That Rex Gotta Roar - Julia Mills Page 0,3
Birdies in between were scared right out of their tail feathers, she whooped, "That's it, isn't it? You don't want to have a spread in some stupid craft mag or home decorating rag. You're doin' this whole cockamamy Halloween thingy to get closer to your man. To work up your nerve. To make your move."
Laughing with a renewed gusto, my longtime friend and mentor, the woman I thought of as a surrogate auntie with a foul mouth who smoked too much and drank like a fish, hooped and hollered, "Yes! It finally happened!" Yelling over the receiver at her assistant, Cora shrieked, "Get the champagne, Eleanor, and send a case to Clem in that Goddess-forsaken Swamp! Not only has our girl located her Mate, but she’s in love!”
“Cora. Cora, stop. Cora, are you listening? Please stop. I don’t want…”
But she wasn't listening. And she wasn't about to stop. Not even a little bit. Cora C. Crankenbush, the pushiest Crane to ever strut down Park Avenue in four-inch stilettos wearing a faux fur jacket, was making plans. Plans that made a chill run down my spine and had my palms sweating like I was back in the third grade playing a tree in the school's production of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.
"Get me a flight or a car, a horse-drawn buggy, whatever I need to make my way to that Goddess-forsaken Swamp in Tallulu Parish. We have to get down there like yesterday. We can't let Clem screw this up. It's one thing that she found her Mate, it's a whole other overstuffed feather pillow to be the wonderfully tragic victim of love at first sight."
Letting my head flop back and the phone rest on my shoulder, all I could do was blow out an exasperated breath and pray to the Goddess of All, "If you ever loved me, please let Cora get lost on the way, have a flat tire, or better yet, get arrested on the George Washington Bridge. Tallulu Parish isn't ready for the likes of Cora C. Crankenbush. Hell, not even Satan could ever be ready for a visit from that silly, old Crane."
Chapter Two
Up off the couch and out the door, I moved so fast. to the untrained observer, it could've been mistaken as jogging. (Something I just do not do. Exercise makes me break out in hives. Honestly, it does.) Into my bright yellow VW bug named Yolanda, I slammed my foot onto the accelerator and pointed the front end towards Bailmore Hall faster than you could say 'poppy seed muffins dipped in honey from Beau and Daisy's bakery over in Hairy Wort.'
Affectionately known as The Hall, Bailmore was the hub of all things related to my dearest friends, aka my Flock. The huge, dead ivy-covered monstrosity of a building, her letters falling off the sign, and some of the windows boarded up, held a special place in my heart.
Inherited by the self-proclaimed leader of our merry band of feathered Shifters, who was a highly regarded psychiatrist with a thriving practice in New York City of all places - Dr. Maxine Monroe - Bailmore had been our official meeting place since before we grew wings and took to the sky. The Flock's Nest or the Clubhouse were my chosen names for the Hall. Neither had caught on, but I held out hope. One day, I would be victorious. Someone will inadvertently refer to Bailmore by one or both of my chosen monikers, and I will have won. (Insert just a tiny bit of maniacal laughter right here. No, I was not ready to be admitted into my very own padded room. It had been a rough day, and there was no end in sight. I deserved a little bwahahahahaha, if I did say so myself.)
The beautifully dank and adorably dirty basement of the old behemoth, the place we ladies could always find the solace we needed, refused to be cleaned. We would wash, scrub, sweep, and spit-polish for hours on end, only to turn around and find it just as dirty as before we began. Sometimes yuckier.
That old cellar was draftier than my memaw's coin purse and darker than Vanessa Vandermere's soul. Still, neither diminished the fact that it was ours and wonderfully full of more memories than the Museum of Natural History in NYC. It had seen laughter and tears, giggles and screams, and all the advice true friends could ever offer one another.
One step onto its stained concrete floor and my heart