She’s Gone Country (9 page)

Looking at Charlotte, who has just finished baking a large batch of zucchini bread with the last of the summer crop, I don’t think she minds. She loves being a nurse, loves Brick, loves her kids, and is happy with life.

I find myself envying her. I want to be like her. I want to feel contented, too.

“Want a slice?” she offers, pulling the mini-tins out of the oven. “It’s delicious warm.”

“I just finished breakfast, but it does smell good.”

“I’ll send a loaf with you,” she promises, motioning for me to follow her into the sunroom, which overlooks her rose garden. Charlotte’s passion is gardening, and her roses are spectacular. “What’s on your mind, Shey Lynne?” she asks as we sit in the wrought-iron furniture she and Brick got as a wedding gift from her parents more than twenty years ago. “Something’s got you upset.”

“It’s a Brick-being-a-big-brother thing,” I say, crossing my legs and swinging one foot. “Sometimes he helps a little too much.”

Charlotte smiles sympathetically. “He can be a little overprotective, can’t he?”

“He doesn’t realize I’m an adult. I’m almost forty, Char.”

“He just loves you. He wants what’s best for you.”

I flash back to my argument with Brick during yesterday’s photo shoot. “I agree, and he has a good heart. And good intentions. But he can’t fix everyone’s problems, and he can’t make decisions for us, either.”

“Is he doing that?”

“When hasn’t he?” I cry, exasperated. “Brick told me yesterday that he was the one who warned off Dane all those years ago. I thought it was Pop. Thought maybe he and Mama sat Dane down. But no, it was Brick, and he didn’t just talk to Dane, he beat him up.”

Charlotte shifts uncomfortably, glances out the window toward her rose garden, which is a riot of yellow, pink, and coral color. “You were sixteen, Shey, and I don’t think Dane got beat up. Brick’s a good fighter, but Dane’s even better.”

“The point is, you were sixteen when you met Brick. Why was it okay for you and Brick to be together and not Dane and me?”

“Because Brick was only a year older than me, and Dane was six years older than you. And Lord, Shey Lynne, this was over twenty years ago.” She reaches up to tuck a pale strand of hair behind her ear. Charlotte’s a natural blonde, too, although over the years she’s let the color fade to its current ash blond shade. “Are you really mad at Brick about something that happened so long ago?”

She doesn’t understand. She married her first love, found her soul mate, and has been with him for twenty-eight years. She has the life I wanted. She married her cowboy, and he gave her stability and security.

But there’s no point in revealing that I’m envious of her life. She’d just tell me that I’ve lived an extraordinary life. How many girls from Palo Pinto become international models? How many girls from here publish books or put together a TV show?

I end up giving her a hug good-bye, and with the loaf of zucchini bread tucked under my arm, I walk home, kicking up dirt and gravel as I go.

I love Charlotte, I do, but talking to her isn’t like talking to Marta or Tiana, my best friends. I don’t have to be guarded with them, don’t have to carefully pick my words or worry that what I say will be misinterpreted.

With the sun coating the fields golden, I take a deep breath and remind myself that my friends are just a phone call away.

I wistfully think back to last December when I flew to L.A., and Tiana, my roommate at St. Pious and then again at Stanford, met me at the airport and then drove us to Palm Springs for a girls’ weekend of good food and massages and hikes and talks by the pool. The massages and hikes and meals were great, but it was the talks I needed most. The talks I need now.

Being with people who know you and love you is so healing. I know I can handle anything if I have my friends at my side.

Arriving back at the house, I find Cooper anxiously pacing the front yard. “What’s wrong, hon?” I ask, taking a seat on the front steps.

He points to the open kitchen window. “I’m waiting for Dane Kelly to call. I can hear the phone from here, can’t I?”

“Yes. But Coop, it’s not even noon yet. He might not call until tonight.”

He picks up a pebble and throws it at a tree, where it pings and falls to the ground. “I know. But I want to be ready.”

He’s so excited, so eager, which makes me worried that he’s setting himself up for disappointment. “Coop, it may not work out. He’s very busy—”

“But he was Uncle Brick’s best friend. They traveled on the circuit together. You really think he’d say no?”

“Quite possibly,” I answer honestly, then wish I hadn’t when I see the expression in Cooper’s eyes. He looks so sad, it kills me. “But it’s okay if he doesn’t. We can find someone else to train you. This is Texas, babe—”

“But I want to work with Mr. Kelly. And he said he might.”

“Might,” I stress.

“So think positive.”

“I am.” I hold up the foil-wrapped loaf Charlotte sent home with me. “Want some zucchini bread? Aunt Charlotte made it this morning.”

He makes a face. “It’s green. Yuck.”

“Green’s good.”

“On trees, yeah, but not in my mouth.”

Grinning, I rise and head into the house but pause at the screen door. “I’m going to head into town, check the P.O. box and pick up groceries. Want to come?”

“I better not. Just in case he calls.”

I do hope Dane calls soon, even if it’s just to say he can’t. Better to get it over with, or else it’s going to be a very long day for everyone. “Okay. Text me if you need anything, otherwise I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

The next day passes and suddenly it’s Monday night and I still haven’t had a chance to talk to Brick about his offer to Hank because one of Brick’s ranch hands crashed the work truck earlier in the day and ended up being rushed to Palo Pinto Hospital.

As frustrated as I am, it doesn’t seem fair to unload on Brick now, and frankly, things aren’t much better at our house. Monday rolls into Tuesday, and Hank is still upset with me. Bo is bummed that the girl he met at Blue’s party no longer wants to talk to him, and twenty minutes after he arrives home from school, I find him in front of his laptop on Facebook.

“Bo. Homework,” I remind him.

“It’s all done,” he answers without even looking up from the screen.

“How can it be done? You’re reading a novel right now in English and I haven’t seen you read all week. I haven’t seen a math book, or a history book, or any other book, for that matter.”

“It’s because I’ve already done my work.”

“Show me.”

I’ve finally got his attention. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Everything’s fine, Mom. Don’t be such a stress case.”

I’m not a stress case, but I could be if I let my kids steamroll over me. “Are you telling me the truth? You’re really on top of everything?”

“
Yes
.”

“Because if you’re not—”

“I know, I know. You’ll take away my phone. Get rid of my Facebook page. Make my life a living hell. Got it.”

I watch as he turns back to his computer and pretends I’m no longer standing there. Bo and Hank have become such different people. Moody. Aloof. Condescending. And friends say it’s just going to get worse before it gets better.

God help us all.

Coop is quiet at dinner, and as soon as he’s finished helping with the dishes he disappears back to the barn. I dry the counters and after hanging up the dish towel head down to the barn to check on him.

He’s grooming Shady, one of Brick’s horses and the horse Coop prefers to ride. I watch him run the brush down Shady’s smooth flanks, each stroke of the brush long and steady. Coop is so comfortable with the horses. You wouldn’t have known he’d never ridden until June.

“He never called, did he,” I say, reaching in to pat Shady’s neck.

Cooper shakes his head. “No.”

He’s so disappointed. “Do you want me to call him?”

“He said he’d call me.”

“Maybe he just forgot. Maybe we just need to remind him—”

“He said he’d call. He’ll call.” His voice hardens. And then just like a man, he ducks out of the stall, ending the conversation.

I
don’t sleep well that night, and I don’t know why, but I keep waking up to look at the clock. Nearly every hour I check the clock and fluff my pillow and try to convince myself to go back to sleep.

Things are fine, I keep telling myself. Things are good. No need to worry. Don’t be upset.

But I am upset. I wish Dane had called Cooper. It makes me want to call him, talk to him, make him realize how important this is to Coop. And I know my brothers have their issues with Dane, but that’s their problem, not mine or Cooper’s. Cooper is just twelve. He’s falling in love with the whole Texas mystique, and I couldn’t be happier for him.

I want him to pursue his dreams. I want him to have an interesting life. And if learning to be a cowboy is part of it, more power to him.

I’m grumpy as I drive the boys to school the next morning. I’m short on sleep and still drinking too much coffee. I need to cut down on the coffee and work on the food intake.

I’m just walking back into the house after dropping the boys when my cell rings. It’s a local number, one I don’t recognize. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Darcy?”

No one calls me Mrs. Darcy. Everyone around here knows me as Shey, or Shey Callen, but not Mrs. Darcy. “Yes?”

“Bo Darcy’s mother?”

It’s the school, I realize. Bo’s school. “Yes,” I repeat with a sinking heart.

“This is Paul Peterson, Mineral Wells vice principal.”

My heart sinks further. “Yes, Mr. Peterson?”

“We’ve had a little problem with Bo today and I’d like to meet with you.”

“When?”

“Today. Now, if possible.”

I pull out the little chair at the desk and sit down. “What’s happened?”

“We believe he’s been forging your signature.”

“He’s been cutting class?”

“No. But he’s failing three classes and barely scraping by in the others, and we believe he forged your signature on his progress reports. Did you see them?”

“No.” I swallow, hating the heaviness in my gut, a heaviness only Bo can put there. “When were they sent home?”

“Almost two weeks ago. They were due a week ago today, and Bo kept making excuses. He served detention last Friday and promised to turn them in today, which he did, but the signatures didn’t match up with your signature on the paperwork we have on file. It’s not the first time we believe he’s forged your signature, either…”

His voice drifts off, and for a moment there’s just silence on the line. I don’t try to fill it, either, as I’m too disappointed to speak.

Bo promised me he was doing well. He promised me he was on top of his work. Promised me I could trust him, too.

The broken promises disturb me as much as the failing grades.

“I didn’t know he had detention last week,” I say.

“He’d just been home sick. At least he said he’d been sick.”

Bo did miss two days after the fight.

“One of his teachers thought he’d been in a fight,” the vice principal adds.

I don’t say anything, afraid to commit one way or another.

Finally, Mr. Peterson clears his throat. “I have openings at one o’clock, two-thirty, and then I’m available after school at four. What time is best for you?”

I still have to do Brick’s books. Need to grocery shop again. Clean house. Finish the laundry. But none of that matters. Bo comes first. “Two-thirty?”

“Excellent. I’ll see you at two-thirty.”

He’s just about to hang up, but I have a question. “Mr. Peterson, you said he was failing three subjects. Which ones?”

“Math, English, and social studies.”

“And the other classes? What are those grades?”

“A D in science. C’s in Spanish and PE. But on the positive side, technology arts is a bright spot. He’s performing well there with a solid B.”

Bo was once a straight-A student. At a rigorous prep school, no less. My shoulders slump, energy draining. “Technology arts?”

“Typing.”

Typing
. Wow. Bo is really in trouble.

With six hours until I have to meet with Mr. Peterson, I try to tackle Brick’s books but can hardly focus, I’m so upset.

How can this be happening again? How can Bo be failing again? I’ve been down this road with him before. And this time his grades haven’t slid just a little, they’ve plummeted off the map.

What the hell is that kid thinking?

I’m still stewing when Rae, one of the agents at the Stars agency, calls to say that Neiman Marcus is interested in booking me for their spring resort wear catalog, a job that would last from three to five days and would require me to travel to Puerto Rico, where they’re shooting in Old San Juan.

The details sound too good to be true: I’d be paid at my rate for all the days I work, plus my two travel days,
and
they’d cover hotel, first-class air, and all meals.

Rae wants to know if I’d be interested.

Interested? Travel. First-class air. A four-star hotel. And meals.

I’d be thrilled to do it.

Lord knows I need a break, as well as a change of scenery. And even as I picture me hopping on a plane to the Caribbean, I hear Mr. Peterson’s voice echo in my head:
We’ve had a little problem with Bo today.

Oh, I want to go, I do, but how can I go now? Hank is barely talking to me. Bo is failing school. And Coop is still waiting for Dane to call.

It’d be irresponsible for me to head out on a trip, even if it’s a business trip, when my boys so obviously need me at home.

“I’d love to do it—”

“Great!”

“—but I don’t know if I can.”

Rae’s silence is heavy with disapproval. “This is an incredible opportunity. Most models would jump at the chance.”

Tell me about it. But most models aren’t single moms with three sons about to self-destruct. “I know, and I want to do it. Can you give me a day to work on logistics? Figure out child care?”

“Let me tell you more about the job, then. It’s scheduled for the last week of October, and at this point I’m not sure which days they’ll be booking you. I needed to confirm your availability first and then they’ll finish scheduling the shoot.”

As she talks, I dig through the pile of catalogs, junk mail, and unpaid bills stacked on the little desk in the kitchen, looking for my appointment book. I find it at the bottom and open the calendar to draw a line through the week leading up to Halloween. Fortunately, my boys don’t do Halloween anymore, and maybe I can get Brick and Charlotte to help me with the boys, or maybe I can find a sitter.

“You’ll be wearing a little bit of everything from swimsuits, to day wear, to designer evening wear,” Rae continues. “They love your hair, so just make sure the color’s fresh and it’s in fabulous condition. Their makeup artists will be airbrushing you there, so they don’t want you to tan or apply a fake one since they’ll do it themselves.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“No body hair, of course.” She hesitates and asks delicately, “Are you swimsuit ready?”

“I think so.”

“Hope that means yes.”

Me too. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” I promise. “Let me try to figure out child care stuff tonight.”

I never return to Brick’s books. Can’t. They’re boring as well as depressing. The ranch is in the red. Brick’s paying everybody but not making anything himself. I have a feeling it’s Charlotte’s job keeping them afloat, but maybe it’s just the kind of year we’re having. I’m sure in past years the ranch has been more prosperous.

At one o’clock, I strip off my clothes to shower and dress for the meeting with the vice principal.

In the shower I let the water pelt down, hot, so hot until it’s almost too painful to bear, and as I wash my hair, my mind races, trying to figure out how I can possibly make the trip to Puerto Rico when things are such a mess here.

But not everything’s a mess, I remind myself. Hank’s not in crisis; he’s just mad at me. Cooper’s waiting for Dane’s call, but he can weather the disappointment. And Bo… well, Bo’s the problem.

Bo is in trouble. I’m furious with him. Livid that he’s been hiding the truth from me, pretending he’s studying, insisting he’s on top of things when he obviously isn’t and hasn’t been for weeks. But Bo’s also a bright kid and he’s in eighth grade, not high school. Maybe I can get him sorted out so that I could go.

Puerto Rico.

Neiman Marcus’s resort catalog.

Shey Darcy getting booked for a big job at thirty-nine. Oh, yes.

Yes, yes, yes. I can make this work. I’ll find a way to make this work. Rae’s right. Opportunities like this are too good to miss.

I turn off the water and towel dry, then rifle through my wardrobe, looking for something appropriate to wear. Shouldn’t show up to school in ratty jeans and old boots. Need to make a little bit of an effort. I settle on brown slacks, my brown Prada heels, and a tailored white blouse that looks crisp and fresh.

I start to leave my hair loose but am so aggravated that I end up scooping it into a high ponytail so nothing touches the back of my neck. While I feel cooler, I also look plainer and add a chunky red coral necklace to finish the look.

Anxious about the meeting, I arrive at school just after two and have twenty-five minutes to kill before the appointment. I sit for the first twenty minutes in my truck, head tipped back, eyes closed, as I work on clearing my mind and getting calm.

Bo’s okay. Bo’s just a boy. Bo’s a teenager.

But what if his problems are more than teenage issues? What if he’s going to turn out like Cody?

The fear claws at me, and as I think about Cody and how my mother refused to accept his diagnosis of bipolar depression, I can almost understand her denial. Almost, but not quite. Because I’m a mother, too, and if I were Cody’s mother, there’s no way I’d ignore his illness. His symptoms were all there, too. Mania. Depression. Then the suicide attempts. Someone had to do something. Someone had to act. And no one did, not for years. Not until it was too late.

I find myself recalling Cody’s viewing and funeral. My boys had never been to a viewing before, and it was painful taking them to see Cody, but I needed to. I needed them to see my beautiful brother who died too young. Remembering Cody’s death and burial makes my stomach churn, and I practically leap out of the truck to escape my thoughts.

I arrive in the school office just as the office clock chimes two-thirty and take a seat in the waiting area across from two defiant-looking girls. The thin blonde with the pouffy bangs chews nonstop on her fingernails, while the brunette with the dark eyeliner sighs repeatedly with apparent boredom. The girls must be Bo’s age—thirteen, fourteen—and yet their makeup and wardrobe look years older. They’d look so much prettier if they weren’t trying so hard. When it comes to fashion and beauty, less really is more.

The thin blonde is staring at me now, and she leans over to whisper something to her friend. Her friend rolls her eyes.

“Are you a model?” the blond girl blurts. Her friend elbows her, but the blonde ignores her.

“Yes,” I answer evenly.

“I thought so. You look like one.” Her friend makes a scornful sound, but the blond girl gives me a hopeful smile. “I’ve always wanted to be a model. I watch all the shows, you know.
America’s Next Top Model. Project Runway.
I know you have to be tall to be a model, don’t you?”

“Usually five eight and taller,” I say gently, aware that this girl is nowhere near tall enough. Nor does she have the frame or bone structure, but I’d never tell her that. There’s no point. Kids need to dream. Sometimes dreams are all we have.

“But last year Tyra Banks’s show was about short models.” The girl nibbles on her lower lip. “I could be one of those. But I’d have to go to New York or L.A., right?”

“Probably New York,” I say.

“But Tyra’s show is filmed in L.A.”

Suddenly a short, balding man approaches me. “Shey Callen!” he exclaims, moving toward me with an outstretched hand. “What are you doing here?”

I rise. “I’m here to meet with the vice principal, Mr. Peterson.”

“That’s me.” He pumps my hand and looks at me as though he can’t believe his eyes. “What can I do for you, Shey?”

I glance from him to the girls and back again. “I’m Bo’s mom. You called me earlier.”

He’s still holding my hand in his. “Bo’s mom?”

“Bo Darcy. He’s an eighth grader here—”

“You’re Bo’s mom,” he repeats as I slide my hand from his.

My awkwardness grows. Clearly I’m missing something.

The vice principal reads my confusion. “You don’t remember me, do you,” he says.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“I went to school with Blue.”

“Oh!”

He nods and, smiling, steers me away from the seating area to his office. “I had quite the crush on you,” he confesses with a flush. “But your brother made it clear that he’d tear me apart if I so much as looked at you.” His flush darkens, and he shakes his head. “He was serious, too.”

Sounds like the common theme, I think, following Paul Peterson into his office. I sit in the chair across from his desk, eager to get the meeting started so we can wrap it up. I hate stuff like this. I hate being confronted by my failings as a parent, because the boys’ education is my responsibility and it’s vital they succeed.