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The sixties paranoia. She'd almost forgotten about it. When Gerry had learned about the FBI wiretaps, he'd believed that every shadow hid a cop, that every new recruit was an informer, that the mighty J. Edgar Hoover himself was personally searching for evidence of subversive activity in the Kotex the women in the anti-war movement tossed into the garbage. Although at the time there had been reason for caution, in the end the fear had been more exhausting than the reality. “Are you sure the police even care?” Naomi said. “Nobody looked at you twice when you got on the plane.”
He glared at her and she knew that she had insulted him by belittling his importance as a fugitive—Macho Gerry, the John Wayne of the radicals. “If I'd been by myself,” he said, “they'd have noticed fast enough.”
Naomi wondered. For all Gerry's insistence that the police were out to get him, they certainly didn't seem to be looking very hard. It made her feel strangely sad. She remembered the days when the police had cared a great deal about the activities of her brother.
The Cadillac topped a grade, and she saw a sign announcing the city limits of Wynette. A spurt of excitement went through her. After all this time, she would finally see her Sassy Girl. She hoped she hadn't made a mistake by not calling ahead, but she felt instinctively that this first connection needed to be made in person. Besides, photographs sometimes lied. She had to see this girl face to face.
Gerry looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. “It's not even nine o'clock yet. She's probably still in bed. I don't see why we had to leave so early.”
She didn't bother answering. Nothing ever had any importance to Gerry except his own mission to save the world single-handedly. She pulled into a service station and asked for directions. Gerry hunched down in the seat, hiding himself behind an open road map in case the pimply-faced kid standing by the gas pumps was really a crack government agent out to catch Public Enemy Number One.
As she pulled the car back out onto the street, she said, “Gerry, you're thirty-two years old. Aren't you getting tired of living like this?”
“I'm not going to sell out, Naomi.”
“If you ask me, running off to Mexico comes closer to selling out than staying around and trying to work inside the system.”
“Just shut up about it, will you?”
Was it only her imagination or did Gerry sound less sure of himself? “You'd be a wonderful lawyer,” she pressed on. “Courageous and incorruptible. Like a medieval knight lighting for justice.”
“I'll think about it, okay?” he snapped. “I'll think about it after I get to Mexico. Remember that you promised to get me over closer to Del Rio before nightfall.”
“God, Gerry, can't you think about anything but yourself?”
He looked at her with disgust. “The world's getting ready to blow itself up, and all you care about is selling perfume.”
She refused to get into another shouting match with him, and they rode in silence the rest of the way to the house. As Naomi pulled up in the Cadillac, Gerry glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the street When he saw nothing suspicious, he relaxed enough to lean forward and study the house. “Hey, I like this place.” He gestured toward the painted jackrabbits. “It gives out great vibes.”
Naomi gathered up her purse and briefcase. Just as she was getting ready to open the car door, Gerry caught her arm. “This is important to you, isn't it, sis?”
“I know you don't understand, Gerry, but I love what I do.”
He nodded slowly and then smiled at her. “Good luck, kid.”
The sound of a car door slamming woke Francesca. At first she couldn't think where she was, and then she realized that—like an animal going into a cave to die alone—she had crawled into the back seat of the Riviera and fallen asleep. Memories of the night before washed over her, bringing a fresh wave of pain. She straightened and moaned softly as the muscles in various parts of her body protested her change in position. The cat, who was curled up on the floor beneath her, lifted his misshapen head and meowed.
Then she saw the Cadillac.
She caught her breath. For as long as she could remember, big, expensive cars had always brought wonderful things into her life—expensive men, fashionable places, glittering parties. An illogical surge of hope swept through her. Maybe one of her friends had tracked her down and come to take her back to her old life. She brushed her hair from her face with a dirty, shaking hand, let herself out of the car, and walked cautiously around to the front of the house. She couldn't face Dallie this morning, and she especially couldn't face Holly Grace. As she crept up the front steps, she told herself not to get her hopes up, that the car might have brought a magazine writer to interview Dallie, or even an insurance salesman—but every muscle in her body felt tense with expectation. She heard an unfamiliar woman's voice through the open door and stepped to one side so she could listen unobserved.
“... have been looking everywhere for her,” the woman was saying. “I was finally able to track her down through inquiries about Mr. Beaudine.”
“Imagine going to all that trouble just for a magazine advertisement,” Miss Sybil replied.
“Oh, no,” the woman's voice protested. “This is much more important. Blakemore, Stern, and Rodenbaugh is one of the most important advertising agencies in Manhattan. We're planning a major campaign to launch a new perfume, and we need an extraordinarily beautiful woman as our Sassy Girl. She'll be on television, billboards. She'll make public appearances all over the country. We plan to make her one of the most familiar faces in America. Everyone will know about the Sassy Girl.”
Francesca felt as if she had just been given back her life. The Sassy Girl! They were looking for her! A surge of joy pulsed through her veins like adrenaline as she absorbed the astonishing realization that she would now be able to walk away from Dallie with her head held high. This fairy godmother from Manhattan was about to give her back her self-respect.
“But I'm afraid I don't have any idea where she is,” Miss Sybil said. “I'm sorry to have to disappoint you after you've driven so far, but if you'll give me your business card, I'll pass it on to Dallas. He'll see that she gets it.”
“No!” Francesca grabbed the screen door handle and pulled it open, illogically afraid the woman would vanish before she could get to her. As she rushed inside, she saw a thin, dark-haired woman in a navy business suit standing next to Miss Sybil. “No!” Francesca exclaimed. “I'm here! I'm right—”
“What's going on?” a throaty voice drawled. “Hey, how ya doin', Miss Sybil? I didn't get a chance to say hi last night. You got any coffee made?”
Francesca froze in the doorway as Holly Grace Beaudine came down the stairs, long bare legs stretching out from beneath one of Dallie's pale blue dress shirts. She yawned, and Francesca's altru
istic feelings toward her from the night before vanished: Even bare of makeup and with sleep-tousled hair, she looked extraordinary.
