Beauty Queen (9 page)

Why dont you try Google? Jo Lynn suggested.

Who?

Google. When Rebecca blinked, Jo Lynn sighed. All that expensive equipment and not a lick of sense to know how to use it. Look here, she said, pointing to a search box. Go to Google.com ... all right, there you are. Now type in whatever youre looking for and youll get every Web site known to man.

Rebecca two-fingered STRIP MINING and miracle of miracles, up popped pages and pages of Web sites. Eureka! Gosh, Jo Lynn, howd you get so smart?

I dont know, she laughed. I guess I always had a curiosity about things, just like my mama. She was so curious, you know, she ran off with the circus.

Your mom is in the circus ? Grayson gasped.

No, honey, Rebecca laughed. Jo Lynns mom didnt run away with a circus, she said with all authority, then looked uncertainly at Jo Lynn. Did she?

Of course not! Jo Lynn grinned, her dentures stark white against her leathery skin. Thats just what my grandma used to tell us kids to make us feel better, she explained as she walked toward the back door, where she paused, looking absently out the screen door. I suspect she was trying to put a little lipstick on that pig, cause I know for a fact it was just a carnival you think Barnum and Bailey ever came to Ruby Falls? She laughed, shook her head as she pushed the screen door open and marched through it. Grayson, you take good care of them dogs, now! she called as she bounded down the steps, leaving Grayson and Rebecca to gape at her as she cranked up the golf cart she used to travel the thatch of blackjack oak between their houses.

A half hour later, with Grayson napping in his race car bed, Rebecca was on page sixteen of the seemingly endless list of Web sites devoted to either the benefits or detriments of strip mining. Yet in pages and pages of Web sites and reference links, there was one thing that was so conspicuous that it might as well have been an elephant standing in her kitchen. Strip mining was not. apparently, a major problem in Texas; just in the one spot near Austin about which Texas Monthly had reported.

So in answer to her question exactly how big a moron could one person beshe could say about five feet ten inches and one hundred and thirty divorce-skinny pounds worth, because that horrible devil of a man was right. So much for her inarguable stance on protecting natural habitats.

Rebecca buried her face in her hands; she had no business being in this group of campaign people, absolutely none. But no way was she turning back nowshed turned back all her life, and this time, she was pushing forward, because this gig had too much potential for her.

In a fit of frustration, Rebecca got up from the computer, went to the fridge, opened it wide, and stood, staring blindly at the contents. She could not erase the image of one supreme, holier-than-thou, smiling Matt Popinjay when she reported back that maybe strip mining wasnt such a

big deal after all. Frankly, shed rather be tossed into a murky hole of water and eaten by piranhas, or whatever it was they did on Fear Factor.

She was not going to let that pompous ass intimidate her.

Rebecca slammed the fridge door shut without taking anything out and marched back to her computer, sat hard, glaring at Google as if it was that things fault, and punched in TEXAS POLITICS.

Unqualified Applicant Rule 8: Never let them see you cry.

Positive Affirmations of My Life:

1. Google.com
   

2. Jo Lynn
   

3. I am not, nor have I ever been, as pompous as Mr. Big Pants (P.S. really must find alternative source for insult vocab other than Cartoon Network)
   

As it turned out. the next day dawned gloriously brilliant, and Rebecca happily sucked the early spring air into her lungs during her predawn moment of becoming one with nature. This day, bright and sunny as it promised to be, was exactly the type her new book (this one from Robin), A Brand-New Day: Starting Up and Starting Over, said was perfect for fostering attacks on new challenges. She had a new challenge, all right. She was a campaign strategist! She paused, visualizing herself as such .. . sleek shades, coo! crime-fighting pants and boots, adoring crowds . . .

Okay, so shed just learned the art alreadyshe needed a little practice yet.

Later that afternoon, with the newly named Frank lying at the foot of her bed and Bean lying half under it, she dressed in black slacks, a sleeveless sky blue sweater, and matching black and blue checkered sandals (having determined that in Austin, Chanel suits were perhaps a bit overstated, unless one was someone really important, like God or Renee Zellwegger). After ushering the dogs outside, Rebecca popped into her Range Rover and hummed cheerfully along to her Modern Mozart as she sped down the two-lane road. Beside her was a brand-new ultra-chic briefcase, which was, for once, holding something besides a lipstick, a pen, and a blank notebook. In the back was a cardboard box stuffed with some surprises for the campaign staff and the new campaign offices.

She pulled into the parking lot of the Little Maverick Preschool just as Grayson appeared with his enormous backpack. Head down, he walked in that determined way of his to the Range Rover and climbed inside.

Hey, kiddo, Rebecca said as he struggled with the seat belt. How was your day?

Okay. He looked out the window.

So what did you do today?

I pushed Taylor down, he said, as if that was as commonplace as nap time; which, alarmingly, it was fast becoming.

Grayson! she exclaimed, thumping him on the shoulder. I told you not to push him down!

I know, Grayson said, shrugging. But he said my dad isnt really my dad.

What do you mean, your dad isnt really your dad?

Taylor said that isnt my dad on the radio, Grayson repeated, looking up at her with Buds hazel eyes.

Unfortunately, having handed the first three or four years of his life to a nanny, her maternal skills were far less honed than her maternal instincts, but her instincts said this squabble with Taylor was growing into something much bigger than a playground thing. I dont care what Taylor

says about anything, Grayson Andrew. If you push him down again, I will bend you over my knee and spank you like Ive never spanked you before, do you understand?

But youve never spanked me, Mom.

That is beside the point, young man! Do you understand what I am telling you? she demanded.

He nodded, rubbed his hand across his nose. He is my dad, he muttered.

Of course he is your dad. You know it, I know it. Who cares what Taylor So-and-So thinks?

Grayson lolled his head against the car seat.

She glared at him a second longer (fat lot of good glaring did in the bigger scheme of things, really), and handed him a pack of Yu-Gi-Oh! trading cards she had picked up earlier. Grayson eagerly bent over them as she pulled out of the parking lot bound for Austin, reminding Grayson, in her most authoritative voice, that they were going to a grown-up meeting and he would have to remain very quiet while Mom worked.

Mom! You dont work! he laughed.

Rebecca judiciously ignored that remark.

She was way too early. Were just going to have to turn down the enthusiasm a notch or two, she announced to Grayson, who said okay. Fortunately, the leasing agent was early, too, and was more than happy to hand the key to Rebecca, seeing as how it was almost five oclock and he had other places to be like everyone else in the free world (except her, naturally), which left them with a half hour before the meeting. Actually, that was perfectshe could do a little pre-meeting decorating.

Rebecca and Grayson walked into the entry of what was the new campaign headquarters. It was the size of a postage stamp.

Is this the doctors? Grayson asked.

No, its a campaign office.

Whats that?

Its where people like the president work to get elected.

Ooh, he said, clearly having no idea what she meant.

They wandered down the narrow corridor, looking into various rooms (well, she wandered Gray took each room as a new opportunity to be shot and killed by a new assailant). Rebecca was, truthfully, a little disappointed that the new campaign offices were the exact opposite of Toms posh capitol suite. This rental property was definitely government-issue, with drab gray walls and linoleum floors, and big metal desks and chairs. There was one big room that she presumed would host the phone bank, another large, conferencelike room near the entry, and squeezed between were a handful of small, bleak and windowless offices. At the end of the hallway, flanked by his and her bathrooms, was a larger office with a window overlooking the parking lot for Tom to meet constituents and campaign contributors.

Having completed their tour, Rebecca and Grayson got the big box out of the back of the Rover. As Rebecca hung a few items to give the place a more lived-in, viable-campaign-office feel, Grayson amused himself on the floor with a Hot Wheel, which he repeatedly slammed into the wall, accompanying the cars collision with crash sounds of his own.

Mother and son both jumped when they heard the front door bang open and someone come striding in. That someone rounded the corner into the large room with conviction, and damn it if his eyes didnt seem to narrow and the corner of his mouth just barely quirk up when he saw Rebecca. But he had not seen Grayson on the floor until it was almost too late, and had to skid awkwardly to his left to avoid tripping right over him. He stopped dead in his tracks, stared down at Grayson, then looked at Rebecca.

Oh, but she was ready for him! Hello Matt, she said, her hands finding her hips.

Hello, Rebecca, he answered, mimicking her with a smile.

This is my son, Grayson.

Grayson stood, big dusty patches on his knees, and blinked up at the man towering over him.

For a moment, Matt didnt seem quite so arrogant he

smiled warmly. Hey, Grayson, hows it hanging? he asked, and held out his hand, palm up. Grayson looked at his big hand for a moment, then suddenly reared back and slapped Matts hand as hard as he could.

Ah, so its hanging pretty good, eh? Matt remarked with a chuckle. Grayson nodded solemnly, and continued to stare up at Matt as he stepped around him and walked into the middle of the room.

Cute kid, he said to Rebecca.

Thanks. Do you have kids?

Me? Nah, he said, like it was unthinkable, and put his hands on his waist as he looked around.

Right. Probably qpe of those guys afraid to commit to anything more than his morning jog, which, by the way, judging by his physique, he obviously managed to do on a fairly regular basis.

But I hope to have a whole houseful someday, he said casually.

Ooh ... she had not expected that response. Particu-larly and most especially because she had once dreamed of the same thing. But she remembered who she was talking to and peered at him, prepared for the possibility that he was messing with her.

Youre early, he said. He was not, apparently, messing with her.

So are you.

He paused, nodding thoughtfully at her. Damn, he was good-looking, wasnt he?

Anyone else here?

Ah ... no, just us. Rebecca folded her arms, looked out the window, feeling suddenly very self-conscious under his casual perusal as her previous, self-visualized kick-ass campaign strategist evaporated into thin air. What was the matter with her, anyway? Men looked at her all the time well, not precisely like that, really. Actually, they never looked at her like that. Men ogled her. But Matt wasnt ogling, he was just... looking. And that, for some odd reason, put butterflies in her stomach. He had a certain way about him, an air or something. It was what her book

Friends and Lovers, and How to Tell the Difference called brooding. Yeah, brooding, that mysterious thing going on, like he knew something she didnt. For example, at the moment, he was smiling. An amused little smile.

Love what youve done with the place, he said, shifting his gaze to the small American and Texas flags and the motivational poster promoting teamwork.

Really? she asked brightly.

He looked around again. Honestly? I think this is about the ugliest place Tom could have found.

I thought the same thing, she admitted, mildly disappointed he hadnt commented on the personal touches. But I guess looks dont matter when youre on a campaign budget, right?

Matt glanced at her as if she were completely out of her mind (which she probably was evidence: She was here). Image is everything in a campaign. You have to look and act the part if people are going to believe you can do the part. Candidates spend thousands and thousands on getting just the right image across. Id think you of all people would know how important image is. *

Her of all people? And what was that supposed to mean? And just when she was on the brink of giving him the benefit of the doubt! Yes, she said, nodding thoughtfully. I think I see what you mean ... sort of like, if you really want to be a smart-ass, it helps if you look like one, too.

Or, he said, not missing a beat, if you want to be gorgeous, you pretty much have to look gorgeous. And then he smiled that dimply, heart-sinking smile, and no amount of racking her brain was going to come up with a pithy comeback for that one. Not that Matt cared he was too busy looking at one of her motivational posters. I sure hope you didnt spend a lot of money on this shi... stuff.

Mom always spends lots of money, Grayson remarked.

Gray! Rebecca cried.

One of Marts dark brows lifted above his gray eyes something else she hadnt remembered being quite so gorgeous, and dammit if she didnt feel a little warmth in her cheeks. Warmth? Oh nooooo, she wasnt having any of that!

Self-consciously, she lifted her hand to her nape and rubbed.

So, what did you do before this? Matt asked, having lost interest in the motivational poster as he walked closer to where she stood, wearing a lopsided smile.

I was at home, she said, wondering frantically now if her cheeks were actually showing any sign of this absurd warmth she was not going to have.