style="font-size:15px;"> Jasmyn emitted a low whistle. “That’s fast, all right. Now you can get your car fixed.”
“Already in the shop. I’m driving a rental until it’s ready.”
“You bad, bullheaded girl, you. Mama will be glad to know you got wheels.” She gave Val a knowing look. “Speaking of mamas, now that you’re a private eye in training, have you looked for yours?”
Val felt a stab of guilt. “No.”
During Katrina, when she and Nanny had been stuck on the roof of their building, her grandmother confessed she had lied about Val’s parents dying in a car crash when Val was two years old. Nanny’s daughter, Val’s mother, had survived, but left soon after that. “She was born Agnes Monte Hickory LeRoy, after your great-grandmother Agnes Lowell and great-grandfather Elias Monte Hickory, but if she’s remarried, her last name’s prob’ly different. Promise me, dear girl, you’ll try to find her, make my wrong right.”
Val made that promise.
But since then, she had not tried to find the mother who had abandoned her. Not once.
“Truth be told, Jaz, I can’t work up the desire to meet a stranger who gave birth to me, then abandoned me.”
Jasmyn nodded. “Everythin’ in its own time.”
Left up to Val, that time would never come. But she felt wretched breaking her word to Nanny.
“Wow, two thousand!” Jasmyn exclaimed, bringing the conversation back around. “Except for the sneaky part, of course, but who am I to talk? I’m the one sneaking around taking burlesque classes.”
For the past five months, Jasmyn had been taking private burlesque dancing lessons from Dottie “the Body” Osborne, a former headliner at the Pink Pussycats in Hollywood, a famous burlesque club where the dancers plied their G-string gimmicks in the 1970s. Val, sworn to secrecy about Jasmyn’s clandestine studies, knew if Del and Char ever learned about this, their daughter would be grounded until she was forty.
“The problem with secrets is that they can blow up in your face,” Val murmured. “I need to tell Jayne.”
“No, cuz, bad idea! Don’t blow this internship by gettin’ all confessional. Look at the money you made in one night! Plus you tackled your first case and probably learned a lot in the process.”
“No,” Val said solemnly, gathering the rest of the trash, “I learned investigations are about using the mind to solve puzzles, not playing body games.”
“Hey,” Jasmyn said, “enough with our heavy noir talk. Let’s dish about something fun. I think I got my burlesque name. Ready? Ruby Stevens!”
“Definitely sounds like a burlesque name.”
“It was Barbara Stanwyck’s real name. But they wouldn’t let her use it because—guess what?—it sounded like a burlesque dancer! Y’know how burlesque dancers gotta have a gimmick? I’ll be Ruby Stevens, and I’ll always wear a shiny gold anklet to go with my brassy and phony blond hair. Like your wig, only curlier.”
After a beat, Val said, “You know I love ya, right Jaz? Word to the wise. One of these days, you’re gonna need to have a sit-down with your mama and be up front about those burlesque lessons. Doing that gives both of you dignity.”
She wasn’t just talking to her cousin. She was talking to herself, too.
Because at that moment, Val knew she was going to be up front with Jayne tomorrow morning and tell her what she had done. Nanny used to say that secrets destroyed relationships, and she was right. If Jayne threatened to end her internship, well, Val would give her one hell of a side note on why she should stay.
After she and Jaz said their good-nights, Val dumped the trash in the kitchen and headed to her room, reflecting on all kinds of things, from blond wigs to honey traps to young women who needed to keep their word.
Just because a hurricane had wiped out Val’s world didn’t mean it had also taken her self-worth.
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