She’s Gone Country (14 page)

Dane’s green eyes are flecked with yellow as he smiles faintly. “Usually I’d say no, but when it comes to bull riding, it’s a yes. Your boy’s tough. And smart. I think he’s got a shot.”

“So I’m coming back, Mom.” Cooper leans forward to catch Dane’s eye. “Wednesday, right?”

“We’re going to go Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the next month, schedule permitting,” Dane explains. “But I know that’s a lot of driving and you have three kids, so you drop him here and I’ll get him back to you afterwards.”

I immediately start to protest, but Dane cuts me short. “Cooper and I have worked it out,” he says, voice pitched so low that I find myself looking up into his eyes. “If you can drop him here at four, I’ll make sure he gets home after.”

I glance at Cooper, who is cut and dirty and bruised, yet all lit up like a Christmas tree. “I can get him here,” I agree huskily, thinking this is madness trying to pretend that Dane has no effect on me when all I want is to lean closer and smell his scent and feel his warmth.

“Done.” Dane tips the brim of his cowboy hat at Coop. “See you Wednesday, Coop.” And then he winks at me. “See you then, Shey.”

See you then, Shey.

I replay his parting words over and over in my head as I drive Cooper home. I see the wink and the tilt of his mouth, and I’m flooded with yearning.

I want him. Want to be with him. But I don’t know how to do this. I haven’t been single in nearly twenty years. Haven’t kissed another man. Haven’t wanted another man. But now…

Now…

My libido is kicking in, and it’s making me crazy.

I feel crazy.

I have just enough of Dane to know I want more, but not enough to feel remotely satisfied.

What would make me feel satisfied?

Sex.

Maybe I need to sleep with him. Maybe that would get him out of my system. Maybe one good roll in the hay would cure me of my Dane obsession.

Maybe. But unlikely.

It takes me a week to work up my courage to ask Dane to stay for dinner. It’s the third week of October, and the air is crisp and the leaves on the poplars lining Dane’s drive are beginning to turn.

“Want to join us for dinner tonight?” I ask Dane as he approaches my truck. “It’s nothing fancy, but we’d enjoy your company.”

“Wish I could, but I have plans tonight. Taking Lulu to dinner.”

Lulu. Ugh.

I must make a face because Dane shakes his head. “You’re such a little girl, you really are.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I just don’t understand the attraction.”

“You don’t have to. You’re not dating her.” And then he smiles at me, totally remorseless. “By the way, Wednesday’s going to be the last day I can work with Coop for a week. I leave Thursday for Brazil. Won’t be back until the twenty-seventh.”

I force a breezy smile to hide my disappointment. “Sounds like we’ll just be missing each other, then. I leave for Puerto Rico on the twenty-fourth.”

“How long are you gone?”

“Six days.”

“Looks like Coop’s going to miss training for the next little bit. Sorry to hear that. He’s making good progress.”

He feels bad for Coop. He’ll miss Coop. But not one word about me.

The next couple of days drag by. I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward to those brief visits with Dane three times a week until I can’t see him at all.

I miss him. And I find it maddening that I do miss him. I hadn’t wanted to feel this way, not after he made such mincemeat of my heart all those years ago. But the attraction’s still there. I’m still infatuated, drawn by his energy and charisma, hooked by the fact that being around him makes my heart beat a little faster and my imagination dance.

But I don’t trust the attraction. I can’t afford to be careless or reckless, not when I have three teenagers who are hormonally challenged.

I wake up Thursday morning and realize I’m down to three days before I fly to Puerto Rico. Mama arrives from Jefferson on Saturday.

I need to start packing and getting ready for the trip, but I wish I could see Dane before I go.

While coffee brews, I make a list of all the things I still have to do. Laundry, pack, hair, waxing, manicure, pedicure. That doesn’t include the cleaning I need to do to get the house ready for Mama.

While the boys are at school, I zip into Fort Worth, where I get my hair done—a mix of lowlights and highlights as well as overall color to hide my few strands of gray. Hair a perfect gold, I see to the waxing and have it all done—eyebrows, underarms, full leg, and Brazilian bikini. When you’re modeling swimsuits, there’s no room for hair anywhere. Nails are last and easy, and with grooming behind me, I stop in at Barnes & Noble and buy a copy of Frommer’s
Puerto Rico
.

As I thumb through the copy while standing in line for the register, I realize I’m finally starting to get excited about the trip. I haven’t let myself get excited until now in case it didn’t work out, but we’re three days and counting.

Book purchased, I’m back in my truck, racing to get the boys. I pick up Cooper in Palo Pinto and then dash back to Mineral Wells to get Bo and Hank.

I’m just pulling into the junior high parking lot when I spot a cluster of girls standing at the edge of the lot. One of the girls is yelling at the other, and I slow as I pass, recognizing the girls who were in the office the day I met with Paul Peterson. The brunette with jet black eyeliner is screaming at the thin blond girl, who is crying.

My heart sinks. I don’t know the situation, but I feel for the blond girl. She’s so thin that I find myself wondering what her situation is at home. I glance back at the girls in my rearview mirror just in time to see the brunette girl reach out and slap the blonde hard in the face.

The air catches in my throat, and I brake hard.

“What are you doing, Mom?” Coop asks as I throw the truck into reverse and back up.

I don’t answer. Instead, I climb out of the truck and approach the group. “Everything okay?” I ask, aware of the girls’ hostile expressions but not intimidated. I’m not a prissy girl, and it helps that I’m nearly six feet tall.

“Yes,” the brunette answers in a tough-girl voice, while the thin blonde looks away, the handprint livid on her cheek.

The other girls look at me with dislike. They don’t know me, and they don’t want me here.

“You want a ride home?” I ask the blond girl.

She glances at the others and then shakes her head.

“I don’t mind,” I say.

The blond girl looks as if she’s going to refuse again, but then tears well in her eyes and she suddenly nods and moves to my side. “If you don’t mind,” she whispers.

“Where do you live?” I ask her as she takes the far backseat.

“On Northwest Third Street, near Fifth.”

I nod. It’s a town address not too far away.

Bo gives me an odd look as I pull up at the curb and he spots the girl in the backseat. “Hey,” he says to her as he climbs in and closes the truck door behind him.

“Hey,” she answers in a small voice as I head for her home.

Her neighborhood is an area of smaller older homes, many bordered by small patchy lawns and chain-link fences. Her house has white siding and a small covered porch. An older man in a white undershirt sits on the porch, smoking.

“That’s my grandpa,” she says with a sigh as I pull over in front of her house.

“It’s a nice house,” I tell her.

She looks quickly at me to see if I’m making fun of her. I’m not. “I grew up in a house that looks a lot like yours.”

“Really?”

I nod, and Cooper scoots toward me to let Bo open the door and get out so she can escape.

“By the way, I’m Shey Darcy,” I say as she grabs her books and climbs out.

“I know.” She stands on the curb, clutching her books against her chest. Her cheek is still flushed where the other girl hit her. “I’m Delilah.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” I tell her.

“It was after that lady in the Bible. The one that cut off Samson’s hair.”

I know the story well. Impulsively, I reach into my purse, grab a scrap of paper, and write down my cell number. “Call me if you ever need anything, Delilah,” I say, holding the paper with my number out to her. “Or if you just want to talk about modeling.”

Delilah’s eyes light up. “Really?”

I nod.

She glances at the number and then up at me. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, hon.”

Bo climbs back into the truck, and we’re heading to the high school to get Hank when Cooper asks, “Why did you do that, Mom?”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Give her your number.”

I picture Delilah’s thin face and lanky hair coupled with the teased bangs. She doesn’t look like a girl who gets a lot of the right kind of attention at home. “I thought she might need it.”

“Why?”

“I can’t explain it, but my gut just said she needs to know someone cares.”

T
hat afternoon as the boys do homework, I sit at the computer in the kitchen to begin typing up an outline of the week and where the boys have to be and when.

As I think about things Mama would need to know, I find myself dreading telling her about Bo’s problems in school. Mama doesn’t have patience with problems or special situations. Reluctantly I type: “Bo must show his homework nightly. He must be supervised while doing homework, not in his bedroom or on the couch in front of the TV. He must get his tests and papers signed and returned to the appropriate teacher.”

And if he doesn’t do his homework, I list the consequences: “He loses his phone, and the computer, as well as his games.”

I feel like a prison warden as I start printing off the instructions for my mother. The pages are still printing when my phone vibrates with a text message from Tiana Tomlinson, Marta’s and my other best friend:

Just returned from 3 weeks in India. And guess what? I’m married!!!!

Tiana got married? In India? I call her immediately. She answers on the first ring, laughing. “Marta’s trying to get through, too.”

“You did it?” I ask.

“Yep. We got married and honeymooned at Ajmer when Michael finished his Rx Smile mission in Andhra Pradesh. The mission itself is both tragic and miraculous, but the wedding and honeymoon… that was romantic. Ajmer is unbelievably beautiful.”

“Who was there?”

“At the wedding? Just the two of us. We wanted it to be completely private—no paparazzi, no cameras, no distractions. The service was performed at the courthouse, and then we had such a blissful honeymoon. All we did was sleep, eat, drink, make love.” She sighs happily. “He’s so wonderful, Shey. I’m the luckiest woman alive.”

I grin. Tiana can be a gusher, but I’ve never heard her quite this happy. “So are babies in the picture, too?”

“Almost forty. It’s probably now or never.”

“You’re serious?”

“Shey, I’m so happy, and I’m so ready to be a mom. I’ve done everything else. I’ve had the big career, traveled the world, won awards and Emmys, and now I want to put family first. It’s time.”

I’ve known Tiana over half my life. She, Marta, and I all met as sixteen-year-olds at St. Pious in Monterey, and we’ve been through so much together—school and marriage and death and divorce. And in all these years I’ve never heard Tiana this calm or settled. Tiana is by far the most driven woman I know. She’s had a successful career as a popular entertainment reporter, anchoring her own show. She’s pushed herself relentlessly, yet since meeting Michael O’Sullivan, the famous Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, she’s found love, slowed down, and changed her priorities.

“I’m so glad,” I tell her. “You’ll be a wonderful mom. Huge congratulations and heaps of love.”

“Thank you, Shey. I couldn’t wait to get back and share the news. Marta’s on the other line again. I better take her call.”

“Of course. Give Ta my love. I’ll call you tomorrow for full details.”

I hang up and stare at the phone. Tiana’s married.
Married
. After eight years as a widow, she’s found not just love, but peace. Joy. Whoever said there’s only one person for each of us was wrong. There isn’t just one partner or soul mate. The world is full of amazing people. We just have to be willing to take a risk to find new love.

Thinking of taking risks leads me to thoughts of Dane, but I don’t want to do that. I can’t make Dane the new love interest. It’s too soon, and knowing our turbulent history, I wonder what makes him the right one now?

Later, as I turn out the lights and lock the doors, it hits me that I haven’t yet told the boys that my mother will be coming to stay with them while I’m gone. They still think Brick and Charlotte are watching them, and I dread breaking the news that it’s actually Gramma who will be here.

They’re not going to be happy.

My fears were justified. The next morning when I announce the news over breakfast, the boys aren’t ecstatic.

“Alone with Gramma for a week?” Coop exclaims in panic, his cereal spoon dangling in midair, milk dripping onto his quilted place mat.

Hank and Bo are staring at me equally horrified. I feel their pain, I do, but I can’t let them know. So I sip my coffee and focus on serenity. “She’ll be here for a week, but she’ll be babysitting only for five days—”

“Babysitting?” Hank interrupts. “Mom, I’m fifteen, not a baby, and not in need of child care.”

Wrong word choice. Big mistake.

I take another sip of coffee, thinking I’ve made a mess of this already and I’ve only just delivered the news. They’re going to hammer me the entire drive to school. I should have waited until I reached Mineral Wells. Dropped the bomb and then kicked them out of the car.

“This is the problem,” Hank continues tersely. “You treat me like I’m still a baby, but I’m almost sixteen.”

“You’re not a baby. I don’t think of you as a baby.” I glance at the other two. “I don’t think of any of you as babies. Gramma does.”

It was a joke, just a little joke, but they explode with indignation. They’re so mad and so fired up that it takes me a while to calm them down. It probably doesn’t help that I keep laughing. “Guys, I’m just kidding. Relax.”

“So Gramma’s not coming to stay with us?” Coop asks.

“No, she is. She arrives tomorrow. But Uncle Brick and Aunt Charlotte will be around and they’ll make sure Gramma doesn’t torture you. It’s only for a few days and I’ll be back.”

The boys are still fiercely, vigorously protesting as I drive them to school. I tune them out. There’s nothing I can do at this point. My mother has made up her mind, and we are living in her house. And to be honest, it won’t hurt the boys to have her here. In fact, it might even do them good.

I spend the day paying bills and organizing finances before turning my attention to packing. I won’t need a lot for the trip—a couple of simple sundresses, sandals, an evening wrap, maybe a pair of linen slacks, and an easy top. I never check luggage and carry everything in a leather-and-tapestry tote bag I picked up in Turkey fifteen years ago. I add my iPod and camera to the bag and think it’s probably time I broke down and bought an iPhone to handle all my music, picture, and cellular needs. But I’m funny about buying new things. I’m not a big shopper. I feel no need to upgrade every time something new is on the market.

Maybe this is one of the reasons I’m okay financially. I’m happy with old things, don’t like splashy new things. And every time I can avoid making a purchase, I feel as if I’ve just done something wonderful.

With my bag packed, I tackle housework. Mama is the queen of domesticity, and I have to make sure everything is clean and organized before she arrives. I’m in the middle of vacuuming when there’s a knock on the front door.

I head to the door, expecting Charlotte. Instead it’s Dane.

I exhale hard, aware that I’m in short shorts and a baggy gray top minus a bra. I’m not one of those models who come sans boobs, either.

“I thought you were still in Brazil,” I say, stunned to see him on my doorstep. I didn’t expect him home for a few more days.

“Something came up on my ranch so I flew home early.”

“And you missed me so much you raced right over to see me?” I tease, folding my arms over my chest to hide the jut of my breasts. I feel very naked right now and could definitely use more clothes.

He’s noticed the curve of my breasts, and he smiles. “You look like a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader in those little shorts.”

It’s all I can do not to reach down and tug my shorts lower. “They’re my yoga shorts. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I’m not complaining. You look like a teenager, all legs and skin.”

I blush, thinking I wore this outfit a hundred times in front of John and he never said boo. But then, I’m beginning to realize John wasn’t a sexual dynamo. “So what brings you to Parkfield? Were you just in the neighborhood?”

The creases deepen at his eyes. “There’s not much of a neighborhood,” he answers, glancing over his shoulder and taking in the mature oaks, weathered barn, and dilapidated corral drenched in pale autumn sunlight. “In fact, I don’t think there’s any.”

My fingers curl into fists against my chest. “So you just drove here to say howdy.”

“And drop off a gift for Coop.”

My giddy pleasure pops. He came to see Cooper. “Coop won’t be home for another two hours, and then he’s going with Brick to look at a horse.”

“That’s okay. I also wanted to see you.”

The bubble returns. “Want to come in? I made some tea earlier. I can pour you a glass.”

“Sounds great.”

I’m nervous as I lead him into the house and back to the kitchen and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the oval walnut mirror that hangs above the dining room’s sideboard. My long blond hair hangs loose, and my cheeks are a dusty pink, which just makes my eyes more blue. I look like a teenager instead of an adult, and from the way my heart’s hammering, I might as well be one, too.

It’s strange to feel so self-conscious. I’m rarely self-conscious anymore. Modeling has made me comfortable in my skin. I wasn’t always so confident though.

In the beginning modeling was really hard. I felt painfully inhibited, constantly wondering what others saw and if I looked as ridiculous as I felt. Most photographers knew I was new to modeling and tried to work with me, but one day on a shoot for
Elle
—it was my first fashion layout with them and a big one—the photographer lost patience with me. I couldn’t do anything right. Apparently I didn’t even resemble a model. He said I was too chunky. He hated the way I posed. He mocked my expression, calling me a stupid cow, before he ordered me off the set.

But I wouldn’t go.

I refused to leave.

That day will be forever etched in my memory. I can still feel my shame as I held my ground beneath the blinding lights, naked but for a Givenchy black lace wrap, shaking in my five-inch black heels. I kept lifting my chin to hold back my tears, terrified that if I did cry I’d ruin the thick black liner and shadow smudged around my eyes.

“I’m not going to leave. I can do this,” I told him hoarsely. “Watch.”

And somehow I did. I dug deep inside of myself for courage, for strength, for self-respect. I focused on the camera. Tried to find a little magic to make the photo work. But nothing about that shoot felt good. I certainly didn’t feel pretty. I knew the photographer loathed me. But I fought for every frame. I fought my fears. And I fought for my self-esteem.

That excruciating day became a huge turning point in not just my career, but my life.

I learned that there are people who just enjoy being ugly. I realized that if I want to be successful, I’m going to have to fight for it. And I learned that life requires growing some very thick skin.

I’ve grown that thick skin, too. I no longer let other people get to me. I let negativity roll off my back. And I’m never rattled by men.

But Dane appears to be the exception to the rule. Because right now he’s rattling me big time.

My hand shakes as I pour the tea over ice, then grab the tin of jumbo molasses cookies I stashed in the freezer after making them last weekend and put several on a plate. As I arrange the cookies, I glance at Dane, who’s leaning back in the chair at the table, eyes closed.

He looks tired.

I cast another quick glance his way as I cut up a lemon and add a fat wedge to each glass. Maybe not tired as much as in pain.

My nervousness gives way to concern.

“You okay, cowboy?” I ask, carrying the glasses to the table and pushing the sugar bowl toward him.

He opens his eyes and gives me a faint smile. “Just fine.”

“Hurting?”

He shrugs. “It was a long flight. A lot of sitting.”

“Sitting hurts?”

He starts to shrug again and then admits, “Everything hurts. The last surgery was supposed to make things better. Instead it seems to have just made things worse.”

He’s been in pain for months, then. Troubled, I sit down across from him. “Is there going to be another surgery?”

“Maybe. Unfortunately.”

“I’m sorry.”