Chapter 29
Bodie
Aretha Franklin was already belting “Chain of Fools” loud enough to rattle the porch glass when I hit Uncle Dee’s steps.
The front door stood open with a silk scarf tied to the knob like a flag.
Welcome or warning? Hard to tell. I told myself this was a festival subcommittee meeting and not an ambush and stepped into color.
Uncle Dee’s house was all velvet and brass and stories.
Deep purple drapes cinched back with gold cord.
Masks and paintings from his New Orleans years crowded the walls.
Candles guttered in mismatched glass holders.
The air was full of the scents of garlic and andouille and that slow, smoky heat that meant jambalaya. The man didn’t do beige.
And the cat, God help me.
Shrimp Po-boy, the ostensible replacement roommate for my twin, lay draped across the entry chair like a sultan, twenty pounds of orange arrogance. One green eye slit open. He rolled belly-up in invitation. Trap. I kept my hands to myself.
“In here, sugarplum!” Uncle Dee sang from the dining room.
The “committee” had gathered without a single piece of paper in sight.
The chili pepper red table practically groaned under a board of meats and cheese, a mountain of pralines, three bottles of wine at different survival stages, and a vase of lilies so tall it blocked the sightline from one end to the other.
Miss Bea, Miss Glory, and Mo’nique had staked their thrones. Uncle Dee held court at the head.
I stopped in the doorway. “Where’s the rest of the subcommittee?”
Four heads swiveled. Miss Bea smiled like a cat with cream. “Darling, the festival is handled. Every booth confirmed, every banner ordered, every performer booked.”
Miss Glory tipped her glass. “Stage schedule’s locked.”
Mo’nique chimed in without looking up from arranging grapes. “We capped fryers at two per block. I am not calling the fire department this year for fifty gallons of oil and one fool with a turkey rig.”
Uncle Dee loosed a pleased little hum. “Permits approved, insurance binder in the safe, and signage at the printer. Glitter and Grit will outshine Bourbon Street, baby.”
“So this isn’t a meeting,” I said.
Miss Glory’s mouth went sly. “Oh, it’s a meeting. Just not the kind you thought. Sit. Sit!”
I gave fleeting thought to fleeing, but I recognized an order when I heard one, so I parked myself by the charcuterie board. Might as well enjoy the snacks.
Shrimp Po-boy sauntered in, sprang into my lap, and started kneading like I was his personal ball of dough. Damn, his claws were sharp. I grunted, the cat purred louder, and everyone pretended not to notice I’d been pinned to the chair.
Bea folded her hands, bracelets chiming. “Marriage looks good on you, Chief.”
“Here we go.” I braced myself for them to call me out on the legitimacy of my marriage. I hadn’t told any of them the truth, but these four could’ve given the CIA a run for their money in gathering intel, and I wouldn’t put it past them to have figured it out.
“Don’t sulk.” Miss Glory wagged a finger. “You don’t scowl half as much as you used to. I saw you smile at Mrs. Caldwell last week, and she about fainted dead away. Had to fan her with the bulletin.”
Mo’nique snorted. “And Emmaline? She’s standing taller. Lighter. Like someone took a twenty-pound sack of flour off her shoulders.”
Uncle Dee waggled his brows over his glass. “You can’t fake joy that deep, sugarplum. I’ve seen it done, and that’s not it.”
So not an accusation? I tried to stare them down. It held for maybe two seconds. “We’re happy. You’re happy. Doesn’t need a committee.”
“Everything in this town needs a committee,” Miss Glory announced.
“If only as an excuse for snacks.” Mo’nique popped a cheese cube into her mouth.
Miss Bea leaned toward me, softer. “She looks safe with you.”
I wanted her to be safe with me. More, I wanted her to feel safe with me. That’s all I’d ever wanted. Though I couldn’t deny I wanted a hell of a lot more these past couple of weeks since we’d crossed into having the best sex of my life.
I cleared my throat and reached for a cracker. Shrimp Po-boy swatted my wrist and purred like a tractor. “Festival,” I said, trying to redirect. “Parking?”
“Old depot lot and the field down from the green,” Mo’nique said promptly. “Two teenagers in neon vests at each entrance and an adult who can actually count money.” She slanted a look at Uncle Dee. “And not you.”
“I do not make change,” he sniffed. “I make magic.”
I grunted. “Sanitation?”
Miss Glory lifted a stack of contracts from somewhere under the lilies like a magician. “Eight portables, three hand-wash stations, four rolling trash carts. The town won’t smell like a frat house Sunday morning.”
“Sound—” I started.
“Tested,” Uncle Dee trilled. “With poultry choreography. Legendary.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “Do not call it choreography.”
“You herded,” Miss Glory said. “They bobbed to Gloria Gaynor. That’s choreography.”
“All right,” I conceded. “You’ve got it handled.”
“Obviously.” Mo’nique reached for the knife to cut more cheese.
Miss Bea tapped the table. “Which leaves us plenty of time to discuss your house.”
I narrowed my eyes. “My what?”
“Your house,” Miss Glory said. “Which currently looks like a man is squatting there and doing his level best not to leave a footprint.”
“It’s clean,” I protested.
“That’s the problem,” Mo’nique said. “Clean like no one lives there. Emmaline hasn’t put her hand on anything.”
I didn’t ask how they knew this. Uncle Dee probably had a key and snuck in while we were at work just to spy on design choices.
“Because she doesn’t have to,” I said. “She can do whatever she wants. I’ve made that clear.” Hadn’t I?
Miss Bea clicked her tongue. “Not the same as outright asking what she’d like to put where. Not the same as standing in the paint aisle, handing her the good chips and saying, ‘Pick a color, and I’ll get the drop cloths.’”
Uncle Dee pointed his glass at me like a conductor’s baton. “Joint kingdom, sugarplum. Yours and hers. A plant that’s not a cactus. A lamp with a shade that isn’t beige. Pictures on the walls that aren’t your academy certificate and an old fishing calendar.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Their answering four looks said it was exactly that bad.
“Tell her you want hooks by the back door where she likes them,” Miss Bea said, relentless. “Tell her the guest room needs to stop looking like an empty storage unit and start looking like a place someone could sleep without apologizing.”
“Buy a porch swing,” Mo’nique added. “Or at least a better doormat. ‘Welcome’ is not the same as a welcome.”
Miss Glory’s eyes flashed with mischief. “And for the love of aesthetics, burn those bachelor curtains. They have the personality of boiled chicken.”
Shrimp Po-boy reared up to head-butt my sternum like he’d seconded the motion.
I scratched between his ears to keep the lilies safe.
The truth was, I’d thought the same thing—about the curtains, the bare hallway, the way her toothbrush sat next to mine like a temporary visitor.
Emmaline lived there. She slept there—with me now.
She laughed there. But she hadn’t claimed it.
Not yet. Part of that was because she travelled light.
Part was because she still acted like she needed an invitation for every inch.
“Fine. I’ll say something.”
“Don’t say something,” Miss Bea corrected. “Do something. Put the paint in the truck. Let her choose the color, and then you climb the ladder, and you paint.”
My jaw tightened. “You didn’t invite me here just to talk about decorating.”
Four heads tipped, four smiles thinned.
“It’s been quiet.” Miss Glory dropped the word like a weight. “From her side.”
“Too quiet,” Mo’nique echoed, bracelets going still.
Miss Bea’s voice lost its sugar. “We haven’t heard a peep from her mama or Karen since the Summer Stomp. No snide comments, no ‘accidental’ run-ins at the Piggly Wiggly, no complaints to the committee about anything with Emmaline’s fingerprints on it. That’s not restraint. That’s brewing.”
Uncle Dee set his glass down and threaded his fingers together, all stage gone from his voice. “They don’t retreat. They regroup. If they aren’t throwing pebbles, they’re stacking stones.”
My shoulders stiffened. “You heard something specific?”
“If we had, we’d have said it first,” Miss Glory said. “This is the kind of quiet that makes your teeth itch.”
“There haven’t been any sightings of the Maddox clan at the bakery in weeks,” Mo’nique added. “Marla and Karen would walk through fire to make a point. If they’re not walking, it’s because they’re planning.”
Miss Bea looked straight at me. “We’re not trying to spook you, Chief. We’re telling you we see her smiling again. We like it. We want to keep it. Guard it.”
I pictured Emmaline in the kitchen, flour on her cheek, with that laugh she’d started letting out without checking who was listening. My grip on the damn cat tightened enough he chirped and kneaded harder, and I made myself ease up.
“What do you think they’re aiming at?”
“If I were as petty as those women, I’d wait for the largest stage and try to knock her off it,” Uncle Dee said. “Festival, darling. An audience.”
“Or the house,” Miss Bea murmured. “Something that says she doesn’t belong where she does. They’ve done smaller versions of that for years. They’ll try bigger if they think they can land it.”
Miss Glory’s mouth went wry. “Or some letter with a lot of official-looking words meant to rattle you both. It doesn’t have to be true to do damage.”
“Then let them try me,” I said, too flat. “They can rattle my mailbox all they want.”
“Ah-ah,” Miss Bea warned. “Don’t go charging. Go planning. Put your ducks in a row.”
“Chickens,” Uncle Dee corrected with a small, wicked smile. “We do poultry metaphors here now.”
Shrimp Po-boy chose that moment to climb out of my lap and onto the table, where he slapped a paw into the crackers and made a bold advance on the lilies. I caught him mid-assault, took two claws in the sleeve, and swore under my breath.
“See?” Uncle Dee said, perfectly dry. “Even the cat agrees.”
“On what?” I wrestled orange smugness back onto my thighs.
“That you’re outnumbered,” Miss Glory said sweetly.
“That you’re loved,” Miss Bea added, softer, like she couldn’t help herself.
Mo’nique slid a small Tupperware across the table toward me. “Take jambalaya home. Feed your wife. And for the love of everything, stop acting like your living room is a waiting room.”
I glanced at the container, then at the four of them, then down at the cat working my leg like bread dough.
The weight at the base of my skull—that coiled readiness I hadn’t been able to relax since the Maddoxes started their nonsense—settled into something sharper, steadier.
I’d buy the paint. I’d put hooks by the back door.
I’d keep watch. And if those women wanted a stage, I’d be on it before they opened their mouths.
I scraped my chair back. Shrimp Po-boy rode my thighs like a surfboard. “If I don’t get him off me now, I’m losing this sleeve.”
“Leave it,” Miss Glory advised. “It’s ugly.”
“It’s my uniform,” I pointed out, peeling the cat off and handling him to Uncle Dee, who blew me a kiss.
“Go home, sugarplum. Tell your bride that house is hers. And keep your eyes open.”
“I always do,” I said.
“Do it more,” Miss Bea replied, not unkind.
Shrimp Po-boy flopped across Uncle Dee like he’d done me a favor.
I tucked the Tupperware under my arm and headed for the door through lilies and masks and Aretha now wailing about respect.
Outside, the evening held an edge of cool beneath the heavy, a storm-smell tucked under the lingering heat.
Across town, my house—our house—waited in all its beige curtain glory.
I thought about hooks and paint chips. I thought about buying a porch swing and telling her to pick the spot.
Mostly, I thought about the quiet, and what it meant coming from people who only raised their voices to wound.
The Sasspatch Society had a talent for dressing worry in sparkle. Underneath, the warning had teeth.
All right. Message received.