“What? We had nothing to steal.”
“Zuri, stay here.”
“I—”
“You’re staying put, chil’.” She patted my thigh. “Toys were left. A little clothing. Peaches gone take you shopping.”
“But—”
“It ain’t coming out your paycheck. You’re doing me a favor.Chère, I put you on a platter with some rosemary—just like my sister loves, coz she was complaining. I hadn’t gone shopping with her in a while.” Virginia chuckled softly. “Genèse took Darius to buy a few things.”
“Really?”
“My niece might not be the nicest. Thebébé’scompetitive streak still going strong after she married! Loves the little ones, though. Anyway, she got him a few items. Nothing much.”Ah, code for the girl hadn’t showed me up. “I gave him a few of Elijah’s clothes. Maddy never stopped buying formonangel.”
“Thanks.” My appreciation came out a scarce whisper.
Virginia put the old, crinkly-edged album in my lap. It smelled of faint lemon cleaner.
She opened to the middle, where a CD cover sat behind a plastic sleeve.
“Padon,” she said, “wrong book.”
“Southern Silk,” I murmured. Two women stood back-to-back on the cover, their smiles coy enough to start rumors. Jheri curls fell across the thickest eyebrows and over earth-toned eyeshadow. Their shoulders glistened, a brown sugar glow as they clutched microphones.
The background paid homage to the late ’80s. Purple sunset. Gold shimmery bold cursive—Southern Silk. Just not as bold as the women.
I threw my head back, wheezing a laugh. “Miss Virginia, you were more famous than Big Country!”
She cut her eyes at me, lips twitching to hide a smile. “Pff. Famous?Maybe—if youcountSoul Train. Butthatname. Non, non!”
I felt the same twist in my gut—what it represented. Superiority and … and … glimpses of the Montana I cared for clouded my mental dig. “That’s Peaches? You look ready to out-sing Anita Baker.”
Nostalgia softened her eyes. “Might’ve been too cute, chère.One night”—her chin lifted, proud and playful—“weshantéback up for Anita herself.”
“Wow. So, is Peaches’ real name, Georgia?” I asked since Virginia’s name was a state and so were her sons.
“Winner, winner chicken pot pie!” Virginia sounded like she’d just won a domino game.
Yuck. I tried to sound intrigued, but she gave me a Creole clapback. “You haven’t had my chicken pot pie, Zuri.”
I scrambled to figure out how to fix things with her son. “Does Montana like it? Does he have a favorite dish …”that tastes better?I cleared my throat.
“Smart—real smart! You plan to conquer him with food? We can save leaking blackmail baby photos”—she winked—“for another time.Chère, I got images that’ll make the boy hide in the bayou.”
Oh,the ammo! “Hmmm, let’s save those. His anger is justified.” In short order, I shared every detail. Embarrassing Montana, muddying Washington’s squeaky-clean image, bringing her worst days to light.
I finished the story and waited for her to send us packing. Virginia chuckled, bumping her shoulder against mine. “We’ll practice his favorite dish tomorrow.”
I studied her. Was this woman real? I thanked her, and we sat together for a little while longer.
In bed again, my mind wandered to Montana. I lay there, craving his nonsense. His friendship. His macho “Big Countrydominates women in the bed every night, butI’ma softy on Sundays.”
Cute, until my brain hit rewind, and I fell into OG trauma. That night in New York, when I murdered a man in my apartment.
montana
. . .
