Trish and I look at each other, a stunned look on our faces, the reality of what just transpired settling in. Before we can utter a word, Doris totters over and says, “You ladies okay?”

We nod.

“Sorry about all that, but you handled those rednecks better than anyone else ever has,” she says. “Drinks on me!” She quickly returns with two shots of whiskey. “But if I’m payin’, you’re drinkin’ somethin’ I pick. Strong liquor for strong women. Cheers!”

Trish and I clink our tumblers and down our shots, before wandering over to the jukebox.

“Got a quarter?” I ask Trish. She fumbles in her pocket and hands me one.

“G-24,” I say, as the quarter jostles around and the music starts. “‘This One’s for the Girls’ by Martina McBride,” I whoop, the whiskey warming my blood and making the lights in the bar even brighter.

Trish grabs me, and we dance across the bar floor, acting as if we’re wearing boots and cowboy hats, acting as if we’re as young as the day and don’t have a care in the world.

SIXTEEN

“We love you!”

Trish is blowing kisses at the driver of the Saugatuck Shuttle, a service that transports the elderly and the drunk around town for a dollar. Neither of us had two dollars combined—after inserting our dollars and spare change into the jukebox—so the young woman driving the shuttle let us ride for free thinking, I’m sure, from the way we’re acting and dressed that we’re resorters just blowing off steam on a week off from work. When she stops on Lakeshore Drive in front of the cottage, however, she does a double take.

“Thank you!” Trish yells.

“Sssshhhh!” I say, pulling out my cell and clicking on the flashlight. “It’s only 6 p.m.” I can see the Dragoon Lady fielding calls from unhappy neighbors, smiling, licking her lips and drinking sherry like a cartoonish Batman villain.

“Sorry,” Trish yells, her finger over her lips, thinking she’s being quiet.

We stumble up the steep steps, holding on to one another. “I haven’t been this drunk this early since college,” I say.

“I haven’t been drunk this early since my firm’s holiday party,” Trish say. “It’s like the Walk of the Dead. But way less fun.”

We laugh, our voices booming in the cold, quiet, winter’s night. I head directly upstairs to take Sonny outside, while Trish rushes to the bathroom.

“We have the same idea!” she yells to Sonny.

When I return, Trish is opening another bottle of wine.

“You think that’s a good idea?” I ask.

Trish looks around the demolished kitchen. “Think this is a good idea?” she asks.

“Open it,” I say, filling Sonny’s bowl. “I need to have fun!”