“Sure did. Burgundy. They had to order it from Detroit. They said it’ll be at the dealership in East Troy tomorrow. I can’t wait.”

“That’s a big purchase. Did you get a good deal?”

“I think so.” Sherri didn’t want to tell Carmen that she’d been so nervous and excited that she hardly knew what to say when she found herself in the salesman’s office. Sherri frowned. “The guy said he gave me his best price. Bunny Boo was with me.”

Bunny Boo? “Hon, don’t ever shop for a car without a man. If I’d known, I would have sent Mark to go with you. He’s six foot four, and as wide as he is tall. Nobody messes with a guy that big, or with his messed-up face.”

“I wish I’d thought of that,” Sherri said. “I practically had to wave a wad of cash in front of the salesman before he believed I was really serious. He kept calling me ‘lady’ and tried to get me to pay list. He said he’d shave three hundred dollars off the price and he even threw in a cassette player.”

“You could have done better.”

Bill, the manager, walked past. “Oh hey, Billy,” Sherri said, tilting her head and offering her most winning smile, but he was grim-faced and anxious, like all the other managers who had lately been called into meeting after meeting. Sherri and Carmen exchanged glances when he didn’t acknowledge her at all. A few days earlier she’d heard that Toyo, who managed the golf club, had quit abruptly and left to work at a resort in the Bahamas, and the couple that ran the ski chalet decided to move to Vail.

The guests would arrive soon and the Cabaret would magically transform from this massive, empty space to a darkened den of chatter and clinking silverware. She couldn’t have known this would be her last shift, yet, without speed or alcohol, her senses came alive. She found herself paying attention to the way the atmosphere thickened with smoke, the smell of prime rib, the sound of the glassware clinking at the bar, and the tech tapping the microphone to make sure it worked. Hello, hello. One two three. Can you hear me? Testing, testing.

The evening took a surprising turn when Sherri struck up a conversation with a big, bearded man who said he was the band manager for the Allman Brothers.

“I’m a fan,” she said. “A huge fan.”

He smiled and nodded. “That’s great, sweetheart.” It was clear everyone told him that.

“You don’t understand. I grew up listening to every album they made with my friend Roberta. ‘Whipping Post’ is my favorite song ever!”

“That’s the saddest damn song he’s ever written.”