Which raises the obvious question: What happened to Marcus D Grant?
Did he flee to mend a broken heart?
Or should someone check for freshly dug graves behind Gi Gi’s Manor?
While we’re asking questions, rumor says a reporter reserved a room at the local Airbnb, then canceled at the last minute. Did she ditch us for Chantilly Falls’ feeble attempt to one-up us?
Stay glossy. Stay nosy. And for the love of gossip, never return a borrowed golf cart unaccessorized.
That’s the tea. Steep accordingly.
Miss Informed
Marcus dragged a hand across the back of his neck and exhaled. He deserved every syllable of the dragging. The cart. The disappearance. Even the suit that screamed marry me. Earned.
He folded the paper and slid it into his jacket pocket, where it crinkled like it had an opinion.
A jazz trio worked beneath a canopy of string lights. Laughter rippled, mixing with the low thump of speakers and the shuffle of dancing shoes. The square thrummed with temporary magic.
He scanned the crowd again. Still no Frankie.
Her text had pinged twenty minutes ago.
Frankie:Minor event emergency. Don’t start any dance-offs without me.
Very Frankie. Which meant she was either defusing a bake sale standoff or confiscating Ziggy’s confetti cannon.
The event had already outperformed expectations, largely thanks to Ziggy, who staged a live Gatsby catwalk down a red carpet on Main Street. Golden lights dripped from every storefront. Sequins shimmered. Champagne fizzed. The square looked dipped in gold dust and confidence.
Rae and her band of misfits buzzed at the edge of the dance floor, decked out in vintage pieces Evelyn from Threads had helped them find and reimagine. Roaring Twenties met small-town rebellion.
George had somehow ended up with a feathered headband and a pocket watch. Harriet stood nearby, camouflaged in sequins, binoculars hanging like she was covering a covert operation. Vivian held court in front of her bookstore, reclaiming her throne with effortless grace; the twins, snug in vintage prams, woreGatsby onesies with tiny, feathered headbands. A rotating stream of admirers cooed like they’d won the walk-off by sheer cuteness.
None of it mattered, until he caught his first sight of the night of Frankie Peterson.
Gold fringe rippled as she crossed the square, every step scattering light. The dress narrowed her into a silhouette that demanded notice. Elbow-length satin gloves gleamed under the lamps, a long strand of pearls swinging against her hips. Gatsby red mouth. Blanche subdued beneath a jeweled band. She didn’t just belong to the party. She was the party.
She didn’t see him at first, so he got the luxury of watching her unguarded, tossing one-liners and lighting the square. Then her gaze found his.
“Crisis averted,” she called, smirking as she stopped in front of him. “Poppy’s date no longer clashes with her color palette.”
He adjusted the lapel of his white dinner jacket, ivory silk with a peak lapel and a single button. “Tragic near miss. I would hate to be that man.”
Her eyes traveled over him, slow and satisfied. Crisp shirt. Black bow tie. Satin cummerbund. Patent leather shine. She lifted one shoulder. “Full disclosure, I had a backup date on standby.”
“Smart woman.”
For a reckless beat, he let himself believe he could keep this.
Ziggy raised a clipboard. “Charleston, darlings. Grab a partner.”
Frankie took his hand and pulled him onto the floor.
The music burst to life. Fast. Bright. Dizzying. They hit the Charleston like a door they both knew by feel. Kick, cross, heel. He drew her through an underarm turn; she stole a beat and added a shimmy that put heat in his throat. They traded the lead without speaking, laughter catching at her mouth every time he reeled her back in.
Her heel slid on a rogue sequin.
He caught her without thinking, one arm at her back, their faces inches apart. She looked at him like she had never been this happy.
