Call Me Irresistible (Wynette, Texas #5)(76)

Ted's pale blue polo coordinated with hers. They both wore high-tech golf shoes, although he wore a ball cap instead of the yellow clip visor she slipped into her dark hair. Meg couldn't help but think how completely at ease he seemed with this woman who was holding him for ransom in exchange for a golf resort and condo development.

Meg parked the cart and made her way through the club to the office of the assistant manager. Minutes later, she was leaning across his desk trying not to yell. "How can you fire me? Two weeks ago, you offered me a promotion to snack shop manager." A promotion she'd turned down because she didn't want to be stuck inside.

He tugged on his stupid pink necktie. "You've been running a private business from the drink cart."

"I told you about it from the beginning. I made a bracelet for your mother!"

"It's against club policy."

"It wasn't last week. What's happened since then?"

He wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, Meg. My hands are tied. This has come down from the top."

Meg's thoughts raced. She wanted to ask him who was going to tell Spence she'd been fired? Or Ted? And what about the retirees who played every Tuesday morning and liked the way she kept coffee for them on the cart? Or the golfers who noticed that she never screwed up their drink orders? 

But she didn't say any of that.

When she got to her car, she saw that someone had tried to rip off her windshield wipers. The seat covers burned the backs of her thighs as she slid behind the wheel. Thanks to her jewelry sales, she had enough money to get back to L.A., so why did she care about this shitty job?

Because she liked her shitty job, and she liked her church with its shitty, makeshift furnishings. And she liked this shitty town with its big problems and weird people. Ted was right because, most of all, she liked being forced to live on her own hard work and wits.

She drove home, took a shower, and pulled on jeans, a white boho top, and her pink canvas platform sandals. Fifteen minutes later, she passed through the stone pillars of the Beaudine compound, but she didn't head for Ted's house. Instead she pulled the Rustmobile into the circular drive in front of the sprawling limestone and stucco home where his parents lived.

Dallie answered the door. "Meg?"

"Is your wife home?"

"She's in her office." He didn't seem too surprised to see her, and he stepped back to let her in. "Easiest way to get there is to follow the hallway to the end, go out the door, and cross the courtyard. Big set of arches in the wing on the right."

"Thanks."

The house had roughly plastered walls, beamed ceilings, and cool, tile floors. A fountain splashed in the courtyard, and the faint scent of charcoal suggested someone had fired up the grill for dinner. An arched portico shaded Francesca's office. Through the door panes, Meg saw her sitting at her desk, reading glasses perched on her small nose as she perused the paper in front of her. Meg knocked. Francesca looked up. When she saw who'd come to call, she leaned back in her chair to think it over.

Despite the Oriental rugs on the tile floors, the carved wooden furniture, folk art, and framed photographs, this was a working office with two computers, a flat-screen TV, and bookcases piled with papers, folders, and binders. Francesca finally rose and crossed the floor in rainbow flip-flops. She'd pulled her hair away from her face with a pair of small silver heart barrettes that counterbalanced the more mature half-glasses. Her fitted T-shirt announced her loyalty to the Texas Aggies, and her denim shorts displayed still-trim legs. But the informal wear hadn't made her give up her diamonds. They sparkled at her earlobes, around a slender wrist, and on her fingers.

She opened the door. "Yes?"

"I understand why you did it," Meg said. "I'm asking you to undo it."

Francesca pulled off the half-glasses but didn't budge. Meg had briefly entertained the notion that Sunny had been responsible, but this was an emotional act, not a calculated one. "I have work to do," Francesca said.

"Thanks to you, I don't." She stared down the green icicles shooting from Francesca's eyes. "I like my job. Embarrassing to admit, since it's hardly a big-time career, but I'm good at it."

"Interesting, but as I said, I'm busy."

Meg refused to move. "Here's the thing. I want my job back. In exchange, I won't rat you out to your son."

Francesca displayed her first trace of wariness. After a short pause, she stepped aside just far enough to let Meg in. "You want to deal? All right, let's do that."

Family photos filled the office. One of the most prominent showed a younger Dallie Beaudine celebrating a tournament win by lifting Francesca off her feet. She hung above him, a lock of her hair tumbling over her cheek, a silver earring brushing her jaw, her feet bare, and one very feminine red sandal balanced on the top of his golf shoe. There were also photos of Francesca with Dallie's first wife, the actress Holly Grace Jaffe. But most of the pictures were of a young Ted. They showed a skinny, homely boy with oversize glasses, pants pulled up nearly to his armpits, and a solemn, studious expression as he posed with model rockets, science fair projects, and his father.