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Slipping into the shoes while Flynn held the coat out for her, she murmured, “Whatever Lucas is paying you, it’s not enough.”
* * *
En route,Flynn had mistakenly advised Lucas of he and Birdie’s estimated time of arrival, followed with them having been there sooner if not for the evening’s Blame Game.
When Birdie walked through the door wearing nude-colored lingerie, heels, and full makeup, Lucas saw red.
He fucking hated she was forced to do that shit.
Worried it would morph into something more evil and twisted.
If it was the last thing he’d do, he’d make that jackass pay for every time he coerced Birdie into doing something against her will.
When he offered to take her coat, she demurred saying she was cold.
Flynn leaned toward Lucas and said, “Might you have a sweatshirt?”
Opening up his luggage, he pulled a coastal-blue Wayward sweatshirt from the pile, thankful he thought to bring it, despite the sweltering summer heat, and handed it to Birdie.
Flynn helped with the white mammoth of a coat, and she turned while pulling the sweatshirt over her head.
Turning back around and appearing uncharacteristically self-conscious, she said, “I thought the Pinkie Posse was here?”
Perfect timing as someone knocked on the door.
Flynn opened it as the four women marched into the room with their chins up and in character.
“What were you thinking?” Birdie asked, her arms crossed and looking beyond edible in the lingerie under the slouchy sweatshirt.
Erma and Cora Leigh sat on the small sofa, Willa Mae in the matching chair, as Pinkie remained standing and prepared to do battle.
“It’s called a scam, shakedown, racket, or sting… Pick one. They all sufficiently apply.”
“Yeah?” Birdie asked. “I would call it foolhardy, financially irresponsible, dangerous, and reckless.”
Pinkie waved her off. “You’re overdramatizing. Errol Shepherd is just a man. Not a specter or demon. A simple man motivated by greed and vengeance.”
“Guess what, Pinkie. The form of vengeance Errol uses is to slowly kill his own father with a poison-filled I.V. and to force his enemies into convenient comas so he can continue his dastardly deeds, unhampered.”
Lucas’s heart tanked as her lips began to tremble.
“And…to force confused elderly women into the back seat of his car, to do God knows what to them. Or, by placing them in an institution where they’re constantly drugged and purposefully confused, making them more manageable and…and…”
Lucas reached out and pulled her to him as her finely constructed, reinforced walls began to break down, brick by brick…the mortar unable to keep it all together and crumbling around her.
Pinkie’s voice softened, and her body lost some of its ramrod posture as she moved toward Lucas’s makeshift bar and poured whiskey into two of the hotel’s drinking glasses. “Long ago, in a sleepy Southern town, there was a beautiful young girl who was abused by her deeply disturbed mother. The town knew of the woman’s questionable mental stability, knew her daughter was treated abominably, but chose to turn a blind eye as opposed to inserting themselves into the private lives of their neighbors.”
She lifted the glass to her lips and downed it.
“It was easier, you see, to remain blissfully ignorant and purposefully unaware of what happened behind closed doors and lowered window shades.”
She moved toward Birdie and handed her the drink, but Birdie shook her head. “I…don’t drink.”
“Fortunately, I do.” Pinkie downed her second whiskey of the night and set the glass on the table.
“We,” she said, waving her hand toward the other woman equally reserved, “…have made mistakes, fought and won battles, and learned through a lifetime of experiences what is important and what is not. You, Birdie Wellborn-Shepherd, are important and worth our time and money.”
Willa Mae pulled something out of her purse, and Lucas wondered if it was the Holy Grail of damning evidence Grant and Tati had been looking for.
