Page 4 of Ten

“Oh, my God. Remind me to never schedule Jamie with you ever again,” Billie remarked with an eye roll. “You’ll give her ideas about charging me rent or giving me a move-out date.”

“Uh-oh,” Savannah butted in as she joined us at the table. She plopped down across from me with a delivery bag that smelled spicy and delicious. “Did big sister give you the time-to-fly-the-nest speech?”

“Not yet.” Billie scrolled through her phone. “Here. This is Monty, and he’s suffering. Look, Nisha.”

I took the phone from Billie and studied the sad plant on the screen. “You’re giving him too much water. Let the soil dry out between waterings. Poke your finger down into the dirt a few inches. If it’s moist, don’t water. If it’s dry, take the pot to the sink or tub and set in a few inches of water. Let it sit and soak up from the roots.”

“And that’s it?” Billie seemed disappointed. “No special food or fancy fertilizer or expensive lights?”

“Nope.” I returned to my gumbo. “Stop drowning it.”

“Oh. Well. All right.” Billie’s attention turned to Savannah’s lunch. “Is that butter chicken?”

“Yes.” Savannah eyed the receptionist’s dish. “Did your sister make that?”

“Yes. You want some?” Billie asked hopefully.

“Want to trade half?”

“I will literally let you have all of it for one single naan.”

Savannah snorted with amusement. “Calm down and grab a bowl from the cabinet.”

I shook my head as Billie scampered off to the supply of melamine dishes Holly kept in the salon’s lounge. “That girl is a mess.”

“Yep,” Savannah agreed. “But the clients love her and she’s a hard worker.”

“I think a lot of it is an act.” I lowered my voice. “She likes being the baby of her family, being spoiled and coddled.”

“Well, we all have to grow up someday.”

I shared a knowing glance with Savannah. Like me, Savannah had been forced to grow up too soon. Abandoned as a baby. Foster care. Failed adoptions. Never having a family or belonging. Savannah had learned to be independent at an early age.

My life’s trajectory had followed a similar path. When I was four, my father was killed in a robbery gone bad. By the time I was eight, my mother had run off to Dallas and then Tulsa with some washed-up cowboy she had met at the rodeo. Last I heard, Mama was waiting tables in a truck stop diner up near Little Rock. The cowboy was long gone, and Mama was on her fifth or sixth marriage by now, still nursing a wicked heroin addiction.

I’d had Mimi June, my grandmother, of course, and Uncle Nicky to keep an eye on me. All things considered, my childhood had been pretty good. Church. Dance classes. Girl Scouts. New clothes and shoes whenever I needed them. A dog and two love birds. A big garden out back and my own swing set.

I had lived in one of Houston’s less-than-stellar neighborhoods, but our house was the nicest in the whole ward. Nobody ever hassled or bothered me. I never worried about walking to and from the school bus or riding my bike around the neighborhood with my friends. Everybody was always so nice to me.

It wasn’t until later, around fifth grade, that I finally figured out why my life seemed so much different than my peers. I was the niece of one of Houston’s most dangerous men. My beloved, silly Uncle Nicky was called Nickel Jackson on the streets, and he controlled a huge swath of Houston's criminal underworld. No one was brave or stupid enough to go against him or hurt his family.

Not until Kiki.

The worst mistake I had ever made.

The man who had left me scarred body and soul and mind.

The man who I hoped would rot and die in prison.

“So,” Savannah said in a sing-song voice, interrupting my troubled thoughts. “Guess who is coming to the salon today?”

“The weatherman who makes you sweat like a July heat wave?” I teased.

Billie laughed as she scooped most of the chickpea dish into Savannah’s takeout container.

Savannah pursed her lips. “He does not make me sweat!”

“Ma’am,” I said with a pointed look. “Don’t lie to me. I know panting when I see it.”

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