No one at the shop could help her, either. Alma Grace, bless her heart, could sell a blinged-out corset to a saint, but she could not add up a double column of figures even with a calculator. Carlene, God love her soul, could design something so sexy that the devil would hock his horns to buy it, but she was all thumbs when it came to keeping track of what went out and what came into the shop. If things got hectic in the sales room, Patrice could talk to customers, show them the merchandise, and even make a sale, but she didn’t enjoy it.
The bathroom mirror brought about a loud groan. Her aqua-colored eyes looked like two piss holes in the snow and her platinum blond hair, straight from a bottle down at the Yellow Rose Beauty Shop, was only slightly better looking than a witch’s stringy strands in a kid’s movie. Hell, next week, she might cut it all off and wear it in a spike hairdo. It would damn sure be easier to fix than getting out the curling iron every damn morning.
“Grandma Fannin would have your hide if you did that,” she whispered to her reflection.
When she’d done enough to cover up most of the hangover, she pulled a pair of skinny jeans from her closet, along with a tight-fitting shirt that hugged her double Ds and black, shiny, high-heeled shoes that she could kick off under her desk.
Evidently Lenny had brought Carlene to work that morning, since her car wasn’t parked out behind the shop. Patrice laid her head back against the headrest for a minute and shut her eyes against the blinding sun, vowing that she’d find her sunglasses before she stepped out into the sun again. She needed coffee, good black strong coffee, and lots of it. Thank goodness Carlene always started a pot first thing in the morning.
Her head throbbed so bad, she’d almost be willing for Alma Grace to lay hands upon her and pray that God would heal her, but then she’d have to listen to her asking God to forgive her for drinking. She just needed something to relieve the headache. She hadn’t killed her boyfriend, so she didn’t need forgiveness, and even Jesus drank wine, so Alma Grace could keep her preaching to herself.
Shading her eyes with her hand against the bright sunlight, she made her way to the porch. Coffee! She needed coffee and lots of it. Bless Carlene’s heart; she always had it brewing first thing in the morning. But that morning the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee did not greet her when she opened the door.
“Dammit!” she swore.
“Carlene?” Alma Grace yelled from the front of the house.
“It’s Patrice, not Carlene. Where is our cousin? She’s never late,” Patrice said.
Josie poked her head out of the sewing room. “From the looks of your eyes, I’d say you have a supersized hangover.”
Patrice held up a palm. “Guilty. Don’t tell Alma Grace or she’ll start praying.”
“Come on in the kitchen. I’ll fix you up,” Josie said.
“I already did my magic.”
“Did it work?” Josie pointed at the kitchen table.
Patrice shook her head and it hurt like hell.
“No.” She sat down, put her head down on her arms, and poked her fingers in her ears when Josie started the blender.
“What is it?” she asked when Josie set a green drink that looked like ground-up bullfrogs in front of her.
“Don’t ask and don’t come up for air. Drink it all down without stopping,” Josie said.
Patrice did and then slammed the glass on the table with enough force to rattle the salt shakers. “Holy damn shit! That’s hotter than hell’s blazes.”
“Yep and it’ll burn that hangover right out of you in five minutes. Now let’s go to work. Carlene’s not here. I hope she’s not sick. Y’all have the church choir coming today for fittings.”
“Dammit all to hell!” Patrice groaned. “I’m not in the mood for praisin’ God and blessing souls or fitting bras to those holier-than-thou gossiping women.”
“Me neither but they’ve got boobs that have to be roped down, so suck it up. Must have been a helluva a weekend that you had.” Josie smiled.
“I don’t even want to talk about it until my head stops pounding. God, I hope Carlene isn’t sick. I don’t want to wait on customers today.”
Alma Grace poked her head in the kitchen door. “I hope she’s not sick, too, but it would be wonderful to have a baby in the family. My mama and your mama and Aunt Gigi are going to Lenny’s this afternoon to look at a car. It’d be a shame if Carlene isn’t here when they drive it by to show us.”
The Shop on Main Street
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About the Author
Carolyn Brown is a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and Publishers Weekly bestselling author and also a #1 Amazon and #1 Washington Post bestselling author. A RITA finalist, she’s received the prestigious Montlake Diamond Award, is a three-time recipient of the National Reader’s Choice Award, and has won the Booksellers’ Best Award.
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