Chapter 36
Frankie tapped her coral nail (Power Flirtation) against the rim of her lowball glass and surveyed tonight’s turnout for Operation Small-Town Chic Club.
Rae and her friends had come early and bedazzled the golf cart within an inch of its life at Frankie’s request. Officially, it was prep for the Great Gatsby Book Festival parade. Unofficially, it was sweet revenge.
Marcus Grant had been gone nearly two weeks and hadn’t reached out once. Not even a pity thumbs-up. Nothing.
Silence shouldn’t have mattered. Yet somehow it made her feel…forgotten.
Which was absurd.
She was unforgettable.
Now, so was his golf cart.
“Tonight’s objective,” she told the semi-circle of club members in Gi Gi’s ballroom, “is to identify your season and learn how your personal color palette can rescue your wardrobe, save your wallet, and, in extreme cases, salvage your dignity.”
Ziggy stood beside her in plum wide-leg trousers and a pale lilac tee that practically sang Cool Summer. He clicked to the first slide, a flower-shaped color wheel labeled cool, warm, and do not wear that.
“Your season,” he said, “is not about your birthday or your aura. It’s about harmony, undertones, contrast, the color of your veins and the whites of your eyes. Knowing yours can be the difference between radiant skin and looking like curdled yogurt when you wear mustard.” He sent a pointed look at Poppy’s mustard T-shirt.
Poppy tugged the hem, bristling. “Well, I never.”
“That’s not what he said,” Ziggy snickered.
Gasps rippled through the room.
“Who? Who are you referring to?” Poppy demanded. “Was it—”
Frankie stepped in. “Seasonal color analysis divides you into Spring, Summer, Autumn, or Winter. Know your season and shopping gets easier, your closet makes sense, and people stop asking if you’re tired when you’re not.”
“In other words,” Ziggy said, reclaiming his post, “you stop looking like fashion is happening to you and start looking like you studied for the test.”
Harriet cleared her throat. “Is this the same science that made a salesclerk tell me I should stop wearing my favorite color…fuchsia?”
Ziggy gasped and clutched his chest. “Fuchsia? That’s your favorite? I am reeling.”
“Knock it off or I’ll hit you with my binoculars,” Harriet snapped.
Sir Hissalot chose that moment to wind between Ziggy’s legs with a disdainful flick of his tail. Ziggy swatted at the air. “Meow,” he said, miming claws. “Sir Hissalot has competition.”
Harriet ignored him and zeroed in on Frankie. “It just dawned on me…I always thought Jim and I divorced because of his monogramming obsession.”
“You’re killing me, Harriet,” Ziggy muttered.
She waved him off. “Now I’m wondering if we were actually seasonally incompatible.”
Frankie leaned forward. “I’m listening,” she said, testing a green-light phrase from her friendship book. One meant to invite connection rather than frostbite.
God help her, she actually cared what came next. Worse, she wanted Harriet to keep talking. Was this how friendships happened? Softly, without fanfare. One weird, honest moment at a time.
Across the room, Ziggy blinked. “Was that…genuine human warmth?”
Frankie didn’t look at him. “Shut up. Harriet’s talking.”
“As I was saying,” Harriet went on, eyeing the swatch book like it proved her theory, “the man loved icy blues and pale lavenders. Next to him, I disappeared.”
Ziggy burst into laughter. “Isn’t that the point of camouflage?”
