Chapter 38 Holly
Luisa’s perched on a barstool, sipping from a bottle of beer, when I walk into the Road Queen Grill.
She’s looking drop-dead gorgeous, and she knows it—all curves and shining wavy hair and thick red lips.
Luisa doesn’t belong in this place any more than I do.
But, of course, she’s a total chameleon, and she has managed to blend right in, wearing silver-studded Italian leather boots, light-wash jeans, and a snug T-shirt.
Then she pulls out her laptop.
“Luisa,” I call out, crossing the room.
I’m a little late to meet her, since I’ve been juggling a lot these days.
My job as interim GM of the Dogwood Hills Country Club is going great—I’ve been working hard to spruce up the common areas and digitize the records, basically to bring us into the twenty-first century, while also maintaining the Old South feel of the place.
This morning, I had the great pleasure of posting on the central bulletin board three terse but oh-so-civilized letters of resignation from Griggs Johnson, Jim Wade, and the judge.
Not only is a greatly coveted Sunday morning tee time now up for grabs, but the members get to avoid the indignity of rubbing elbows with high-profile criminals.
As has been the case for almost nineteen years, I’m grateful for the club, for my fellow staff members, and for all the kind members who have made a place for me there.
But also, I know it’s time for a change.
I’ve already told Buck Dorsey that I’ll serve as interim for a year, and then—with the nice little nest egg my forty-five-percent raise and frugal lifestyle provide—I’ll branch out on my own as an event planner.
Luisa and Eli will be heading out on a road trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, next week, to deliver an old truck Eli fixed up and sold to some billionaire.
Eli promised that, with the profits, he wants to invest a little something in my business, which means the world to me.
Who knows? Maybe, under the shadow of the magnificent Teton Mountains, they’ll get swept up in the romance of the landscape and decide to tie the knot.
I’m kinda hoping a Luisa and Eli wedding will be my first gig.
But I’m not going to push it and risk spooking Luisa.
She needs to do things in her own time, in her own way.
Luisa looks up from her laptop and waves, then gives me a not-so-subtle once-over.
I’ve learned a thing or two since my last visit to the Road Queen, and I ditched the flowery sundress—choosing instead fitted jeans, a pair of cowboy boots I scored a decade ago at the Goodwill on Northside Drive, and a black ribbed tank.
Her eyebrows arch, and she nods in a way that suggests I’ve won her approval.
Not an easy task, but I’m getting better at it with each passing day.
I weave through several tables crammed full of bikers engaged in boisterous conversation over copious pitchers of beer.
I pass a small stage where a woman is setting up equipment.
She looks to be about my age. And, in a torn-up KISS T-shirt, with about a dozen tattoos snaking across her chest and arms, she also looks like a real badass.
When I arrive at the bar, the Hog Mountain man sitting beside Luisa stands to offer his stool. So chivalrous! I thank him and start to sit, but Luisa gestures toward the corner of the room, where a four-top remains remarkably empty.
“I got Ginny to save us a table,” she says, snapping her laptop shut and leading me across the room.
Rhonda looks up from the grill, where she’s expertly smashing about a dozen burgers. “Well, hey there, Southern Belle,” she says. “Welcome back.”
Oh well. So much for trying to blend in.
Ginny passes me a cold Pbr without even asking, and then Luisa and I head over to the table, just as the badass in the KISS T-shirt takes the microphone, introduces herself as Crystal, tonight’s emcee, and launches into “Wagon Wheel.”
It takes approximately fifteen seconds for the beer-swilling biker ladies at the long tables in the center of the room to jump to their feet and sing along.
When I saw her setting up, I was sure that woman’s voice would be all raspy and breathy—she strikes me as a smoker—but her voice is clear and low, and her song choices are turning out to be both surprising and epic.
Crystal really knows how to get this crowd going.
I can barely hear Luisa over the raucous cries of “rock me, mama,” when she resolutely sets her laptop on our table, opens it, and then asks: “Are you ready for this?”
I nod.
She refreshes the home screen of The Georgia Times, and the headline appears: Atlanta Developer at Center of Multimillion-Dollar Embezzlement, Fraud, and Bribe Scheme.
Luisa scrolls down, and I skim the summary line of her long-form piece.
“ ‘Griggs Caldecott Johnson III, real estate developer and son of renowned Atlanta architect, indicted for years of criminal activity involving a prominent local judge, a chair of the State Board of Natural Resources, and a Southern banker working in Panama. Former publisher of The Georgia Times conspired to cover up the scheme,’ ” I read, rapt, as Luisa’s article unspools the entire complicated scenario.
Of course, Griggs was able to post bond, but the evidence is stacking up against him and his cronies.
There’s no doubt that after their embezzlement, tax evasion, money laundering, and racketeering trial plays out, the whole bunch of them will be spending quality time together in federal prison.
Maybe they’ll find a new Sunday morning hobby, in the absence of a swanky golf course.
Luisa finishes the article with a heart-wrenching account of the travails those selfish, power-hungry men put the Castillo family through. The final quote is from Gloria, framed with a beautiful photo of the entire family standing proudly in front of their Westlake home.
“Our prayers have been answered,” Gloria said. “And even though these men and their greed caused our family so much suffering, we have renewed faith that there are good people in this world. People with the courage to fight for the truth at their own personal risk.”
“This is absolutely incredible,” I tell her, looking up. “You’re a master of your craft!”
“And that’s not all.” Luisa grins, clicking on the paper’s Cooking section, then gesturing to a headline that reads Country Club Buttery Saltines, For the People.
“A real coup!” I laugh, delighted.
Luisa leans back in her chair, props both hands on the back of her head, and grins from ear to ear.
“Nina called the Griggs piece top-notch—a masterpiece of investigative journalism,” she tells me.
I know Nina is her new boss, now the publisher of The Georgia Times, after the paper’s board fired Chip Marshall.
“And then she gave me a promotion,” Luisa tells me, still trying to seem nonchalant, but I can see the absolute thrill in her eyes.
“You’re looking at the new head of the paper’s investigative unit. ”
Feeling anything but nonchalant, I jump to my feet and squeal with delight, then attack her with a bear hug, just as Crystal eases into “Wonderwall.” I release Luisa and return to my seat, while Crystal croons those overplayed lyrics of winding roads and blinding lights, then launches into a chorus about the surprising people who just might save us.
And, to my own enormous surprise, both Luisa and I are gazing at each other, across our half-empty Pbrs at a biker bar, tears in both of our eyes.
“Thanks,” she says. “For doing all this with me.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say back. “I couldn’t have done it with anyone else.”
And that feels like enough. There’s really not more to say, because we both know what an incredible gift it was that we stumbled into each other’s lives at just the right time—well, technically, I stumbled; Luisa marched confidently.
We took risks together, some of them wild and scary and not exactly legal.
We trusted that we’d somehow get through it all.
And now, here we are, together, and we’ve each saved the other from our worst nightmares.
In the process, we’ve managed to take down the bad guys, which feels pretty damn incredible, since it’s not like that happens every day.
We exposed the sort of powerful criminals who think they’re untouchable, while giving a helping hand to a few people who really needed it… one of whom happens to be walking through the door, with my (now official) boyfriend following a few steps behind him.
I stand up and wave them over, trying to peer around Eli to catch a glimpse of Hugh, but I’m frankly unable to avoid the way Eli looks at Luisa, as if he wants to devour her right here and now.
Who can blame him? As I mentioned, she looks hot.
Eli steps aside and I’m finally able to get a full view of my favorite professor.
In his signature crisp white button-down and leather loafers, Hugh looks both out of place and perfectly at ease.
I can already see his mind working as he takes in the array of Georgia accents that fill this crowded room.
For Hugh, every new place offers an opportunity to listen carefully and attentively, to learn. It’s become one of the many things I love about that man. I can’t wait to one day travel the world with Professor Hugh Pridmore.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Hugh says, which—even though he says it all the time—still makes me blush. He kisses me gently on the lips, then sits down and slides his hand into mine, while Luisa excitedly shows Eli The Georgia Times article, and he beams with pride for her.
Rhonda, wearing a mildly offensive T-shirt that reads Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal, a callback to one of the Home Alone films, arrives with a tray stacked with smashburgers, fries, and enough crispy onion rings to float a boat.
“On the house,” she says.
“No way—” Eli begins to protest.
“Aw, shut your fuckin’ mouth, pretty boy,” Rhonda interrupts. “It’s not every day we get an award-winning newspaper writer, a Southern belle, and a college professor in this dump.” She sets the tray down with a thud. “Just let Ginny treat you, for Chrissake.”
“Hey,” I scold, feigning offense. “Don’t you dare call the Road Queen Grill a dump. This place is absolutely perfect.”
I take in the room as we dive hungrily into our feast, and I mean it. There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than in this dive bar with these beautiful people.
Crystal, closing out a truly earth-shattering version of “You Shook Me All Night Long,” leans in, and announces, “Mic’s open. Who’s up?”
“Y’all ready for this?” Eli asks in his deepest Georgia twang, as a mischievous grin spreads across his face.
Luisa and I have discussed that silly bet we made so many months ago.
And we finally decided that, technically, neither of us won.
Sure, Eli was revealed as a fraud in the end, but it was a fluke, a coincidence.
And the truth is, he worked his ass off to become a Southern gentleman, and he succeeded.
So we decided Eli’s the real winner, and he gets to pick the song.
“Go easy on us,” I plead.
“I’m thinkin’ we’ll go with my favorite lady rocker, Pat Benatar,” he announces, quirking an eyebrow.
“You have a twisted sense of humor,” Luisa says, amused.
“I’m not joking,” he tells her. “I’m serious as a heart attack.” Which seems like an appropriate metaphor, given the large amount of fried food we’re devouring. I wash down a catsup-drenched onion ring with a deep swig of beer, stand up, and announce to Luisa, “Let’s do this thing.”
And then the two of us take the stage together. Luisa grabs the mic from Crystal, and we throw our arms around each other’s shoulders, while the classic opening guitar riff brings the crowd to their feet.
Luisa and I lean in together and belt it like we mean it—because Lord knows we’ve earned the right.
Hit me with your best shot. Fire away.