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Angry travelers come part and parcel with Laurel’s position at the airport. Although, her contentment given a long shift proves she witnessed a few sweet reunions.
Both of us were flight attendants about a bazillion and twelve years ago. Neither of us has flown the friendly skies after having babies. Laurel wasn’t ready to give up the airlines altogether. She says it’s a lot easier to deal with customers from behind the ticket counter than being trapped for hours thirty-thousand feet in the air with someone with an ax to grind. But I know it’s wholly different and she misses flying.
“Any news about when Kimber’s last day is?”
I shrug, forking a tomato from the salad I’m snacking on, popping it in my mouth, and chewing. I’m not on the schedule at Sweet Caroline’s tonight, so my day of wallowing and playing dolls with Emory wasn’t near as tough as Laurel’s. I don’t want to bring her down. Besides, Dusty and Cece will be here soon with Sylvie Rhys. It’s not great timing for a heart-to-heart.
“For someone who scored a promotion and a big fat raise, you’re less than enthusiastic.” Laurel flicks the bow on my wide red headband.
She pulls the bowl of lettuce from my grip. Placing it on the mosaic-tiled coffee table, she leans against the low-backed square couch cushions and rests her head where my off-the-shoulder striped blouse exposes my bare skin.
“Drowning your sorrows in salad dressing meant for our company tonight isn’t quite as effective as chocolate sauce. I’d take you for ice cream, but…” Laurel points to the ceiling. Emory is upstairs obsessing over her dollhouse. Bhodi is off with Cary, who has promised to have him home at a decent hour after their second after-school mechanics lesson in the past two days.
I wipe olive oil off my lip, cross my arms over my stomach, and let out a heavy groan.
My sister snuggles in, giving me a half hug. “Talking about it will make you feel better.”
“I wish I’d worked for it,” I say.
This elicits a sadistic cackle from my sister. She tosses her first in the air gyrating it like a lasso and wiggles her hips in the tight uniform skirt she has on.
I’m woman enough to take the good-natured ribbing Laurel gives me. I’m not a stripper, though many of my closest friends have been and they were quite good at it.
“What I mean is, Kimber leaving seems like I became the manager by default.”
I’ve fallen for beautiful lies once in my life and learned nothing is guaranteed. That includes the things you earn.
“Seriously, Holly, how else did you see Kimber exiting the club? She was a dancer, then the manager, and now she’s planning to enjoy her family. Did you think Jake would can Kimber or that she’d never leave? Did you plan on being the assistant manager forever?”
“Is ‘sort of’ a pathetic answer?” My brow and lip quirk in time with the question. “Not to the firing, though. What if I’m not as good as she was, and I fail at keeping all of the silly stuff Jake can’t stand out of his hair?”
“Hol, is it so hard to believe some people leave for all therightreasons and, in this case, with the faith in you that it’ll be even better once they’re gone?” A soft smile plays on Laurel’s face. She caresses my cheek the way our mom did drying our tears.
I’m able to read between the lines. Bhodi’s father, William, did me dirty. I thought the love we shared was invincible, but for William’s part, it was more like invisible. I wish his middle-aged motives had been as transparent. I truly believed he’d laid every last dream I had at my feet. Besides my son, the only picture-perfect things I have to hold onto are the vintage A-line dresses in my closet.
My lifestyle isn’t an attempt to recapture what I lost. Laurel and I wore clothes like this on occasion for fun before I met William Mayer. Now, we both wear them because there’s no one around to criticize or tell us not to. William taught me all handouts come with a price, and I’m not buying into the Prince Charming bullshit again. The dude didn’t even recognize his true love without the heels. How does that prove the “love is blind” nonsense?
“Maybe I am projecting.” It’s hard for me to accept things I haven’t earned and even more difficult to convince myself any effort I’ve put toward success has paid off.
“I understand you never want to be dependent again, but independent women clap for their damn selves and you’re slumped on the couch hostessing a pity party. Aren’t you the sister who convinced me after my divorce that I was stronger than to let the past get in the way of my future?”
“Are you spoon-feeding me my own advice?”
“Sure as shit, I am.” She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a tube and compact. “Now, fix your lipstick and show ‘em who’s boss.”
Laurel hands over the fire-engine red once she’s applied it herself and puckers fishy-faced, waiting for me to paint my own in the mirror. Afterward, Laurel heads upstairs to change out of her uniform.
I rinse my bowl and tidy up so she doesn’t have to. Laurel is the head chef tonight and I’m the side cook and busboy. My sister should enter one of those TV pitmaster competitions because she’d win with both hands tied behind her back.
Laurel promised Dusty southern barbecue a while back when he helped her spray the modern white kitchen appliances with a smooth coating of cotton candy pink to match the Lady Kenmore she saw in a nineteen-fifty-eight Sears catalog. We normally pay Dust for everything he does for us—and he does quite a bit—but when someone of Dusty’s stature plants his feet, it’s better to compromise than try to make him budge.
A Boston Butt roast has been in the smoker all day. I’m no hack when it comes to food, but Laurel left me strict instructions for when to do what. I hope I didn’t mess up the meal when I poured the hot sauce over the meat and wrapped it in foil to seal in the juices.
Our company arrives in the casually late window, something I appreciate being the type of person who is gloriously bad at being on time for anything except work, and that’s often by the skin of my teeth.
Dusty’s daughter, Sylvie Rhys, hugs my knees. Finding out Emory is upstairs, Sylvie bolts for the steps to show off the latest in her ever-growing sticker book collection.
Dusty and I met at Sweet Caroline’s. He was the handyman there and across the street at the mill building where Celine lived while she danced her way to a medical degree. Right after Christmas, Cece graduated, became a physician’s assistant, and they’d begun dating. Much to my dismay, Dusty hung out a shingle and started his own business this spring. I lost two great coworkers at the club within weeks of each other. Actually, three since Celine’s brother, Morgan, the guy who covered for me at the club yesterday, had only stuck around out of an insane amount of concern for her welfare and quit too. With Kimber leaving, it’s like I’ve lost family members. After so many years, not having the faces I’ve relied on for so long around every day is difficult. I’m just glad Dusty and Cece come over to hang out with us whenever they can.
