For all I know, they’re alternates on her itinerary. Because, let’s be real. This is Lucy. Her plans definitely include comprehensive backup options.
She’s proven it time and again in the office, saving my ass on multiple occasions.
We’re nearing the edge of town when I see a small sign on the side of the road for Redd’s BBQ Barn.
“How do you feel about barbecue?” I ask.
Lucy looks down at her shirt and scrunches up her face. “It’s messy.”
“Messy is good. And if you get sauce on your shirt, you can always take it off.” I wink at her. “I assure you, I won’t complain.”
She huffs out a laugh and waves a hand. It’s as close to agreement as I’m going to get.
We follow the signs for Redd’s, which take us down a winding sideroad. To her credit, Lucy doesn’t complain when we leave Route 66—and her carefully planned itinerary—behind.
Ten minutes later, when we finally pull up to Redd’s, Lucy’s mouth drops open.
I can’t blame her. Even I’m questioning my decision-making skills.
The restaurant is less barn and more shanty.
“No way.” Lucy rolls down her window as if it’ll improve the sight before us. “I’ll bet they don’t even have running water. Look at that place!”
Oh, I’m looking all right. The tiny shack stands at a slant, and the roof sags dangerously low, but the picnic tables are clean enough, and the welcoming scent of hickory wafts from the smoker.
“It’s creepy AF.”
“It’s not so bad,” I argue. “It just needs a coat of paint.”
She snort-laughs. “What it needs is a health inspection.”
“What are you talking about? You’re a native Texan. This can’t be the first time you’ve stopped for barbecue at a sketchy-looking pit.”
She shoots me an incredulous look. “Were you even listening to that story about my parents?”
Fair enough.
“Trust me. The less emphasis they put on the facade, the better the barbecue.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
I throw the Jeep in park, and we climb out. Lucy trails me to the barn, which has an open service window facing the road.
“For the record, if I end up roasting on a spit,” she says, “my ghost will haunt you until the end of time.”
A quiet laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Duly noted.”
A middle-aged couple peers out through the front window as we approach. They’re both wearing red-and-white checkered shirts and wide smiles.
“Welcome to Redd’s,” the man says, resting his meaty palms on the edge of the counter. “We don’t get a lot of strangers in these parts.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Lucy whispers, poking me in the back.
I reach around and grab her hand, dragging her forward to stand next to me.
“What’s the house specialty?” If we’re doing this, we might as well do it right.
“The Big Redd Stack,” the woman offers, pointing to a picture tacked up above her head. “It’s our bestseller. You got a soft white bun with chopped brisket, jalapeño sausage bits, our homemade barbecue sauce, pickles, slaw, onions, and secret sauce.”
