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Although she knew her looks had improved now that she was eating better and worrying less, she paid little attention to the fact that a healthy glow had returned to her skin and a sheen to her hair. She had neither the time nor the interest to linger in front of a mirror, a pastime that had proved so completely useless to her survival.
The Sulphur City airport advertised a skydiving club, and Clare's normally testy temper took a turn for the worse. She knew a good programming idea when she saw one, but even she couldn't order a woman who was eight months pregnant to jump out of an airplane. Francesca's pregnancy greatly inconvenienced Clare, and as a result she made only the smallest concessions to it.
“We'll schedule the jump two months after your kid is born. That'll give you plenty of time to recover. We'll use a wireless mike so the listeners can hear you scream all the way down.”
“I'm not jumping from an airplane!” Francesca exclaimed.
Clare fingered the pile of forms on her desk, part of her attempt to straighten out Francesca's affairs with the U.S. Bureau of Naturalization and Immigration. “If you want these forms filled out, you will.”
“That's blackmail.”
Clare shrugged. “I'm a realist. You probably won't be around for long, chicky, but while you are, I'm going to suck out every last drop of your blood.”
This wasn't the first time Clare had alluded to her future, and each time she did, Francesca felt a surge of anticipation pass through her. She knew the rule as well as anyone: people who were good didn't stay at KDSC for very long; they moved on to bigger markets.
She waddled out of Clare's office that day feeling pleased with herself. Her show had gone well, she had almost five hundred dollars tucked away in the bank, and a bright future seemed to be waiting for her on the not-so-distant horizon. She smiled to herself. All it took to succeed in life was a small bit of talent and a lot of hard work. And then she saw a familiar figure walking toward her from the front door, and the light went out of her day.
“Aw, hell,” Holly Grace Beaudine drawled as she came to a stop in the center of the reception area. “That stupid son of a bitch knocked you up.”
Chapter
21
The bubble of Francesca's self-satisfaction abruptly popped. Holly Grace planted five frosty mauve fingernails on the hip of a pair of elegantly tailored white summer trousers and shook her head in disgust. “That man doesn't have any more sense now than he did the day I married him.”
Francesca winced as every head in the office turned her way. She felt her cheeks fill with color, and she had a wild urge to cross her hands over her bulging abdomen.
“Do you girls want to use my office to chat?” Clare stood just inside her doorway, obviously enjoying the mini-drama that had sprung up before her.
Holly Grace quickly sized up Clare as the person in authority and announced, “Us girls are gonna go someplace and have ourselves a stiff drink. That is, if you don't mind.”
“Be my guest.” Clare swept her hand toward the door. “I do hope you'll be ready to share some of this excitement with your listeners tomorrow, Francesca. I'm sure they'll be fascinated.”
Francesca stayed several steps behind Holly Grace as they crossed the parking lot toward a sleek silver Mercedes. She had no desire to go anywhere with Holly Grace, but she could hardly play out this particular scene in front of her rabidly curious co-workers. The muscles in her shoulders had tightened into knots and she tried to relax them. If she let Holly Grace intimidate her so quickly, she would never recover.
The Mercedes had a pearl gray leather interior that smelled like new money. As Holly Grace got in, she gave the steering wheel a light pat and then pulled a pair of sunglasses from a purse that Francesca instantly recognized as Hermes. Francesca drank in every detail of Holly Grace's wardrobe, from the marvelous turquoise silk halter top that crisscrossed in the back before disappearing into the belted waistband of her beautifully cut trousers to the stunning Peretti chrome cuff bracelet and luscious silver kid Ferragamo sandals. The Sassy ads were everywhere, and so Francesca wasn't surprised to see how well Holly Grace was doing for herself. As casually as possible, Francesca draped her arm over the coffee stain that marred the front of her shapeless yellow cotton maternity dress.
As they rode silently toward Sulphur City, the pit of her stomach filled with dread. Now that she knew about Francesca's baby, Holly Grace would surely go to Dallie. What if he tried to make some claim on her baby? What was she going to do? She stared straight ahead and forced herself to think.
On the outskirts of Sulphur City, Holly Grace slowed down at two separate roadhouses, inspected them, and then drove on. Only when she reached the third and most disreputable-looking did she seem satisfied. “This place looks like it serves good Tex-Mex. I count six pickups and three Harleys. What do you say?”
Even the idea of food made Francesca feel nauseated; she just wanted to get their encounter over with. “Any place is fine with me. I'm not very hungry.”
Holly Grace tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. “The pickups are a real good sign, but you can't always tell with the Harleys. Some of those bikers keep themselves so stoned they wouldn't know the difference between good Tex-Mex and shoe leather.” Another pickup pulled into the lot in front of them, and Holly Grace made up her mind. She nosed into a parking place and shut off the engine.
A few minutes later, the two women slid into a booth at the back of the restaurant—Francesca clumsily bumping her stomach against the edge of the table, Holly Grace settling in with a model's elegance. Above them, a set of steer horns and a rattlesnake skin had been nailed to the wall along with several old Texas license plates. Holly Grace pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and nodded toward the Tabasco bottle in the center of the table. “This place is gonna be real good.”
A waitress appeared. Holly Grace ordered a tamale-enchilada-taco combination and Francesca ordered iced tea. Holly Grace made no comment about her lack of appetite. She leaned back in the booth, ran her fingers through her hair, and hummed along with the jukebox. Francesca had a vague sense of familiarity, as if she and Holly Grace had done this before. There was something about the tilt of her head, the lazy drape of her arm over the seat back, and the play of light on her hair. Then Francesca realized that Holly Grace reminded her of Dallie.
The silence between them lengthened until Francesca couldn't stand it any longer. A strong offense, she decided, was her only defense. “This isn't Dallie's baby.”
Holly Grace regarded her skeptically. “I'm real good at counting.”
“It isn't.” She stared coldly across the table. “Don't try to make trouble for me. My life is none of your business.”
Holly Grace toyed with her Peretti cuff bracelet. “I picked up your radio show when I was driving along Ninety on my way over to Hondo to see an old boyfriend, and I was so surprised to hear you that I almost ran off the road. You do a real good show.” She looked up from the bracelet with clear blue eyes. “Dallie was pretty upset when you disappeared like that. Even though I can't blame you for being mad when you found out about me, you really shouldn't have left without talking to him first. He's sensitive.”
Francesca thought of any number of responses to that and discarded them all. The baby kicked her hard beneath her ribs.
