Delta Ladies

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The “imaginative” ( Booklist) #1 New York Times bestseller praised for her “real and endearing” characters ( Los Angeles Times), rekindles our romance with this enchanting classic novel in which a man reunites with two long lost loves in his small southern hometown—and discovers some passions never die out. Cader Harris shook the dust of Hayden, Louisiana from his feet eighteen years ago, aided by his football prowess, his movie-star good looks—and most of all by a handsome payoff from Foster Doyle Hayden, who thought that Cader wasn’t good enough for his daughter, Irene. When Irene married someone else and too few months later gave birth, Cader was shocked. He kept his side of the bargain, but now a secret oil deal gives him an excuse to see his son and the tempestuous woman he should have claimed long ago. But before Irene there was Sunday Waters, who gave Cader her heart and soul. Then Irene snapped her fingers and Cader came running. Now Cader will discover how much can change when girls become women…and that sometimes a dwindling fire can reignite a blaze hotter than before.

Release date: March 1, 1995

Publisher: Pocket Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

At an altitude of five hundred feet, a pilot could expect to experience occasional patches of scudding clouds misting against the windshield and ruffling like hazy feathers as they were chewed in voracious bites by the twin-engine Beechcraft. But the day was cloudless, the sky a vibrant blue. The early morning sun had scorched away the sporadic tufts of cloud and blazed through the cockpit, giving off a steady, baking heat that even the direct flow from the air vents could not dispel. It was a glorious day, the kind of day Cader Harris associated with dropping a baited hook from the fertile banks along the river and snagging a pike, or, with extraordinary luck, a meal-sized catfish. It was a good day for returning to his hometown of Hayden, Louisiana.

By squinting his eyes and looking off to the west, Cader could see the long stretch of hard-packed clay leading to the black-topped strip of the local small-plane airport. A glance at his fuel gauge assured him he had another fifteen minutes of flight time before the spiky needle pointed to empty. On a sudden whim, he banked to the left twenty degrees, heading east now, away from the airstrip. He hadn't called in to the flight tower for permission to land as yet, and he allowed his impulses to take him on a long, slow circle of the town. From his increased altitude of seven hundred feet, he imagined he would experience a new perspective on the place of his beginnings.

There, on the Louisiana Delta, on a lazy spur of the Mississippi flowing into the greater waters of the Gulf of Mexico, rested the town of Hayden. The white-spired steeple of the Baptist Church, circled by an expanse of new, lushly green lawn and dotted at its rear by neatly tended tombstones, was easily discernible. A peaceful town, populated by some fifteen thousand upright, law-abiding citizens, it was named for Jatha Hayden, its founding father, and had carried his name proudly for nearly one hundred seventy-five years.

Cader smiled to himself. Seen from up here it could be any small town in the country. The myriad styles of architecture from the Greek Revival to the New England saltbox represented a kaleidoscope of life styles. Even seen from the ground Hayden could have been anywhere in the continental United States, with its street names like Magnolia Drive and Chinaberry Circle, and Sunday dinners of fried chicken and pecan pie. But Cader knew it was the people, their values and prejudices, the highs and lows of their humanity that made Hayden what it was -- just another town.

Cader's sharp eye caught sight of the narrow strip of railroad tracks that divided the town. Deliberately, he veered his Beechcraft again, preferring to remain on the north side of Hayden, away from the overgrown tracts and rows of ramshackle hovels where he had been born. Instead, he concentrated his attentions on the more favored side of Hayden, the scrupulously tended lawns and neat rows of houses.

Cader remembered the markers the Junior Women's League had erected amid the tree-lined streets that denoted the supposed, rather than the exact, location of such historic and memorable events as: Jatha Hayden House, first established homesite, or the Jatha Hayden Library, founded by Jatha and Cloris Hayden, nestled in among other interesting and necessary tidbits of the town's history. Cader's back teeth clenched and he grimaced in a way that passed for a smile. In new-found, mature understanding he realized the only thing "historically accurate" about these markers was that the ladies agreed on where they should be placed.

The blacktopped roof of the Jatha Hayden High School tipped into view. Cader had attended the school for four of the most important years of his life: four years of fame and glory on the football field that eventually led him to college and ultimately into the flamboyant world of pro ball.

While a young student at Hayden High, Cader's ability for football had come into prominence. In spite of his poor beginnings, coming from the wrong side of the tracks as he did, he drew the notice of Foster Doyle Hayden, the last living descendant of the founding father to carry on the Hayden name. Football had always been Hayden's obsession, and when Cader had come into the limelight during his highschool career, Foster Doyle noticed him, taking vicarious pleasure in the young man's success. Rumor had it that Cader had been offered a scholarship to Tulane University and had accepted it.

Cader's mouth tightened to a grim line. Some might call what he'd done "selling out." Cader preferred to call it cutting his losses. And when Cader cut his losses, he cut everything, including Irene Hayden, Foster Doyle's white-skinned, golden-haired daughter. Irene, the original golden girl, with the autocratic temperament of a thoroughbred racehorse and the lusty appetites of a high-class whore. When Foster Doyle told Cader that Irene was pregnant with his child, Cader saw all his ambitions going down the drain.

Expecting Hayden to ride his back and demand he marry Irene, Cader visualized a future with himself under Foster Doyle's imperious thumb, running the bases at the man's whim. Instead, Hayden floored Cader by offering him an escape -- leave town...never see Irene again...and Cader would be rewarded with enrollment at Tulane University, tuition and all expenses paid, not to mention a very healthy allowance paid to a bank once a month.

Escape...a way out...a path with which Cader Harris was very familiar. More than an escape...a dream...something he'd wanted all his life and always believed was beyond his reach.

Tulane...the gem of the Southern universities...money for clothes, a car, enough left over to see to his drunken father's support. All he had to do was agree to Hayden's bargain.

Still, there was Irene to consider. Hayden had sneered at Cader's hesitation. Irene had a position to maintain and the family name to consider. Irene's problem could be solved.

Cader hadn't been able to reach an immediate decision. He loved Irene, but the lure of escaping his humble beginnings to the upper echelons of Tulane, paid for and supported by Hayden, was impossible to resist. He would have everything going for him. He already had the magazine looks, the physique to wear the magazine clothes and the athletic and sexual prowess to bring it all together. He would be a star! A football hero! Pursued by the girls, envied by the guys.

To Cader's own amazement, breaking ties with the hometown had proved to be difficult. While in attendance at prep school to gain the necessary credits to enter the university in the fall, he had subscribed to the town paper. It was there he learned of the surprising marriage of Irene Hayden and Arthur Thomas. The news depressed him. Despite the enthusiastic female attention surrounding him, his thoughts still clung to Irene. He admitted a sense of loss, a heartfelt regret, yet upon reflection he was relieved to have made his escape with so few scars.

One evening, after football practice with the Tulane team, he happened to read the Hayden paper. In the social column was the announcement that Irene Hayden Thomas had given birth to a son, Kevin Hayden Thomas. A quick count on his fingers gave him his answer. A son. His son.

When Foster Doyle had proclaimed he would "take care of everything," Cader had assumed he meant an abortion for Irene.

Looking out of the cockpit down on the town of Hayden, Cader brought himself back to the present. Somewhere, down in that green patchwork, was his son. A boy known as Kevin Thomas. And Cader would see him, find him.

He had merely cut his losses, Cader justified; he hadn't really traded Irene and his son for a chance to cross the tracks into acceptable society. And he'd kept his bargain, until now. Not even when his father had died had Cader returned to Hayden. Not that he would have been so inclined anyway. But he had kept his bargain, and if in a weak moment his conscience pricked him, he knew with supreme arrogance and utter confidence that with a snap of his fingers he could cancel it all out and Irene would come running. So far, he hadn't had to draw on his one last reserve; he'd never snapped his fingers.

Having flown beyond the limits of town, the landscape below had become low, flat plains; he was over the truck farms that skirted Hayden. Six or seven miles to the south the tall stacks of the catcrackers belonging to the Delta Oil Company were visible and the eternal flame of the flare-tower smoked hotly into the noonday sun like an angry, fire-breathing sentry. In a natural progression of thought, Cader smiled, squinting against the glare bouncing off his windshield as he accelerated his Beechcraft toward the offensive sight of gray steel and blackened machinery and sterile girders that were the Delta Oil Company. One thought just naturally seemed to follow the other these days; old man Hayden, the granddaddy of us all, and good ol' Delta oil.

Long before he approached the blackened ErectorSet construction of the oil refinery, Cader glanced down and was able to pick out the wide, three-mile strip of beach and the hundreds of acres of pampas grass behind it that were the bone of contention between the magnates of Delta Oil and the citizens of Hayden. It was there, on what had always been referred to as Jatha Beach, that Delta wanted to erect those ominous-looking and lethal-sounding, liquid natural gas holding tanks.

Although the title and deed for the innocent playground of the young people of Hayden rested in the town's hands, Foster Doyle Hayden, last living descendant of the original founding father to carry on the name, was bitterly opposed to the plan. His opinion weighed heavily in the small, sleepy town.

Foster Doyle Hayden was pleased when he heard himself referred to as the genteel, soft-spoken, white-haired town father. He was a paternal figure, upheld for his civic responsibility and generous endowments to his town. He was a paragon, a model of virtue. Secretly, he likened himself to Teddy Roosevelt, speaking softly and carrying a big stick.

On more than one occasion the members of the town council, on which he served as president, had seen Foster Doyle's big stick. And on the matter of Delta Oil's infiltration into the town, they had felt it.

Foster Doyle was a reactionary of the first order. All argument proclaiming the economic advantages

Delta Oil would bring was lost on him. He liked the town as it was, sleeping and submerged, untouched by progress. Delta Oil's intrusion would mean a change. Any commercial growth would involve an influx of trade and people into his town. If Delta Oil meant growth, and growth meant change, Foster Doyle would have none of it. He didn't want to lose control of Hayden to a pack of upstarts with revolutionary ideas and possibly more money than he had to see those ideas to fruition.

Foster Doyle was confident of his control as it now stood. The council understood his thinly veiled threats, just as they were meant to. They comprehended his stated concern that the new medical center could be delayed indefinitely; that financial contributions for the library's new wing and various and sundry other pet projects of the council would never see the light of day without his financial support.

The town of Hayden rested in Foster Doyle's gnarled hand, a hand that could close like a vise if and when he chose. Delta Oil needed someone to combat Foster Doyle's influence. Who was better for the job of turning opinion in favor of the LNG (Liquid Natural Gas) than Cader Harris? A native-born son of Hayden, retired from a football career in which he became a national hero and pride of his hometown, Cader filled Delta Oil's bill. He was a handsome, vital man of thirty-six, irresistibly attractive to women, while at the same time considered a "man's man." Delta considered their problem practically solved.

The title of Public Relations Advisor was dreamed up by Cader himself. It was meant to salve his conscience, while in truth Harris needed no second urging, trumped-up title or no. He had too much to gain to be concerned with scruples, even if the least of these advantages was the easing of the life-long grudge he'd carried around with him against the town of Hayden and its democracy-loving citizens. Cader saw his position with Delta as an ideal opportunity to retaliate for the hurts and slights he had suffered at their hands while he was growing up among them. He'd make them accept those natural gas tanks, accept them and love them even. And then he'd take the money and run and never look backward to see if those great gray giants ever blew up in their faces.

Revenge wasn't the only reason Cader jumped at this chance. The success or failure he brought about for Delta was tied in with his own personal success or failure. He knew what it meant to be a "has-been." The popularity Delta Oil insisted Cader enjoyed in Hayden was not indicative of the status he experienced beyond the town's limits. The high salary and financial rewards he'd earned as an athlete had been lost to extravagance and poor management. All that remained was several thousand in the bank, this twin-engined Beechcraft given to him by the enamored daughter of a manufacturing scion who expected love in return for her generosity, and a rapidly crumbling identity. Cader knew there was no middle of the road. You were either a "somebody" or you were a "nobody." Money went a long way in ensuring you the former status.

A quarter-of-a-million-dollar commission and a contract for commercials and advertising endorsing Delta Oil would have been inducement enough for Harris to set fire to the whole damn town, let alone persuade them that the LNGs would be good for them.

Just thinking about it caused a fine beading of perspiration to moisten his upper lip. Taking his powerful, sun-gilded hand from the stick, he wiped it away. He knew this was do or die. The end of the road. He knew he couldn't make that uphill swing from nobody to somebody again, no matter what. This was his last chance and he had to make the best of it. A sinking, gut-churning feeling, like a steel rod stiffing his insides around, hit him full force. The way things had been running these last few years he'd need everything Lady Luck could blow his way. It was almost as though he had grease on his sneakers and he was on a downhill slide. This was it, everything, and he had to make a good job of it. Delta Oil was his salvation; indeed, it had become his redeemer.

The faint cough from the right engine caught Cader's attention. Immediately, his eyes flew to the fuel gauge. Empty. Just enough reserve to land. Christ! Just when he almost had it all, it would be just his luck to daydream his way into a tailspin and finish his life where he started it--4n the rubble outside the limits of Hayden. He reached for the headset and adjusted it, tuning for the air control, requesting permission to land.

Sunday Waters brushed her long, honey-blond hair out of her eyes and concentrated on guiding her blue Mustang down the quiet, tree-lined street. She gently pressed the clutch with her neat, white-sandaled foot as she glided to a stop at the corner light at Jatha Hayden Boulevard and Leland Avenue. A quick look at the gold circle on her wrist and she sighed with relief. She was early for her appointment with Marc Baldwin, the gynecologist.

With her slender hand on the gearshift as she waited for the line of traffic to move on Hayden Boulevard, she caught sight of a low-flying plane circling over the high school. Narrowing her light blue eyes against the glare of the sun, Sunday leaned forward and peered up at the craft. She supposed it was one of the crop dusters who earned extra pocket money by taking on aspiring students who were bent on earning their pilot's license. However, on closer examination, the plane didn't appear to be one of the patched and re patched disasters the pilots around Hayden used to spread their insecticides on the crops.

A pinch of memory nearly caused her to stall out the '72 Mustang. A memory of Cader Harris and herself stretched out in the tall grass skirting the airport, watching the planes take off and land on the steaming, sticky blacktop in the midday heat of summer. Cader had always been crazy for anything connected with flying, and he had dragged her out to that landing strip more times than she could count to watch the fragile machines soar into the air and to listen to their engines sputter and finally roar to life as they wound up for takeoff.

The tall, scratchy grass would whisper all around them, concealing them from passers-by. The millions of insects hiding there with them would often sting them in buzzing protest at this invasion. But Sunday would have cheerfully walked into a snake pit with Cader Harris if she could lie there beside him and watch the excitement mount in his dancing dark eyes and know that soon, when he had had his fill of watching the aluminum birds sweep the sky, he would turn to her, take her in his arms and teach her to fly even though her bare little ass never left the dry, sunbaked ground.

Sunday was lifted from her reverie by the sight of a young boy and two girls approaching the boulevard. How young they were, as young as Cader and herself all those many summers ago. God, was she ever that young? Of course she was, but she had never looked like the youngsters approaching the crosswalk. They were Ivy League, spit and polish, Ivory soap and Crest toothpaste. She had spent her teen-aged years wearing made-over dresses from her aunt who lived in New Orleans. New clothes and even decent meals took second place to Bud Waters's daily consumption of liquor.

She recognized the young people as they neared the curb. Kevin and Bethany Thomas, Arthur's children, and Judy Evans. Sunday blinked when she saw Kevin throw back his head and laugh at something his sister had said. A knot of nostalgia tightened in her chest. She remembered being carefree and smart and having someone look at her that way. Cader Harris had when Sunday had been his girl -- his blond and bouncy and wonderfully happy girl. Until he tried to make that leap across the tracks into Hayden's inner circle via Irene Hayden who could open those doors for him. Sunday sighed; one way or another, even without Irene, Cader had opened those doors. And the result was the same; Sunday had been left behind.

The Mustang bucked slightly with the pressure of her foot, and as the children passed the car, Sunday noticed the proprietary look in Judy Evans's eyes. Young romance, she mused to herself, as she eased the car onto Jatha Hayden Boulevard. And what was that glimmer of hostility on Bethany's face? Sunday frowned. If she hadn't known they were brother and sister, she would have marked it down to jealousy. Now what the hell did that mean? Whatever, it was none of her business. Sooner or later their father, Arthur Thomas, would tell her every niggling little problem riddling his family. It was impossible to have an affair with a man and not be aware of his problems. If they were problems. And somehow, in her gut, she knew the Thomas kids were a problem. With Irene Thomas for their mother, how could it be otherwise?

Stopping for yet another traffic light, Sunday let her eyes travel the length of the boulevard with its patriarchal sycamore trees. Everything looked normal and tranquil. Yet she fully expected that at any moment the world would turn upside down. Cader Harris was coming back to Hayden. To open a sporting goods store, rumor had it. She had been serving the usual Scotch and water to Gene McDermott in the Lemon Drop Inn where she worked as a cocktail waitress when Neil Hollister broke the news. It was a miracle her hand remained steady when she placed Gene's double Scotch in front of him. Neil had said he was writing up a feature story on Cader, and he knew the wire services would pick it up. Then he had winked at her and grinned. "Stud Harris," he had laughed. "Every woman in town will either run for cover or else they'll become overnight sports buffs." Sunday had remained silent, smiling vaguely, trying to hide the fact that her heart was leaping up her windpipe.

Why was he coming back to Hayden now? After all this time? Oh, she'd heard that tale about the sporting goods shop, but Cader wasn't a merchant type. Unless he had changed drastically over the years, he'd never make a go of it. A business took time, effort and money. Money was something Cader had always been short of, saying it was something to be spent and enjoyed; let someone else take care of the rainy days. Still, after a career like his, money should be the least of his worries. Maybe he had changed now that he was older and settled. But somehow she didn't believe Cader Harris had changed one bit.

Behind her a born sounded, and she pushed the clutch to the floor and moved with the traffic. She still had ten minutes to make it to Dr. Baldwin's office for her monthly Pap test. Now, there was a man, she thought. Marc Baldwin. Attractive and virile, and no doubt a master of a woman's psyche. She shook her head to clear her thoughts and pulled into his parking lot, obeying the sign that said to park "head on." A Freudian slip, doctor? She laughed to herself. It was funny, but she had never thought of Marc as making known his sexual preferences. She had always thought of him in the context of complying with a woman's preferences. Lucky Julia, Marc's wife.

Sunday stepped from the car and smoothed her cornflower-blue dress over her hips. She knew it matched her eyes perfectly and did wonderful things for her complexion and honey-colored hair. Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the Medical Building, which housed an ophthalmologist, two dentists, an optician and, of course, Marc Baldwin's ob-gyn offices.

When Sunday stepped into the cool of the air conditioning, she frowned slightly when she noted Marsha Evans sitting at the reception desk. She chastised herself for making her appointment on Marion's day off. Sunday didn't care much for Marsha. She couldn't say why, exactly; Marsha had always been very pleasant and never looked down her patrician nose at Sunday for being a mere cocktail waitress. Still, it was hard to read Marsha. All the signals got crossed somehow.

"Hi, Sunday. Marc will be ready for you in a bit." Marsha smiled, her voice soft and friendly. "Have a seat. It must be getting really hot out there."

Sunday forced herself to answer politely. She found herself actually clenching her back teeth to keep from spitting out the replies. Why did Marsha Evans have this effect on her? Going one step further to hide her hostility, Sunday volunteered, "I just saw Judy crossing the boulevard with the Thomas kids. She looked so pretty, all smiles and giggles."

"I'd guess she had a lot to giggle about," Marsha answered, looking at Sunday levelly, her dark green eyes holding a soft, maternal humor. "The last day of school. Remember how that felt, Sunday? Three long months out of jail to play and swim and have a good time?"

"Yeah, I remember," Sunday answered, reaching impatiently for a dog-eared magazine and pretending to see something of profound interest in its pages. She supposed Marsha hadn't meant anything in her remark about fun and swimming and good times. Maybe that's what her summers were like, but there was nothing in what Marsha said that even faintly resembled Sunday's summers. Hers had been an endless chore of taking in ironing with her mother and slaving away in the tobacco fields while the sun burned half her brain to a crisp, and forgetting what it felt like to stand up straight until someone came along and cracked her back so she could hobble over to the truck that would take her back to town.

Sunday was suddenly nervous. Even the quiet beige tones of the waiting room couldn't quell the jittery feeling creeping over her. Cader was coming back to town.

A buzzer sounded on Marsha's desk, and she closed her appointment book. She fixed a crisp, professional smile on her face and walked into the examining room, her hips swaying seductively in the white uniform.

Sunday sighed as she looked around the office. Besides her, the only other patient was an older woman whose name eluded her at the moment. Discarding her hastily chosen magazine, she reached for one with a new-looking glossy cover, relieved to note it bore the latest date. Leafing through the silky pages, something caught her eye. The caption read, "Is it possible -- the multiple orgasm?" She suppressed a smile. You betcha! Her smile widened to a grin. Once, when she was in high school, she had had a triple with Cader who almost went out of his mind as he matched her, 0. for 0. So much for novices who claimed it was merely a myth, she thought smugly, closing the magazine and tossing it onto the glass-topped table.

Was it warm in here or was it her? She noticed the soft hum of the air conditioner. No, it was her. Gently, she brought her fingers to her cheek, careful not to smudge the rosy blush on her high cheekbones. She felt flushed. Even as she thought of the word, she had an instant vision of herself disappearing down the bottom of a filthy toilet and Cader Harris pushing the handle again and again as he laughed down at her. Flushed, all right, right down the old john. Well, that's what he had done, wasn't it? When he'd gotten that "too good to turn down" offer to attend Tulane. She wondered vaguely if she were running a temperature. God, she couldn't get sick now, not with Cader coming back to town. And, she reminded herself, I have to stop by Arthur's funeral home. "Damn!" she muttered, why had she promised she would stop by today? For the hundred dollars, she admitted with rare honesty. Pap tests every month were expensive, not to mention the douches when you used them as often as she did. Besides, the extra money would come in handy just about now. There was a stunner of a dress in the Monde Boutique that would knock Cader's eyes right out of his head.

She shrugged. As fly-blown as she felt today, she would keep her promise to Arthur. He needed her and in some small way she was able to make him happy, temporarily, until he went home to face his wife, Irene Hayden Thomas. Well, there was nothing she could do about his home life. Everyone had problems. It seemed enough for Arthur that Sunday offered him her friendship and a quick piece of ass in the casket display room. Funny thing about that though, Arthur had become a special friend to her. It had nothing to do with the money he pressed on her and she readily took, it was much more. He had become someone who was really interested in her, in what she was feeling. Sunday had shared some of her most personal secrets and fears with stodgy old Arthur Thomas and, most important of all, he seemed to care. At least he never laughed at her, not to her face anyway. She was bursting to tell him that Cader was coming back to town, but somehow she knew she wouldn't. How could she admit, even to herself, that even after nearly twenty years she could still get herself into a flap at just the mention of his name. Eighteen long, frustrating years since she last saw the tail end of Cader Harris. What would Hayden's wonder boy think when he saw her now that she lived on the right side of the tracks and wore the right clothes and makeup?

"Sunday, Dr. Baldwin will see you now," Marsha Evans said in her most professional tone as she stepped aside to allow Sunday to pass into the examining room. "You know the procedure; you can hang your clothes there on the rack. There's a fresh gown on the shelf. The doctor will be with you shortly. "

Sunday's eyes narrowed and she shot Marsha a quizzical glance. Was that some kind of crack, that bit about, "you know the procedure"? You could never tell with Marsha. Sometimes butter would melt in her mouth, and other times she could be as caustic as the lye vat Granny used for making soap. Stepping into the cool, almost cold, examining room with its austere stainless steel fittings, Sunday reached behind her and shut the door with emphasis. As she struggled with the long zipper on the back of her dress, she wondered why Marsha's remark should rub her the wrong way. So what if she was a fanatic about these Pap smears? Wasn't it a known fact that her own mother had died of pelvic cancer that was discovered long after there could be any help for her?

And Ma had been a good woman, she thought as she wrestled with her panty hose, not like...me! She finished her thought with determination. Admit it. Ma always said only women who lived sordid lives got diseases in their female organs. Ma's shame about the cancer had almost been greater than her pain and fear of death.

Marsha Evans stepped back into the confining cubicle just as Sunday was folding her panties and placing them neatly on the little swivel stool. She handed her the pale blue paper gown and tied it at the neck after Sunday pushed her arms through the arm holes.

"It'll be a few minutes yet before Marc is ready to see you," Marsha explained. "Have a seat. Would you like a magazine while you're waiting?"

Sunday shook her head. "I'll be fine."

Marsha heard the phone on her desk buzz and made a quick, smooth exit.

Sunday lowered herself onto the stool and crossed her elegantly long legs. She wanted a cigarette but knew Marc wouldn't approve.

Being naked under the t