Page 93 of Born to be Wilder

“Alice, what are you doing?” Marge whispered from the corner of her mouth. “We can’t wander off with this guy. He could be a serial killer.”

“It’s fine, Marge,” I assured her, then waited for Lawrence’s answer.

“I, uh… I guess we can go back to my studio,” he said. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”

“Lead the way,” I said, more sure of this decision than anything I’d been sure about since I’d heard my diagnosis sitting alone in an uncomfortable chair in my doctor’s office.

I didn’t know how much longer I would be this version of myself, but tonight, I would have something to always remember her by.

Chapter Nineteen

Lawrence packed up his stool and supplies while we waited.

Worry creased Sylvie’s face. “Alice? We aren’t seriously going to a strange man’s studio, are we?”

Marge leaned in. “I’m with Brainy here. This is just asking to end up in some messed up documentary where they discover this guy is turning tourists into gumbo or dressing up their corpses as dolls and having tea parties with them.”

“I agree. This is reckless.” Doris nodded along, and all three of their heads looked like they were attached to one stick.

I turned to Marge. “Weren’t you the one who dragged us through the bayou behind some strange man in a camouflage truck out into the middle of nowhere?”

She stared straight back at me. “He had a legitimate business hat. He was the real deal. Does this dude have a legitimate business hat? No. I don’t think so.”

“Well, I asked him to go to his studio, and I don’t know how to explain it, but I trust him. None of you have to come, though.”

“Oh, we are not sending you alone to a stranger’s studio.” Sylvie crossed her arms.

Marge jutted a thumb at her. “I’m with Brainy again. No way you’re going alone. If he tries to chop you up into gumbo pieces, you’re gonna need me to fight.”

“Well, then I guess we’re all going together, because I’m getting this sketch done tonight. I need this.”

They exchanged a look. Then with one conjoined sigh of acceptance, they nodded.

“It is kind of special to have a drawing of you as you are. Oh, like Titanic!” Doris said.

“But hold on. If we’re doing this, we’re going to be safe.” Sylvie hurried over to Lawrence and asked for his driver’s license.

“Oh, smart!” Marge nodded.

He handed it to her, and she said, “I’m sending a photo of this to Tom, along with pinning our location, so if you try anything funny, my husband, a special forces operator, will be here with Marge’s daughter, who is in the FBI. Remember that before you try anything.”

She snapped a photo of the ID, then Lawrence took it back. “You know, it’s you who asked to come to my studio. Not the other way around. If we’re worrying about abductions or murders, it’s probably me who should be taking photos of your licenses and sending them to my father, a cop over in Pointe Coupee Parish.”

We all exchanged a look.

“You’re not wrong, actually. Would you like to get photos of our licenses? We won’t be offended,” Sylvie said.

He just chuckled. “Nah, I don’t think you’re going to turn me into gumbo or dress me up as a doll and have tea parties with me.”

Marge pulled a face. “You heard that?”

He tucked his sketchbook under his arm. “Yep. But it’s good you ladies are smart. Lots of predators lurking around here.”

“Exactly!” Marge gave him a look of respect, then lifted a finger. “But just so you know, if you turn out to be one, I know sixteen ways to kill a man with a spoon. And I’ll show you at least one of them.”

Marge stared at Lawrence, who laughed and spun on his black combat boot. “Follow me.”

He walked through the fray of the celebration, cutting through the colorful costumes and the wild party happening all around us.