“No, darling. It’s just a surprise, that’s all. You must never apologize for being happy. Life is too short not to grab those moments of happiness,” she says, taking her daughter’s face in her hands. Their hug is brief but fierce, and both women’s eyes glisten as they break away.
“I think we’ll break out the champagne,” Polly murmurs, running her fingers under her eyes.
Champagne is produced, and Polly asks me to do the honors. She’s busy lifting glasses from the cabinet when the girl from the hallway—Primrose—saunters into the kitchen.
“Why are we drinking champagne?” Plucking an orange from the fruit bowl, she brings it to her nose.
“Your sister got married yesterday.” Polly holds a glass flute, examining it. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Primrose’s gaze dips to Lavender’s midriff.
“Pfft,as if!” Lavender scoffs.
“Is this some kind of joke?” The orange makes a dullthudas Primrose drops it to the countertop.
“Why would I joke about something like that?” Lavender demands belligerently.
“You’ve told worse jokes. Remember the one about your ex and the broken window? Oh wait, that wasn’t a joke. It was true.”
Lavender turns instantly pale, her expression hardening as she flips her sister the bird.
“How could you have gotten married? You were at work yesterday.” Her eyes flick my way. “I’ve never even seen him before.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
“When did you propose?” her sister asks, turning my way.
“Friday night.”
She snorts and glances her mother’s way. “That explains it. She was at a house party. I bet she was on a bender.”
“Who was on a bender?”
All eyes move to Brin Whittington as he comes to a stop just inside the doorway.
“I’ve put new cartridges in,” he says, wiping ink from his fingertips. “I don’t know what you do with the bloody thing.” Brin’s gaze lifts, his expression flickering as though he doesn’t quite trust what he’s seeing.
“Brin. What a pleasant surprise.” I hold out my unused glass. “You’re just in time.”
“What’s he doing here?” he asks no one in particular as he crosses the kitchen. “In time for what?”
It’s possible he only takes the glass because no one has answered him.
I pour a little champagne into the remaining flute. “To congratulate us.”
“Aren’t you engaged to…” His words trail away as I slide my arm around Lavender’s waist. Her stiff posture slackens as I give it a slight squeeze, and she offers her left hand for examination.
Brin’s eyes fly wide, darting from his sister’s hand to his mother’s face. Polly musters a wan smile, and his attention darts back to me.
Ah, the sweet fucking justice of it all. How brilliant my smile must beam as Brin splutters, “No fucking way.”
15
LAVENDER
My plansfor the regular weekend include Saturday in the gallery, then maybe drinks after work. Sunday morning I often spend in bed, wrapped in my duvet and catching up onFifty Day Fiancé and MAFS. Primrose likes to thumb her nose at my shows. She calls it car-crash TV. And I suppose she’s right because it’s near impossible to tear my attention away until they’re finished.
Sunday afternoon might be lunch at Polly’s or maybe a stroll to the local pub with Tod for a little hair of the dog. Not that I drink to excess these days, but if you can’t demand “prosecco me” on Sunday, then what the heck is the weekend for?
