“How’s the collection coming along?” Dan Day asked.
“Fine, fine.” Brad nodded and stirred his tea. “I’ll be ready for the show. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“Show? What show?” Deenie halted her ogling of Michael and stared at her father. “Daddy, you’re not doing a show for him, are you? You said you never backed starving artists, only ones with real talent.” She sent a dismissive look around the table at the motley clan.
“Brad has real talent, Deenie.” Her father lowered his brows at her. “You’d be surprised at his work.”
The look on her face said she’d be shocked if he could paint with more than one primary color. Her mouth was wide open with distaste. Bailey didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to hold onto the love-your-brother homily she’d just enjoyed in church. Pouring her water glass over Deenie’s hair-sprayed head wouldn’t be loving, but watching the hard-packed shellac turn into rivulets of glue would be very satisfying. She bit her lip to keep from snatching up the glass, though it was difficult when Deenie’s hand roamed over to Michael’s.
“Everybody’s doing their part to help the Dixons with their tax problem,” she said smoothly. “It’s nice of you to buy them Sunday brunch.”
“Mind your manners, Deenie,” her father commanded swiftly. “The whole town’s offered to do craft shows and bake sales to help them out, and Bailey’s turned ’em all down flat. I’m not doing this show for charity. I’m doing it because it’s gonna make me a huge pile of frijoles. And I’m picking up the tab for ya’ll’s meal today.” He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table and waved Michael’s protest off. “It’s minor compared to the money you’re going to bring me at the showing, Brad. Consider it a slight advance.”
“Oh, Daddy.” Deenie’s tone was disbelieving and demeaning. Clearly anything the Dixons had couldn’t be worth much.
“I’ve never seen an artist of Brad’s talent. He’s worth showcasing. One day, you’re going to see his work in the most fashionable homes in Hollywood.”
“Hollywood!” Deenie breathed. “I don’t believe it.” But her gaze fastened on Brad with sudden, calculating interest.
“I think your father’s being a bit of a salesman,” Brad said modestly.
She snapped her head around to stare at her father. “Are you, Daddy?”
“Nope,” he said simply. “My wallet started jumping the minute I laid eyes on Brad’s work.”
“Oh, my,” she said in a silky whisper. “Daddy never does anything unless it’s going to win big.” Her eyes went doe huge on Brad as if she’d never seen him before. “Can you paint me?”
“Well—” Brad glanced at Dan hesitantly.
“I’ve always dreamed of Hollywood,” Deenie said, pleading. “You could paint me in my best evening gown, with my Judith Lieberman sparkly shoes and my heirloom jewelry. I’d look like a movie star. Would you, Brad?”
Bailey lowered her eyes at Brad’s predicament. Her stomach felt like it might heave any second. The children were all sitting quietly, staring at Deenie and big Mr. Day, who was smiling at his daughter as if she’d had an idea as bright as her silvery bleached hair.
Bailey felt a hand cover hers suddenly. She glanced up to see Michael mouth the words, “Are you all right?”
She nodded briskly, trying not to think how comforting and warm his skin felt on hers. He withdrew his fingers, and her shoulders sagged. Suddenly, the overwhelming combination of pancakes and eggs and sausage and Deenie’s disdain washed over her in a tidal wave, prickling her skin with chill bumps and the panicked realization that she was going to be sick again.
“Excuse me,” she blurted, leaping up from the table. She flew to the washroom, painfully aware of all the pairs of eyes watching her mad dash.
Ten minutes later, she collected herself enough to return to the table. Deenie and Mr. Day had departed. Michael stared at her in consternation. Brad looked away to save her from embarrassment. The children, well used to her frequent dives into a bathroom, barely looked up from the food they were eating.
Bailey knew she wouldn’t make it through another minute in the pancake house. “Do you mind if I go sit in your car?”
Michael stood at once. “Of course not.” He helped her into her coat and escorted her out into the bracing, fresh, crisp air. “Are you all right?”
She nodded weakly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He opened the car door so she could slide in, then closed it and went around to the driver’s side and got in. “You left church this morning, too. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just something I ate, probably.” The story she hadn’t really been willing to tell Gunner didn’t fall any easier from her lips now. Somehow she had to tell Michael the truth.
“You didn’t eat anything.” He brushed her hair from her face. “You’re pale, Bailey. You need to see a doctor. I’m taking you over to Doc Watson’s house right now and tell him he needs to take a look at you.”
“No!” Bailey shook her head. “Don’t disturb him on Sunday, Michael.”
“He’s a doctor, that’s what he’s for.” Michael took a deep breath. “Let me run you to the emergency room, then.”
“I’m fine. I already saw Doc Watson this week, anyway.”
Michael looked at her suspiciously. “You did?” It was obvious he didn’t believe her. “What did he say?”
“It’s just a stomach flu.” Now was not the right time to tell him the truth, so she could only hope that this little fib right after church wasn’t going to do her chances for heaven serious damage. But she was more ashamed and upset than ever. Dread of his reaction dried her mouth. He certainly wouldn’t be delighted with their predicament, that much she knew.
“You’ve had a stomach flu that’s making you this ill for as many days as it’s been since you’ve seen the doc.” He shook his head. “Doc Watson’s getting old. You could have something more serious, Bailey, like appendicitis or something.”
“I don’t!” she snapped. Ashamed, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’d really just like to go home and lie down.” She rolled her head against the headrest to look at Michael. His worried gaze went deep into her heart. She had to tell him soon, and the truth of what was wrong with her made her feel that much worse.
The Dixon family left the pancake house and tumbled into the car. Five little pairs of hands reached up to stroke Bailey’s face. “Are you okay?” the children asked, petting her hair and her shoulders and every other part of her they could reach.
“You usually love pancakes,” Beth pointed out with nine-year-old common sense.
“I know.” Bailey closed her eyes. “I’m sorry I cut everyone’s breakfast short.” Especially the only time some of her siblings had ever been out for a meal.
“You
