called ‘Miss My Baby,’ and he records a cover of ‘Carolina on My Mind,’ and the record company grudgingly accepts ‘Parmatown Blues.’ But that isn’t enough. Wayne gets arrested for buying cocaine on Sunset Boulevard. Roy’s mother is diagnosed with brain cancer. The band breaks up. Brett keeps the rights to the two songs he wrote and finds a different record exec, one somewhat less reputable than John Zubow, who agrees to release ‘Golden Girl’ as a single with ‘Miss My Baby’ as a B-side. It has…modest success. ‘Golden Girl’ hits number thirty-seven on the top forty in February of 1988 for one week.”
“That’s it?” Vivi says. “Number thirty-seven for one week?”
“Kid Leo plays it on WMMS as a favor to his brother-in-law, who works with Brett’s father. Brett’s a local kid, Cleveland is a rock-and-roll town, Kid Leo genuinely likes the song, but even playing it as often as he does, the song doesn’t gain much national traction, so it never gets any higher than thirty-seven.”
“Then what happens?” Vivi asks.
“Brett moves to Las Vegas,” Martha says. “He plays on the Strip, sings ‘Golden Girl’ and some cover tunes. He develops a gambling problem.”
“Seriously?” Vivi says.
“He marries a blackjack dealer named Sonja. They have two kids, they get divorced, there’s an ugly custody battle, Sonja takes the kids to New Jersey. Atlantic City. She’s still a blackjack dealer.” Martha opens her eyes. “And Brett stays in Vegas. If you hadn’t told the lie about being pregnant, he would be living there still.”
“Instead, he lives in Knoxville.”
“Yes,” Martha says. “And ‘Golden Girl’ is the number-one song on iTunes.”
“So maybe my lying about being pregnant was a good thing for Brett!” Vivi says. “He had to wait three decades, but he made it to number one instead of stalling out at thirty-seven. Maybe this was the way things were supposed to work out.”
Martha pushes herself up from the chair. “I think you’re finally starting to get it, Vivian,” she says.
Willa
She keeps the red lace thong stuffed deep in her purse. It’s the same brand of underwear that Carson wears and, more damning, it has that hole in the back where the tag is supposed to be. Carson’s skin is sensitive (she can’t handle even a thin bit of tag remaining along the seam) and Carson is careless, so to avoid irritation to her precious backside, she cuts a hole in a twenty-two-dollar lace thong. It’s the kind of intimate detail you know only about your sister.
It’s Carson’s thong; Willa is sure of it.
But what was it doing in Zach’s pants pocket? Are Zach and Carson having an affair? The thought is…outrageous, nearly laughable.
Or is it?
When Willa told Carson that Pamela thought Zach was having an affair, how had Carson reacted? What had she said?
He doesn’t seem like the cheating type, does he?
Willa thinks about this. Was Carson trying to cast doubt on Pamela’s suspicions? To downplay them, dismiss them?
Next Carson said, Does she think she knows who it is? Not, notably, Does she know who it is? Is this distinction telling?
Then Willa remembers that Rip told Willa a few weeks earlier that Pamela saw Carson’s Jeep parked at the abandoned horse barn across the street from the Bridgemans’ house. Pamela told Rip she thought Carson was there to meet her drug dealer.
Willa had been annoyed by Pamela’s low opinion of Carson, even though she, too, thought it was likely Carson was there to meet her drug dealer.
Carson had not been there to meet her drug dealer, Willa thinks now. The red lace thong with the hole where the tag should be is Carson’s, and the thong was in Zach’s pants pocket, and Carson was lurking across the street from the Bridgemans’ house because she and Zach are having an affair.
Willa shoots Carson a text: Are you working tonight?
Carson responds: No.
Willa says: Rip is golfing after work with Mr. B. Want to come to Smith’s Point for dinner? I’ll get Millie’s takeout.
Carson says: Sure. Please order me the Caesar with grilled shrimp and chips with queso.
Willa says: Great. See you at 7.
Carson shows up on time, which is very unlike her, and she seems serene, but in a natural way and not a stoned-out-of-her-mind way. She has brought Willa a bouquet of flowers from Bartlett’s Farm—purple and white cosmos, Willa’s favorite—and a thermos of iced tea.
“Mom still has all this mint growing in her herb garden,” Carson says. “So I tried making her tea.”
“I’ll have some with dinner,” Willa says. She has already