Chapter 9 Luisa
Must’ve been a helluva day, sweetheart,” Ginny says, uncapping a beer bottle and handing it to the guy sitting two seats down.
“You have no idea,” I sigh, slipping onto my barstool. “Can I get my usual?”
“One Luisa special, coming right up,” Rhonda hollers from the grill.
“Double patty, fries, and onion rings, just like you like ’em.
” Today’s offensive T-shirt features a praying mantis gripping her mate’s decapitated body, a red heart between them, the words Thanks for a Good Time arched across the top.
Ginny deposits a beer in front of me. “I’ll be praying for a miracle,” she offers.
I’ve spent the last three hours in Gloria’s kitchen, poring over legal documents while the kids are in school.
We found nothing new. In a few months, they’ll lose their livelihood and their kids will be thrown out of the only home they’ve ever known.
And then what? What will become of them?
I stuff down my own wretched teenage memories.
I, too, know how it feels to be displaced against your will.
All because of my father’s unforgivable choices.
And now, I’ve been displaced again, all because Griggs Caldecott Johnson is a crook, aided and abetted by my former boss. This time, though, I’m not a helpless teenager—even if I’m back living with my mom.
A cacophony of whoops and hollers breaks out at the pool tables, disrupting my private pity party. Someone has just walked through the main door of the bar, and their presence is causing a stir.
“Oh, honey, the church is about a half mile down the road,” Ginny says to the newcomer, who is apparently standing behind me.
It’s Holly, looking just like a church lady at a biker bar.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” I ask, forgetting to hide my contempt for her very flowery spring dress. I need this meeting to go well. But who wears a church dress to a dingy bar? Ginny’s official dress code is shades of black. Or at least biker-gang denim.
“I came straight from work, a Junior League luncheon,” Holly says defensively.
Her eyes dart around, taking in every detail of Ginny’s grungy establishment—the sticky tables that match the sticky floors, TVs broadcasting March Madness, and the regulars: about a dozen members of a local biker gang and their ole ladies.
I wonder what she’ll think of the Silence of the Lambs Buffalo Bill poster that is taped to the ceiling directly over the women’s toilet.
While you pee, a blond, psychotic man cradling a small fluffy dog stares directly at you through a stone tunnel.
“Also, it wouldn’t have been crazy for me to think that Road Queen Grill was a cutesy Southern place. You know, the kind that serves tuna salad on croissants and has fried chicken… but only on Tuesdays. How was I supposed to know we were meeting at a bona fide biker bar?”
I open my mouth, at the ready with a snarky comment, but decide to swallow it.
I remind myself that Holly is my only lead.
If she turns around and walks away, I’m fresh out of ideas for how to get access to Griggs’s business dealings.
It was a miracle that she called me in the first place.
Saint Jude came through for me after all.
With my beer bottle, I gesture to the empty stool beside me.
“Hope the food is good,” she says, dropping her giant purse on the bar. “I’m starving.”
“There won’t be any cutesy Junior League cucumber sandwiches on the menu,” I sizzle back, unable to help myself.
“For your information, I’m allergic to cucumbers.”
Ginny interrupts our banter, sliding my food in front of me.
She gives Holly a quizzical once-over, as if she’s considering banning her from her bar, but then seems to decide against it, tossing her a flimsy paper menu instead.
Holly doesn’t bother to read it. “I’ll have a double cheeseburger,” she says without hesitation.
Ginny looks as surprised as I feel. I thought for sure Griggs’s prim Maybe Mistress would shudder at the prospect of greasy meat (and greasier fries) and ask for a Caesar salad—hold the anchovies, dressing, cheese, and croutons, please.
“Anything else?” Ginny asks pointedly. “We serve beer and hard liquor only. No wine, no top-shelf shit, and definitely no spritzers. Spritzers are the devil.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Holly says. “An ice-cold Pbr will do.”
Interesting. Ginny and I exchange an arched brow, as she promptly uncaps a beer for Holly and a bonus one for me. She sets them in front of us with a dramatic thump. Holly tips the bottle in Ginny’s direction—a silent Cheers—then takes a deep swig.
“So, why did you agree to meet me all the way out here?” I ask. I’m trying to square the pearl-clutching, Country Club Betty image I have of Holly in my head with the surprising reality of the woman in front of me, who seems more self-possessed and down-to-earth than I anticipated.
“I didn’t want to run into anyone from the club. None of those people come out here.”
“Well, I’d like to keep it that way,” I say with more vinegar in my voice than is prudent.
I dig into my cheeseburger, trying to defuse the tension. Reddish meat juice drips down my fingers like blood, and all I can see in my mind’s eye are visions of the destruction to come—of bulldozers clearing away land for Griggs’s world-class development.
“A double cheeseburger for our Southern belle here,” Ginny says, returning with Holly’s food order.
Holly doesn’t miss a beat. She matches Ginny’s snarky tone, calling back in a full-on Gone with the Wind accent, “Oh, why thank you, daaahlin’, so veeeehry kind of you.”
The comeback seems to earn Ginny’s respect. She laughs, shaking her head with amusement before going about her business. I guess she’ll allow this Country Club Betty to stay and eat at her bar after all.
“What did you mean the other day, about Griggs keeping business secrets?” Holly asks, finally getting to the point of this meeting. She takes a few bites of her burger, then sets it down to meet my gaze.
I clean my fingers with a napkin. I can no longer hold it in: the question that has been burning inside me since this woman and I crossed paths. “Why are you messing around with that man? He’s awful.”
Holly’s face and neck flush red. “What? He’s the one messing around with me,” she exclaims, indignant.
“Sweetheart, it takes two to tango,” Ginny chimes in. That woman has one ear perpetually pressed to the bar.
“Let’s get something straight,” Holly whisper-yells at me through gritted teeth.
“I am not having an affair with Griggs Johnson. I’m not having an affair with anyone.
That horrible man has been harassing me for years.
I’ve never given him what he wants, which drives a power-hungry person like him crazy.
And now he’s found a way to blackmail me with my son’s future. ”
I raise my eyebrows, trying to take it all in. “So, to be clear,” I say tentatively, “you’re not his mistress?” Are all my hopes for an inside source about to be dashed?
Holly doesn’t answer. Instead, she eats in angry silence, practically fuming.
“No,” she says finally. “I’m not his mistress.
And, frankly, I’ve had enough slut-shaming for one lifetime, thank you very much.
Not that I owe you my life story or anything—but I got pregnant when I was eighteen, and I got slut-shamed for years.
Skank, hussy, floozie, trollop—I’ve been called all the names.
I’m done with it. I’m through with being punished.
” She shoots me a barbed glare. “I love my son, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about how he came into this world.
” She’s breathing hard now, hands holding a bottle of ketchup a little too tightly.
“Shit.” I take a swig of my beer, needing to buy myself a few seconds. I’ve totally misjudged this woman. Inadvertently slut-shamed her. And hit a big-ass nerve in the process. All because I prayed to God she was Griggs’s mistress? Fuck.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I add, remorseful.
Holly narrows her gaze on the ketchup bottle in her hands, seemingly trying to gather her emotions.
After a few beats, I ask, “How in God’s name did you end up trashed inside that bathroom on Friday?”
She scoffs. “How far back do you want me to go?”
“All the way.”
Over the next half hour, I learn all about Holly’s upbringing in Jackson.
“Ironically, I wound up right back in the world I was trying to flee,” Holly says, finishing the last of her onion rings. “But, honestly, I love my job. And I love the people I work with.”
“Did you ever think of calling your family?” I ask, finding it hard to imagine life without my own. “Asking for help? It must’ve been hard for you, going it alone.”
Holly shakes her head, eyes set on the empty basket in front of her.
“They wanted me to give my son away.” She takes a deep breath, then releases the air slowly.
“I won’t subject you to the cruel things my mother said.
” Her gaze turns to meet mine, and I can see the pain resurface with the memories. “Besides, I’ve made my own family.”
“And now Griggs is threatening to take everything away from you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Holly sighs, nodding in response. “How long has he been harassing you?” I add.
“I’m not sure when exactly it started,” she tells me.
“But about a year ago, he seemed to start testing how far he could go, like pushing the boundaries?” She shrugs, a shadow falling over her expression.
“And then suddenly he got way more brazen. Like he knows he’s untouchable.
” Then she tells me about Aidan keying Griggs’s car, the video evidence, the club’s security employee who was fired after Griggs joined the club’s board.
“So let me get this straight,” I say, enunciating the words slowly. “A grown-ass, misogynistic prick is going after a kid raised by a single mom so he can get in her pants?”