Between Heaven and Texas (29 page)

C
HAPTER 50

C
. J. was right. Mary Dell would dine at the Mansion again in later years, eventually becoming such a regular patron that waiters would bring her Dr Pepper without even bothering to ask for her order. But she would never forget that first visit, the exquisitely beautiful room, the starched tablecloths and sparkling cutlery, the delicious food, the kindness of her hosts, or what happened at dessert.

Mary Dell had just sampled the chocolate mousse and made a joke about being relieved not to find any antlers when Libby asked if she had any pictures of her family.

“As a matter of fact . . .” she said, quickly pulling out her wallet and passing around snapshots of Taffy and Dutch, Silky and Velvet, Lydia Dale and the children, and, finally, Howard.

Libby took the picture, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord,” she murmured through the lattice of her fingers. “C. J., have you seen this?”

Up until then, C. J. had perused the photos politely but briefly, as most men would, but when Libby handed him the snapshot of Howard, he stared at it for a long while. His eyes filled with tears. Libby reached over and squeezed his arm.

“Your son has Down syndrome?” he asked. “So did my little brother. He was eight when he died. Heart.”

Mary Dell wasn't sure what to say. She wanted to ask him about his brother, to know if they'd been close, if he'd lived at home or in an institution, if C. J. had been with him when he died, but she didn't think it was her place to pry into a subject that was obviously still so painful.

“I'm so sorry,” she said quietly.

“And your son . . . Howard? Is he . . . ?”

“Doing real well,” she assured him. “Very healthy, and his heart is perfect. He can smile and lift his head on his own. When I get home, I'm going to teach him to roll over.”

“That's good. Very good.”

C. J. crooked his index finger and touched his knuckle to the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure.

“Mary Dell, there's something I want to propose to you. I'd like you to carry White Star fabric in your shop.”

“Of course,” she replied. “I was going to do that anyway.”

“I'd like you to carry twenty-five hundred bolts.”

Mary Dell's stomach lurched.

“But . . . I can't. Not that I don't want to, but . . . where would I get the money?”

“Yes, yes. I know,” C. J. said in a distracted voice and started patting the front of his jacket, trying to feel if there was another cigar inside. “But you've only got one chance to make a first impression. In a town as small as Too Much, you're going to have to attract people from out of town to survive. The Patchwork Palace needs to become a destination. But people won't drive out of their way to visit your shop if you don't have an inventory that's worth the trip.

“Here's what I propose: You make White Star your exclusive wholesaler. In exchange, I will send you twenty-five hundred bolts of our best quilting fabric . . . ah, ah, ah!” He held up a cautioning finger as he saw Mary Dell's mouth open to protest. “Let me finish.

“I will send you the fabric, but you don't have to pay me for it—not up front. I'm going to supply it to you on commission. What you sell, you pay for. What you don't sell, you can send back.”

“Without paying for it?” Mary Dell held up her hand. “No, C. J. Absolutely not. I can't let you do me special favors just because I have a son with Down syndrome. It's not fair to you. And it's not good business.”

“How would you know?” he countered. “I've been at this for forty years. You haven't even opened your doors yet. And since I own the company, I can do whatever I want.”

He frowned and pulled a cigar out of his pocket. Libby clutched at her husband's sleeve and gave him a look. C. J. made a little growling sound. “I know, I know,” he said and clenched the unlit cigar between his teeth.

“Yes, Mary Dell. I lost a brother to Down syndrome. I couldn't help him, so I'd like to help Howard, and you. Would that be bad business? No. Absolutely not.

“If your shop starts off on the right foot, I've gained a customer for life. I'll make money, you'll make money, and everyone will be happy.
But,
” he said, taking the unlit cigar from between his teeth and pointing it at her, “if your shop fails because your inventory is so small that people don't come or don't come back, I'll have lost a customer and an opportunity.”

He picked up his cigar, wedged it back between his teeth, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave her a triumphant look, daring her to dispute his logic.

Mary Dell smiled. “You
are
a good salesman, C. J., but I'm not buying. I'm not going to take advantage of you just because of Howard. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

 

In the end, in spite of her protestations, he wore her down. White Star Fabrics would be the exclusive supplier of the Patchwork Palace, and the Patchwork Palace would sell that fabric on commission, but only for the initial order of 2,500 bolts. After that, they'd have to pay up front, just like everybody else. On this point, Mary Dell was immovable. She and C. J. shook on it and that was that; the deal was sealed.

It was after eleven when the driver dropped her off at the hotel. She knew she should go to sleep, but she couldn't. She felt like going dancing, or sliding down the big brass banister in the hotel lobby, or opening up the windows and hollering for pure joy. She wanted to call home and tell Lydia Dale about everything that had happened, but she didn't know how to make a long-distance call on the hotel telephone, and anyway, it was too late to call.

Instead, she opened the minibar, pulled out a Dr Pepper, and poured it into a cut-crystal glass and carried it with her into the bathroom, then filled up the tub, using the entire bottle of bubble bath.

After abandoning her dress in a gold lamé heap on the marble floor, she slipped into the hot, sweet-smelling water, took a long drink from the crystal goblet of cherry-and-cola nectar, then settled back in the bathtub, wreathed by mounds of bubbles, an angel floating on a gardenia-scented cloud.

“I could get so used to this.”

C
HAPTER 51

L
ydia Dale was feeling frazzled. It was only the second day of summer vacation, and already she felt ready to take a switch to the kids. They'd been bickering since breakfast.

Jeb knew just how to push his baby sister's buttons, and Cady, not old enough to realize that she was doing exactly what he wanted, came right back at him. Lydia Dale was so frustrated that she punished them both. She cut off their television privileges, took away Cady's Barbies, and forbade Jeb from going out to help Graydon. Of course, this left them with nothing to do besides pick on each other even more. Taking away Jeb's barn privileges seemed to be the only threat that got his attention, except today it hadn't. After warning them both three times, she had no choice but to follow through.

She knew that Jeb was acting up because it was Friday and he was anxious and angry about having to go to Jack Benny's that afternoon, but what could she do? Ignore the judge's orders?

Taffy and Dutch went to Waco just before lunch. Dutch had a doctor's appointment in the afternoon, and they were going to get some new tires on Mary Dell's car beforehand. The doctor was running late, so Taffy didn't get back to watch the babies when she'd said she would. Lydia Dale would have brought them with her, but there wasn't room for all five of them in the truck. So between all of that and the kids' fighting and Jeb's dawdling when they finally
were
able to leave, she was more than an hour late dropping the kids off at Jack Benny's.

Cady kissed her good-bye before running to the house, but Jeb wouldn't speak to her. He slammed the door when he got out of the truck, didn't wave to her, and didn't say anything to his daddy when Jack Benny strode past, heading toward the truck, holding a Lone Star and looking angry. But then, Jack Benny didn't say anything to him either.

Jack Benny spat a brown stream of tobacco onto the ground as he approached the truck.

Wonderful,
Lydia Dale thought as she rolled down the window.
Because cigarettes weren't disgusting enough.

Jack Benny stood right next to her door, spread his boot-shod feet, hooked his thumb into his belt, took a slug from his beer, and stood there, posing, not saying anything, just staring daggers at her.

He was trying to intimidate her, to get her to apologize, but Lydia Dale was done apologizing to Jack Benny, and she wasn't going to let him or anyone intimidate her ever again.

“Where the hell have you been?” he finally asked. “I've got better things to do than sit around waiting for you to show up.”

“I doubt that. You haven't worked in months.”

She couldn't believe she'd actually said that. She knew from experience that there was no point in arguing with him, especially after he'd had a couple of beers, but the words just slipped out. Judging from the look on his face, Jack Benny couldn't believe she'd said it either.

He started cussing, going through the entire long list of expletives that Lydia Dale figured made up a good 20 percent of his vocabulary, words she mostly hadn't even known the meaning of until after they'd gotten married and had their first fight.

Lydia Dale turned the key in the ignition. “If you want to talk to me, then you need to clean up your language. Because I am not in the mood for this today, Jack Benny. I'm really not.”

“That's nothing new,” he sneered. “When were you ever in the mood for anything?”

“With you? Never. But I managed to give you three children anyway. Why don't you go back inside and play with them instead of standing out here trying to pick a fight with me?”

“Three?” He worked up another mouthful of spit, took aim, and let fly right on her front tire. “Don't you mean two?”

Lydia Dale turned off the engine.

“What are you talking about?” she said in a flat voice. “Don't tell me that you've heard Marlena tell that lie so many times you've actually started to believe it. Rob Lee is yours, and you know it.”

His eyes narrowed to slits, like he was taking aim down a gun barrel. “What I know is that we weren't together but that one time in four months . . .”

“Because you were too busy drinking and bedding every sorry piece of trash in a fifty-mile radius to come home nights!”

“. . . and you turn up pregnant.” He held up his index finger. “One time. In four months. It took us a year to have Cady, and that was when we were trying. And you expect me to believe I knocked you up after one time?

“That kid's not mine, and you know it. You got pregnant and then slept with me, lured me into bed so nobody would know what you'd done. You,” he said in a voice dripping with disgust. “Always so high and mighty, so pure, pushing me away, acting like you're better than everybody else. Your family too. You're nothing. Nothing.”

“Lured you? I lured
you?
” Lydia Dale laughed aloud. “You begged me to go to bed with you that night, Jack Benny. You fed me liquor and told me lies about how it was all over between you and Carla Jean. And then you cried. You bawled like a baby and begged me to take you back. And I believed you. I actually believed you!”

She laughed again, partly from disbelief at the extent of her previous gullibility and partly from the irony of it all. Was it really possible that her ex-husband, the biggest serial adulterer in Central Texas, was standing there accusing her of getting pregnant by another man and then seducing him to cover up her indiscretion? He couldn't be serious. He knew what had happened the night Rob Lee had been conceived.

But as he always had when confronted with inconvenient truths or his own failings, Jack Benny simply disregarded the facts and shifted the blame.

“It's not my kid,” he hissed. “You tried to trick me. You tried to pass that Bebee bastard off as mine.”

“That Bebee . . .” she stammered, incredulous. “Jack Benny, even
you
can't be that stupid. Graydon Bebee didn't even come to Too Much until after Rob Lee was born. He's not the father of my child, you are. Believe me, I wish he was Graydon's baby. I wish he was anyone's but yours—”

Seething with jealousy for a woman he no longer wanted, Jack Benny piled his words on top of hers, listening to no one, acknowledging no facts, hearing nothing except that she wished that someone else had fathered her child.

“Momma warned me about you. And those Bebees . . . That damned Donny, always trying to boss me around, lording it over me. And his brother, coming after my wife, then trying to take my son, turning my children against me . . .”

Lydia Dale rolled her eyes, dismissing his drunken tirade. “Go inside, Jack Benny. Sleep it off.”

Infuriated, he shouted and threw his beer bottle down as hard as he could. It shattered, spraying beer and foam and bits of glass on the gravel. Jack Benny lunged toward the open truck window as if to strike her, but Lydia Dale pulled back, dodging him easily.

There was a squeak and a bang, the sound of the screen door opening and closing. Lydia Dale looked up and saw Jeb standing on the stoop with Carla Jean right behind him.

“Momma? You okay?”

Jack Benny spun around. “Go back inside!”

Lydia Dale shot Jack Benny a hateful look, then called out to her boy. “It's all right, honey. I'm leaving in a second. Go on back inside now, okay?”

Jeb hesitated a moment. Carla Jean leaned down, put her hand gently on Jeb's shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. Jeb frowned and went inside. Carla Jean followed him, but not before looking to the truck and letting her eyes meet Lydia Dale's, silently letting her know that, whatever issues stood between the two of them, she'd keep an eye on the children. Lydia Dale lifted her chin, acknowledging the message.

Lydia Dale saw Jeb shadowed on the other side of the screen door, standing by, listening in, making sure she was all right.

Poor Jeb. Poor, confused child. He was a good boy. She shouldn't have been so harsh with him that morning. She didn't want to leave him here with Jack Benny in this condition, but she knew what kind of explosion would result if she told the kids to get back in the car. Even so, if Carla Jean hadn't been on the scene, she'd have done exactly that. Strange to think that she was actually grateful for the presence of her husband's mistress.

She turned on the ignition again and shifted into reverse.

“Jack Benny Benton, if you ever try to strike me again, I'll call the sheriff so fast you won't know what hit you. And the next time you're drunk when I drop the kids off, I'll take you back to court and get the judge to cancel your visitation rights.”

“I'm not drunk,” he snarled. “I had two beers.”

Her temples were starting to throb. She was worn out from arguing with him, and there was no point to it anyway. She glanced into the rearview mirror, looking for broken glass.

“I don't have time for this. I've got to get to the dry goods store before it closes. I'll pick the kids up at the usual time tomorrow. But I meant what I said about the judge. You hear me?”

He walked alongside the truck as she backed up, keeping close to the open window.

“The dry goods store? What do you need there?”

This being Too Much, he already knew that she and Mary Dell were buying the store. Everybody did. She answered, not because it was any of his business, but because she was tired.

“I have to drop off some paperwork from the lawyer. We're closing the deal at the end of the month.”

He worked his mouth and spat.

“That right? I wouldn't be too sure of that if I was you.”

He thumped the hood twice with his fist and swaggered toward the house with a smirk on his face.

“But we had a deal!”

Mr. Waterson walked away from her, toting a bolt of fabric across the shop, his eyes on the floor. The old man, usually so direct, hadn't looked at her straight since she'd come in the door. He seemed embarrassed and ashamed, and he ought to be, Lydia Dale thought to herself. They'd had a deal.

“I never signed anything,” he said, grunting as he shoved the bolt of blue gingham into an already overcrowded shelf. “Marlena is offering me a lot more money. Four thousand more. And she's willing to pay cash.”

“Because she's willing to do anything to get her hands on this building!”

Lydia Dale closed her eyes and told herself to calm down. Shouting wasn't going to get her anywhere, but she had to get through to him.

“Mr. Waterson, Marlena isn't interested in running a dry goods business. She just wants to keep my sister and me from going into business, any kind of business. She hates me, and she's willing to spend any amount of money to hurt me and my family. Don't you see that?”

He pushed past her and walked to the ribbon rack.

“Whatever feud you have going with Marlena Benton is none of my business.”

He turned his back to her, pulled out some yellow grosgrain ribbon, wound it tight on the spool, and secured the loose end with a straight pin.

“But don't you see? If you sell to Marlena, not only will the Bentons have control of one of the last commercial buildings not already in their hands, but there will never be another yard of fabric or inch of ribbon sold in this store. The whole history of your family will disappear, like there'd never been any Water-sons in Too Much. Are you really willing to let that happen?”

He stopped what he was doing, clutching a spool of green rickrack in his aged hands, thinking. Lydia Dale held her breath.

“I can't help that,” he said after a few seconds. “Marlena is offering more. She's paying cash. I'll give you back the money you paid me.”

“We don't want the money. We want the store.”

Lydia Dale walked to the ribbon rack, blocking his path. He stared at the scuffed wooden floor, refusing to meet her gaze, but Lydia Dale would not be refused.

“We had a deal,” she said quietly. “You and Mary Dell shook on it. And in Texas, so my daddy says, a man's handshake is better than a contract. A man's handshake is his word.”

Mr. Waterson lifted his head, looked at her. His eyes were red.

“Your daddy is right. But I have to sell to Marlena. I don't have a choice. The doctor called a few days ago, wanted us to come into his office. Mabel has the cancer.”

Lydia Dale clutched at her throat. “Oh, Mr. Waterson. I'm so sorry. Is there anything they can do?”

Mr. Waterson pulled a dingy handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose, and shook his head.

“The doc doesn't think so. He says she's got six months, maybe a year.” Mr. Waterson turned his head, looking out the front window of the shop to the empty street.