“Mommy, I gonna find ALL the eggs!” she announces like a little cutie pie who has never encountered competition before.
“I’m sure you will, sweetheart,” I tell her, though I can already see several other children who look like they’ve been training for this moment their entire lives.
The starting whistle blows, and suddenly the peaceful field erupts into what can only be described as the Easter equivalent of a zombie apocalypse. Children scatter in every direction, diving for eggs with the kind of dedication that suggests their very lives depend on it.
Lyla Nell toddles into the fray with her basket, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s just entered what amounts to a sugar-fueled war zone. She spots a bright pink egg and makes a beeline for it, her little legs pumping with determination.
“Look at her go,” Everett says, his voice filled with pride as he watches his daughter navigate the chaos with a level of fearlessness she obviously inherited from yours truly, and apparently, she inherited my complete inability to recognize danger as well.
“She’s got the Lemon hunting instinct,” Noah says. “First eggs, then bodies.”
“Let’s hope she sticks to eggs,” I mutter, watching as Lyla Nell successfully claims her pink prize and immediately starts looking for the next target.
The hunt continues with the kind of organized chaos that only comes when you combine small children, competition, and enoughsugar to induce time travel. Lyla Nell manages to collect a respectable number of eggs, although she spends more time examining each one than actually hunting for new ones.
“She’s definitely got the investigative gene,” Everett says, watching as she holds up a purple egg to the light and studies it with scientific intensity.
“Either that or she’s checking them for poison,” I reply. “Which, considering our family history, might not be a bad habit to develop.”
A sudden shriek of joy cuts through the festival chaos, and we look up to see Lainey jumping up and down near the giant inflatable bunny, waving both arms over her head as if she’s trying to flag down a rescue helicopter.
“JOSIE GOT THE GOLDEN EGG!” she screams so loud, half of Vermont just heard the news. “JOSIE! THE GOLDEN EGG!”
The entire lot of us erupt in applause and cheers as sweet little Josie holds up her prize—a glittering golden egg that catches the afternoon sun like a tiny trophy. She’s beaming as if she’s just discovered buried treasure, and considering the egg contains a hundred-dollar bill, it isn’t far from the truth.
“Ahh, that’s adorable,” I say, watching as Josie gets swarmed by other children who want to see her prize up close.
“Maybe it’s adorable now,” Carlotta says with a knowing look, “but mark my words, that kind of luck early in life leads to unrealistic expectations. Golden eggs, golden boys, golden opportunities…” She shakes her head at the thought. “It’s a slippery slope, Lot Lot.”
“You’re comparing an Easter egg hunt victory to your love life, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Everything is a metaphor for my love life if you squint hard enough.”
Mom heads this way once again, clicking away with her camera, and sighs at the rolling lawn brimming with children. “Isn’t this the best?” She loops her arm through mine and hugs it. “But Easter is just about over and I, for one, cannotwaitfor Mother’s Day.”
“Mother’s Day?” I inch back to get a better look at her. “You’re quite the holiday hopper these days,” I tease.
“You got that right,” Carlotta quips. “Your mama doesn’t hop. Shestrutsfrom one celebration to the next like she’s on a seasonal runway. Funny enough, that used to be my game plan when it came to men.”
“It’s not that.” Mom waves us off with a laugh. “The Daughters of Honey Hollow are doing a week-long extravaganza leading up to Mother’s Day.”
I blink. “The what?”
Mom gasps as if I’ve just denied the existence of butter. “The Daughters of Honey Hollow, sweetheart! It’s our town’s original women’s society. It started back in the fifties when all those old farm plots got carved up into those tiny tract houses with shared fences and questionable plumbing. The founders—your grandmother included—banded together so the new families wouldn’t lose their sense of community while the cows were being replaced with station wagons.” She beams. “It’s basically an homage to our roots. Potlucks, porch gossip, emergency childcare, morally questionable casseroles—true community—the whole Honey Hollow spirit.”
Carlotta lets out a dreamy sigh. “Ah, the fifties. Back when women wore pearls to vacuum, men smoked inside hospitals, and everyone quietly pretended their neighbor’s husband wasn’t sneaking around with the lady who taught baton twirling. Skirts were tight, martinis were strong, and everyone pretended they didn’t know what the milkman wasreallydelivering.” She winks. “A simpler time.”
Mom squints her way. “Didn’t you use to teach baton twirling?”
“Hush up, you,” Carlotta is quick to say. “You’re the one who brought up those racy days of yore.”
“Carlotta,” Mom warns, though she’s clearly fighting a smile. “This is a proud tradition, not a retro scandal reel.” She turns to me with a dangerous twinkle in her eyes. “And before either of you ask—yes, it’s a full reenactment. Costumes, manners, the whole shebang. No breaking character either. For one week, you willdresslike it’s the fifties,actlike it’s the fifties, andpretendgossip is a community service.”
“Sounds like a rootin’ tootin’ pin-curls-and-pantyhose good time,”Carlotta says, rather proud of her dated remark. “Have fun at the event.”
“Oh, it’s not just an event,” Mom is quick to clear the decades-old air. “It’s a reenactment. We’re talking poodle skirts, pearls, and the aforementioned strict no-breaking-character policy. If you so much as say text message, someone will hand you a rotary phone. And yes, I expect you two to join the pin-curls-and-pantyhose fun.”
“Wow, okay,” I say. “Here’s to girdles and gossip.”
