Mama Rides Shotgun by Deborah Sharp Read Free Book Online Page B

strawberry pie.
    After a few false starts—“I’m positive it’s a right at the sabal palm, Mace. Not the pine tree!’’—we arrived back at the cook trailer.
    Some of the other riders sat in small groups around the campfire. The mood was quiet, subdued. Someone picked a guitar. A few people sipped from coffee cups or beer cans. Johnny, the cook, wasn’t around. But Mama persuaded one of his servers to fix a dinner plate for Doc. She also scored three pieces of pie. The girl left off the whipped cream on top, but Mama decided not to push her luck.
    We’d just settled into the camp chairs we left earlier by the fire, when I thought I heard the unmistakable singing voice of Frank Sinatra. A moment later, Mama heard it, too, judging by the smile that spread across her face.
    An awful, nasal voice arose, chiming in with the recording for Frank’s big finish: “ Bam-ba-da-dum, Bump-bump-ba-da-dum . . .’’
    “Sally!’’ Mama’s smile broadened and her hand flew to her hair. “How’s my lipstick, honey?’’ She bared her teeth at me in the firelight.
    “Eaten off with your first piece of strawberry pie.’’
    She fumbled through the pockets of her jeans, pulling out a tube of her favorite shade, Apricot Ice. “Hold still a sec, Mace. I can almost make out my reflection, shining in your eyes.’’ She stuck her nose a few inches from mine and formed an O with her mouth.
    “Who’s Sally?’’ Doc Abel asked, before tucking into a tower of au gratin potatoes. Seeing his old friend off to the great unknown hadn’t seemed to diminish his appetite.
    Mama finished circling her lips. I dabbed with my napkin where she’d smeared Apricot Ice under her nose.
    “Sally’s my fiancé,’’ she said, waving the rock on her left hand in Doc’s direction. “Sal Provenza. He’s from New York City.’’
    No kidding, I thought. Sal’s as New York as the subway, and just about as subtle.
    The last strains of Sinatra wound down. Then, a heavy car door slammed. The smell of dollar store cologne drifted toward us in the night.
    “Rosalee, honey? You dere?’’
    I’d know that Bronx accent anywhere.
    When Sal shouldered his way into the dinner camp, I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had on a ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots. Both in white. His neon-blue jacket sported decorative lapels. On the left, a mounted cowboy tossed a lariat. On the right, the rope ensnared a white-piping calf. And were those rhinestones along the outside seams of Sal’s pants, winking in the firelight?
    Mama’s boyfriend looked like John Wayne up and married Elton John.
    She shouted, “We’re over here, Sally.’’
    “He can always use the glare off that suit to find his way,’’ I cracked.
    “Hush!’’ Mama whispered, and she pinched me. Hard.

Mama spooned the last bite of her strawberry pie into Sal’s mouth. As nauseating as the display was, I knew it was a sign of true love. She’s serious about sweets, never sharing lightly.
    I’d given Sal my camp chair and taken a seat on the ground. I shifted, trying to avoid a sharp stob sticking up from the pasture. It was about to draw blood on my butt cheek, right through my jeans. After Sal finished chewing, he leaned back contentedly in my chair. I watched as the supposedly indestructible fabric strained at the seams. I’d bet Mama’s fiancé exceeded the chair’s load capacity, even before he Hoovered that strawberry pie.
    “So, you say this Lawton guy keeled over while he was making chili?’’ Sal pulled a toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth, staring all the while at Doc Abel.
    “It was his heart. And it wasn’t unexpected.’’ Doc sat rigid in his chair, meeting Sal’s stare head on.
    “Sally’s not suggesting anything to the contrary.’’ Mama placed her hand on Doc’s arm. Her immaculate manicure was a marvel, considering we were camping in the woods. “He’s from the Bronx in New York, so his questions don’t always come out sounding