Getting Lucky (The Marilyns) (6 page)

“That’s because they had diarrhea. For the good of the public at large, walk away from the macaroni. Think of the innocent children.” Betts sipped something.

“How’s the morning sickness?” The directions called for six cups of water. She shrugged. The pot looked like it held six cups—give or take. She filled the pot all the way up to the brim with water.

“It’s gone … well, as long as I eat lots of fresh tomatoes and cream cheese. Damn, now I’m hungry.” Betts sighed. “Truly, put that handful of dog food down. I can’t believe that I have a child who prefers dry dog food to her mother’s home cooking. Truly, I’m not going to tell you again—oh no, you don’t.” There was some shuffling.

“Betts handed the phone off to me. Truly made a break for it, and Betts is lumbering off after her. Man, can that kid run. It’s like watching a sprinter in the Olympics but on short, stumpy, one-year-old legs.” It was Charlie’s voice, Lucky’s other best friend. Betts, Charlie, and Lucky had met their freshman year in high school when they’d all dressed up as Marilyn Monroe for the Halloween dance. They’d been raising hell ever since. “So you’re back in Austin.” She took a deep breath. “What are you not telling us?”

Lucky set the pot on the stove and turned the knob until the flame caught. “What? I can’t call and tell you that I’m back in Austin without some catastrophe?” Her voice was higher than normal.

“Don’t make me jump in my car and drive down there. Because I will, and I’ll bring Betts—all six months pregnant of her and the dog-food-eating hellion too.” Her voice softened. “Truly has grown so much. Our baby girl is walking and talking. She calls me Cha Cha. I must admit, I kind of like it.”

Charlie was visiting Betts at her new house in Hollisville. Charlie claimed that her monthly overnights at Betts’s were merely convenient stop-offs as it was on the way from Shreveport to Dallas. Lucky knew the truth—Charlie just wanted to put in enough time with Truly so she’d get the good aunt name and leave Lucky with something stupid like poopsy. There was absolutely no reason for Charlie to go to Dallas once a month to run her father’s reelection campaign. He was the governor of Louisiana. Last time Lucky checked, Dallas was rooted deep in the heart of Texas … well maybe not the heart, but at least the neck.

“Damn it, you got the cutesy name. I’ll probably be Tutti or Smucky or something awful. I hate you.” Lucky ripped the box open. “I miss her so much. Give her butterfly kisses from me.” Lucky dumped the noodles in. Water splattered everywhere. Grabbing a dishtowel, she sopped up the mess and then the dishtowel caught on fire. “Crap!”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She threw the flaming towel into the sink and turned on the water. The flame sizzled out. “Whew.”

“You caught something on fire again, didn’t you?”

She glanced at the iPhone to reassure herself she wasn’t Facetiming her friend. “No.”

“Liar.”

“Prove it.” Since not all of the noodles fit into the small pot, Lucky picked up a wooden spoon and crushed them until they all fit.

“So … what are you not telling me? You think I forgot, but I didn’t.” Charlie was all southern hospitality on the outside and pure junkyard dog on the inside.

“Well, I moved back into my old house and agreed to do a new reality show with Ricky’s girls and Will.” She said it all on one big breath.

“You moved back into your old house?” Charlie sputtered. “Wait. Hold on … new reality show with Ricky’s daughters?”

“Yeah, their mom died, and Ricky’s will isn’t settled, so they don’t have a place to live.” Neither did she, but she would die before admitting that to her two best friends.

“So let me get this straight. You’re living with Ricky’s girls, and all of y’all are doing a reality show?” Charlie sounded confused. “Are you drunk?”

“Nope, I’m making macaroni and cheese. Dawnie’s hungry.” Lucky smiled to herself. Dawnie needed her. It had been all of eight hours, and Lucky wanted to belong.

“Why are you really doing this?” Charlie had the very annoying ability of looking beyond the surface.

“I need to. For me, for them, and for him.” It was out before she had time to analyze it. Only yesterday, the thought that she owed Ricky anything would have pissed her off, but now, when she looked at Dawnie, she felt the slightest warming toward Ricky. He’d been a shit, but he’d produced this incredible little girl.

“Okay.” Charlie seemed satisfied. “But don’t cook. I strongly urge you to order pizza. In fact, if you give me a minute, I’ll order it for you.”

“I’m fine. It’s all good. I’ve got this.” The water still wasn’t boiling, so she turned the heat up to high. Water dripped over the side, and sizzling steam rose. It was like getting a free facial.

“Since I can’t talk you out of this reality show, Betts and I are going to send you a care package. Look for it in a day or so.”

“Okay, I love you and will talk to you soon.” Lucky needed to hang up and get the milk and butter together for the mac and cheese. “Bye.”

“Take care. Call if you need something.”

Lucky hit end and set the phone down on the island.

Dawnie walked to the stove and slid her hand in Lucky’s. “I don’t think you’re supposed to put the noodles in before the water boils.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

They stood there hand-in-hand watching the pot. “I guess it takes a while.”

“Not usually. When mommy made it, she always waited for the water to boil.”

“Okay, I got it. I should have waited. Next time I will.” Lucky shook her head. She was taking criticism from a five-year-old.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to smoke like that.” Dawnie pointed to the plumes wafting up.

“It’s not smoke, it’s steam. That’s a good sign. On the Food Network, steam always rises from cooking food.” Lucky didn’t know who she was trying to convince, Dawnie or herself. She was willing to admit that the pot might have been a little too small, but it was working … sort of. “Where are your sisters?”

“Vivi’s at basketball practice with Uncle Will ’cause he’s the coach. Mandy’s in her room sulking. She hates you.” Dawnie glanced up at Lucky. “Don’t take it personally, she’s sixteen and hates everyone.”

“Thanks for the tip.” More steam rose, and the water began to boil … and boil … and boil. Water and noddle bits flowed over the sides like lava from a volcano. With the charred dishtowel, she grabbed the pot handle, picked up the noodle-magma-encrusted pot, and tossed it into the sink. “How about pizza?”

“Really? Uncle Will never gets us pizza. He says it has too many carbs.” Dawnie’s voice held definite yearning.

“We’ll get pizza with extra carbs.” Lucky wiped her damp hands on her jeans. “What kind do you like?”

“Plain cheese.” Dawnie’s lips twisted into a sly smile. “Can we get extra cheese?”

“You bet. What do your sisters like?”

“Vivi likes pepperoni and Mandy likes anything that makes Uncle Will mad.”

“So one plain cheese, one pepperoni, and one meat lovers with extra grease to make your uncle mad.” Lucky picked up her iPhone and scrolled. “Hill Country Pizza okay?”

“Never had them before. When we lived with Momma, we only got pizza if we had coupons or if Mandy used her babysitting money.” Dawnie pulled her to the kitchen table. “Let’s play some more Barbies.”

Why had the girls only gotten pizza when they had coupons? Hadn’t Ricky provided for his girls? She rolled her eyes. The dumb bastard probably hadn’t. “Where did y’all live before your mother died?”

Not that she wanted to know … but she kinda wanted to know. Had Ricky kept them close?

“We lived in a house down a road.” She picked up Barbie Fashionista. “Our landlord always complained because the rent was late.”

“Oh.” Little girls shouldn’t have to worry about late rent. But Lucky had also had a childhood like that. “Where did you live?”

“On a road that was close to Whataburger.”

The closest Whataburger was in Lakeway. It was a nice part of Austin. Lucky found herself hoping the girls had had a nice life. She should be mad and jealous and vengeful, but Dawnie hadn’t asked to be born to a cheating bastard of a father—it wasn’t her fault.

“I guess it’s time you introduced me to your sister.” She took Dawnie’s hand. “Let’s go track her down.”

“She’s in her room.” Dawnie shrugged. “She’s always in her room.”

“Okay.” Lucky rolled her shoulders, letting go of some of the tension that knotted there. They walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room. The last time she’d seen Ricky, it had been in their living room. She’d been sitting on one of the blue velvet couches, and he’d been smiling ear to ear as he shepherded in Rosie and the girls. As long as she lived, Lucky didn’t think she could ever forget the look of pride and joy on his face. It was like he was bringing her the present of a lifetime. Had he really been that stupid? What sane, conscious woman wanted to meet her husband’s mistress and their children? She let out a long breath as they walked behind the sofas.

It was time to admit that she’d married a stupid man.

If she married again, he’d be required to pass both IQ and common sense tests. She shook her head. There wasn’t a man alive who could pass a common sense test. She’d have to settle for IQ.

At the back of the living room, sunlight rained down in slashes. In an effort to appease Ricky’s need for giant amounts of natural light, the entire back of the three-story house was windows. There were nine sets in all, as Ricky had believed that nine was good feng shui. There were also nine bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms and nine additional bathrooms for various and assorted living, dining, and game rooms. When Lucky had pointed out that there were, in fact, eighteen bathrooms and eighteen rooms, Ricky had corrected her by saying that they were two sets of nine. Back then, she’d nodded and then rolled her eyes.… Now she just rolled her eyes.

Being married to him meant that she’d put up with lots of dumb crap; now she was free to fix it. As soon as the payment from Bravo came through, she was covering some or all of those windows and buying new—less tacky—furnishings. And she’d sell the sofas—not because she needed the money, but because she needed less stupid.

A remodel—making the house hers. It was comforting. Some loud construction was just the thing for a reality show. Absolutely no one loved banging hammers and noisy saws. It was perfect. Since she was aiming for the most boring reality show ever, watching men haul in sheet rock and ladders was just the thing. Hours upon hours of watching someone patch drywall—who wouldn’t want to turn the channel?

They walked through the front hallway to the
Gone-With-the-Wind
-style staircase and climbed the red plush carpet to the second floor. Only a brothel or a rock star would have Kool-Aid-red carpeting. She hated this carpet, well, carpet in general. Wood floors would be best … something dark to combat all this natural light.

They padded down the veranda to the hallway, their feet sinking in acres of Kool-Aid. “Which room is hers?”

“The one that looks like a bruise.” She pointed to the purple room.

Ricky had insisted that each bedroom be a different color because colors had vibrations, and he needed all the vibrations of the rainbow to ignite his muse. When Lucky had pointed out that the rainbow had only seven colors and they had nine bedrooms, Ricky had insisted that both black and white were part of the color spectrum. Again, she’d nodded and rolled her eyes. Now, it wasn’t even eye-roll worthy.

Of course the violet room was at the end of the hallway as violet was at the end of the color spectrum. As they walked down the corridor, music—more specifically, singing accompanied by acoustic guitar—got louder and louder. The voice was strong, deep, and incredible. Part Taylor Swift and part Adele. Lucky may not be able to sing, but she was an excellent judge of talent. And whoever was singing was superstar quality.

Since Lucky didn’t knock in her own house, she turned the knob to the closed bedroom door. It was locked. No one locked her out of her own house. Standing on her tiptoes, she felt around the top of the doorframe for the small pick she kept above each door in case someone inadvertently locked themselves out. She removed it and stuck it into the tiny hole in the knob and turned. The door swung open.

“You can’t barge in here. This is my room.” Angry blue teenaged eyes glared out from behind dark eyeliner. The girl’s smoky eyes had taken a turn toward raccoon. Lucky could help her with that … if she’d let her.

“My house.” Lucky continued to hold Dawnie’s hand and fight the impulse to cross her arms and glare back. “You may close the door, but don’t lock it.”

“Whatever, bitch.” She turned her back on Lucky. “Go away.”

Lucky took a deep breath and stepped in front of the girl. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Lucky Strickland, and this is my house. In my house, I prefer to be called Head Bitch or Queen Bitch or just plain Lucky.”

“I’m Mandy.” There was bored bitchiness in her voice. “Bye.”

Lucky glanced down at the battered excuse for a guitar the girl was clutching. “Oh my God.” She reached out to touch it, but Mandy flinched back like Lucky was about to slap her.

Had this girl gotten hit often? The thought made her sick.

She made her tone neutral. “You have a marvelous voice. I think we can find you a better guitar. How about one of your”—her mouth turned desert-dry—“father’s.”

Mandy’s brow scrunched up, and weariness squinted her eyes. “Why?”

“Why not?” He’d hoarded them as if a guitar apocalypse was imminent. “Wouldn’t you rather have a guitar that didn’t have duct tape holding it together?”

“Maybe.” It sounded like no.

“Fine. But could you tune that one? It makes you sound flat.” Lucky turned her back on the girl and led Dawnie to the door. She knew when to push and when to pull back. Teenagers, she was learning, needed lots of pulling back. “I’m picking up pizza for dinner.”

“Fine. If you don’t have anything better to do with his old guitars, I guess I could take one off your hands.” Mandy threw down her guitar. She made it sound like she was doing Lucky a favor instead of the other way around. She stomped out of the room after them.