“Michelle,” a man’s voice said. “Michelle!”
The hallucination evaporated. Michelle focused on Pink first, then Ed, then rolled over and puked off the side of the bed. “Get the trashcan, Ed,” Pink said. “And a wet washcloth.” She felt Pink’s hand on her back, a gentle touch below her bra strap. He rubbed his hand in circles the way she used to rub Cassie’s back at nap time when Cassie was a baby. The washcloth was cool on Michelle’s neck and the urge to vomit passed. She didn’t remember passing out.
“I’ll get a mop to clean this up,” Ed told Pink. “Why don’t you move her over to room nine. It’s clean.”
Michelle looked around the room for her handbag. Pink had it tucked under his arm. “Can you get to your feet?” Pink asked. She nodded, wondering if Pink had seen her gun.
The room continued spinning as Pink helped her to a sitting position. She saw Ed come in with a mop.
“I’m really sorry,” Michelle said, wiping her mouth with the washcloth.
“You should see these rooms after prom night,” Ed said, chuckling. “No problem, Mrs. Stage. Let Pink there help you into nine. It has a good battery in the remote.”
Pink switched on the light then escorted her to the bed. “Best to stay upright when you got the spins.” He removed her shoes, setting them on the floor.
“What are you doing here?” Michelle had no idea what time it was.
“Isabelle said you called.”
Michelle remembered now. She’d lied to Ed, said she needed to talk to Pink before morning. Ed probably would have given her the home number without the lie, but she didn’t want to chance it; a lie that came after the truth always sounded like a lie.
“I don’t know what happened. I was talking to my sister in Atlanta and I blacked out.”
“I heard you moaning and had Ed open the door,” Pink said. “I knocked first and was afraid . . . just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Michelle felt the room slowing down and looked over at Pink. “Did you believe anything I told you before?”
Pink pulled at the bedspread with his thumb and forefinger, releasing the material, then grasping it again until he’d made a formidable wrinkle along the surface, which he then tried to smooth out. “Why does that matter? I’m nobody. Who cares if I believe you or not? I know you got troubles. And if I can help, I’d like to.”
Michelle got up to go to the bathroom. “Do you have a few minutes, or is Isabelle waiting for you? I hope I didn’t cause trouble for you at home.”
“Have you eaten today?” Pink asked.
“A piece of pizza.”
“Let’s go,” Pink said. “We can talk over dinner.”
*****
Michelle expected a Sizzler steak house or a Denny’s, not a deserted mansion in the middle of nowhere. The building sat alone at the top of a steep hill. On the drive up, they passed an apartment complex and a few houses, but for the last mile or so there had been nothing but trees and pavement, and at the end, even the pavement ran out, leaving a rutted gravel road.
The structure was a dark monolith in the center of an even darker parking lot with several SUVs and pickup trucks parked near the entrance. Pink pulled a plastic Coke bottle filled with clear liquid from the back seat.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“The Hilltop. Private club. When George finishes, it’ll be the finest B & B around. Right now, he’s just got the Hilltop Club opened. George has vision.”
They walked to a side entrance. Music rolled up the stairwell to meet them as they descended beneath ground level. Pink held the door for Michelle, then guided her through the crowd with his hand on her back. They took a table near the stage. The Hilltop Club had the ambience of a hotel lounge—colored lights, bar signs, live music—but without that transient feel of misplaced travelers trying to drink away loneliness. The Hilltop felt like a celebration. People danced and laughed, and Michelle would never have imagined a place like this anywhere near Ardenwood.
A man walked up to the table, and Pink introduced him as George. George smiled and placed two empty glasses in front of them, along with two menus, then disappeared back into the crowd.
When George came back, he picked up the Coke bottle Pink had brought. He held it up to a light then shook it and inspected it. “Lyman’s?” he asked Pink. “Looks to be over a hundred proof. Have you tried it?”
“Help yourself,” Pink said, his eyes darting around the crowd.
George unscrewed the cap, hoisted the bottle, and swigged it back. “Smooth.”
“Let Michelle have a taste,” Pink said.
George handed the bottle to her, but she didn’t want to try it. “Maybe later.”
“Finest corn liquor around,” George said. “Nobody makes it like Lyman.”
Michelle asked how he could tell it was over a hundred proof by looking at it.
George took the bottle and screwed the cap back on, then shook it. He squatted down next to Michelle’s chair and held the bottle still, the liquid-line level with her eyes, and told her to watch. In seconds, bubbles formed along the top edge of the liquid. Michelle kept watching, unsure what she was looking for.
“See how the bubbles are big and ride the top of that line? That means it’s over a hundred proof. If they stay small and hang from the bottom of the line, it’s less than a hundred.”
Pink took the bottle from George, undid the cap, and poured both glasses full. “I don’t need proof of proof,” Pink said. “Just keep pouring.”
George took their order. Pink brought the glass to his lips and downed it then poured another.
“I didn’t know you could bring your own liquor into a bar,” Michelle said.
“That’s the only way you’re gonna drink liquor around here. Dry county. George charges for the table, the food, and the glasses. He does all right.” Pink tilted back the glass and seemed to be more patient with his second drink.
A man walked over to the table. “Who’s this pretty lady with you tonight, Pink?” He stood over them with the longest legs Michelle had ever seen, his enormous belt buckle level with the top of her head. Pink introduced the man as Lyman. “Howdy, ma’am.” He took her outstretched hand and gave it one down and up tug, as if he were opening the latch on a gate. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
Pink finished what little was left in his glass and poured another. Lyman eyed Michelle’s glass suspiciously then asked why she hadn’t touched it yet. She assured him she would, but she wanted to eat something first.