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She’s Gone Country Page 3
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“It’s true. He can’t play. He doesn’t practice—”
I let go then, disgusted. Biting back curses, I reach into my purse for my keys as I walk away. “You boys better get in the truck now,” I call over my shoulder, because I’m done. Done arguing. Done pleading. Done being nice. Today has been exhausting from beginning to end, and all I want now is some peace and quiet in my own room.
“Now look what you did,” Cooper mutters as they follow after me. “If you’d just shut up!”
Miraculously, Bo doesn’t answer, and silently they climb into the truck, scooting as far from me as they can on the seat.
I don’t even look at them as I drive. I’m too mad.
Hank’s at the breakfast table when I enter the kitchen in my flannel shorts and T-shirt the next morning. He’s already dressed and eating the toasted, buttered bagel that’s his breakfast every morning before school.
“Morning,” I greet him, kissing the top of his head. “What are you doing up so early?”
“Studying.”
I pull out a seat at the table and sit across from him, my head as thick as cotton wool. “Are you having trouble in school?”
“No. But the PSATs are next week and I want to do well.”
“Right. College.” Can’t believe college is just a few years away. Can’t believe Hank is already a high school sophomore. Where did the time go?
“You know, if I were at Dyer, they’d have us doing all kinds of tutorials and test study sessions,” Hank says, looking up at me. “Here they don’t do any of that. Nobody cares about college, not unless they’re going to go on a football scholarship.”
“That’s not true.”
Hank holds my gaze. “I want to return to Dyer.”
“Hank—”
“They’ll let me back in. I already called the admissions office. My class has always been small, and they haven’t given my place away. We just have to send the tuition and I’m in.”
I blink, dumbfounded. “You called the school?”
“You weren’t going to.”
I just keep staring at him. He’s tall and broad through the shoulders, with the faintest stubble shadowing his jawline. Even at his thinnest, he was never as lanky as his younger brothers. Instead, he takes after John with his muscular build and darker coloring. John, a brunette with olive skin, is still strikingly handsome, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that Hank’s going to look like his dad when he’s an adult.
Lucky Hank.
“I want to go back to New York, Mom.”
He isn’t a boy anymore. He’s becoming that man who’ll head off to school one day and not come home.
He’s going to have a whole life apart from mine.
He’s going to have other people to love. Other people who will matter more.
It’s the strangest realization, and one that hurts. I love my boys. I’ve loved being their mom. Nothing—not modeling, not marriage, no amount of traveling or fine things—has ever come close to the joy I get from being Hank, Bo, and Cooper’s mother.
“You want to leave?” My voice shakes. I could use a strong, hot cup of coffee.
“I’d miss you,” he admits gruffly.
But he still wants to leave. Me.
My head pounds, and I push away from the table to make a pot. I drink too much coffee—three, four cups each day—but it keeps me going, occupies my hands, and keeps my belly warm. It’s either that or back to smoking, and I don’t need to smoke.
“I’d still see you,” Hank says to my back as I measure out the grounds. “I’d come visit for holidays,” he adds, “and you could always come to New York and see me.”
“What about your brothers?” I ask, turning on the machine.
He doesn’t immediately answer, and keeping my expression blank, I face him. But Hank’s not looking at me. He’s frowning at the table and nudging what’s left of his bagel around the perimeter of his plate. Finally, he shrugs. “I was going to go away sooner or later.”
Later being the key word.
I battle to keep my voice neutral. Don’t need to put him on the defensive. Don’t need to draw party lines. “You only just turned fifteen, honey.”
His head lifts, and he looks at me, his eyes more gold than brown. “You went away to boarding school at sixteen.”
Yes, and I never came home again.
I want to go and wrap my arms around him and tell him if he goes, I will miss him every day he’s gone. I want to tell him that he’s not just my oldest son, but my heart. I want to tell him that I’ve just lost his dad and I’m not ready to lose him, too.
But I don’t. I can’t.
I can’t cry and can’t cling because I’m raising boys, boys who must become strong, independent men.
“True.” I force a smile.
“You made good friends,” he continues. “Aunt Marta and Tiana.”
I nod.
“And you ended up getting into Stanford, something you wouldn’t have done if you’d stayed here in Parkfield instead of going to St. Pious.”
I nod again.
He stands up, carries his plate and milk glass to the sink, and then looks at me. We used to be the same height. Now he has a couple of inches on me. “So can I?”
My heart is so heavy, it’s a stone in my chest. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”
“Yesterday, when you were at the movies.”
Of course. “And what did he say?”
“That he’d love it. That he misses us kids.”
I’m stunned by the wave of anger that shoots through me. He misses the kids, just the kids. Not me. Not his wife. Not his partner of seventeen years.
But why should he?
He’s come out of the closet. Discovered he’s gay. Discovered sex with a man is more fulfilling than sex with me. Jesus Christ. I grip a damp sponge in my hand and squeeze for all it’s worth.
I am so mad and so confused, yet according to Dr. Phil and every other relationship expert, I can’t say a word about it to the boys. Can’t speak against their father. Can’t show how shattered I am, because kids of divorce already carry around enough guilt as it is.
“So when could I start?” Hank presses. “After Christmas? At the start of the second semester?”
I take a slow, deep breath. “I don’t know.”
“Mom.”
“Do we have to do this now?” I joke weakly. “I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
“Be serious. This is important.” Hank’s brow furrows. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he adds gruffly.
“I know that.”
His expression turns pensive. “Do you?”
I wrap him in my arms then and hold him tight. Who knows how many more chances I’ll have to do this? “I do,” I whisper. “I’ve known every day since you were born.”
He returns the hug, and for a moment I’m at peace. He is mine. Everything is good. And then we let go and step apart, and Hank disappears to brush his teeth as Cooper enters the kitchen, complaining bitterly about Bo using up all the hot water. Again.
“Morning,” I say mildly, pouring my coffee.
“Hate mornings,” he grouses.
The edge of my mouth lifts. Cooper is not a morning person. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine. Until I had to wake up.”
The corner of my mouth lifts higher as I throw a packet of sweetener into my coffee. “How old are you again?” I ask as he grabs a box of cereal from the cupboard and a bowl and spoon from the cabinet.
He scowls at me, and the freckles dusted across his nose dance. “Twelve.”
I blow on my coffee. “Good.”
The morning news said it was going to be another scorcher today, with temperatures hovering in the mid- to high eighties, and I believe it as I step outside to drive the boys to school. Even though it’s the end of September, north central Texas is still warm, and the humidity in the air sets my teeth on edge. I shouldn’t be wearing jeans. I should put on a s
kirt and sandals and at least be cool. But putting on a skirt means shaving my legs, and that’s the last thing I feel like doing.
The fact is, I am thoroughly enjoying country life and dressing down and easing up on my beauty routine. In New York I spent a lot of time on maintenance, but it’s exhausting work and boring besides.
Brick’s blue truck appears in the driveway, bouncing over the deep ruts worsened by last week’s rain. I stand on the top step as his truck pulls up next to me.
Brick’s a big guy, and a good-looking guy, if you like rugged men who don’t believe in doing too much to themselves other than basics like hair and teeth and a once-a-day shave. I remember how a couple of years ago John tried to convince Brick that he should use some moisturizer and eye cream, said it’d really help with all Brick’s sun exposure, and Brick looked at John as if he were a freak. Moisturizer, eye cream? Not on this brother.
The truck idles and Brick rolls down the passenger window. He’s got his straw cowboy hat pulled low, and the brim shades his eyes. “You might want to check your cell phone and make sure it’s not dead, ’cause I got a call from your agency in Dallas. They want to book you for a shoot today. Said they’d been trying to reach you since last night.”
I walk around the truck to the driver’s side. “How’d they find you?”
“I guess I’m an emergency contact. Anyway, you need to call them and then hightail it into Dallas.”
“I’ve got to take the boys to school.”
“I’ll take them. You need to do this. It’s always great money, and it’d be good for you to get off the ranch for the day.”
“I’m okay here—”
“Mama’s thinking about moving back home.”
“What?”
Brick tips his hat back. “She thinks you need her, that you’re in over your head and can’t handle the boys—”
“That’s ridiculous! I’m doing fine. Everything’s fine.”
“That’s not what she says.”
“Because Mama’s a busybody!”
Brick gives me a long look. “Yes, she is. And if you don’t want her taking up residence with you in the next couple weeks, you better pull it together and look like you actually enjoy life.”
“I do.”
“Aw, Shey, you’ve always been thin, but you’re downright puny now. The only thing I ever see you put in your mouth is coffee. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were smoking again—”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not taking any pills? Calmers, tranquilizers like Valium, Xanax, anything?”
“No!” I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “I’ve never taken anything. You know how I feel about stuff like that, especially after Cody’s problems with substances.”
He reaches out, pushes a long blond tendril from my face. “Do you know you shake, hon? You can’t even hold a pen without your hand trembling. Mama noticed. Charlotte’s noticed. Even I’ve noticed.”
His protectiveness touches me. “I’m just tired, Brick. I don’t sleep like I used to.”
“Maybe we need to take you out of the office and away from the books and put you in the barn instead. A day or two of hauling hay and mucking out stalls might help you with the sleep problem.”
I crack a smile. “Maybe.”
The front door opens and the boys come tumbling out of the house, voices raised in anger. “They’re at it again,” I groan.
“You can’t be soft,” Brick answers.
“I’m not.”
He gives me another long look before laying on the horn. The horn shuts the boys up. “Get in,” he orders, “I’m taking you to school today. Your mom’s got something to do.”
My boys look at me with surprise. “What are you doing, Mom?” Cooper asks, at my side for a good-bye kiss.
I kiss Cooper’s cheek and answer that I might have a modeling job.
“Modeling what? Tractors?” Bo snorts.
“You’re such a jerk, Bo,” Hank mutters as he climbs into the truck to ride shotgun.
Cooper grimaces at me as Bo jumps past him to get into the cab’s backseat. “Have a good day, Mom.”
“I will. You too.”
I lift my hand in farewell as the truck door closes and Brick drives off. Cooper turns to wave good-bye from the back. I shake my head. My boys. Hellions, each of them.
With the boys gone, I go in search of my cell phone and find it on the floor of Pop’s old truck. As Brick suspected, the battery is dead, and I have to plug it in in the kitchen to retrieve messages. One from Mama and three from Joanne at Stars.
I call the number Joanne’s left for me, which must be her cell since the agency doesn’t open for another two hours. Joanne answers right away. “You finally got my message?” she asks.
“I did, sorry, the phone was in the truck.”
“Are you available?”
“I could be. Where do I go, how long is the shoot?”
“It’s for a Dillard’s newspaper insert the day after Thanksgiving. They’ll pay you your hourly rate. You’re to be on location in Highland Park in an hour—”
“Oh, then there’s no way. I’m two full hours from Highland Park. My brother lives there and I’ve never made it in less than two hours, and that’s without traffic.”
“I’ll tell them you’ll be there as soon as you can.” And then she rattles off the address, and I’m fairly confident I know the house since Blue lives on Beverly Drive, too.
“Make sure they’re okay with me being late,” I say.
“They’ll be fine. They need you.”
Glad somebody does, I think, ending the call.
I shower and leave the house with my hair wet. I’ve also shaved—laser hair removal treatments aren’t completely permanent—and am now racing to Dallas. I’m flying down Highway 180, cell phone connected to car charger, and I dial my brother Blue’s cell phone.
I end up getting his voice mail and leave a message: “Blue, it’s Shey, and I’m doing a photo shoot in Highland Park today on Beverly Drive. I’m thinking it’s the big red-brick Georgian-style mansion down the street from you. Not sure how long I’ll be working, but it’d be great to see you and Emily before I head home if there’s time. Call me on my cell.”
I hang up and concentrate on driving. And trying to quell the butterflies. I haven’t done a lot of modeling in the past ten years, just a couple of jobs a year, but at least I knew most of the photographers in New York as well as the stylists. This, though, is my first job since returning to Dallas and my first job working with the Stars agency. I hope it goes well. I need it to go well. I don’t know why it wouldn’t. I’ve been modeling since the early nineties, appearing on my first U.S. Vogue cover in 1994, and then three years later making back-to-back covers for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
But modeling is different now. I’m older—thirty-nine—and not as toned or fit. My face is different, too, and when I lived in New York I kept up with all the skin treatments and fillers and injectables. But since moving home this June, I’ve concentrated on the kids, not on my appearance.
Turning the rearview mirror toward me, I steal a quick look at my reflection. Eyebrows need to be waxed. Eyelashes should be dyed. Hair should be colored and cut. Skin cries out for dermabrasion or a chemical peel.
Irritated, I snap the rearview mirror back into place and focus on the road, trying to pretend that my hands aren’t clammy and my stomach isn’t in knots.
Lord, I’m nervous. What if I arrive and they’re disappointed? What if I’m too big for the clothes? What if I’m too old? Sweet Jesus, maybe taking this modeling job today wasn’t such a good idea after all.
I reach Highland Park in exactly two hours and make only one wrong turn before finding the right house. It isn’t the Tudor brick mansion I was thinking of, but it’s similar in style, and U-Haul trucks and cars line the quiet street, with cameras and lights set up outside the house in front of the arched front door. The dark-stained door boasts a
huge wreath, and a decorated Christmas tree is visible through the living room’s leaded glass window.
I park the truck down the street and head for the house. My palms are still damp, but I walk the catwalk walk, the one I first learned in Milan and then perfected in New York. It’s a strut that looks confident and careless and hides the fact that I feel like an impostor.
Members of the crew look up as I approach. One of the men has a light meter around his neck. He must be the photographer or the photographer’s assistant. Another man has tools and duct tape hanging from his belt. The thin, graying brunette with closely cropped hair and a clipboard has to be the stylist. She eyes me critically as I join them. I know the look. She’s a woman who feels she has to be a bitch to be taken seriously. She also thinks that Dallas is the big time and she’s the big cheese and I’m lucky to be here on her shoot.
“Good morning,” I say, feeling the sun beat down. It’s not yet ten and it’s already muggy hot. If we’re shooting outside today, wearing winter coats, it’s going to be miserable. “I’m Shey Darcy, and I’m looking for DeeDee.”
The graying brunette gives me another slow once-over. “You’re late.”
I open my mouth to protest, as Joanne had assured me she’d handle this part, then snap it shut and smile tightly instead. “DeeDee?”
She rolls her eyes at the men and then gestures for me to follow her. “Let’s get you to hair and makeup.”
I follow her to a small trailer tucked between a U-Haul truck and a white equipment truck. The trailer is already too crowded with models in various states of dress and undress. It’s also noisy, thanks to the chatter of half a dozen voices and the air conditioner chugging out cool air.
DeeDee introduces me to Marna, who apparently is doing hair and some makeup. “This is our model, the one we’ve been waiting for.”
Marna frowns as her gaze sweeps me up and down. “This is our grandmother?”
DeeDee shrugs. “It’s who the agency sent. Age her. Put a wig on her or spray some gray on the hair. Do what you can.”
My heart sinks as DeeDee exits the trailer. I’m not a young adult or a young mom. I’m playing Grandma today. Lucky, lucky me.
Chapter Three