She’s Gone Country (10 page)

Unfortunately, Paul isn’t eager to begin discussing Bo. He wants to know where I ended up going to school when I disappeared from Palo Pinto County. I quickly brief him on my two years at St. Pious and then my degree from Stanford before I headed to Europe.

“Stanford?” he repeats. “That’s good.”

I flash to Hank, realizing that I probably wouldn’t have gotten into Stanford if I’d finished high school at Mineral Wells. The schools here are good, but they’re not as rigorous as the private prep schools.

“About Bo,” I say, deliberately shifting gears, thinking we’ve spent enough time catching up and need to focus on why I’m here. “I’m concerned about him.”

Paul nods sympathetically. “Boys.”

He says the word as if the single syllable covers it all. But I have three boys; Hank, although headstrong, and Cooper, although sensitive, have never been half as demanding as Bo. “I’m worried about him,” I say carefully.

“No need for that. It’s typical of boys this age to slack off in school. Hormones, girls, distractions.”

I would love for it to be so simple. I would love for Bo to merely be distracted, but I’m beginning to see a pattern emerging and it troubles me.

How old was Cody when he first began showing signs of his illness? Was it at eleven? Was he struggling at thirteen? Or was it only later, near the end of high school? It’s so hard to remember, as I was preoccupied with my life back then.

“He’s normally a good student,” I say by way of explanation. “For everything to tank like this, I can’t help worrying. How’s his behavior here at school? Is he participating in class? Are teachers having problems with him?”

“Teachers like him. They don’t like forged notes, but he’s a good kid. Polite. Tries hard.”

I nod, even as I am awash with conflicting emotions—anger, shame, guilt, frustration, regret.

I should have been on top of this. I should have been aware that he was not turning work in. I should be paying more attention.

But even as the shoulds pile up, I feel a stab of resentment. I
do
pay attention to him. Every day I ask him about his work. I’m not an absent parent. I pick him up from school and am there at home when he returns from school. I’m around, available, accessible. And he’s nearly fifteen. Shouldn’t he start being responsible for himself?

But if it’s depression…

Depression is another animal altogether.

Paul and I wrap up the meeting, spend another few minutes in small talk—he wants to know all about Budapest, where I was working when I was first discovered by a Milan modeling agent—and then I leave the front office with more questions than answers.

But maybe that’s part of parenthood. Maybe it’s not about having answers. Maybe it’s just about being real.

Later, with all the boys in the truck, we head for home and I drive biting my tongue.

I want to demand an explanation from Bo, but I tell myself I have to wait, I can’t do it here in front of the others. But as the minutes pass, my frustration grows. I’m so mad, never mind frustrated. What is happening with him? Why can’t he let me know when he’s falling behind? I’ll help. I’ll do anything for him. He just has to ask. Just has to communicate.

We’re a couple of miles from our ranch when I blurt out, “I spent a half hour meeting with Mr. Peterson this afternoon, Bo.” I shoot him a hard look as my fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your grades, or the forged signatures on the progress reports?”

He glances at me and then glances just as quickly away.

“Three F’s, Bo. And the rest are nearly as bad. D’s and C’s.”

He sinks into his seat. “I have a B in tech arts.”

“Typing.”

“Yeah, but it’s still a B.”

“You took keyboarding classes in fourth grade. That was four years ago. I’d hope you could pass a typing class.”

Bo’s mouth compresses, but he doesn’t speak. I just want to scream. I’m trying to help him. I’m trying to save him. I’m trying to keep him from failing this quarter. But he makes me feel like the bad guy, as if this—his education—has nothing to do with him. “You’re a smart kid, Bo. How can this be happening? How can you be failing? You told me just last week that you were on top of your work, that you do your homework at school—”

“I didn’t want you on me, okay?” he interrupts flatly. “I knew you’d freak out if you found out about my grades—”

“Yes, I would freak out. Yes, I am freaking out. You’re so smart, so gifted. You’ve got a great brain, you really do.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” he answers defiantly.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Then that’s your problem.”

I swallow hard. Count to five. And then to ten. And my feelings still hurt.

Everyone told me that I’d rue the day my boys became teenagers. They warned me that they’d be difficult. They told me I wouldn’t recognize my own kids.

And I didn’t believe them. My boys were always good boys. Loving, thoughtful, respectful. But my good boys aren’t my boys any longer. They’re becoming part of the world, sucked into adulthood with this slippery slope of adolescence.

It’s not pretty, either.

But I’m not going to disappear on them. Not going to quit. We’re going to get through this even if it’s by the skin of our teeth.

We arrive home to discover Charlotte on our doorstep. She’s armed with an enormous tin of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies and a tentative smile. “You have a few minutes, Shey Lynne?” she asks me as the boys pop the lid off the tin and dive in while still standing in the driveway.

I’m tense and tired and definitely not the best of company, but I always have time for Charlotte. “Of course.” I hold the back door open so she can enter the house, even as I call to the boys to start their homework.

Inside the kitchen, Charlotte glances around. Following her gaze, I see the sink full of the morning dishes, the kitchen table piled high with laundry I haven’t yet folded, and the stacks of bills and paperwork on the desk, where I was attempting to do Brick’s books before I got distracted by the calls from Rae and Mr. Peterson.

I’m embarrassed by the mess and chaos, embarrassed that I’m not doing a better job of juggling everything. “Sorry. Things aren’t very tidy—”

“I don’t care, Shey.”

But Charlotte’s house is never messy. I’ve never seen laundry on the kitchen table or dirty dishes piled in the sink. I drag stray socks and T-shirts into a mound to clear off the table. “But I do. I’ve never been so disorganized before. Can’t seem to get anything done.”

“Shey, stop. The laundry’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. There’s nothing fine about mess and chaos and a life that appears to be out of control.

And suddenly the mound of laundry feels like a metaphor of my life. Huge, sprawling, overwhelming.

My eyes sting and my chest grows tight. I’m trying so hard right now. I couldn’t try harder, couldn’t give or do more.

My frustration dissolves into fatigue, and it crosses my mind that I am overwhelmed, and a little blue, as well as lonely.

I miss my friends. I miss New York. I miss my old life.

I loved being married. I liked having a partner. I hate having to do it all on my own.

“Shey Lynne, stop,” Charlotte says gently but firmly. “Just sit so we can talk. I want to apologize. I need to apologize.”

I let go of the laundry and plunk down in the nearest chair. “Why?”

“I was thinking about what you said on Sunday. About how you were sixteen when you fell in love with Dane, and how I was the same age when I fell in love with Brick…” Charlotte takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I never thought of it that way, and when I look back, I realize that my feelings for Brick at sixteen aren’t that different than they are now. Our love’s deepened over the years, matured, but it’s the same spark, the same attraction. And I would have been devastated if anyone tried to keep us apart.”

She looks at me, brown gaze somber. “I’m sorry. I am. You have every right to be upset with Brick—”

“It’s okay. And you were right. It’s been over twenty years. It’s not an issue, not anymore.”

“But it was high-handed of him. He’s your brother, not your father.” Charlotte’s pretty face creases, and she suddenly looks years older than forty-four. Unlike my friends in New York, she doesn’t do expensive skin treatments or visit a plastic surgeon for fillers and injections. “But as you know, he’s always been so protective of you. You being the only girl and all.”

I nod. I do know. All my brothers were that way, even Cody. They got it from my father. Pop was always gentle and chivalrous toward women. His father raised him to treat women with respect, and my father raised my brothers the same way. Girls weren’t weak, just special.

Charlotte reaches for a pair of unmatched socks and spreads them flat on the table. They’re similar but not a pair. “Have you filed for divorce yet?”

I’m caught off guard. “We’ve tried, but divorces in New York aren’t as easy as other states. You can’t get a no-fault divorce in New York. Someone has to be blamed.”

“I certainly hope it’s John shouldering the blame.”

I nod. “The lawyers are handling it. It’ll be a relief to get it behind me.”

“I can imagine.”

Charlotte reaches for another sock. “So have you thought about dating? Anyone you’re interested in?”

“No.” I can see that Charlotte’s waiting for more, and I flounder about, searching for a good explanation when I don’t have one. “I guess I’m just not ready.”

“What about Dane? You still have feelings for him, don’t you?”

“But everyone hates Dane.”

“No one hates Dane. Brick and Blue are mad at him at the moment, but they don’t hate him, and I certainly have no problem with him. I’ve always been close with him. Love him like a brother. And you know, Dane’s been through quite a lot, too. You might find that you have more in common than you did before.”

“Because he’s also divorced?” I ask with a bitter laugh.

“Because he was also a parent, and he lost his only child. A child he absolutely adored.” She sighs and looks at me. “I’m not saying you and Dane should be together, or are right for each other. What I am saying is that no one gets through life unscathed. Hearts get broken. Marriages end. Dreams die. But life goes on. And you have to find a way to go on, too.”

I had no idea that Dane’s divorce was so bitter. Can’t imagine Shellie Ann keeping Dane’s child from him. But then horrible things can happen when marriages end. Partners turn on each other. Hurt becomes hatred. I shiver a little. “Over the summer, Mama mentioned that you and Brick were godparents to Matthew. I didn’t realize you were that close to Shellie Ann,” I say, getting to my feet and reaching for the crumpled mustard-colored T-shirt near me.

“Shellie Ann and I weren’t all that close, but we did spend a lot of time together. At least we did until near the end, when it became apparent that they weren’t going to be able to work it out. That’s when things got ugly.”

I look up, interested. “Ugly how?”

“They were both in so much pain that by the time they separated they couldn’t even be in the same room together. And I can’t put all the blame on Shellie Ann. Dane shut down to the point that he wanted nothing to do with anyone. Not even Brick or me. I wasn’t surprised when Shellie Ann moved to Austin. She needed to get away, needed a fresh start.”

But when Shellie Ann left, she took Dane’s son. I can’t imagine that sitting well with him. “Was Dane a good dad?”

Char’s eyes suddenly water. “The best,” she says huskily. “He lived for his boy.”

“I would have thought he’d try harder to keep Shellie Ann here.”

“Shellie Ann was determined to go. You see, she’d met Brandon by then, and Brandon swept her off her feet. He was a big-name record producer, and Shellie Ann fell for him like a ton of bricks. There was no keeping her on the Kelly ranch when she could be part of Austin’s music scene.”

It blows my mind that Shellie Ann had everything I wanted—Dane, his love, his home, his son—and she let it all go. Left Palo Pinto. Left Dane. Started a different life with a different man in Austin.

For a moment I just fold clothes, struggling with the injustice of it all.

“You do still care for him,” Charlotte says after a moment.

I fold the jeans, push them to the edge of the table, and look over at her. “I loved him, Char. I loved him the way you loved Brick. But I got sent away and Dane fell in love with Shellie Ann and eventually I met John. I have three great boys, boys I love with all my heart, so I’m happy.”

“But Dane—”

“Isn’t an option.”

“Why not?” she asks, sounding genuinely disappointed.

I toss up my hands. “I’m done throwing myself at him. He had his chance and he passed on it and I’m okay with that.” I see her expression and reach out to touch her arm. “Why does that bother you so much?”

She shrugs unhappily. “I just think you and Dane could be good together.”

I give her a long look. “Char, I know you care about him, but Dane’s not the only single man in Texas. This is a big state with plenty of available men. When I’m ready to date, I promise you, I’ll date.”

A
fter Charlotte leaves, I force myself to put Dane out of my mind. It’s time to return to mother mode.

I find Bo and we sit at the kitchen table to talk. He tells me he’s sorry about his grades and wishes he’d asked for help. He doesn’t know why he didn’t, nor does he know why he can’t get anything done. He just wants me to forgive him. And love him.

I do.

Together we work out a plan to help him be more organized. Turn in all missing work. Start going to teacher tutorials before and after school. Begin studying three or four days in advance for all tests.

Bo and I break for dinner and then pick up where we left off once the dishes are done. It’s eleven before we’re finished going through the mounds of crumpled school papers, tossing the old ones, sorting the current ones, and putting everything else in the proper section in the proper folder or binder.

Bo is happy to have me at his side, clearly relieved to have help organizing his mess. I’m happy to help him, too. I just wish he’d come to me before he’d hit rock bottom. But we’re on it now, I tell myself. Things can only go up from here.

I kiss him good night, tuck him in, and then head to bed. The two other boys went to bed a half hour ago.

I’m exhausted and think I’ll fall right to sleep, but I don’t. I can’t, not with so much on my mind.

I relive the day, going over the events from Rae’s call with the opportunity to model for Neiman Marcus’s resort catalog, to the conference with Paul Peterson, to my confrontation with Bo, ending with my chat with Char about Dane.

I linger over my conversation with Char, thinking far too much about Dane and Shellie Ann, their marriage, their son, and the fact that Shellie Ann has remarried while Dane remains single.

Although how single remains to be seen. He was with Lulu at the party, and Lulu certainly seemed interested in him.

I guess what I’d love to know is how interested Dane is in Lulu.

Hopefully not a lot.

And then I groan into my pillow. I’m doing it again. Falling for him. Fantasizing. Creating impossible scenarios that will never come true.

Remember what you told Char, I remind myself sternly. Dane had his chance. Dane lost his chance. You’ve moved on with your life, and when you’re ready to date, there are other men out there. Lots of men who’d love to be with you.

But as I breathe into my pillow, I know my heart. My heart doesn’t want a lot of men. My heart still craves Dane.

Rae calls me early the next morning to say that Neiman Marcus would like me to come in for a go-see tomorrow before they commit to booking me for the shoot.

I’m still in my pajamas and haven’t even yet driven the boys to school. The idea of rushing anywhere is far from appealing. “I thought they offered me the job,” I say, propping the phone between my shoulder and ear as I refill my coffee cup.

“You’ve done a thousand go-sees in your career. What’s one more?”

What I need to do is call Charlotte and Brick and see if they’d be willing to watch the boys if I did get the job. “Give me five minutes. I’ll call you right back.”

I phone Charlotte and get right to the point. Charlotte’s delighted for me, thinks it’s exactly what I need. “I don’t have the actual days yet,” I add. “They’ll tell me after they make up the shoot schedule. That is, if I get the job. I have a go-see with them tomorrow at two—”

“Do you need Brick to pick the boys up from school tomorrow?”

I hadn’t thought that far, but yes, probably. And Charlotte assures me that Brick would be happy to get them, that he enjoys his time with them, that they both love spending time with the boys. It feels as if Charlotte’s trying a little too hard, but I’m grateful for the support. I thank her, hang up, and call Rae back to let her know I’ll be at tomorrow’s go-see as planned.

The morning’s phone calls have eaten up more time than I anticipated, and I know we’re going to be late as I drive the boys to school. Bo and Coop don’t mind being late, but Hank’s bummed because he has PE first period and the PE teacher will make him run a lap for every minute he’s late.

“Sorry, bud,” I say, pulling into the high school parking lot and heading for the front office, where he’ll have to go to get a late admittance pass.

Hank barely looks at me as he climbs out of the truck.

I roll down my window, call to him, “I really am sorry—”

“I know. It’s okay,” he shouts as he walks away.

So why don’t I feel better?

The next day after dropping the boys at school, I return home to start getting ready for the appointment. In my bedroom, I strip off my white T-shirt and step out of my gray sweatpants and start to head for the shower when I catch sight of my reflection in the bureau mirror.

It’s an old mirror and cloudy at the edges, but I have no trouble seeing me.

I’m thin. Quite thin. Scrawny and scary thin, and I pray they won’t ask me to put on a swimsuit today.

But there’s nothing I can do about my scrawny frame right now. If I get the job, I can definitely exercise and get toned again. I have three weeks. But first I need to get the job.

The brisk shower helps calm me, but my spirits remain low as I dry off and pull on honey slacks and a loose cashmere V-necked sweater. Dressed, I look at myself in the mirror and force a smile, then pose and smile. I can do this, get through this go-see, but I could use a little polish. Get that top-model sheen back.

Sitting at the desk in the kitchen, I’m able to book a thirty-minute massage followed by a manicure/pedicure and then a professional blowout at a midpriced spa in a not-so-ritzy part of Dallas. It’s a chunk of change, but I’m glad I spent it as I leave the spa feeling sleek and successful.

I arrive twenty minutes early at Neiman Marcus’s corporate office at Marcus Square on Main Street for the go-see and breeze through the session knowing I look healthy and relaxed. I’m grateful that my long hair, one of my best features, hangs in a silken shimmer down my back.

The artistic director overseeing the resort catalog is pleased by what he sees, as Rae calls me ten minutes after I’ve left the appointment to say that everyone loved me and I’m confirmed for the shoot. Once my actual shoot dates are set, they’ll have their corporate travel agent book my flight and hotel and then courier the details to me in a packet.

I’m thrilled by the news. Feel downright victorious. This is the sort of thing John and I used to celebrate, too. Whenever I’d get booked for a big job, John would make reservations at one of our favorite restaurants. We’d order a really good bottle of wine and toast the achievement and talk about the opportunity. I used to love how he made sure we savored the successes and celebrated the accomplishments. It’s something I don’t do anymore, but I should. There’s no reason I can’t celebrate on my own or with the boys. No reason I can’t change it up and celebrate my way.

By the time I get home, the sun is sinking and the hills and trees are more gold than green. I park next to Brick’s truck and head inside. Cooper’s in a chair in the living room, watching the previously recorded Professional Bull Rider’s Built Ford Tough Series from last weekend in Clovis, California, and Bo is flipping through
Sports Illustrated
. “Mom, did you know that Guilherme Marchi got a ninety-two on his final ride on Sunday? You should have seen it. The bull was insane. Totally rank.”

I smile at his use of rank. A rank bull is a tough bull, a fierce bull, a bull that riders love and loathe, because that’s the kind of bull you get your big scores on. But it’s also the kind of bull that injures you. “Good for Marchi,” I answer, aware from Coop’s updates that the Brazilian rider is one of today’s big stars.

Dropping my car coat and handbag on the nearest chair, I ask if they’re hungry.

“Starving,” Bo answers, still flipping through his magazine.

The TV show has gone to commercial, and Cooper stands up to stretch. “Uncle Brick said you were taking us out, and we want to go to the Kountry Kitchen.” As he stretches, his shirt pulls out of the waistband of his jeans, revealing thin ribs and hip bones. “Wednesday nights they offer a free slice of pie with every entrée.”

“That’s fine with me. But where’s Hank?” I ask.

“In here. With Uncle Brick,” Hank shouts from the kitchen. “And I’m hungry. When are we going?”

I head to the kitchen and find Hank hanging out with Brick. “I’m ready anytime,” I answer, then look at Brick. “Are you free? Want to go with us?”

“Char’s dragging me to a cocktail party being given by someone at the hospital.”

“Next time,” I say, checking my smile. Brick’s a family man, dreads the social scene.

Coop hates to leave the televised PBR program, but he’s hungry, too, so we leave a few minutes later for Mineral Wells. Only a half dozen tables are filled at the Kountry Kitchen Café, a place that’s been around as long as I’ve been alive.

Two waitresses are working tonight, and one of them knows Hank from high school. She comes to the door to greet and seat us. She’s young and blond and cute—Traci is her name—and she chatters to Hank as she shows us to a table in her section. “Hey, Hank,” she says to him, blushing and smiling. “How are you?”

“Good,” he answers gruffly, shooting us an embarrassed look.

“Is this your family?” Traci asks, leading us to a big booth in the corner.

He nods, cheeks flushed.

Traci darts me a shy look as she passes out the menus. “My dad still has the
SI
swimsuit issues with you in it. You were his favorite swimsuit model.”

“That’s nice to hear,” I answer, always amazed that people remember me. I enjoyed my work and still love it when I get the chance to be in front of the camera, but I never felt like a star or top model. I’m not sure if it’s because John and I had the boys so early in our marriage or if it’s my personality, but being a mom has mattered more to me than anything I’ve achieved in my career. “Tell your dad I’m flattered, and thank you.”

My boys are turning red now. They hate it when they hear about me in swimsuits, particularly Bo, who loves
SI
’s annual swimsuit issue and can’t stand to think that I used to be one of those hot girls in the skimpy suit and body paint.

“I’ve always wanted to go to New York. Did you like living there?” Traci asks, lingering at our table.

“I did,” I answer. “There’s so much to do, and everything’s close.”

“Did you ride the subway?”

“Every day.”

“And you weren’t scared?”

She’s too cute, I think. So earnest and eager to know more about the world. “No. There’s always people around, and most folks are pretty helpful.”

She asks me a couple of questions, then rattles off the dinner specials before leaving to fill our drink order.

“She’s pretty,” Bo says, watching Traci walk away. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

“She’s older than you,” Hank answers.

“So?”

“So she’s not going to want to go out with you.”

Before things escalate into a full-blown argument, I change the subject and tell the boys about my trip to Puerto Rico, the days I’ll be gone, and how Brick and Charlotte will be staying with them and making sure everything goes smoothly. Bo wants to go with me; he loves to travel. Cooper says he’ll miss me. Hank asks if there’s any way he can go stay with his dad.

“It’s only for four or five days, guys. I’ll be back before you know it, and maybe this summer we can take a trip somewhere together.”

“Like where?” Cooper asks.

“How about a cruise,” Bo suggests. “I bet there’s lots of girls on cruises.”

“Or Hawaii.” Even Hank’s interested. “We could go to a couple different islands. We’ve been to the Caribbean before, but never Hawaii.”

They’re still bouncing ideas around when I spot a big black truck park at the curb outside. Dane’s truck.

I feel an icy tingle that’s more pain than pleasure.

I hate that he does this to me. Hate that I can’t seem to escape him. It’d be one thing if I didn’t feel anything when I saw him, but I do feel. I feel so much that it makes me hurt.

This can’t be normal, I think, watching him climb from his truck. Can’t be healthy. Can’t be good.

And worse, he let Cooper down. Cooper, who has never asked for anything or wanted anything or been a problem. Cooper, who just tries to get along and make things easier, make things better.

My eyes sting and I bite down into my lower lip, mad, so mad.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, voice rough as I slide from the booth.

“Where are you going?” Bo asks, but I don’t answer. I’m too intent on getting outside to confront Dane.

He’s heading into the taco shop next door when I physically put myself between him and the front door. He’s big and so broad-shouldered that he practically fills the doorway. There’s not a lot of room for both of us, and I lock my knees to keep from backing away.

“You were supposed to call,” I say huskily, aware of the size and shape of him, the warmth of him, and the scent that’s all his—hay, leather, spice, and man.

Love this man.

Hate this man.

Love to hate this man.

My throat seals closed and I swallow hard, swallow to make the lump go away. “Coop waited all week for you to call.”