“Drove from Kentucky with a guilty woman and a kid who believes dinosaurs practice law,” Lottie says.
Hot Mama kisses Lottie’s cheek. “So a quiet trip.”
“Quiet as church mice with warrants.”
A woman near the garage lets out a sharp laugh. “Julip always did know how to make an entrance.”
I look at Lottie.
“Julip?”
Lottie’s mouth curves, and for the first time since we crossed under the Queens sign, she looks a little younger. A little wilder. Like Kentucky Lottie is only one layer over someone with louder stories.
“Old name,” she says.
Hot Mama snorts. “True name.”
“Don’t start.”
“Baby, I named you. I’ll start if I feel like it.”
I blink. “You named her Julip?”
Hot Mama looks at me. “Bourbon, sugar, mint, and a bite that sneaks up after a man decides sweet means harmless.”
Lottie rolls her eyes. “It’s spelled Julip because Hot Mama was drunk and contrary.”
“It’s spelled Julip because I said so,” Hot Mama says.
The woman by the garage grins. “And because she cracked a man’s tooth with a julep cup once.”
Lottie points at her. “He had it coming.”
“They always do,” Hot Mama says.
I stare at Lottie, trying to reconcile the woman who packed August’s snacks with the woman these patched Queens are looking at like family.
“You were one of them,” I say.
Lottie’s face softens by one guarded inch.
“Still am, honey. Some crowns travel.”
Then her eyes come back to me.
I stand straighter without meaning to.
Her gaze sharpens, and something like approval flickers across her face.
“You look like your mama when she was trying not to shake.”
I hate how badly I want more.
I hate how desperately I want this woman to tell me who Caroline was before fear, whiskey, bad men, and Kentucky swallowed the better parts of her.
“You knew her,” I say.
“Yeah.”