Queen Bee (Lowcountry Tales #12)(62)

We chugged slowly along Middle Street as we tried to take the golf cart home. The battery was dying.

“As soon as we get home, I’ll put it on the charger,” Tyler said, sounding very much like an adult.

“You are such a good helper, Tyler!” I said.

“I’m a good helper, too,” Hunter said.

“Of course you are, sweetheart!”

It was somewhere around five o’clock. Archie and Sharon’s cars were in the drive. I was carrying leftover cake and surplus plates and napkins over to our house. Sharon met the boys on the porch.

I heard her say, “Dinner is at five o’clock. You know that. It’s five thirty. The kitchen is closed. Sorry. There will be no dinner for either one of you.”

“But we can’t tell time!” Tyler wailed.

“Then I suggest you learn how.”

She had to be the worst woman in the whole entire world to step into Carin’s shoes. What in the name of everything holy did Archie see in her? I went inside and called Domino’s, paid for a pizza with my credit card, and told them to deliver it anonymously to Tyler. It was really my fault that they were late. I didn’t know about the dinner rule. But a pizza would send a strong message.

I waited and watched. Fortunately, it was Archie who opened the door when Domino’s arrived. He took the pizza and went inside. I wondered then if he knew it was from me. He was so dense these days, he probably thought it was a gift from the heavens, like manna.

Next Thursday couldn’t get here fast enough. But Sunday came first, and that meant Leslie’s return. She came rolling in around four in the afternoon. Momma and I were in the kitchen, drinking tea and waiting for her.

“So? How was it?” I asked.

“It was insane, just as you’d expect. Charlie won a special award for emerging talent. A thousand dollars and a trophy. He had a ball. I was completely overwhelmed by the spectacle of the whole thing.”

“A little more detail would be nice,” Momma said, in her more caustic voice, because she had been starved of Leslie’s company for a few days.

“Well, let’s put it this way. If you went to a bar with impersonators on the outskirts of Charleston, you’d have one level of costume. You know, a nice gown but maybe the wig might be of a type that is natural hair, trying to pass for Ann-Margret when she was young.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Momma said.

“But when you go to Las Vegas, the ladies there have on extraordinary wigs, eyelashes so long and thick they’re like awnings, glitter in their makeup and on their bodies, gorgeous gowns like they wore in the old days of Hollywood, and so much jewelry it borders on garish. They’ve got huge attitude that’s regal but naughty and sassy at the same time. And most of them have hilariously funny personalities. I think quite a few of them started out doing stand-up and for one reason or another, they graduated to impersonators who also do stand-up.”

“Did you take pictures?” Momma said.

“Of course!” Leslie said.

“Let’s see,” Momma said.

Leslie clicked around on her phone and then slid it over to Momma. I got up and stood behind her so I could see them, too.

“You were not exaggerating,” I said.

“No, she did not stretch the truth,” Momma said.

From one to the next, the ladies were stunningly beautiful, and you could not tell they weren’t women. Then we came to the pictures of Charlie. He paled by comparison in terms of hair, wardrobe, and accessories. Momma sat back and considered his pictures for a moment or two, and then she scrolled back to the others.

“I used to sew, you know. In fact, you know I always wanted to be a pattern maker.”

I had forgotten that, but it was true. When Leslie and I were little, Momma had at least three Singer sewing machines, always trading up. But what was she saying? Was she offering to sew for Charlie?

Then she scrolled back to the other female impersonators.

“Looks like Charlie’s wearing a prom dress next to those other ladies,” she said. “I can’t stand by and let him look like that. He’ll never get anywhere if that’s what the competition looks like.”

“What do you mean?” Leslie said.

“I mean, I could probably make a few gowns for him every so often when he’s got a new show coming up. It might be fun, and he’ll certainly be no more worse off than he is in this getup. What do you think?”

“You mean you’d come to Las Vegas and stay with us and do this?” Leslie said.

I was just trying to keep my jaw off the floor.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. I wouldn’t be moving in with you permanently, but I couldn’t really do this for him from this island, now could I? And we need to find him a wig maker. Farrah Fawcett he isn’t, with all those wings and wisps. He looks like a refugee from the 1980s.”

Okay, it wasn’t lost on me that my mother now fancied herself to be a fashion maven. And she expected us to believe her.

Leslie did.

“Oh, Momma! That would be so wonderful! Charlie will be so thrilled! The thing is, the gowns have to be custom! Oh! I can’t wait to tell him!”

She ran from the room to call him.

“Let me get this straight. You’re going to get on a plane and fly to Las Vegas and live with Leslie while you sew for Charlie.”