Free No Ghouls Allowed by Victoria Laurie

that Gilley had insisted on parading about in a tutu and his mother’s
     feather boa (which Gil still held a fondness for) and it soon became clear that the
     Gillespies’ only child would grow up preferring the company of men to women. This
     had caused a rather violent reaction on the part of Mr. Gillespie, but I never knew
     the specific details as Gil claimed not to remember too much about it and Mrs. G.
     sure wasn’t talking.
    All I knew was that she’d come home to find her husband violently abusing her son
     (trying to smack the gay out of him, is what I’d specifically heard) and she’d shown
     Mr. G. the door that instant. The divorce had been nasty, and I knew that because
     my daddy had handled it and once I’d snooped through his old files and read a few
     pages of the transcripts. I’d never met Mr. G., but within the context of those transcripts,
     I thought that he’d come off as a first-class douche bag.
    Anyway, Mr. G. had relinquished all parental rights to Gilley without ever being asked,
     and he’d written Gilley right out of the family will. The Gillespies had been worth
     a fair amount of money at one time, and it still upset me that Gil would be denied
     his family’s inheritance simply because his father was a pigheaded bigot of a man.
    Still, his mom had done pretty well for herself in spite of being on her own all these
     years. With Daddy’s help, Mrs. G. managed to win a good settlement from her ex-husband
     and she’d used that money to purchase several homes that she’d then fixed up mostly
     on her own and turned into rentals. She liked to rent to single mothers, and was considered
     a very fair and good landlord.
    Her real estate ventures had blossomed over the years and now she owned nearly thirty
     properties, which she managed almost single-handedly—well, at least the business side.
     She had several contract workers who kept the properties up to code and solved any
     maintenance issues. Meanwhile, Mr. Gillespie had moved right out of Valdosta and had
     never come back. At last word, he was said to be living north of Atlanta.
    As Mrs. G.’s car came closer, I felt myself exhale at the sight of her and I smiled
     as I recognized the calming effect Gilley’s mom always had on me. Mrs. G. looked very
     much like her son; she’s rather short in stature, a little plump around the middle,
     and loose curls adorned her head. Her face was kind even if her nose was perhaps a
     bit prominent, but there’s always a twinkle in her eye that’s disarmingly charming.
     “Yoo-hoo!” she called to us as she pulled to a stop. “My, my! Y’all look like three
     lost frogs waitin’ on a lily pad!”
    Heath and I chuckled, while Gilley simply got into the Buick’s backseat. He was obviously
     anxious to be away from Porter Manor. Heath opened the door to the front passenger
     seat for me, and I thought it was cute he was on his best behavior in front of both
     my dad and Mrs. Gillespie.
    As I got in, she smiled brilliantly at him to show him she approved. “You sure you
     weren’t raised in the South?” she asked of him. “Such good manners for a Western boy.”
    Heath gave her one of his lady-killer smiles, and bless her heart, Mrs. G. blushed.
     But then she squinted at him again and said, “Heath, is that a bandage on your forehead?”
    Heath put a hand to his head. “Yes, Mrs. G. I bumped my head on a low-hanging branch.
     Gilley fixed it up for me, though.”
    “Well, I should probably have a look at that when we get to the house. It looks like
     you have a good knot forming under there.”
    After Heath got in, we set off and I settled into the familiar leather seat with another
     contented sigh. There was something so comforting about the Buick’s slightly bouncy
     ride and worn but squeaky-clean interior. “So tell me again what happened to your
     van?” Mrs. G. asked.
    “It’s nothing, Mama,” Gil said.
    “Well, it must be something, Gilley, or y’all wouldn’t