Call Me Irresistible (28 page)

Dallie answered the door. “Meg?”

“Is your wife home?”

“She’s in her office.” He didn’t seem too surprised to see her, and he stepped back to let her in. “Easiest way to get there is to follow the hallway to the end, go out the door, and cross the courtyard. Big set of arches in the wing on the right.”

“Thanks.”

The house had roughly plastered walls, beamed ceilings, and cool, tile floors. A fountain splashed in the courtyard, and the faint scent of charcoal suggested someone had fired up the grill for dinner. An arched portico shaded Francesca’s office. Through the door panes, Meg saw her sitting at her desk, reading glasses perched on her small nose as she perused the paper in front of her. Meg knocked. Francesca looked up. When she saw who’d come to call, she leaned back in her chair to think it over.

Despite the Oriental rugs on the tile floors, the carved wooden furniture, folk art, and framed photographs, this was a working office with two computers, a flat-screen TV, and bookcases piled with papers, folders, and binders. Francesca finally rose and crossed the floor in rainbow flip-flops. She’d pulled her hair away from her face with a pair of small silver heart barrettes that counterbalanced the more mature half-glasses. Her fitted T-shirt announced her loyalty to the Texas Aggies, and her denim shorts displayed still-trim legs. But the informal wear hadn’t made her give up her diamonds. They sparkled at her earlobes, around a slender wrist, and on her fingers.

She opened the door. “Yes?”

“I understand why you did it,” Meg said. “I’m asking you to undo it.”

Francesca pulled off the half-glasses but didn’t budge. Meg had briefly entertained the notion that Sunny had been responsible, but this was an emotional act, not a calculated one. “I have work to do,” Francesca said.

“Thanks to you, I don’t.” She stared down the green icicles shooting from Francesca’s eyes. “I like my job. Embarrassing to admit, since it’s hardly a big-time career, but I’m good at it.”

“Interesting, but as I said, I’m busy.”

Meg refused to move. “Here’s the thing. I want my job back. In exchange, I won’t rat you out to your son.”

Francesca displayed her first trace of wariness. After a short pause, she stepped aside just far enough to let Meg in. “You want to deal? All right, let’s do that.”

Family photos filled the office. One of the most prominent showed a younger Dallie Beaudine celebrating a tournament win by lifting Francesca off her feet. She hung above him, a lock of her hair tumbling over her cheek, a silver earring brushing her jaw, her feet bare, and one very feminine red sandal balanced on the top of his golf shoe. There were also photos of Francesca with Dallie’s first wife, the actress Holly Grace Jaffe. But most of the pictures were of a young Ted. They showed a skinny, homely boy with oversize glasses, pants pulled up nearly to his armpits, and a solemn, studious expression as he posed with model rockets, science fair projects, and his father.

“Lucy loved those pictures.” Francesca settled behind her desk.

“I’ll bet.” Meg decided on a little shock treatment. “I got her permission before I slept with your son. And her blessing. She’s my best friend. I’d never have done something like that behind her back.”

Francesca hadn’t expected that. For a moment, her face seemed to collapse, and then her chin came up.

Meg plunged on. “I’ll spare you any more details about your son’s sex life except to say he’s safe with me. I have no illusions about marriage, babies, or settling into Wynette forever.”

Francesca scowled, not as relieved by that statement as she should have been. “Of course you don’t. You’re a live-for-the-moment person, aren’t you?”

“In a way. I don’t know. Not so much as I used to be.”

“Ted’s been through enough. He doesn’t need you messing up his life right now.”

“I’ve noticed a lot of people in this town have strong ideas about what they think Ted needs and doesn’t need.”

“I’m his mother. I’m fairly clear on the subject.”

Here came the tricky part, not that it had been exactly smooth sailing so far. “I guess an outsider, someone without preconceived notions, sees a person a little differently from those who’ve known him for a long time.” She picked up a photo of a very young Ted with the Statue of Liberty in the background. “Ted is brilliant,” she went on. “Everybody knows that. And he’s wily. A lot of people know that, too. He has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He can’t help that. But here’s what most people, especially the women who fall for him, don’t seem to notice. Ted intellectualizes what most people process emotionally.”

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

She set down the photo. “He doesn’t get swept away in romantic relationships like other people do. He adds up the pros and cons in some kind of mental ledger and acts accordingly. That’s what happened with Lucy. They fit together in his ledger.”

Outrage propelled Francesca from her chair. “Are you saying that Ted didn’t love Lucy? That he doesn’t feel things deeply?”

“He feels a lot of things very deeply. Injustice. Loyalty. Responsibility. Your son is one of the smartest and most morally upright people I’ve ever met. But he’s totally practical about emotional relationships.” The more she spoke, the more depressed she got. “That’s what women don’t pick up on. They want to sweep him off his feet, but he’s not sweepable. Lucy’s decision traumatized you more than him.”

Francesca shot around the side of the desk. “This is what you want to believe. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“I’m not a threat, Mrs. Beaudine,” she said more quietly. “I’m not going to break his heart or try to trick him into marriage. I’m not going to hang on to him. I’m a safe place to stash your son until a more appropriate woman comes along.” That hurt a lot more than she wanted it to, but she somehow managed a carefree shrug. “I’m your dream girl. And I want my job back.”

Francesca had herself under control again. “You can’t really see a future in doing menial work at a small-town country club.”

“I like it. Who knew, right?”

Francesca picked up a notepad from her desk. “I’ll get you a job in L.A. New York. San Francisco. Wherever you want. A good job. What you do with it is up to you.”

“Thanks, but I’ve gotten used to getting things for myself.”

Francesca set down the notepad and twisted her wedding ring, finally looking uncomfortable. Several more seconds ticked by. “Why didn’t you take your grievance against me straight to Ted?”

“I like to fight my own battles.”

Francesca’s brief moment of vulnerability vanished, and steel took over her spine. “He’s been through enough. I don’t want him hurt again.”

“Trust me when I tell you that I’m not important enough for that ever to happen.” Another painful pang. “I’m his rebound girl. I’m also the only woman, other than Torie, that he can be bad-tempered with. It’s restful for him. As for me . . . He’s a nice break from the losers I generally hook up with.”

“You’re certainly pragmatic.”

“Like I said. I’m your dream girl.” Somehow she managed a cocky smile, but as she left the office and headed back across the courtyard her bravado faded. She was sick of feeling unworthy.

When she showed up for work the next day, no one seemed to remember that she’d been fired. Ted stopped by her drink cart. True to her word, she didn’t mention what had happened or his mother’s part in it.

The day turned blistering hot, and by the time she got home that evening, she was a sweaty, sodden mess. She couldn’t wait to get to the swimming hole. She pulled her polo over her head as she walked past the battered old table that held her jewelry supplies. One of the ecology books she’d borrowed from Ted lay open on the worn couch. In the kitchen, a stack of dirty dishes waited for her in the sink. She kicked off her sneakers and opened the bathroom door.

All the blood drained from her head as she saw what was scrawled across the mirror in a vicious smear of crimson lipstick.

GO AWAY

H
er hands shook as she tried to scrub the words away, and queer little sounds escaped from her throat.

GO AWAY

Leaving lipstick messages on mirrors was the biggest cliché in the world, something that only a person with no imagination would do. She needed to get a grip. But knowing an intruder had sneaked into her house when she was gone and touched her things made her nauseated. She didn’t stop shaking until she’d erased the awful words and searched the church for other signs of invasion. She found nothing.

As her panic faded, she tried to imagine who had done this, but there were so many potential candidates she couldn’t sort through them all. The front door had been locked. The back door was locked now, but she hadn’t checked it before she’d left. For all she knew, the intruder had gotten in that way, then locked it afterward. She pulled her damp polo back on, went outside, and walked around the church but found nothing unusual.

She finally took her shower, darting nervous glances at the open door as she washed. She hated being frightened. Hated it even more when Ted loomed without warning in the open doorway, and she screamed.

“Jesus!” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“I knocked.”

“How was I supposed to hear?” She jerked off the faucet.

“When did you get so skittish?”

“You took me by surprise, that’s all.” She couldn’t tell him. She knew that right away. His status as a certified superhero meant he’d refuse to let her live here alone any longer. She couldn’t afford to live anywhere else, and she wasn’t letting him pay rent on another place. Besides, she loved her church. Maybe not at this precise moment, but she would again, as soon as she got over being creeped out.

He pulled a towel from the new Viceroy towel rack, Edinburgh line, that she’d recently installed. But instead of giving it to her, he draped it over his shoulder.

She held out her hand, even though she had a pretty good idea what was coming. “Give me that.”

“Come and get it.”

She wasn’t in the mood. Except, of course she was because this was Ted standing in front of her, steady and sexy and smarter than any man she’d known. What better way to shake off her remaining jumpiness than to lose herself in lovemaking that demanded so little of her?

She stepped out of the shower and pressed her wet body against him. “Give it your best shot, lover boy.”

He grinned and did exactly as she asked. Better than she’d asked. Each time he took more care and postponed his satisfaction longer. After it was over, she wrapped a sarong around herself with one of the silk pieces she’d worn to his rehearsal dinner, then retrieved beers for both of them from the twelve-pack he’d stashed in her refrigerator. He’d already pulled on his shorts, and he took a folded piece of paper from the pocket.

“I got this in the mail today.” He sat on the couch, one arm draped along the back, and crossed his ankles on an abandoned wooden wine crate she’d turned into a coffee table.

She took the paper from him and glanced down at the letterhead.
TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH
. He didn’t usually share the more mundane aspects of his mayoral job, and she sat on the arm of a wicker chair with faded tropical print cushions to read. Within seconds, she’d shot up only to discover her knees were too rubbery to hold her weight. She sank back into the cushions and reread the pertinent paragraph.

Texas Law requires that any person who tests positive for a sexually transmitted disease including, but not limited to, chlamydia, gonorhea, HPV, and AIDS, must provide a list of recent sexual partners. This is to notify you that
Meg Koranda
has listed you as one of these partners. You are urged to visit your physician immediately. You are also urged to cease all sexual contact with the above named infected person.

Meg gazed up at him, feeling sick. “Infected person?”

“
Gonorrhea
is misspelled,” he pointed out. “And the letterhead is bogus.”

She crumpled the paper in her fist. “Why didn’t you show me this as soon as you got here?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t put out.”

“Ted . . .”

He eyed her casually. “Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”

She thought of the message on her bathroom mirror. “Any one of the millions of women who lust after you.”

He ignored that. “The letter was mailed from Austin, but that doesn’t mean much.”

Now was the moment to tell him his mother had tried to get her fired, but Meg couldn’t imagine Francesca Beaudine doing anything as vile as sending this letter. Besides, Francesca would almost certainly have checked for spelling errors. And she doubted Sunny would have made the mistake in the first place, unless she’d done it deliberately to throw them off track. As for Kayla, Zoey, and the other women holding on to fantasies about Ted . . . Meg could hardly throw around accusations based on dirty looks. She threw the paper on the floor. “Why didn’t Lucy have to put up with this crap?”