The cake is dense, sticky with cinnamon and brown sugar glaze. “This is really good,” I say, and mean it.
“Course it is.” She watches me take another bite. “Now. You want to tell me what’s going on with you and Jessica, or do I have to guess?”
I nearly choke. “I don’t?—”
“Save it.” She waves a hand. “I’ve been watching people in this town for sixty-eight years. I know what avoiding each other looks like.”
Before I can formulate a response, the door opens and Jo arrives, followed by Michelle. They both clock me, exchange a glance, and arrange themselves in chairs that create a buffer zone around where Jessica will presumably sit.
I’m being managed. I deserve it.
Michelle gives me a small nod. Not unfriendly, but cautious. I’m her husband’s business partner. I’m also the man who made her best friend walk off a beach looking like her heart had been ripped out.
The front door opens again.
Jessica.
She’s wearing a blue sundress I’ve never seen before. Her hair is pulled back in a clip, a few strands escaping around her face. She looks tired. Beautiful. Like she’s been up late reading, which—if I know her at all—she probably has.
Our eyes meet for half a second.
Then she looks away and takes the chair farthest from mine.
“Hey, y’all,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re right on time,” Hazel says. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
Mrs. Sanders is watching us like we’re the evening news. She doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it.
“Well now,” she says. “Got the whole boardwalk crowd here, don’t we.”
We’reten minutes into discussing venue logistics when the front door opens without a knock.
Penelope Waters sweeps in wearing a cream-colored blazer, silk blouse, and heels that probably cost half a fortune. Her blonde hair is blown out to perfection. She’s carrying a leather portfolio like she’s about to chair a board meeting.
“Ladies,” she says. Then she spots me. “And Scott. How nice.”
The temperature in the room drops about fifteen degrees.
“Penelope,” Hazel says carefully. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“Oh, I won’t stay long. I just wanted to pop in about a small matter.” She settles into the remaining empty chair like she owns it. “The event you’re planning. The author reveal?”
“What about it?” Jo asks.
“Well, it’s come to my attention that events over fifty attendees on private property require a Special Events Permit from the mayor’s office.” She smiles. The kind of smile that has teeth. “Which I handle.”
Silence.
Mrs. Sanders sets down her coffee cup with a deliberate clink. “Penny, Hensley House is a licensed events venue. Hazel and Jack got all their permits and insurance sorted when they opened. You know that.”
Penelope’s smile freezes. She hates being called Penny. Everyone knows this. Mrs. Sanders knows it better than anyone.
“I’m just trying to ensure everything is in order?—”
“No, you’re trying to cause trouble because nobody invited you to be on this committee.” Mrs. Sanders picks up her coffee again, dismissing her. “If you’ve got actual business, state it. Otherwise, some of us have planning to do.”
