It was a gorgeous Friday night in late August: the opening of the Oyster Days festivities. Preparations for the parade and street dance and charity auction had been under way for weeks. In years past, Vivi Ann would have been knee-deep in all of it; this year, though, she’d made one excuse after another until this morning Aurora had come over and taken her hand and led her to the truck, saying simply, “Enough.”
So Vivi Ann was on Main Street with her sisters, going over the final details. There were people everywhere, hanging banners, putting up signs, setting up booths, and the police were beginning to block off various streets for Sunday’s parade. Down at the end of the street, the band was warming up. “Testing one, two, three . . .” rang through the darkness.
Vivi Ann had done it all a hundred times, and yet tonight it grated on her, irritated her. The band was too loud, the to-do list too long, and Winona was watching her every move like a lioness on the hunt in tall grass.
“What?” Vivi Ann finally snapped at her.
“You’re a little testy today,” Winona said. “Luke says you never want to talk about the wedding. Why is that?”
“Why do we always have to talk about Luke?” Vivi Ann said. “I’m sick to death of wedding plans and I’m sick of your constant nagging. Go find yourself a damn boyfriend and leave mine the hell alone.”
“Maybe you’re the one who should leave Luke alone.”
Aurora was between them in an instant, the referee. “We’re in public, you two.”
“But Vivi Ann loves to be the center of attention, don’t you, Vivi?” Winona said.
Vivi Ann couldn’t take this crap now. “Look, Win—”
“No, you look. You just take and take and take, and you don’t think about anyone else, do you? You don’t care about anyone except yourself.”
“Winona, don’t,” Aurora warned.
“Don’t what? Don’t tell Miss Pearl Princess the hard truth?” Winona looked at her. “You’re spoiled and you’re selfish and you’re going to break Luke’s heart and you don’t even care. And then he won’t be able to love anyone else, because you’ll always be there first.” On that, Winona turned on her heel and shoved her way into the crowd, disappearing.
The accuracy of Winona’s attack left Vivi Ann shaken. “She’s right,” was all she could say when it was over. She felt sick to her stomach; ashamed and afraid.
“I know she didn’t mean all that. I’ll go talk to her.”
Vivi Ann knew she should go with Aurora, find Winona and work this out, but God help her, when Aurora said, “We’ll meet you at the street dance,” Vivi Ann thought of Dallas.
She knew where he would be. He spent his Friday and Saturday nights at Cat’s. Everyone in town knew that. The gossip was that he played a mean game of poker, and that he outdrank every man there.
“You should go to the street dance,” she said aloud after Aurora had left. But she couldn’t follow her own advice. The need for him was a fire in her blood. She started walking toward the waterfront, trying to keep in the shadows. Fortunately there was so much going on in town that no one seemed to notice her.
At the end of the alley, Cat Morgan’s house sat like a drunken old man on the edge of the sea, leaning and haggard-looking. The porch was askew, the windows still duct-taped. But she could see the party going on inside; shadowy people danced in front of the open windows. Music—AC/DC or maybe Aerosmith, something with a thudding beat—pulsed so loudly she could hardly hear the waves slapping at the bulkhead.
Vivi Ann had never in all her life gone up to the front door of this house. There were two kinds of people in Oyster Shores: those who went to church on Sundays and those who partied with Cat Morgan. This house was off-limits to people who cared about their reputation. From the moment Cat had first come to town about ten years ago, she’d carved out this place for herself on the fringes of respectable life. Everyone knew she hosted parties with booze, sex, and drugs, but she paid her taxes and stayed where she belonged: in the dark. Mothers used her as a cautionary tale with their impressionable daughters. Watch out for boys and booze or you’ll end up like Cat Morgan.
Steeling herself, Vivi Ann crossed the uneven, scrubby patch of lawn and went up to the front door.
“Tell me that ain’t Vivi Ann Grey comin’ up my steps.”
The shadows on the porch were so thick that it took Vivi Ann a moment to make out who had spoken. Then she caught a glimpse of fake reddish hair.
Cat stood in the corner of the porch, smoking a cigarette. Dressed in tight black jeans and a tuxedo jacket cinched at the waist with a glittering silver belt, she looked like she belonged on an Urban Cowboy soundstage. Shadows accentuated the lines on her face. Vivi Ann had no idea how old she was—maybe forty?
“I’m . . . uh . . . looking for Dallas Raintree. He works for me. We have a sick horse.”
“Sick horse, huh?” Cat took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled smoke. “I think you’d need a vet for that.”
“Would you mind getting him for me? I’m in kind of a hurry.”
Cat eyed her for a long moment, then finished her cigarette and put it out. “I’ll tell Dallas about the sick horse. I’m sure he’ll come a-runnin’. That man has a soft streak for animals.”
Vivi Ann thanked Cat and walked back through town to her truck, then drove home and parked deep in the trees by his cabin.
In Dallas’s bedroom, she stripped out of her clothes and climbed into bed, waiting impatiently.