Prosecco Pink (2 page)

"Are you crazy?" Pauline screamed. "You could kill him!"

Oh, so now she was worried about the alligator too?
Ignoring her protests, I scoured the scene for the offending creature, and that's when I saw him. Bradley, that is. Covered in mud and propped up on his elbows in three-inch-deep swamp water. That was no gator I'd hit, it was my boyfriend. At least, I really, really hoped he was still my boyfriend.

I rushed into the water and knelt at his side. "Are you okay?"

He spit something brown and slimy into the water. "Fine," he replied, a tad tersely.

"Let me help you."

"Now there's an offer you can refuse," Pauline said.
I shot her a look. Was that a Mafia jab?

Bradley stood up in silence and did a quick body check before walking to the shore.

"Let me see if I have a towel or something in the car," I said. I ran to the Mustang, but all I could find was a travel-sized package of Kleenex.

I hurried back to Bradley and began dabbing at the mud on his shirt with a tissue. "I'm so sorry about your suit."

He pulled away.

I blinked, surprised. "I said I was sorry."

"It's not about my damned suit, Franki."

"Oh?" I asked, doing my darnedest to feign innocence. But I knew exactly what this was about.

"What were you doing out here on River Road, miles from New Orleans?" he demanded.

Pauline sauntered over and folded her arms across her chest. "Yes, what
were
you doing? Shopping for a plantation home?"

I met her arrogant gaze straight on but avoided her question. "Nice of you to finally get out of the car."

Bradley looked from Pauline to me and sighed. "Never mind, Franki. We'll talk about this later."

Pauline glanced at her smartphone and turned to Bradley, instantly dismissing me. "We still have twenty minutes before your meeting with Mr. Stafford, and according to Google we're only about twenty-five miles from the bed and breakfast. We can still make it if we hurry."

Bradley looked down at his wet, mud-stained clothes. "I can't go looking like this."

"Well, you have that extra shirt and your suit coat in the car, and I have a bottle of Perrier in my purse. If you slip off your pants, I can have some of the more visible stains out before we get there."

Bradley nodded and started for his car.

I gasped. "You're not actually going to take your pants off for her, are you?"

He turned to look at me. "Franki, it's business. This meeting is critical to the future of the bank, and it's my job to do whatever I can to make sure it's a success. I've got to go."

As Bradley climbed into his car, Pauline spun around to face me. She was standing so close that her long, black hair lashed across my face like a silken whip, and her heavy perfume stung my nostrils. "Well, I hope you're satisfied," she said. "Thanks to your little spy game, you've not only ruined Bradley's thousand-dollar suit, you've also potentially cost him a multi-million dollar business deal."

I stared at her open-mouthed. When Bradley told me that he couldn't come over because he and Pauline were having a working dinner at a B&B outside of town, I'd assumed it was just the two of them. I had no idea that they were meeting a client there, not to mention such an important one.

"Now close your mouth and go get cleaned up," Pauline continued. She narrowed her undoubtedly fake violet eyes and looked me up and down. "You're a hot mess."

She did a runway-model turn and strutted to the car.

Oh, I was hot all right. With shame and blinding rage.

*  *  *

Still smarting from Pauline's smackdown an hour later, I kicked open my front door and threw my mud-caked boots onto the floor.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," my landlady, Glenda O'Brien, said from a backbend position on the bearskin rug on my living room floor. For a sixty-something-year-old woman, she was startlingly flexible, no doubt due to her forty-something-year career as a stripper.

My best friend and employer, Veronica Maggio, was on the floor beside Glenda, looking exactly as she had when I first met her in our freshman dorm at The University of Texas at Austin. She had her tongue sticking out one side of her mouth as she put the final strokes of Raspberry Fields Forever nail polish on her pinky toe. When she finished, she gave me the once-over. "What happened to
you
?"
I sighed and tossed my purse onto the velvet zebra print rococo chaise lounge. I'd forgotten that Sunday was movie night, or "ladies' night" as Glenda had christened it, and that it was my turn to host. "Oh, not much. I spied on Bradley and Pauline, I nearly got us all killed by a couple of alligators in heat, and then I hit Bradley with my car and pulled a gun on him."

"Oh, sugar," Glenda said, kicking her skinny, veined legs forward out of her backbend and coming to a standing position. "That sounds sexy."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm dead serious."

A coy smile formed at the corners of her mouth, and then she took a long, sensuous drag off her signature Mae West-style cigarette holder. "So am I, child. So. Am. I."

I didn't bother asking her not to smoke since she owned the fourplex that all of us lived in as well as the rather unique bordello-style furnishings in my not-so-humble abode. But I did make a mental note to ask her to stop letting herself in to my apartment.

"Why would you spy on Bradley?" Veronica asked, her brow furrowed. "You said you trusted him."

She never ceased to amaze me. "So, the trust thing is what you're worried about? Not the part about the gator or the gun?"

Veronica screwed the cap on the bottle of nail polish. "Well, you're in one piece, and you're not in jail, so I assumed that those other things got worked out somehow."

"Well, you could at least
act
concerned, you know."

"I'm sorry," she said, fidgeting with the ribbon on her pink baby doll pajamas. "It's just that I thought you were finally over your trust issue with men. That's all."

"I was. I mean, I am," I hurried to add. "I trust Bradley, but I don't trust Pauline around Bradley."

Veronica cocked her head to one side. "Well, isn't that the same thing?"

"No, it isn't. You have no idea how manipulative she is. Plus, she's always so perfect and prepared. I mean, the woman carries a bottle of Perrier water around with her just in case she needs to remove a stain."

"Perrier?" Glenda asked, wrinkling her mouth. "I don't get women who drink bubbly water when they could be drinking champagne. This Pauline sounds suspect, if you ask me."

I cast Veronica a triumphant look. "See? Glenda doesn't trust her either."

Veronica shook her head. "Trusting Pauline isn't the issue. The problem is that you're underestimating Bradley, and it's not like he's stupid."

"No, but he's a man, and she's drop-dead gorgeous. She's built like a model, and she looks like Lucy Liu. To top it all off, she has violet eyes, just like Elizabeth Taylor. And you know how good Liz was at stealing other women's men."

Glenda batted her inch-long, blue false eyelashes. "You know, Ronnie, I think Miss Franki's right. If there's one thing I learned while I was stripping, it's that even the smartest man is no match for a cunning woman."

I nodded, vindicated, although I wasn't entirely sure that you could compare my Harvard-educated, bank president boyfriend to the average strip club patron. But then again, maybe you could.

"You know what I think, sugar?" Glenda continued after taking a long, thoughtful drag off her cigarette.

"What?" I asked, eager to hear her opinion. Glenda was a little rough around the edges, but she often had sage advice.

"You need to make sure that she doesn't put nothin' over on you," she replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "So you're gonna have to stick to this Pauline like a pastie on a titty."

Veronica cleared her throat. "Franki, will you let the dogs in? My toes are still wet."

"I'll do it," Glenda said, hopping to her five-inch-high-heeled, slipper-clad feet. "I need to freshen up my glass of champagne, anyway."

As Glenda paraded past me to the kitchen, I noticed that she too was wearing baby doll pajamas—in tight black fishnet with large holes cut from beneath her armpits all the way down to below the hip. It was quite possibly the most clothing I'd ever seen her wear.

Glenda opened the back door, and my brindle Cairn Terrier, Napoleon, bounded over to me, his tail wagging.

"There's my good boy," I said, bending over to greet him.

Napoleon skidded to an abrupt stop, gave a quick sniff of my feet, and took a giant leap backward.

"So much for the unconditional love of pets," I said. "I guess I'll take that as my cue to go shower the swamp off me."

Veronica adjusted the bowtie on her cream Pomeranian, Hercules. "Hurry up so we can start the movie."

"What did you get?" I asked, even though it really didn't matter what the movie was. The only thing I'd be watching were the images of Bradley's hurt face and Pauline's haughty one that kept replaying in my head.

"
Zombie Strippers
," Glenda called from the kitchen.

Obviously her turn to pick the movie
, I thought.

"By the way," Veronica began, "I made sugar cookies, and Glenda brought an extra bottle of champagne. Isn't this going to be fun?"

I gave her a blank stare. "Yeah. Tons."

Veronica placed a reassuring hand on my arm. "I know you're worried about Bradley, but try to relax and enjoy the evening."

"I can't. On top of everything else, I might have cost him an important business deal. Do you think I should call and ask how it went?"

"No," she replied. "Let him have tonight to cool off. Then tomorrow you can apologize and explain how you feel about Pauline. I'm sure he'll understand."

I nodded, but I wasn't so sure about the understanding part, especially after my jealousy had almost gotten him killed—first by the alligators and then by me. I set off for the shower thinking that it was going to take a lot more than champagne, sugar cookies, and strippers to get me through the night.

I parked in front of the old brown brick building at 1200 Decatur Street in the French Quarter and glanced up at the bright green, shuttered windows of Private Chicks, Inc. It was the fifth time in two weeks that I'd been late to work, so I was hoping that Veronica hadn't made it to the office yet. There was no sign of her White Audi, but just in case she'd parked on one of the side streets, I tiptoed up the three flights of stairs. As I pushed open the main door, the lobby bell blared like a foghorn.

"You're late!" Veronica shouted from another room.

I walked into her office, my head hung low. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" she hissed, sounding remarkably like a Parselmouth from a Harry Potter movie.

I raised my eyes and was surprised to see that in place of her usual designer business attire, Veronica was wearing a dress that looked like something straight out of Glenda's stripper costume closet. She was also really pale—gray, actually. "Are you feeling okay?"

In reply, she stood up from her fuchsia leather chair, threw back her head, and let out a blood-curdling howl.

Wait.
A howl?
I opened my eyes and realized that a) I was still and bed, and b) Napoleon was the one doing the howling.

I lifted my head to scold him, and it felt like a hatchet had just been buried deep into my skull. "Bad boy, Napoleon," I whispered.

He cocked his head to the side, probably confused by my unusually soft tone.

I settled back into the pillow and wondered whether my dream was some sort of sign that I shouldn't be working for my best friend. But then I quickly decided it was more likely an indication that I needed to lay off the Limoncello. And the zombie strippers.

Rather than lift my head again, I felt around on the nightstand until I found my phone. I glanced at the display—seven a.m., no missed calls, and no texts. The realization that Bradley hadn't tried to contact me hit me like a sledgehammer.

I tossed the phone back onto the nightstand, and, as if on cue, it began to ring.

Certain it was Bradley, I sat up—through the pain—and grabbed the phone. It was my parents. If they were calling on a Monday before they went to work at our family deli, it spelled bad news. I laid down in preparation for the undoubtedly deflating conversation to come.

"Hello?" I replied, trying to hide my concern.

"Francesca? It's your mother, dear." Her shrill voice bore into my head like a drill, as did her habit of stating the obvious.

"Yeah, I know that, Mom."

"You didn't call us last night. Is everything okay?"

I thought about the alligator almost eating me and me almost killing Bradley. "Everything's fine, Mom."

I heard the sound of the receiver slamming down on what I knew to be the kitchen counter.

"Joe!" she shouted. "Francesca's fine!"

I waited for the inevitable grumbled response of my father.

"Tell her that just because she's in New Orleans now doesn't mean she can forget about her family here in Houston," he said.

And there it was.

"Did you hear your father, dear?"

"Yes, but why do you guys get so worried when I miss one phone call?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. Worrying was my parents' favorite pastime, after Yahtzee.

"Because you usually call us on Sunday, dear."

"I know that, but I was watching a movie with Veronica and Glenda, and it ran late."

"How nice. What did you see?"

 This was one of those times when honesty was not the best policy, so I threw out the first innocuous movie that came to mind. "
Gone with the Wind
."

My mother let out a dreamy sigh. "I've always loved that movie! My favorite part is when Rhett looks at Scarlett and says, 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.'"

"I'm pretty sure that's everyone's favorite part, Mom."

"Did you know that Clark Gable was bisexual, Francesca?"

This conversation was taking an alarming turn. "Listen, Mom, I need to start getting ready for work. Were you calling to tell me something?"