Penelope’s cheeks flush. For a moment, I think she might leave. But she’s not the type to retreat without getting something.
“Fine,” she says, recrossing her legs. “I’m simply curious about these mystery authors. The mayor’s office should know who’s being publicly revealed at a major town event, don’t you think? For security purposes.”
“Security purposes,” Michelle repeats flatly. “At a book reading.”
“You’d be surprised. Celebrities attract all sorts of attention.”
And that’s exactly why I’ve kept my identify private.
“These are local authors, not celebrities.”
“Same thing these days.” Penelope waves a hand. “Regardless, the mayor should be informed. In fact, he should probably give opening remarks. Welcome everyone to Twin Waves, that sort of thing. It’s only appropriate.”
There it is. She wants in. She wants the mayor—which means herself—front and center at the event.
“We’ll take it under advisement,” Jessica says, her voice cool.
“Wonderful.” Penelope rises, smoothing her blazer. “Just let me know the details—including the authors’ real names—and we’ll coordinate.”
“The authors’ identities are confidential until the reveal,” Hazel says. “That’s the whole point.”
“Surely you can tell the mayor’s office. We’re very discreet.”
Mrs. Sanders snorts. “Penny, you told half the town about the Roberson’s divorce before the ink was dry on the papers.”
“That was different.”
“It surely was not.”
Penelope’s eyes narrow. For a moment, the two women stare at each other. Penelope is fifty years old, designer everything, married to the mayor. Mrs. Sanders is pushing seventy, wearing anchor earrings from Belk, and entirely unimpressed.
Mrs. Sanders wins.
“The author’s identity stays confidential,” Jessica says firmly. “If the mayor wants to give brief opening remarks, we can discuss it. But no one is getting advance information.”
Penelope looks like she’s swallowed a lemon. “We’ll see about that.”
She leaves before anyone can respond.
The room exhales.
“That woman,” Jo mutters, “is a piece of work.”
“She’s jealous,” Mrs. Sanders says simply. “Always has been. You girls have something she can’t buy her way into.”
“What’s that?” Michelle asks.
“Each other.”
The words land deep in my chest. I watch Jessica and her friends—this group of women who tease each other, protect each other, show up for each other without question. A found family built on shared books and years of history.
I’ve never had that. I have Grayson, but I’ve kept him at arm’s length about everything that matters. I have readers who love V. Langley, but they don’t know he’s me. I have a mother I talk to twice a year and a father I’ll never talk to again.
Jessica has this room full of people who would go to war for her.
And I’m on the outside, looking in.
“So,” Hazel says, pulling out a notebook. “Venue. We’re thinking the lawn here at the Hensley House. Chairs facing the water, tent in case of rain, small stage for the reading.”
