Love Letter for a Sinner (The Sinners sports romances) Read online

  “Sorry, Mr. Stanley. I am no longer for sale.” Not feeling the least tempted, Tricia drained her coffee cup.

  “You want a role in Scandal! I’ll see you get it. You weren’t a bad little actress, but you didn’t have the heat, ya know. More girl next door, the kind who doesn’t put out. What do you say?”

  If only he knew. “No, thanks. I’m thinking of going back to college for my teaching degree.”

  Micah Stanley barked out a laugh that turned into an old man’s cough. “That’s as nuts as, what’s her name, Dolores Hart becoming a nun. This could be your big break.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but no.” She hung up on one of Hollywood’s most powerful directors.

  Buying a sack of the donuts as a peace offering, Tricia headed back to the apartment. Rex let her in, no questions asked. She set the bag of pastries hard on the kitchen counter sending up a little puff of powdered sugar from opening. “In case you want to try the local delicacies.”

  “I do,” said Becky, now discreetly dressed again with her black toenails covered by a pair of Skechers and her red spikes smoothed down against her head. She looted the sack of two beignets and sucked up the powered sugar.

  “You’ll grow fat as a Texas steer if you eat that and cornbread, Honeybee. We’re getting pretty close to lunch now,” her mother declared.

  “Not a problem for me. I have Dad’s metabolism. It’s Rex who will turn to lard because he takes after you.”

  Mrs. Worthy crimsoned. Her husband patted her pudgy arm. “Love you just the way you are, Honeybunch.” Still, he tried a beignet.

  Rex huddled over a plate containing a huge hunk of cornbread and some breakfast sausages that must have been hiding in his freezer. Syrup covered both. “You want to go for a run, Tricia, maybe in City Park?”

  “Sorry, I won’t have time. I talked to my brother while I was out. They need me at home. Not much to pack. I’ll get a cab to the airport. You have a nice visit with your family.”

  “Trish, don’t go. We need to talk.”

  “I would think you talked enough last night to get it out of your system. I know what you want to say. No hard feelings.”

  Some girls you marry, some you don’t. Some women like Mrs. Worthy are fit to go to Africa as missionaries, some aren’t and don’t want to be. She went to the guestroom and got her carry-on, added her toiletries, and phoned for a cab. She’d leave Rex to his cornbread and his vocation.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tricia’s car arrived from California. Black trash bags contained most of her clothes, though Juanita packed her photos and souvenirs more carefully wrapped in newspapers and placed in boxes. How very little of her own she accumulated while working for Layla. Tricia made a point of driving to Ames immediately to inquire about joining the school of education for the spring semester. Many of her UCLA credits would transfer. At least, she wouldn’t have to endure the basic freshman and sophomore classes again. If not enough money remained after her mother’s medical bills and funeral expenses were settled, she’d take out a student loan and get a part-time job. In the meantime, she kept her phone off and her laptop closed. No Layla, no Rex, no problem.

  The last thing she needed to see upon returning to the farm—a pink Cadillac driven by Doris Dillman. If only it had been a pink cow or a pink elephant, both easier to accept right now. Layla’s mother had cornered the cosmetics market in their little section of Iowa twenty-five years ago and never let a competitor get a foothold since. She used her own sad story as a marketing tool: a dowdy housewife, pregnant and abandoned by a philandering insurance salesman husband, blossoms and empowers herself by using and selling fine makeup products. Further proof of success, her daughter, actress Layla Devlin, who used her cosmetics line since appearing in childhood beauty pageants where she inevitably won with her blonde ringlets and unusual eyes highlighted with just the right shade of shadow and liner.

  Tricia considered turning around and going into town to hide, but Doris waited on one of the porch rockers despite the nip in the air. At the funeral, Doris offered the usual condolences and a remark that Trish looked peaked and could use a new skin and make-up regimen. Evidently, a polite demurral to her follow-up call had not deterred the woman. A representative wasn’t awarded a pink Cadillac for lack of persistence. Sighing, Tricia got out of the car and prepared to submit to a makeover whether she wanted it or not. Maybe she needed one.

  As she approached, however, she noticed Doris sat hunched, face in hands. When she raised her usually perfectly made-up visage, a considerable amount of it stayed on her fingers as black smudges and lipstick stains. Her eyes, minimized by puffy lids above and pads of fat below, floated in tears like the pernicious lilac water hyacinths of Louisiana. Overweight as long as Tricia had known her and always a brassy blonde no matter what her age, Mrs. Dillman foretold Layla’s appearance in middle age—unless she got sucked and tucked like most actresses. Always full of a brash confidence she’d transferred to her daughter, today the woman was nothing but a mess.

  “Please help my little girl,” Doris whimpered.

  “Sorry, I’m done helping Layla, but come inside and have some tea. It’s chilly out here, and you don’t want people to see you this way.”

  “No, I don’t. I rang and rang, but no one answered. I would sit out here until Hell froze over to rescue my only child.”

  “Dad and Carson are turning over some of the fields. Cody and Colt went to classes. I plan to start at State next semester, so you see I’m not going to be available.”

  Tricia unlocked the door and led the way to the kitchen with Doris trundling behind dressed in an overstuffed pink pantsuit but minus her cosmetic case and samples. How often had Marty Welles entertained the woman in this same kitchen, buying a lipstick or compact because the poor soul had to support herself and a daughter, making her tea, feeding her bundt cake? Automatically, Tricia put on water to boil and took a leftover funeral pound cake from the freezer, gave it a short zap in the microwave, and arrayed the slices on a plate.

  Mrs. Dillman waved the offering away. “I can’t eat. That dreadful Micah Stanley phoned me to say Louise is in a bad way. Not that I couldn’t figure it out by myself, but she won’t take my calls. This man, Lee, always intervenes. When you were assisting my daughter at least I got to talk to her sometimes.”

  Tricia kept her back to the woman as she prepared the tea. One in five calls from Layla’s mother was to be accepted on the star’s orders. Mommy and Me time Layla called the lengthy conversations. “After all, I owe the old bag everything from the color of my eyes to a ticket out of Iowa.” Lee must have received new instructions.

  “I know Mr. Stanley exploited my daughter, took her virginity on the casting couch like that awful man in The Godfather. Maybe I should have remarried. Then, Louise would not have fallen for a father figure. But, he does seem genuinely concerned for her wellbeing.”

  Tricia eyebrows shot up. Layla had lost her virginity behind a set of Iowa bleachers long before she got out of high school. If anything, she’d used aging Micah Stanley to get ahead.

  “I know I said some mean things to your mother about your being only a talentless gofer riding on Layla Devlin’s coattails. I guess that’s why you don’t want to help me now. You know, my daughter’s condition is partially your fault. You stole that prime young man she wanted. I could tell by the way he looked at you when he got up to speak at the funeral. A man like that could turn her life around. Now, Louise might die of heartbreak because of you.”

  Tricia served the tea, shoving one of the pretty china cups her grandmother always used across the table so hard the scalding water sloshed into the saucer and drew a small squeak from Mrs. Dillman’s smeared lips. “My mother did not repeat ugly words. She always said they should fall on barren ground and never bear fruit.”

  “I can’t say enough good about your mother,” Mrs. Dillman rushed to say.

  Nor had Doris spoken any nice words at the funeral. Unmoved, Tricia said, �
�Cream and sugar?”

  “Tea and sympathy?” Mrs. Dillman countered. “Your mother never judged, never failed to offer the helping hand. When others said I’d driven my husband away, she was the first to place an order when I started my business—pearl pink nail polish and matching lipstick. I haven’t forgotten.”

  Her mother never wore either. Years later, Tricia used both to play dress up as a child. The memory made her eyes water. Doris Dillman noticed. She knew where to apply pressure exactly like Layla.

  “You are your mother’s daughter, so good at heart. I know people think I’m pushy and overbearing. No one will say nice things about me when I’m gone, but what I fear the most is that I’ll have to bury my Louise long before that time comes. I am afraid she is flickering out, you know, like that candle in the wind. When the two of you left for California, I was so glad she’d have a sensible friend by her side and that you stayed with her when she made it big. I am so very grateful.”

  Right. She and Layla had hardly been friends in high school. Only her own fear of going to a big city convinced her to room with the bolder personality unafraid to take on anything, sometimes too unafraid. Tricia met Doris’ faded violet eyes, a big mistake.

  “Save my daughter for me, please.” More tears carried runnels of eyeliner and mascara into the grooves of Mrs. Dillman’s fleshy face.

  Before she capitulated, Tricia allowed herself one last unkind thought. Doris should have worn the waterproof liner. “I can stay with Layla until mid-January when the semester starts, not a day longer.”

  ****

  Tricia arrived back in New Orleans with her black bag and baggage prepared to stay only as long as she promised. Knowing Rex played out of town with the Sinners for the next couple of weeks helped. She wouldn’t run into him accidently. There would be no beignets or bars in Layla’s near future. Still, the night before she left Iowa, she’d had a dream of being crushed by overweight blonde women sitting on her head, heart, and private parts—Layla, Doris, and Sue Grace Worthy.

  Having left her key behind when she quit, Tricia knocked on the door of the condo. It opened a crack. “Pizza?” a husky, somewhat feminine voice asked.

  “No, Lee. It’s Tricia. I answered Layla’s seventy-six voice mails and 222 e-mails begging me to return by saying yes and listing my conditions. She agreed.”

  “There must be some mistake. I’m taking care of her now. I took away her phone and computer for her own good. I knew she could get into trouble harassing you and that football player.”

  When his hands left the doorknob and fluttered in agitation, Tricia forced the opening a little wider. “Evidently, she found a way to communicate. Are you still doing your act?”

  “Of course. It’s a tribute that immortalizes Layla, but I make sure she is sedated before I leave—so she won’t hurt herself.”

  “One thing you should have learned about Layla by now—when she wants pills, she gets them. When she doesn’t want pills, she hides them under her tongue and spits them out later.”

  From the turquoise couch, a dreamy voice said, “Patsy is that you?” A puffy hand embedded with large rings flopped over the back of the sofa and beckoned to her. “Lee-Lee, let my Patsy in.”

  He stood aside unwilling but unable to disobey his idol. Tricia stalked to the sofa. “Rule Number One: If you call me Patsy one more time, I am gone.”

  Tricia gazed down on the wreckage of Layla Devlin who wore the sunburst caftan and nothing else. It fit her fairly well now. In only an additional three weeks, she had ballooned. A frizzy mess of coils framed a face greatly resembling Mrs. Dillman’s with those famous eyes sunken into flesh like black olives in the deep-dish pizza they awaited for dinner.

  “Rule Number Two: No more food orgies.”

  “After the pizza, okay?” Layla whined.

  “Your last pizza. Rule Number Three: No more pills and alcohol.

  Layla groaned. “How am I gonna get by without a little help from my friends?”

  “You’ll live. That’s the important part. Rule Number Four: You will exercise. I’ve found a personal trainer for you.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Her name is Selena. A lot of the Sinners’ wives use her services to stay in shape. You will not be able to convince her that having sex with you is an aerobic exercise.”

  “Well, it is. And I bet I could. Don’t you think so, Lee-Lee?” Layla offered the hand with the rings cutting into her flesh to the transvestite.

  He kissed her dimpled knuckles. “Yes, I do. Lay-Lay, you don’t have to lose an ounce for me, and you can do whatever you want. I will always love you. Send Patsy away.”

  Layla extracted her hand and waved a pudgy finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah, she’s Tricia now. See how well I did that, Pat—Trish.”

  Tricia pressed her lips together to keep from screaming. “A good start. Rule Number Five: You will not stalk Rex Worthy.”

  Layla pouted her lips, not very voluptuous-looking now as their pillowy softness had to compete with her jowls. “I think I still have a good chance with him.”

  “You are so wrong. Rex loves only God. He wants to be a missionary in Africa like his father. Are you up for being a missionary’s wife? I know I’m not.”

  “I played one once in Masai! Remember, a great white hunter seduced me inside my husband’s chapel, which freed me to find true passion with a Masai warrior. I could act the part to be with Rex.”

  Tricia shook her head with disgust. “What are you on today? No more Rex for either of us.”

  Layla stretched her stuffed sausage arms wide. “I could give him something he won’t have to pray to God for.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Can I still watch the Sinners’ games, huh? They took my luxury box away over a teensy bit of damage to the suite.”

  “If you don’t mention his name, we could do that here in the apartment. No sports bars, no unhealthy snacks during the game.” Regardless of how things had turned out between them, she could still follow his career from afar—which made her not much better than Layla.

  “Any more stupid rules?”

  “I’ll let you know as the situations come up. Selena will be here in half an hour. Hoist yourself off that couch and put on some exercise clothes.”

  “Can’t go to a gym like this. I have no exercise clothes that fit me.”

  “Fortunately, one of the amenities of this place is a small gym on the first floor by the laundry room. Since most people who rent here are either partying on Bourbon Street or taking their kids to the aquarium, it is usually unoccupied and kept locked. The key should be in the kitchen drawer. I’ll be back with something you can wear by the time Selena gets here. If not, do some stretches and jumping jacks or something.”

  “I hate jumping jacks. They hurt my boobs.” Like a small child hiding, Layla put a throw pillow over her face and mumbled into it. “Kill me now.”

  With a great deal of doubt, Tricia left Lee in charge of Layla. She stepped out into the heat and humidity malingering all the way to November and headed into the Quarter where nary a block existed without a T-shirt shop. At the first one encountered, she scored an XXL purple shirt with a festive Mardi Gras theme—masks, beads, and crossed champagne glasses on the front. Took two more searches to find bottoms that might fit Layla’s enlarged rump: a pair of men’s novelty boxers with “Suck the Head” printed across the rear and a large, red crawfish on the fly. The T-shirt would cover most of the vulgar message.

  Returning to the condo, she encountered Selena Jaspers entering. No doubt who the woman was as she’d checked her web site. A statuesque black woman with short-cropped hair showing some gray, Selena owned arm muscles that made Michelle Obama’s physique look puny. She showed them off with a tight sleeveless black top that clung to impressive abs. Tricia suspected the long legs beneath her nylon running pants would be hard as an Olympic sprinter’s. Only that bit of gray gave away Selena’s age because her smooth mahogany skin had not a single wrinkle. It stretched
tightly over high cheekbones. Her deep brown eyes gleamed with the fervor of an exercise fanatic. Hard core, just what Layla needed.

  “So you are trainer to the wives of the Sinners,” Tricia said as they ran up the flights of stairs to the condo. Not necessary to confess she’d come across her name while searching for information on Rex.

  “You might say I am intimately connected to them. I was one of Joe Dean Billodeaux’s list ladies soooo long ago you were probably in kindergarten back then. He invited six of us to spend an island weekend with him and the team. I thought he might give my business a boost, so I went even if I had to sleep with him. Not that it would have been a hardship, a fine looking man then, a fine looking man now. He didn’t know it, but he was already hung up on Nell. Never slept with a one of us, but gave me an endorsement as a trainer. You know Tabby Johnson, the comedienne? She was there, too. Joe got her a gig at one of the clubs he frequented. Friends to this day.” Selena showed no sign of being winded as she talked.

  “Interesting story. You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.” As soon as Selena rounded another landing, Tricia slowed to a walk. She might have to do some exercising with them.

  The trainer waited at the door doing stretches, not wasting a minute. Tricia let them in to bathe in the aroma of a pepperoni and sausage deep dish. Layla sat at the dining table stuffing her face as if pizza would cease to exist tomorrow, which in her case was true. Selena slapped the greasy wedge from her hand.

  “I’m Selena Jaspers, and I’m here to help you. Can’t hardly believe you’re Layla Devlin. Girl, your curves have turned into landslides. Put on your exercise clothes, and let’s get started.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that, you black bitch.” Layla grabbed another slice and shoved it in her mouth.

  “Yes, she can because I said so.” Tricia relieved her of the pizza and firmly shut the box. She held out the bags. “Best I could do on short notice.”