A balloon sign reading “Annette is an American! GO USA!” seemed to herald a big party in progress. The street was packed with cars and an impressive stereo system blasted Dale Watson tunes. Salvatore loved Dale Watson.
He approached the front door, lifted a large brass knocker shaped like an alligator, jaws open, teeth glinting. A harried-looking woman with a clipboard opened the door. “Welcome!” she said, her attempt at cheerfulness failing pretty badly. “Here’s your party pack! Be sure to wave the mini–American flag during the fireworks champagne toast. Go, America!”
Salvatore clutched his party bag and saw that the speakers weren’t playing a recording of Dale Watson but that Dale Watson himself was singing by a pool filled with floats shaped like the state of Texas. The enormous backyard was full of party guests, everyone wearing red, white, and blue. Salvatore tugged at his Thrift Town tie. “Are you Annette Fontenot?” he asked.
“No, I’m Mandee, the event planner,” said the woman. “Annette’s over there, in the red sequins. Enjoy the party!”
What Salvatore wouldn’t give to enjoy anything. To grab a mini–crab cake or head over to the giant table of beef where it looked like…yes, it was Aaron Franklin himself slicing brisket. To crack open a cold Shiner bock and dance to Dale Watson. He sighed. “Is Robert Fontenot here?” he asked Mandee.
She smiled and held her hands up. “No idea,” she said.
Salvatore walked past her into the party. He scanned the guests, looking for Robert. There were a few teenagers splashing in the pool, so he moved in that direction. He took a second to pause by Dale Watson, to listen to a song he loved, “Tupelo, Mississippi and a 57 Fairlane” （his second-favorite Watson tune, after “Louie’s Lee’s Liquor Lounge”）。 When a woman who might have been an actual Dallas Cowboys cheerleader offered him a pig in a blanket with “Annette Dipping Sauce,” he took it—why the hell not? It was absolutely delicious.
By the pool, he asked a young woman in a bikini if she knew where he could find Robert. “Bobcat?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Salvatore.
“Maybe in the gaming grotto?”
The goddamn gaming grotto. Salvatore wanted to be rich. He thought of his sweet son and Joe’s old iPad. He thought about how much Joe wanted a pair of Air Force 1 sneakers.
Salvatore wanted to go home. But when home, he wanted only to escape. There seemed to be no relief.
“Hello, friends and family! And friends who are our family!” A voice rang out over the speaker system. Salvatore turned and saw a short man in snug jeans, alligator boots, and a Stetson standing next to Dale Watson on the stage. “Welcome to the Annette is an American party!”
People cheered and a spotlight lit up a nervous-looking woman in a red dress, her Dolly Parton–blond hair held back with sapphire combs. She wore ivory-colored boots with American flag inlays. “Thank you for coming to my party,” she said nervously. Annette Fontenot looked tired.
The short man （Robert’s father?） held up a glass of champagne. “Cheers to my wife, the love of my life! Congratulations, Annette!”
Salvatore glanced up as a fireworks show began. Watson and his band launched into “The Star-Spangled Banner” and deafening cracks preceded an American flag in the sky, followed by a fireworks Texas flag, followed by what may have been a woman’s face, followed by the letter “A.”
Where was Robert? Salvatore wandered among the guests, each exclaiming as the fireworks display grew louder and more elaborate. He felt dizzy as champagne corks popped and people jumped into the pool and the party grew rowdier. Watson and his band kept rocking on the stage.
Under a live oak strung with lights, he spotted Annette again. She was being hugged by two women. One wore a short silk dress, her dark hair in an elaborate topknot. The third woman was Liza Bailey. Salvatore couldn’t believe it—she was definitely the woman from the Damnations show. They were talking, heads bent low, champagne glasses catching the light.
He walked toward the women. Liza turned and saw him. He may have been mistaken, but he was fairly sure she recognized him. She squinted as he approached. “Do I know you?” she asked.
How he wanted to say Yes.
Instead, Salvatore did his job. “I’m looking for Robert Fontenot,” he said, flashing his badge. He watched the three mothers’ faces as their elation changed to fear. Above them, fireworks cracked open the sky.
-7-
Whitney
AFTER THE BROWNSON SIBLING pinching incident, the flight from Texas to New Zealand had been uneventful. （Air New Zealand had added the direct flight in recent years, as “High Net Worth Individuals,” or “HNWIs,” moved to Austin. From Auckland, many HNWIs took private helicopters or jets to their New Zealand compounds.）
Upon landing at Auckland Airport, Whitney and her family made their way sleepily through customs and into a van provided by the resort. When they arrived at Castaway Bay, they headed straight for their “Family Suite.” Jules and Whitney would share the master bedroom, and Roma and Xavier would sleep in an adjoining bedroom’s two twin beds. Whitney changed into clean pajamas and fell dead asleep, waking with a jolt when her piercing phone alarm rang.
The resort had provided manuka honey soap and shampoo, but Whitney always brought her own toiletries. She dressed as quietly as possible in a sapphire-blue pantsuit and low sandals （she’d heard the ultra luxury properties she was going to visit prided themselves on seeming “rustic,” which usually meant she’d have a hard time walking in heels. Whitney’s clients wanted to feel as if they were ranch owners in the Wild West, while Whitney’s grandmother had considered never seeing or walking upon dirt the height of glamour）。
She finished applying her Dior Rouge lipstick and almost tripped on a pile of blankets by the king bed, crouching down to find Xavier fast asleep. She shook him. “What are you doing on the floor, honey?” said Whitney.
He rolled away. “I’m not staying with her,” he murmured.
Whitney sighed. “At least get in the bed with Daddy,” she said. Xavier rolled back toward Whitney. She ran her fingers along his cheekbone. “My little cinnamon bun,” she said, smiling. He opened his eyes and smiled, too. She rose, and he dragged his blankets into the king bed and fell back asleep.
Something was going to have to give. The situation with Xavier and Roma was untenable. Whitney was a problem solver, so her brain whirred with possible solutions as she made her way to the lobby, where a handsome Irish guy in a golf shirt and white chinos was waiting for her. “Mrs. Brownson?” he said.
“Yes, hello,” said Whitney.
“Colum Murphy,” said the man, holding out a hand and grinning.
Whitney took his hand.
“Quick coffee?” said Colum.
“You read my mind,” said Whitney, perching on one of the clear Lucite stools and taking a look around the lobby. “This is lovely,” she said.
“Wait till you see Miro Miro,” said Colum. Whitney and Jules planned to trade off during this trip, one of them checking out remote properties their Austin HNWIs might want to purchase while the other stayed with the kids at the lakefront resort.