Everyone on the job site knew she was coming when they heard Frank Sinatra blaring on the Highway Hi-Fi at full blast. Who the hell else had a record player in their car? But if anyone in Fort Stockton would, it’d be Jaydee Dalton-Douglas.

The gals at the Piggly Wiggly sneered, “She just married John Douglas so she didn’t have to change the monograms on every damn thing she owns.”  At the Lucky Lady, the men ‘round the bar were not as delicate, mentioning that John Douglas had more in common with a mule than just his his big grin.  They surmised it was that gifted endowment, confirmed in the Men’s Locker Room at the Fort Stockton Country Club, that clinched the deal that led Jaydee down the aisle on the arm of John Douglas.

Truth be told, the crowd at the Lucky Lady was closer to the truth than they probably knew.  Changing monograms is not anything Jaydee would have even flinched at.  After all, she’d had two hundred feet of expensive concrete driveway jackhammered and replaced because she said there was something on that particular stretch of driveway leading up to the new house that made her record skip, and that just wouldn’t do.  Jaydee wouldn’t have it and neither would Frank.

The marriage to John Douglas was transactional.  The only daughter and namesake of the biggest rancher between Fort Stockton and Amarillo had only one expectation from her new husband, when they married several years back.  He needed to be a good breeder.  She wanted a big family, preferably boys, to carry on the name and the businees, and it was a requirement that they be good looking.  Jaydee certainly held up her end of the bargain.  She was Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, and the best looking female graduate of Jim Bowie High School, class of 1950, maybe the whole decade.  Daddy’s money probably had something to do with the titles, but the looks were all natural, God-given, and awe inspiring.

Blond, blue-eyed, and blessed with the ample proportions that would have given her a career in Hollywood, had she any inclination, Jaydee turned heads wherever she went.  When she set off for college in Austin the fall of ’50, a degree was far less important than the husband she set out to find.  Besides the previously mentioned characteristics, she wanted someone athletic and on scholarship.  The athleticism would add to his rugged good looks.  The scholarship would denote that he didn’t come from money, so would be grateful beyond measure to be immersed in it after the wedding.

John Douglas proved to be everything she was looking for, and more. Good enough to qualify for a football scholarship, yet never quite good enough to start, his rugged good looks were preserved, his chiseled handsome features never threatened. Personable without being overbearing, humorous without trying to be funny, he was pliable and dependable. Being from Dripping Springs was the icing on the cake, as Fort Stockton would seem downright cosmopolitan.

She brought her new husband back to town and picked up right where she left off after graduation from UT in ‘54.  Three kids in three years, all boys, proved her choice had not been without merit.  He was given a title and a few duties around the ranch, but there was never any question in anyone’s mind what his real responsibilities were.  He may have hung his pants up on the bedpost on demand, but Jaydee was the one that wore them regarding anything of any importance.  The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, in that regard.  Her daddy, J.D. ruled everything he saw with an iron fist, save his only offspring.

Jaydee and her husband had been working on their new home at the ranch for over a year, the biggest home built in Texas in the last fifty years, outside Houston or Dallas, folks said.  That entailed trips to the home site early in the morning nearly every day, before the sun was unbearable and there was a chance Jaydee might perspire.  Well, to be accurate, Jaydee never perspired; she glistened.  The architect and builder knew that if Jaydee was glistening, something was going to get torn down and rebuilt.

Mid-June of ’57 the architect and builder were waiting for her arrival, preparing for whatever she might throw at them when the heard Frank singing Fly Me to the Moon and looked up and saw the Turquoise and Glacier White Dodge Custom Royal Lancer D-500 2 door hardtop barreling down the driveway like it was on the new U.S. Turnpike system.  They both crossed their fingers the record didn’t skip when it glided over the new patch of concrete.  “Frank didn’t miss a beat, praise the Lord,” the foreman said.  “It might be a good day today.”

“If Frank was really going to fly to the moon,” the architect laughed, “he’d probably do it in a Dodge Lancer D-500.”

The 325 Hemi V8 shut down as soon as Jaydee’s slim finger pushed the TorqueFlight push button automatic transmission, about the same time Sinatra finished his flight to the moon.  She was out of the Dodge and walking briskly through the front door, expecting the two men in her employ to fall in behind her, glistening with every stride.  “Follow me to the bedroom, gentlemen,” she said without a glance their way.  The two men looked at each, the architect fighting the urge to whisper something, the builder nodding back and forth to be sure he didn’t.

“The guest house,” she said pointing out the window to the structure nearing completion.  “It’s in the way.”

Neither wanted to speak, but finally the architect waded into the gurgling shallows of fear, testing the waters.  “In the way of what, ma’am?  It’s right where the plan shows.  Right where you wanted it.”

“Regardless.  It needs to be moved back fifty feet in that direction.  I’ve decided to put in a helipad.  John will be learning to fly.  I want guests to be able to jump right out of the copter and into the pool.  The guest house will just need to be relocated.”  She pointed towards an arbitrary point in the direction of the horizon, turned on her heel and headed back towards the Dodge.

About the time the architect and builder caught their breath and attempted to catch up with her, John Douglas pulled up in his new Plymouth Suburban wagon.  “Be a dear and handle the details, I’m late for a hair appointment and I need to get the boys to swim lessons,” she said as she turned on the engine and flipped Frank over to his other side.  “And don’t be late for dinner.  Daddy’s coming over to talk about the herd count over drinks before we eat.  You’ll be gilling steaks”  And in an instant, the fins of the Dodge turned into fine points in the distance as Frank crooned something about Strangers in the Night and the Dodge disappeared over the hill.

The husband, the builder and the architect stood in the wake of the tornado that had just hit the construction site in the form of Jaydee Douglas in her Dodge. “So you’re going to learn to fly?” the builder asked John.

“Fly what?” John asked

“A helicopter!” the architect said.  “You didn’t know?

“Guess I’ll be able to get a better count on the herd if I’m hovering’ twenty feet over them sumbitches,” John snickered as he slid off his Stetson and scratched his head.

“Do you have any idea what it’s going to cost to tear down the guest house and rebuild it fifty feet further from the house so the helipad can be next to the pool?” the builder asked.

“No idea whatsoever,” John said.  “Recon I never will.  That’s not my end of the business.  I didn’t even know there was a pool.”

Of course, the architect and builder knew exactly what John’s end of the business was.  They’d discussed over drinks at the Lucky Lady more than once just what that job description looked like.  “Do you suppose those duties were put in writing, or just assumed?” the builder had snickered.  All in all, it was a job they both rather envied.

“I s’pose a ‘helipad’ is what you land a helicopter on?” John asked.

“Preferable to the house or the pool, I’m sure,” the builder laughed.  “Hopefully that’ll be one of the first things they teach you.”

Despite the young, good looking outsider having been presented the prettiest girl in town and a life of luxury doing pretty much anything when not fulfilling his conjugal duties, the kid was actually kind of likable.  Certainly more approachable than either his wife or father-in-law.  Folks were a lot more likely to let their guard down a bit with him and not risk retribution.

“Is that a new Plymouth Suburban you’re driving?” the builder asked him.

“Yeah,” he said with almost an air of humility.  “Jaydee said it was time for me to get a new car, since she got the new Dodge and all.  Seems like a nice enough automobile, though the old Ford truck I had was just fine.”

“How’s that Plymouth wagon drive compared to that Dodge Lancer D-500?” the architect asked.

“Don’t rightly know,” John replied. “I’ve never driven Jaydee’s Dodge. Sure seems like it’d have some get up and go, though. But the wagon’s great for hauling’ whatever needs to be hauled. More of a workhorse than a thoroughbred.”

“Kinda surprised y’all don’t drive Cadillacs, buildin’ the biggest house here to Amarillo, and all,” the builder noted.

“J.D., Jaydee’s daddy, says ‘new money’ drives Cadillacs ‘cause they need to show off. ‘Old money’ drives whatever they damn well please cause they don’t care what folks think. I always just thought money was money,” John replied, mulling the whole thing over in his mind while he relayed the lesson. “I s’pose she’d drive one of them new foreign VW Beetles, as long as she could play Frank Sinatra records in it wherever she went.”

“Somehow, I don’t really think so.  I suspect Jaydee driving a Dodge is about as far down the automotive food chain as she’s willing to go,” the architect noted.

“S’pose you’re right,” John smiled. “She’s very specific about her wants, come to think about it.” He kicked the dust with his size 13 Tony Llama. He looked red in the face, though he could have just been out in the sun too long.

The architect and builder just nodded and grinned.