Chapter 31 Luisa
The Dogwood Hills ballroom doors open to the all-male members of the Midnight Society, along with their wives and girlfriends, decked out in a blitz of over-the-top, Y’allywood-inspired costumes.
My eyes scavenge the crowd, hunting for Eli and his Wonder Bread racing fire suit.
Is he here yet? Griggs invited him to his Tuxedo Park mansion for a pregame drink, where Tripp would confide that he’s getting pressured from his dad to put his trust fund to work, then ask Griggs for investment advice, guidance on tax shelters and offshore accounts.
As I scan the room, I spot multiple versions of Elvis and also Dolly Parton, Forrest Gump, Ray Charles, Truman Capote, Loretta Lynn, at least a half dozen women dressed in cutoffs with their ass cheeks hanging out—I’m thinking probably Daisy Duke from The Dukes of Hazzard—and that one guy from Smokey and the Bandit.
I also detect a couple in an elaborate Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler period belle gown and suit.
Guess they didn’t get the whole slavery whitewashing memo.
Everyone seems genuinely awed by the way Holly has transformed this musty club into a fabulous event space—from the massive overhead Y’ALLYWOOD sign to the life-size cardboard cuttings of paparazzi; from the flashing camera lights to the red carpet lined with gold posts.
“They may be stuffy high-society muckety-mucks,” Holly mutters beside me, “but this is when they get to let their hair down and play dress-up.”
“So it’s like a debauchery party,” I reply, dropping the brim of my hat to cover more of my face.
Chip, my former publisher, is on the guest list, and I’m relying on the uniform Holly designed to keep him from recognizing me.
I devised a whole plan for slipping some extra-strength laxative into his drink, but Holly put the kibosh on it, arguing that we shouldn’t add any unnecessary crimes to our rap sheet. I begrudgingly agreed.
“More like debauchery adjacent,” Holly mumbles back through a wide smile. “The women ensure their men keep some semblance of restraint. I’ve heard their other parties—the ones without wives and dates—are truly obscene.”
“As in—”
“I’m gonna spare you the details,” she interrupts. “It’s the sort of thing you can’t un-know, and I really wish I could.”
I nod, strangely grateful for her discretion.
Holly repeats a practiced “Welcome,” as I usher guests toward the colossal champagne tower and the impressive circular bar at the center of the ballroom, where a small battalion of bartenders is delivering from an extensive menu of signature cocktails, beer, wine, and more champagne.
The buffet is just as opulent, with carving stations for prime rib, tenderloin, and country ham, beside a massive shrimp topiary.
The catering staff went all in on the Southern food theme, with a shrimp ’n’ grits bar, a biscuits ’n’ white gravy bar, a mac ’n’ cheese bar, heaps of fried chicken, and an iced raw bar that features dainty oyster shooters—pulled off the shell and served with cocktail sauce inside shot glasses, and paired (of course!) with those delicious buttery saltines.
Beyond the buffet, a Big Band is playing a high-energy, brass-heavy rendition of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September” on a stage overlooking the dance floor.
Holly has instructed the staff that, exactly as the prop clock on the stage strikes midnight, they will break into Kool & The Gang’s “Celebration.” Confetti cannons will explode over the dancing crowd, and servers will carry out silver trays of Chick-fil-A mini sliders and glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts dotted with vanilla ice cream—because this is what rich people like to snack on when they are “cutting loose.”
“Excuse me,” a honeyed voice in a Mississippi accent says behind me, “I was told you could get me some Domino’s pizza, KFC, and the always delicious Taco Bell.”
I snort with laughter, then turn to find a grinning Tripp Reynolds Bedford III—ever the Bubba in his Ricky Bobby fire suit, complete with Wonder Bread racing helmet, which he’s cradling in one arm.
“Would you like some Powerade Mystic Mountain Blueberry with that, sir?” I deadpan, making him smile wider.
“Dear sweet baby Jesus,” he mutters in a low whistle, running his hungry eyes down my costume and over my waistcoat, pausing at the name tag pinned on my chest. It reads María.
Common. Forgettable. Invisible. His gaze drifts to the red silk scarf tied around my neck, then to my lips, painted the same color.
We look into each other’s eyes, willing the senseless spectacle around us to disappear, willing Tripp and María to fade until it’s just us: Eli and Luisa.
“Hi,” Eli says simply, dropping the Ricky Bobby act.
“Hi.” I lean into this new unspoken language between us.
It’s become our own form of code-switching, a language born over morning pancakes at the kitchen table with Pearl, random I miss you texts, spontaneous I just wanted to hear your voice calls, whispered secrets spoken in the dark, after sex, and so many plans for the future—our future.
“There you are,” Virginia cries out, materializing by his side and snaking her arm around his. “You just disappeared on me.”
I almost don’t recognize her. Surprisingly, she’s gone all out on a matching Cal Naughton Jr. fire suit, dressed as Ricky’s best friend and racing partner. She’s even wearing Naughton’s thick mustache.
Two fratty guys dressed as the Dixon Brothers from The Walking Dead wander by with zombie dates. They give Tripp and Virginia a once-over and then call out, in unison, “Shake and Bake, baby.” Without missing a beat, Virginia and Tripp fist-bump. “Shake and Bake!” they call back.
Once again, I’m so conflicted about this woman. She seems goofy and kinda cool. It would have been easy to dismiss her if she’d chosen to dress as Ricky’s smokin’ hot wife. But no, she had to be the wacky, fun teammate. Which begs the question: What message is she trying to send?
“What are you supposed to be?” she asks me, grabbing a mini crab cake from a passing waiter with her free hand, while inspecting my costume. “I like it.”
I’m rocking the Southern Gothic look, if I do say so myself—mid-calf boots, leather leggings, tight waistcoat over a lace shirt, stand-up collar coat, and wide-brim hat.
“Oh, wait,” she adds, eyes suddenly bright and wide. “I’ve got it! You’re Goth—”
“Southern Gothic,” I correct, brimming with fake politeness. “It’s a subtle commentary on the grotesque. Alienation and aberration.”
Tripp coughs out a laugh.
“Exposes the dark underbelly of the haut monde,” she adds, with perfect French enunciation. “Great for this setting.” Unable to produce a response, I stare, agog. Is she not-so-subtly critiquing her own world? “I took a class in college.” She shrugs. “Comp-lit major.”
As much as I loathe being the jealous type, I can’t help but feel a little defensive and territorial around her. She’s got beauty and brains, as it turns out. How annoying is that?
I don’t realize that I’m staring until she asks, “Don’t we know each other?” She’s tilting her head to the side as if something about me doesn’t add up.
“It’s Luisa, right?” she exclaims in recognition. “Why are you dressed like the staff?”
“She works here,” Tripp says, gesturing to my name tag dismissively. “She just looks like Luisa.”
“I guess we all look the same to you,” I mutter derisively, trying hard to throw her off my scent.
“That’s not… no… what I meant—” Virginia stammers, flustered. “Sorry, I thought—”
I tug at my silk scarf, rattled.
“Should we go find the judge?” Tripp jerks at her jacket, cutting her off.
“I think he wanted to introduce me to some folks from out of town.” His eyes cut to the ballroom, inconspicuously backing away from her touch.
“I’m thirsty,” he blurts out. “Let’s go get a drink, Magic Man,” he tells her, not waiting for an answer.
Tripp drags her to the bar before she can protest, ask any more questions, or offer commentary. But he does manage to turn back and give me a quick wink.
Reassured, I go in search of Holly. Justine directs me to a side room—nicknamed the nightclub—where a second, louder and more rowdy band plays for the younger crowd.
It’s packed with people, but I find Holly talking to the sound and light tech about an issue with the midnight confetti cannon explosion and something about a guy planning to ride in on a motorcycle.
To her credit, Holly has carved every minuscule detail of tonight’s schedule with surgical precision, all while putting out concurrent fires, juggling an unending stream of ludicrous requests, and directing a staff of several dozen.
Tablet in hand, she’s in her element, and I’m enormously impressed.
I grab two flutes of champagne from behind the bar and gesture for her to follow me down a deserted hallway, furnished with soft lighting and antiques that look like they predate the Civil War. Maybe Scarlett and Rhett brought them as props.
“I swear to God,” she grunts, taking a gulp of champagne.
“If one more drunken asshole tries to jump onstage to”—she makes air quotes with her free hand—“lip-sync with the band, I will wring his scrawny little neck.” She sets the glass on a sideboard and jabs an angry finger at her tablet.
“This isn’t a frat house, boys! And don’t even get me started on the banker who insists on making his grand ballroom entrance—on a freaking motorcycle. ”
“You’re really good at this event planning thing, Holly,” I say with feeling.
“I’ve just been doing it for a long time,” she remarks, shaking her head as she marks off another to-do item.
“I mean it,” I insist. “Not everyone can keep all these details straight. Execute under all this pressure for perfection.” My hand falls over her tablet, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“And look smoking hot while barking out orders.” I force her to admire her reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror hanging over the sideboard.
“See?” This makes her smile, and the tension in her shoulders eases a little.
“Dolores is a master of her craft,” she says, passing one hand over her spiky layers.
“My hair has never looked this good.” She sets the tablet down, then picks up the champagne glass, taking a sip, relaxing for what seems like the first time in weeks.
Well, with the possible exception of the postcoital moment I stumbled into this morning.
“Do you really want this general manager job?” I ask, closely watching her expression.
Holly bites at her lower lip, her entire body sagging against the cabinet.
“Honestly, and in spite of all the nonsense unfolding around us, I think I do,” she admits.
“I filled out the application but I haven’t submitted it,” she says, dejected.
“What’s the point? Griggs will block me.
Or worse, get me fired.” She returns her gaze to the tablet, absently running one index finger over the screen.
I abruptly press the sleep button and the screen goes dark.
“Griggs won’t be in the picture much longer,” I remind her. “If this is what you want, you shouldn’t let him stop you.”
“What if…?” Her voice trails off. I don’t say anything, giving her space to speak her mind. “What if I’m not good enough?”
“Look at me,” I say, resting my hands on her shoulders.
“You are fucking amazing.” I give her a squeeze.
“And by now, you should know that I don’t go around doling out unearned compliments.
” She smiles at this, knowing it’s the truth.
“If they don’t want you, then fuck them.
Quit. Start your own damn business. They don’t fucking deserve you.
” I drop my hands, resting them on the sides of her arms. “But at least give them the chance to decide.”
Before I can react, Holly pulls me into a hug. “Thanks,” she whispers. “I really needed the pep talk.”
I hug her back, realizing that—despite our many differences—Holly and I seem to have become real friends.
“Let’s hit send on that application,” I say, leaning back so I can look her in the eyes. “Before you have time to change your mind.”
Holly releases her hold on me, then reaches for a file folder inside her bag. She retrieves an old-school, honest-to-God, paper job application she’s filled out in blue ink.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“They were very specific about the ink color,” she tells me, her tone suddenly solemn. “Legible handwriting in blue ink only.”
“What are you supposed to do with it?” I examine the form with curiosity. Remarkably, Holly has very neat handwriting.
“Drop it in the board’s mailbox.” She gestures down the dimly lit hallway. “Like, an actual mailbox.”
“Come on, then,” I say. “Bring your champagne.”
“Wait,” she cries out. “Now?”
“Now.” I take the form and my champagne glass, then stride down the hallway, Holly tottering to keep up with me.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she tells me, her voice giddy.
“I can’t believe anyone actually still uses paper applications,” I scoff, waving the archaic document in one hand. “Is this thing in triplicate?”
“Oh yes,” she replies, laughing. “Carbon copies. I had to press really hard.”
When we arrive at the mail slot affixed to the wall, I pass her the application. She stares at it for a beat, takes it with her free hand, and then drops it in.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” she says, suddenly breathing so hard that I think she might hyperventilate. “I did it. I applied.”
I take my champagne glass and lift it to her. “To the next general manager of this club,” I say, “whose first vital task will be teaching the old-ass men on the board how to use an actual computer.”
“To the next department head of investigative journalism at The Georgia Times,” she says. Department head? I like the sound of that. “Whose first task will be to move out of her mother’s house so she can finally have hot sex with her boyfriend at her own place.” She lifts her glass higher.
“To our bright, sexy futures,” I exclaim.
“To our bright, beautiful futures.” She clinks my glass, her eyes glinting with hope. We shoot back what’s left of our drinks.
“Oh, crap,” she says when she’s finished her champagne. “I gotta go warn the valets to clear the way for Easy Rider.”