And speaking of terror, this girdle is currently bisecting my internal organs while I balance a glass dish of banana pudding I assembled at three in the morning—because my two-month-old twins decided sleep was for quitters, and I decided stress-baking was the only rational response to being awake at that ungodly hour.
Somewhere in the pastel sea of poodle skirts and pearl necklaces ahead, my mother has already corralled my sweet baby girl, Lyla Nell, and my sweet twins.
Which means I have approximately forty-five minutes of semi-freedom before someone needs to be fed, changed, or physically restrained from committing a felony against a dessert table.
In fact, I can hear Lyla Nell shrieking from here. It’s either joy or destruction, and honestly, the odds are fifty-fifty in this family.
“Lot Lot, would you look at this place?” Carlotta belts out a catcall while hugging a giant punch bowl of homemade Chex Mix she brought—the spicy kind with extra garlic powder and cayenne that could double as a weapon. “This screams old money and rich old men who don’t know how lucky they’re about to get once I hunt them down.”
“Please don’thuntanyone.”
“You know I can’t make promises I won’t keep.”
And I know for a fact she can’t keep that one.
The grounds of the Pemberton-Clarke estate stretch before us in terraced perfection with manicured lawns cascading toward a reflecting pool that screams generational wealth.And seeing thatCarlotta is ready and willing to hunt down the first billionaire she sees, I silently apologize to the unsuspecting silver foxes within range.
Peacock topiaries line down the stone paths,each one trimmed within an inch of its evergreen life—which, honestly, is more grooming than I’ve managed for myself in the past three years.
The pergola off in the back, where the heart of the garden party is taking place, drips with teal-and-emerald buntings that scream old money, new money, and possibly offshore accounts.
To top it off, someone has strung pearl garlands between the branches of the rows and rows of maple trees. And I’d bet my bakery that each of those pearls once lived in an oyster. Because nothing says casual afternoon gathering like dangling a semester of Ivy League tuition over a bed of hydrangeas.
“Geez, do you think those are real?” I nod toward the ritzy garlands.
“Of course, they’re real, Lot Lot. At this tax bracket, even the toilet paper is imported.”
I can’t help but marvel at the sight. My grandmother was a founding Daughter of Honey Hollow, but my family definitely did not inheritthiskind of wealth. We inherited stubbornness, questionable taste in men, and the supernatural ability to see the dead.
Okay fine. Carlotta might have questionable taste in men, but I happen to have excellent taste in men. Perhaps a little too excellent.
But I digress. The Lemons may not have this kind of funny money, but the Pemberton-Clarkes, apparently, inherited enough money to buy a small solar system and a landscaper who takes his peacocks very, very seriously.
Speaking of taking things seriously…Carlotta and I just so happen to be dressed in matching poodle skirts atthe moment. Hers is hot pink. Mine is powder blue. Both come with fitted blouses, saddle shoes, and enough petticoats underneath to insulate Noah’s cabin for the winter. Mom provided the vintage ensembles for my sisters and me for the week, in fear we might use our lack of wardrobe as an excuse to skip out entirely, no doubt. Smart woman.
“I feel like a cupcake,” I mutter, adjusting the layers of fabric around my knees.
“Adeliciouscupcake,” Carlotta corrects. “One that rich men want to take a bite out of. And I’m hoping they’ll take a bite out of me, too.”
“Try to refrain from turning pastries, and just about everything else, into an innuendo.”
“I’ll stop when it stops being fun. Besides, innuendos happen to be my specialty.” She pauses. “Actually, they’re the second thing I’m good at.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The fact is, we look like we stepped out of a sock hop, if the sock hop had been organized by someone with a vendetta against comfortable clothing.
Carlotta’s caramel-colored hair is pinned up in victory rolls that took her forty-five minutes and approximately six hundred bobby pins, with a few silver streaks catching the sunlight. We share the same hair color, the same hazel eyes, the same heart-shaped face—we’re all but twins, really, except Carlotta has about twenty more years of questionable life experience etched into her features. More gray in her hair, more laugh lines around her eyes, and more evidence of a life lived loud, proud, and without apology.
Carlotta is basically a preview of what I’ll look like in two decades if I stop waxing my mustache and start making significantly worse romantic decisions.
“You know what the best part of outfits like this used to be?”Carlotta does a little twirl with her skirt flaring and sends a few rogue bits of her Chex Mix flying.
“The fact that they were a fad that quickly ended?”
“The fact that men back in the fifties had no idea what was under all these layers.” She gives a wicked grin. “I bet the mystery drove them wild.”
“I’m pretty sure the mystery is driving my circulation to a halt.”
