As if reading my thoughts, Rayna pulls the glasses off. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to say anything.”
Andie looks me over again, but this time there’s a tad less hostility.
“Fine. But only the older stuff.” I can practically see a tiny part of her soul die with the consent.
Rayna nods and gets up from the bed. She crosses to the other side of the room, where she pulls open a set of huge double doors. I gasp. I honestly can’t help it.
Inside are row after row of what look like life-sized doll’s dresses of every imaginable kind. There must be a hundred of them. Fluffy tulle-skirted ball gowns and short sequin dresses with feathers hang alongside petticoated period frocks and ruffled sundresses. It’s a little girl’s fantasy closet, and I wonder for a second if I’m dreaming again.
“Don’t fuck them up.” Andie brings me back down to earth with a thud.
I take a tentative step forward, waiting for her to tackle me from behind, but she just stands there watching Rayna and me.
“They’re beautiful,” I say, attempting a smile at her.
Her eyes shift to the dresses, and after a moment she lets out a little sigh, allowing her shoulders to relax the tiniest bit. “Yeah.”
I’ll need about seventy hours to mull this whole Andie/Maria revelation over, but now is not the time.
“Here we go.” Rayna shifts an entire section of dresses over to reveal an area full of traditional Bavarian dresses and costumes. We have officially hit the jackpot.
It’s only when we’re on our way back to Kure Beach with two perfect dresses that I press Rayna for the dirty details. “Okay, now are you going to tell me what the hell that was?”
She laughs, and it has an evil edge, proving that we were destined to be friends. “You should have seen your face.”
“Yeah, no shit. So what is she doing working as a waitress when she’s obviously richer than Diddy?”
“Okay, well, you know how Camille is a little bit…” Her finger circles her ear, and I nod. “She only got that way after her husband died a few years back. They used to live in the estate next door to Andie’s—Camille’s family was loaded, as you can imagine.” I nod again as she turns onto Highway 421 and continues, “Anyway, Andie’s parents are your typical nightmare rich pricks, and Andie ended up spending a lot of her time growing up with Camille. She and her husband don’t have any kids or grandkids, so it made sense, right?”
I’m not entirely sure I want to know where this story is going, but there’s not much choice.
“Well, when Camille started acting all strange, Andie stepped in to keep an eye on her. Everybody else was pressuring Camille to go to a home or facility or something, but there’s nothing wrong with her apart from this weird restaurant and movie thing. Honestly, half of me wonders if it’s an act. She’s only seventy-two, she doesn’t light her house on fire or forget which side of the road to drive on. And, as I said before, she’s sharp as a tack when it comes to money and the business. So Andie told everyone to go to hell, helped Camille open the SWiN, and signed on as a silent partner so nobody could mess with the restaurant. She was at my interview and grilled the shit out of me. I was shocked as hell when I actually got hired. Andie doesn’t trust anyone with Camille, which is why she tries scaring everybody away if she can.”
“Well, she’s good at it.” I try taking in this revelation about my surly co-worker, but I can tell it’s gonna take a while to unpack everything. It just goes to show that you never know what’s going on in people’s private lives.
“Yeah, but don’t worry. We all get a feel for people after a while. Andie will ease up on you. I knew right away you were good people.”
“How? And, by the way, how did you know about me leaving town? You must think I’m awful for not being upfront with Camille.”
“Girl, you have all the signs of a runner. And you’re not awful. I can just tell these things. And then when I found out you and Milo went way back, I knew I’d been right. Besides, I’m not convinced you’re leaving.” She throws that last part out there with a casual shrug and keeps on driving.
“Uh, girl, you’re gonna have to get comfortable with being wrong for once in your life.”
Her eyebrows say otherwise. “We’ll see.”
“Well, at this rate, I might be dragged out of town by the cops for stabbing Milo,” I tell her as we pull onto his street and the old beach house comes into view.
“No biggie. I’ll post bail.”
This makes me laugh. “Aww, thanks, Rayna. You can always tell a good friend by their willingness to spring you from the clink.”
“Damn straight.”
Something is different; I can sense it the moment I set foot in the door. I hope to God Milo didn’t collapse again, because I’m not sure I can survive a repeat of last night. But, no. It’s not that. There’s noise coming from the kitchen, and I realize it’s… singing? My feet freeze in place because nothing on this earth could tear me away from an opportunity to hear Milo Papatonis singing in what he believes is complete privacy. We’ve already established that I’m the tiniest bit evil, so don’t even try scolding me.
I finally recognize the tune as “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd when he reaches the chorus, and I gotta say I’m impressed. He nails it with a raspy enthusiasm I didn’t know he had in him. Go, Milo. But I ruin everything when I step on one of the thousand creaky spots in this house while trying to sneak a peek around the corner.
Milo whips around mid “simple” and drops an empty metal bowl to the floor with a loud clang. “Fuck!” He bends to retrieve it. “Warn a guy next time, will you?”
“Sorry. I was just trying to catch the show. Nice pipes you got there, man.”
This earns me a scowl, and I detect the slightest red tint to his cheeks. It’s about damn time. “I thought I was alone.”
“Yeah, I gathered that. You ever think about taking that show on the road?” I drape the dress bag over a chair, and it’s only then I realize Milo hasn’t just been busy playing rock star. He’s cooking dinner. Chopped carrots, celery, and onion form piles on a cutting board to one side of the sink while pots and pans crowd the cooktop. “Are you… cooking?” I’m unsure if I should be impressed or gravely concerned based on the breakfast I choked down this morning. Speaking of which… “I forgot I’m not speaking to you.” My hand settles on my hip.
He sets the bowl on the counter and closes the distance between us. I resist the urge to back up because I honestly haven’t a clue what he’s planning on with this approach. At this point, it could conceivably be anything from a well-timed wedgie to a passionate make-out session. But all he does is pick up the dress bag and push it back into my hands before dropping his voice to a quiet tone—one that has all parts south of the border begging me to forgive the man for any past transgressions and climb him like the stairway to heaven.
“Go relax, and I’ll call you when dinner’s ready. There’s a cooler of beer and a bottle of wine on the deck.”
“Uhhh.” Yes, my tongue is on strike and siding with the southern coalition on this one.