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Authors: Katherine Sharma
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opportunities,” said Jen as she shooed Tess imp atiently toward the expansive living area with its enviable high-rise views. “Let’s talk about why you must hurry up and get to New Orleans because you should not trust a law firm with initials that spell GOD and with crazy old geezers as partners.” Jen put her arm bracingly around her friend’s slighter shoulders.
“What?” gasped Tess. “What’s this about God?”
“Didn’t you notice that the initials of Graham, Odom & Dreux spell G.O.D.? I suppose it would be even sillier as Dreux, Odom & Graham,” grinned Jen. “Of course, I don’t think the initials mean a damn thing. It’s just funny.”
Jen hefted a large slice of pepperoni pizza from an open box on the coffee table. The box was guarded by three cola-cup sentries sweating wet rings on the elegant mahogany. Unseeing or unconcerned about the possible damage to the expensive wood, Jen picked up one of the cups, thrust it into Tess’s hand and gestured impatiently for Tess to sit in the leather club chair opposite.
Jen dropped heavily onto her black raw-silk sofa and continued with her advice, her voice muffled by a mouthful of pizza. “I think it’s more important you don’t believe a large oil refinery that pretends $500,000 is a lot of money. I also think that they were trying to con you by sending doddering Colonel Sanders with an offer to ‘let us take this useless land off your hands.’ You should get the help of a local lawyer to fight for your interests.”
Jen was wearing an item from her limited selection of “active wear”—a plum velour track suit. It did not flatter her complexion or her generous figure. As the right-hand couch cushions sighed and compressed under her purple hips, Christina Velasquez, curled in the left corner of the couch, grimaced and sent an expressive roll of her eyes toward Tess.
“You have got to get rid of that track suit, Jen. I can’t take anything you say seriously when you are dressed up like a big eggplant,” declared Christina. Jen shrugged and took another large bite of pizza.
Christina had started out studying English with Tess, switched to journalism, and finally ended up working in public relations for more money and better hours. If success was measured in credit card usage, she had succeeded admirably. The exact opposite of Jen in a fashion sense, she had at least 30 pairs of shoes nested in her chaotic closet, tossed helter-skelter under a barely contained wardrobe explosion of every color and fabric imaginable. Christina was a trend addict; she always knew which restaurant, which dress designer, and which YouTube videos were forcing a recalculation of the fashion equation.
Christina was not conventionally pretty. She had a Roman nose, small burnt-almond eyes, heavy thighs and slight breasts, but she knew how to dress and carried herself confidently, smiling often and warmly. She created a potent illusory attractiveness that kept h er encircled by male attention. When she was enjoying herself, she threw her head back, tossed her thick curly hair and laughed freely, her full lips stretched wide to reveal strong white teeth. She was expert at trapping the unsuspecting in a will-sapping quicksand of hedonism.
“I know that outwitting the wicked petro power is not your forte, Christina. But I think Tess needs more than advice on where to dine in the Big Easy,” responded Jen.
“Oh, Pu-leeze, Jen,” groaned Christina. “Tess, you need to go to New Orleans ASAP, but do not take Jen’s advice about finding a lawyer,” she stated, with a defiant thrust of pink tongue at Jen, who blew a raspberry back at her. “You’ll waste a lot of precious time sweating in a musty law office—the kind with framed degrees from Tulane circa 1962—for some tiny increase, if any, in profit. Instead, you should stroll down Bourbon Street with a Hurricane cocktail in a ‘go cup’ and keep an eye out for a bronzed bayou hunk.”
“ But Tess could be
“What?” gasped Tess. “What’s this about God?”
“Didn’t you notice that the initials of Graham, Odom & Dreux spell G.O.D.? I suppose it would be even sillier as Dreux, Odom & Graham,” grinned Jen. “Of course, I don’t think the initials mean a damn thing. It’s just funny.”
Jen hefted a large slice of pepperoni pizza from an open box on the coffee table. The box was guarded by three cola-cup sentries sweating wet rings on the elegant mahogany. Unseeing or unconcerned about the possible damage to the expensive wood, Jen picked up one of the cups, thrust it into Tess’s hand and gestured impatiently for Tess to sit in the leather club chair opposite.
Jen dropped heavily onto her black raw-silk sofa and continued with her advice, her voice muffled by a mouthful of pizza. “I think it’s more important you don’t believe a large oil refinery that pretends $500,000 is a lot of money. I also think that they were trying to con you by sending doddering Colonel Sanders with an offer to ‘let us take this useless land off your hands.’ You should get the help of a local lawyer to fight for your interests.”
Jen was wearing an item from her limited selection of “active wear”—a plum velour track suit. It did not flatter her complexion or her generous figure. As the right-hand couch cushions sighed and compressed under her purple hips, Christina Velasquez, curled in the left corner of the couch, grimaced and sent an expressive roll of her eyes toward Tess.
“You have got to get rid of that track suit, Jen. I can’t take anything you say seriously when you are dressed up like a big eggplant,” declared Christina. Jen shrugged and took another large bite of pizza.
Christina had started out studying English with Tess, switched to journalism, and finally ended up working in public relations for more money and better hours. If success was measured in credit card usage, she had succeeded admirably. The exact opposite of Jen in a fashion sense, she had at least 30 pairs of shoes nested in her chaotic closet, tossed helter-skelter under a barely contained wardrobe explosion of every color and fabric imaginable. Christina was a trend addict; she always knew which restaurant, which dress designer, and which YouTube videos were forcing a recalculation of the fashion equation.
Christina was not conventionally pretty. She had a Roman nose, small burnt-almond eyes, heavy thighs and slight breasts, but she knew how to dress and carried herself confidently, smiling often and warmly. She created a potent illusory attractiveness that kept h er encircled by male attention. When she was enjoying herself, she threw her head back, tossed her thick curly hair and laughed freely, her full lips stretched wide to reveal strong white teeth. She was expert at trapping the unsuspecting in a will-sapping quicksand of hedonism.
“I know that outwitting the wicked petro power is not your forte, Christina. But I think Tess needs more than advice on where to dine in the Big Easy,” responded Jen.
“Oh, Pu-leeze, Jen,” groaned Christina. “Tess, you need to go to New Orleans ASAP, but do not take Jen’s advice about finding a lawyer,” she stated, with a defiant thrust of pink tongue at Jen, who blew a raspberry back at her. “You’ll waste a lot of precious time sweating in a musty law office—the kind with framed degrees from Tulane circa 1962—for some tiny increase, if any, in profit. Instead, you should stroll down Bourbon Street with a Hurricane cocktail in a ‘go cup’ and keep an eye out for a bronzed bayou hunk.”
“ But Tess could be
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