Hotter than Texas (Pecan Creek) - By Tina Leonard Page 0,5
the beans on the Hotter than Hell Nuts nutjobs. The Entrepreneurial Pillars would launch into a frenzy of self-righteousness that such a loud and obvious thing would exist in their community, and he wanted them to meet the Cassavechias before judging. It wasn’t the fact that they were running an online business that would be unacceptable. It was that they intended to do it in the open, and with a cuss word in their business name. Not only that, Sugar had asked him about the empty billboard on the main road into town. If his mother found out that the main road to Pecan Creek might soon be marked by a Hotter than Hell Nuts advertisement, she’d probably faint. She would do it in an orderly, ladylike fashion, but she’d still hit the ground or at least sink into a soft chair.
The only thing worse than what Sugar was planning would be if Dodie advertised some candy body parts, maybe a sweet pair of white-chocolate breasts and a peppermint-chocolate penis—
“Jake! Are you listening to me?” his mother called after him.
He waved a hand to indicate that he was, though he wasn’t. When the DBA application for the Cassavechias’ business crossed the desk in the county courthouse, the tongues would start wagging. “There’ll be some hot nuts all right, and they’ll be mine,” he said, not too regretfully, and got into his truck. He planned to plead innocent. Innocent but interested. Excited, even.
The Cassavechias had no idea what they were in for, but if he was a good listening ear for Sugar when her business met the certain opposition, maybe he’d wind up with more than just a candy breast.
Since she was given first choice as the youngest, Lucy Cassavechia chose the Belle Watling room because she had a thing about red velvet drapes and gold-tasseled bedding, and the décor of a madam’s bedroom tickled her wild side. “One thing Mrs. Bentley obviously is is a lady of wicked good humor,” Lucy said, sitting cross-legged on the opulent bed. She considered the red diary she’d bought to match Sugar’s accounting journal. Somewhat excited and petrified by their new venture, she and Sugar had each gotten some sort of red book in which to chronicle their move. Knowing Maggie wouldn’t write much, they’d bought a red purse calendar for her notations of the first truly “together” moments they’d had in years. When they’d presented it to Maggie on their way out of Pensacola as a bon voyage gift, Maggie had told them to wake her when they got to Texas, and to screw the journaling.
Lucy opened her diary, the new spine making a cracking sound. My name is Lucy, she wrote, and I’m the voice of reason in the Cassavechia family. Stuck between Kate Hepburn and Shirley MacLaine, my role is to be the red-haired dose of reality. Every family has a tie that binds, and if it wasn’t for me, we’d only get together at Christmas for deli turkey slices.
It’s not that our family didn’t want to be close. Sugar and I are far apart in age—five years—and Mom was always too busy working at the diner and taking in sewing to be a mom. Our father died when I was young; Sugar barely remembers him. Mom remarried, but husband #2 left for destinations unknown in the middle of the night when I was eight. I thought Mom would be upset, but she said “Tough shit”, and that was the extent of her mourning process for husband #2. I can’t even remember his name because she never speaks of him. Military brats know things can change on a dime, and we learn to accept a lot, either with therapy or without.
Sugar went into the military out of high school so she could get a college education. She wanted to be a pilot because that’s what Dad was. When I graduated from high school, I followed Sugar into the military because I had nowhere else to go. I never planned on getting past rank and file, but I wasn’t one of those women who were searching for a hot flyboy, either.
Lucy glanced around her new room, chewed her pen for a moment and continued writing. You know what I want out of life? I want to fit in somewhere. I’m not like Sugar, who can make something beautiful out of curtains a la Scarlett O’Hara, curtains being figurative. I’m not like Maggie, who’d be your garden-variety Belle in Gone with the Wind—I