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“Good God, no.” Something happened to the corner of her mouth. A grimace? A smirk? Impossible to tell. “Call me Francesca like everyone else.”
“Peachy.” Meg slipped her fingers into her pocket. “Out of curiosity, is anybody in this town even remotely capable of minding her own business?”
“No. And that’s why I insisted from the beginning that Dallie and I keep a place in Manhattan. Did you know Ted was nine years old the first time he came to Wynette? Can you imagine how many of the local peculiarities he’d have picked up if he’d lived here from birth?” She sniffed. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“I appreciate the offer, just as I appreciated Shelby’s offer and Birdie Kittle’s, but would you please inform your coven that I’m going back to the church.”
“Ted will never allow that.”
“Ted doesn’t get a vote,” Meg snapped.
Francesca gave a small coo of satisfaction. “Proving you don’t know my son nearly as well as you think you do. The guest cottage is unlocked, and the refrigerator is stocked. Don’t even think about defying me.” And off she went.
Across the grass.
Down the cart path.
Tap . . . tap . . . Tap . . . tap . . . Tap . . . tap . . .
Meg reviewed her miserable day as she pulled out of the employees’ parking lot that evening and headed down the service drive toward the highway. She had no intention of moving into Francesca Beaudine’s guesthouse, or Shelby Traveler’s, or the Wynette Country Inn. But she also wasn’t staying with Ted. As angry as she might be with the meddling women of this town, she wouldn’t thumb her nose at them, either. No matter how awful they were, how intrusive and judgmental, they were doing what they believed was right. Unlike so many other Americans, the inhabitants of Wynette, Texas, didn’t understand the concept of citizen apathy. They also had reality on their side. She couldn’t live with Ted as long as the Skipjacks were around.
Out of nowhere, something came flying toward her car. She gasped and hit the brakes, but she was too late. A rock slammed into her windshield. She caught a flicker of movement in the trees, slammed the car into park, and jumped out. She slid on some loose gravel but regained her balance and raced toward the grove of trees that lined the service drive.
Stickers grabbed at her shorts and scratched her legs as she plunged into the undergrowth. She saw another flicker of motion, but she couldn’t even tell whether it came from a person. She only knew that someone had once again attacked her, and she was sick of being a victim.
She plunged deeper into the woods, but she wasn’t sure which way to go. She stopped to listen but heard nothing except the rasp of her own breathing. Eventually, she gave up. Whoever had thrown that rock had gotten away.
She was still shaking when she returned to her car. A spiderweb of shattered glass spread from the center of the windshield, but by craning her neck she could almost see well enough to drive.
By the time she reached the church, her anger had steadied her. She badly wanted to see Ted’s truck parked outside, but he wasn’t there. She tried to use her key to get in, but the lock had been changed, just as she expected. She stomped back down the steps and looked under the stone frog, knowing even as she picked it up that he wouldn’t have left a new key for her. She stomped around some more until she located a security camera mounted in the pecan tree that had once sheltered the faithful as they’d come from worship.
She shook her fist at it. “Theodore Beaudine, if you don’t get over here right away and let me in, I’m going to break a window!” She plopped down on the bottom step to wait, then hopped up again and cut across the cemetery to the creek.
The swimming hole waited for her. She stripped down to bra and panties and dove in. The water, cool and welcoming, closed over her head. She swam to the rocky bottom, kicked off, and came to the surface. She dove again, willing the water to wash away her terrible day. When she’d finally cooled down, she stuffed her wet feet into her sneakers, grabbed her dirty work clothes, and headed back toward the church in her sodden underwear. But as she stepped out of the trees, she came to a dead stop.
The great Dallas Beaudine sat on a black granite tombstone, his faithful caddy, Skeet Cooper, standing at his side.
Cursing under her breath, she ducked back into the trees and pulled on her shorts and sweaty polo. Facing down Ted’s father was a whole different ball game from dealing with the women. She dragged her fingers through her wet hair, told herself to show no fear, and sauntered into the cemetery. “Checking out your future resting site?”
“Not quite yet,” Dallie said. He rested comfortably on the grave marker, his long, jean-clad legs stretched out before him, dappled light playing in the silver threads of his dark blond hair. Even at fifty-nine, he was a beautiful man, which made Skeet’s l
eathery ugliness all the more pronounced.
Her feet sloshed in her sneakers as she moved closer. “You could do worse than this place.”
“I s’pose.” Dallie crossed his ankles. “The surveyors showed up a day early, and Ted’s out at the landfill with them. This resort deal might go through after all. We told him we’d help you move your things to his house.”
“I’ve decided to stay here.”
Dallie nodded, as if he were thinking it over. “Doesn’t seem too safe.”
“He’s set up at least one security camera.”
Dallie nodded again. “Truth is, Skeet and I already moved your things.”
“You had no right to do that!”
“Matter of opinion.” Dallie turned his face into the breeze, as if he were checking wind direction before he made his next golf shot. “You’re staying with Skeet.”
