Susan Phillips - Fancy Pants

"We have to be back in Wynette in exactly forty-five minutes," she said. "You have an interview with

that reporter from Sports Illustrated, and I have a conference call scheduled with Nathan and my production people."

She didn't look old enough to know anything about conference calls, let alone to have production people. Her hair was pulled into a cute ponytail that made her seem like she was about fourteen, and she had on this stretchy white top with a little denim skirt he'd bought for her because he knew it wouldn't do much more than cover her backside.

"I thought we were going to the driving range," he said. "No offense, Francie, but your golf swing could use some work." Which was a polite way of putting it. She had the worst golf swing he had ever seen on any person, male or female, but he enjoyed messing around with her so much at the range that he acted like she was improving.

"I don't see how my swing is ever going to get better if you keep telling me so many different things to do," she grumbled. "Keep your head down, Francie. Pull with your left side, Francie. Lead with your knees, Francie. Honestly, no one in her right mind could remember all of that. It's no wonder you can't teach Teddy to hit a baseball. You make everything so complicated."

"Now, don't you worry about that boy playing baseball. You should know by now that sports isn't everything, especially when my son has more brain power in that head of his than all of Wynette's Little Leaguers put together." As far as Dallie was concerned, Teddy was the best boy in the world, and he wouldn't trade him for all the jock kids in America.

"Speaking of the driving range," she began. "With the PGA Championship coming up-"

"Uh-oh."

"Sweetheart, I'm not saying that you had a problem with your long irons last week. Gracious, you won the tournament, so it couldn't have been much of a problem. Still, I thought you might want to spend a few hours at the range after your interview to see if you can't improve them just a little bit." She glanced over, giving him one of those soft, innocent looks that didn't fool him one bit. "I certainly don't expect you to win the PGA," she went on. "You've already won two titles this summer, and you don't have to win every tournament, but…" Her voice faded, as if she realized she'd already said enough. More than enough. One thing that he had discovered about Francie was that she was just about insatiable when it came to golf titles.

She swung the New Yorker off the narrow asphalt road and onto a dirt lane that probably hadn't been used by anybody since the Apaches. The old Wynette landfill was about a half-mile in the opposite direction, but he didn't mention that. Half the fun of being with Francie was watching her improvise.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and frowned. "The landfill should be around here

someplace, although I don't actually suppose it matters."

He crossed his arms over his chest and pretended he was falling asleep.

She giggled. "I couldn't believe Holly Grace showed up at the Roustabout last night in a maternity dress-she's barely three months pregnant. And Gerry has absolutely no idea how to behave in a honky-tonk. He spent the entire evening drinking white wine and talking to Skeet about the wonders of natural childbirth." Francesca turned onto an even bumpier road. "I'm also not absolutely certain Holly Grace did the right thing by bringing Gerry to Wynette. She wanted him to get to know her parents

better, but poor Winona is absolutely terrified of him."

Francesca looked over at Dallie and saw that he was pretending to sleep. She smiled to herself. It was probably just as well. Dallie still wasn't absolutely rational on the subject of Gerry Jaffe. Of course, she hadn't been all that rational herself for a while. Gerry should never have involved Teddy in his scheme, no matter how much her son had begged to be part of it. Since the incident at the Statue of Liberty, she, Dallie, and Holly Grace had made certain that Teddy and Gerry were never left alone together for more than five minutes.

She gently pressed the brake and steered the New Yorker onto a rutted path that ended in a clump of straggly cedars. Satisfied that the area was completely deserted, she pushed the buttons that lowered the front windows and turned off the ignition. The morning air that blew in was warm and pleasantly dusty.

Dallie still pretended to be asleep, his arms folded over his faded gray T-shirt and one of a series of caps sporting an American flag pulled low over his eyes. She postponed the moment when she would actually touch him, enjoying the anticipation. For all the laughter and teasing that went on between them, she and Dallie had found a serenity together, a sense of perfect homecoming that could only happen after having known the darkest side of another person and then having walked together out into the sunshine.

Reaching over, she pulled off his cap and dropped it into the back seat. Then she kissed his closed eyelids, working her fingers into his hair. "Wake up, sweetheart, you have some work to do."

He nibbled at her bottom lip. "Do you have anything specific in mind?"

"Uh-huh."

He reached beneath her stretchy white top and traced the small bumps of her spine with his fingertips. "Francie, we have a perfectly good bed back in Wynette and another one twenty-five miles to the west

of here."

"The second one is too far away and the first one is too crowded."

He chuckled. Teddy had banged on their bedroom door early that morning and then climbed into bed

with them to ask their opinion about whether he should be a detective or a scientist when he grew up.

"Married people aren't supposed to have to make love in a car," he said, closing his eyes again as she settled into his lap and began kissing his ear.

"Most married people don't have a meeting of the Friends of Wynette Public Library going on in one room and an army of teenage girls camped out in the other," she replied.

"You've got a point there." He lifted her skirt a little so that she could straddle his legs with her thighs. Then he began to caress one of those thighs, gradually working upward. His eyes shot open.

"Francie Day Beaudine, you don't have any underpants on."

"Don't I?" she murmured in that bored-little-rich-girl voice of hers. "How naughty of me."

She was rubbing her breasts against him, kissing his ear, deliberately driving him crazy. He decided it was long past time he showed Miss Fancy Pants who was the boss of the family. Pushing open the car door, he climbed out, taking her with him.

"Dallie…" she protested.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and hoisted her up off the ground. As he carried her toward the trunk of his New Yorker, she delighted him by starting to struggle, although he did think she could have put a little more effort into it if she'd concentrated harder.

"I'm not the kind of woman you make love to on the back of a car," she said in a voice so haughty she sounded like the queen of England. Except Dallie didn't imagine the queen of England would be moving her hand up and down the front of his jeans in quite the same way.

"You can't fool me with that accent of yours, ma'am," he drawled. "I know exactly how you red-blooded American girls like to make love."

As she opened her mouth to reply, he took advantage of her parted lips to give her the kind of kiss that guaranteed him a few minutes of silence. Eventually she began to work at the zipper on the front of his jeans, which didn't take her long at all-Francie was magic with anything that had to do with clothes.

Their lovemaking started out raunchy, with a little bit of dirty talk and a lot of shifting around, but then everything turned tender and sweet, exactly like their feelings for each other. Before long, they were sprawled across the trunk of the New Yorker, lying right on top of the pink satin Porthault sheet that Francesca kept stored in the car for just such an emergency.