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Elvis chuffed a hello since he was a sensitive dog and liked to greet and be greeted. Mary Paige had never known such a canine gentleman.
“You didn’t tell me. How could you not tell me? This is crazy big, M.P. Crazy big.” Mitzi’s words got louder and louder.
“You’re talking about this whole Henry Department Stores thing, right?”
“No, I’m talking about the Christmas tree in your window,” her friend said, taking her elbow. “Come over and tell me about this money, this man, and your new gig as a Spirit. Ma made red sauce and meatballs.”
“Ah, you know I love your mama’s cooking, but I’m so tired. I want to get into my pajamas and watch TV. Plus, I need to feed the cat. How about tomorrow?”
“You know Ma makes the best red sauce this side of the river. I told her I’d invite you, but I forgot. Then I saw you on TV and remembered, so…”
How could she refuse and not be consumed by guilt the whole night?
“Sure,” Mary Paige said, giving Elvis a pat and allowing Mitzi to link an arm through hers and maneuver her toward the big blue house across the street. So, she was a marshmallow and couldn’t say no to her friend. At least she’d get a meal out of it, and Mitzi’s mother rocked anything she put on a stove.
Mitzi was nearly forty but dressed like she was ten, choosing Hello Kitty and Strawberry Shortcake vintage T-shirts to wear to the music store she ran with her uncle Rup. She also wore bold wigs. Today she wore platinum curls that brushed her shoulders.
“You like?” Mitzi twirled a curl at her ear.
“Very Hollywood starlet,” Mary Paige said, already feeling happier. Mitzi was that kind of person. She insisted on equal parts sarcasm and sunshine no matter what the heavens spat her way.
“That’s what I was going for. I’ll be glad when my own hair grows in.”
“But then you won’t be able to assume different personas. I loved the black bob you had last week.” Mary Paige climbed the fifteen steep stairs that led to the wide porch, with its spidering paint and cheerful poinsettias sitting outside the oval-paned door. “Very Veronica Lake to counteract the Jane Mansfield look.”
Mitzi had been undergoing chemotherapy. In August she’d found a lump in her breast, had a double mastectomy, and was on her last round of chemo. It had been a long painful journey, but Mitzi had made the best of it—which was a constant inspiration for Mary Paige. She felt blessed to live this close—it was a slice of home in the middle of midtown New Orleans.
“Ma,” Mitzi hollered as she opened the door, letting Elvis bound in first. “Mary Paige’s here.”
“Okay,” Cecily called from the kitchen. The Cascio house was an elevated shotgun house like most of the ones in this neighborhood, a few blocks off North Carrolton Avenue. The front parlor/dining room melted into the living room, which led to the kitchen and finally to the three bedrooms, fulfilling the suggestion that one could fire a gun from the front door of the house and hit someone coming in the back door. Straight shot.
She came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel. Her smile matched her daughter’s earlier one. But that was all that matched. Mama Cascio was as wide as she was tall, with dark hair knotted at her nape…just like a grandma on a commercial for Italian sauces. “Welcome, Mary. Hope you’re hungry, darlin’.”
Mary Paige barely had time to nod before Mama Cascio enveloped her in a bear hug, laying a fat kiss on her cheek.
“It smells like heaven in here, Mama Cascio.”
“Yeah, it does,” she nodded. “Been cooking my sauce all afternoon. That’s the secret—you can’t rush a good red sauce.”
Mary Paige nodded as though she knew what Mama Cascio talked about. The closest Mary Paige came to making a homemade sauce was melting butter.
“So big news, huh? Simon got the boot, Brennan Henry’s giving you tongue action, and you’re two million smackers richer. Like a dream, huh?” Mitzi sank onto the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. One pink pig dropped to the floor while the other hovered over Elvis’s head.
A timer dinged and Mama Cascio clapped her hands. “That’s the bread. You girls talk.” Then she toddled into the space she loved, muttering about Parmesan cheese.
Mary Paige sat in the armchair that had a piece of plastic covering the area where a person’s head rested. “I’m not seeing Brennan Henry.”
“Looked like a really friendly kiss on TV,” Mitzi said, stroking the big dog’s head absentmindedly.
“Publicity stunt.” Mary Paige resisted the urge to raise her hand to her lips. It had been a hell of a kiss. One she’d felt all the way down to her white Reeboks.
“Sign me up for those kinds of publicity stunts. He’s smokin’ hotandrich. It’s like you won the lottery, Mar.”
Mary Paige didn’t want to talk about the money. For some reason it felt surreal, which is why the check still sat in her jewelry box. And she darn sure didn’t want to talk about Brennan. “He’s not my type.”
“Baby, he’s every girl’s type.”
On the surface. “Actually, he’s sort of sad. Hates Christmas. Hates people. Loves money.”
