The bride and her maid of honor gasped and collapsed together onto the gold couch as Gemma excused herself and motioned for John to follow her to the butler’s pantry.
“Will you join me tonight for dinner at the O’Shays’?”
“Are you serious?” Dinner at the O’Shays’ with the prince?
She fired off a series of questions. What for? Who else was going to be there? Was it dress-up or casual? Did they know she was coming? Was he sure? She must’ve asked that ten times.
In the end, he wanted a friend—was she his friend?—at the table. And yes, he was sure. Even Trent O’Shay said to invite her. He had no idea if the evening was dress or casual. He guessed casual.
“Scottie has just returned from Guatemala,”he said.
“I-I guess.” Gemma looked at her phone as if to check her calendar but she knew full well her evening was free. “If you’re sure.”
“I’ll pick you up at six forty-five. Dinner is at seven.”
Well that exchange blew her concentration for the afternoon. Even the bride and her maid of honor couldn’t seem to focus. They left without purchasing dresses but promised to return.
When Marla, the part-time sales staff, arrived at four, Gemma scooted over to Roseanne’s Vintage. She had about thirty bucks to dress for a date with a prince and the titans of men’s clothing.
She arrived home a little after five and dropped her packages on the crowded kitchen table. Seriously, she needed to deal with the clutter. But there was no space. No storage.
“Gemma, ooh la la.” Imani entered from the hallway with a basketball anchored on her hip. “What’d you get at Roseanne’s?” She peered inside the pink sack marked with an interlinking R and V.
“A dress and pair of shoes.”
Every once in a while, Roseanne hit the jackpot with Nashville celebs and Music Row executives. Gemma had walked in just as she’d finished staging her latest haul. Half the clothes still had the tags on them. She spent a little more than her thirty-dollar budget but she didn’t care. The dress was a McQueen and shoes Jimmy Choo. And barely affordable at Roseanne’s Vintage prices.
“A dress?” Imani curled her lip. “For what?”
“To wear, why else?” Gemma opened the dishwasher from 1980, catching the door with her knee before it knocked against the floor, and collected the clean dishes from the counter and loaded them onto the bottom rack.
Oh yeah, the blame thing didn’t work. It held their everyday dishes ever since Gemma opened one of the cabinets last year to find a community of cockroaches.
She bug-bombed the place, but so far the dishwasher was the only safe compartment.
“Where? The barn? I mean, Hercules loves you, but I don’t think he knows the difference between muck boots and designer clothes.” Imani pulled the pink paisley with the silver chain belt out of the bag. “Gemma…oh my gosh… Chanel. Can I have this?”
Gemma snatched the dress from her. “Do your homework.”
“Funny. School doesn’t start for another month. Whoa.” Imani found the shoes. Pristine, never worn Jimmy Choo leather wedges. “These are…” She looked at Gemma with kid-at-Christmas eyes. “I have to have them.” She hugged the wedges to her chest. “Can I wear these on the first day of school? Please? I promise to take really good care of them. I’ll do extra chores, cook breakfast every morning for a month—if you buy food—and—”
“You done yet?” Gemma feigned a sternness she didn’t possess. “You do chores because you are a member of this family.”
Imani stared back. “I am?”
“Of course you are—” Imani dropped the shoes and launched into Gemma’s arms and squeezed tight. “Hey, what’s all this? You know you’re family. This home isourhome. You’re my girl. Mac and Mauve are your Pops and Memaw.”
“I know we say that but I didn’t know it was real. I mean, I’m not officially family. You’re my guardian, not my mom. I have grandparents. One anyway. She doesn’t want me.”
“What brought this on?” Gemma moved Imani back so she could see her face, sensing this conversation had been brewing. Every once in a while, Imani referred to her parents and grandparents, but it’d been months.
“The kids were talking about their parents coming to the games. It hit me that my family isn’t really my family. I mean, it’s stupid but—”
“It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to mourn. You lost parents and grandparents in a short amount of time. But we are your family. You can always talk to me. It’s okay to miss them.”
Tears washed to the corners of Imani’s eyes. “More and more I can’t even remember my mom. I try, you know, but she gets further away. Then sometimes at basketball practice, Coach calls my name and I’m sure it’s Dad. I jerk around to see him, my heart pounding, but it’s not him. Then Grandpa and Grandma Cook passed, and Grandpa Shumaker. Gigi Shumaker couldn’t stand the sight of me. Am I cursed?’”
“What? No! Imani, you are not cursed. I know it seems you’ve been dealt death too many times but—”
