Lucky Charmed

by Sharla Lovelace

  She looked at me with concern. “Utilities.”

  I nodded and pulled an envelope out of my bag, swiping at my eyes. “Water bill.”

  The girl smiled and nodded like she totally got it, that she had to deal with women having mental breakdowns every day.

  I glanced around, hoping at least that maybe Alan hadn’t witnessed any of it. I didn’t have the mental fortitude after that little showdown. Oh my God, I’d touched him on purpose; I brought up the things I had no business mentioning, and there for one non-breathing second I wanted to kiss him. All in the span of about ten seconds. In public. While angry.

  What the crap would I have done with time, privacy, and a good mood?

  Larry. I needed to get to Larry.

  * * *

  “He’s gone for the day,” my mother said, sitting all high and mighty in her office chair, her hair twisted up in a messy bun. She had her pen stuck in it, which I might not have noticed if she hadn’t made a show of pulling it out to write a note. “Actually, he never came in. Said he had some personal things to do. Which was fine, because I pretty much handle things here anyway.”

  My gut twisted. If Larry had been there, I would have kicked him right in the nuts.

  Gerry Frost was never one to stick to things. Jobs, projects, men—everything had an expiration date. It generally came down to boredom. She passed that itchy nature onto me, then fought me over for most of my life. My itch was never about boredom, though. Mine was about seeing more, doing more, experiencing life outside the same old boundaries.

  Mom’s was about hearing the same guy snore for too long.

  Jobs were the same way. She’d get antsy, start taking too many days off and get fired, or she’d hear about the next great work-at-home whatever and sink a bunch of money into it, only to have it go belly-up two months later. She always did enough to get us by, but it was always tight. And I ate a lot of meals at Lanie’s house.

  Now she was actually doing something she was proud of. Something she might stick with, because a long-time friend needed her. And he was screwing her over.

  “I’m sure you do, Mom,” I said. “Do you know if he’ll be in tomorrow?”

  I could wait till tomorrow. I could also go to his house. I’d been there for five hundred barbecues in my lifetime and could find it with my eyes closed, but something put a hand out and held me down. This was big and this was messed up, but I didn’t need to go storming his front door to find out why he was doing this, and listen to him lie about it. Maybe a little reconnaissance was a better plan.

  “I never know, sweetheart. He does his own thing,” she said. “Usually he’s in first thing in the morning for coffee and donuts. Why?”

  I picked up a paperweight I’d made for her at a summer recreational program when I was about eight. It had fake colored feathers under a glass dome, on top of a green felt backing. The pink and the purple feathers were faded, and the yellow one was sliding around loose. I felt like that yellow feather, lying to my mother. Sliding around, no footing and no grip. Not that I never lied to her, but not about anything big, not in a long time. And she had that mom thing that lie detectors had no hope of competing with. I needed more practice before attempting something of this magnitude.

  “Just need to clarify some things,” I said, staring into the paperweight.

  “On the ledger?” she asked. “Because that one was before my time. This year’s, now, it’s going to be pristine.”

  I smiled up at her. “Yeah, I’ll catch up with him later.”

  “You okay?” she asked, narrowing those eyes. “You look a little off. You run into him again?”

  “Oh, he’s everywhere,” I said. “So I’m getting used to it.”

  See, now there was a little lie right there. I was already getting some practice in.

  “Well, you aren’t getting enough sleep or something then,” she said. “You look pale. And stressed.”

  “I’ll have a glass of wine tonight and buy some self-tanner,” I said with a wink. “Gotta run. Have to change before you make me get all sweaty.”

  “I’m not buying it,” she said, cutting a look my way as I shut the door.

  “I know, Mom,” I whispered on the way to the car. “Me neither.”

  Chapter Five

  It was like being in high school again. Walking across the park to approach a milling, chatting group of people, many of whom I did go to school with, the anxiety washed over me like teenaged sweat.

  Without Lanie to be my buffer, my wing-woman, I felt very exposed and solo. People liked Lanie. You couldn’t help but like her.

  I never had that gift.

  In school, I was the one with the inappropriate, smart-aleck retorts. I pissed off the girls and intimidated the guys. I was pretty enough to attract attention, but as soon as someone found out I lived in the trailer park, my address explained everything about me. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about trend or fashion, so it had to be because I lived in a double-wide. I didn’t pierce my cartilage or learn how to do the perfect smoky eye or giggle over boys because my house was on cinder blocks. It was like living in a trailer became an identity trait, the explanation for my mouth or my restless spirit or for any number of things that people wanted to pick apart about me.

  With Lanie, I could fake it. As her sidekick, I could blend in with the crowd. As an adult, I’d learned to tone down and blend on my own, but like my mom was always so quick to point out, I could be harsh. This was a good thing in my line of work. It got the job done for my clients. For the most part, though, I was still just an older version of my high school self, and walking up to that crowd brought back a million uncomfortable memories.

  I scanned the crowd for Bash, the one person I knew would be a friendly face, but I didn’t see him. Where the hell was his town spirit?

  I didn’t see Alan either, thank God, but there was his wife. Katrina Bowman had red hair pulled up in a perky ponytail, giant boobs that poked out of her too-tight tank top, and shorts flossing her ass. She was talking to my ex with her hand on his arm and giggling every ten seconds. Poor Dean looked equally stressed out and turned on, which probably stressed him out more.

  There was Mr. Masoneaux, the candy man. Mrs. Boudreaux, who ran the feed store. Miss Mavis, who liked to ride her three-wheeled bike up and down Main Street to catch any juicy gossip. Charlie Nicholson, who would jack off in class just for entertainment and shock value, was there caressing a hammer. Go figure. Monte was there and looking around as well, so I ducked behind another big guy and hoped he didn’t see me.

  “Carmen!”

  And my mother. Fantastic. Because every high school awkward moment needs to include your mom.

  “Hey, Mom.” I grabbed my phone and scrolled down the screen, pretending to read urgent messages from people who were so much more important than this crowd. I nodded toward a bubble-shaped, old, silver travel-trailer near the water. “What’s with nineteen fifty-seven?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, shrugged, and turned back to me. “I don’t know. Did you bring any tools?” Her eyes panned over me in my worn-out blue-jean shorts (that were not flossing, thank you very much) and tank top. A top that would not flash the world when I bent over, because responsible grown women check these things.

  “Did you think I’d be wearing a carpenter’s belt?” I asked. “I own exactly one broken screwdriver. I thought tools would be here.”

  “There will be some extra,” she said, scanning the group like a drill sergeant. “But I’m asking everyone, so I get a tally of who needs tools.”

  I held up a hand. “Mark me. Lanie will too, when she gets back.”

  “Her husband doesn’t have tools?”

  “Really, Mom?” I said.

  “Well a lot of the volunteers were prepared and brought their own,” she said.

  “Probably because they volunteered themselves,” I whispered. “They weren’t signed up by their mothers.”

  “Okay, everyone!” she called out, igno
ring me, the useless daughter with no tools. “I’m gonna turn it over to Frank Coffey and get started. He will be running this event, and I’ll handle any stragglers.”

  Frank Coffey, of Coffey’s Coffee Shop, started talking. (How perfect to be born with your name basically telling you what to do. I guess I could have gotten a degree in refrigeration. Or become a superhero.) Frank wasn’t a natural choice for the leader of something outdoors and laborious. He leaned toward the softer side, with a quiet voice and a passive manner. He was kind of funny when you got to know him, but you had to get past the nervous nerdy stuff to get there.

  Frank read from a stack of stapled papers that had been highlighted and notated, and he kept pausing awkwardly to look up at us like someone told him to do that. Or maybe he’d checked YouTube for a tutorial on how to address a crowd.

  We were special. We were awesome. We were the pride of Charmed, and we were going to build a place for future Charmed citizens to use for generations to come. A gazebo for gazing at the water or for holding outdoor weddings. A covered pavilion for events and bands and premium booth space during the Honey Festival. An outside contractor would build the boardwalk that would frame the water outside the shops, but the gazebo and pavilion would be our contribution.

  Bash had snuck in during all the rah-rah-ness of it all. He nudged me with his arm like a school kid.

  “So you’re coming to be Mr. Town Spirit after all,” I said under my breath.

  Bash had not been awkward nor an outcast in school; he was the hot funny one. Cute and witty, with All-Star everything, he hid his family issues behind eyes that could melt clothing and a zany sense of humor. I wasn’t in his orbit in school, but giving him legal advice on his business after he returned from the Marines had turned us into fast friends.

  “Only if there’s a crown,” he said with a smirk. “Just figured I needed to come do my civic duty.”

  “Do you have tools?” I whispered. “Because my mother has become the tool Nazi.”

  He gave me a sideways glance. “I built every one of my hives.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Show off.”

  “So why are they doing these outside things now, before construction begins?” Bash asked as Frank flipped over a page and droned on. “It’s all going to be in the way.”

  I nudged him. “Good question. Ask it.”

  “Nah, I’ll wait,” he said. “There’s probably a reason.”

  “There’s probably not,” I said. “And you could put a temporary end to this madness.”

  “You don’t want to play?” he asked, grinning down at me.

  “Not with my mother being team captain,” I said.

  “Then raise your hand and ask,” he said, nodding toward the front with a mischievous glint to his eyes. “Impress the captain.”

  “Oh hell no,” I said. “It’s your question. I’m not drawing any more attention to myself.”

  “I’m sorry.” My mother’s voice cut over Frank’s drone. He looked up in a panic and put a finger on the paper so he wouldn’t lose his place. “Carmen, did you have something to share?”

  I frowned at her and glanced at the faces as all heads turned to me. “Seriously?” I said.

  “Well, you and Bash seem to have more important things to bring up than what Frank is saying,” she said, her mom tone in full force. “So feel free.”

  Bash laughed behind his hand.

  “You’re such a shit ball,” I whispered, jabbing him in the ribs.

  “Quit, or she’ll make you go put your nose on that tree,” he whispered back.

  I huffed out a breath. “Okay,” I said. “So shouldn’t this wait until they are done?”

  Frank blinked a bunch of times and smiled. “I’m sorry?”

  I pointed at the land along the pond. It was flat and muddy on our side, lifting to rocky ledges on the other side where the nice houses were. “With all the construction that’s going to go on out here, it’s going to be a mess. Big trucks in and out. Concrete trucks, bulldozers. Won’t the gazebo and pavilion be in the way? Wouldn’t it be better to wait and add our contribution to this… wonderful thing that will be out here, instead of building it in front of nothing and then it’s in their way?”

  “Yes.”

  The voice came from my left before Frank could open his mouth. I knew whom it belonged to without looking over, or at my mother’s mortified expression.

  The crowd turned collectively and the whispers started as Sully Hart walked out of the vintage trailer, the metal door banging shut behind him. He strode up in his worn jeans, work boots, and dark blue T-shirt. And the Ray-Bans. God help me. A ragged tool belt swung from his right hand; he clutched a box in the other.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath.

  “I don’t see you on the sign-up list,” my mother said, holding up her ever-present clipboard. “Mr. Hart?” The acid in her tone was unmistakable.

  “The more the merrier, right?” he answered, flashing her a brilliant smile as he set down his loads. “And yes to your question, Carmen,” he said, looking right at me. My fingertips went numb. “It would be better, but the powers that be decided that this was the most important thing to do—right now. So we’re doing it right now.”

  “Now who’s showing off?” Bash muttered, nudging me with his elbow again.

  I didn’t have the concentration to spare to give Bash a dirty look. I had to focus on not looking like all the blood drained out of my head.

  “But you can’t be a part of this,” Katrina said. Clearly, she and Alan were in Dean’s freaky little band. “You are the company for the development. This is for Charmed residents.”

  Sully grinned slowly as he pushed up his sunglasses. “I’m a resident,” he said.

  “You’re living in that trailer?” my mother asked.

  He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder. “That’s my office. And this project will be the first thing people see when they drive up to the Lucky Charm. The first impression they’ll get. I want to make sure this is done right.”

  “Excuse me?” Dean stepped forward.

  “This should be done afterward,” Sully said, ignoring him. “Carmen’s right. But it’s not going to be, so I’m here to make sure it’s portable.”

  “I’m sorry, portable?” Frank finally spoke up.

  “Able to be broken down and moved,” Sully clarified. “In my business—”

  “Here we go,” Dean muttered, turning around as if he had something else to do or somewhere to be. “He’s gonna give us carnie wisdom.”

  Sully only gave him a second’s pause. “Okay then, in carnie wisdom, everything has moving parts. Everything has a blueprint and a plan for assembly and disassembly, because when the event is up for that town, we generally have less than a day to be packed up and gone.” His eyes landed on mine. “We have to disappear like we were never there.”

  I couldn’t blink as three seconds stretched into forever. He pulled his shades back down and kept going. I tried to remember what inhaling was about.

  “Every machine we have, every prop we build, every stage we put up—like the grandstand stage for the esteemed mayor to give his welcome speech—” Sully pointed at Dean. “They are in pieces. Each piece is marked, and they have slots, locks, and levers that work seamlessly into a finished product that is about as genius as it gets. It’s sturdy, it’s hardy, and it can be broken down and stored in an hour.” He gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Which in carnie time, since we’re such an uneducated lot, is really just thirty minutes.”

  Dean scoffed loudly, and I glanced at Bash, who was shaking his head like he wanted to thump him in the back of the head. I wished he would.

  “And you want to make our gazebo and pavilion this way?” Frank asked, looking disappointed.

  “Yes sir,” he said.

  Frank stood a little taller, as though no one had ever called him ‘sir’ in his life. I had a feeling Sully had won one over.

  “That way, it can
be there for the media, for the ground-breaking, for whatever the city council needs it for,” Sully said. “And then when the real work begins, it can be moved out of the way.”

  It was reasonable. It was logical. It made sense. I hated that, and felt a weird pride at the same time. What was that about?

  “What do you think?” I asked under my breath as I looked up at a pensive Bash.

  He chuckled. “I think it’s brilliant.”

  I sighed. Great. Brilliant.

  “Won’t that require new plans?” my mother said, the chill in her voice apparent. “Frank already acquired instructions on how to build these.”

  “Trust me,” Sully said.

  “Trust you?” Mom sputtered, spurring me to leap forward before she said something I might never live down or forget.

  “Let’s just get started, shall we?” I said. “What do we need to do?”

  The trailer door opened again, and Kia stepped out, looking like a carpenter’s pinup poster. Of course she was there. Where else would she be but up Sully’s ass?

  “Who is that?” Bash asked.

  “Sully’s—” My throat fought the word. “Girlfriend, I guess. They grew up together on the carnival.”

  “Damn,” he said, eyes glued to her.

  “Really?” I shoved him. “You can’t throw me a bone and tell me she’s nothing special?”

  He smiled and squeezed my shoulder.

  “You’re much hotter,” he said, making his eyes all innocent.

  “You don’t lie very well.”

  He laughed shortly. “You’d be surprised.” The spark returned to his eyes as she approached. “Oh yeah, she’s hideous,” he said in a whisper.

  “I hate you,” I whispered back.

  “You can help me dole out the action items,” she said, walking up to us. “Since you know everyone.”

  “Bash Anderson,” Bash said, holding out a hand.

  Her perfect eyebrows moved just a fraction of an inch. “Bash?”

  “Sebastian,” he amended.

  The hint of a smile touched her lips. “Sebastian,” she repeated. “Better. I’m Kia.”