,” Cleo said, studying Fernando. “He is a friend of a friend, that sort of thing. I think Dymphna knew him or knew of him. I’m not sure. I wasn’t paying much attention. He was a pastry chef in a little tearoom in Venice.”

  “The Rollicking Bun?”

  “I have no idea,” Cleo said, peering over her glasses at Wesley. “Do you know it?”

  “When we lived in Marina Del Rey, I think my second wife used to go there.”

  “Fascinating. Anyway, he took over the café. He’s planning on selling barbecue from the look of things.”

  “But”—Wesley furrowed his brow—“if he has the café, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to take the café back, of course,” Cleo said, pulling off her glasses and giving him a withering glare. “I’m a classically trained French chef, Wesley. Everyone will want me back.”

  “The man is making barbecue, Cleo. In Texas.”

  “Don’t worry, Wesley. I have big plans.”

  She was debating telling him the exciting news that she and Powderkeg were going to get back together, when she noticed Wesley staring at the screen.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  Cleo put her glasses back on. She focused on the picture at which Wesley was pointing. The picture showed Polly in front of the Covered Volkswagen, mouth open with green gum wadded in her cheek. In the background was a white-haired man in a T-shirt, Hawaiian shorts, and hiking boots. He had his glasses off and was wiping them on his shirt.

  “That’s Pappy,” Cleo said. “I must have mentioned him.”

  “You did,” Wesley said thoughtfully. “That just . . . isn’t the way I pictured him.”

  “That’s him. For good or for ill.”

  “Are you going to post something about heading back?”

  “No.” Cleo shook her head. “Elwood already talked to Dymphna—and I don’t believe in posting. I just lurk.”

  “Ah,” Wesley said, enlarging the Fat Chance photos with his fingers.

  “You have to wish me well, Wesley. I demand you wish me well.”

  “I do, darling,” Wesley said distractedly, as he studied the pictures from Fat Chance.

  Old Bertha looked at herself in the wavy glass of the antique mirror that hung in the Creakside Inn’s tiny kitchen. Polly sat sleepy-eyed at the table, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands. Polly sniffed the air.

  “Are you wearing . . . perfume?” Polly said, blinking at Old Bertha.

  “No, of course not,” Old Bertha said, flushing. “Just a touch of toilet water.”

  “Yikes. Whoever named that should have to go back to Marketing 101.”

  “It’s a perfectly respectable fragrance,” Old Bertha said.

  “It’s really nice,” Polly said. “I’m just wondering why you’re wearing it.”

  “Can’t a woman wear toilet water without getting the third degree?”

  “In Fat Chance? That would be no.”

  “If you must know, I have some business with Pappy,” Old Bertha said.

  “Pappy?” Polly asked, now wide-awake. “Our Pappy?”

  “Do we know another Pappy?”

  “Suit yourself.” Polly shrugged and went back to her coffee.

  “All right, if you must know,” Old Bertha said. Polly smiled behind her coffee cup. Feigning noninterest was the best way to get a response from Old Bertha. “I’ve been thinking about this Meriwether McMurphy.”

  “Who? Oh! You mean the old widow who hates Pappy? What? Are you guys in a ‘who hates Pappy more’ contest?”

  “That just shows you what you know, junior miss. She showed up in Spoonerville—when Pappy was there—as soon as she could get a ride. You think that was just a coincidence?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “And they say you kids are wise in the ways of the world.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Meriwether McMurphy made sure she was at the store when Pappy got there,” Old Bertha said. “She’s a widow now and is trying to lure him back.”

  “May I point out two things?” Not waiting for an answer, Polly continued. “One: You weren’t even at the store when all of this happened; and two: From all accounts, she completely shut him down.”

  “One: I didn’t have to be at the store to know what I know,” Old Bertha said heatedly. “And two: from all accounts? ‘All’ being Fernando and Powderkeg? They’re men. You going to listen to them? They wouldn’t know a scheming woman if she came up and bit ’em.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “It’s true. Meriwether McMurphy is playing hard to get, mark my words.”

  “You have a crush on Pappy!” Polly crowed.

  “I do not. I just don’t want to see him fall into the wrong hands.”

  Polly watched in stunned silence as Old Bertha left the inn.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Old Bertha said as she stormed into City Hall, where Pappy was sweeping. “I think Elvis has a Napoléon complex.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Pappy said.

  “He does. He won’t behave. He does whatever gets into his head. He comes in when he wants, he goes out when he wants, eats when he wants.”

  “He’s just stubborn. He’s a mule,” Pappy said. “You know the old saying, ‘stubborn as a mule’?”

  “No. The expression is ‘stubborn as an ox.’”

  “That’s a different expression,” Pappy said. “A mule is intelligent and has a mind of its own. He thinks things through and decides on his own course of action. An ox is dim-witted and needs prodding just to get going.”

  “So what?”

  “So be happy I didn’t buy you an ox.”

  Old Bertha pulled her cardigan over her bosom and started pacing. “Maybe’s he’s lonely,” she said. “I’ve heard mules are social animals.”

  “That’s true,” Pappy said, still sweeping. “If Elvis is lonely—or if he’s getting to be too much for you—I’ll take him back and he can hang out with Jerry Lee.”

  “How would Jerry Lee feel about that?”

  “Probably wouldn’t pay the little guy no mind.” Pappy shrugged. “Jerry Lee is used to having me as his friend. But if it would be good for Elvis, we’d be happy to have him.”

  “I don’t know,” Old Bertha said. “I was thinking more along the lines of . . .”

  Pappy waited. He stopped and looked at her, leaning on his broom. “What?”

  “I was thinking about getting another mule.”

  “You were?” Pappy said, surprise creeping into his voice.

  “I think maybe Elvis should have a companion at the inn. I thought maybe you could help me with that.”

  “I could,” Pappy said. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “I don’t expect charity, you understand. I can pay for my own miniature mule.�
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  “Understood.”

  “Good,” Old Bertha said. “So how much is one?”

  Professor Johnson had planned very carefully what to pack for his road trip to Fat Chance. One of the reasons he’d selected the Outback was that, by his calculations, it would hold everything he intended to bring to Texas.

  He had not counted on his aunt coming with him.

  Hence, the U-Haul trailer.

  “How are we going to unload all of this, Auntie?” Professor Johnson tried to reason with Cleo. “You know we can’t get the car—let alone the U-Haul—down the trail.”

  “True,” Cleo said, absently chewing on her acrylic thumbnail. “Do you think I have time to send a road?”

  “No, Auntie,” Professor Johnson said. “And I don’t think you should go back to Fat Chance and start throwing your money around. You need to act like everyone else.”

  “But I’m not like everyone else,” she protested.

  “I am aware of that. But our friends have their pride. In the six months we’ve been gone, not one of them has asked you for a dime. They are trying to make it work, just like Grandfather hoped.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll behave, I promise.”

  “We’re still going to have to figure out how to return the U-Haul—the closest one to Fat Chance is three hours away.”

  “The U-Haul is on my credit card. Wesley can handle it.”

  “What can Wesley do?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Elwood. He can buy it if he has to.”

  Professor Johnson let out a sigh. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Oh!” she said suddenly. “One more thing. It won’t take up any room.”