CHAPTER TEN
**
As the end of the year approached, I received a surprise text from Lucy.
We’re going out, New Year’s Eve. I asked your mom to watch James for you. She said she would. No excuses.
What are we doing?
Going to Bartholomew’s. They’re breaking in their new deck with live music and fireworks.
I didn’t know they had a deck?
You would if you did more than work and go home every day.
I go other places.
Grocery store, library and gas station don’t count. I can’t even drag you to a movie anymore.
Lucy…
Uh, no. Don’t you ‘Lucy’ me, and don’t try to wriggle out.
I laughed, picturing her face scowling at me. Fine, I’ll go. Who’s playing?
It’s Andy Amos. I wrinkled my nose, not as happy about going anymore. Re-focusing, I finished reading and giggled at how well she knew me. And if you’re wrinkling you nose, quit it. They added to the group and I hear it’s a huge improvement.
If it isn’t, at least this time I can drink until they sound better.
Hey, that’s right! Wear something hot.
I paused, staring at the phone, suspicious. Why??
Because we haven’t been out in forever and I plan to go all out. Gonna let me put you to shame?
Never! I felt horrible for doubting her. She was my rock. I’m gonna look so good you’ll wish you never asked me to come.
Sweet. I’ll pick you up at nine.
In the days leading up to New Year’s Eve, I must have tried on every outfit I owned, as well as several from stores around Natchitoches and Alexandria, too. I knew quite well just how competitive my friend could be, and how insulted she’d be if I didn’t bring my A game. Outdoing her would be a monumental task—if it was even possible. She had modeled in her spare time, as a teen, and knew how to pair items to their best effect. But, since she’d taught me all of her tricks, I really had no excuse to slack.
I finally settled on a little black dress that flattered my chest and made my legs seem to go on forever, paired with black platform booties and a smoky charcoal pashmina. I kept my makeup minimal, gathered my hair into a high topknot, braided with sparkling black ribbon, and topped it off by walking through a spritz of Bombshell perfume.
“Check you out.” Lucy whistled as she walked around me. “Every eye in the place is going to be on you.”
“Too much?”
“Nope.” She struck a pose and admired our reflections in the oversized mirror in my front room. It was built into the wall above the couch, between the living room and kitchen, and was where I went for my final inspections when I needed an uninterrupted head to toe view. “We’ll be the best looking bitches there. The women are gonna be smacking their hubbies upside the head all night long.”
I eyed the plunging, skintight knit mini-dress she was poured into and silently agreed. But it wouldn’t be because of me. Imagine the results if Felicity Shagwell and Foxxy Cleopatra were blended into one person. That’s Lucy in a nutshell. She’s every man’s walking fantasy in one smoldering package. Most females hate her on sight, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it.
“You ready?”
I nodded. “We have to stop by Mom’s and say bye to James, though.”
By nine thirty, we were pulling into the parking lot at Bartholomew’s, and my jaw dropped at the number of cars parked out front. Most people around Natchitoches went to the bars there in town, so all the traffic Bart’s usually saw was from locals who lived close enough to walk home or didn’t mind passing out in their vehicles where they sat. Settling for a spot out by the road, we started across the gravel.
“Awful lot of people for a simple New Year’s firework display with tunes provided by a ragtag group of middle-aged men with a thimble full of talent between them.” I studied her out of the corner of my eye. “This new deck must be a sight to behold. Lucy?”
She shrugged, her cheeks pinker than could be attributed to her makeup. “I hear Bart brought his grill out, for burgers, corn and hotdogs—and has had an entire pig cooking in the ground, Kalua style, since six o’clock this morning—just for tonight’s festivities.”
“Mmm.” I nodded to the bouncer and went to step inside, when he barred the door with his leg.
“That’ll be ten bucks for the cover charge,” he informed me, boredom oozing from every pore.
“Ten dollars for food, fireworks and a wannabe band that couldn’t play their way out of a cardboard refrigerator box?” I turned away. “Lucy, maybe we should just go someplace else.”
“No.” She glared at him, “We’re special guests of the owner. We don’t have to pay a cover charge. I can call and have him come out, if necessary. Don’t you have a list?”
“Oh, yeah—uh, sorry ‘bout that. Names?”
“Callie Rhodes and Lucy Turner…”
“Yeah, you’re on there. Sorry for the mix-up. Ain’t used to shit being so fancy-schmancy around here. It’s a dang bayou bar.” Pouting, he lowered his leg so we could pass. “Go ahead. Welcome to Bartholomew’s freakin’ country club.”
Once inside, I looked around. Aside from a few LED light strings strung from the walls to a spot on the ceiling in the middle of the room, giving it an exploding firework effect, the place was dark, and luckily mostly empty. You had to pay close attention in order to cross the room without bumping into someone or something. The bar was the only decently lit area in the entire place, so, at a loss, we shuffled in that direction.
“Maybe everyone’s out back?”
Glancing at her, I shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine. All these vehicles have to have owners, and they’re sure as shit not in here.”
She tipped her head. “You hear that?”
“Yeah, I hear it.” I turned my head from side to side, listening. There was a band playing, but the sound was muted—and then someone opened a door in the back wall.
“Hey, Benny, we could really use you out on the deck. The pig’s coming out of the ground as we speak, and they’re getting ready to set off fireworks. Have George put up the sign and man the ramp, just like we discussed.”
“Bart, hold the door.” Lucy gripped my arm and increased her pace, “It’s as dark as a tomb in here.”
I stared at her, my mouth open. “How do you know Bart?”
“He’s a longtime friend of the family. Went to school with my daddy.”
“Who said that?” Bart shaded his eyes, as if he expected it to help him see through the gloom.
“I did. Lucy—Lucy Turner?”
“Ah, yes, Lucy. Did you bring the guest of honor?”
“Yep, got her right here.”
“Guest of—“ My stomach dropped and I tried to slow our mad rush toward the door, “Lucy, what did you do?”
“You’ll see. It’s nothing bad.” She pushed me through the opening in front of her, “You’ll thank me later.”