“You’re rich as hell, Mabel, and everyone knows it,” says Will, tossing a sugar packet at her.
She flutters her lashes in his direction. “Rich in beauty.”
We all look up as a chilling shadow that could only belong to one person falls over the table. Harriet, owner of the Market and Mabel’s number one enemy. Harriet is the complete opposite of Mabel. She wears her silver hair pulled back into a severe bun that tugs at the nearly translucent skin of her face. She rarely wears anything with color and delights in proving she owns the moral high ground. They’re around the same age, both grew up in this town, and I will be forever curious what their history is like. But I’ll likely never know.
“Mabel, what are you doing interrupting their get-together? You are not one of the boys. Leave them be.”
“I can be one of the boys if I want to.”
Harriet stares her down. “You never can tell when you’re not wanted.”
Mabel lifts her chin. “You’re just jealous because people like me everywhere I go, meanwhile they duck and cover to avoid your sermonizing.”
“Actually,” says Jack, sliding out of the booth, “I do have to get going. But let the record show it has nothing to do with your sermonizing, Harriet. And I think you both could stand to be a little nicer to each other.”
They both wince. He’s still too new to the town to fully understand.
A sudden thought strikes Harriet. “Wait. This is about the summer display, isn’t it? That’s cheating if you get their help.”
“I haven’t seen a sheet of rules.” Mabel’s nose goes into the air. “Appreciate you stopping by to pee in our Cheerios, but you can be on your way now.”
Harriet levels a glare at Mabel. “I’m going to find that list of rules, and when I do you’ll be disqualified.”
“Then you can get a pity win by default.” She taps her temple mockingly. “Smart thinking.” Mabel is a genius at outmaneuvering Harriet.
But Harriet can also hold her own. Before walking away, she leaves Mabel with a closing remark. “At least the trophy will only say “winner.”
To Harriet’s rigid retreating back, Mabel shouts, “I thought Christians weren’t supposed to idolize things!” Harriet grabs her to-go bag and walks out the door without ever looking back. “Dammit, that sounded desperate, didn’t it?” Mabel asks our table.
We all mumble a version ofyep.
A few minutes later, Noah and Will tell us they have to leave. Noah nods a goodbye to Mabel because he’s not one to showaffection even though she’s definitely his favorite person on earth other than Amelia. Will, on the other hand, goes around the booth, bends to wrap his tattooed arms around Mabel’s frame with a big squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. She pats his face and tells him to have a good day. His smug ass assumes he’s Mabel’s favorite. Wrong. It’s me.
“And now it’s just us and we can finally get to the good stuff . . .” she says, proving my point and twisting toward me in the booth.
“Gossip time?”
“I have tons for you today.” Her eyes drop to my wallet, resting on the table. “Oh, are you leaving already?” Mabel looks gutted by the prospect, which is odd because normally she’s the last person to let her feelings show. She has sad puppy eyes, pleading that I don’t leave yet. And now I wonder if Mabel hasn’t been sharing her stories not out of fear of death but out of loneliness. Maybe she hasn’t had anyone else to talk to.
I pocket my wallet. “Listen, I’ve been cooped up at the farm too much this week, and my supply of juicy gossip is running dangerously low. I’m not going anywhere until I hear what the hell happened with Clara and that woman at the salon last week.”
“That’s a good story.” Mabel’s eyes brighten.
“But we’ve gotta hurry because I have an appointment to get to in a bit.”
She nods. “Go get yourself another cup of this shit they call coffee and we’ll get to it.”
Before I slide out of the booth, I meet her eyes. “Mabel . . . I’m your favorite, right?”
She pats my hand several times. “Sure.”
“And how often have you been experiencing the dizzy spells?” asks Dr. Macky while pressing the stethoscope to my chest.
“Oh . . . you know . . . here and there. Nothing too bad.”
“And how are you sleeping?”
I situate, hating the way the paper under my ass crinkles as I do. “Like a baby.”
