Cheri on Top by Susan Donovan Page A

paying for an ego run wild. Not so, apparently. All that had only been a warm-up for the purgatory that was Bigler, North Carolina.
    “Purnell should really be the one to answer your questions. I just do what he tells me.”
    “I understand,” Cherise said, nodding politely. “But Purnell doesn’t seem to spend much time in the building. He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
    “Oh, since the cutbacks he’s always off visiting with clients personally and selling ad space. He’s a real people person.”
    He’s sure as hell not a numbers person, Cherise thought, folding her hands on the desktop. “So tell me about the bookkeeping routine, Gladys.”
    *   *   *

    Gladys was a terrible driver, which wouldn’t have been any of Cherise’s business if she weren’t riding shotgun in the DeVille, hanging halfway out the window to steady the poorly tied-down set of bedding.
    “Holy hell, Gladys! Slow down! I’m losing the pillow top!”
    “Sorry,” she said with a shrug, taking another curve of Randall Road fast enough to cause her dangling feather earrings to smack against her cheeks. “When you’re my age, there’s no time to waste.”
    “Well, I’m not ready to die, so slow down.”
    “You’re the boss.”
    Cherise shook her head and laughed. That seemed to be Gladys’s response to most every comment she’d made today.
    Could you get me an extra charger for the BlackBerry?
    You’re the boss .
    Would you please tell J.J. that I’ll be out for the rest of the day?
    You’re the boss.
    Would you mind driving over to Newberry Lake with me this afternoon?
    You’re the boss.
    Gladys lifted her platform shoe from the gas pedal and Cherise sighed with relief. “It’s up here at the top of the hill on the left.”
    “Oh, I know where it is, Miss Cheri,” Gladys said, her coral-pink lips curving into a smile. “There was a time I came up here nearly every weekend. Your grandfather wasn’t always an old fart, you know. We used to have some big parties at that little house.”
    Cherise cocked her head. “Seriously?”
    Gladys took the turn onto Newberry Lane and howled with laughter. “Sweetie, I doubt you’ve ever been to a party better than the ones your granddaddy used to throw back in the day.”
    She smiled to herself, thinking of all the parties she’d gone to in Tampa, Naples, Ocala, and South Beach—the most beautiful of beautiful people, the most private VIP rooms in the most exclusive clubs, and the most opulent private estates. Gladys’s idea of a good time was not quite the same as hers, obviously.
    “Everybody’d show up with nothing but their swimsuits and a towel and spend the weekend.” Gladys wagged her eyebrows at Cherise.
    “Say what?”
    “Oh, yes. And there was plenty of booze. We’d put us some Elvis and Ray Charles and James Brown on the record player. There’d be dancing till the sweat poured and you had to go jump in the lake to cool off. Barbecue so tender it fell apart in your hands and the juices dripped off your elbow. Lots of sleeping under the stars. And sometimes there’d be marijuana. Personally, I never liked the way it made me feel—all out of control and silly like.”
    Cherise swallowed hard. “Granddaddy Garland threw pot parties?”
    “Oh, we never called ’em that. We just called them shindigs.”
    Cherise pointed ahead. “The turnoff is on the left.”
    “Like I said, I could find this place blindfolded.”
    “So when was all this partying going on?”
    “Back in the mid-fifties, before Garland married your grandmother—that put an end to all the fun, I’m afraid.”
    Cherise was having trouble wrapping her brain around the house’s wild past. “What about Aunt Viv? Did she approve of these parties?”
    Gladys roared. “What? She was the party! In fact, it was one of her boyfriends, a trumpet player from Charlotte, who brought along the wacky to-backy. Viv was real popular with the boys, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
    Cherise