“You look tough,” Luisa calls out as she returns to the room, her voice filled with awe.
“Ifeeltough,” I say, grateful for the distraction from my phone. I want to be bold, an emotional risk-taker. But I also don’t want to be the woman who stares at a string of texts, waiting for a reply.
So instead, I stand to take in the full effect of my ensemble: full-length leather jacket, tight white blouse, black boots, and bright red scarf taut around my neck. My hair falls spiky around my cheeks, which somehow manage to look not round and cute, as they typically do, but chiseled and tough, under the bold liquid rouge Carola applied.
I wanted for the staff to be in costume, but also to wear something that could feel like a sort-of armor against the roving eyes, the subtly and not-so-subtly offensive comments, and the exhaustion that typically come with the Midnight Society Costume Ball. I think I’ve succeeded.
Carola, Dolores, and Abuela Fela applaud as I spin, and then they drift away to the reception area, where real clients are beginning to gather, since their salon opens for business in five minutes.
“How can wenottake those assholes down tonight,” I say, “looking like this.”
“I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” Luisa adds, her voice wistful.
I walk over to her, loving the feel of heavy leather swishing around my ankles. “So what’s your next step?” I ask her. “Once you get the scoop of the century in Atlanta’s business-news world and take down the bad guys.”
“I’m gonna get my fucking job back,” Luisa says, her tone defiant.
“And that’s what you want?” I ask, unsure of how to articulate my real question, which I think is whether all that we’ve been through together has changed her. Because, glancing back at my fiery self in the salon’s full-length mirror, I know it’s changed me.
“It’s what I’ve always wanted,” Luisa responds without hesitation.
“What about the lonely apartment? The long work hours? The dying plants, and all the late-night takeout?” I dare to ask. “Is that the life you want to go back to?”
Luisa sighs, her shoulders falling with a long exhale. “I know that I struggle with the whole work-life balance or whatever,” she begins, surprisingly self-aware. “But I also love the work. And I’m really good at it. So I’m not ready to give it up.” She stands up, slips on her own leather coat. “Why can’t I have it all? There has to be some way to make it all work. Right?”
I think of my own path, motherhood and work, and trying to juggle those responsibilities with—well, life. Sure, I’ve made sacrifices, and I’ve set more than a few dreams aside. But I’ve also built a stable, loving community for Aidan, surrounding him with care. I’ve learned how to rely on people when I need them and also to let people rely on me. I hope I’ve shown Aidan, through my example, that—when it comes down to it—this is what makes life beautiful.
Letting her question linger in the air between us, I reach for Luisa’s red scarf and offer to tie it around her. She stands facingme and I slip the silk fabric around the back of her neck. It dawns on me, suddenly, that Luisa has become one of those people—someone I trust, someone I know I can rely on to get through hard times. I think she trusts me, too.
“If anyone can find a way to make it work,” I say, pulling the ends of her scarf together, “you can.” Luisa is more determined than anyone I know, and if she sets a goal for herself, she’ll find a way to achieve it, come hell or high water.
She inches her chin up so I can knot the fabric over her throat. I finish the double knot, and then she turns to stand beside me. We stare at our reflections in the mirror.
“All right, Jade Jackal,” I say, playfully bumping into her shoulder. “Let’s do this.”
“Yessssss,” she replies, bumping me back. “Let’s go kick some ass, Honey Badger.”
CHAPTER 31Luisa
The Dogwood Hills ballroom doors open to the all-male members of the Midnight Society, along with their wives and girlfriends, decked out in a blitz of over-the-top, Y’allywood-inspired costumes.
My eyes scavenge the crowd, hunting for Eli and his Wonder Bread racing fire suit.Is he here yet?Griggs invited him to his Tuxedo Park mansion for a pregame drink, where Tripp would confide that he’s getting pressured from his dad to put his trust fund to work, then ask Griggs for investment advice, guidance on tax shelters and offshore accounts.
As I scan the room, I spot multiple versions of Elvis and also Dolly Parton, Forrest Gump, Ray Charles, Truman Capote, Loretta Lynn, at least a half dozen women dressed in cutoffs with their ass cheeks hanging out—I’m thinking probably Daisy Duke fromThe Dukes of Hazzard—and that one guy fromSmokey and the Bandit. I also detect a couple in an elaborate Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler period belle gown and suit. Guess they didn’t get the whole slavery whitewashing memo.
Everyone seems genuinely awed by the way Holly has transformed this musty club into a fabulous event space—from the massive overheadY’ALLYWOODsign to the life-size cardboard cuttings of paparazzi; from the flashing camera lights to the red carpet lined with gold posts.
“They may be stuffy high-society muckety-mucks,” Holly mutters beside me, “but this is when they get to let their hair down and play dress-up.”
“So it’s like a debauchery party,” I reply, dropping the brim ofmy hat to cover more of my face. Chip, my former publisher, is on the guest list, and I’m relying on the uniform Holly designed to keep him from recognizing me. I devised a whole plan for slipping some extra-strength laxative into his drink, but Holly put the kibosh on it, arguing that we shouldn’t add any unnecessary crimes to our rap sheet. I begrudgingly agreed.
“More like debauchery adjacent,” Holly mumbles back through a wide smile. “The women ensure their men keep some semblance of restraint. I’ve heard their other parties—the ones without wives and dates—are truly obscene.”
“As in—”
“I’m gonna spare you the details,” she interrupts. “It’s the sort of thing you can’t un-know, and I really wish I could.”
I nod, strangely grateful for her discretion.
