Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Now they were cruising away from Ramona’s house with Garden Gate’s new album blasting.
They drove past the Lafayette No. 1 cemetery, and Greta felt herself flush at the memory of her encounter with Carys, and past Camilla’s house, where she’d spent a lovely morning with the Garden Gang. At a stop sign, Greta thought she recognized a house.
“Wait, hold on, is that…” She checked her text thread with Truman, looking for the picture he’d sent weeks ago. “Ramona. That’s Truman’s shitty ex’s house, right?”
“Yup. Bastard.”
Greta thought of Truman—sweet Truman whose biggest regret about Guy had been that he hadn’t exposed his cheating to Guy’s partner. Truman, who had told her that he wished she’d go kick Guy’s ass since he couldn’t do it. She burned with an audacious desire for justice.
“Hang on. I gotta do something.” Greta unbuckled her seat belt.
“What are you… Gasp! Greta Russakoff, you are not.”
Greta raised an eyebrow. “Watch me.”
“Omigod, yesssss!”
Greta stalked up the sidewalk to the house on the corner, primly decorated with white lights and a tasteful fir wreath on the front door. She felt like she was made of lightning, like at any moment she’d be blasted off the ground with the sheer energy of her conviction.
The doorbell chimed an echoey tune, and she heard footsteps.
“Oh shit, oh shit, ohshit,” she muttered under her breath. It took every ounce of strength to plant her feet and not run back to Ramona’s car.
A handsome man opened the door and smiled quizzically.
“Can I help you?”
“Um, are you Guy?”
“Nope, that’s my husband. Want me to get him?”
“No. I need to tell you that your husband is a lying, cheating sleaze. I’m so sorry, because I know this is an awful thing to hear, but I wanted you to know.”
The man’s face went tight and his eyes narrowed. It was not the face of someone shocked at hearing unexpected news but of someone getting confirmation of something suspected or feared.
“Who’s there, honey?” a voice called, and then Guy appeared.
“I’m a friend of Truman’s, you scuzzbucket,” Greta said.
The man’s face was a mask of calm. “Who?”
It was chilling.
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I’m really sorry you’re married to a dick, but I’m sure you can do better. Your feelings are important, and you don’t have to put up with garbage!”
Greta’s heart was pounding, and she knew she sounded ridiculous, but she didn’t care.
“Happy Chanukah!” she yelled, and then she ran down the path and threw herself back in Ramona’s car.
Ramona’s eyes were wide and she was grinning hugely.
“Daaaaaaaamn, that was amazing!”
“Drive!”
Ramona peeled out of a stop and headed for the highway. With the windows down and Garden Gate blasting, Greta had never felt more alive.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Ramona said. “That was so deeply unlike you, and I fucking loved it!”
“He deserved to know his husband’s a piece of shit, and that asshat doesn’t deserve to get away with breaking everyone’s heart! Truman told me his biggest regret was that he hadn’t told Guy’s husband. Now he knows.”
Conviction, adrenaline, and shock at herself all mixed together, and Greta grinned at Ramona.
She leaned toward the open window and yelled, “Happy Chanukah, New Orleans!” out the window as they turned onto Washington Avenue.
“Okay, okay, not the place anymore,” Ramona said, rolling up the windows as people turned, trying to figure out if they should be offended by whatever had been yelled at them. “Careful your enthusiasm for righting wrongs doesn’t turn you into a total asshole.”
Greta smiled. “I’ll remember that,” she said.
A Message from Ramona
RAMONA to GREAT!A RUSSAKOFF
You got this, dude. No matter what they say, you know you’re doing the right thing! Text me from the airport and I’ll pick you up.
Chapter 27
Greta
Greta had kept her conviction through the flight, the ride from the airport, and the ferry. But when she stepped onto Owl Island, malaise dropped over her like a fog. This place trapped her, like a heroine in some gothic novel.
She hadn’t told her family she was coming, preferring the element of surprise. Even though she’d only been gone for three weeks, it felt like everything had changed.
Now, when she walked through the slush on the uneven sidewalks of Owl Island, she compared them to the cracked sidewalks of New Orleans, with inset metal circles that had symbols carved into them.
Now, when she saw lights coming from the windows of houses she’d walked past a million times, she thought of the doors of restaurants in New Orleans, thrown open to the warmth of the day; of upper balconies spilling fragrant bougainvillea and jasmine and music into the night; of secret gardens and sagging porches and a purple sky over a brown-gray river that never stopped moving.
When she got to number 103 Mockingbird Lane, her heart was in her throat. Familiar silver-and-blue tinsel bedecked the trees outside her parents’ house, and a blue foil star garland outlined the front door. On the windows were the peel-and-stick decals of dreidels, menorahs, and Stars of David that her father had brought home years ago so she and her sisters could decorate—and, more importantly, redecorate—as many times as they wanted.