Red Cullen has been on her own since her mother threw her
out when she was sixteen and pregnant. She kept the baby
girl, and their first night out of the maternity ward, they
slept under a bridge in San Antonio. Her daughter,
Bridge, is now grown, divorced, has two children, and is an
operating room specialist in Baghdad. The children's
paternal grandmother has had the children, and Red rarely
sees them. It's going to be a life-changing adjustment to
take guardianship of nine-year-old Olivia and her younger
brother, Daniel -- who has decided to speak only Spanish
around his "abuela mala" which translates to bad
grandmother.
Red has led a rough life and has had to do things she's not
proud of to support herself and Bridge. She now
owns "Red's Hot Honky-Tonk Bar" and makes enough to pay her
bills. She lives in an efficiency apartment in back of
the bar, and this is where she brings the children. They
are as unhappy with the situation as Red is frustrated.
Cameron "Cam" Smith Early is a fiddler in a Western band
and is currently Red's boy-toy. Cam knows nothing about
Red's past and doesn't care. Red expects him to walk away
like everyone else in her life has, but this guy has
staying power. He is crazy about the kids and their
granny, so she can't even push him away, and he gives her a
chance to live a life beyond her wildest dreams.
This reviewer was either laughing out loud like a hyena,
choking down a lump in the throat, or outright crying while
rapidly turning the pages of this magnificent story. In
my humble opinion there is no other author in today's
market that writes as beautifully and emotionally about
family dynamics as Pamela Morsi. This author writes about
real people, warts and all, which you want to embrace,
comfort, and have for a best friend. RED'S HOT HONKY-
TONK BAR is possibly one of the best books of the summer
and one which comes highly recommended.
Unruly Red knows she's no one's idea of a sweet old granny.
But with one long-distance phone call, the fortysomething
bar owner with the tattoos and tight jeans is suddenly
responsible for two young grandchildren she hardly
knows.
Red's rowdy friends, late-night lifestyle and
tiny apartment above her San Antonio saloon definitely
aren't kidproof. And Red's pretty sure the hot young fiddle
player she's been dallying with will run for the hills when
he learns she has a daughter, let alone
grandkids.
But Red is about to learn that age doesn't
necessarily come with wisdom. That a nine-year-old girl can
be as exacting as the strictest parent. That the school of
hard knocks never had bake sales. And that her boy toy is
more of an adult than she is.
Excerpt
The sidewalk was full of smokers and spitters. The light
from the open doorway was muted, but the sound from inside
was not. It was a typical Thursday night of cold beer and
live music at Red's Hot Honky-Tonk. The bar, frequented by
only a certain segment of San Antonio locals, was a
rough-looking spot in an old two-story mill house on the
corner of Eight and B. Patrons had once joked that the area
was so unloved by city hall, they hadn't bothered to name
the streets.
Inside, as most nights, Red Cullens herself was at the cash
register, totaling up the tabs. Backlit from the lights on
the bar, she was an attractive woman. Petite, some would
have described her. Only five foot three inches, she stood
on a box as she worked to give her a better view of the
crowd. It also gave them a better view of her.
Her figure, encased in tight blue jeans and a soft, clingy
blouse short enough to expose her bare midriff, was very
good. However, what caught the eye of men, in this place and
out of it, was her hair. Thick and full, it hung down past
her waist. If she held her head just right she could sit on
it. And it was red. Really red. She was no carrottop or
strawberry blonde. Loop, one of the regulars, called it barn
red, and that was certainly closer to the truth than terms
like auburn, copper or ginger.
Her hair had taken over her identity. It obscured her name,
her age, her past. And to Red's way of thinking, that was
just fine.
A man stepped up to the counter in front of her as he pulled
his wallet out of his back pocket.
"You taking off, J.B.?" she asked him.
"Yep, better get home before my wife decides to kill me," he
answered.
Red shook her head. "I don't think you have to worry about
that happening," she told him. "After putting up with you
for thirty years, she's surely got the life insurance paid
up and pinned her hopes on natural causes."
He laughed aloud at that. Red smiled broadly, revealing a
slight overbite and a gap in her front teeth.
"Just to be stubborn," he told her, "I'm planning to live
forever."
He paid his bill and made his way out the front.
Red took change out of the drawer, extracting the man's tip,
and dropped it into the appropriate waitress's jar on the
shelf beneath the register.
The place was busy. All of the booths and most of the tables
were full, and a half-dozen guys loitered around the pool
table. The stage area outside had seating for forty, though
tonight there was barely standing room. The band was playing
here more and more often and they were developing a nice
local following.
Somebody held open the front door so that Leo and Nata from
the Mexican restaurant down on Jones Street could bring a
couple of trays inside. The two men were dressed in their
flashy yellow-and-green outfits and wearing snowy-white
aprons. Passing Red, they began unloading the plates at the
far end of the bar. Gracelia, the waitress who was sweet on
Nata, hurried to help set them out.
As those two seemed to have it covered, Leo wandered back up
the length of the bar to Red.
"What have we got tonight?" she asked him.
"Albondigas," he answered. "Those are your favorite, right?
And jalapeño relleno."
"Mmm," Red commented. "You tell Mrs. Ramirez that she's
going to make me as fat as her sister if she keeps this up."
Leo laughed. "I will tell her," he assured Red.
Mrs. Ramirez was famously feuding with her sibling, whom she
called la gorda—fatso.
"How much do I owe you?" Red asked. Leo handed her the
ticket and she paid it.
The honky-tonk didn't serve food beyond chips and salsa. Red
had a deal with Mrs. Ramirez. She wouldn't compete with her
restaurant, but at the end of the night, if Mrs. Ramirez had
something that Red's customers might like, she'd bring it
down. The late-night tapas were more and more a success. The
regulars had begun to expect them and they sold out fast.
Knowing most of the inside customers would hang around for
food and the outside customers wouldn't leave until the set
was finished, Red signaled to Karl, the bartender, that she
was leaving her post.
He quickly poured her a brown liquid in a highball glass.
Anyone just looking would think she was having a double
bourbon. In truth, it was iced tea in disguise. Red had
given up drinking years ago.
She took a sip and smiled appreciatively, adding to the
drink deception.
Karl waved her on with one muscular, heavily tattooed arm.
Red walked out from behind the counter and began weaving her
way through the customers. She knew the names of many and
the faces of even more. And they all knew her. Nine years of
running the bar made her a local. The red hair made her easy
to recognize. And the stories of her standing up to punks
and knocking heads of mean drunks had made her a legend.
Red dutifully shared a word here and there, to let her
customers know she appreciated them and that they were part
of the good time available at Red's Hot Honky-Tonk. She
patted shoulders, gave hugs and kissed cheeks as she went
through.
"Hector, how are those kids doing?
"Casey, did you get that truck running?
"I guess you're feeling better tonight, Señor Puentes?"
A nearby customer gave her a hug.
"My God, Elena, what are you wearing?" Red asked, surveying
her pin-striped business suit.
The woman, a curvaceous dark-haired beauty in her thirties,
laughed. "I came straight from work," she said. "This is
what the well-dressed office slave is wearing these days."
Red shook her head and tutted in disbelieving disapproval.
"Have you got on panty hose? I didn't even know they still
made them. I'll tell you, it makes me grateful I don't live
in real America."
"You don't live in real America?" Elena asked.
"Nope," Red answered. "Honky-tonk bars are a whole 'nother
planet."
"Down at city hall, they're still talking about redeveloping
this part of the river," Elena reminded her. "I can see this
place now as Red's Hot Panty-Hose Bar."
Red sucked in her cheeks, emulating haughtiness. "Perhaps we
can begin competing with the Bright Shawl for lovely tea
outings with the bejeweled matrons who do lunch."
Elena laughed so hard she snorted.
Red grinned. "I don't think that the Brides of the Cavaliers
are quite ready for me."
There was laughing agreement from everybody within hearing.
The Cavaliers were one of the most prestigious and
discriminating social organizations in town.
With a backward wave she moved on to a booth near the pool
table.
"Hey Alfred, nice to see you. Remember me to your mama."
She spoke to one of the men at the table whose face she
could recall, but not his name. He'd rested his beer on the
corner of the pool table.
"Better set that glass on the wall shelf," she told him.
"With all the louts in this place, somebody's bound to knock
it over and spoil the game."
The guy gave her a nod and moved his mug to a safer location.
Approaching the back door, she heard the music get louder
and by necessity her words did, too.
"I don't think I know you folks. Is this your first time
here?" she asked. "If you want to move closer to the stage,
at the next break, just ask your waitress if she can set you
up out there."
A buxom blonde stopped her near the doorway to get a hug.
"Haven't seen you around here for a while," Red pointed out.
"I've been dieting," the woman answered. "So I've been
staying away from the beer. I hear that you're still robbing
the cradle?"
Red grinned and then feigned offense. "Robbery? You know I
don't steal, Jenny. I'm just borrowing from the
cradle."
Jenny laughed. "He's the fiddle player, right?"
Red nodded.
"Cute."
"I know. And I'm warning you off."
Jenny laughed. "You don't have to worry about me. I can't
afford to take on a handsome poor boy. I need an old man who
can pay my bills."
"And I thank heaven for that," she answered. "One less
blonde for me to worry about."
Red stepped through the exit onto the bricked patio at the
back of the building. Most of these folks were not her
nightly regulars. They were at the place for the music. The
beer and the crowd were just incidental. She made no attempt
to greet anyone here. The lights were all dimmed, except for
those on the stage, which showcased four pickers in Western
gear and Stetson hats. She gave only a quick glance in their
direction before skirting the edge of the bricks to a set of
stairs that hugged the side of the building. A gate across
the entry was not welcoming.
No Admittance
Private Property
Protected by Smith & Wesson
The warning on the gate was for others. Red unhitched the
latch and went inside, going up about four steps before
seating herself. She liked the band's sound. It wasn't true
honky-tonk style. It was softer, smoother somehow, but with
plenty of edge in just the right places. The lyrics were
more pop psychology than pop-a-top. That was Brian's doing.
A well-read college dropout, he wrote of the angst of Texas
affluence. But it was the music that Red loved. And the
music was mostly Cam. Her Cam. Long and lean, with dark eyes
and an easy grin. He was smart. Smart about music, smart
about people. Smart about what made her happy. Campbell
Smith Early. Red shook her head in disbelief. What was she
thinking, shaking the sheets with a guy who was barely
thirty and had three last names?
Mentally she shrugged. It was a great deal, but it would
never last. For Red, things with men never lasted. But he
was good to her and the beginning part was always fun. So
she was just going to lie back and enjoy it.
1 he phone was ringing. Ringing wasn't truly an apt
description. The small, personal-communication device was
pinging out the familiar refrain of "It Wasn't God Who Made
Honky-Tonk Angels" in tinny musiclike tones.
From beneath a tangle of bedsheets, Red unhappily opened one
eye. She had blackout shades on the windows, but one of them
was caught up unevenly on the edge of the windowsill,
allowing a broad shaft of early-morning sunshine to
penetrate the room.
She pulled her pillow over her head, muffling the sound and
hiding the sight. When the phone finally went to voice mail,
she relaxed into the mattress. She was almost back to sleep
when it started up again.
Now thoroughly annoyed, she threw back the covers and
rotated to a sitting position. This elicited a slight moan
from her lips. Cam, still beside her, didn't awaken, making
only an ugh sound of protest. She retrieved the
phone from the bedside table and, squinting, tried to make
out the numbers on the front of it. The area code was not
one she recognized.
"Telemarketer," she muttered like a curse.
She flopped back down on the bed, slinging one arm across
her eyes. She was exhausted, but she knew she wouldn't
sleep. Deliberately, she turned away from the window. On
that side, her view was all Cam. He looked even younger than
usual, almost boyish, with his face relaxed and his hair
askew. Red edged up closer. She really liked him. No, she
really liked him. Walking around in the world, he
made her feel admired and desired. In bed, he made her
feel…wonderful. She allowed a sigh to seep through her like
warm molasses.
Then she caught herself, physically pulling away from him.
It was crazy to let her guard down like that. And what was
he still doing in her bed? She didn't let guys sleep over.
Once they were done, it was time to get out. Men were a lot
like stray dogs. You think you're just throwing them some
scraps. But it doesn't take much for them to start making
themselves at home.
Red got to her feet and walked to the foot of the bed. She
ripped the covers off him.
"Sun's up, cowboy," she announced. "Time to hit the trail."
"Damn," was his inarticulate response.
Red continued to the bathroom. Without turning on the light
she sat on the toilet, elbows on knees, her face in her
hands, her hair falling around her like a curtain.
The phone went off again.
"Do you want me to get that?" Cam called out.
"No."
When she'd finished and flushed, she flipped on the light
switch above the sink. She pulled her hair back and tied it
in one giant loose knot to keep it out of the way as she
washed her hands and face.
Afterward, she stood for a moment in front of the mirror,
assessing her body for imperfections. The nightlife had left
her skin perfectly pale. Her breasts weren't very large, but
they were still high and pretty she thought. She turned
slightly to survey her backside. Her butt wasn't as good as
it once was, but it was still better than most, she assured
herself. And the armadillo tattoo that had been inked into
her right buttock a quarter century earlier still looked
perfect.
Not bad for forty-six, she thought to herself. Not
bad at all.
Naked, she walked back into the bedroom. Cam was sitting on
the edge of the bed. He glanced up and when he caught sight
of her, he smiled.
"Come on back here," he said, patting the mattress beside
him. "We don't have to get up yet."
Red appreciated the gesture, but she didn't take him up on it.
"I'm going downstairs to make coffee," she said. "You can be
first in the shower."
She didn't bother with underwear as she pulled on a pair of
ratty jeans and a T-shirt. She grabbed her keys and her
phone and stepped out the door of her apartment. She went
down the stairs to the back patio, which was strangely
serene in the midmorning light. Shaded by the building, it
edged up against the San Antonio River—the real San
Antonio River, not the beautifully controlled and manicured
park of the River Walk with its wide pedestrian walkways and
its quaint overhead footbridges. This was no Venice of south
Texas, but the narrow springfed waterway that had made the
area habitable for thousands of years.
Red unlocked the back door of the bar and propped it open.
The distinctive smell of beer and cigarettes could never be
obliterated, but she still liked to air the place out.
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