“Don’t just stand there, Char. Get a move on. We can raid the liquor cabinet on the way.”

CHAPTER 7

here was a board nailed across the door to The Big Bang, like the whole place had been condemned. I had to look twice to determine that it was for show.

“Mama would have a heart attack if she knew where we were,” Lily said beside me, straightening her dress. “Or worse, a conniption.”

We’d told Aunt Olivia we were spending the night with Sadie-Grace. For good measure, I’d also passed along Charlotte’s regards, which seemed wiser than saying, Campbell’s mama sends vague insults and whiskey-laden predictions about the future.

“Do you want to open the door?” I asked Lily. “Or should I?”

She took a deep and cleansing breath. “Here’s to a legendary evening.”

She pulled the door open, and a cacophony of country music, loud voices, and what sounded like a live piano hit me all at once. The lighting inside the bar was dim, but there were colored Christmas lights strung along the entire perimeter of the open room, and a massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. There was a baby grand piano on the far side of the room, and behind it, silvery curtains that had been drawn to reveal the bar’s name in a spotlight on the wall. Gas station memorabilia hung along the other three walls, with a dozen or more signs for filling stations deeming themselves The Last Chance.

The entire place looked like it had been decorated by a couple, one of whom had read The Great Gatsby a few too many times, and the other of whom had a fondness for all things mom and pop.

“It shouldn’t work,” someone said behind me. “But it does.”

I turned to see Campbell. When Lily had dropped Walker off and picked me up earlier, Cam hadn’t said a word to either of them about what I’d told her. She was good at keeping secrets—if she wanted to.

“I take it you’ve enlightened your cousin as to the score?” she asked now.

Horror seeped through my body, weighting it down limb by limb—then Campbell smiled and made it clear that her question had been targeted at Lily and that the “score” she’d been referring to wasn’t my secret.

“Parts of Regal Lake are Martha’s Vineyard,” Campbell enlightened me. “And parts are Duck Dynasty, and ne’er the twain shall meet, except in fine establishments like this one.”

Half of the bar-goers in this room looked like they would have been right at home at The Holler. The other half looked like they’d come straight from the yacht club. The common denominator was that nearly everyone in the building was young—and as we stood there, more than a few of them turned to look in our direction.