MONDAY
MOMMA’S LETTER, MONTH ELEVEN
Dakota,
It’s been eleven months since you buried me. Grab a pint of butter pecan and curl up on the sofa with Bucket. Play Dolly’s “Mama” and keep a box of tissues nearby. Go ahead, sweetheart.
I’m serious.
I’ll wait.
Now then, once you’re settled, let’s begin.
When I found out I was having a daughter on my own at forty, I swore two things: First, that I’d still hold my head high at First Baptist every Sunday, and second, that you would never doubt that I was your partner in crime. Me, you, and your aunt: the Green Girls. I never planned for you to be the one taking care of me, and I never wanted to leave you like this. For goodness’ sake, now I’m mostly bald and worn slap-out even on my good days.
I trust you’ve done each of the ten assignments in my previous letters, but those—the starlit campout with Lacy, the fancy dinner with Aunt DeeDee, the ride through the mountains with Bella—those were a nice way to remember your roots. Call upon those good moments, savor them, cause you’re not going to like this month’s request. (But none of this coming to my graveside and cursing me out, you hear?)
Look, I know that by now, financially, things are tight. I’d like to think you’ve gone back to school, but even then, you won’t be able to cover your student loans or those credit card bills you hid from me. If the debt collectors haven’t started calling yet, they’ll be on you soon.
So, here goes. Deep breath—you, not me (sorry, I can’t help myself).
In just a few days, I need you to compete in the Rose Palace Pageant.
I know, I know, but it’s the closest and fastest way for you to get the money you need. With less than a week of effort, you can win enough to keep the house and pay off those pesky student loans and that pile of bills. Then, you can start that new life that I wish for you.
I’m sure this isn’t what you expected me to ask. I know you’ve heard the stories of the disappearing pageant queen, and I realize you’ve never been a fan of that great big house on the edge of town—the turrets and towers have always given me the spooks too. But I went round and round with your Aunt DeeDee about this idea, and she swears on my grave that competing in the pageant is the best way for you to get moneyfast (unless you want to rob the bank downtown). She also promises that she can turn you into a winner.
Inside this envelope you’ll find the completed registration and all fees paid for competition in the Centennial Rose Palace Pageant, and at the top of that form, you’ll see your name.
So, no. This is not a joke. I know it’s been a hard year, but I promise this: All will be well. Especially if you obey your mother. Remember, family matters most.
All my love,
Momma
ONE
One of the best things about working with animals is that they aren’t people. I don’t care who you are, deep down you know people are overrated and not worth all that emotional energy. I bet if you’d asked Mother Teresa—basically the best person ever—whether she’d rather spend a day with a mare or one of those ladies fromReal Housewives, she would’ve chosen the horse.
That’s what I was telling Bella, a brown and white American Paint, before almost turning her around and taking her back out to ride. I’d noticed a pair of arms resting on the side of the corral, and even though I didn’t feel like chatting with another human, those brown arms and that dark head of spiraling curls were as familiar as my own reflection. If any person can be tolerated, I suppose it’s Lacy.
We’d bonded in kindergarten when I got my first pet, a cat that had belonged to one of Momma’s hospice patients. When I’d told the other kids its morbid origins, half my classmates made faces and the other half stopped talking to me. Except for Lacy. She asked what the kitty looked like and how old did I think it was and what had I named it.Bucket, as in “kicked the—”I’d said with a grin. Lacy and I had been best friends ever since, and on this particular day, I knew she had something for me.
“Hey, I brought your next letter,” Lacy called, as I hopped down and closed the gate. Because it was a sunny day with only the slightest breeze, dust and dirt floated up, threatening to coat us both.
I gave her a curt nod, acting like I wasn’t craving the words inside the envelope in her hand. “I’ve still got another hour here.”
Lacy tried to stomp off her Jimmy Choos—I only know the brand because she refers to her shoes like they’re people. We are very different.
“You can spare five minutes,” Lacy drawled, as she examined her heels. “They barely pay you a living wage.”
Circling the paddock, I began Bella’s cool-down and ignored the comment. “What’s the letter say this time?” I called over my shoulder.
Lacy’s mouth hung in faux appall. “How dare you insinuate that I would open something addressed to you.”
I circled back, and she handed over the parcel. My mother’s distinctive scrawl brought a fresh wave of grief, but I blinked against tears and attempted levity. “I’m not insinuating. I’m saying that I know you read them.”
Lacy’s eyes were playful. “Just because the letters from your dead mother have already been opened and retaped when you get them, doesn’t mean I’m a snoop.”
