And now, sweet child:
Chin up.
CHAPTER 9
GENNI IS MAGNIFICENT.SIX FOOTfour inches of exquisitely groomed drag queen glory, currently standing in the kitchen in a flaring black 1950s vintage dress, topped by a frilly white apron and choker strand of pearls.To complete the ensemble: a Lucille Ball–style wig and two red gingham oven mitts.Even the crickets are chirping their applause.
Now Genni stabs the oven mitts in our direction.
“You.Are.Late.”
The glare is for Daryl, thank heavens.I notice Petunia has taken up position way back, one claw in the kitchen, where she’s possibly anticipating dinner, the rest of her as far away from Genni as she can get.
The kitchen smells unbelievable.Like a fantasy of homecooked perfection, except I have no idea what that might be, having been raised on a steady diet of frozen pizzas haphazardly warmed by my alcoholic father.
Genni turns toward me in a whirl of black-and-white flounces.“Genni, she, her,” Genni declares, with just the right note of drama to justify Daryl’s spelling of the name.
“Frankie,” I manage.
Genni remains expectant.
“She, her,” I provide.“Though, to be fair…” I take in my less than impressive appearance.And not just my stained T-shirt and unisex olive-green cargo pants.I wear my long brown hair habitually scraped back into a ponytail, and I haven’t attempted makeup for years.In contrast, Genni’s face is a flawless study of arched brows, thick lashes, and ruby-red lips.
“You are Bart’s latest?”she wants to know.
I glance over at Daryl for support.He’s already taken a seat at the round kitchen table, unfolding a black linen napkin and smoothing it over his lap.
“Bart’s known for his Island of Misfit Toys,” Daryl supplies.Then to Genni: “Frankie’s the designated lizard-slash-snake sitter for the month.Go easy on her.She’s not a herper.”
Genni regards me more thoughtfully.“Just passing through or looking for a fresh start?”
“Not the staying kind.”As if to prove me wrong, my fingers find the outline of my cell phone in my pants pocket.I refuse to take it out, check for any missed calls.I will not be that weak.
“How long have you been in Tucson?”I ask Genni.
“Twelve years, darling.The heat’s a real bitch, but it’ll grow on you.Now: feed the lizard, then meat loaf for the humans!”
Sounds like an amazing idea, if only I knew how to dish up salad for an iguana.
First up, I gamely inspect the ginormous stainless-steel fridge,which appears to hold every kind of energy drink ever made, including a few that I’m pretty sure have been outlawed in most states.In a lower bin, I discover a stash of three labeled containers.“Petunia, Dinner 1” seems like a good bet.
I remove the lid to discover a salad.Really.Truly.Rough-cut lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, broccoli, peppers, green beans, and squash, sprinkled with a white vitamin powder.Frankly, it looks better than most salads I’ve eaten lately.I glance around the immense kitchen for anything that might say, “Feed Petunia Here.”I don’t spot so much as a dog bowl.
Genni sighs heavily.“Her private suite…”
“The enclosure.Got it.Umm…” Petunia is currently planted in the middle of the carpeted corridor leading to the reptile wing of the house.More important, her gaze is now locked on the container in my hands, her tail flicking side to side.
I glance at Genni.
“I don’t do cold-blooded,” she states.
Now, why hadn’t I thought of saying that?Clutching the container in hand, I venture closer.Petunia doesn’t move.I’m now right in front of her, holding out the salad like a peace offering.She still doesn’t flinch.I take the first little step to pass her.Then, when she doesn’t latch on to my ankle, I bolt to her private room, where I spy a stainless-steel bowl and throw the salad in it.Just in time for Petunia to come scurrying past me in a blur of green limbs and swishing tail.She heads straight for dinner.I take the hint and scamper back to the kitchen, where Genni is pulling a perfectly shaped loaf of ground meat from the oven, topped with a stripe of red sauce and surrounded by a medley of roasted potatoes.
“Dinner is served.”
AFTERWARD, I OFFERto do the dishes, as much by habit as by training.But Genni is adamant—domestic chores are her gig; I should save myself for the snakes.Which, according to the care instructions that magically appear on my phone, should be fed tomorrow night.All of them.Oh goodie.The next text reminds me not to forget Petunia’s nightly massage and TV time.
Sure.I’ll get right on that.
