Fancy Pants

Chapter 5

Dallie and Skeet sped along U.S. 49 headed toward Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Dallie had caught a couple

of hours' sleep in the back seat while Skeet drove, but now he was behind the wheel again, glad that he didn't have to tee off until 8:48 in the morning, so he would have time to hit a few balls first. He hated these all-night drives from the final round of one tournament to the qualifying round of the next about as much as he hated anything. If the PGA fat cats had to make a few overnight runs across three state lines and past a few hundred Stuckey's signs, he figured they'd change the rules pretty damned quick.

On the golf course, Dallie didn't care how he dressed-as long as his shirts didn't have animals on them and nothing was pink-but he was particular about his clothes off the course. He preferred faded skin-tight Levi's worn with hand-tooled leather boots run over at the heels and a T-shirt old enough so that he could whip it off if the mood struck him and use it to polish the hood of his Buick Riviera without worrying about scratching the finish. A few of his female fans sent him cowboy hats, but he never wore them, favoring billed caps instead, like the one he was wearing now. He said that the Stetson had been ruined forever being worn by too many potbellied insurance agents in polyester leisure suits. Not that Dallie had anything against polyester -as long as it was American made.

"Here's a story for you," Skeet said.

Dallie yawned and wondered whether he was going to be able to hit his two-iron worth a damn. He'd been off the day before, but he couldn't figure out why. Since last year's disaster at the Orange Blossom Open, he'd been playing better, but he still hadn't managed to finish higher than fourth place in any big tournament this season.

Skeet held the tabloid closer to the glove compartment light. "You remember I showed you a picture a while back of that little British girl, the one who was goin' around with that prince fella and those movie stars?"

Maybe he was shifting his weight too fast, Dallie thought. That might be why he was having trouble

with his two-iron. Or it could be his backswing.

Skeet went on. "You said she looked like one of those women who wouldn't shake your hand unless

you was wearin' a diamond pinky ring. Remember now?"

Dallie grunted.

"Anyway, seems her mama got hit by a taxicab last week. They got a picture here of her comin' out of the funeral carryin' on something terrible. 'Bereft Francesca Day Mourns Socialite Mom,' that's what it says. Now where do you think they come up with stuff like that?"

"Like what?"

"Bereft. Word like that."

Dallie shifted his weight onto one hip and dug into the back pocket of his jeans. "She's rich. If she was poor, they'd just say she was 'sad.' You got any more gum?"

"Pack of Juicy Fruit."

Dallie shook his head. "There's a truck stop coming up in a few miles. Let's stretch our legs."

They stopped and drank some coffee, then climbed back into the car. They made it to Hattiesburg in plenty of time for Dallie to tee off, and he easily qualified for the tournament. On their way to the motel later that afternoon, the two of them stopped off at the city post office to check General Delivery. They found a pile of bills waiting for them, along with a few letters-one of which started an argument that lasted all the way to the motel.

"I'm not selling out, and I don't want to hear any more about it," Dallie snapped as he ripped his cap off and threw it down on the motel-room bed, then jerked his T-shirt over his head.

Skeet was already late for an appointment he'd made with a curly-haired cocktail waitress, but he looked up from the letter he held in his hand and studied Dallie's chest with its broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. "You're just about the stubbornest sumbitch I ever knew in my life," he declared. "That pretty face of yours along with those overdeveloped chest muscles could make us more money right now than you and your rusted-up five-iron have earned this entire season."

"I'm not posing for any faggot calendar."

"O. J. Simpson's agreed to do it," Skeet pointed out, "along with Joe Namath and that French ski bum. Hell, Dallie, you were the only golfer they even thought to ask."

"I'm not doing it!" Dallie yelled. "I'm not selling out."

"You did those magazine ads for Foot-Joy."

"That's different and you know it." Dallie stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door, then yelled from the other side. "Foot-Joy makes a damn fine golf shoe!"

The shower went on and Skeet shook his head. Muttering under his breath, he crossed the hallway to

his own room. For a long time it had been obvious to a lot of people that Dallie's looks could have given him a one-way ticket to Hollywood, but the fool wouldn't take advantage of it. Talent agents had been placing long-distance calls to him since his first year on the tour, but all Dallie did was tell them they were bloodsuckers and then make generally disparaging remarks about their mothers, which wouldn't have been so bad by itself, except he pretty much did it to their faces. What was so terrible, Skeet wanted to know, about earning some easy money on the side? Until Dallie started winning the big ones, he was never going to pick up the six-figure commercial endorsements that guys like Trevino could get, let alone the sweetheart deals Nicklaus and Palmer made.

Skeet combed his hair and exchanged one flannel shirt for another. He didn't see what was so damned wrong with posing for a calendar, even if it did mean sharing space with pretty boys like J. W. Namath. Dallie had what the talent agents called sexual magnetism. Hell, even somebody who was half blind could see that. No matter how far down in the pack he was, he always had a full gallery following him, and eighty percent of that gallery seemed to be wearing lipstick. The minute he stepped off the course, those women surrounded him like flies after honey. Holly Grace said women loved Dallie because they knew

he didn't own any color-coordinated underwear or Wayne Newton records. What we have with Dallas Beaudine, Holly Grace had insisted more than once, is the Lone Star State's last genuine All-American he-man.

Skeet grabbed the room key and chuckled to himself. The last time he'd talked to Holly Grace on the telephone, she'd said that if Dallie didn't win a big tournament pretty soon, Skeet should just go ahead

and shoot him to put him out of his misery.

Miranda Gwynwyck's annual party, always held the last week of September, was in full swing, and the hostess surveyed the platters of Mediterranean red prawns, baby artichokes, and lobster in phyllo with satisfaction. Miranda, author of the well-known feminist work Woman as Warrior, loved to entertain

well, if for no other reason than to prove to the world that feminism and gracious living weren't mutually exclusive. Her personal politics would not permit her to wear frocks or makeup, but entertaining gave

her an opportunity to exercise what she referred to in Woman as Warrior as the "domestica"-the more civilized side of human nature, whether male or female.

Her eyes swept over the distinguished group of guests she had gathered between the stippled walls of her living room, newly redecorated that August as a birthday present from Miranda's brother. Musicians and intellectuals, several members of the peerage, a sprinkling of well-known writers and actors, a few charlatans to lend spice-exactly the kind of stimulating people she loved to bring together. And then she frowned as her gaze fell on the proverbial fly in the ointment of her satisfaction-tiny Francesca Serritella Day, spectacularly dressed as always and, as always, the center of male attention.

She watched Francesca flit from one conversation to another, looking outrageously beautiful in a turquoise silk jumpsuit. She tossed her cloud of shining chestnut hair as if the world were her personal pearl-filled oyster when everyone in London knew she was down to her last farthing. What a surprise it must have been for her to discover how deeply in debt Chloe had been.

Over the polite noise of the party, Miranda heard Francesca's generous laughter and listened as she greeted several men in that breathless, wait-until-you-hear-this voice, carelessly emphasizing the most unimportant words in a manner that drove Miranda wild. But one by one the stupid bastards all melted into warm little puddles at her feet. Unfortunately, one of those stupid bastards was her own beloved brother Nicky.

Miranda frowned and picked up a macadamia nut from an opalescent Lalique bowl printed with dragonflies. Nicholas was the most important person in the world to her, a wonderfully sensitive man with an enlightened soul. Nicky had encouraged her to write Woman as Warrior. He had helped her refine her thoughts, brought her coffee late at night, and most important, he had shielded her from their mother's criticism over why her daughter, with a yearly income of one hundred thousand pounds, had to meddle with such nonsense. Miranda couldn't bear the idea of standing idly by while Francesca Day broke his heart. For months she had watched Francesca flit from one man to another, running back to Nicky whenever she found herself between admirers. Each time he welcomed her return-a little more battle-scarred, perhaps, a little less eagerly-but he welcomed her just the same.

"When we're together," he had explained to Miranda, "she makes me feel as if I'm the wittiest, brightest, most perceptive man in the world." And then he added dryly, "Unless she's in a bad mood, of course, in which case she makes me feel like a complete shit."

How did she do it? Miranda wondered. How did someone so intellectually and spiritually barren command so much attention? Most of it, Miranda felt certain, was her extraordinary beauty. But part

of it was her vitality, the way the very air around her seemed to crackle with life. A cheap parlor trick, Miranda thought with disgust, since Francesca Day certainly didn't have an original thought in her head. Just look at her! She was both penniless and unemployed, yet she acted as if she hadn't a care in the world. And maybe she didn't have a care, Miranda thought uneasily-not with Nicky Gwynwyck and

all his millions waiting patiently in the wings.

Although Miranda didn't know it, she wasn't the only person brooding at her party that evening. Despite her outward show of gaiety, Francesca was miserable. Just the day before, she had gone to see Steward Bessett, the head of London's most prestigious modeling agency, and asked him for a job. Although she had no desire for a career, modeling was an acceptable way to earn money in her social circle, and she had decided that it would provide at least a temporary answer to her bewildering financial problems.

But to her dismay, Steward had told her she was too short. "No matter how beautiful a model is, she simply has to be five feet eight inches if she's to do fashion," he had said. "You're barely five feet two.

Of course, I might be able to get you some beauty work-close-ups, you know, but you'll need some

test shots done first."

That was when she had lost her temper, shouting at him that she had been photographed for some of

the most important magazines in the world and that she hardly needed to do test shots like some rank amateur. Now she realized that it had been foolish of her to become so upset, but at the time she simply hadn't been able to help herself.

Although it had been a year since Chloe's death, Francesca still found it difficult to accept the loss of her mother. Sometimes her grief seemed to be alive, a tangible object that had twisted itself around her. At first her friends had been sympathetic, but after a few months, they seemed to believe that she should

set her sadness aside like last year's hem length. She was afraid they would stop issuing invitations if she didn't become a more cheerful companion, and she hated being alone, so she had finally learned to tuck her grief away. When she was in public, she laughed and flirted as if nothing were wrong.

Surprisingly, the laughter had begun to help, and in the last few months she had felt that she was finally healing.

Sometimes she even experienced vague stirrings of anger against Chloe. How could her mother have deserted her like this, with an army of creditors waiting like a plague of locusts to snatch up everything they owned? But the anger never lasted for long. Now that it was too late, Francesca understood why Chloe had seemed so tired and distracted in those months before she had been hit by the taxi.

Within weeks of Chloe's death, men in three-piece suits had begun to appear at the door with legal documents and greedy eyes. First Chloe's jewelry had disappeared, then the Aston Martin and the paintings. Finally the house itself had been sold. That had settled the last of the debts, but it had left Francesca with only a few hundred pounds, most of which was gone now, and temporarily lodged at the home of Cissy Kavendish, one of Chloe's oldest friends. Unfortunately, Francesca and Cissy had never gotten along all that well, and since the beginning of September, Cissy had made it clear that she wanted Francesca to move out. Francesca wasn't certain how much longer she could hold her off with vague promises.

She forced herself to laugh at Talmedge Butler's joke and tried to find comfort in the idea that being without money was a bore, but merely a temporary situation. She caught sight of Nicholas across the room in his navy Gieves and Hawkes blazer and knife-pleated gray trousers. If she married him, she could have all the money she would ever possibly need, but she had only seriously entertained the idea

for the absolute briefest of moments one afternoon a few weeks ago after she'd received a telephone call from a perfectly odious man who had threatened her with all sorts of unpleasant things if she didn't make a payment on her credit cards. No, Nicholas Gwynwyck wasn't a solution to her problems. She despised women who were so desperate, so unsure of themselves, that they married for money. She was only twenty-one. Her future was too special, too bright with promise, to ruin because of a temporary upset. Something would happen soon. All she had to do was wait.

"… is a piece of trash that I shall transform into art." The snag of conversation spoken by an elegant Noel Cowardish man with a short cigarette holder and manicured hair caught Francesca's attention. He broke away from Miranda Gwynwyck to materialize at her side. "Hello, my dear," he said. "You are incredibly lovely, and I've been waiting all evening to have you to myself. Miranda said I would enjoy you."

She smiled and placed her hand in his outstretched one. "Francesca Day," she said. "I hope I'm worth

the wait."

"Lloyd Byron, and you most definitely are. We met earlier, although you probably don't remember."

"On the contrary, I remember very well. You're a friend of Miranda's, a famous film director."

"A hack, I'm afraid, who has once again sold himself out for the Yankee dollar." He tilted his head back dramatically and spoke to the ceiling, releasing a perfect smoke ring. "Miserable thing, money. It makes extraordinary people do all sorts of depraved things."

Francesca's eyes widened mischievously. "Exactly how many depraved things have you done, or is one permitted to inquire?"

"Far, far too many." He took a sip from a tumbler generously filled with what looked like straight scotch. "Everything connected with Hollywood is depraved. I, however, am determined to put my own stamp

on even the most crassly commercial product."

"How absolutely courageous of you." She smiled with what she hoped would pass for admiration, but

was actually amusement at his almost perfect parody of the world-weary director forced to compromise his art.

Lloyd Byron's eyes traced her cheekbones and then lingered on her mouth, his inspection admiring but dispassionate enough to tell her that he preferred male companionship to female. He pursed his lips and leaned forward as if he were sharing a great secret. "In two days, darling Francesca, I'm leaving for godforsaken Mississippi to begin filming something called Delta Blood, a script that I have single-handedly transformed from a wretched piece of garbage into a strong spiritual statement."

"I simply adore spiritual statements," she cooed, lifting a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray while she covertly inspected Sarah Fargate-Smyth's barber-pole-striped taffeta dress, trying to decide whether it was Adolfo or Valentino.

"I intend to make Delta Blood an allegory, a statement of reverence for both life and death." He made

a dramatic gesture with his glass without spilling a drop. "The enduring cycle of natural order. Do you understand?"

"Enduring cycles are my particular specialty."

For a moment he seemed to peer through her skin, and then he pressed his eyes shut dramatically. "I can feel your life force beating so strongly in the air that it steals my breath. You send out invisible vibrations with just the smallest movement of your head." He pressed his hand to his cheek. "I'm absolutely never wrong about people. Feel my skin. It's positively clammy."

She laughed. "Perhaps the prawns are a bit off."

He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Love. I've fallen in love. I absolutely have to have you

in my film. From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd be perfect for the part of Lucinda."

Francesca lifted one eyebrow. "I'm not an actress. Whatever gave you that idea?"

He frowned. "1 never put labels on people. You are what I perceive you to be. I'm going to tell my producer I simply refuse to do the film without you."

"Don't you think that's a little extreme?" she said with a smile. "You've known me less than five minutes."

"I've known you my entire life, and I always trust my instincts; that's what separates me from the others." His lips formed a perfect oval and emitted a second smoke ring. "The role is small but memorable. I'm experimenting with the concept of physical as well as spiritual time travel-a southern plantation at the height of its nineteenth-century prosperity and then the plantation today, fallen to decay. I want to use you in the beginning in several short but infinitely memorable scenes, playing the part of a young English virgin who comes to the plantation. She never speaks, yet her presence absolutely consumes the screen. The part could become a showcase for you if you're interested in a serious career."

For a fraction of a moment, Francesca actually felt a wild, madly irrational stab of temptation. A film career would be the perfect answer to all her financial difficulties, and the drama of performing had always appealed to her. She thought of her friend Marisa Berenson, who seemed to be having a perfectly wonderful time with her film career, and then she nearly laughed aloud at her own naivete. Legitimate directors hardly walked up to strange women at cocktail parties and offered them film roles.

Byron had whipped a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket and was scribbling something inside with a gold pen. "I have to leave London tomorrow for the States, so ring me at my hotel before noon. This is where I'm staying. Don't disappoint me, Francesca. My entire future is riding on your decision. You absolutely can't pass up the chance to appear in a major American film."

As she took the paper from him and slid it into her pocket, she restrained herself from commenting that Delta Blood hardly sounded like a major American film. "It's been lovely meeting you, Lloyd, but I'm afraid I'm not an actress."

He pressed both hands-one containing his drink and the other his cigarette holder-over his ears so that he looked something like a smoke-producing space creature. "No negative thoughts! You are what I say you are. The creative mind absolutely cannot afford negative thoughts. Call me before noon, darling. I simply have to have you!"

With that, he headed back toward Miranda. As she watched him, Francesca felt a hand settle on her shoulder, and a voice whispered in her ear, "He's not the only one who has to have you."

"Nicky Gwynwyck, you're a horrid sex fiend," Francesca said, turning to plant a fleeting kiss on his smoothly shaven jaw. "I just met the most amusing little man. Do you know him?"

Nicholas shook his head. "He's one of Miranda's friends. Come into the dining room, darling. I want to show you the new de Kooning."

Francesca dutifully inspected the painting, then chatted with several of Nicky's friends. She forgot about Lloyd Byron until Miranda Gwynwyck cornered her just as she and Nicholas were getting ready to leave.

"Congratulations, Francesca," Miranda said, "I heard the wonderful news. You seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. Rather like a cat…"

Francesca heartily disliked Nicholas's sister. She found Miranda as dry and brittle as the lean brown twig she resembled, as well as ridiculously overprotective of a brother old enough to take care of himself. The two women had long ago given up the attempt to maintain more than a surface courtesy. "Speaking of cats," she said pleasantly, "you're looking divine, Miranda. How clever of you to combine stripes and plaids like that. But what wonderful news are you talking about?"

"Why, Lloyd's film, of course. Before he left, he told me he was casting you in an important part. Everyone in the room is green with envy."

"You actually believed him?" Francesca quirked one eyebrow.

"Shouldn't I have?"

"Of course not. I've hardly been reduced to appearing in fourth-rate films."

Nicholas's sister tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes gleaming with uncharacteristic brightness. "Poor Francesca. Fourth-rate, indeed. I thought you knew everyone. Obviously you're not as au courant as you want people to believe."

Francesca, who considered herself the most au courant person she knew, could barely conceal her annoyance. "What do you mean by that?"

"Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just surprised you haven't heard of Lloyd. He won the Golden Palm at Cannes four years ago, don't you remember? The critics are simply wild about him-all his films are marvelous allegories-and everyone is certain his new production is going to be a huge success. He works with only the best people."

Francesca felt a tiny thrill of excitement as Miranda went on to list all the famous actors with whom Byron had worked. Despite her politics, Miranda Gwynwyck was a terrible snob, and if she considered Lloyd Byron a respectable director, Francesca decided she needed to give his offer a bit more consideration.

Unfortunately, as soon as they left his sister's home, Nicky took her to a private club that had just

opened in Chelsea. They stayed until nearly one, and then he proposed again and they had another terrible row-the absolute final one as far as she was concerned-so she didn't get to sleep until very late. As a result, it was well past noon before she awoke the next day, and even then she only did so because Miranda called her to ask some nonsensical question about a dressmaker.

Leaping out of bed, she cursed Cissy's maid for not having awakened her earlier and then flew across the carpeted floor of the guest bedroom, tugging open the sash on the front of her putty and salmon Natori nightgown as she moved. She bathed quickly, then threw herself into a pair of black wool trousers

topped with a crimson and yellow Sonia Rykiel sweater. After applying the bare minimum of blusher,

eye makeup, and lip gloss, then tugging on a pair of knee-high zippered boots, she dashed off to Byron's hotel where the clerk informed her the director had already checked out.

"Did he leave a message?" she asked, tapping her fingernails impatiently on the counter.

"I'll check."

The clerk returned a moment later with an envelope. Francesca ripped it open and quickly scanned the message.

Hosannas, Francesca darling!

If you're reading this, you've come to your senses, although it was absolutely inhumane of you not to have called before I left. I must have you in Louisiana by this Friday at the absolute latest. Fly into Gulfport, Mississippi, and hire a driver to take you to the Wentworth plantation according to enclosed directions. My assistant will handle work permit, contract, etc., when you arrive, and will reimburse you for travel expenses as well. Wire your acceptance immediately in care of the plantation address so I can once again draw an easy breath.

Ciao, my beautiful new star!

Francesca tucked the directions into her purse along with Byron's note. She remembered how exquisite Marisa Bererjson had looked in both Cabaret and Barry Lyndon and how jealous she had been when she'd seen the films. What a perfectly wonderful way to make money.

And then she frowned as she recalled Byron's comment about reimbursing her for her travel expenses. If only she'd gotten hold of him earlier so he could have arranged for her ticket. Now she'd have to pay for it herself, and she was almost certain she didn't have enough money left in her account to cover her air fare. This ridiculous nonsense about her credit cards had temporarily closed off that avenue, and after last night she absolutely refused to talk to Nicky. So where was she to get the money for a plane ticket? She glanced at the clock behind the desk and saw that she was late for her appointment with her hairdresser. With a sigh, she tucked her purse under her arm. She'd just have to find a way.

"Excuse me, Mr. Beaudine." The buxom Delta flight attendant stopped next to Dallie's seat. "Would you mind signing an autograph for my nephew? He plays on his high school golf team. His name's Matthew, and he's a big fan of yours."

Dallie flashed her breasts an appreciative smile and then raised his eyes to her face, which wasn't quite

as good as the rest of her, but was still mighty fine. "Be happy to," he said, taking the pad and pen she handed him. "Sure hope he plays better than I've been playing lately."

"The co-pilot told me you ran into a little trouble at Firestone a few weeks back."

"Honey, I invented trouble at Firestone."

She laughed appreciatively and then dropped her voice so that only he could hear. "I'll bet you've invented trouble in a lot of places besides golf courses."

"I do my best." He gave her a slow grin.

"Look me up next time you're in L.A., why don't you?" She scribbled something on the pad he handed back to her, ripped it off, and gave it to him right along with another smile.

As she moved away, he shoved the paper in the pocket of his jeans where it rustled against another piece of paper that the girl at the Avis counter had slipped to him when he'd left Los Angeles.

Skeet growled at him from the window seat. "Bet you she don't even have a nephew, or if she does he's never heard of you."

Dallie opened a paperback copy of Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions and began to read. He hated talking to Skeet on airplanes about as much as he hated anything. Skeet didn't like traveling unless he

was doing it on four Goodyear radials and an interstate highway. The few times they'd had to abandon Dallie's newest Riviera to fly cross-country for a tournament-like this trek from Atlanta out to L.A. and back-Skeet's normal temper, prickly at best, turned completely sour.

Now he glowered at Dallie. "When are we getting in to Mobile? I hate these damned planes, and don't you start in on me again 'bout the laws of physics. You know and I know that there's nothing but air between us and the ground, and air can't hardly be expected to hold up something this big."

Dallie closed his eyes and said mildly, "Shut up, Skeet."

"Don't you go to sleep on me. Dammit, Dallie, I mean it! You know how much I hate to fly. Least you could do is stay awake and keep me company."

"I'm tired. Didn't get enough sleep last night."

"No wonder. Carousing till two in the morning and then bringing that mangy dog back with you."

Dallie opened his eyes and gave Skeet a sideways glance. "I don't think Astrid would like being called a mangy dog."

"Not her! The dog, you fool! Dammit, Dallie, I could hear that mutt whining right through the wall of

the motel."

"What was I supposed to do?" Dallie answered, turning to meet Skeet's scowl. "Leave it starving by the freeway?"

"How much did you give 'em at the motel desk before we left this morning?"

Dallie muttered something Skeet couldn't quite hear.

"Whadja say?" Skeet repeated belligerently.

"A hundred, I said! A hundred now and another hundred next year when I come back and find the dog

in good shape."

"Damn fool," Skeet muttered. "You and your strays. You got mangy dogs boarded away with motel managers in thirty states. I don't even know how you half keep track. Dogs. Runaway kids…"

"Kid. There was only one, and I put him on a Trailways bus the same day."

"You and your damn strays."

Dallie's gaze slowly swept Skeet from head to toe. "Yeah," he said. "Me and my goddamn strays."

That shut Skeet up for a while, which was exactly what Dallie had intended. He opened his book for the second time, and three pieces of blue stationery folded in half slipped out into his lap. He unfolded them, taking in the border of romping Snoopys across the top and the row of X's at the end, and then he began to read.

Dear Dallie,

I'm lying at the side of Rocky Halley's swimming pool with just about an inch and a half of purple bikini between myself and notoriety. Do you remember Sue Louise Jefferson, the little girl who worked at the Dairy Queen and betrayed her parents by going north to Purdue instead of to East Texas Baptist because she wanted to be the Boilermakers' Golden Girl, but then she got knocked

up after the Ohio State game by a Buckeye linebacker instead? (Purdue lost, 21-13.) Anyway, I've been thinking about one day a few years back when Sue Louise was still in Wynette and she was feeling like Wynette High and her boyfriend were getting to be 100 much for her. Sue Louise looked over at me (I'd ordered a vanilla chocolate twist with sprinkles) and said, "I been thinking that life's like a Dairy Queen, Holly Grace. Either it tastes so good it gives you the shivers or it's melting all over your hand."

Life's melting, Dallie.

After coming in at fifty percent over quota for those bloodsuckers at Sports Equipment International, I was pulled into the office last week by the new V.P. who told me they're promoting someone else to southwest regional sales manager. Since that Someone Else bap-pens to be male and barely made quota last year, I hit the roof and told the V.P. he was looking right down the bosom of an Equal Opportunity lawsuit. He said, "Now, now, honey. You women are too sensitive about this sort of thing. I want you

to trust me." At which point I told him I wouldn't trust him not to get a hard-on in an old ladies'

retirement home. Several more heated exchanges followed, which is why I'm currently lying beside old Number 22's swimming pool instead of living in airports.

News on the brighter side-I Farrah Fawcetted my hair until it looks just short of spectacular, and the Firebird's running great. (It was the carburetor, just like you said.)

Don't buy any bridges, Dallie, and keep making those birdies.

Love,

Holly Grace

P.S. I made up some of that about Sue Louise Jefferson, so if you happen to see her next time you're in Wynette, don't mention anything about the Buckeye linebacker.

Dallie smiled to himself, folded the letter into quarters, and tucked it into his shirt pocket, the closest place he could find to his heart.