“Britt.” She stared somberly into her face. Like someone about to issue a blood vow.
Britt was alarmed. “What?” she asked on a hush. “What is it?”
Casey hesitated for strategic effect.
“We are going to get drunk.”
“Come again?”
“You’re coming over to my house tonight, I’m going to make margaritas, and we’re going to get drunk, because that’s what you need.”
“Listen to her, Britt,” Sherrie said, whizzing by to fetch back to the kitchen another order Britt got wrong.
Ah, hell. They were probably right.
Alcohol wouldn’t kill her feelings for J. T. stone-cold dead. But it might give her a merciful reprieve from them. There would be plenty of time to feel terrible later.
Giorgio was glowering at her. She mouthed “sorry” at him.
He shook his head to and fro mournfully. As if he’d known from the moment John Tennessee McCord walked into the Misty Cat that his flawless grill coordination, the poetry of his days, would be shattered.
CHAPTER21
Like any responsible citizen who planned to get drunk on a weeknight, Britt took the bus as close as she could get to Casey’s house. To add insult to injury, she was required to sit on the bus bench featuring Rebecca Corday trailing a scarf from her flawlessly manicured fingertips. But it really enhanced her drinking mood.
She brought the now fully recovered coleus plant with her. She knew, somehow, that Casey would take good care of it. She would at least make sure that the leaves were regularly trimmed.
Britt hadn’t drunk a little too much with a girlfriend in ages.
She wondered if she’d lost her knack.
Casey’s house was a white cottage about twice the size of Britt’s house. Its green shutters matched the tidy lawn, which, like the shrubs, was clipped ruthlessly short, as befitted the yard of a hairstylist and waxer.
She nearly crashed into a long tubular wind chime dangling from the front porch and rang the bell.
Which only made her think of J. T., who had nearly been brained by one at the Angel’s Nest.
She could hear the promising sound of a blender through the door.
She waited it out. Then rang again.
Casey flung the door open. A big pitcher of something frothy and pink was in her hand and a shaggy yellow dog panted knee-level.
“I’m so glad you came, Britt! I thought we’d go sit in here. My roommate is working tonight so we have the place to ourselves.”
“Oh, good! I... I brought you a plant, Casey.”
Casey beamed and scooped it into the crook of her free arm.
“Gosh, that is awfully sweet of you, Britt. It’s beautiful! Let’s just bring it in here with us. It’ll like the kind of light we get in the kitchen.”
She led Britt through a hall painted a very stylish glossy orange. The walls were decorated with framed inspirational messages in striking modern fonts: “Imagine”; “An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind”; “Give Peace a Chance.” She suspected they were more aspirations than credos, given Casey’s own mythology.
Her living room was clean lined and tidy and contemporary and bright, and she’d managed to blend turquoise and orange in her upholstery and accessories in a way that didn’t singe Britt’s corneas.
She settled at the vintage blue retro Formica table in the kitchen while Casey pulled down glasses the size of goldfish bowls and poured the drinks.
They sat for a moment of shy silence, sipping. Britt had forgotten how delicious margaritas were. They’d sucked half of their glasses down before anyone spoke.
