Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (20 page)

Katie Lee held up six fingers.

Bridget relaxed on a counter stool. “Can I pitch in to buy replacements?”

Katie Lee shoulders dropped. “You are so thoughtful to offer. The whole incident wouldn’t have been so horrible if the assholes hadn’t broken Mama and Daddy’s commemorative champagne. I’m beyond irked at Billy Ray. Now I’ll have to ‘fess up’ about the get-together.”

The skin under the seams of my jeans felt dry and inflamed. I couldn’t stop scratching my hip. Macy squinted and asked, “Do you have fleas?”

Lifting my shirt, I showed the girls my chigger rash, above my waistline.

Macy backed her chair away from mine. “Eugh. How did you contract that?”

Patsy answered for me. “Rachael sat in a chigger patch down by the river.”

Katie Lee visually inspected my red marks. “There’s oatmeal soap in the master bath linen shelves. Do you want me to get it for you?”

I locked eyes with Bridget. She barely stirred, enjoying the morning as if this was any ordinary day, not the one where she was going to turn Katie Lee’s world upside down.

“I’m familiar with the master bathroom,” I said. “I’ll find it.”

I TOOK SHOWER NUMBER TWO with an oatmeal bar, and afterwards applied a heavy application of pink calamine lotion. I still itched. After last night’s alcohol consumption, I needed air, the outdoor kind, and trod downstairs with the intention of walking out on the dock while avoiding the chigger-infested grassy bank. Wondering if Nash had returned Big Blue, I heard hushed tones in the family room and froze. “I was drunk,” Bridget whispered. “I don’t even like him.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Katie Lee said.

I didn’t have boyfriend experience, but if I’d been dating the same person since high school, I would’ve reacted with some emotion and made sure Bridget had a reason to visit a chiropractor —- weekly. Maybe Katie Lee intended to break up with Nash and had moved beyond caring. I needed to find out for myself. Clearing my throat, I made a casual entrance and plopped into Dr. Brown’s reading recliner. There weren’t any noticeable signs of distress, boxes of tissues, or one of Dr. Brown’s rifles pointing at Bridget’s head.
Was Katie Lee in shock?
The two stopped the conversation, and I asked, “Are we cool?”

“Yeah, Rach,” Bridget said. “We’re cool.”

“Everything’s okay?”

“As okay as it can be,” Katie Lee said, “Y’all, we need to get ready to go to Jackson’s.”

“Wait a minute. Who’s Jackson?” I asked.

“Jackson’s a great guy,” Katie Lee said. “But I gotta warn ya. He’s a big Deadhead.”

I sunk into Dr. Brown’s chair and pulled the recline lever. “What do ya mean?”

Katie Lee shrugged. “His hobbies are the Grateful Dead and psychedelic experiences.”

Unable to believe Katie Lee was okay with sharing Nash, I asked, “Do we have transportation.”

“Not yet, but Nash’ll be here.”

Weird. She’s taking this well.

“Where is Jackson’s?” Bridget asked.

“Jackson’s apartment is above the Marina Supply Store. Patsy got the clambake invite. He’s expecting all of us this afternoon.”

“Katie Lee,” Bridget said. “Clams aren’t in season.”

“Around here, they’re never out of season.”

NOTE TO SELF

The marshmallow fluff inside Bridget’s head has hardened and cracked. Sleeping with a friend’s boyfriend—-a naughty sex addiction?

Katie Lee took Bridget’s news well. Too well. Is Katie Lee really okay sharing Nash? I won’t be borrowing his service.

20

O
ne
B
ad
C
lam

The
sky was cloudless, and intermittent gusts of warm air tossed my ponytail. I rested in a rocker on the front porch and Katie Lee’s tabby cat wound figure eight’s around my legs. Patsy’s turquoise Chevy Nova streaked up Katie Lee’s driveway. Clive rode in the front, and Mitch in the back. Before she’d cut the engine, Nash coasted Big Blue in behind them. Patsy rolled her window down. “Wanna ride with us to Jackson’s?”

“I’ll grab a sweater and let Katie Lee know.”

Clive fiddled with the cassette case and Mitch hopped out of the back, resting his arm on the roof. “Hey Raz. It’s been awhile.”

Mitch’s hair was wet, and he smelled freshly showered. He held the back door open until I buckled myself in. Despite being considerate and cute, he wasn’t a big enough distraction to ease my mind about Katie Lee’s lackadaisical reaction to what Bridget labeled ‘a sacrifice’. And then there was Nash and Billy Ray who were at odds. I didn’t have a fuzzy feeling about being at a party with those two. I went through the motions of conversation as Patsy drove us across town, but my mind spaced. I needed to get a handle on what was inside Katie Lee’s head. I empathized with her. Under a smokescreen of self-preservation maybe she concealed Bridget’s earlier confession. But tonight, she could very well pop her top. And when she did, I didn’t know if I could guarantee my own self-control. Bridget could be wearing two purple eyes before tonight ended.

In under fifteen minutes, Patsy cruised a quaint street of shops with scalloped awnings over storefronts. Searching for somewhere to parallel park she glided into an unmetered space near the pier.

A brick sidewalk with evenly spaced willow trees framed a dozen shops. Digging deep into her paint-splattered canvas purse, Patsy took her time getting out of the car. When Mitch and Clive spotted a docked Hewes Craft fish-troller, a magnetic force reeled at them to take a closer look.

I leaned against a black street lamp and waited for Patsy. New Bern, with its postcard perfect shops and marina alcove had a Norman Rockwell charm. She found what she’d rummaged for and paused to light a cigarette.

Across the street, a small art gallery nestled on a corner near a restaurant outdoor-patio. The brick exterior was painted periwinkle. Glossy black paint trimmed the display window and the Dutch door. A paper clock hung inside with a hand written note that read,
Be back soon
.

Inside the lights were off, but I could see an eclectic mix of southern inspired paintings, sculpture and pottery. The backlit window display illuminated an oil painting called,
Baptism
, by Clementine Hunter. Patsy offered me a cigarette. I declined. I’d resolved not to smoke until I had a buzz. Pointing to the painting, I told her, “My dad is restoring some of her pieces for a museum in New Orleans.”

“Cool,” Patsy said, more interested in her drag than the art. Happy to lean against the brick exterior, Patsy waited while I read a framed biography that rested on a plate-sized easel.

Clementine Hunter, a self-taught artist specialized in African American folk-art. Born outside of New Orleans in 1886, Hunter was the granddaughter of a slave. Having never learned to read or write, she didn’t sign her paintings but instead overlaid her initials. She chose to paint simple landscapes of early 20th century plantation life, depicted in bright colors on scraps of wood, doors, and even fabric blinds. Once established, she transitioned to canvas as a medium.

I loved her primitive style, the free-whimsy, the layered colors. I couldn’t stop staring at the creativity behind the raw talent. Then it hit me. Halloween. I honed my eyes on the signature. Shadows cast on it, and I wished I was on the other side of the glass. The insignia rested about four inches up from the bottom right, the same as the one I saw in Stewart’s frat loft.
Why did he have a copy of a Clementine Hunter and all those other artists? Could there be a clear explanation?

Stomping out her ciggy, Patsy retrieved it and placed it in a baggie before turning her attention back to the small, unframed painting. “Eight-thousand dollars. Hell, I’ll paint something like that for a quarter of the price.”

“Patsy, painting a work of art isn’t easy. If it were, we’d all be doing it.”

BOAT SLIPS JETTED OUT from the pier, and at the end rested an oasis, the Marina Supply Store. Weathered, wide-plank siding gave the building vintage appeal. A briny film clung to the windows and I could barely see inside. As far as I could tell it was an overpriced 7-Eleven. In addition to selling a vast selection of candy bars, beer and cigarettes, the store also sold fresh and frozen bait.

Beyond the dock, a fishing boat churned a chop. On it’s way out of the harbor, it puttered past Patsy and me. She led the way around the perimeter of the building. Behind the store, there was a set of dumpsters, piled high with cardboard boxes, and a staircase that spiraled up to Jackson’s second story deck where smoke billowed up and out to sea. Halfway up the steep climb I leaned back against the wood rail and strained my eyes in the late afternoon sunlight. A snow-white seagull squawked as he hovered above the tin rooftop where the rest of a flock rested with their beaks facing the wind.

Mitch and Clive and some forty others I didn’t recognize were already inside. The nautical location was killer, an island oasis with a three-hundred-sixty degree view of the water. Jackson’s décor was less astounding, and more of what I’d call beachy-bachelor mix and match. I never knew lobster traps were multifunctional as end tables. An old buoy, rigged with a yellow flashing emergency light added an alternative whimsical touch to one of the corners. Only a guy would have a plaid sofa piled with Mexican blankets instead of cushions. And, only a guy would set up a clambake on a deck just outside his living room.

In the center of the deck, six knee-high, Smokey Joe charcoal grills snaked like a Matchbox track. The foil-lined grill tops heaved with piles of mussels, clams and fish fillets. Plumes of fish smoke wafted through every apartment door and window, permeating my hair and clothes with ode de’clam.

“Where is Jackson?” I asked Patsy. “And does his apartment always smell like this?”

Patsy curled the corners of her mouth. “Jackson’s tall, thin and always has a pinch of Copenhagen under his lip. You met him at Billy Ray’s on your last visit.”

“Pre or post bathtub dew?”

Patsy giggled. “Pre. I introduced you. When I see him, I’ll tell him he should bottle the scent and call it clambake.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Are you going to eat any?”

“The clams are amazing, but don’t open closed shells, or you’ll be hugging the porcelain all night.”

“Who are all these people?”

Patsy pointed at the doorway. “Two of my brothers are over there.” I hadn’t met Patsy’s parents, but from what I saw they carried an extraordinary gene pool. She told me she was the only girl and second youngest of eight.

“Isn’t there a fable about seven brothers with supernatural powers?”

“If the superpowers involve burping and farting, I’ve had seventeen years of practice in survival and self-defense.”

Patsy and I secured spots on the Mexican blanket sofa, and I asked, “Are you and Clive an item?” 

“He hasn’t made a move, and it’s starting to annoy me. I think he’s worried if we fool around, one of my brothers may kick his ass. I can’t wait until next year when I go to university. I’ve got to get away from The Bern.” Without a pause, Patsy asked, “Do you like Mitch?”

“Of course I like Mitch. What’s not to like?”

“Romantically? Because he likes you.”

“Patsy, the age difference flips me out. Besides, I like hanging out with the McCoys too much to screw things up.”

“That’s too bad cause he’s a terrific guy.” Leaning into my ear, she whispered, “My favorite brother.”

I heard familiar voices from outside the open windows before I saw the Grogan girl’s faces. Katie Lee led Macy and Bridget into the apartment. There was a brief delay, and then I spotted Nash, Stewart and two more people I didn’t know beyond the glass slider deck doors. If Katie Lee knew that Bridget slept with Nash, they all were acting very adult about it.

Patsy leaned in. “Looks like the mischief makers have arrived.”

Bridget spotted some guys holding a beer bong and asked, “Can I try?” It was then that I knew I’d misunderstood her conversation with Katie Lee. She hadn’t revealed ‘the favor’ she’d done for Katie Lee. I broke my self-imposed rule of not smoking until I had a buzz, and bummed a lit one from Patsy. Rewinding my memory, I pondered what I’d overheard. Had Bridget confided having sex with someone other than Nash? I inhaled deeper.
Busy night.
It was petty, but it irked me that even Bridget had slept with a guy or two before I had. Not that I wanted to sleep with Nash —- ‘cause I’d stay a virgin if he were my only option.

While demon eyeing Bridget, I exercised my thumb on my beer can pull-tab. She was no southern delicacy. This beer bong connoisseur had a naughty habit of luring her friends’ men into bed. Her competitiveness, especially where Katie Lee was concerned, had to be stopped. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to notice her frenemy tendencies. Her candy-coated, five-foot blonde exterior was a deceitful illusion that hid rancid liquid goo. The game she played didn’t have rules, but I knew one thing: Bridget Bodsworth wasn’t going to win, as long as I was around.

Red nails dangled two frothy cups of beer in my face. “Hold these,” Macy instructed. Resting her backside on the sofa arm next to me, she said, “Stewart Hayes doesn’t know it, but he and I are going to finish what was started last night.” Steadily downing liquid bravery, Macy prepared for a pounce, but she didn’t swallow fast enough. Another cat, with a southern meow moved in. Bridget ran her finger around the rim of her beer cup. “Hey Stewart. Wanna join me in the back room for a game of foosball?”

Macy abruptly stood. “Fucking-A.” She grabbed me by my arm and pried me from my prime viewing spot. Leading me down a hallway, she halted short of a bedroom where Bridget and Stewart had disappeared. “You and I are joining them.”

“Macy, I don’t foos.”

“This’ll be a quick intervention. I just need to send Stewart some signals.”