by D. A. Bale
“Damn, Maurice. Could you turn down the solar flare a few thousand watts?”
“Gotta have it bright to see out here in the dark, Miss Vicki. Them gators is sneaky sons ‘a bitches and’ll gobble ya up right quick if’n ya don’t see ‘em.”
A not-so-good tremor traveled up my spine. “Gators?”
Maurice nodded, the light intermittently burning a hole between my retinas and belly button. “Been trackin’ a biggin what’s made his way up the river and decided Heaven’s Gate gonna be his new home. I keep tearin’ up his nest and he keeps rebuildin’ it when I ain’t lookin’. Y’all better not be runnin’ around the property at night until I gives the all-clear, ya hear?”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
His headlamp glared off of the glass before he turned it off and pressed his face against the car window. “What’s Puddin’ Pie doin’?”
You’ve gotta love some of the names we southerners come up with to describe people. “I was gonna just leave PP in there to sleep it off for a couple of hours.”
“Nah, not with a gator runnin’ ‘round.” He opened the door. “Miss Addie’d have my hide if’n somethin’ happened to one ‘o her grandchildren. Here, grab a foot.”
I sighed, resigned to the fact that I was gonna have to manhandle Puddin’ Pie’s deadweight. Maurice and I tugged and pulled until George hung halfway out of the car. Then we each slung an arm over our shoulders and hauled him up between us. I was pretty sure I was gonna have to get the height on my driver’s license adjusted after the compression my spine underwent.
“Hey there, Vic,” George mumbled through his inebriated haze. “Change yer mind ‘bout coming to bed w’ff me?”
When his meathook slid off my shoulder and grabbed a fistful of my derriere, my elbow found a new home in his eye that sent him reeling back onto the porch. I was pretty sure his fall registered somewhere on the Richter scale. And that I was gonna have to burn this dress. At least he was out cold again.
Maurice just cackled, grabbed a foot and we dragged George into the house and draped him over the chaise in the front parlor. Too bad Janine had slept through the fun this time. At least we’d both get to admire my colorful handiwork come morning. Or afternoon. Early evening anyone?
Hey, a girl needs her beauty sleep, you know.
Aw, shut up.
Chapter Eight
An incessant battle crashed and pounded in my head until I woke enough to realize someone knocked on a nearby door. Dreams of Texas Rangers, undercover ATF agents, and mysterious dimpled FBI guys fighting for my hand dissipated in eye-shattering sunbeams coming through the propped-open veranda door. Then the not-so-distant screech of Janine’s mom warbled through the joint bathroom.
“Janine De’Laruse, unlock this door this instant.” The clattering chorus continued until Charlotte’s tone rose even higher. “You missed breakfast already, and if you think you’re going to sleep through lunch, you’d better think again.”
A groan echoed through the rooms – and this time it wasn’t me. At least I don’t think it was. I’d only had a slight buzz going last night before switching to water and an occasional soda to get myself on the right side of sober for the return drive.
Last night it had become clear. There were a few people I owed long overdue apologies to after realizing for the first time what the designated driver goes through to ensure everyone gets home in safety after a night of clubbing.
Okay, maybe more than a few.
Slinky cowered under the comforter, his eyes wide as dinner plates from all of the pounding and proselytizing coming from outside Janine’s room. Time to stop this nonsense – and it was up to me to set things right.
Scary thought.
I stomped through the bathroom over to Janine’s room, where she burrowed under the covers, then ripped open the door. “What’s all the yelling for?”
Hat tip – when someone’s making an ass of themselves, the best thing to do is to shove it right back in their face. In most cases, it will shut them up so you can get a word in edgewise. In other cases, it will – well, for lack of a better way to put it – turn them on.
‘Course with Mrs. Charlotte De’Laruse staring back at me this fine morning, eyes wide enough to rival Slinky’s, I avoided thinking of the latter.
Right about the time Charlotte’s jaws swung loose, I held up a hand to stop her. “We had a situation last night.”
It only took two sniffs then she launched past me before I could head her off at the pass. “I smell alcohol in this room. What were you doing with alcohol in this house?”
“We didn’t have alcohol in this house,” I replied. “We had it at a club.”
That got me the lip purse before Charlotte ripped the comforter from Janine’s bed. “A club?” Her screech rattled the aged rafters and I was positive plaster flakes sprinkled from all the trembling. “What were you thinking, Victoria, debauching my daughter.”
“There was no debauching. Only a little dancing and drinking.”
The pallor of Janine’s skin took on a tinge of green when one eye popped open and slammed shut with a moan. “I told them virgin.”
“You’d better still be a virgin, young lady.”
“She is,” I said, though I had no hard evidence of the validity of the statement – except for Janine’s word, which was golden in my book. “She’s talking about the drinks she ordered last night.”
My mother appeared in the doorway. Oh good, the gang was all here. What were we? Fifteen or almost twenty-seven?
“What drinks?” Mom questioned, heading toward Janine displaying more decorum and concern than Charlotte showed her own daughter.
“Virgin,” Janine croaked as Mom stroked my bestie’s forehead.
I sighed in frustration. “Janine’s been working so hard on getting her doctorate, and I wanted to take her out to have some fun for once in…” I did a quick mental calculation. “…twenty-six years. So we snatched a ride and snuck out last night to run down to New Orleans.”
Mother’s green eyes blinked in worried succession. “You were drinking and driving all the way from New Orleans?”
“Where did you get a vehicle?” Charlotte asked.
Really? That was the only question she dredged up with everything else going on? It was time to close down this party. “We took the Mercedes and drove down to New Orleans sober. Janine ordered a few frou-frou drinks…” I stared down Charlotte. “…that were supposed to be non-alcoholic, only a couple of idiot bartenders thought they’d have a little fun. By the time I realized said virgin drinks contained alcohol, our Janine here, being unused to such consumption, had already fallen off the horse. After that, I stuck to water and Dr. Pepper so I could drive home…sober,” I again emphasized.
Mom’s brows scrunched in confusion. “Fallen off the horse?”
“Around the corner. Off the wagon. Point is, she was drunk.”
“I don’t feel so good,” Janine whined. Then gulped like I knew only too well.
“Move,” I yelled, reaching around Charlotte to yank Janine from the bed then dragging her to the toilet in the nick of time.
Our mothers watched with wrinkled noses while Janine hugged the porcelain god. The prone position was what I was accustomed to after a night that involved dancing, drinking, and – in my case – occasional debauchery.
Charlotte merely spun on her heels in a huff. “Luncheon is in forty minutes, and I expect you to be at the table, Janine.”
Mom filled a glass from the tap and handed it to me with a couple of painkillers and the hint of a concerned smile. “Here, see if she can stomach these while I run down to see about a few saltines.”
Our eyes locked in non-judgmental understanding. My belief that all the God-fearing folk – or at least the vast majority of them – were nothing more than hypocrites took a momentary detour. Warmth spread from my belly to my heart – and this time it wasn’t from acid reflux.
By the time we made it downstairs, Janine had not only k
ept down the water, aspirin, and saltines, but we’d both made it through showers and to the table, somewhat put together. ‘Course I entertained no doubts that the circles under my eyes were almost as dark as Janine’s – and that her stomach was likely still fighting rejection of its contents.
I leaned over and whispered, “Leave the chicken for now and focus on the waffles…small bites. No butter and light on the syrup. Sip the water.”
Janine nodded and offered up a half-hearted smile as she went through the motions of following my orders. Maisie must’ve heard of Janine’s hangover when my mom went downstairs to fetch the saltines. In order to protect Janine’s dignity and queasy stomach, she’d tossed together a stack of waffles to go with the lunch she’d prepared. There was nothing more southern – well, ‘cept maybe for grits – than a meal of fried chicken and waffles. God love that woman.
While I helped nurse my friend back to health, Mom and Charlotte chattered away like magpies at the other end of the table. Addie appeared to listen to the inane conversation about the latest fashions and footwear, while at the same time focusing in on Janine and me with a measure of concern. I had the distinct impression it was a mixture for Janine’s subdued condition and the desire to talk about the diary. If my past hangovers were any indication, I doubt we’d get much done with the mystery today.
I scanned around the table before interrupting the conversation. “By the way, where’s George?”
Mom interjected with a diplomatic set of her jaw. “He’s still upstairs with a stomachache.”
“Yes, the poor dawlin’,” Charlotte bemoaned. “I found him on the parlor sofa early this morning where he’d fallen asleep after having been up all night searching the entire house for some antacids.”
“Antacids my ass,” I mumbled to Janine.
“Bless his heart,” Charlotte piled on. “He must’ve tripped in the dark too because he was sporting a nasty facial bruise, so I had Sibby help him upstairs to his room and put him to bed.”
Knowing glanced between me and my bestie. I hadn’t yet seen Sibby since we’d come downstairs either, which led me to a spine-shuddering possibility I didn’t even want to contemplate. The blue-eyed gawp meant Janine had come to the same conclusion I had.
Sibby was still upstairs helping her brother. Visions of bare butts flashed through my mind.
My turn for a queasy stomach, but Janine’s giggle into her napkin brought a smile to my lips. My bestie was gonna be fine – but I was sick and tired of standing by while Janine got the guillotine and George the cake.
Which had me poking the pickled prince in absentia.
“Don’t you think it’s interesting,” I started. “George is still upstairs with a stomachache while we’re all down here for lunch?”
The tinkling of silverware stopped. Mom offered up a telepathic message to be quiet with a miniscule tilt of her head. I simply buttered my roll then bit into the yeasty goodness.
When it comes to carbs, I’m not one of those whack-a-dos who obsess over how much is too much or restrict myself to none at all. Be sensible, ladies. There’s a form of God-given exercise that’ll burn off those carbs and calories faster than you can spell S-E-X. Unless it’s a health related or menopausal issue, when you see a hefty woman with a man in tow, the problem is their man ain’t giving them enough T-L and instead is spending too much time on the C.
You know, not enough tender lovin’ and too much time on the computer. Get it?
George would understand.
I plowed ahead undeterred. “It’s just that Janine has a stomachache too and yet we were dragged from our beds so we wouldn’t miss this meal, which is delicious by the way, Miss Adelaide. Tell Maisie I’m gonna have to buy a larger wardrobe before the week is out.”
Understanding oozed across Addie’s face. “I’ll pass along your compliments, child.”
Charlotte harrumphed and set down her fork with practiced care. “What are you trying to suggest, Victoria? That George is faking a stomachache? That bruise around his eye wasn’t cosmetics, I can assure you.”
Score one for my elbow – and that Maurice hadn’t ratted me out. “I find the dichotomy of treatment between your children interesting, is all I was trying to say.”
“Georgie has been prone to stomach ailments most of his life. I find it in poor taste that you would demean something he can’t help…and especially when he’s bedfast after a difficult night.”
I snorted. “Trust me, his night was anything but difficult.”
Another silence hung in the breakfast room. I could feel Janine’s fear boring into the back of my head as Charlotte’s lips thinned into a hard-pressed line.
“Oh, hang it all,” Addie fussed. “She’s saying that young George is suffering the effects of a hangover as well. And in his case, I doubt it was accidental ingestion.”
Addie and I shared a matter-of-fact smirk across the table as I took another bite of roll and chewed it in triumph. Maybe I’d been wrong about this woman all these years.
“Mother, what are you saying about my son?” Charlotte asked, her voice again shaking the rafters.
“That he was out last night too…with them,” Addie emphasized.
Charlotte’s face went from pink, to red, to purple as she held in the shock and her brain cells died from lack of oxygen – or from not being able to come up with a suitable excuse. I had to hide behind my napkin to avoid displaying outright triumph at her oh-so-obvious struggle to continue deluding herself where dearest Georgie was concerned.
“Of course he was with them,” Charlotte finally sputtered. “Who else would protect the girls from bandits, brigands, and all manner of men seeking to steal their virtue?”
Janine coughed and I smacked her leg under the table. No need to point out that my virtue was stolen long ago. Actually it was given away.
But apples and oranges.
Mom interrupted and tried to get the lunch conversation on a more suitable track. “What are your plans for the day, girls?”
I shrugged after a glance at my bestie. Yeah, she was definitely on this side of okay. “We hadn’t really thought that far ahead yet.”
“After lunch, we’re planning to run into town for a little shopping,” Mom continued. “Would you care to join us?”
An unspoken request passed between Addie and me. “I…I think we’re gonna do a little exploring instead,” I responded before addressing the De’Laruse matriarch. “Do you still have the pontoon at Lake Pontchartrain, Mrs. De’Laruse?”
“That I do, dawlin’.” Addie nodded with a hint of a smile. “A nice, unimpeded day of reading on the lake would do you both good. Shall I call the club and have it readied?”
“That would be lovely, Mrs. De’Laruse,” I said, putting on my best debutante voice and earning narrow-eyed scrutiny from my mom. Oh, I was definitely gonna hear about this later.
“Why don’t you take an appropriate change of clothes with you and we can meet you at the club tonight for dinner,” Addie said. “Maisie would appreciate a night off with everything else happening this week.”
An unimpeded afternoon on the lake. Yes, that was just what the doctor ordered for this dynamic duo.
Chapter Nine
“You broke up with Radioman in a text?”
Lake Pontchartrain’s brackish waves lapped against the sides of the two-decker pontoon boat and had rocked me into a lazy half-sleep state until Janine’s exclamation. The sun bore down on my itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie bikini forward position while Janine stayed huddled under the awning covering the rear half.
Okay, so eighty degrees in November did have its perks after all.
“Broke up would imply we were in a dating relationship,” I responded, turning over to expose my back to the rays. “What are you doing digging around on my phone?”
“What would you call it then?”
“Snooping? Spying? Stealing my personal information?”
“Not your phone,” Janine huffed. “About you and Radiom
an.”
Since the time of our swaddling and leading all the way up into our swearing years – or my swearing anyway – I’d rarely kept secrets from my bestie. But how could I explain the deeper reasons about cutting the cord with Bruce because of his connections to a certain courtroom harpy I just might have to entertain? Like a real-life James Bond scenario, if I decided to accept this mission from my boss, I’d have to avoid Seth on a personal level. Hard to do when dating his best friend.
“I call it going out,” I finally said. “And how did you access my texts? My phone is password protected.”
“Not important. Weren’t you two trading tonsils on a regular basis?”
I assumed she wasn’t talking about my phone. “Well, yeah.”
“And sizzling between the sheets?”
Definitely not my phone. “Maybe.”
“Yet you didn’t consider him a boyfriend.” It wasn’t a question.
“You know how I feel about that term. Remember that incident with my last one?”
“Hopeless. Completely hopeless.” She tossed my phone in the duffle at her feet. “Was he a bad kisser or something?”
“No,” I said, musing over the talents of his tongue. “There just comes a time in every woman’s life when the neurotic, paranoid, and controlling issues of her man outweigh the fringe benefits associated with the relationship.”
Yeah, that sounded good.
“Ha! So you were in a relationship.”
“Can we get back to the journal now?” I rested my head on my arms and closed my eyes, trying not to think of tongues, sheets, or the strings that complicated it all. Grady owed me bigtime. “Read through those last few passages again. I kinda faded a little toward the end.”
Once anchored, we’d rolled down the canvas from the upper level and tied it down to create a three-sided splash-free and breeze-free zone in order to protect the Bonafeld journal from damage. The tent-like structure also served to alleviate any leftover hangover headache plaguing my bestie. Sunlight and a heavy head do not a good cocktail make – especially after a night of too many.
