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“I’m Becky Littlefield.” A coiffed thirty-something woman with dragon red lips and fingernails plunks down opposite me at the table. “Pleased to meet you.” She extends her hand and we shake.
“Evelyn,” I say, and try not to cringe. Her acrylic nails press so hard into my palm I fear they’re leaving indentations.
“Becky Littlefield of the North Dallas Littlefields,” she says. “Not to be confused with the Houston Littlefields.”
“Right.” I pull my hand back, wondering if it needs triage.
“I took back my maiden name after I got divorced. It’s so nice to see Dylan again. It’s been too long. How’d you two meet?” She sips from her fruit-adorned red plastic cup.
“A set-up.”
“A matchmaking service? I’ve been thinking about doing that too. Is that how Dylan finally got past the whole Dixie debacle?”
“I’ll let Dylan tell that story.” I sip from my beer.
“I don’t know if he shared with you or not.” She stares at Dylan and when he glances in our direction and waves, she says, “But the four of us hung out together during college summer breaks.”
“The four of you?”
“Dixie, Dylan, Patrick and me.”
“Oh.” She hung out with Dylan’s ex-wife? Awkward.
“We boated on Lake Grapevine. The McAlister brothers talked us girls into skinny dipping with them more than a few times. They’re so handsome. A little wild for pastor’s boys.”
I glance at Dylan. He smiles at me and winks as if we have a secret. I guess we do. I doubt he’s told anyone about how we really met.
“I got separated right around the time Patrick got married,” Becky says. She stares at Patrick who’s standing next to Danica, her bejeweled hand resting on his arm. “Bummed I missed my window, but Danica’s seems sweet, and she’s from a good family, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“The Dixie thing. Don’t believe every story you hear about how that went down.” She picks at the potato salad on her plate. “In my humble opinion, I think everybody was a little to blame. Where are you from again? Obviously, not from around here.”
“Chicago,” I say and tip back a cold beer, staring pointedly at Dylan, wishing he would get his ass back here.
“Dixie had her eyes set on the McAlister boys since freshman year in college. She wanted Patrick but he wouldn’t pay her the time of day. He wanted someone with a better pedigree.”
“Pedigree?”
“Respectable parents. Breeding. Background. Dixie’s parents were trailer trash. Patrick always planned on taking over the family business and he wanted a girl who came from a good family.”
“Patrick’s a pastor?”
“No, sugar.”
“Isn’t the family business…” I gaze up at the Je-normous cross on the lawn, “Lighthouse Cathedral?”
“Oh, Patrick’s not interested in the preaching part,” Becky says. “He’s got an MBA. He wants to manage the money. He wanted to marry a girl who came from a good family because he knows how judgmental church people can be.”
“Got it,” I say, glancing around the crowd of at least a hundred people ranging from squidgy babies in bouncers to octogenarians in wheelchairs. The babies look the least judgmental.
“Are you and Dylan an item?”
“Yes, Evie and I are an item, Becky.” As if on cue he hustles up and unloads the plates heaped with casserole and salads, fried chicken and biscuits. He takes a seat next to me. “Sorry! I got stuck in the deadly Texas triangle of former high school football friends one hasn’t seen in forever.”
“Nice to see you, Dylan,” Becky says. “Can’t blame a friend for asking. I didn’t hear you were dating anyone special after, well, you know, your unfortunate breakup. I never forgave Dixie for that, just so you know who’s side I’m on.”
Well clearly she’s on Dylan’s side. As well as his front, back, center, and any other square inch of him that she can eye fuck right now while she leans across the table, touching her throat and batting her eyelashes.
