On the way home,Maggie put her head back against the seat and let the wind take her hair while Sam Cooke crooned “You Send Me.” She sang the words in her head and remembered being a little girl when her mother sang the song.
Because they were friends, she told Brick about the memory, and he smiled and shared one of his own.
When he pulled into the driveway, they both glanced up to the apartment and instantly saw Jo Ellen move from the window.
“She’s waiting for you,” he said on a laugh.
“She always did, after every date I ever went on in college.”
“Can I come up and give her a hug for being such a good friend to you?” he asked.
“Oh, please, make her day. Come on.”
Jo Ellen was on the couch in her flamingo robe, with the late news on at low volume and her evening herbal tea steaming from a mug.
“Oh, you’re home, hi, you’re home, hello,” she stuttered as they walked in.
“Do not pretend,” Maggie said.
“I was watching TV.”
“You were lying in wait.”
Brick stepped in behind Maggie, ducking his head slightly under the doorframe, and Jo Ellen lit up like a slot machine.
“Oh, hello, Brick!”
“Hey, Jo.”
She was up in a flash. “Come here, come sit down. I’ll get you something cold. A beer?”
“We don’t have beer, Jo.”
“Well, we should.”
“Just a water,” Brick said, easing into one of the chairs and looking around. “This place is perfect for you two.”
“We love it,” Jo Ellen cooed, then glanced at the TV. “But I hope it doesn’t blow away in this storm.”
“Any update?” Brick asked, getting comfortable.
“It’s a category two now, officially in the Gulf, with all manner of spaghetti noodles as possible directions.”
“Do you have evacuation plans?” he asked.
“Eli will,” Maggie said. “My son will get us out to a hotel, I imagine.” She made a face. “Not one I’ll like, I’m sure.”
“Hotel, schmotel,” Brick said. “You two should come back to Gator Jack’s.”
“Oh!” Jo Ellen brightened at the memory of the quintessential dive bar where they’d stayed overnight when the truck they’d been driving broke down. “What a wonderful night we had there! Remember the jukebox and that sweet bartender with pink hair, Mags?”
“Charlene,” Brick said. “She texted Angel and said she’s open for a hurricane party. All-nighter, dancing, drinking, hunkerin’ down. She’ll cook for forty. They got generators for days, full shutters, and it’s inland enough to be safe. Spend the storm with us there.”
Maggie opened her mouth to tell him that was purely preposterous, but Jo Ellen clapped like a three-year-old who’d been offered ice cream.
“Oh, yes! Mags, we have to. We absolutely have to.”
“We absolutely do not have to and will not, so let it go, Jo Ellen. There will be no hurricane party at Gator Jack’s.”
