"Not on my program," she said firmly. "I don't manipulate my viewers."
"Francesca, these days we're not talking about a little thirteen-kiloton firecracker like the one we dropped on Nagasaki. We're talking megatons. If twenty thousand megatons hits New York City, it's going to do more than ruin one of Donald Trump's dinner parties. It'll send fallout over a thousand square miles, and eight million fried bodies will be left rotting in the gutters."
"I'm trying to eat, Gerry," she protested, setting down her fork.
Gerry had been talking about the horrors of nuclear war for so long that he could demolish a five-course meal while he described a terminal case of radiation poisoning, and he dug into his baked potato. "Do you know the only thing that has any chance of surviving? The cockroaches. They'll be blind, but they'll still be able to reproduce."
"Gerry, I love you like a brother, but I won't let you turn my show into a circus." Before he could launch his next round of arguments, she changed the subject. "Did you talk to Holly Grace this afternoon?"
He put down his fork and shook his head. "I went over to her mother's house, but she ducked out the back door when she saw me coming." Pushing away his plate, he took a sip of water.
He looked so miserable that Francesca was torn between the desire to comfort him and the urge to smack some sense into him. Gerry and Holly Grace obviously loved each other, and she wished they would stop camouflaging their problems. Although Holly Grace hardly ever talked about it, Francesca knew how badly she wanted a child, but Gerry wouldn't even discuss the matter with her.
"Why don't the two of you try to come up with some sort of compromise?" she offered tentatively.
"She doesn't understand the word," Gerry replied. "She's got it in her head that I've been using her
name, and-"
Francesca groaned. "Not this again. Holly Grace wants a baby, Gerry. Why won't either of you admit what the real problem is? I know it's none of my business, but I think you'd make a wonderful father, and-"
"Christ, have you and Naomi been taking nagging lessons together or what?" He abruptly pushed his
plate away. "Let's go on over to the Roustabout, okay?"
The Roustabout was the last place she wanted to go. "I don't really-"
"The high school sweethearts are sure to be there. We'll walk in, pretend we don't see them, and then have sex on top of the bar. What do you say?"
"I say no."
"Come on, gorgeous. The two of them have been tossing a ton of shit our way. Let's toss a little back."
True to form, Gerry ignored every one of her protests and hustled her from the restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, they were walking through the door of the honky-tonk. The place looked much as Francesca remembered, although most of the neon Lone Star beer signs had been replaced with signs
for Miller Lite, and video games now occupied one corner. The people were the same, however.
"Well, look who just walked through the door," a throaty female voice drawled from a table twenty feet to their right. "If it isn't the queen of England herself with the king of the Bolsheviks walking right next to her." Holly Grace sat with a beer bottle in front of her, while at her side Dallie sipped a glass of club soda. Francesca felt another of those queer little jumps in her middle at the sight of those cool blue eyes studying her over the rim of the glass.
"No, I'm wrong," Holly Grace went on as she took in the black and ivory print Galanos dress Francesca was wearing with an oversize cinnabar red jacket. "She's not the queen of England. She's that lady mud wrestler we saw down in Medina County."
Francesca grabbed Gerry's arm. "Let's go."
Gerry's full lips were growing thinner by the minute, but he refused to move. Holly Grace tilted back the brim of her Stetson, studiously ignoring him while she scrutinized Francesca's outfit. "Galanos in the Roustabout. Shit. You're liable to get us all kicked out. Don't you get tired always being the center of attention?"
Francesca forgot about Gerry and Dallie and looked at Holly Grace with genuine concern. She really was acting bitchy. Letting go of Gerry's arm, she walked over to her and slipped into the chair at her side. "Are you all right?" she asked.
Holly Grace scowled into her beer glass, but otherwise remained silent.
"Let's go to the bathroom so we can talk," Francesca whispered, and when Holly Grace didn't respond, she added more forcefully, "Right now."
Holly Grace gave her a rebellious look that resembled Teddy at his worst. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm still mad at you for not telling me the truth about Teddy." She turned to Dallie. "Dance with me, baby."
Dallie had been regarding them both with interest. Now he unwound himself from his chair and looped
his arm over Holly Grace's shoulders as she stood up. "Sure, honey."
The two of them began to walk away, but Gerry took a step forward, blocking their path. "Isn't it interesting the way they grab on to each other?" he said to Francesca. "It's the most fascinating case of arrested development I've ever seen."
"You go ahead and dance, Holly Grace," Francesca said quietly, "but while you're doing it, think about the fact that I might need you right now just as much as Dallie does."
For a moment Holly Grace hesitated, but then she turned into Dallie's arms and together they moved out onto the dance floor.
At that moment, one of the patrons of the Roustabout came up to ask Francesca for her autograph, and before long she was surrounded by fans. She chatted with them while inwardly she was filled with frustration. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gerry talking to a buxom young thing at the bar. Holly Grace danced past with Dallie, the two of them moving together like one single, graceful body, their casual intimacy so absolute they seemed to shut out the rest of the world. Her cheeks began to ache from smiling. She signed more autographs and acknowledged more compliments, but the patrons of the Roustabout refused to let her go. They were accustomed to having the star of "China Colt" in their midst, but seeing the glamorous Francesca Day was something else entirely. It wasn't long before she spotted Holly Grace slipping out the back door by herself. A hand touched her from behind.
"Sorry, folks, but Francie promised me this dance. You still remember the two-step, honey?"
Francesca turned toward Dallie and, after a moment's hesitation, went into his arms. He caught her against him, and she had the unsettling feeling that she'd been pitched back ten years to the time when
this man had formed the center of her world.
"Damn, it feels funny to be dancing with somebody who's wearing a dress," he said. "You got shoulder pads in that jacket?"
His tone was soft, gentle with amusement. It felt so good to be close to him. Much too good.
"Don't you let Holly Grace hurt your feelings," he said quietly. "She just needs some time."
Dallie's sympathy, under the circumstances, surprised her. She managed to reply, "Her friendship means
a lot to me."
"If you ask me, the way that old commie lover has taken advantage of her is bothering her more than anything."
Francesca realized that Dallie didn't understand the true nature of the trouble between Holly Grace and Gerry, and she decided it wasn't her place to enlighten him.
"Sooner or later, she'll come around," he went on. "And I know she'd appreciate it if you'd be there waiting for her. Now, how 'bout you stop worrying about Holly Grace and concentrate on the music so we can get down to some serious dancing?"
Francesca tried to oblige, but she was so aware of him that serious dancing was beyond her. The music slowed into a romantic country ballad. His jaw brushed the top of her head.
"You look awful pretty tonight, Francie."
His voice held a trace of huskiness that unnerved her. He drew her infinitesimally closer. "You're such
a tiny little thing. I forgot how little you are."